#slowburn

The first time Egg realized his father was in love with his aunt, it came to him as most truths did in his childhood: carelessly and from the mouth of someone who should have known better.

The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down hard on Egg's back, slicking it with hot droplets of sweat. It felt unbearable. Dust was also clinging to the air, to his skin and to the back of his throat.

He thought that squiring would be something finer than this. Something worthy of the stories and songs. Instead it was just weight. It was sweat. It was the sour, lingering scent of wine that followed Daeron everywhere he went.

"Seven save me," Daeron muttered, swaying as Egg struggled with the fastening at his shoulder. "Did they give me a squire or a stableboy?"

"I can do it," Egg said eagerly.

"You always can," Daeron replied, listing his cup. "And yet..."

He did not finish his thought. Egg bit down on his tongue and tried again. His fingers slipped. Until by chance or pure stubbornness, the buckle caught.

Egg stepped back and looked up at his perfect work, waiting for some well deserved praise. But recieved nothing. Egg groaned and looked up ready to complain to Daeron but the older boy was no longer looking at him.

His gaze had gone elsewhere, beyond the yard, beyond the garden hedges, fixed on something Egg could not yet see.

"What is it?" Egg asked, rising onto his toes, as though the height might grant him some assistance with the high hedge. It did not.

Daeron did not answer at once. He drank what remained in his cup, slow and unhurried.

"Have you ever noticed the way Father behaves around her?"

Egg frowned. "Around who?" (the boy was now jumping up and down to try and gain some view beyond the hedges).

"Our aunt. (Y/N)"

Egg blinked. "No?"

Daeron hummed softly. "It's nothing. Less than nothing."

Egg wracked his brain trying to come up with some possible answer to what Daeron was insinuating. "Does Father have some problem with her?"

Egg was worried then because you as well as your family were meant to come to Summerhall before coming with them to Ashford for a tourney.

"Quite the opposite." Daeron turned to Egg and wiggled his brows. Egg frowned, knowing what that meant. "That doesn't mean anything."

"No, it doesn't."

"She's married. To Prince Baelor."

Daeron hummed.

"Father wouldn't-" Egg stopped, the rest of the thought refusing to settle into something. "He loved Mother."

At that, something in Daeron's experession shifted.

"He did."

The words hung there, unfinished. Egg waited for more but none came. "She's our aunt."

"And he's our father."

Egg shook his head. "You're wrong."

"Perhaps." Daeron set his empty cup aside and crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Egg's height. "Just watch him. You'll see it, or maybe you won't. These sort of things aren't meant to be seen at all."

He straightened, clapping a hand against Egg's shoulder. "Come on. I'll need another drink before I pretened to be a knight again."

Egg followed, though more slowly. He told himself there was nothing. Daeron was just drunk and imagining things.

The second time Egg noticed, no one said a word at all.

It happened in the Great Hall, in the lull between courses, when the noise softened just enough to hear the quieter things. The scrapes of a cup against the table, the half whispers of conversations and all that. The portion of the night where everyone was relaxed.

Egg had not meant to watch. He told himself he wasn't. But Daeron's voice had settled somewhere in the back of his mind and it was impossible to ignore it. So he took Daeron's words to heart. Watch him.

So he did. Egg watched his father from his place at the dinner table next to Aemon (who had his head buried in some large textbook. Egg was slightly concered over his brother's potential future neck problems).

His father sat at the end of the high table by his brother and Egg's uncle. His posture was straight and his expression was carved hard. He spoke when spoken to, nodded whe required and drank very little. There was little to nothing strange about it.

Until, his Aunt (Y/N) laughed.

It was not loud, nothing that would turn heads or draw attention to it. (Y/N)'s laugh was a lovely one and a familiar one to Egg. (The laugh came from a joke that Matarys told her but Egg did not hear what it was. From what he knew of his cousin, Egg didn't think it was a funny joke and his aunt was just being polite).

But Egg saw it. The way his father had stilled. Not entirely or in a dramatic way. But it was as if the statue had been shooken. A breath that was being held onto for a second too long.

Egg frowned. His father did not turn, did not look, his gaze remained fix on Baelor as the two were in a conversation. Maekar did not speak right away. Baelor carried on, asking a question that was answered by some lesser lord sitting next to Maekar. His paused moment slipped past, unoticed by all except for Egg.

It meant nothing, Egg told himself. Less than nothing.

People paused all the time. People lost their places. It was not uncommon. Afterall some people just get lost in their thoughts. It was not-

His father's hand tightened slightly around his cup. So slight it might have been imagined. Egg watched however, as he took a measured drink and set it back down with too much attention than it required.

Still, he did not look. Not at you. Egg found his gaze looking upon you instead. Looking radiant in the red silks that were probably made in Dorne. You had now reached your hand over to your husbands to get his attention, and leaned in to speak with a soft smile.

Prince Baelor and Princess (Y/N). Future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They looked right. They looked happy. The very pitcture of what Egg thought a loving marriage would look lile. As though the world had placed them exactly where they were meant to be. Egg was content knowing they loved each other.

So Egg went back to his food and started to shift his peas from his plate to Aemon's instead. Content to pretend that he was overanalyzing his father's behaviour.

The third time Egg noticed, it was close enough to touch.

It happened in the gardens, where the air was softer and world felt far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Egg had not meant to follow. At the time it had felt like nothing at all. He was just wandering paths he knew well, doing his best to avoid the maesters and his lessons.

That was until he saw them. He stopped before he could be seen and hid behind a tree.

They stood beneath the shade of an overgrown arbor, where the light filtered through in fragments painting them in gold. It was rather close. Not close enough to be indecent or improper. Just, closer than what was necessary.

(Y/N) was speaking, though it was too soft that the words could not reach Egg. Instead he had to settle on watching the shape of them. As (Y/N) was speaking his father did not interrupt, did not look away. Just gazed at your face.

From the looks of it, you had finished speaking and there was a moment of silence between the two of you. Then, your hand had lifted.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just brushing your hand against his sleeve. It should have been nothing because it was nothing. But again, his father had stilled. The way his breath seemed to catch, the way his hand at his side tightened just slightly.

He did not pull away, did not reach back, did not move at all. The two of you stood there, closer than what one would expect, with your hand on his arm. To Egg, it looked like a different sort of painting. One he had not seen at the dinner the other night.

Then you stepped back and distance returned. Whatever had just been there, slipped neatly back into place.

His father inclined his said, said something Egg could not hear but it was probably something drab (his father was a rather blunt speaker). Whatever it was, it resulted in a smiling (Y/N). Your smile was smaller and softer and gone quicker than normal.

And then it was all over again.

Egg did not move from where he stood, though he knew he should. He felt as if he was intruding on something. His thoughts felt tangled. Nothing had occured.

With that, he took a step back and starting walking back into the castle.

The fourth time Egg noticed, it nearly did not remain theirs alone.

It was not meant to be a moment at all. That was what made it dangerous.

The corridors were quieter at that hour, the castle settling into itself as the evening wore on. Voices dulled behind closed doors. Footsteps softened. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, their light unsteady against the stone. Everyone was preparing for bed.

Egg had been sent on some errand he no longer remembered.

It did not matter. He would forget it entirely, later.

What he would remember, what would stay, was this:

The turn of a corner. The sound of a voice, too low to make out. And the way he stopped before he understood why.

This time, from behind a corridor, Egg saw them at the far end of the passage, half-shadowed, as though the castle itself meant to keep their secret.

They were close. Too close. Much closer than before in the garden.

Once again you were speaking. Or not. Even in the dimmed hallway, Egg could see you were loosing your composure. The normal picture perfect you seemed frazzle in the dark corridor. Words were spilling out quick but quietly. As if it was something that had been held back for too long.

Egg could not hear them, only feel the shape of them in the air, sharp and unsteady. (He was thinking to himself that he should really work on his sneaking abilities so he could somehow find himself closer so he could properly eavesdrop).

His father said nothing. He only watched you. Not as a prince might. Not as a brother should. As though the rest of the world had fallen away.

Egg’s breath caught, though he did not know why. He should not have been there. He knew that. And yet he did not move.

You stopped speaking. The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed in, taut, waiting.

His father took a step forward. It was small, measured and hesitant. Enough to close what little distance remained between you.

Egg felt it then, that strange, tightening awareness, like a thread pulled too thin. Something was about to happen. Something that could not be undone.

Your hand lifted, hesitant, uncertain, as though you had not meant to do it at all. His father’s followed. Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that the space between them felt like something real. Something fragile. Something one breath away from breaking.

And for a moment, the two of you didn't move.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. And the spell shattered. Your hand dropped at once. His father stepped back just as quickly, the distance snapping into place as though it had never been crossed at all.

By the time the servants turned the corner, there was nothing to see.

It was just a prince standing where he ought to stand. A lady composed, untouched. Silence, neat and proper, where something else had been moments before.

Egg pressed himself back against the wall, heart beating too fast for something he did not understand.

No one noticed. No one said a word. And yet, Egg knew.

That it had almost—

He swallowed, the thought slipping from him before it could take shape.

It had been nothing.

A step taken. A hand lifted. A moment that came too close to becoming something more.

The fifth time Egg noticed, nothing threatened to happen at all.

There was no interruption waiting in the wings. No footsteps. No tension poised to break. Only certainty.

It happened in a corridor (the same one as before) and he was not meant to linger in, though he had long since stopped believing that mattered. The castle had begun to feel less like a place one moved through, and more like something that simply contained him.

He heard your voice first. And then his father’s.

Egg stopped before he saw you.

You stood facing one another, not hidden, not secret, simply… there. As though there had never been anything to conceal.

Your hands were folded neatly before you, composed and contorlled. The opposite of what you looked like the previous night he had seen the pair of you.

“I leave with Baelor at first light,” you said. Your voice did not tremble. It did not need to.

His father nodded once. “I know.”

No hesitation. No question. Only acknowledgment.

Egg watched the way you held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. Not lingering. Not resisting. Just, steady.

“As it should be,” you added quietly.

It was not said like a comfort. It was said like a truth that had already been lived. His father’s expression did not change. But something in him did.

Not outward. Not visible in any way that would matter to anyone else. Only Egg saw it.

The smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pause in his breathing. As though something had been set down carefully, something heavy, something once held too close.

“You will be well,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a fact he had chosen to believe.

You gave a small nod. “As will you.”

And that was all.

No step forward. No reach. No fracture in the space between you. Only distance, held deliberately in place. As if it had always belonged there.

You turned first.

Not away from him in avoidance, but toward what was waiting for you beyond the corridor. Beyond the castle. Beyond this moment entirely.

Duty, already ahead of you.

His father did not watch you leave. Not when it mattered. Not when it might have changed anything.

He simply stood there until your footsteps faded completely, until even the echo had gone soft enough to disappear.

Then he turned away as well.

Egg remained where he was. Not because he was unseen. But because there was nothing left to witness.

Only something he finally understood in full:

Not all loves ended in ruin. Some ended in choice. And in that choice, quiet, certain, unspoken they had already lost each other long before either of them ever reached for anything at all.

The one and probably last time Egg understood how truly doomed they were, it was at Ashford Meadow.

Some loves are loud enough to shake kingdoms. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

The tourney had turned the world bright again.

Colour returned in banners and gowns, in the gleam of armor beneath the sun, in laughter that carried too far across the fields as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong.

For a moment, Egg believed in that brightness.

He had never seen so much life. Never felt so far from the boy he was meant to be. He had lost Daeron somewhere in a tavern’s chaos and shaved his head in reckless relief, as though shedding identity might make him freer. He had even met a hedge knight, Ser Duncan, before the crowd swallowed him whole.

Then the royal family arrived. And everything began, quietly, to fall into place.

Egg hid among skirts and passing legs as he watched them take their places. His aunt stood near the pavilion.

The wind caught at her dress, lifting it in soft, unsteady motion, and for a moment she looked less like a princess and more like something imagined, something almost too gentle for the weight of her name.

She smiled more easily now. Baelor lived. And so she could, too.

He stood beside her with easy warmth, speaking to those who approached them, his hand resting at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there.

She laughed at something he said, turning toward him, bright and unburdened.

It should have been enough. It was enough.

And still... Egg knew, somewhere deep and unspoken, that in another life, in another shape of the world, it might have been his father standing there instead.

Behind them, Maekar stood at a careful distance, speaking with a lord he was not truly listening to. His attention kept returning, again and again, to where it should not.

There was no grief in it. No rupture. No visible wound.

Only something quieter. Something held too tightly to be named.

Their eyes met once. His father’s. Hers.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. And yet Egg felt it as something entire. A silence stretched between them, thin, precise, almost reverent.

Until Baelor spoke her name.

She turned. And the moment was gone. The world continued exactly as it should have. But Egg did not move. He watched.

Later, Baelor was called away. And Maekar stepped into his place beside her. It looked like nothing. It was nothing.

A conversation between in-laws. A passing exchange. A courtesy sustained by courtly habit.

But Egg saw too closely now. The ease that should not have been ease. The closeness that should not have existed at all. A handmaiden passed. Words were spoken too quietly to catch.

And then, Maekar offered his arm. She took it with no hesitation. It was a simple thing.

And yet the way her fingers settled there, the way his arm did not move away, the way neither of them corrected the distance. It felt like recognition. Like something remembered instead of chosen.

Too familiar to be coincidence. Too natural to be allowed. A blush rose faintly at his father’s neck. Gone as quickly as it came.

And for a moment, it felt almost right.

Until Valarr came running, bright and alive, breaking everything open again. The spell did not shatter. It simply… dispersed. Like smoke.

The world ended at Ashford Meadow.

It did not, of course.

The sun still rose over Ashford, pale and indifferent. The wind still moved through the fields, stirring banners that now hung heavy and dark. People still spoke, still walked, still breathed.

But something had ended all the same.

Baelor died.

The bells had tolled for what felt like hours, their sound low and unrelenting, echoing through the castle and out across the tourney grounds. Even now, standing among his family, Egg swore he could still hear them, like something lodged deep inside his chest.

They had chosen to burn him at Ashford. Egg wasn’t sure why that made it worse, but it did.

This place had been bright, only days ago. Full of laughter and colour and life. He could still remember it, the banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd, the way everything had seemed so large and full of promise.

Now everything felt hollow.

Egg stood stiffly beside his father, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. If only he hadn’t left Daeron. If only he had stayed. If only—The pyre crackled. Egg forced himself to look.

Flames climbed steadily, consuming what remained of Baelor’s body. The heat pressed against his face, sharp and unbearable, and still he couldn’t look away.

His gaze shifted. His aunt stood closest to the fire. She did not weep. She did not speak.

She stood as though carved from stone, her face pale, her expression empty in a way that frightened him more than tears ever could.

Valarr stood before her, shaking. Egg could see it even from where he stood. The way his cousin’s shoulders trembled, the way his head bowed forward as though the weight of it all might crush him.

Her hand rested gently in his hair. Not moving. Just there.

Behind them, Kiera stood still and silent, her presence quiet, almost ghostlike.

Egg swallowed hard. He had heard what happened. Everyone had.

Whispers had spread quickly, slipping through corridors and between servants like smoke.

They said she had been the first to reach him. That she hadn’t believed it. That she had demanded a maester, again and again, as though saying it enough times might undo what had already been done.

They said she had knelt beside his body, hands pressed to him, begging the Seven to give him back.

That she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood. That it had soaked into her sleeves, her hands, her skin.

Egg squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

They said Ser Duncan had tried to pull her away. That she had fought him. That she had screamed. Not words, just sound. Raw and broken.

And then his father came.

Maekar had been the one to pull her back. They said she had struck him. That her fists had hit his chest, over and over, as though he were something she could break. That she had cried into him like the world was ending.

Egg opened his eyes. He looked up at his father now.

Maekar stood beside him, unmoving. Rigid. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key.

Egg wanted to say something. Go to her.

He didn’t know if he would have said the words aloud or not. He only knew the thought pressed against his throat, desperate and insistent.

Go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Not like this.

But Maekar did not move.

He stood where he was meant to stand. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more.

Egg felt something twist inside him.

But he had learned, by now, where to look.

So he looked closer.

He saw the way his father’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin. He saw the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the stillness that was not calm but restraint stretched too thin.

And then it happened. Briefly.

So brief Egg might have missed it, if he hadn’t been watching.

His aunt lifted her head, just slightly. As though something had pulled her attention away from the flames. Her gaze crossed the distance between them. And found his father.

Maekar looked at her. Not as a prince. Not as a brother. Just as a man.

Everything was there. Egg felt it, even from where he stood.

Grief, sharp and consuming.

Longing, familiar, aching, unrelenting.

Regret, heavy, suffocating, endless.

All of it, laid bare in a single look that lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was too much. Too intimate.

Her gaze dropped. Maekar’s jaw tightened. And just like that… It was gone.

The fire crackled. The wind shifted. The world went on.

And whatever might have been… didn’t.

Egg shouldn’t have followed her. He knew that.

Even so, he slipped from the hall, keeping to the edges where torchlight thinned and attention softened. He was careful, quiet and was left unseen.

He told himself he would stop at the doorway. He didn’t.

The hall was dim when she entered, curtains drawn heavy against the day. It felt smaller than it had before. Quieter in a way that pressed at the ribs.

She moved slowly, like each step had to be chosen in advance. Egg lingered just beyond the threshold, half-hidden in the corridor’s shadow.

She crossed to the high table to Baelor’s seat and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing at all. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands. Baelor’s rings caught what little light remained.

Egg’s throat tightened before he could name why. She turned one of them between her fingers. Over and over. Not fidgeting, holding on.

As though stillness might undo something. The door opened again. Egg went rigid. His father stepped inside.

There was a pause in him that Egg did not recognize. Not fear, exactly. Not hesitation either. Something closer to awareness. As though the room had become uncertain ground.

As though he was not sure he was allowed to cross it.

She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him. Did not move. For a moment, he only stood there. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her. Not close. Never close.

Silence gathered between them, dense and unyielding.

“I do not know where to begin,” Maekar said at last.

His voice was quieter than Egg had ever heard it.

She let out a breath that almost broke on its way out. “I do not know either.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt too small the moment they left him.

They stayed anyway. Unanswered.

“You know,” she said after a while, still looking at the ring, “my mother once told me not to love anyone more than my children.”

Maekar did not speak.

“I loved my children,” she continued. “And I loved my husband.”

Something in him shifted at that, barely visible, but real.

“And I loved you.”

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt held.

Carefully. Like something fragile that neither of them trusted to fall.

“(Y/N),” Maekar said at last, roughened, “there are no words—”

“You know,” she cut in, not unkindly, but with something steadier beneath it, “in a way, I wish you had meant to kill him.”

The air changed.

Maekar’s head turned slightly, as if the words had weight enough to move him. “How could you say that?”

“It would make things simpler,” she said. “For me. As selfish as that sounds.”

He did not answer. There was nothing to answer. A long pause. Then—

“Do you remember,” she asked, quieter now, “when Baelor and I were betrothed?”

A breath left Maekar that might once have been laughter. It wasn’t now. “Of course I do.”

A faint sound from her. Almost agreement. Almost nothing.

“You said you would burn your entire house down before you let it happen.”

His mouth tightened at the memory, something old and unguarded passing through him and gone again before it could settle.

“I was young,” he said.

“We were all young,” she replied.

Silence returned, softer this time. Less sharp. No less heavy.

Then she moved.

Slowly, she took one of the rings from her hand. Turned it once between her fingers. Twice.

And placed it in his palm.

“Here.”

Maekar looked down at it.

“I cannot take this,” he said. “He was your husband.”

“And he was your brother.”

That landed cleanly. Without argument. Maekar closed his fingers around the ring anyway. Not tightly.

Egg stepped back before either of them could notice him there, retreating into the corridor as quietly as he had come. He did not run. He did not linger.

Some things, he understood, were not meant to be seen all at once. Or spoken.

He understood then that some things were never meant to be spoken. Just simply known and lived with.

It first started with ballet and pink. You fell in love with how the world slowed down when the piano started, how the first plié felt like a prayer, the spotlight after your pirouette.

And then there was Jake. The second thing. You, 9 years old and too delicate to ever tag along, would always spot him outside your lawn, waiting for Evan, your older brother. They were 10 and 11, said girls were not allowed.

Jake, with his soccer jersey and his grass-stained knees, white socks browned from rain and soil. Jake, who’d sit on the curb outside your house after practice, waiting for your older brother, spinning a ball on his finger, and asking if you ever got dizzy doing all those turns. You told him it was called spotting. He told you he could never do that, before mimicking it on the asphalt of the neighborhood street.

Okay, admittedly, it was a crush. That was not a crime. It’s not like you were writing his last name after yours in your notebook or anything (you were). 

It’s just – he was Jake. Jaeyun. The first boy you ever liked.

By the time you turned 13, he was taller, louder, smarter, suddenly full of everything that made all the other girls in middle school realize how cool Jake Sim was. Surrounded by people who’s got really shitty attitudes and personalities, Jake being way too good for them. You couldn’t really fight the fact that you liked him first, the same way kids would claim their favorite colors, saying they favorited it first. He was your brother’s best friend – which, by definition, is an unspoken rule of forbidden territory.

He’d come by after soccer practice, shoulders broader, voice lower. You’d hear the front door open and that familiar “Mrs. Lee, we have practice again!” from the hallway. He’d walk past you while you’re lounging on the couch, with just a small smile instead of a teasing grin, a quick “hey” instead of a whole conversation.

By 15, you had a boyfriend, Jay. Sweet, safe, the kind of boy your mom liked. He played guitar, texted you good morning, and called you pretty. And it was a good thing, of course. You liked him and he liked you. Jake told you Jay seemed nice, you told him he was.

Jake was busier too, as the captain of the soccer team, busy from girls leaving notes in his locker, laughter always following him down the hall, busy from becoming the picture of what it is to be a golden child that had greatness tail him like a shadow. He wasn’t particularly loud or cocky or smug, but that relevance surrounded him easily.

Jay was good to you. The kind of good that felt easy and nice and quiet, like Saturday afternoons. He brought you flowers on random days, not the fancy kind, but the ones you actually liked. There were nights you’d both curl up on the couch (snuggled but still dad-approved), a throw blanket safely between you, watching Netflix romcoms. He’d quote the cheesiest lines just to make you laugh.

Then the front door would open, and there they were: Evan and Jake, back from practice, loud and sweaty and too full of energy for 7 p.m. And for a long time, it worked. You went to Jay’s gigs, he came to your recitals, he kissed you goodbye before class. But somewhere between the months, something shifted, not in a dramatic, heartbreak kind of way – just slowly. You still cared about him, still wanted him to do well, still smiled at his jokes. You just didn’t feel that something you couldn’t name but always knew was supposed to be there.

The breakup was quiet, no yelling, no tears, just a long talk on a park bench. He said he understood, and that was it, one and a half years folded neatly.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #2: Don’t be a romantic. (please)

So yeah, maybe you fell in love too quickly, too softly, too much. You did what any logical, overly sentimental girl with a box full of old stationery would do – you wrote about it. Or, technically, to them. Because apparently, journals were too boring, why wouldn’t it be less obvious in floral envelopes and addressed to actual names? They were safely kept in the hidden compartment in your ballerina music box. 

Four letters. Four crushes.

You wrote them on quiet nights when your head was too full and your heart throbbed loud, when the real world wasn’t enough and you needed to spill everything somewhere safe. They weren’t meant to be seen or sent – just a way to put feelings back where they belonged: on paper, not in your chest.

At least… that was the plan.

“I’m never talking to you again,” you sob. 

“You’ll survive,” Evan teased, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into an embrace you willingly melt into. “Don’t cry too much, okay? It’s bad for your pores.” You hit the side of his torso, earning a laugh from him. “You’re insufferable.”

Evan, who decided to pursue that college scholarship miles away from home which he said was a big opportunity.

Jake was there too, of course. He’d always been there as Evan’s best friend since forever. Your brother’s other half, the duo who used to make all summers feel endless. Now, your entire childhood is split down by college, the final stamp that says, “it ends here”. It was Jake’s turn to say goodbye. You stepped back beside your mom, watching the two of them fall into that quiet rhythm of half jokes, half real things. They dapped, then pulled each other into a hug.

Evan turned back to you all, that same grin you grew up with now framed with a goodbye you couldn’t delay. You force a small smile, watching until he was just another person walking away and into the gate.

Jesus Christ, who will drive you to school?

Tip #3: If you write letters you don’t plan to send, don’t put actual stamps on them.

Another tip, for “HOW TO SURVIVE DRIVING 101”. Maybe just don’t fucking drive.

Not when it’s driving at night in a neighborhood you’ve never been to, and when your phone’s at 9%. 

You crashed the car. You’re shaking – half from the cold (and because you’re only in your stupid pajamas and this was supposed to be an errand), half from the fact that the front bumper is now kind of… detached and it’s looking at you like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. The headlights are still on, casting these long, uneven shadows across the empty street. 

Your first instinct is, obviously, Evan. “...what the fuck, dude,” his groggy voice comes through after the 6th ring, heavy with sleep and annoyance and confusion. “Why are you calling at – what time even is it? Wait – are you crying?”

You sniff, which answers that question. “I – I hit the curb – I didn’t mean to – it’s dark and I don’t – it’s not starting anymore, and I –” Your tears are wild as they cascade down your face, spilling everywhere while you pace back and forth across some street you don’t know.

“Jesus Christ.” He groans, rustling noises in the background. “Call Mom and Dad.”

“I can’t, Evan! They’ll freak out, and it’s – my phone’s at nine percent, I don’t even know where I am – wait,” You said, reading one of the street signs near you. “Cornelia Lane, yeah, where the fuck am I?” You sob again.

There’s a pause. You hear him mutter something under his breath, then a resigned, “Okay, okay, hang up. Wait. Don’t move. Don’t cry.” Then he hangs up. Which, frankly, feels cruel, like he shoved a knife right in the space between your ribcage. 

Two minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Evan 🦶: texted Jake. he knows that area. dont use ur phone. stop crying.

You let out a choked laugh – half disbelief, half desperation. Jake? Out of everyone? You’re sniffling, holding yourself like it could shield you from the cold and fright of solitude. 

And, you haven’t talked to Jake in weeks, after you dropped Evan off at the airport. Sure, the campus isn’t so big that you’d never cross paths with him after one month of returning back to school. Aside from the fact that he’s a senior and you’re a junior, you both haven’t really talked much the way little 13-year-old you and 14-year-old him did. Puberty was a jerk too, because who was once your best friend is now an object of probable discomfort.

Ten minutes later, sitting by the curb while your knees are pressed against your chest, headlights spill across the street. You squint through the glare, heartbeat picking up when the car turns the corner, familiar in color and shape – that army green Ford Bronco.  It pulls up beside you with a low rumble, engine humming even after it stops. For a second, you just stare, your mind running through every possible way this could be more mortifying just before the door opens, and there he is. Jake Sim, in a gray hoodie, a crease between his brows that softens when he sees you.

He takes one look at the car, then at you – teary, puffy, wrapped in your own arms – and exhales, stepping closer. “You okay?” His voice is low, calm, the kind of tone that feels grounding even when your pulse is anything but. You nod, though your throat tightens, and you start stammering to explain.

“Hey.” He cuts you off gently, waving a hand. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe, okay?”

You remembered. The Jake, who shared his juice box with you because you tripped over your own feet during tag and started crying, who brought you a popsicle after letting go of your bike. He’s here now, but gone are those days, now replaced his old bike by that SUV, his soft features sharper with age. Did his jaw always look like that? And his nose?

You sniffle again, and you see how he fights the urge to laugh. He squats down in front of you, tilting his head to chase your gaze. “Yo,” You look up, finding his eyes. “I’m here.”

You try to collect yourself with the heat of your palms pressing against your eyelids, grounding you somehow. “Am I screwed?”

He sighs, standing back up and checking on your car, which was awkwardly tilted over the curb. He whistles, rubbing the back of his neck, and then he straightens, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Kind of,” he murmurs, scanning the situation once more, “I’m calling Triple A, and then your dad. He’s gonna –”

You shake your head before he can finish. “No, please – don’t call him.”

Jake pauses, thumb hovering over his phone. The silence between you hangs thick in the air, broken only by faint chirping of crickets. He studies your face – the trembling lip, the way your shoulders are hunched like you’re trying to disappear. Then, softly, he exhales through his nose and sets his phone back in his pocket. “You know he’s gonna find out eventually, right?” he says, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t exactly hide a bumper hanging off.”

You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, then tugging your jacket sleeve down like it would stop you from shivering. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. I just – I can’t tonight.”

Jake nods slowly, that smile settling into something familiar – the one that used to come right before he’d say something teasing but gentle. “Alright. You get the call, ballerina,” he says under his breath.

You almost laugh, but your throat’s too tight, eyelids too heavy, eyes still glassy. He glances back at the car again, hands on his hips. “We’ll wait for the tow, I’ll drive you home, and you can tell your dad in the morning.”

You hesitate, shaking your head. “You don’t have to stay.” You didn’t exactly think it through – like if he did leave, then what would you do? But thank God, Jake is Jake the way you’re you.

He turns to you, eyes catching the weak beam of the streetlight. “Yeah, I do.”

Something about the way he says it – quiet, steady, like there’s no argument to be made – makes you look down at your shoes, heart pounding. “We’re friends.” he says with a kind smile, just to remind you that he still is that sweet boy.

You’re both there, a little too still, and the silence stretches just long enough that it starts to feel… heavy. You shift your weight, hands twisting in your jacket sleeves, and he glances at you, eyes flicking away for a moment before going back to the car. Your heart’s in your ear, and you really aren’t sure what to do with your hands, or your eyes when it accidentally meets with his.

Shit, was it always this awkward with him? Did age also just guarantee the discomfort? 

Jake shifts his weight, glancing at the car again, then back to you. “Alright,” he says finally, with that familiar mix of firmness and calm, “let’s just sit in the Bronco. Heater’s on, it’s warm. We’ll wait here until help comes.”

You nod, silently grateful, and follow him into the car, your jacket sleeves still twisted around your hands. The door shuts with a soft thud, and the faint warmth of the heater pushes against the cold.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, eyes focused on your car propped so awkwardly in front of you. You could sink in embarrassment, avoiding looking at him now. He exhales a chuckle before nodding, trying to glance at you. “Yeah, no worries.”

When he dropped you off, you ran to your room and read the letter you wrote to him – stamped and addressed and all. An epiphany, probably, the fact that some things haven’t really changed, and he’s still the kind of person who’s always one call away. You feel floaty, like you once did, just as you do now. 

You’re back to the middle school handwritings in pretty letter parchments, which you specifically saved for the love messages. Carefully opening the envelopes, there they are, in the corny glory of immature feelings. You read it just to be reminded of how earnestly you used to feel things. How unfiltered it all was, no self-awareness, just feeling in its rawest, most embarrassing form. 

Tip #4: Learn how to run fast.

Your parents found out about the car, and they weren’t really mad, but they said 18 was too old to let go of a responsibility like that. Half the repair cost would come from your savings, and the other half would come from them, just to be able to teach you a lesson that shit like that comes with a price. No big deal.

You decided to sell some of your things: clothes and bags, stuff you didn’t really use anymore. The process was a mess, and your things were everywhere that your procrastinating ass wasn’t able to fix it all in one go. Your mom helped. 

Today? Was going well! You had tests today, and you think you did great, managing to answer all of the questions with confidence. Your makeup was cute too, and you finally tried with your outfit, while your hair fell in this graceful way it rarely ever did. 

By all accounts, it was a good day. Even the drive to school wasn’t terrible, though you were hyper-aware of every turn you made. Your bumper was still fucked and you drive slow, but hey, it drives (you got honked at twice). 

After classes, you parked at your usual spot by the field, half-proud, half-exhausted, thinking maybe you deserved a nap before ballet practice. Your backseat was a disaster though – skirts, shoes, tote bags, and random receipts. So there you were, leaning into your car, muttering to yourself about where your left ballet slipper went – when a shadow passed across the window.

“Hey.”

You froze, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake.

He looked casual – black sweater, grey sweatpants, backpack slung over one shoulder – but there was something in his stance, like he wasn’t just passing by or trying to make a civil conversation. And he was looking at you but not really, and there was barely a second you think – he’s blushing, sorta. Must’ve been the sun or the heat; it was a particularly hot week anyway.

“Uh,” you blink, straightening, tucking your hair behind your ear as if that would make you less caught off guard. “Hey.”

“You drove here?” He nods at your car, and you’re still not sure what’s happening. 

“Yeah.” You respond, nodding.

He nods again, offering that polite, careful smile. “Can we talk?”

Your stomach drops, but you try to play it cool, shifting your weight to the other leg. You straightened your skirt, turning to him completely. “Oh. Um, sure? About what?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the ground before meeting yours again. “I think… we should clear a few things up.”

“What things?”

And that’s when he reaches into his backpack – slow, deliberate – and pulls out something that shouldn’t exist outside your music box, outside your room, outside the safety of you.

An envelope. Ivory-colored with black accents. Your handwriting on the front. His name in ink.

No, no, no, no –

You can’t breathe and it feels like the air just got ripped out of your lungs. The world tilts a little, and your body moves before your brain can even register what it’s doing. You’re gonna faint – you already probably are, and your feet are off the ground, or you’re probably just falling.

“Wait –” Jake starts, but you’re already gone.

You run. Away from the car, from him, from the stupid piece of paper that just blew your entire existence apart. You hear him call your name once, maybe twice, but your legs don’t stop. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and all you can think is –

He read it. He knows. How the fuck did he have it?

Your vision blurs, part adrenaline, part disbelief that this is your life now. You don’t even know where you’re running to – just away, as far as possible from the boy holding your 8-year-old to middle school heart in his hands like it’s something he accidentally found in his mail. A piece of you that was only supposed to be yours was between his fingertips – a part of your mind he’s seen, and you can’t ever take it back.

You’re walking now but you’re practically blacked out at this point. The pavement is uneven, the air thick, and your hands are shaking so hard. You’re just trying to breathe – in, out, again – when it happens.

You accidentally collide with something solid. Before you could stumble back, hands catch you by the elbows, steadying you back.

“Woah, you okay?”

The voice – low, calm, familiar – sends another jolt through you.

Your heart stutters when you see Jay, with discomfort and distress again. What the hell happened to this once-good day?

His face comes into focus through the blur of everything – warm brown eyes, hair tousled from the wind, that same reassuring presence you once thought would always mean safety. You let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, still trying to get your balance. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see –”

“It’s fine.” He gives a small smile, hands still hovering near you in case you stumble again. “You were running like someone was chasing you.”

You clear your throat, brushing invisible dust off your skirt, trying to sound normal, casual, human. “It’s nothing. Just – yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Jay studies you for a second longer, like he can see right through the lie. Then, almost hesitantly, he nods. “Alright.”

You’re about to thank him, to excuse yourself, to crawl under the earth and never resurface because it’s just better that way than having to face your brother’s best friend, who now knows your sacred and confidential feelings, when he shifts the strap of his bag off his shoulder and pulls out something that makes your stomach drop again.

An envelope. Dark green in color. The same goddamn handwriting.

Your breath catches and you practically die again. He looks almost… awkward, holding it between his fingers, glancing down at your handwriting like he’s been trying to figure out what to do with it all morning.

“Look,” he starts, his tone soft but steady, “I just – I wanted to tell you that… past is past. Okay? I read it, and I get it. I really do. But I think we should just –” he exhales, scratching the back of his neck, “establish some boundaries, maybe. I mean, we had our thing. And it was great. It meant a lot to me. But… it’s been a year. And I’m –”

He pauses, glancing up at you, voice dropping slightly. “I’m talking to someone now.”

And for a moment, there’s no sound – just the ringing in your ears, the pounding of your heart, and the way the world seems to blur at the edges. The last time you saw that, truthfully, was 4 days ago. The last time you actually meant what the fuck was in that paper was specifically 1 year, 11 months, and 22 days ago. Freshly broken up with, with the raw love of a 16-year-old girl with a draft for a heart.

He keeps talking – something about memories, and respect, and how he hopes you understand – but you can’t hear any of it. Because all you can think about is how every single one was mailed. Jake. Jay. Kai. Yeonjun.

Your letters, your feelings, all the versions of yourself you thought you buried, floating out in the world for people to read. You just stand there, staring at him, your mouth dry, your face drained of color.

You want to disappear. You want to die on the spot. You want to rewind the past twenty four hours and stuff those envelopes so deep into the ground no one could ever find them again. Maybe take the fucking stamps off and scratch away the address.

You remember everything you’ve written there. Two years ago, immediately after the breakup, reeling in the feeling of losing your first boyfriend and first kiss. How you’ll miss when he played you the guitar, or when he buys you flowers, or his jokes that always make you laugh. 

That you did love him, truly, and there will be a part of you who will love him always.

That was two years ago, you’re not so sure you agree now. 

Tip #5: When your ex shows up, keep your mouth shut (seriously).

You open your mouth, and for a second, nothing comes out – just the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Then, somehow, you find your voice, small and breathless.

“It’s – it’s not like that,” you start, shaking your head so fast you almost make yourself dizzy. “The letter, I mean. I wasn’t… trying to say anything, or get anything back. It’s old, Jay. It’s old. Like, two years old. I just…” You swallow, words tripping over themselves.

Jay’s expression softens, but he still looks a little uncomfortable, none of it making sense yet obviously. “Oh.” He blinks, nodding slowly. “I mean, yeah, no, I get that. It’s just – yeah, it caught me off guard, you know? Reading all that.”

“Yeah, no. Totally,” you nod slong. “Actually –” you try for a smile, the kind that feels steady but isn’t, which is worse because it looks like you’re smiling through the pain from the revelation of someone new in his life – which is not the case at all, “I’m, um… I’m seeing someone too.”

His brows lift, just barely, caught between polite curiosity. “Oh?” he asks, tone light but edged with surprise. “Who?”

And before you can stop yourself – before you can think – the name slips out.

“Jaeyun.”

You blink once, realizing too late what you just said. 

Jay blinks too. Twice. The silence stretches – long, tight, like the world itself just froze for a second. His eyebrows knit together, not jealousy but something between confusion and disbelief. And honestly, you probably have the same look too.

“Jaeyun… Jake… Sim?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod. “Yeah.”

The air goes weird, like really fucking weird..

Jay’s gaze flickers somewhere past you, like he’s trying to piece the timeline together in his head – Evan’s best friend, your brother’s other half, the guy you practically grew up with (all in which he knew) – and when he looks back at you, he gives this small, uneasy chuckle. “Wow. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Yeah.” You force a small smile, gripping your skirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “Me neither.”

You basically drive over the limit back home, storming into your room just to see that the fucking letters were indeed missing – all of them.

Your fault, of course, because you’ve completely forgotten to put the envelopes back into your music box after rereading them when Jake dropped you off, and even as you scramble through everything (under the bed, between the clothes, in the bags, and in the trash) they were nowhere. 

You’d practically jumped down the stairs, calling for your mom, finding her in the kitchen while she makes dinner. “Where–where are my letters? The ones I wrote? The four letters? They were on my desk and they’re not –”

Her eyebrows lift, just slightly, like she’s trying to place the context. “Oh… those?”

“Yes! Those! The letters! The ones addressed to–oh my God–” Your voice cracks a little, and you clutch your warm cheeks from the humiliation bubbling beneath your skin.

She wipes her hands on a dish towel, glances at you with that faint, you’re being dramatic smile. And except you wish you were. “I thought you meant to send them. So… I mailed them.”

Your knees nearly give out, jaw hanging wide open like the soul was personally snatched from your body. “You… mailed them?! All of them?!” 

She tilts her head, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like mailing your emotional soul is just part of a normal Tuesday. “Well, I figured you left them out for that reason. They looked ready.”

You’re so fucked.

Tip #6: If your brother’s best friend finds out you like(d) him, move countries.

Okay, one thing’s for certain (as far as your overthinking mind is concerned), you’re sure Jay did not believe you at all. You’ve always said that you saw Jake as your other brother (lie), the kind that went with Evan as a Buy 1 Take 1 promo – so saying that you’re seeing him?

Who the hell is buying that? Not Jay, who’s seen it all. So what if he thinks you’re still hung up?

You see Jake two days later. Your mom insists on going to the community fair because “you’ve been cooped up too long, sweetheart,” and you don’t have the heart to tell her you’d rather fall into a sinkhole than risk running into Jaeyun Sim in public right now. Because he’s always there, and that’s just the kind of guy he is.

But of course, fate has other plans. He’s there – standing by the lemonade stand, sun hitting his cheekbones just right, looking really flawless. Layla’s beside him, tail wagging, sitting obediently there. He spots you before you can turn away. For a second, you think maybe he won’t say anything because if he was a dear, he wouldn’t. Except he’s exactly that, and that he’s this friendly, social dork who looks just as jolly as his dog.

“Hey.”

Just one word, but it’s him, careful not to scare you away again. You smile because you don’t know what else to do, almost forced and strangled. “Hey.” You clear your throat, forcing a casual smile. “So… what are you doing here?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, looking down at Layla, who’s staring at you with her tongue out. “Was walking Layla.”

You nod once, trying to look relaxed. “Right. Of course.” You glance toward the next booth, hoping to make a graceful exit, almost turning away when suddenly –

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly.

You blink, jaw clenching, pretending to be clueless. “About what?”

He looks at you with his a small smile – just a little. “You tell me.”

And then your entire face feels like it’s on fire. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat is. “I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say, trying for nonchalant but failing spectacularly. 

Jake laughs. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing at all.”

You glare at him. He smiles. Then you sigh. 

“I mean, it’s… old. The letter. It’s… history.”

“History, huh?” he nods, puckers his lips, all to tease you obviously. “So I’m supposed to just… pretend I didn’t read about how you were obsessed with me in – what? 4th to 8th grade?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning internally. “Obsessed is a strong word, Jaeyun.” 

He falls into step beside you, Layla trotting happily between the two of you. “You know,” he says, voice calm but firm, “I really think I deserve a clarification.”

You snort, exasperated. “Fine. I liked you.” you dare glance at him and he’s got that smile so wide you basically sense its’ smugness. “Happy now? Can we move on?”

He tilts his head, pretending to think, still following you. “Hmm… vague. Are we talking fifth-grade-level-like or… high-school-heart-eyes-like?”

“Fifth-grade. Definitely fifth-grade,” you say, waving your hand like it’s obvious – because it is, the handwriting in glitter pens should sell it by now! 

He finally catches up, stepping just a little closer, the ever-so-annoying grin still on his mouth. “You know,” he says softly, nudging you lightly with his shoulder, “for someone who claims it’s all ancient history, you’re awfully… defensive.”

“Defensive?” you repeat, mock-offended. “I’m cautious – very cautious. And apparently extremely popular with dogs.” Layla barks happily at the two of you, as if she’s judging your banter. You look up at Jake too, who’s brows are raised at you, smile wide.

Dogs!

“Point is,” He starts again, but you start walking and he follows. “It’s hard to make sense out of this whole… ‘it’s ancient history’ and ‘childhood crush’ –” Jake falls into step beside you again, like he’s glued there. “Well, you say it’s old but,” he continues, voice casual, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s deadly serious, 

“Jay told me something.”

You freeze mid-step, hand hovering over a jar of chocolate chip cookies. Their exchanges always shifted a gear inside you, like two worlds colliding – so what more is this now?

Jake quirks an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “He said that you said that you and I… are seeing each other.”

Your brain short-circuits. You feel like your entire chest has been replaced by a bucket of ice. “What?”

“That’s what Jay said,” he continues, eyes on you, amused. “So… tell me. That doesn’t sound like a fifth-grade, forgettable crush, does it?”

You die. You freeze entirely, turning to him fully with your hands up in surrender. “I said that because that’s all the excuse I could muster at the moment!”

Jake leans on the counter casually, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Uh-huh. And yet, you said it like it’s nothing.”

You wave your hands helplessly. “It is nothing!”

He shrugs, giving you that infuriatingly calm look. “Honestly, I think you have a massive, massive crush on me right now. How can you even convince me that you didn’t just write that letter a week ago when I saved you?” He’s trying to look calm but you could see how amused he truly is about this. Like he’s actually enjoying torturing you.

You scoff, glare at him, but it’s a weak glare. He’s grinning, leaning in just enough that you can feel it.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you mutter.

“Right. Okay,” he says smoothly, snickering, “so I’ll just walk away. While Layla and I think… you’re absolutely in love with your brother’s best friend. That’s… crazy.”

You blink at him, scandalized. “Crazy? Okay, first of all –”

“Crazy.” He cuts you off. “I’m confused. Very confused. And I deserve an explanation, of course.”

You groan again, and you fight the very urge to throw the cookie jar at him. “Fine! It was ages ago.” You exhale, training your gaze away. “I wrote letters to guys I liked. They helped me figure out what I felt. Like journaling, but more… specific.”

He hums, pretending to think. “With a stamp and an address?”

You ignore him entirely. “There were four letters. They got sent out by accident and it wasn’t exactly planned.”

“Four?” he repeats, eyebrows raising. “Holy shit, you were a player.”

He laughs, and for a second, the tension dissolves – replaced by that stupid, easy warmth that used to fill every summer evening when you were kids. But the last thing you need is comparing that vibrant-lensed memory to your life now – because it is so, so different. No crushes, or whatever. You both sit at the bench, and he leans his elbows on his knees.

Jake’s still grinning, the kind of grin that makes you want to both punch him and crawl into the nearest trash bin. “Alright, so… four letters. One for me, one for the ex.” He voice drops just slightly. “Who were the other two?”

You sigh. “Why do you care?”

“Curiosity,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes – something sharp, a little too interested. “Come on. I feel like I deserve to know what kind of competition I had.”

You groan. “There wasn’t competition.”

“Then tell me.”

You give him a look but cave anyway, because you’ve never been good at ignoring that tone. “Fine. One was this guy in the community library. He’d lend me annotated books, and we liked the same books, so,” you shrug, “I thought that meant we were soulmates.”

He tilts his head. “I annotated for you.”

“You highlighted science notes for me.” you hide your smile.

He shrugs, trying to get a glimpse of your face again. “Same thing.”

You ignore him and continue. “The other one – well, it doesn’t even count. He was a senior during one of my summer camps. He helped me carry my canvases and smiled at me twice. He also said I was pretty and I danced nicely. End of story.”

“Smiled twice,” Jake repeats, pretending to take mental notes. “Tragic love story, really.”

“Exactly,” you deadpan. “Totally life-altering.”

He smiles, shaking his head, and for a moment, the teasing dies down. “So… four letters, huh?”

You nod slowly, tucking your knees closer to your chest. You feel like a solid-liquid matter, because half of you still can’t believe that this is all happening. He’s smiling, sometimes he’d lick the corner of his mouth like he’s fully processing the information. You could only feel the sink in your stomach. 

Right now, it’s not the popular, soccer captain, with straight A’s, and fanclubs – it’s the boy-next-door whom you grew up with. And he’s stealing glances at you like he’s really reeling in the fact this girl that always just kinda stuck to him and his best friend, liked him. Little you with the pink bows and orange popsicles, one who always laughed too loud because he messed up tying a ribbon. Little you and little him because he intentionally ruined the ribbons to make you smile.

Jake’s quiet for a moment, just watching you in the corner of his eye. Then – of course – he clears his throat.

You look up immediately. “What?”

He shrugs. “Jay already thinks we’re… you know.” He gestures between the two of you. “So, like… maybe we let him think that.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just kicks a rock on the ground. “If you suddenly backtrack, he’ll know you lied just to save face. This way, it’s… consistent.”

You gape at him like he just grew a second head. “So your plan is to fake date?”

He looks up you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah.”

You almost practically splutter. “Jake – what the actual – no.”

He laughs, which only makes you more flustered. “Relax, it’s not that deep. Just for a bit. Saves you the embarrassment.”

You squint. “What’s in it for you?”

Jake bites his lip, looks away, like he’s half-ashamed to admit it. “There’s this girl. Cheer squad. She’s… really trying. I tried too, okay? But I can’t – ” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, “ – I can’t like her. Not the way she wants. And if I were, you know, dating someone, she’d stop.”

You stare at him with the gaze of someone judging. “That is the worst justification I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” he says with a crooked smile, “you were the one who started the rumor.”

You glare. “That wasn’t a rumor, it was a defensive maneuver.”

“Semantics,” he says, unfazed. 

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not.”

He just nods once, like he expected that. “Yeah, didn’t expect it to be easy.” Then he tugs Layla’s leash, and she immediately stands. “C’mon. I can drive you home.”

You consider refusing, but the thought of walking back alone under this afternoon heat kills it immediately. So you sigh and follow him to the car. The drive’s quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with awkwardness. You hate it, of course, you’ve find very little reasons to not be hateful these days. When he parks in front of your house, he kills the engine but doesn’t move. Then he’s out, walking you to the front door like some kind of gentleman – except he was, since he was always kinder than Evan, everyone knew that. 

You’re fumbling for your keys when you feel a light tug on the back of your top. You look up – and damn, has he always been this tall? A tower that hovers over you? You swore you were the same height like, 5 years ago. The daylight hits his jaw, that stupid, unfair jawline.

“Just think about it, yeah?” he says softly. “The fake thing.”

You exhale, crossing your arms. “Fine.”

His eyes widen, and so does the smile that reeks of smugness at how fast this is turning out. You narrow you eyes at him, just to let him know that you still think it’s a tenth-rate idea. Before he can even comment about how easy you are with so little conviction and, well, thinking time, you turn to your door. 

“We’ll talk in school.” is all you say before you storm in and block him off today.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #7: Set some rules.

Now you’re sitting on the bench beside the vending machines, out of the way from people’s sight and hearing, and finally turn to him while you sit. “We need rules.” You pull out a sheet of paper.

Jake blinks while he clicks some buttons. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules,” you say, trying to sound composed, even though you’re one second away from combusting. You are, in theory, very much dying – but you start writing on the paper. “If we’re doing this fake dating thing, we’re doing it properly.”

He tilts his head, intrigued, a smile already forming. “Alright. Hit me with your list.”

You take a breath, then you write. “Rule one: no kissing.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “Okay.” he says, tone dripping with mischief. Okay, Mr. Never-Had-A-Girlfriend! He laughs at the no kissing rule, weirdo.

“Rule two,” you continue, ignoring him, “we don’t act unless necessary. In the cafeteria, classes, school events. That’s it.”

He nods. “Sure.” Then, like he can’t help himself: “You know, most girlfriends actually want to spend time with their boyfriends.”

You shoot him a look so sharp he raises his hands in mock surrender. Then his snack is stuck on the other side of the machine, and he curses, calling it a complete scam. He’s frowning, hitting the vending machine like a loser.

“Rule three,” you finish, “you don’t get to call me ‘babe’ or whatever unless someone’s around.”

That earns you a full-blown grin. “That’s gonna be tough, babe.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, that infuriating glint back in his eye. “But admit it – you kinda like it.”

You look up at him, deadpan. “Rule four: don’t assume things.” This is very, very crucial.

He laughs, the sound echoing down the hall. “Guess I’ll have to find out which of these rules you break first.” He fishes his chips out the machine by shaking it and you try not to laugh at how he’s acting.

Jake huffs, leaning against the vending machine when he finally gets that godforsaken chips. “Alright,” he says. “Then I’ve got rules too.”

You narrow your eyes. “You? Making rules?”

He shrugs. “Fake relationship’s gotta look real. Means you come with me to games and parties.”

You blink. “Parties?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “People will notice if I show up alone. It’ll look weird if my ‘girlfriend’ never shows.”

You hesitate, frowning. “I don’t like parties.”

“That’s fine,” Jake says easily. “You don’t have to like them. You just have to be there. Plus, they’re just socializing, bit of drinking, nothing bad. I’m not a frat boy.”

You open your mouth to argue – something about how ridiculous that sounds – but he’s already looking at you, calm, steady, annoyingly reasonable, while munching down on his chips. “It’s just part of the deal,” he adds after a beat. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. Otherwise, Jay’s gonna catch on. And cheer.”

You let out a quiet sigh, pressing your lips together. He’s right, technically. You just hate that he’s right. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t expect me to actually enjoy it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You wrinkle your nose, spine suddenly rigid. “Evan can’t know, by the way. Actually – my whole family can’t know. They’ll –” you wave your hands like you’re swatting away a swarm of angry bees. “They’ll freak. They’ll think I’m reckless or dramatic or that I’m trying to date within the family friend ecosystem. Mom will –” cheer, you know she will. “ – I don’t know, something. Evan will literally murder both of us.”

Jake watches you, amusement softening into something like understanding – because he knows your family like it’s just an extension of his. He nods. “Fair. Family stays in the dark.”

Relief burbles somewhere in your chest. “Good. Thank you.”

You feel slightly more human. Then he tilts his head, an eyebrow rising like he’s about to negotiate terms. “Okay – one more thing.”

You already feel the groan forming. “What.”

He leans forward, voice casual, practical. “So – if we’re not doing kisses because that’s your rule, people will still need to believe this. We should do believable stuff. Public stuff.”

Your first instinct is to say no. Your second instinct is to ask what “believable stuff” even means. Your third instinct is to picture yourself linking arms in the hallway and dying slowly. Not that you hate it but you are not fond of the way you’d react.

Jake watches your face closely. “Holding hands sometimes. Link arms when we walk into parties. Sit next to each other. Little things that read as couple-y without being, like, gross or personal.”

You blink. “Hold hands?”

He nods. “Not clingy.”

You fold your arms. “And the kissing thing?”

He shrugs. “We can do non-romantic stuff. A forehead peck at a pep rally, maybe. Or a quick head-kiss after a win at the game. You okay with that?”

You think about it. The idea of a staged forehead kiss makes your stomach flip in a very unnecessary way, but it’s not a full-on mouth kiss and it gets the job done. You don’t want to admit any part of you finds the image faintly tolerable. But honestly, a part of you is screaming that you don’t want that, just because something fake is too overly romantic for your lover girl heart. Still, you exhale, and nod.

“Fine,” you say finally, voice tight around the word. “And if anyone gets weird, we stop. Immediately.”

Jake’s grin is equal parts victory and relief. “Deal. Family stays clueless. Public stuff only. You call the line.”

You stand and pat your knees as if you’ve just concluded high-stakes diplomacy. “Okay. Rules set. Now let’s both try not to ruin our lives.”

He snorts. “No promises.”

You shove him lightly and start toward class, trying not to notice how natural his stride looks beside yours – the kind that makes a fake thing feel startlingly less pretend.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave, when Jake calls out, “Okay – one more rule.”

You spin on your heel, exasperated. “Jake. We already have, like, a constitution. What else could you possibly –”

He’s grinning, that boyish kind that makes you want to throw something at him. “I need to watch your dance practices.”

You blink. “…What? That’s not even relevant to this plan.”

“Sure it is,” he says easily. “If I’m your boyfriend – fake or not – I should be supportive, right? Boyfriends go to their girlfriends’ performances. It’s believable.”

You cross your arms, trying to play it off, but your chest is doing this stupid flutter thing that feels way too alive. “You don’t have to. It’s just boring arts stuff. No one from school would even see.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “So? Maybe I just want to go.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “You don’t even like ballet.”

He shrugs. “I liked yours.”

And there it is – those five stupid words that make your pulse trip over itself. But you convince yourself that it’s the heart of 13-year-old you and not 18-year-old you, of course. It’s not logical and even plausible in this timeline now. You roll your eyes too fast, too defensive, too flustered. “That was, like, forever ago.”

“Still counts,” he says, pushing himself away from you. “Rule stands.”

You glare up at him, but he’s already walking backward, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Fine,” you call after him, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice cracks a little. “You’ll regret it when I dance for one hour straight.”

He winks. “I never did.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #8: Abide by the fake girlfriend etiquette.

When you were 10, things were simple.

Evan was 12, Jake was 11, and you were just the tag-along kid with the pink backpack and juice box, sitting cross-legged on the sidelines while they kicked around a soccer ball. Jake used to wave at you from the field before every practice – grinning, hair sticking to his forehead, yelling, “Watch this!” before missing half his shots but celebrating like he’d won the World Cup anyway.

You’d clap until your palms stung. His other flock of friends were there too, boys just as rowdy supporting him. Yet he’d always come running over to you and Evan first, all flushed and sweaty, asking, “Well? How’d I do?”

And you’d giggle, cheeks warm. “You were cool.”

Evan, naturally, ruined everything by aggressively poking your cheek. “You like him, don’t you?” You puffed your cheeks, shaking your head hard enough to make your ponytail whip around. “Do not!”

You snap back to the present just as you’re walking to the bus station, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, earbuds in. The air smells like asphalt and afternoon rain when your phone buzzes.

Jake Sim. You hesitate before answering. “What?”

“Hey,” he says, tone way too casual for your liking. “You gotta show up at my practice.”

You stop walking. “What, why?”

“Cheer’s here,” he says simply, and you can hear the exasperation through the line, like you can already see the image of girls swarming, and eyeing him down. You groan, tipping your head back. “Jaeyun, I have homework. Just let them.”

“Dude, that’s not fair,” he fires back without missing a beat. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost audible. “Practices are not part of the rules.”

“Wow,” he says, fake offended, scoffing, overly dramatic, just the way he is. “You’re really gonna let your boyfriend play to a thirsty audience?”

“Fake boyfriend,” you correct sharply and he ignores you completely. “Field. Fifteen minutes. Look cute.”

“Jaeyun –”

The call ends.

You glare at your reflection in the black screen for a full five seconds before groaning out loud, clutching your bag tighter. “I hate him,” you mutter to no one.

But fifteen minutes later, you’re trudging your way across the field anyway. Of course you are. You’re a woman of your word, even with the guys you hate and used to like and have some stupid constitution with because you’re fake dating him. Junior year is crazy and stupid, and whatever you are now is beyond normal to even be analogous to be compared to other kids your age. You used to believe you’re smart, but now you feel like you’re one red wig away from looking like a clown anyway.

Okay, maybe you glanced a few times in the mirror before getting here. Not that you were trying to impress. Of course not. But when he sees you, you can’t help but think if you should’ve fixed your hair a bit more, your top and shorts – just to look part of whatever this is. 

Early September this year was unusually cold, but you blame the dawn. You tug your knitted cardigan closer as you find your way to Jake, who was already warming up on the field. Jake notices you instantly, breaking away from his teammates. He jogs over, breath visible in the chill, that easy grin already pulling at his lips. “You look ridiculous,” he says first thing, eyes flicking over your outfit. “It’s cold tonight.”

You sigh, rubbing your arms. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t particularly planning to stay at school beyond dismissal time, you know.”

He hums, nodding toward the sidelines where his duffel bag sits and you follow his gaze. “There’s a hoodie in there. You can wear it.” He says in a way that was more of a casual exchange than a proposed act.

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I’ll live.” You start toward the bleachers instead, but before you get far, his voice follows you – lazy, casual, loud enough for a few heads to turn. “Hey, get my wallet from the bag pocket and buy yourself coffee from the vending machine.”

You stop mid-step. What the fuck? Then you remember – right, act. You’re the supportive girlfriend. This is just theater and people like seeing that, the whole princess treatment.

You exhale through your nose and keep walking, pretending not to notice the amused looks from his teammates. You’re halfway up the bleachers when his voice rings out again, louder this time:

“No good luck kiss?”

You freeze. Half the field turns to look at you. You feel your face heat up, and you swear you hear someone whistle. You glance over your shoulder, glare sharp enough to cut through the cold. “Later, loser!”

Jake just grins – wide, boyish, triumphant – before jogging back to the field.

You can feel the eyes on you the moment you sit down. The cheer team is scattered nearby – half of them pretending not to notice, half of them definitely noticing. Whispers ripple between them like wind through grass, and you’re used to it or at least, you pretend you are.

Except there’s one girl who doesn’t join in. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through her phone, totally unbothered by your presence. No sideways glance, no whispered comment, not even a flicker of curiosity.

She’s pretty. The kind of pretty that takes work but in an effortless way – soft waves that clearly came from a salon blowout, glossed lips, lashes that catch the light every time she blinks. You can tell she smells expensive, like vanilla and something floral. The kind of girl who journals at cafes and has a curated Instagram feed. 

You don’t even need to ask. You just know. That’s her. The cheer girl. And honestly, how could Jake not like that?

You press your lips together, dropping your gaze back to your notebooks and textbook. The game starts – cheers start their own practice drills, whistles are blown, the dull thud of shoes against turf – but you don’t care. Your pencil scratches against paper as you wrestle with pre-calculus instead of your own thoughts.

As the sky deepens into navy, the air turns sharper, colder. You rub your hands together, glance once, then twice, at Jake’s duffel bag on the sidelines, staring at you with temptation and oversized comfort and warm caffeine. The hoodie’s right there. He did offer and he did tell you to buy coffee.

You could. No one would even think twice.

But you don’t. Because this is fake – you’re fake, and letting yourself get comfortable with the pretend label feels like the first step into something stupid. 

You straighten in your seat, pull your cardigan tighter, and tell yourself your support here is enough. You deserve that much self-respect because this is an act, no need to be comfortable when you’re already deep in the pretend. So you keep your head down and keep working because pre-calculus sure as hell isn’t going to solve itself.

When the final whistle blows and you’ve finished the final question, flipping the cursed material closed, the soccer team is dispersing and Jake’s jogging towards you like he used to with Evan beside you, and still with that grin like he’s in the middle of impressing you.

“I scored half the team’s points in the practice game.” 

You raise a brow without looking up right away, feigning disinterest as you tuck your pencil in your case, and zip your bag closed. “Congratulations,” you say flatly. 

Jake huffs a laugh, hands on his hips, jersey clinging to him, hair damp with sweat. “You’re so supportive,” he says, sarcasm dripping. “Really feeling the fake girlfriend energy.”

You finally look at him, which was a mistake, because he should reek of sweat and look disgusting, but he’s neither. “Well, it’s not like I was supposed to actually enjoy being here.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he shoots back. “You didn’t even look up once.”

“Pre-calculus,” you reply, lifting your notebook slightly like evidence in court. “Some of us are trying to pass.”

He grins again, easy and boyish, and it makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. It’s cold, okay. That’s why.  “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his tone’s softer this time.

“So I’ve heard.”

Jake crouches down a little, eye level with you now, his breath still uneven from the run. “You’re cold,” he murmurs, less teasing, more observant when his eyes trail to your hands and unmanicured nails. “Told you to take my hoodie.”

You shrug, refusing to meet his gaze. “Didn’t need it.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. He sighs, which you believe is the disappointment of you not playing further into the GF act yeah, obviously. “You look like you’re about to catch hypothermia out of spite.”

You snort, finally standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It’s called dignity.”

Jake tilts his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, taking his duffel bag as well. “You and your dignity are both freezing.”

You roll your eyes and start walking toward the gate, and he falls into step beside you like it’s second nature. It’s annoyingly easy, the way he matches your pace – not too fast, not too slow – and you wonder how something fake can feel this familiar already.

You’re on your way to the school gates, about to part ways with Jake when he calls you. You turn, confused. “What.”

He points to the parking lot to where he’s heading, and you shiver. Then you realize. You, Jake, Bronco, outside people’s field of view which eems excessive and unnecessary, maybe even scary.

“I can take the bus.” You nod, turning your heel but he laughs under his breath, that low, knowing sound that always seems to find its way under your skin. “You think I’m gonna let my fake girlfriend take the bus at night?”

You roll your eyes, pretending to scoff even though the corner of your mouth threatens to curve up. “You don’t have to, Jaeyun. You’ve done your civic duty. Played soccer, annoyed me, performed for the crowd – gold star.”

He shakes his head, walking backwards a few steps again, the parking lot lights catching the edge of his grin. “Get in the car, angel,” he says, teasing but somehow gentle, like it’s a line he’s not even aware sounds too easy on his tongue.

You blink. “Bro, I said no calling me –”

“Get in,” he interrupts, unlocking the Bronco with a beep. “You’re cold, and I have heated seats.”

“Wow,” you say, hugging your cardigan tighter to hide the way your pulse jumps, like it would help, like it could also stop the butterflies. “Bossy and selfless.”

Jake opens the passenger door for you, mock bowing. “It’s called good fake boyfriend etiquette.”

You sigh, fighting a smile as you walk over, trying not to show how much warmer it feels just standing near him. “Fine,” you mumble, brushing past. “But this doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “I can take a ‘later, loser’ as payment again,” he says softly, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

You shake your head, pretending to be exasperated – but you still say it, barely above a whisper. “Later, loser.”

And the way his grin widens – just slightly, like he’s trying not to let it show – makes the night feel a little less cold.

It’s the second Sunday of the month, so you do the task of buying groceries. Everything’s as planned – except you don’t even know why you’re… sorta doing this out of planned. The list in your Notes app says “bread, toothpaste, detergent, blah blah essentials” and yet your cart is full of snacks you swore you’d stop buying, instant noodles, and a new body wash that smells really good. Right, as well as the basket loads of sweets that you swore you’d cut because you cannot live that sugary life anymore. 

The gray sky was hanging low, the grocery aisles nearly empty except for parents dragging their kids and college students attempt at adulthood. And the manager’s trying, okay? With the new pop music that’s hot in the radio, but they need to put the decade old speaker to rest.

You’re halfway through the snack aisle when you see him. Out of your plan because you look half-dead and it’s just embarrassing. He doesn’t though, because he never does. Jake’s hoodie is up like always, sleeves pushed past his wrists, a basket in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other like he’s been standing there deciding between flavors for ten whole minutes.

You blink, hoping maybe you’re hallucinating. Because why the hell is this dude suddenly everywhere? Like, sure, he always has been everywhere ever since the beginning, but it’s so frequently this time that it feels intentional. Why would you two be in the same aisle in the same grocery store at the same time?

He spots you, and that familiar grin pulls at his face, amused and wide that pulls his cheeks up. “Oh my god,” he says, like he’s genuinely shocked. “You actually grocery shop.”

You roll your eyes, pushing your cart forward, attempting to make this as trivial as possible. “Yeah, I do basic human things sometimes.”

But he doesn’t let you because he starts walking beside you, basket swinging lightly from his hand while you push the heavy cart. “Didn’t take you for a domestic type.”

“I’m not,” you say. “We just ran out of cereal.”

Jake hums, looking into your cart. “And chocolates, chips, ice cream, coffee pods, three packs of different drinks – real essentials.”

“Are you stalking my cart?” You glare up at him.

“Maybe.” He shrugs, grinning. 

You huff a laugh under your breath.

The aisle hums with fluorescent light which flickers sometimes, begging to be replaced. Your wheels squeak every few steps and the old front casters decides a mutiny to turn left when you mean right. However, Jake doesn’t leave. In fact, he follows you to the next section, sometimes he stays quiet and sometimes he’s still talking about nothing – milk prices, the weather, some inside joke you actually don’t get – like it’s the most normal thing in the world to tag along when your fake boyfriend just happens to bump into you at the grocery.

“Shouldn’t you leave me alone.” You say it not as a question but out of exasperation.

“Nah.”

You move on, pretending to check labels, but your focus is gone. You can feel him a few steps behind you, basket getting fuller with things he clearly didn’t come here for, looking at things he probably doesn’t care about. Simply because you’re here and he chose to be there too.

By the time you reach the checkout, he’s still there. He helps you unload your stuff onto the counter like it’s habit, then quietly plucks out the ice cream and sets it aside.

You frown, looking up at him. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“I’ll carry it,” he says simply, not even looking at you. “So it doesn’t melt.”

He pays for his things, and you both head out – the automatic doors sliding open, letting in the smell of rain. The parking lot’s damp, glowing faintly under the streetlights. The air is cold in a way that it seeps into your sleeves and makes you hold the bags tighter, and Jake falls into step beside you, shoulders brushing just barely, like he’s not really thinking about it. 

It’s drizzling and the droplets catches on your hair and lashes before you realize it. There’s a beat of silence before he lifts his hand slightly over your head, his hoodie sleeve brushing your hair as if to shield you from the drizzle. Not quite touching – but close enough to make you look up at him.

You blink up at him, caught, but he’s looking somewhere else, pretending to study the clouds. “There,” he says casually. “Problem solved.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice comes out a little softer. “That’s overreacting.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But at least you’re dry.”

With an arm over your head, you both head to your car. He helps you with your bags because you clearly have gotten way more than what your list said you needed. He tucks them in your trunk for you, smirks just a little when he sees your still very fucked bumper.

“Still haven’t fixed this?” he asks, tapping the dent lightly with his knuckles.

You roll your eyes. “Leave it alone, bro.”

Clearly, he laughs at that, bending a little and just adds a quiet comment about getting called ‘bro’. 

You adjust your bag, trying not to look at him when he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “See you, bro,” he says, soft. And when he walks the other way, ice cream still in his hand, you realize your groceries are lighter but your chest isn’t.

You’re gonna kill him. He stole your ice cream.

Fuck ass alarm clock, actually. For not ringing. And then, you missed the first bus but seriously, you’re not driving to school. Not when your bumper’s still fucked (repair shop said one month at least before it’s back to good condition) for the whole school to see.

You’re sprinting through the campus, late, backpack bouncing, hair barely held together by a clip that’s losing the will to live. The school is crowded today – student org booths, food stalls, music, chatter – everything you’d normally love if you weren’t racing the bell. 

And then – bam. You collide into someone hard enough that your said dying claw clip flies out of your hair.

“Oh my god, I’m so –” you start, but the words die somewhere in your throat. Because the girl in front of you is gorgeous. Effortlessly so. Tousled chestnut hair with blonde highlights (religious monthly retouch, you swear), glossy lips, eyes lined just enough to look like she woke up perfect. And you know her. You know her.

Jake’s practice. The girl who didn’t look at you. The one who acted unbothered while the others whispered. Her.

She smiles, soft and polite, like you didn’t just crash into her soul-first, like you’re not something that’s barely holding herself together while she’s the human embodiment of that Vivienne Westwood tartan in Pinterest. “Hey,” she says, voice smooth. “I see you around sometimes, but we’ve never officially met.”

Your stomach sinks. Oh, that line. The ‘I know exactly who you are’ line dressed up as small talk because no one actually ever says that to someone they bumped into even if they’ve seen them around in campus. It’s intentional, and meeting you was on purpose.

You force a smile, straighten your bag, try not to sound like you swallowed air wrong. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, I’m –”

“Yeah, I know,” she says easily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, effortlessly, the kind of way someone like Jake Sim would like. “I’m Vivienne.”

Of course she is named the way she looks. Of course her name sounds like luxury brand. You’d half expect violins to start playing behind her and maybe even you’d start performing Giselle right there on the pavement, tragic and delusional, with her as the hauntingly beautiful lead.

You nod, flustered. “Nice to meet you. I gotta – I have class and –”

Her smile is gentle, too gentle, like she’s not even trying to compete because why would she need to? “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to hold you up. See you around, okay?”

You manage a half-wave before turning and bolting toward the hallway, heat crawling up your neck. You just met the girl who’s probably starring in Jake Sim’s next romantic subplot – and you looked like a winded raccoon doing it.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Your footsteps echo down the nearly empty hallway, the faint hum of chatter spilling from open classroom doors. You’re just minding your business, totally normal, completely fine – until you see Jay.

And of course, he’s not alone. He’s leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly, smiling at the girl beside him. She’s laughing softly, one hand brushing his arm – it’s all so cinematic.

And then – just your luck – his eyes flick to you.

Oh no. Oh no.

You weren’t supposed to be here, alone, empty-handed, totally boyfriend-less. Because what kind of person fakes a relationship to their ex and then gets caught solo in the hallway while he’s out there looking like a K-drama poster? And your competitive ass would not lose to that. You swear you can feel his stare linger, assessing, amused – like he knows, like he’s already caught you in your own lie and that you suck and you’re still a sucker for him, the two-year-old letter was still the very symbol who you used to be and are now. 

And then, you spot Jake. Thank god.

He’s walking down the opposite end, surrounded by his usual crowd, voice loud and laughter louder, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit like the boy everyone somehow orbits around. 

Your stomach twists. This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea. But Jay’s still there.

You feel it – that lingering awareness, that quiet amusement burning into your back – and suddenly, standing still feels worse than anything else. So you move.

You cut through Jake’s friends without really looking at them, fingers wrapping around his sleeve, pulling harder than you mean to. He stumbles mid-laugh, words cutting off as you pull him out of orbit and straight into you.

“Hey –” he starts.

You don’t give him time.

You back up against the lockers, the metal cold against your back when you press, his arm instinctively bracing beside your head to keep himself from knocking into you. He’s close – closer than either of you planned – breath warm, eyes wide with surprise.

Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage.

You tilt your head up, voice low, urgent. “Kiss me.”

Jake blinks. 

His eyes flick over his shoulder, quick and assessing – the hallway, the people, the goddamn fucking context as to why you’re acting the way you are – before landing back on you. Something shifts in his expression, seriousness cutting easily through the teasing.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod surely.

That’s all it takes before he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and grounding. His hand settles lightly at your waist, steadying you, like he knows your legs might give out otherwise. Then he presses another kiss, lower this time, just on the bridge of your nose.

For a second, the hallway fades. You’re too aware of the way his breath ghosts your skin, the warmth of his palm, the fact that this feels… stupidly good.

When he pulls back, your eyes meet. There’s a beat where neither of you says anything and the air feels thick with something unspoken, something that doesn’t fit the excuse you just used. Jake studies your face like he’s trying to read it, then his mouth curves into a soft smile.

He reaches up and ruffles your hair, affectionate and familiar, like how it’s always been. He pulls away, putting a close but safer distance between you two.

“There’s a party later,” he says casually, thumb brushing your sleeve. “I’ll drive you.”

You scoff, leaning away just enough to breathe again. “I can’t. I have a paper due in, like, two days –”

“Hey,” he cuts in, grinning. “Contract.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he steps closer again, quick and deliberate, and presses a kiss to your cheek. It’s brief – almost teasing – before he pulls away entirely.

“Think about it,” he says, already backing up. “See you.”

You freeze, like someone just ripped the air from your lungs. Heart hammering, brain fizzing. 

And then, just out of the corner of your eye, you notice her. Vivienne who’s glancing at the scene, calm, composed, not giving anything away. For half a second, your eyes meet just before she turns her head and walks away, graceful as ever, leaving you blinking against the lockers.

Okay, yeah, that’s why. Obviously.

You want to punch him. You also want to melt. Both, simultaneously.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

The houseparty is loud and bustling from the inside – the kind you eye while walking past when you’re supposed to head for the convenience store at 10 p.m. Yet you’re here, standing by the entrance, Jake at your side while you tug at the hem of your low cut dress. You glance at yourself in the hallway mirror half a dozen times ever since you’ve gotten here – which is less than two minutes ago. 

Jake’s there too, just beside you, in a simple bomber jacket over a white shirt. You fidget with your hair, messing with a strand of hair that’s already fine, and it’s definitely not helping you feel more composed.

“You look good,” Jake says suddenly, low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you, and not the thrumming crowd around you. For a moment you think it is, to help you not look so rigid beside your supposed boyfriend.

You glance at him, slightly flustered, trying to hide the flutter in your chest behind a scoff. “Thanks,” you murmur, not daring to let the hint of a smile slip.

“Not that you’d notice,” he adds, tilting his head, eyes flicking over the curve of your hips and the way your hands twist nervously. “You think too much.”

You can’t help it – a small, almost embarrassed laugh escapes, and you tug the dress down a bit, just enough to remind yourself that you’re standing here in front of Jake Sim, who somehow makes it impossible to act like you’re not completely aware of him.

Again, you think about how this is a bad idea. The whole fake dating thing. Because it’s Jake Sim and not just some random dude, it’s someone people know – which is not your kind of thing, and it does make you a bit nauseous when you think too much about it. Something about the fact that you’re pretending to be in love felt so wrong, like it’s going against a sacred scripture. At least, in your world, you are. Because when did something as pure as the romantics and butterflies have to be an act.

You let Jake guide you further inside, the bass of the music and laughs vibrating under your feet. Lights flash against faces you recognize, people who seem to exist on a higher plane of social gravity and took Instagram curation as serious as resumes. You stick close to Jake, letting him pull you along like a practiced partner in a dance you’re quite close to mastering.

“Drink?” he asks, voice low as he leans a little closer so only you can hear. He gestures toward the kitchen where a small crowd has gathered, laughter spilling out like a current. You nod, letting him pull you through the current.

Inside, the kitchen is chaotic but manageable – half-empty bottles, solo cups clattering on the counters, someone talking loudly about a prank from last week. You grab a cup and fill it with the fizzy liquid in the suspicious fishbowl at the middle of the counter – you only assume its safety from the hospitalable set-up.

“I ran into Vivienne the other day,” you say as if you’re trying to sound like you’re just passing the time.

Jake pauses with his cup halfway to his lips. “Oh. Okay,” he mutters, low and clipped, uninterested with the way he continues to drink, and how he doesn’t ask anything nor even glance back at you.

You frown slightly, but decide to keep going anyway by pressing on like a good narrator in your own story. “She’s… really pretty.”

His posture doesn’t change, he’s still relaxed against the counter but the way his fingers tighten slightly on his cup betrays something. You notice because you always notice things about Jake.

You scoff a chuckle, failing to act nonchalant. “She’s, like, perfect. For a guy like you.” 

Jake lets out a soft, almost amused sigh, finally loosening his shoulders a fraction. “A guy like me?”

You shrug, letting a smile twitch at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. I mean, don’t the soccer captains usually fall for the cheer captains?” You drink the fizzy liquid, juicy with the alcoholic after taste – you hum at its surprisingly nice flavor.

Jake scoffs, and for a moment, he leans back a little, tilting his head as if weighing how much he should entertain this conversation. “Well, you’ve been reading too much romance novels, that’s for sure.”

You grin, sipping your drink. “It adds… flavor. Like a plot twist.”

He tilts his head, gaze locking on yours. It’s tall, steady, and a little intimidating in how calm he looks while you stare up at him. “Okay,” he says slowly, “then what about this plot twist?”

You freeze a little, trying not to overthink the weight in his tone and the way his eyes stay on you while you attempt to not look stricken. Your emotions move without authority, and suddenly you feel tingly when you look at him. But before you can respond, someone calls his name from across the room. He exhales, and does not waste a second longer to look for the source, slipping into the crowds for a more sensible conversation with his friends.

You take the cue, moving away into the crowd, thankful that the tight kitchen which reeks of questionable alcoholic beverages no longer becomes your stage of frightful beginnings. The living room feels spacious and easier, so you let yourself collapse onto the couch, settling in, feeling your tensed shoulders finally relax. Your drink fizzes in your hand, a cold reminder that you’re still very much here, alive, and playing a role of a dangerous act.

For a moment, you just sit there, letting the noise of the party blur around you, watching the way Jake moves through it, impossible to ignore even when he’s not looking at you. He easily mingles with the people, while you find yourself thinking too much in helpless solitude.

You might have been too lost in your thoughts because you don’t realize the presence sinking just a few feet away from you. And it’s nothing, really, until you look over and it’s Jay.

Okay, seems scandalous, because you’re both (essentially) seeing other people and this is too close for comfort. Though you don’t leave, even when he meets your eyes. 

He advances quick, starting with a friendly smile. “So, you and Jake?” His tone isn’t pointed or bitter – it’s just curiosity, and you laugh like you’re out of breath. Mostly because you are, but you cannot warrant a reason why. 

“Yeah.” you manage, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Since… when?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. It’s not a jab – no. You know he’s thinking about the timeline: when Jake was always around, when he got there, when he left, and how it all fits together.

Honestly, yeah, it’s weird. 

You take a sip of your drink, steadying yourself. “Okay, so…” You grin a little, and it’s all part of the script you and Jake agreed on. “It kind of just happened. Evan left, and Jake and I got closer, hanging out more. That’s all. Nothing else crazy.”

“Yeah, I just,” he shrugs, eyes flicking down. “I just needed to piece it together, you know? He’s been around forever and then I came along. And when I left, Jake’s just… there. I guess I just wanted to know I wasn’t…”

“A placeholder?” you finish softly, your tone teasing but gentle.

He huffs a laugh, sheepish. “Something like that.”

You shake your head, smile easy. “No, Jay. It’s not like that.”

“I know.” He laughs, you shake your head. 

“There was space between timelines.” you mean for it to sound reassuring with the way you say it, and it does. He smiles, small and almost shy, and for a second, it’s familiar.

“Okay,” he says finally, nodding. “Good. We’re good.”

You chuckle, the corner of your mouth curling up. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Silence, but not the kind that’s not uncomfortable – that never happens with Jay. It’s the kind that makes you remember why it worked between the two of you before, and you think that softness you had for him for 1 year was always going to be there (in the corner of your heart).

He clears his throat. “How’s ballet?”

You blink. “Huh?” Then, softer: “Oh. Yeah. Still good. Not as consistent lately, but… I still love it.” You nod, more to yourself. “It’s nice to still have it.”

He smiles. “You always looked like you belonged there.”

You laugh, half embarrassed. “Yeah, well. I try.” Then, because you’re curious – or maybe because you want to know if he’s happy as the way long time friends do it – you ask, “How about you? How are you and –”

But before you can finish, a voice cuts through.

“Hey.”

You turn. 

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you, quick, assessing, like he’s walked into a scene he doesn’t quite understand. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Everything okay?” 

Jay leans back, “Yeah, man. Just catching up.”

“Right,” Jake says, and it’s not sarcastic, just… uncertain, which makes you sink into the cushion. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he nods. “Catching up.”

The air shifts, though it’s not awkward, just suddenly aware. “Yeah.” you pause and smile too quickly. “Just catching up.”

And that’s it – no one says anything else which is more distressing than it is good. The silence hums between you three, heavy and delicate at the same time. Jay’s hand drums lightly on his knee and Jake’s thumb grazes the edge of his pocket. You pretend not to notice the way Jake’s still looking at you like he’s trying to figure out what he just walked into. And maybe, if you’re honest, you don’t really know either.

Jay glances at his phone, the screen lighting up his face for a second. “Hey, I should probably head out,” he says, standing and giving you that small, polite smile. You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” he looks at Jake for a second, something unspoken flickering in the air, then back at you. “Take care, okay?” 

You smile, small. “You too.”

He waves lightly before slipping into the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone. The space he leaves behind feels heavier somehow.

Jake’s still standing there, watching the retreating figure like he’s waiting for something else to happen. Then he lets out a low breath, half a laugh but not quite. “So…” he says, lowering himself onto the couch beside you, not in the Jay-feet-away, the Jake-way with your legs touching, and it makes your breath hitch a little. “What was that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What was what?”

He tilts his head, studying your face. “That. You and Jay. You looked like –” He pauses, searching for the word, a corner of his mouth twitching. Then he shrugs like he’s really trying to look nonchalant. “Like something.”

You huff, defensive without meaning to be. “We were just talking.”

Jake lets out a small laugh, then he’s shaking his head while looking away. “Right. Just talking.”

You don’t answer. You can just feel how close he is now – the space between you shrinking until you can smell the faint trace of his cologne, especially when he leans back, arm resting on the back of the couch, failing to be casual. 

Then his knee brushes yours, and you face him with narrowed eyes. It feels as if he’s meaning to get close subtly even though it isn’t subtle at all. His jaw flexes slightly, eyes flicking away from you for a second.

Then, finally, he sighs, straightening. “It’s getting late.” He glances around the room, unimpressed. “And this party sucks.”

You manage a small laugh, bored and unamused. “Yeah. Kind of does.”

He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, that easy Jake posture you know too well. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, but he’s already headed for the door regardless. The room feels too loud, too crowded, and following him feels like the only option that makes sense rationally and irrationally.

You follow him out – through the hallway, past the half-empty red cups, the fading music, and people that tell him to stay – and into the cooler, quieter night that welcomes you with a crisp breeze. It actually wasn’t that late, only a quarter until 11, much unusual from the time he’d leave. You wrap your arms around yourself the way you always do, still following him while crossing the cold street, looking over everything before it moves to the back of Jake’s head.

The car’s parked out front, headlights catching the faint shine on the wet pavement. Jake unlocks it without looking back, the familiar beep echoing softly in the dark.

You walk to the passenger side, exhaling the chill of September through the mist of your breath. 

“So what did you guys talk about?” Jake breaks the silence while he rounds the front of the car, his voice casual but not really. He stops by the driver’s side, glancing at you over the hood.

You blink, hand already on the door handle. “What?”

He shrugs, unlocking his side and sliding in. You open the passenger door and climb in, the car greeting you with that faint leather smell and the low hum of the engine warming up. 

“You and Jay.” He says it simply, but there’s something underneath – something easy to miss if you weren’t listening closely – but thank God you actually don’t listen close enough and know nothing about his tone because you don’t care enough for that obviously.

Yeah, duh.

“Nothing,” you answer, buckling your seatbelt. “Just caught up. He asked about ballet.”

Jake hums, nodding like he believes you, though you can tell he doesn’t fully. His hands grip the wheel lightly, thumb tapping against the leather. “Right. Ballet.”

You glance at him, raising a brow, “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe me.”

He lets out a small laugh this time, the kind that sounds like he’s trying not to sound bothered. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” you mutter, looking out the window. The reflection of the streetlights flickers, blurring in the glass.

Jake exhales, eyes still on the road. The car’s warming up and not moving, so you two sit in the boiling evidence of your bad decisions and the overcomplexities of trivial matters.

“I’m not –” He stops himself, jaw tightening before softening again. “Forget it.”

“No, what?” you press, turning to him.

“It’s nothing.” He glances at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, like he’s really trying to play it off. “Just… weird seeing you talk to your ex. That’s all.”

You blink, processing it, because that’s not something you thought you’d hear tonight – least of all from Jake. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yeah. If we’re trying to pretend like we’re dating, you’re not really supposed to be talking and getting cozy with an ex like that.”

“We were just,” you shrug, “talking. He asked about you and me. Because the timeline was kinda weird and he needed reassurance.”

He scoffs, a bit loud. Okay, way too loud than necessary volume. “Reassurance.” he repeats.

And there’s this part of you, teetering so close to the edge of asking if he’s jealous, but why would he be? Why was he acting that way? Why would it matter? His tone is weird and there’s a crease between his eyebrows, lips puckered just a little like he’s close to whining.

“It’s just, not. A good look.” he sighs like he read your mind and responded before you could ask. “It’s whatever. I feel whatever.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile, but failing a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake laughs under his breath, but more disbelieved than it is amused. “Yeah, maybe.” His hand shifts on the gear, his tone becomes quieter now. “Still didn’t like it, though.”

You turn to him, surprised, but he’s already looking ahead – focused, expression unreadable. The dome light catches the edge of his profile: sharp jaw, steady eyes, lips pressed together like he’s not sure what he just admitted or got into.

For a second, neither of you say anything. The car hums softly beneath you, the night stretching quiet and long outside.

Then he exhales, mutters almost to himself, “This thing’s gonna kill me.”

Your pause and you turn to him. “What?”

But Jake just smirks, turning up the radio, avoiding your eyes like it will save him. “Nothing. You hungry?”

You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears, but he’s already pulling onto the road like nothing happened. He’s good at running away from you too, even though you’re only a center console away.

You exhale, sinking just closer down the softness of the passenger seat, unsure where the sudden need to explain comes from. “He really just asked when we started dating.”

He puckers his lips, looking as if he’s debating whether to ask further or not. Of course, he decides to feed his rumination. “And what did he say to that?” he taps the wheel, just stealing one glance at you. 

You scoff, maybe a bit disbelieved, also a tiny bit of enjoyment in whatever’s happening. “What matters was we didn’t look friendly, okay? And no one was looking.” You turn to him again even if he’s not looking back. “Not everyone has the spotlight on them 24/7 like you, Jaeyun.” 

Jake laughs under his breath, a single huff through his nose. “Spotlight, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” he says, though the faint grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “You make it sound like I’m out here doing press tours.”

“You kind of are,” you mutter. “Golden boy, soccer captain, girls whispering your name in the hallway – ring any bells?”

He chuckles, low and quiet, shaking his head. “You pay way too much attention.”

You bite back a smile. “I have eyes.”

The road hums beneath the tires, streetlights flashing rhythmically across the dashboard. The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it’s charged – the kind that makes your chest feel too small for your heartbeat.

Later that night, when you’ve cleaned from alcohol and popular kid atmosphere, your phone buzzes from your nightstand.

When your phone buzzes again, you see Jake posted on his Instagram story. It’s you when you were fixing your dress at the mirror by the entrance of the houseparty, a candid shot you didn’t realize he took. With a caption: “my pretty girl”.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time before setting your phone down – because even when you tell yourself it’s all pretend, the thing in your chest still feels way too real.

“She hasn’t stopped.” Jake announces to you, leaning against the locker beside yours while you unload your things. 

You sigh. “It’s not my fault Vivienne-the-perfect actually isn’t a girls girl and would flirt with a taken man.” you give him a glance and try not to smile at the completely worried and concerned look on his face, like he’s clearly very offended by this revelation.

“That’s bullshit! Is that not – girl code, or whatever?” 

You close your locker and shrug. He frowns – pouts even. “She literally had her hand on my jacket and did the thing with her eyelashes. We should just try harder.”

You scoff and couldn’t control when your eyes rolled, which you hope he didn’t take for a different reason. You can’t just believe people like her existed! “I doubt making out in front of her would keep her hands off you if she doesn’t care you’re taken.”

You could’ve chosen better words, really, because now Jake’s smiling and leaning in. “Wanna try?”

Your book lands on his arm and he winces in pain, while you glare at him before walking down the hall, away from him, and to your next class.

Fake dating Jake was… easy. And that should be a good thing when you look at it in a perspective of… colleagues, or workers, or groupmates. People who are working in a system that needed to abide by a certain degree to be considerably functioning in the area of expertise. 

But in a perspective of a 18-year-old girl who’s in love easy and a hopeless romantic; it’s hell dressed in fluffy hair, easy grins, soccer practices, tall stature, kind personality (the kind your mom likes) and pretty brown eyes.

He shows up just as much as you do, in places that needed the presence of a good partner. In the school fields, classrooms, hallways, parties, games. Showing up was easy – he made it easy.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things.

Sometimes it’s the bigger ones. When it started getting harder because more were getting involved, and showing up became consistent unnecessarily.

When his mom had called you to come over to taste her baked treats – you immediately agree. You catch up and she asks mostly about school, ballet, college, and then Jake. Jake, who’s pretending he’s not eavesdropping from the living room.

You promised not letting your families know, and sure, she wasn’t asking if you were dating, but she looked at you like she was already welcoming you in their family anyway. In the “i’ll-start-expecting-grandchildren-soon” way now, mostly because you’ve always been part of the Sim when you were kids.

Jake would look at you with a kind of gaze that says sorry when he passes by to grab a glass of water. You’d shake your head and mouth ‘it’s okay’. Even though, deep down, you know it’s kind of not.

Or that time Jake was invited by your dad over for some ‘usual family barbecue night’. Usual would mean involving Evan, but he’s states away – so it’s just this kind of awkward set up of your parents plus Jaeyun. 

He’s laughing at your dad’s jokes and stories while they grill barbecue. He asks about school, soccer, and college, Jake responds easily, asks questions in return to keep it going.

You stay with your mom by the lounge while you eat your portion, and, well, ruminate your small acts of self-sabotage in the very form of barbecue night. Your mom notices, just like she always does. 

“Jake’s a good kid.” she says, testing the waters of your very deep thoughts.

You could only hum in response. Because it’s true. Which is what makes it particularly harder to fake date him.

Games were part of the contract, so you show up, of course. It was nothing crazy, just sitting by the sidelines beside the field, and cheering during the right time, screaming at the right time.

Friday nights always smell like rain and turf. The field lights blaze against the sky, and the air hums with that familiar game energy – cheers, whistles, the announcer’s voice echoing across the stands. You pull your jacket tighter and sink into the bleachers with the rest of his friends.

Jake looks very much in his element, all focus and motion, hair sticking to his forehead under the lights. He’s got that captain thing going on: steady, composed, easy smiles for his teammates, the occasional glance toward the stands. 

By the time the final whistle blows, they’ve won by a mile. The field floods with students and friends and noise, everyone rushing in to celebrate. You stay by the sidelines, waiting, watching him disappear into the chaos.

And then he finds you – sweaty, breathless, still smiling – jogging on his way.

You decide before you could think, rounding the fence and down the stairs towards the field. Not overly excessive, it’s part of the act if you really wanted to sell it, that’s what you tell yourself when the cold breeze makes you realize suddenly. 

Before you could reach him, you notice the familiar stature. Her perfect hair and perfect figure, hand brushing slightly against his arm while they talk. She’s all smiles – the perfect cheer captain – and honestly, you know they look good together. Like they make sense, more than Jake Sim and his best friend’s younger sister.

You slow down to give them space, just before she leaves. And then Jake finds you. Immediately, he walks over to you, smiling through the sweat and, well, an expression you can’t name. “She, uh, just congratulated me.” Maybe unease.

You nod, your smile coming out smaller. “Yeah. I saw.”

Jake runs a hand through his damp hair, chuckling nervously. “Didn’t even realize she was there until after the whistle. She’s… loud.”

You huff a laugh, trying to match his energy, but it’s thin. “Yeah. She’s your cheerleader.” You mean that literally, and you thank the divinity that it does not reek of bitterness.

He studies you for a moment – the way your voice dips, the slight tightness in your expression. Then, like he’s trying to smooth over something he doesn’t quite understand, he grins wider and nudges your shoulder. “You saw the goal, though, right? That was clean.”

“Yeah,” you say again, forcing the corners of your lips up. “Really clean.”

He grins, bashful and proud, but there’s still that tiny crease between his brows – the one he gets when he’s not sure what you’re thinking. The crowd’s still cheering faintly behind you, the smell of grass and sweat and aftergame chaos in the air. You should be used to it by now – the way people look at him, the noise that follows him everywhere.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer, looking you over from his height. “You good?”

You blink, surprised by how easily he reads you sometimes. “Yeah,” you lie, voice light. “Are you?”

Up close, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag now that the adrenaline’s gone – like he’ll be sick by morning. But he’s smiling so widely at you. “Yeah, of course.” he says, as if you don’t know how fast he actually gets tired.

That easy grin places like what he’s feeling now is nothing. “Let’s get food after, yeah? I’ll even let you pick this time.”

You laugh – small but real from the amusement of his suddenness sometimes. “We don’t have to.”

Jake beams, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “Don’t play coy with me.”

Maybe you’re just overthinking. Maybe Vivienne’s hand on his arm really didn’t mean anything. And even if it does, it shouldn’t mean anything to you.

Still, when he turns to wave at his teammates, you can’t help but glance at her again – laughing with her friends, still watching him. And this time, you look away first.

Tip #9: If you have to fake-date someone, maybe don’t pick the boy you actually like(d???).

Liked. You are not the same 13-year-old girl who made stupid excuses to watch Jake beat Evan up in video games in the living room. You’ve grown out of that phase, and you know better than to be part of the crowds that fill his locker during Valentines day. 

But, maybe, you really should have taken into account who you blurted out when Jay asked who you were seeing. Because this, truly, was a predicament as it is awkward, when you finally had an eye-opening realization of who the entire campus knows you’re dating. 

Your older brother’s best friend? Seriously? Now he’s the (fake) boyfriend everyone won’t shut up about.

You hear the whispers get louder. “Wait, Evan’s sister?” and “Oh my God, they’re actually together?” followed by the inevitable, “Dude, that’s his best friend.”

And honestly, yeah. You get it. It’s weird. Messy, even. The kind of setup that belongs in some bad teen rom-com – except this time, you’re living it, and there’s no laugh track or fade-to-black scene when it gets complicated. You’re praying it doesn’t travel to Evan, whose texts you’ve been ghosting, and name have been avoiding when it gets brought up at the table. 

Your parents have been gazing a little longer, and implied multiple times the possibility of ‘someone’. But you never let it drag, quick to dismiss or retreat back to your room before it could be some topic.

What was a little harder was joining the hang outs and keeping the friends out. Not when it’s Jake Sim you’re dating – which by definition, was basically dating the entire soccer team.

It’s one of those boys nights (again) – spontaneous, loud, and absolutely unplanned. One second, you’re about to wash your face and call it a night, with your face lathered in moisturizer and serum. You’re ready for the comfort of your mattress when your phone is buzzing and he’s texting you.

So now you’re in Sunghoon’s living room – a mix between cozy and chaotic – with piles of notebooks, tangled chargers, and the faint hum of music from someone’s speaker. 

The group study isn’t as productive as it should be. Someone’s half-asleep on the couch, two of them are arguing over the whiteboard, and the rest – including you – are pretending to highlight notes that stopped making sense thirty minutes ago. 

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the side of the couch, hair tied up loosely, currently chewing the end of your pen while the same sentence stares back at you for the fourth time.

Okay, no. You’ve been studying and you have been productive for the past few hours. Just not anymore when you’ve consumed 5 lessons and you’re surrounded by seniors who are bickering at each other for getting ‘this’ wrong and ‘that’s’ how you actually get the answer.

“Snacks!” Sunghoon announces as he comes from the kitchen, holding up a tray like it’s a peace offering. He sets it down in the middle of the circle and starts distributing, tossing and throwing, really. “Oh, hey, got you this one,” he adds, tossing a pack of chips your way. “Saw it on that story Lia posted – figured you liked it.”

You blink, smiling a little. “Oh, thanks –”

But before you can open it, Jake’s hand shoots out from beside you, plucking the pack from your grip. “Dude,” you protest, half-laughing. “What the hell are you doing?”

He’s already scanning the tray, unfazed. Then, without a word, he grabs another pack, the right one, the one you actually always buy, and tosses it into your lap. 

“This one,” he says simply. “You don’t even like that flavor.”

You blink at him, startled for a beat, then laugh, shaking your head. “Are you keeping tabs on my grocery list now?”

Jake just shrugs, reaching for his highlighter again, not looking at you. “Maybe.” 

The room hums with quiet conversation, pages flipping, pencils tapping. You swear your pulse shouldn’t be this loud in your ears. 

“Damn, we’re out of drinks,” Jungwon groans, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna run to the store.”

“I’ll come,” Jake says immediately, pushing himself up. Then, glancing down at you, “You want anything?”

You look up at him from where you’re sitting. “I’m good.”

He tilts his head, not convinced, and then pretends that’s not what you just said. “Your usual, then? Or –” A beat. His voice softens, almost casual. “Ice cream?”

You look up at him, blinking once, twice. You mean to say something, maybe a teasing “you don’t have to,” but the words don’t come out.

Jake tilts his head slightly, waiting. “Or both?”

It’s ridiculous, the way your heart trips over something that small. You try to play it off, the back of your pen still pressed to your lips as you shrug, then nod.

He nods too, easy, like you didn’t just short-circuit. “Got it.” Then he grabs his hoodie from the armrest, calling out to Jungwon to wait up before heading for the door, nonchalant like it’s nothing. Like you’re not going insane.

You stare down at your notes, highlighter hovering mid-air. The words blur into a jumble of letters that refuse to make sense. You realize you’re one paragraph off from where you left off but your brain refuses to process anything.

Because all you can see is him, brows furrowed, reaching across the table to swap out a snack just because he knows what you actually like. Because he doesn’t ask what your usual drink is, he asks if you want it.

And that stupid, fluttery feeling you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks creeps up again, crawling up your chest until you melt into the couch a little, pretending to reread the same line for the fifth time. When it doesn’t work, you sigh and fall back, letting the heat of your palms hide away your eyes from the rest of the world.

By the time they’re back, the air’s colder. Jungwon’s loudly announcing that Jake almost tripped on the curb because what an idiot, he wasn’t looking where he was goi– ack!, Jake’s hitting him, and your lips are puckering before you even look up because you’re in the middle of ridding him away and yet he just comes back every time.

He doesn’t even stop to talk to you – just twists the cap off your drink before handing it over, eyes still on Jungwon because they’re mid-argument about the change and who owes who, even bringing up the past 6 years when 13 year old Jake actually still very much has a balance to pay. 

His voice comes out distracted when he finally looks at you: “They didn’t have the big one, so I got two small ones.”

You blink down at the drink, the cap loosened just right, and before you can thank him, he’s already walking off toward the kitchenette. You catch the faint creak of the fridge door.

He’s putting your ice cream away first.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until your phone buzzes against your thigh – three missed calls, a text from your mom:

Mom 🫶: Where are you? It’s getting late.

You blink the sleep out of your eyes, seeing your disregarded textbook on the floor which must have fallen when you fell asleep. The room’s dim now, only lit by the soft glow of laptops and a lamp someone forgot to turn off, a background of key clicks and quiet murmurs as they recall their topics. The air feels heavier, quieter – half the group’s already passed out in awkward positions across the couch and floor.

You stretch a little, turning your head – and there he is.

Surprisingly, he isn’t sleeping like everyone else, but rather looks very focused. Jake’s on the couch right behind you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one leg tucked under him, the other acting as a pillow for Sunghoon’s half-conscious foot that somehow found its way onto his lap. He’s hunched slightly over his laptop, typing something with one hand, writing notes with the other. There’s a faint crease between his brows, hair a little messy, face softened by the dim light.

You wonder what his study material is, and whether you could just stare a bit longer.

You tug at his sleeve. “Hey,” you whisper, voice still groggy. “I gotta go home.”

He looks up immediately. And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask why, just nods once, pushing Sunghoon’s foot off his lap with a quiet, “Move, man.” He stands, stretches, then heads straight for the fridge. You watch him grab your ice cream from the fridge, and then carefully grab your stack of notebooks from the table.

Jake leans down to Sunghoon, who’s barely awake, and murmurs, “Gotta get her home.” Sunghoon grunts something that might’ve been ‘okay, bro’ before they dap hands lazily, clearly too passed out for it.

You follow Jake out the door, the night air hitting your skin like cold water. It’s quiet, streetlights stretching in gold lines down the road.

“You don’t have to take me,” you say, hugging your things close to your chest as he unlocks his car. “It’s late, I can just–”

Jake scoffs, cutting you off with a sideways glance as he opens the passenger door for you. “Yeah, right. You think I’d see the next sunrise when your parents find out I let you Uber home?”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You make it sound like I’m five.”

He smirks, motioning for you to get in with a nod. “Then stop needing supervision.”

You roll your eyes, but you get in anyway. And when the car door shuts, it’s quiet again – just the hum of the engine, the faint music from the radio, and the soft thunk of your ice cream settling in the cup holder after he cleared it from his things.

Jake glances over once as he pulls out of the driveway, eyes flicking to your face before the road again. “Seatbelt,” he says quietly.

You buckle up, still fighting the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

Tip #10: Remember it’s not a big deal (you’ll fail).

The morning is still too pale to be real, and just the kind where tomorrow’s a Tuesday and you have 3 quizzes lined up so you actually kinda just want to die. You didn’t try either, face bare, wearing the first sweater you got from the pile, and Crocs. It’s pathetic, lowkey. It’s also the kind of quiet where footsteps echo too easily, lockers slam too loudly, and it’s feeling a lot like the monthly visit is coming. 

You’re barely awake, stacking books you don’t want to read, when a hand appears in your periphery – a paper cup in a pale brown sleeve.

You blink up. Jake. Hoodie up, hair just kind of dry, eyes a little sleepy.

“Here.” His voice is soft. Rough in that just-woke-up way. Like here’s here in a way that’s like, you know, you texted him to run an errand before getting to school and here it is. Except you didn’t, you haven’t even texted in 2 days actually.

You stare at the cup like it’s foreign currency. “What–”

“Coffee,” he says simply.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He looks down, kicks an invisible thing on the floor. “You looked like you needed it.”

That’s all. No smirk, no punchline (which you wait for) – just that, and the faint tap of his fingers when you don’t take it fast enough. But he doesn’t rush or add another half witty half mean comment.

So you finally do get it, reaching for it tentatively like you’re waiting for the joke to arrive. 

The scent: vanilla, a little caramel, smells exactly how you order it. You blink. “Uh, is this?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, hitting the locker beside yours without any real force, looking over your head from his height. 

You clear your throat, pretending to fuss with your bag, even though it’s perfectly fine. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight, shoulder leaning against the lockers. 

The hallway hums awake around you – lockers slamming, someone laughing down the corridor – but it’s all muffled. There’s only the heartbeat in your ear and the stupid warmth crawling up your neck. You’re racking your brain for something witty and rude, establish the banter you always exchanged.

Not this time. Not when he notices and remembers. Like there’s a part in his mind that’s specifically sectioned for your coffee order. He remembers and he’s so casual about it.

Jake’s watching you, your brows and nose and lips, eyes gentle in a way that makes it worse. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod too quickly, take a sip to hide your face. It’s perfect, of course. “It’s good.”

He smiles – not the wide, field-bright one. “Good.”

You stare at the cup again. “You’re weird.”

“Probably,” he says. “See you later.”

He just gently tugs the hem of your sweater when he passes. 

And then he’s gone – the smell of coffee and rain air trailing behind him – leaving you by your locker, awake for the first time that morning, pulse thrumming too fast for something that was supposed to be pretend.

“Hey, Jake’s shawty,” Riki says, sliding into the seat across from you with that shit-eating grin he’s so proud of. Jake’s already beside him with his tray, looking way too comfortable for someone who doesn’t even belong at this table. Your friend looks at you with exasperation and you can only return it.

You don’t even look up right away, still eating your mashed potatoes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Anyway–” he glances at Jake, smirking, “ –you’re going to the trip with lover boy here, right?”

That makes you look up. “What?” You laugh, an incredulous little scoff as you set your fork down. Because there’s no way that’s happening, not when you know Jake’s very enormous friend group would be going, consisting of those you do not hold goody-goody friendships with and a tolerable attitude to their excess thereof. “No way.”

Riki blinks, caught between amusement and confusion. “Wait – she’s not? You said –”

Jake just sighs, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head. “I told you,” he mutters, half under his breath, stabbing at his fries like they personally offended him. 

The Sim’s are just as their youngest son is: kind and hospitable. They own a lakehouse 4 hours away from the urban, and his family had always been welcoming that Jake and his friends make use of it. It had a dock that creaks when you run too fast, the canoe that always leaks a little, the porch light that stays on even when everyone’s already asleep – but it’s large and have always been cozy, making up the yearly bricks of your childhood. You’ve been there when you were kids, when Jake’s friend group was barely a group. Just you, Evan, Sunghoon, and Jake’s older brother. No teams, no cliques, no unspoken rules about who was “allowed” to come. 

You stopped going when the group got bigger with names you only knew through known Instagram handles in middle school, and something that once was your sanctuary stopped feeling like a place you belonged to. Really, you were the only girl Jake ever invited, so coming along (even if Evan was) stopped making sense and instead threaded closer to scandal.

Through the eye of the outside, Jake’s girlfriend should go. Of course, he has been attempting to convince you, while he drove you to the dance studio, held your bag, drove you back home – just any kind of bribes and sweeteners to get you to say yes, although they didn’t feel so absurd because Jake had always been sweet without the sweeteners.

You can’t help it – you bite back a grin, watching the way his jaw flexes in mild frustration. “What, were you planning without me now?” you tease, leaning forward.

Jake doesn’t look up right away. “Just thought it’d be fun,” he says finally, quiet, but there’s that lilt in his voice – the one that gives him away every time.

Riki, oblivious as ever, grins. “Oh, it’d definitely be fun. A cabin, really fucking cold lake, hot chocolate –” 

Right. Usually they’d go during the summer, but now they spontaneously decided to go during the winter break. The lake wouldn’t be frozen, just worthy of hypothermia.

You throw him a look. “It’s not working, by the way.”

Jake finally glances at you then, and there’s something small in his smile – not his usual teasing one, but the softer kind, the one that looks like he’s almost shy to have been caught hoping.

Riki, being Riki, props his elbows on the table, preparing to be the best wingman apparently.

“Yeah, I mean – the trip’s gonna be good. You know how it gets. There’s – uh –” it’s uncharacteristic of him, so it only makes you chuckle, “cold weather, everyone will have fun –” He gestures with a fry awkwardly. “Jake will totally miss you and I heard Vivienne and her friends are invited –”

You still your fork and cock your brow at him. “Really?”

Riki nods eagerly, conviction all over his face. “Yeah, like competition – ”

Jake clears his throat to hide the way he kicks Riki’s foot underneath the table, eyes flicking from you to Riki – who’s now blinking, finally realizing he might’ve gone too far. Jake’s eyes are wide, signaling the younger to shut the fuck up because clearly taunting through Vivienne’s name will not work on you, if not piss you off truly.

“What the fuck dude,” Jake mutters under his breath, voice low, before sending Riki a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Riki holds his hands up, laughing nervously. “Fuck, went off script.”

The muscle in your jaw jumps at the realization that Jake had invited Vivienne to someplace you’ve preserved as something sacred refuge. The place where your summers lived and the air always smelled like pine and sunscreen and lake water, where you learned how to skip stones with Evan counting aloud, where Sunghoon once fell off the dock and laughed so hard he swallowed half the lake. 

It was yours before it was anyone else’s.

Why is she even invited? Since when did she get to sit on the same dock, drink from the same chipped mugs Mrs. Sim kept in the cupboard, laugh in the same rooms you once slept in with the windows cracked open?

The same place where you learned Jake, besides on the asphalt of your neighborhood. Before teams, before labels, before people like Vivienne ever had a reason to exist in his orbit and got to favorite your first-favorite-boy too. 

You don’t look up, stabbing and munching on the fries with the effort of duty to eat rather than enjoyment. Yeah you’re pissed off, not with Riki and his awkward reckless mouth, nor Jake with his friendly invites and decisions – but at yourself for letting yourself believe you could swim the damn lake called fake-dating-Jake-Sim and expect to float.

Jake’s still staring – not in the teasing way, not with that easy grin he always holds with ease; just watching you, quiet, like he’s trying to read the space between your words.

Tip #11: Listen to your mom.

With headphones on, wrapped in thick blankets, you rot in bed. Nothing better than that, usually, until your brain’s swarmed by the flies of suffering and overthinking. Your curtains are drawn shut. The soft hum of your playlist spills into your ears, dulling the outside world, like they’d help pull out the nightmares. 

Your phone buzzes once – Jake again, probably. You ignore it. It’s the plague no one has an ailment for other than avoidance and detachment.

Your room smells faintly like lavender detergent and indecision. You haven’t moved in hours (10 minutes). There’s a bowl of cereal on your nightstand – untouched, the milk soggy with regret, because life’s shitty and you’re a buildup of your worst flaws and you actually don’t know how to survive boys named Jake Sim.

There’s a knock on the door, light but purposeful. You yank the covers higher.

“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice filters in.

You scramble to pause your music and pretend to be asleep, but your throat betrays you with a cough – dry and unconvincing, healthy and lying.

You’ve been lying to everyone for months now and you’re not sure if you could do it to the woman who can easily see through you. Your mom opens the door anyway. She stands there for a second, eyes flicking from your laptop (closed), to your cereal (dismal), to your face.

“You’re not at school,” she says gently, with the tone of someone who’s not mad. Not even concerned. Just… watching.

You groan dramatically. “I have a very contagious flu,” you mumble, stuffing your face deeper into the blanket cave.

She raises an eyebrow and walks in anyway. “Oh no,” she says, deadpan. “I’m probably already infected.”

Without asking, she kicks off her slippers and climbs into bed beside you. The mattress shifts as she settles against your side. She’s warm, familiar, her hand automatically finding your hair, stroking gently like she used to when you were little. And you could cry from this alone.

You sigh, long and full of static.

“So,” she murmurs, like it’s just the two of you in the world. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m confused,” you admit, voice small. The blanket muffles it, but she hears, which comes maternally probably.

Jake has been driving you to school, more usual than not. That’s a bearable routine – just not when he decided upon both of you to drive to the dance studio too. So, almost every single time, he’s waiting outside with the engine running.

He stays during practice, sitting on the floor with his back to it, holding your bag when you forget where you left it. Sometimes you catch him watching. When practice ends, he’s the one helping you gather your things, untying straps, carrying the extra stuff you said you can manage on your own. Then he drives you home.

He says it’s because you’re still kinda scared to drive, right? Then adds it’s fine, really, it’s not trouble.

Except it is. For you

Your mom doesn’t push. Just keeps combing her fingers through your hair until the silence makes your lungs tight like your ribcage is caging you in and that traitorous heart of yours is still growing larger.

“It’s not about Jake,” you say suddenly, a little too quickly, just to hide the fact that it is about him.

Her hand pauses, then resumes. “Didn’t ask,” she says lightly.

You roll your eyes. “You were going to.”

She chuckles. “No, but thank you for confirming.” Then, after a pause, “You know your dad and I love him, right?”

Your head shoots up. “Mom.”

“What? He’s always been around. And he’s funny! Kind. Polite. Good teeth.”

You groan again, dragging the blankets over your head like you can disappear into the fabric. “Please stop talking.”

“He makes you laugh,” she says softly. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s tight again, but for a different reason now, like you’re completely clogged and everything’s piling on top.

After a while, you say, “He invited me to go on their lakehouse again.”

“You should go, sweetie. It’s been a while.” she says.

You shift restlessly. “I don’t like his friends.”

“You can learn to like them.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

She gives you a look. “About making friends?”

You let out a breath. You don’t have the words for it – and it’s not like you’re trying to tell her the fake dating and the not-so-fake feelings. The way Jake looked at you the other day like he knew and that maybe he didn’t know what he was doing either. In theory, it should be a good thing because then you’re both balancing on a rope that’s starting to snap, and that in itself should give you some sick kind of comfort.

Except appearance doesn’t equate reality (thanks Roy Bhaskar), and how he’s been looking and acting shouldn’t ever make up for the space he could easily fill with clarification. You know better than to fall for the theatrics of the guy every girl liked because he was too friendly and maybe too close all the time. He invited the girl he wants to get rid of! Because he’s a decent guy who’s friends with the girl who likes him and finds no faulty in that kind of order.

Mixed signals, basically. It’s not new when it came from guys who knew they looked good and even if he’d try humility, his eyes glisten with the awareness of the public's fondness for him.

Your mom doesn’t need the details. She just hugs you a little closer and says, “It’s okay not to know.”

You nod against her shoulder, the warmth of her shirt soaking into your cheek.

“But I will say,” she continues, “you’ve looked like you’re having a lot of fun lately. Real fun. Not the kind you fake.”

You close your eyes and then take a deep breath, because that sounds more like a nightmare than solace. Not here, not when the main point was to fake it, yet even then the player is fooled by his jests.

“You’re different when he’s around,” she says, almost to herself. “Softer.”

You whisper, “I wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Some of the best things aren’t,” she replies. She doesn’t exactly get what you mean and you’re thankful for that (because you will be getting an earful), that even then, she knew the right things to say.

She kisses the top of your head like she did when you were a kid with actual fevers and actual tears. Though you refuse to cry. You’re not crying for a boy who probably isn’t thinking twice about this.

“You don’t have to go,” she says. “But you might want to think about it. It might be fun.”

You lie there in silence, the question hanging like fog in your chest. Because pretending stopped feeling like pretending somewhere along the way, or maybe the truth in your heart remains that even when you believed it was gone in the presence of your feelings for another, it really hasn’t. Just kept and stagnant in a warmer, refusing to spoil. 

Your mom gets up, brushing your hair out of your face one last time. “Let me know if your flu miraculously clears up by tomorrow,” she teases.

The door clicks shut behind her, and you're left with the silence again.

You’re 9, Jake’s 10, and Evan’s 11, the perfect age for scraped knees, loud laughter, and tears you think you’ll never forgive.

It happens in the backyard. Evan’s teasing you again, something about how you “throw like a baby” when you join their catch game, and everyone laughs, even Jake at first. But then Evan goes too far by muttering something about how you’re always ruining things.

You try to blink it off, try to laugh with them. But it catches in your throat, that sharp, stupid sting behind your eyes, and before you know it, you’re crying.

“Hey!” Jake’s voice cuts through the air, a little panicked.

You’re already running toward the porch, sniffling, wiping your face with the back of your hand, muttering about how you hate all of them. The world’s blurry and hot, your chest tight in that awful way that makes you hiccup and sob.

When you turn, Jake’s there, breathless, holding the ball in his hand, dirt smeared across his cheek. He looks like he sprinted the whole way just to fix it.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice soft and unsure, like he doesn’t really know what to do with crying girls yet. He just holds the ball out awkwardly. “Evan’s just dumb sometimes.”

You sniff, arms crossed. “He said I ruin everything.”

Jake frowns. “You don’t.”

He looks down at you then, eyes all earnest and serious in a way that 10-year-olds shouldn’t manage. Then he steps forward, small arms wrapping around you in this clumsy, tight hug. It’s warm, smells like grass and sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, holding out the ball. “We’ll team up on him this time.”

Tip #12: Never call your fake boyfriend when you’re sad.

Because apparently, he’ll show up.

It’s 11:38 p.m. when you cave – when your room feels too quiet and your chest too heavy and your notebooks are a mess on your desk and your textbooks and empty highlighters feel useless and your phone screen’s too bright as you stare at his name for a full minute before hitting call. You don’t even know why you do it. Maybe because Jake talks and doesn’t run out of things to say, and you need something that sounds like that right now.

He answers on the 6th ring, voice low and groggy. “What,” he mumbles, like you woke him up mid-dream. He’s tired from a whole day of classes and soccer practice, which had ended when the sun has long dipped. 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a sniffle, quiet and shaky. “Jaeyun?”

That’s all it takes. You hear the sheets rustle, then a faint thud, and his voice suddenly sharper, awake. “Hey, hey – what’s wrong?”

You try to laugh, to make it sound stupid and lighter than it really is. “Nothing. Sorry. I just–” You sniff again, tugging your blanket tighter around you, eyes closing while the streaks of tears finally start pouring. “It’s dumb.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Stay on the phone.”

And before you can ask what that means, the line goes quiet – except for the sound of car keys jangling and a door closing. 

Seven minutes later, he’s outside your window, hoodie and sweatpants and all. You stare at him, eyes wide, half-horrified. “Are you insane?” you whisper-shout.

He just grins, breath fogging in the cold. “You called.”

You should shut the window or just tell him to go home because that’s the right way to do this shit. But instead, you grab a jacket and your phone, climbing out as quietly as you can. He helps you down, hands firm and warm, and before you know it, you’re in his car, city lights passing in soft blurs through the window.

You don’t even ask where you’re going, you just let him drive.

Turns out, it’s that McDonald’s on the hill, the one at the edge overlooking the city, glowing faintly like a secret that never closes. But still, it makes you smile. 

The parking lot’s almost empty, the air smelling faintly of fries and rain. Jake parks near the edge, taps the hood. “Come on.”

You climb up beside him, the hood cool beneath you. The city sprawls below, quiet and endless.

For a while, you just sit there.

In his company, with the ghost of your thoughts silenced for a moment. Like you’re saved without much attempt, all because he’s here. Then you talk, trying to make the noise in your head lighter, the thing you’ve been trying not to say out loud, because Jake always had the thing for showing up. 

“Evan’s on this full scholarship, you know that, right? My parents keep bringing it up. How proud they are. How amazing he is.” You laugh, but it sounds thin, and your voice is breaking. “And then they ask how my application for my scholarship’s going, and I just–”

You shake your head, not fast enough to wipe that tears that managed to fall. “I’m trying. I am. But it’s like nothing’s ever enough. I’m tired… and I just want a break.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t fill the silence like he usually does. He just listens, legs stretched out, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes soft and focused on you like you’re saying something that matters.

When your voice cracks again, you look away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“Hey.” He shifts closer, voice low. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

You nod, and before you can stop yourself, your head drops onto his shoulder. You feel him tense for a second, then his body eases. A few seconds later, he leans his head against yours, careful, like he’s afraid to break something fragile that just so happens to be you.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then, when he’s sure that you feel lighter and your breathing is more stable, he says softly, “You know… that trip might be your break. Like, a reset or something. Fresh air. New view.”

You laugh through the last of your tears, nudging his arm. “You never quit, do you?”

“Not when I’m right.” though he doesn’t it with smugness, just an attempt at comfort.

You sit up then, wiping your face with your sleeve, turning to him. His hair’s messy from the wind, his hoodie slightly pulled at the neckline. He looks… tired, too. Maybe he is, from school, senior year, and soccer expectations – because behind the golden name, he’s just like you. But he doesn’t look at you like this is burden, that he’d rather be in the confines of his sweet bed than the cold breeze of the city night.

He doesn’t look at you like you ruined anything.

He looks at you like this is his rest too. 

Like you are.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He blinks. “Okay?”

“If I do well on my finals,” you clarify, trying to sound casual, but your smile is too wide for anything like that. “Then I’ll go.”

Jake’s smile starts small, just a twitch, before it grows into that bright, boyish grin that used to make you clap from the sidelines years ago, and shows the teeth your mom likes. “Then you better do well.”

You laugh, the last remnants of your vulnerability wiped by his thumb. He’s just watching you – the corners of his eyes soft, the glow of the dashboard painting his face in gold. When it finally dies down, you sigh, still smiling, and rest your cheek on his shoulder.

Under the flickering streetlight, with the city glowing beneath you and the air smelling faintly of salt and fries, you think maybe calling your fake boyfriend when you’re sad isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.

Tip #13: Survive hell week first.

It’s finals week. Hell week. The kind of week where your brain feels like it’s being roasted slowly over the fire of pre-calculus, history essays, and chemistry equations.

You wake up early, already rehearsing the formulas in your head before your feet even hit the floor and while you’re brushing your teeth, you swear they stack as tiles instead of the ones on your bathroom bricks. You keep scrolling through your planner like it might magically rearrange itself into something manageable – but honestly, it’s working out for you even when you’re basically brain dead with information. You’re not confident (and healthy) enough but at least you know you’d be able to answer.

Library becomes your second home. The smell of paper, ink, and desperation is sickening in a way you don’t want to admit. Every table is littered with notebooks, highlighters, pens uncapped and you’re growing tired of them all. Your desk has its own ecosystem of sticky notes and half-drunk coffees.

Every time you think you’ve conquered one chapter, three more take its place. The world outside? Frozen and inconsequential and time exists only in increments of “exam period” and “study break,” and even those breaks are spent panicking about the next exam instead of actually relaxing. 

Which, in hindsight, is really fucking exhausting and is not healthy for you.

Failure is not an option. Not when Evan Lee is your brother, succeeding in life as an ace.

Yeah you’re still doing really well and your grades are still pretty high, but the amount of times you didn’t have time because you were with Jake or at least rotting because you were overthinking about him: way too much time was spent. 

You’ve been definitely spent more time offline and… might have ghosted everyone. Even Jake. And he understood – you think – because he doesn’t bug you even when he knows where you’d be. He doesn’t show up with coffee or good luck sticky notes.

You don’t wish for them but – okay, whatever.

He just doesn’t show up and you don’t find for him. It becomes that way throughout the entire week, and although you don’t linger in the hallways, he doesn’t stop when he sees you there.

It’s weird. You overthink. 

Sometimes you’d pass one another like the deal had ended and something flipped completely. You try not to let it sting, really only because it wouldn’t make sense because you’re ghosting him and he’s letting you. A girl could only really be dramatic, okay.

This whole routine was not good for you and your social life but it was what works. Plus, it was a sort of reality check from his distractions.

Tip #14: Never trust your mom with visitors.

You’re not sure whether it was some sort of planned comedy stage or truly a well thought out exam schedule that was somehow strategic in someones perspective? Because you did try to understand why physics was on a Friday and the last exam of your week.

Sure, people liked that shit. Some. Not you. When when you’re exhausted by the studying and you’ve extinguished all your efforts throughout the entire week until there’s none left for the devil’s spawn itself. Not a good idea probably and maybe you should’ve given it more thought, but there you are, on the brink of death anyway.

Which, might be some kind of dramatic thing to say. But physics never understood you compassionately.

It’s Thursday. You’re perched on your desk, notes spread around like a desperate fortification, textbooks stacked in uneven towers. You’ve been staring at the same word problem for what feels like decades, and somewhere deep inside, you start questioning your entire grasp of the English language. Is this even a sentence? you wonder, because clearly, the words have formed themselves into some sadistic riddle meant only for the scholars of the universe.

And you didn’t notice. Not once. Because you’re dead focused, remember? You don’t see the notification.

Then the bedroom door creaks open, and you whirl around like a startled cat.

It’s Jake.

You freeze on your desk, blinking. In all his glory after ghost town, he’s here in your fucking room.

“What – what the hell – what are you doing here?” you stammer, half whispering, half shouting, standing to get to him. “Who even let you in?”

Jake just grins, slow and amused, eyes sweeping lazily over your room. “Your mom,” he says, tone too fucking annoyingly sarcastic for you not to roll your eyes. “She said you needed to cool off.”

You groan, smacking your forehead so hard it actually stings. “Oh my God.”

He laughs – quiet, low, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in his chest – and takes a slow step inside, glancing around like he’s trying to take everything in.

It’s… surreal, kind of. Seeing him here, in your space, grown and not the kid with scraped knees to muddle with your stuffed toys. The place that’s so painfully you – the fairy lights pinned along your wall, the photos taped near your mirror, the pile of books that you swear you’ll return to someday. It’s warm and soft and just slightly chaotic. You’re not messy, but you’re not exactly organized either.

Jake hums, running his fingers along the edge of your desk. “Looks different,” he says, eyes trailing across your shelves. 

You’re suddenly very aware of what you’re wearing. Tank top. Shorts. Hair messy. Unprepared for a visit from the boy who’s been messing with your brain as of late (3 months).

You fold your arms instinctively, like maybe it’ll make you less visible and bashful. “You could’ve at least texted before – you know – invading my room.”

He raises an eyebrow, that teasing half-smile appearing again. “I did. And I was literally invited in by your mom, so, less of invading.”

You give him a look.

He chuckles, glancing at the fairy lights again. “Still cute,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t think this room could fit more pillows.”

You sigh, slumping back into your chair, attempting to concentrate back despite his discernible presence behind you. “Jaeyun, you’re not supposed to be here. It’s finals week.”

Jake raises both hands in mock surrender, still laughing softly. “I know, I know. You’re in full-on scholar mode.” He walks closer though – slow, careful steps that make the space between you feel smaller and tighter. “But I figured if I didn’t see you soon, you’d forget to look after yourself.”

You roll your eyes, even though your heart’s already tripping over itself. “I’m fine.”

He glances at your desk – three empty mugs, crumpled notes, a highlighter graveyard – and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? This looks real fine.”

You grab a pen just to look busy. “Don’t start, Jaeyun. I only have two exams left.”

Jake hums, leaning against your desk, close enough that you can smell his cologne. “That’s why I’m here.”

You blink, squinting your eyes at them. “To distract me?”

“To help,” he says simply, smiling like he knows exactly what effect that word has on you. “Or, you know, make sure you don’t forget how to chill. Or eat.”

You purse your lips. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

He licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“Dude, you really are impossible.” He glances back at you. “Maybe I just missed you, no?”

You freeze. For a second, you think you misheard him.

Jake doesn’t look away this time. His tone’s still playful, but there’s a trace of sincerity – like a line he’s tiptoeing past without meaning to. “You disappeared on me, angel.”

That nickname slips out like muscle memory. And God, it shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does. You should hate it, because it’s part of your stupid constitution – one you set up, but you’re the one reeling in it now.

“I didn’t disappear,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your notes. “I was just busy.”

“Too busy to even text?” he asks softly, and there’s no accusation in it – just quiet curiosity.

You sigh. “You know how it gets.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, voice low now. “I know. That’s why I didn’t push. But –” He leans closer, bracing one hand on the back of your chair. “I don’t know.”

You turn your head, and suddenly, his face is right there. Too close. His eyes flicker down to your lips before he quickly looks away, smiling like he didn’t just do that.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

He grins – small, soft, utterly devastating, teeth and dimples that could ruin everything – like you and your life. 

“Relax, genius. I’m not here to ruin your study streak. I’ll just sit here quietly and –” He gestures at the open textbook. He pauses mid-step, considering that for half a second before leaning against your desk. “How bad?”

You gesture helplessly at the notebook open in front of you, full of scribbles, eraser dust, and one very sad-looking free-body diagram. “Bad enough that I might actually cry.”

Jake hums, stepping closer to peek at your work from behind you. You can feel the faint warmth of him – close, but not too close – as he bends slightly, one hand on the back of your chair for balance.

“Ah,” he says, in that low, thoughtful voice of his. “Projectile motion. Classic pain.”

You turn, squinting up at him. “What, you know this?”

He gives you a look that’s somewhere between offended and amused. “Move over.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He isn’t. He pulls your chair a little to the side and slides in next to you, the scent of his cologne faint but distracting – something like cedar and laundry detergent and boy.

You scoff. “You’re seriously helping me? You, Jaeyun Sim?”

He grins, already picking up your pen. “I think I’m pretty okay with numbers.” He glances at you, eyes glinting. “Now, what’s killing you here?”

You hesitate, pointing at the question. “This one. The angle. I don’t get how they got the answer.”

Jake hums again, his brow furrowing as he starts to explain – slowly, clearly, patient in a way that’s both unexpected and weirdly comforting. He gestures a little as he talks, tracing imaginary parabolas in the air, and when you don’t get it right away, he doesn’t tease. He just grins and tries again.

“See? You just overcomplicated it,” he says after a minute, nudging your pen toward the solution. You look back at your paper, then up at him, and realize – annoyingly – you actually did, and it’s starting to make a bit of sense. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “Fine. You’re kind of a genius.”

Jake leans back in his chair, smug. “Kind of?”

And for a few quiet seconds after that, with your playlist humming softly in the background and the faint glow of your fairy lights against the window, it feels strangely normal.

Because the problem’s on paper, but the real one’s sitting right next to you, smiling like he has no idea what he’s doing to your heart.

You continue working on the equations and solutions, finally getting the hang of it while he watches just to keep an eye for a mistake. Okay, fake boyfriends really aren’t that bad when they help with the numerical homeworks, and maybe, possibly, might not actually be the worst idea one ever had.

Jake watches you scribble down the last line, then hums approvingly. “See? You’re getting it.”

After some time, you both decided to move over your bed. You gather your notes and textbook, then you climb onto the bed and sit cross-legged near the headboard. The sheets are cold, slightly rumpled, unmistakably yours with the cute little prints. Jake’s sitting beside you, back against the pillows, long legs stretched out, your bunny stuffed toy resting on his lap like she’s part of the discussion.

He sets the book between you, close enough that your knees brush, enough to make your thoughts go static even though physics require full attention.

“Okay,” he says, businesslike, pointing at the page. “Same concept, different numbers. Walk me through it.”

You swallow. “Uh. Okay.”

You start explaining, a little shaky at first, but he listens, nodding, occasionally interrupting gently to correct you or ask why you chose a certain step. When you mess up, he doesn’t laugh, he just tilts his head, then pretends he doesn’t notice how embarrassed you look explaining.

It’s fine. It’s fun.

“Try that again,” he says softly. “You’re almost there.”

At one point, you frown at the page, frustrated. “I don’t get why the time changes here.”

Jake leans closer, shoulder brushing yours as he reaches over to tap the equation. His arm stays there, warm against your side. “Because the vertical and horizontal motions are independent,” he explains quietly. “Think of it like –”

He pauses, searching for a metaphor. “Like us.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, sheepish. “Bad example. Ignore that.”

He continues explaining, his voice low and steady, and you find yourself focusing less on the numbers and more on how close he is – the way his knee nudges yours when he shifts, the way his sleeve brushes your arm, the way his eyes soften when you finally nod and go, “Oh. Ohhh.”

“There you go,” he says, smiling like he just watched you win something. “Told you.”

You laugh, light and breathy. “Okay. You’re officially helpful.”

He shrugs. “Fake boyfriend perks.”

You ignore him. You focus on the work on hand, writing your formulas down and then solving the problems with a focus that is straightforward and unforgiving – the kind Jaeyun gets to see while you busy yourself.

He’s across you now while you continue writing, mumbling to yourself the little keywords he mapped for you just so you wouldn’t get lost.

He smiles, inevitably.

The next problem takes longer. And you’re way too concentrated that the hair that keeps falling forward, slipping loose from behind your ear, is far from noticeable to you. Though of course, he notices.

Then, quietly, “Hold on.”

Before you can react, he reaches out and gently tucks the strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers barely graze your skin – careful, deliberate, like he’s unaware of exactly how close he is.

Your pen stops mid-sentence. You look up at him and he seems to realize what he’s doing.

Jake pulls his hand back like he’s touched something hot. “Sorry,” he says quickly, a sheepish and awkward smile already forming. “It was just – it was in your face.”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I – yeah.”

Silence stretches. Your heart is doing something unhelpful.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Continue.”

So you do, blinking away back to the number that demands your attention just so you’d finally be able to get this over with. Except now, the focus isn’t as directed – it’s in fragments, and you’re more aware when he shifts, leans close to check your work, and when he’s looking at you instead of the paper.

You finish the problem, it’s the easiest, but Jaeyun comments.

“That’s not right,” he says gently.

You didn’t notice the mistake in your work, you’re a number off, and now you’re scrambling for your eraser. 

“I know,” you say. “I just –”

When you look up at him to leave a witty reply, he’s already looking at you. No smirk or tease. Just Jaeyun.

So you automatically look down and stare at the page, pretending you’re thinking on how to move on to the next step. Except it does the opposite. Jake watches you stare at the page a little too long, eyes unfocused, pen hovering like it’s forgotten its purpose.

“Break?” he asks gently. “Just to chill for a bit, yeah?”

You hum in response, noncommittal, already shifting. You scoot down the bed and flop onto your back with a dramatic sigh, your brain is scattered like broken shards that reflect the way he’s looking at you. He’s trying to help and he has been, but you’re still distracted and nothing will cure the nuisance of a fake boyfriend you’re secretly in l–

“Oh wow,” Jake says, amused. “She’s down.”

Silence settles when you close your eyes, still pretending to be relaxed even though you’re hyperaware of every little movement and presence. Jake quietly watches you for a few more seconds, letting the soft hum of your playlist fill the spaces between breaths. Then he shifts a little closer, stretching his legs out until they lightly brush against yours.

You feel it before you see it – his fingers brushing your knee, absentminded, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He traces a small shape there, slow and lazy.

Then another.

Your breath catches into a breathy laugh. “Jaeyun.”

“Yeah?” he says easily, still drawing.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He looks down at you still lying down with your eyes at him, his brows lifted, lips twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You swallow. “That.”

He pauses. Just for a second. Then he stops, pulling back and starts playing with the bunny on his lap, flopping its ears. 

Then you decide to sit up, hugging your knees to your chest, letting your hair fall loosely over your shoulders. You watch him idly play with your bunny, at the way his fingers pinch the ears, how carefully he flops them back and forth. You notice how pink his knuckles are, and the difference of size between his hands and the bunny is almost comical.

Your eyes wander to his face, noticing the way his brows crease when he concentrates, the slight pout on his lips. And then you tilt your head, giving him a look that’s both playful and slightly challenging.

He catches it.

His eyes snap to yours. And you notice his pupils dilate slightly before he looks away.

You smile, small and slow, keeping your eyes on his face. You look at the high point of his nose, and the lines of his cheekbones. 

He looks back at you just to check, and when your eyes meet again, he quickly looks away. He laughs nervously, flopping the bunny more aggressively. 

“Stop that.” Jake says.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Stop what?” you pretend.

Then he suddenly he starts punching your bunny as some sort of stress-relief, earning a gasp and laugh from you before you snatch it away from him. Then now, he flops dramatically on your bed, closing his eyes while he tries to retrieve his cool back – one you successfully stole.

You hover, just a little, because you’re still not done checking him out apparently.

You poke his cheek and he smiles so wide you can’t help but return it. “Stop what, Jaeyun?”

Jake opens his eyes slowly, stretching lazily across the bed like he owns the space. You’re sitting near his head, hugging your bunny close, knees tucked to your chest, leaning just slightly over him but not so close that it’s obvious you’re hovering.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. 

Your eyes just meet, and it’s like the world narrows until all you can see is him. 

The sharp line of his jaw, the smirk tugging at his lips, his dilated pupils that makes your chest tighten.

You blink first, maybe out of nerves, maybe because you’re caught, but he doesn’t look away. He just holds your gaze calmly.

Then, casually. 

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s not whispered nor is it shy. It’s said with that steady, sure confidence that makes your stomach flip and your heart stumble over itself.

You snicker, hiding your face behind the bunny for just a second, pulling away slightly. “Okay… back to physics,” you mumble, trying to sound authoritative even though your heartbeat is anything but. 

You straighten up, flipping open your notebook, pen poised. You try, really try, to focus. The numbers blur a little at first, your mind still tangled around his words, the way his eyes lingered on yours. Jake sits up too before casually sliding over to sit beside you. His shoulder brushes yours, and suddenly, the space you just claimed for concentration still feels scattered all over, some in his grasp.

You grit your teeth, forcing your eyes back to the notebook for numbers, angles, trajectories. You try to drown out everything else while scribbling formulas. Jake leans closer, elbow lightly bumping yours. “Check your units here,” he says, pointing at the line you’ve miswritten.

You sigh, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, I see it.” You fix it, trying to maintain a straight face.

You’re hunched over your notebook again, pen moving in a flow state, numbers lining up in a way that finally makes sense. Your brow furrows, lips pressed together in concentration as you work through this, murmuring little reminders under your breath.

Then you notice him shift beside you, and when you glance –

Jake’s chin is tucked against his chest, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly, eyes peeking up at your face from under his lashes like a bored cat trying to look innocent. His lips are pressed together, fighting a smile.

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Stop.”

He lets out an oof and immediately commits to the bit, flopping backward onto the bed with zero dignity, arms splayed like he’s been taken out by a sniper.

“Oh,” he groans. “She hates me.”

You shake your head, continuing what you’re doing, deciding to ignore him.

After a surprisingly productive half-hour, you shut your notebook with a decisive snap. “Okay, genius,” you say. “You should go now.”

Jake pouts slightly, groaning a long one while he falls back on your bed. Then he rises, glancing at the time on his phone because he decides to be good now. “Kicking me out after all that is crazy, by the way.”

You wave him off, smiling. “Yeah. It’s still finals week, Jaeyun.”

You both climb down the stairs, forgetting completely your parents are in the living room, having just finished a show. They immediately greet him when you both get down, and seeing Jake must always flip a switch because they’re immediately smiling – well, your mother, who you are quite sure favors Jaeyun more than anyone. 

“Jake! Good to see you!” your mom chirps, eyes lighting up while she scoops her ice cream. Your dad grins, nodding. “You became her tutor, huh?”

Jake laughs, that easy, friendly laugh that makes everyone instantly comfortable, with a kind of charm so polite and likeable. He’s Jake Sim, after all. “Yeah. Just helping her out,” he says, voice smooth, the very thing that makes him easy to like and talk to.

They talk about classes, mutual friends (like Jungwon, who your mom likes, then Sunghoon, who your mom also likes), and even your parents’ favorite TV shows, nodding along, laughing at the right moments. You can see it in the way he occasionally glances at you, you try not to look back.

Your mom leans forward slightly, curious. “So, were you good with her?”

Jake nods, smile so wide his cheeks practically rip. “We did okay. She’s a fast learner,” he says with enthusiasm. 

After a few more minutes of polite conversation – Jake: still charming, careful, a little sheepish under the scrutiny – you finally wave him along. “Okay, Jaeyun, let’s get you back outside,” you say, lightly steering him toward the door.

Once you’re outside, the winter air hits. He says you should stay inside, although he also tugs your hand in his so you wouldn’t leave. You walk with him to his car, as the night’s quiet around you.

He pauses at the car door, turning toward you with a glint in his eyes. “So… one more goodbye?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your fluttering heart. “No. Go home, Jaeyun.”

He pouts while he leans down at you, his breath fogging in the cold, and his face way too close for someone who’s supposedly leaving. His bangs fall forward again, grazing his lashes, and he ducks his head just slightly to catch your eyes and meet your height.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips tugging into that soft, borderline smug smile. “Just one? I was a really good tutor.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “You were average at best.”

Jake hums, pretending to be offended, pouting, glancing down at your mouth. “Wow. That’s cold, baby.”

You laugh. “It’s cold, yes. Get in your car.” you shoot back.

He grins, teeth showing this time. “Well, someone won’t let me leave properly.”

You open your mouth to retort – but he gently uncrosses your arms, fingertips brushing your wrist like he’s memorizing the feeling. His hands slide up to your elbows, warm even through your cardigan. 

He leans a bit closer, voice lowering. “I’ll go,” he whispers, “but I’m not leaving without something.”

Your heart stutters. “Jaeyun.”

“Hm?” he tilts his head, innocent in the fakest way possible. 

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says, smile softening, breath misting in the cold, “make me want to be.”

You exhale sharply – half laugh, half surrender. And maybe it’s the cold, or the quiet, or the way he looks at you like he’s trying really hard not to be stupidly happy (he is, he really is)  – but you rise onto your toes and press a quick, graze of a kiss to his cheek.

Jake freezes. Then his entire face lights up – hollowed cheeks, shy grin, eyes flicking away like he can’t handle it.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he whispers, pretending not to melt, “but that was… very okay.”

You smack his arm. “Get in the car.”

He laughs – bright, giddy, a little breathless – and finally opens the door. Before slipping inside, he catches your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Text me when you’re in your room?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “You’re already going to text me before you get to the end of the street.”

He grins. “Yeah. Probably.” He sits, door half-closing. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jaeyun.”

The door clicks shut. His car starts. He gives one tiny wave through the window before pulling away, and you’re left standing in the cold, smiling like an idiot, heart absolutely swept and taken into the Bronco pulling out your street.

You stay out there for a second longer, breath puffing in the cold, watching the red taillights drift down the street. The second they turn the corner, you let out a tiny, ridiculous squeal into your hands.

Your bedroom door shuts and you flop on your bed, face buried in your pillow for exactly one second before your phone buzzes.

You turn off your phone and immediately press it to your chest, kicking your blankets, because there is absolutely no surviving this boy.

Encino, California — May 1971

The house smelled like fresh paint and somebody else's life. Like someone had just finished making a house into a home and you were arriving right at the tail end of it. That was the first thing you noticed when your mother led you through the side entrance of the Jacksons' new Encino home.

Your mother was not a small woman in any way that mattered, but she looked small that day, wearing her “good” blouse that she saved for job interviews and church, clutching the strap of her pocketbook with both hands. She had taken the housekeeping position three weeks earlier, after two other arrangements had fallen through and the landlord had made it clear the apartment on Crenshaw was no longer a possibility. Katherine Jackson had offered the live-in arrangement as part of the compensation—a comfortable suite right across the wing from the kitchen.

Your mother had cried a little, signing the papers. Not from sadness, but relief. You had been in the car and couldn't see her face, but you knew from the way she drove that something had been decided. We'll be fine here, she'd told you that night, while you sat on the edge of the motel bed and watched her pack. The Jacksons are a good family.

The suite was comfortable—there was a queen size bed, a dresser, a window that looked out on the backyard. You counted eight Jackson kids in the front hall, the onetime you'd been near enough to look. There was an oldest one, Rebbie, who was already married at the time and moved in with her husband. Now, the oldest one was a boy who was a grown adult, and the youngest still small enough to be carried. You had never in your life seen a family with so many members living under the same roof. Your mother said, "Stay in our part of the house, baby. We're here to work, not play. Don't mingle too much."

The first week you did not leave the kitchen wing except to use the bathroom down the hall. Before the move, you had checked six books out of the Inglewood library and arranged them on the windowsill in the order you planned to read them. You read A Wrinkle in Time in two sittings and started it again from the beginning, because the due dates were still three weeks away and there was literally nothing else to do. This was something your mother had always been adamant about. You would be educated, you would read. It was not a conversation.

Sometimes you could hear the house through the walls, it was rarely quiet. Even at two in the morning you would sometimes wake to the sound of a voice somewhere far above you and would lie still, listening to it until it stopped. That was the thing about that house, you heard music and vocals constantly. The way music happened in other houses, was either on the radio or from a record player at a respectable volume, but that was not the case at Hayvenhurst.

On your ninth day, Katherine put a stop to the kitchen-wing arrangement.

You were eating breakfast alone at the small table where the rest of the staff took their meals. Your book propped against a glass of orange juice and a bowl of oatmeal next to it. Katherine appeared in the doorway in her housecoat and looked at you which made you sit up straight.

"How old are you?" she asked, caressing the back of your head gently.

"Thirteen, ma'am."

"Come eat with the family," she said. It was not phrased as an invitation. "From now on, at the long table. You sit near Michael and Randy, they're close enough to your age."

"My mother said—"

"I know what your mother said," Katherine said, and she wasn't unkind about it. "Come on now, bring your bowl."

So you reluctantly did.

The long table was exactly that—long, dark wood, with a bench on one side and mismatched chairs on the other, and it sat more people than you had ever eaten a meal with in your life. You learned their names by sitting there. Jackie who was the oldest, barely looked up from his plate. Tito was the quiet one, you could tell even on the first day. Jermaine made you nervous in a way you couldn't explain to yourself. Marlon was the one who asked your name first. La Toya smiled at you once and Randy talked the entire meal about something to do with a bicycle but nobody really listened. At the head of the table sat a man you understood immediately to be the father and you did not look at him for long. Janet was next to Katherine on the bench, still being fed, spoonfuls of something you couldn't see.

Michael was harder to place. He came to the table sometimes and sometimes didn't. He had big, dark eyes and a face that was still soft with from his young age. He had a way of saying please that sounded like he meant it, which distinguished him from most people you'd met. You exchanged, in that first month, perhaps only a dozen words.

Pass the rolls, please.

Thank you.

The butter, if you don't mind.

A few weeks later, you heard about it before you saw it: Michael brought in a rat. He had found it or been given it or in some other way acquired it, and had named it Ben. He had brought it into the house in the pocket of his jacket, and when the fact of the rat became known there was a response of significant volume from his brothers and considerably more volume from the sisters. The upshot was that Ben should be confined to Michael's room only.

You knew all of this because you were sitting in the kitchen doing homework when Marlon walked through saying there is a rat in this house, I'm telling you right now, there is a living rat in this house and went out the back door to cool off. That made you giggle but now you were curious about the rat.

You had never had a pet of any kind. Your mother did not believe in pets, which was a belief rooted in the conviction that anything you loved too much would eventually require either money you didn't have or grief you couldn't afford. But you had also read enough to know that small animals were frequently more interesting than their size suggested, and that people who loved animals were often more interesting than people who didn't. That made you curious about Michael as well.

So at dinner, you started to notice Michael more carefully. Waiting for him to mention something, anything about Ben at all. Nobody brought it up, which suggested it had been established as a territory no one wanted to enter. But every so often, in a lull between one conversation and the next, you would see something cross his face. His eyes wandering off as he picked at the food in his plate and a smile threatening to tug at his lips but it was gone before anyone else noticed it. That was the expression of someone trying not to look like they were thinking about something that made them happy. You did the same thing sometimes when thinking about your favorite book, or the afternoons in the park near your old apartment.

You saw Ben for the first time on a Saturday in November.

Your mother was cleaning the upstairs. Stripping linens, wiping down baseboards, the weekly deep-cleaning that was her specialty, and you had been asked to bring fresh towels to the rooms as she finished them. You knocked on doors that were closed, left towels on hooks and handles of rooms that were empty.

Michael's door was the last one on the right.

You knocked.

"Come in," he said.

You pushed the door open and immediately registered two things: Michael sitting cross-legged on his bed with a book open in his lap, which you had expected, and a small rat asleep on his shoulder, which you had not.

"I have towels," you said, because you needed to say something.

"You can put them on the dresser," he said.

You put them on the dresser. Then, because you could not come up with anything else: "What's his name?"

"Ben," he said.

"From the movie?"

He was curious now. "You watched it?"

"I read about it." You turned around. The rat had woken up, you realized, and was now regarding you with small bright eyes. "I didn't get to see it. We were—we moved a lot. I missed some things." You crossed the room and looked at Ben at closer range. He was smaller than you'd expected.

"He likes you," Michael said.

"How can you tell?"

"He usually hides when he doesn't like someone."

You stood there with a rat investigating your finger and thought about the fact that you had just exchanged more words with Michael than in the entire previous five months.

"Your brothers don't like him," you said.

"No."

"That doesn't bother you?"

He thought about that for a moment, like he was trying to come up with a good answer. "No," he said. "They don't have to like him. He's not their friend."

That made complete sense to you. "I think he's fascinating," you said.

Michael smiled and it changed his face completely, he looked at you again with a twinkle in his eyes. "Most people think he's gross and they get scared."

"They don’t know him,” you said. You put the towels on the dresser and left. But you thought about that smile of his for the rest of the day.

1973

By the end of the second year you could navigate the house in the dark by feel alone. You knew the creak on the third step of the main stairs and learned to step wide of it. You knew which bathroom on the second floor had a door that stuck in humid weather. You had, by this point, read every book in the house's half-organized library—Katherine had said you were welcome to it early on. The shelves were more decorative than anything, books arranged by size in some places and by nothing at all in others, spines uncracked on most of them. Nobody in that house was much of a reader except Michael, but Michael kept his books in his room. He had his own small shelf that you had never been invited to and would not presume to ask about. So you worked through what was available.

The boredom was physical. It lived in your shoulders, in your hands, in the agitation of feet that want to be somewhere else. You were fifteen, and the world outside the house was enormous and inaccessible to you, and the world inside was fascinating and absolutely not yours.

You couldn't sit still. Your skin felt too tight. You had read every book in the house twice over, finished your summer assignments in the first two weeks of June, and spent the remaining weeks of July and August in a state of persistent desire to walk through doors you weren't supposed to open. You wanted to go somewhere. But there was nowhere to go.

One night in August, at approximately half past midnight, you got out of bed. You told yourself it was because you couldn't fall asleep, but it was more than that. You wrapped yourself in a cardigan and left the kitchen wing.

The service corridor led to the main hallway, and the main hallway stretched both ways—toward the front of the house with its formal rooms and its dark windows facing the street, or toward the back and the stairs and the ascending strangeness of rooms you had walked past or entered only for work. You went up the stairs slowly, lifting your feet carefully, placing your weight on the outside of each step where the wood was least likely to complain.

The second floor hallway was dark except for one exception. A thin gold line under a door at the far end, light from a room that was supposed to be dark at this time. You knew whose room it was. You did the reasonable thing, which was to stop at the top of the stairs and intend to turn around. You thought it was the most reasonable thing to do because what if someone opened the door and—

Then the door opened.

He was in an undershirt and pajama pants, barefoot, his hair a little messy from whatever it had been in during the day. He had a book in one hand—his finger still between the pages, holding his place—and the expression on his face was not startled exactly, but genuinely puzzled.

You were frozen solid. Your hands were at your sides, your feet were not moving and you were aware with great clarity, that you had no reasonable explanation for standing in this hallway at half past midnight.

"You good?" he asked.

"I was looking for the bathroom."

He looked at you and then down the hallway, which contained at its other end, a very visible bathroom. He looked back at you.

Then he laughed the way he usually does, covering his mouth.

You felt your face go hot and your own mouth curve upward against your will, the helpless response of embarrassment curdling into something else.

"The bathroom," he said between giggles, "is the other way."

"I know, I was going there." you said.

"I figured."

Now, you were waiting for him to stop laughing. It was becoming humiliating at this point.

"I couldn't sleep," you said finally.

He nodded, like this answered something more than the original question. "Me either. Happens a lot."

"Yeah," you said. "I hear you sing sometimes at night."

He was quiet for a second. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all, I think you should pursue it professionally." you said jokingly.

"You think so?" he said, like he was genuinely weighing it. "I wasn't sure."

You were glad he was playing along with your horrible joke. Then he pursed his lips to keep himself from bursting into laughter again and stepped back from the door, opening it wider.

"You can come in," he said. "If you want. I'm just reading."

You stood in the hallway for one full second, internally negotiating between your two personas. The person who followed the rules and the person who had gotten out of bed at midnight to walk around a house that wasn't hers. The fifteen-year-old rebellious you decided to go with the latter.

You sat on the floor with your back against the bed because that's where the lamp was and it seemed less strange than the desk chair. Michael sat cross-legged opposite you with his book balanced on his knee, and for a few minutes neither of you said anything and this was somehow not uncomfortable.

"What are you reading?" you asked.

He turned the book so you could see the cover. The Little Prince.

"I've read that," you said.

"The fox?" he said, which was a question and also a test.

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly—" you said.

"—What is essential is invisible to the eye." He smiled.

You settled more comfortably against the bed. "I like that it's a book for children that isn't actually for children."

"All the best ones are like that," he said.

"The Phantom Tollbooth."

"Yes. And Charlotte's Web."

"Stuart Little."

"Where The Red Fern Grows," he said. "Because of the ending."

"I cried reading that one," you admitted.

He looked at you with a different expression than he'd had at dinner tables and in hallways. Something more open. "I cried too," he said. "Don't tell anyone."

You laughed, quiet so as not to wake anyone. He laughed too, and the room felt different after that.

You went back to the kitchen wing at four that morning, moving fast and careful down the dark stairs, and you lay in your bed and looked at the ceiling and felt, for the first time in two years, not lonely.

After that, midnight became a country you governed together. It had laws, like countries do. The first law was that neither of you spoke about it in daylight. The second law was that you always came to him, because your room was the easier departure point. The third law, which was never stated but was understood by both parties, was that in his room you could say things that would not have made sense anywhere else.

You began to learn the shape of him. You expected the gravity of the stage and fame, expected him to be the serious boy who sang with everything he had, and he was that boy absolutely; but he was also someone who found things helplessly funny. Who would begin to explain something and start laughing in the middle of it, who would catch your eye across the dinner table when something absurd happened and then have to look away because he knew you were both going to lose it.

You also learnt that he was lonely. It was the first thing you recognized almost immediately because you were lonely too, but his loneliness was different from yours. He was lonely in the middle of crowds, in the middle of stages, in the middle of rooms full of people who loved him in an abstract way and had very little access to him. He had his family, and he loved them, and they loved him back, but it was not enough. You learnt that he got a lot of love, but love at a distance doesn't keep you warm. What he wanted was so simple it made your chest hurt a little to think about it. Someone to sit with him on the floor at midnight. Someone to let him talk about the things he loved without watching the clock. Someone who wanted to be in the same room as him for no reason that could be written down or explained or justified. Not for what he could do, what he had, or what his name meant to the rest of the world.

And without realizing, that’s exactly what you became to him.

The following spring, Michael gave you flowers. When you came to his room one night, there was a small bunch of things from the garden sitting in a glass of water on his nightstand—jasmine mostly, some lavender, a sprig of something yellow you didn't know the name of.

"I thought jasmine might be your favorite," he said.

"How did you know that?"

"You always stop at the fence and smell it before you go inside," he said.

You had not known he'd seen that. So he walked over to you and tucked a piece of jasmine in your hair. You could tell he was looking at it fondly; but you did not say anything about that because your cheeks were burning and you did not want to scare that boy away by saying something stupid.

Your mother noticed the jasmine the next morning and asked whether you'd been picking flowers from the garden.

"No," you said. "Someone gave it to me."

She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. "Be careful," she said, which could have meant many things, and you chose to understand it as the most harmless one.

"Mrs. Jackson spoke to me today," she said. “Something about you and Michael spending time together in his room.”

Your stomach dropped through the chair and the floor and the kitchen below it and somewhere into the earth. "Mother, I can explain—"

She used your full name, which meant this was serious. Then said, "She's not upset."

You stopped. "She's not?"

"She says Michael has been—" Your mother paused, choosing her next words. "Happy. Happier than she's seen him. She wanted me to know that she doesn't mind. She was kind about it, baby. She was very kind."

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," you said. "We just talked. We just—"

"I know." Your mother set down her tea. "But I want you to be careful," she said finally.

"Not because he's a bad boy, he seems like a good boy. But because you are my daughter and this is their house, and I need you to understand the difference between us and them."

"I do understand it, mother," you said looking down.

"Then understand it every day," she said. "Not just today."

You nodded. She reached across and took your hand and held it once, briefly, and let go.

After that the midnight arrangement was not a secret, it simply became known to everyone else in the house that you and Michael were now friends. To other family members, you were still you. Still just someone with a name. But it mattered less when you noticed the jasmine on your windowsill was always morning-fresh, which meant you were the first thing he thought of before the house was even awake. Every day. You were the first thing.

1976

By 1976, Hayvenhurst had stopped feeling like the Jackson house. You weren't sure exactly when it happened—there was no single morning you woke up and thought this is home now. The biggest surprise was your mother. She had come into this house five years ago with her back straight and her rules firm and a very clear map of what this arrangement was and was not permitted to become. She had drawn the lines early and communicated them without sentimentality because she loved you and because sentiment, in her experience, was something people in your position could not always afford. She stopped asking where you'd been when you came in late. She stopped reminding you to come straight back after dinner. When you mentioned Michael in conversation she no longer got that particular careful and worried look on her face.

After that her warnings changed. She had stopped saying don't spend too much time over there. Now she said don't stay up all night again. She had stopped saying remember whose house this is. Now she said take a sweater, the balcony gets cold, which meant she knew exactly where you were going. She had stopped saying remember who you are and who they are. She had not replaced that one with anything but had simply stopped saying it. Your mother had decided Michael was a good boy. She asked after him when he was traveling. When he was sick once, briefly, a bad throat from too many late rehearsals, she brought him tea with honey and lemon without anyone requesting it and when he thanked her she waved it off saying of course, what else would I do, and you had stood in the doorway watching this and had to leave before either of them saw your face.

Now that the both of you were eighteen, you had started noticing him differently sometime in the past year and hated yourself for it. His face had changed, it had been changing for a while. Sharpening into something that was no longer the face of the boy in the hallway but something older and more defined, the jaw and the cheekbones and the eyes that had always been large and dark but now caught light differently, and his voice had settled and his shoulders had gotten broader. He still had the shy smile, still covered his mouth when he laughed, still sat cross-legged on the floor with a book like a child, but strangers looked at him now in a way that was categorically different from how they had looked at him before and you were aware of this every single time it happened.

You were aware of it when girls waited outside the gates of Hayvenhurst whenever he left the house.

You were aware of it when female celebrities, sometimes twice his age, flirted with him endlessly on national television.

You were aware of it when the fan mail arrived, which it did constantly, in quantities that required sorting. A few years ago, the letters had been mostly harmless. Girls your age writing in round handwriting about how cute he was, how much they loved his voice, how they had kissed his poster goodnight. You had found this funny.

By the time he turned nineteen, it was not funny anymore.

The envelopes started arriving heavier, more perfumed, some of them sealed with lipstick kisses pressed directly onto the paper in shades of red and pink that struck you as obscene. Who are these girls? Why do they think it’s okay to send this? You thought to yourself. The handwriting changed—less round and careful, more deliberate, more adult. The return addresses were from women who were not girls your age. Some of them were not girls at all.

You were in the kitchen one afternoon when you heard Michael in the next room say, with complete genuine puzzlement, "Marlon, what does this mean? Why is there—what is—"

"What? Spit it out, Michael!" Marlon said in a frustrating tone. The two brothers were reading their fan mail that accumulated over the course of a week. All envelopes were of different sizes, some were even packaged boxes of something you didn’t even want to know.

"Looks like.. measurements of some sort? She says I'm five-foot six, thirty-six..twenty-four..thirty—"

Marlon's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline in amusement. "Oh brother, she got the tape measure out and everything. Let me see!" He lunged across the couch.

"Why is she sending me her measurements?!" Michael asked, hiding the letter behind his back to keep Marlon from taking it away.

"She wants you to know what she’s working with, basically."

"How did United States Postal Service even allow this to come through? She also has a phone number at the bottom.." Michael folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Not interested in reading it any further.

"If you're throwing it away, pass it over." Marlon said, half jokingly.

You had made the mistake of hearing that conversation and didn't want to hear any further. You told yourself this was about respecting Michael's privacy and not about the fact that knowing what girls thought about him made you feel something cold and ugly deep inside. You knew you were lying. You were extremely jealous, had been for longer than you wanted to admit. What you didn't know was that he was feeling his own version of the same emotions.

It started with the neighbor's son who had come home from college for the summer. He was tall and handsome, looked like one of the college jocks who spent their summers outdoors partying and having fun. Randy, Marlon and him were going back and forth under the hoop while you had been reading, mostly, glancing up occasionally whenever there was movement nearby. You were sitting on the porch steps with a book, which was where you often ended up on warm afternoons. A shaded spot, close enough to the garden that you could smell the jasmine, far enough from the kitchen that no one could find you with a task.

Upstairs, Michael had wandered over to the front window without really meaning to. Bill found him there eventually, standing with one shoulder against the frame, watching the game below with far more concentration than the score seemed to warrant. He came to stand beside him, following Michael's gaze until he spotted exactly what had caught his attention.

"You know you're staring," Bill observed.

Michael didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the driveway where the neighbor's son had just peeled his T-shirt off and thrown it over the porch railing before calling for the ball again.

"I just think," Michael said at last, "you don't have to be shirtless to play basketball."

Bill looked out the window again, then back at him.

"It's seventy-four degrees."

"It's not that warm."

"You're telling me you've never taken your shirt off to play?"

"Not in somebody else's front yard," Michael said. "And certainly not with the ladies of the house sitting right there. I don’t like boys like him, you don’t know what they’re after."

Bill let out a short laugh. "Michael, the boy's been here twenty minutes. So far he's only played basketball and nearly tripped over the garden hose. I'd hardly call that suspicious."

Michael frowned without taking his eyes off the yard. "You don't know what boys our age are like."

Bill turned to look at him. "...Michael. You are boys your age."

Michael finally looked away from the window, as though that technicality had never occurred to him. "I'm talking about the other ones. You know that."

Bill laughed so hard he had to step away from the window.

1978

What nobody told you about falling in love with your best friend was that it would happen in the most mundane possible moments. It started much earlier, but you refused to acknowledge it until Michael tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear because the wind was blowing it in your face while you were trying to read. When he realized he did it without thinking, he went absolutely still with his fingers still near your jaw, both of you frozen.

"Sorry," he said.

You couldn't look at him. "It’s okay."

"Okay," he said quietly.

You stared at the same paragraph until the words dissolved into nonsense. He stayed perfectly still beside you, like he was afraid any shift might break whatever fragile thing had just passed between you. Eventually you both pretended to return to what you’d been doing—him with his sketchbook and you with your book.

Your face stayed warm for the rest of the evening. At dinner you caught him looking at you twice, and both times he glanced away first, ears faintly pink. That night you sat on the edge of your bed in the dark, hands pressed to your flushed cheeks, and thought it clearly for the first time, I’m in love with him.

Michael was twenty years old and the world was starting to pull at him harder than ever. The brothers were still together, but the cracks were showing. He spent more and more time away from Hayvenhurst—in studios with Quincy Jones, listening to new sounds, pushing boundaries the rest of the family wasn’t ready for. Late nights turned into early mornings. You watched him leave for meetings in crisp shirts and come back buzzing with ideas he could barely contain, eyes bright, hands moving as he explained concepts you only half-understood.

You were happy for him but also terrified. The more the world wanted him, the less this house—and you—seemed to fit inside his future.

One October evening, it had been raining since dusk—a relentless California storm that turned the backyard into a dark blur. You told yourself you were just checking if the windows in the sunroom were closed, but your feet carried you toward the back staircase like they always had.

You found him on the second-floor balcony off the family room, the one that overlooked the garden. He was soaked. Shirt clinging to his shoulders, curls heavy with rain, leaning on the railing like he was trying to decide whether to climb over it or not.

"Michael," you called softly.

He didn’t turn around at first. When he did, his eyes were fierce.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said.

"Neither should you."

Rain drummed against the roof, against the leaves, against the wooden railing.

"I'm leaving soon," he said finally. "For good. Not just for a tour. For…everything maybe. Quincy wants me to do my own thing. My own album. My own sound." He laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Joseph thinks I'm crazy for throwing everything away."

You stepped closer and rain immediately soaked through your shirt. "You're not crazy."

"I know that," he snapped. "But I don't know if I can do it without…" Michael turned fully toward you. Water ran down his face. His eyes—those huge, expressive eyes—were shining with something wild and angry and scared.

"Without you," he said, and it came out like an accusation.

You froze.

“I’ve tried,” he continued, voice rising over the rain. “God knows I’ve tried to keep it like it was. Just friends. But I can’t anymore. Every single time I leave this house, all I think about is getting back to you. I'll be sitting in the studio, Quincy will be talking, everybody's working, and somehow..." He clenched his fists in frustration. "...somehow I end up wondering if you're on the balcony. If you've eaten. If you're waiting up."

He looked away for a second, swallowing hard.

"I'll write something I love, and the first person I want to play it for is you. Something good happens..." He laughed again, "...I want to tell you before anybody else. Something goes wrong..." He shook his head. "I want you."

The rain had become heavier now, soaking through both of you.

"And I'm angry." His voice rose slightly. "I'm so angry because I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that." He took another step until there was barely any space left between you.

"I've got this chance—this one chance I've wanted my whole life—and every day it feels like it's pulling me farther away from the only person I've ever wanted to come home to."

"I hate leaving you here." His breathing had become uneven and his eyes were shining now, though whether from the rain or something else, neither of you could tell.

"And I hate..." His voice broke completely. "...I hate that after everything I've worked for... after everything I've dreamed about..." He shook his head helplessly. "None of it feels complete if you aren't in it."

The rain swallowed the silence. You couldn't speak.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times—always in secret, always right before sleep when your imagination was kinder than reality. In every version, it had been soft. Never with him standing in front of you like his heart had been torn open and left bleeding in the storm.

"You don't have to say anything," he whispered.

The anger had drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion. "I just…" He swallowed hard, shaking his head as his eyes dropped to the soaked floorboards between you. "I've spent so long pretending this wasn't happening that I don't know how to stop. I couldn't leave without you knowing."

Michael dragged a hand down his face. His voice was barely audible beneath the rain. "One day you were the girl who sat on my bedroom floor reading books with me and then somehow you became the first person I look for every morning. The last person I think about before I fall asleep."

He stepped closer, rain trembling on his lashes.

"I don't know when it happened. I only know it happened to me."

Your chest ached with the weight of every unsaid thing you’d carried for years. You decided to reach for his hand, fingers interlocking with his—warm despite the cold rain. He looked down at your hand like it had answered every prayer he’d ever been afraid to speak.

When his eyes lifted again, they were glassy.

"So I wasn't imagining it," he breathed.

You shook your head, tears mixing with the rain. "I've loved you for so long, Michael… that I don't remember what it felt like before."

He stared at you, stunned.

"I love you. I'm in love with you," you said again, clearer this time, voice breaking.

Something inside him finally shattered. Michael rested his forehead against yours with relief. Your noses brushed.

"I love you too," he whispered, the words raw and reverent against your lips. "God, I love you. I've loved you for years." He said it like the confession had been waiting his whole life to be set free.

"So many years…" he murmured.

"So many." You repeated.

His hand came up slowly, brushing rain-soaked strands of hair from your face exactly the way he had months ago on that same balcony. This time he didn’t apologize, his thumb lingered on your cheek.

"Is this okay?" he asked softly.

You leaned into his touch and that was all he needed.

He kissed you—first so gently it was barely a kiss at all, just the softest press of his lips to yours. Then deeper, surer, seven years of almosts melting away. His hand slid behind your neck, yours fisted in his soaked shirt, holding on like the storm might still try to tear you apart.