#slowburnromance

Prologue

There are stories whispered about the old mansion on the edge of Seoul, a place where the lights burn through every storm and shadows pass behind the windows at all hours of the night. Most say it’s haunted by ghosts who never learned how to leave, or by the memory of someone who once loved too fiercely and lost too much. But those who look closer might see something else: not a curse, but a quiet promise. A haven built from kindness and stubborn hope, shelter for anyone who’s ever been driven from the world outside.

Before the pack, before the laughter and warmth and chaos, there was only the storm. Only Y/N, moving through the empty house, learning the shape of silence and the weight of longing. The city’s glow pressed close, but inside, the hush was absolute. It was a world waiting for the first sign of life to break through the loneliness. This is where it began: with a single door left unlocked, a single night when one person reached into the dark and chose to offer sanctuary instead of fear.

Y/N’s life was a study in quiet, curated solitude. The mansion on the city’s edge had once seemed like a prize, a testament to hard work, ambition, and the desire to build something all their own. But as the weeks blurred into months, the silence became less luxurious and more suffocating, a slow ache beneath the surface of every day.

Y/N filled the emptiness with routine: early mornings over black coffee, evenings lost in paperwork and news on mute. The city’s demands were endless: meetings, negotiations, the careful dance of being respected but never quite seen. Friends drifted away, unable to keep pace with Y/N’s ambition or the walls they unconsciously raised. The only voices that lingered were those in memory: a mother’s gentle warning, a father’s distant pride, the echo of old friends’ laughter fading with each unanswered message.

Sometimes, on the loneliest nights, Y/N would wander from room to room, trailing their hand along polished banisters, searching for a sense of belonging that never quite came. They’d grown adept at pretending the isolation was a choice, an armor, not a wound. But it was a brittle kind of strength, and it left them restless, awake long after midnight, staring at the empty spot beside them in bed.

They told themself it was better this way: no one to disappoint, no one to need them, no one to leave. Better to be the master of a silent house than to risk the sharp ache of being left behind. But the truth was simpler and sadder: the house wasn’t keeping them safe. It was keeping them apart.

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Rain freckled the floor-to-ceiling windows of the mansion, an endless hush that dulled the world outside. Y/N pressed their palm to the glass, gaze unfocused on the distant city lights that flickered through the drizzle. Even here, on the fringe of Seoul, the city never slept. But tonight, the air was thick with a kind of loneliness that not even the hum of traffic could dispel.

Y/N turned away, sighing, and padded through the silent halls toward the kitchen. The house felt cavernous echoes of footsteps, memories clinging to empty rooms. They busied themselves with a pot of tea, movements efficient, practiced. Solitude had been a choice, one that felt less like freedom and more like exile with each passing night.

A faint sound softer than the rain, but unmistakable caught Y/N’s attention. It came again: a muffled whine, almost swallowed by the storm.

Y/N froze, teacup halfway to the counter.

There it was a shuffling, then a plaintive, breathy whimper. It sounded close, just outside the back door.

Cautiously, Y/N set down the cup and crossed the kitchen. They flicked on the porch light, its glow spilling into the rain-soaked garden. In the pool of light, half-hidden behind a planter, was a figure. Large and hunched, trembling in the downpour, with a shock of sandy hair plastered to his forehead and a tail curled tightly around his legs.

Dog ears golden and drooping, pinned flat against his skull.

Y/N’s pulse quickened. A hybrid.

The figure flinched as the door opened, shrinking further behind the planter. Y/N took in his soaked clothes, the shiver in his limbs, the way his eyes darted between escape and them.

“Are you hurt?” Y/N asked quietly, voice steady but gentle.

The hybrid, no. The man didn’t answer. He stared, wide-eyed, but didn’t bolt.

Y/N stepped out into the rain, arms raised in a gesture of peace. “I’m not going to call anyone. You look cold. Will you come inside?”

The man hesitated, then shook his head, water flying from his ears. He pressed himself tighter to the wall, but his body betrayed him: another shiver, a desperate glance at the open door.

Y/N didn’t move closer. “There’s food. And dry clothes. You can leave whenever you want.”

A long moment passed. Then, slowly, the golden retriever hybrid pushed himself to his feet. He winced as he put weight on his right leg, but after a final, wary look, he limped toward the door.

Y/N stepped aside, letting him pass. The warmth of the kitchen hit him, and he sagged against the wall, eyes closing in relief.

“I’m Y/N,” they said softly, reaching for a clean towel. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Yunho.”

Y/N handed him the towel and a tentative smile. “You’re safe here, Yunho. For as long as you need.”

He didn’t reply, but for the first time, some of the tension left his shoulders. As Y/N fetched food and a first-aid kit, the silence in the kitchen pressed down heavy and uncertain. Yunho clutched the towel, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between the exit and the steaming mug Y/N placed before him. He flinched at every sound the ticking of the clock, the scrape of a drawer his tail curled so tightly it trembled.

Y/N kept their voice low as they knelt to check his leg. "May I?" they asked, but Yunho recoiled, teeth gritted in silent warning. For a moment, the weight of distrust was suffocating. Y/N nodded, backing off. "I’ll leave the kit here. You can help yourself."

He watched Y/N with haunted eyes, as if expecting kindness to turn to cruelty at any moment. Long after Y/N retreated to the far side of the kitchen, Yunho sat on the floor, towel clutched to his chest, shivering not from the rain, but from the ghosts of old wounds. The storm outside faded, but inside, the tension only thickened.

Yunho barely registered the passage of time. The warm, softly lit kitchen felt like a strange dream. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find somewhere dark and safe, but he was so tired. The ache in his leg throbbed with each heartbeat, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

He stared at the mug in front of him, hands refusing to reach for it. He could still feel the cold of the rain in his bones, but worse was the memory of other kitchens, other humans always a trick, always a cost. Kindness was a trap; he’d learned that lesson too many times.

His eyes flickered to the door. He could leave. He should leave. But the warmth was burrowing beneath his skin, making him remember what comfort felt like. Something he didn’t deserve, not anymore.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing in the scent of soap and tea and something unfamiliar in Y/N’s presence, not unkind, but impossible to trust. He waited for the sharp word, the impatient sigh, the inevitable demand. It never came.

The silence stretched, heavy and strange. Yunho’s ears drooped, tail limp. He wondered if Y/N could see how broken he was. He wondered if it mattered.

Eventually, exhaustion won out. He curled up on the kitchen floor, towel still clutched in his fists, daring only the smallest hope that maybe, just this once, he wouldn’t be forced back out into the rain.

He was barely aware of Y/N returning, footsteps soft on the tile. They crouched beside him, concern etched across their features. “Yunho,” Y/N whispered, careful not to crowd him. “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor; you’ll get sick. There’s a bathroom just down the hall, and the water’s hot. Why don’t you take a bath? I’ll leave clean towels on the counter. You can lock it from the inside; I promise no one will bother you.”

Yunho flinched at the suggestion, instinctively pulling the towel tighter, but Y/N only waited, their presence gentle and unhurried. “You deserve to be warm,” Y/N added quietly, voice trembling with the weight of meaning. “If you’d rather stay here, that’s all right too. I just… I don’t want you to injure yourself more than you already are.”

For a long moment, Yunho didn’t move, searching Y/N’s face for any sign of threat or impatience. Finding none, he gave the smallest nod, a silent agreement built on fragile hope. Y/N offered a faint, understanding smile and stepped away, leaving Yunho with a choice, one that, for the first time in a long while, was truly his to make.

Slowly, Yunho pushed himself upright, every muscle protesting. His legs were stiff and shaky from cold and exhaustion; standing felt like waking from a nightmare, unsure if the ground would hold him. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, and he fumbled to catch it, his breath coming shallow as he fought back the urge to just curl up again and disappear.

He clutched the towel Y/N had left for him, gathering the towel more tightly around himself. Each step down the unfamiliar hallway was harder than the last, his injured leg dragging, the ache spreading up his side. He paused at the bathroom door, dizzy and uncertain, glancing back, no footsteps, no shadow, just the hush of an empty house.

Hand trembling, he managed to turn the lock behind him, chest tight with relief and fear. The room was warm, the air thick with rising steam. For a moment, Yunho just stood there, swaying, letting himself believe just for tonight that he was safe enough to let go.

Y/N waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea gone cold. Their mind raced with worry: had they pushed too hard, done too little? The memory of Yunho’s haunted eyes lingered: how much pain could one person carry and still find the strength to hope, even a little? They wanted to do more, to fix things, but all they could do was wait and hope that the small, careful kindnesses would be enough to keep Yunho from running back into the night.

Inside the bathroom, Yunho let the blanket and towel fall to the floor, his body aching with every movement. He peeled off his dirty clothes, wincing at the soreness in his muscles, and tossed them into a small pile near the door. As he turned, he noticed a neatly folded set of clean clothes waiting on the counter: soft sweatpants, a T-shirt, and fresh socks. The simple gesture sent a wave of relief through him.

He turned on the tap and sat on the toilet lid, waiting for the tub to fill with fresh hot water, unsure how much longer his legs would hold him up. Steam fogged the mirror, wrapping the room in a hazy cocoon.

He stepped carefully into the tub, wincing as the hot water lapped at his chilled skin. The heat brought a wave of pain and then, slowly, relief. He sank under the water, letting it cradle his battered body. For the first time in months, maybe years, he allowed himself to relax, just a little. The ache in his leg dulled, but the ache inside stayed sharp, twisting with every memory of hands that shoved, voices that threatened, warmth that always turned cold.

Yunho pressed his forehead to his knees, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest. The gentle sound of water, the faint traces of lavender soap, the subtle reassurance of a locked door these were things he didn’t know how to trust. He stayed in the bath until the water turned lukewarm, afraid that if he left too soon, it would all be taken away.

Just outside the bathroom, Y/N paced the hallway, listening for any sign of distress. Their mind spun with worry: had Yunho slipped and fallen? Was the water too hot, the room too strange? Y/N stopped by the door more than once, hand hovering as if to knock, but forced themself to step back. He needs space, they told themself. He needs to know he’s safe.

Every so often, Y/N heard the faintest splash or the muffled sound of Yunho’s breathing. It was enough to keep them rooted nearby, not daring to go far, caught between wanting to help and knowing that trust couldn’t be rushed.

When Yunho finally emerged, hair damp and skin flushed from the bath, he was dressed in the clean clothes left for him, soft sweatpants and a t-shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. He felt a little more human; the ache in his muscles eased by the warmth and comfort of the bath and fresh clothes.

Y/N was sitting in the living room. They offered a gentle, uncertain smile. “Take your time. The guest room at the end of the hall is yours tonight. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Yunho nodded, but when he reached the guest room and closed the door behind him, he found himself unable to rest. The bed looked soft, almost inviting, but the silence pressed in from all sides too loud, too unfamiliar. He paced the room for a moment, heart pounding, before quietly slipping back out into the hallway.

Drawn by the faint glow from the kitchen, Yunho padded softly down the hall, the clean clothes hanging loose on his frame. He found Y/N sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a mug, staring absently at the rain-smeared window. For a moment, Yunho hesitated in the doorway, nervousness prickling along his skin.

Y/N looked up, surprised but not unkind. "Can't sleep?" they asked gently, voice careful not to push.

Yunho shook his head, staring at the floor. The words felt heavy in his mouth, but he forced them out anyway. "Can I... stay here? Just for a little while?"

Y/N nodded and gestured to the seat across from them. "Of course."

Yunho sat in the chair across from Y/N, shoulders tense but eyes a little less haunted in the warm kitchen light. The silence between them was fragile, but for the first time all night, Yunho felt the edge of something softer, something like hope.

Y/N let the quiet linger, not wanting to break the delicate peace. But they couldn’t ignore the way Yunho’s leg trembled, the way he winced every time he shifted in his seat. After a moment, Y/N slid the first aid kit across the table, their voice gentle. "Would you let me look at your leg now? Just to make sure you didn’t hurt it worse."

Yunho hesitated, fingers curling against the edge of the table. His instinct was to refuse, to pull away, but the pain was growing harder to hide. He nodded once, tightly, and Y/N moved with careful, unhurried motions, kneeling beside him so he wouldn’t feel cornered.

They rolled up the fabric over his calf, revealing a deep bruise mottling the skin and a raw scrape along his shin. Y/N’s touch was feather-light, every movement preceded by a quiet, "Is this okay?" Yunho answered with stiff nods, never meeting their gaze, but he didn’t flinch away.

As Y/N cleaned the scrape and wrapped the leg, their chest ached at the evidence of old scars and new wounds. When they finished, they didn’t press, just offered Yunho a glass of water and a soft, "You’re safe here. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to."

For the first time, Yunho’s lips parted, voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you."

Y/N smiled, small and sincere. "You’re welcome."

The kitchen was quiet, but something had shifted: a fragile trust, born in bandages and shared silence, was beginning to take root.

It didn’t take long for Yunho’s exhaustion to show. His head drooped, eyes blinking slowly, shoulders sagging as he fought to stay upright. Y/N stood and gently touched his arm. "You should get some rest," they murmured. "Let me help you to the guest room."

But as Y/N reached out, Yunho’s hand shot out, clutching their sleeve in a trembling grip. Panic flashed in his eyes, raw, unfiltered. He shook his head; words were stuck somewhere between fear and pleading. "Don’t… Don’t go. Please. Just… stay here."

The vulnerability in his voice was sharp and aching. Y/N nodded, but instead of settling back into the chair, they gently squeezed Yunho's hand and spoke quietly. "The couch is just over there," they said, voice soft as velvet. "It's more comfortable than the kitchen table. Will you let me help you? We can both sit there. I'll stay until you fall asleep, if you'd like."

Yunho hesitated, eyes flicking between the table and the shadowed outline of the couch. Finally, with a small nod, he allowed Y/N to help him up. He leaned on them, steps slow and uncertain, his grip on their sleeve never loosening. When they reached the couch, Y/N sat first, letting Yunho settle beside them, close but not crowded.

Y/N draped a blanket over Yunho’s legs, then gently coaxed a pillow behind his head. Seeing how tense and small he looked, Y/N hesitated for just a moment before quietly saying, “It’s more comfortable if we both lie down just until you fall asleep. Is that alright?”

Yunho didn’t answer with words, but the way he shifted closer, not letting go of Y/N’s sleeve, was answer enough.

With slow, careful movements, Y/N eased themself down onto the couch beside him, arranging them so that Yunho could rest his head on their shoulder, their bodies aligned along the narrow cushions. They tucked the blanket securely around them both, mindful of his injured leg and the need for space.

Yunho’s breathing slowed, his body relaxing by inches as he felt Y/N’s steady warmth along his side. Even as sleep claimed him, his fingers stayed curled in their sleeve, a silent anchor. Y/N let their arm rest lightly around him, offering comfort without pressure, and quietly watched over him as the night deepened, both of them, for the first time in a long while, not quite alone.

Nightmares gnawed at Yunho’s rest. He shifted restlessly, brow furrowing, whimpers escaping as his mind dragged him through old memories: rain, cold concrete, voices shouting, hands reaching for him in the dark. On the couch, his tail thumped anxiously against the cushions, his hand tightening unconsciously in Y/N’s sleeve. A broken plea slipped out: “No… please, don’t… I’m sorry…”

Y/N woke at the sound, instantly alert but careful not to startle him. They whispered gentle reassurances, brushing Yunho’s hair back and murmuring, “You’re safe. It’s just a dream. You’re here with me.” Slowly, the tension bled from Yunho’s body, his breathing returning to a steadier rhythm.

When Yunho finally woke, sunlight was already spilling into the living room. The couch was empty beside him, but the scent of eggs, toast, and a hint of herbal tea drifted from the kitchen. Yunho sat up slowly, disoriented, the heaviness of his dreams lingering in his chest.

Padding quietly to the kitchen doorway, he saw Y/N standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, humming softly as they cooked. The morning light caught on the strands of their hair, making them look softer than Yunho remembered from the night before.

He hovered at the threshold, uncertain but drawn by the promise of safety and, just maybe, the hope that nightmares couldn’t follow him into the day.

Y/N glanced over their shoulder and smiled when they saw Yunho hovering in the doorway. "Morning," they said gently. "I hope you’re hungry."

Yunho hesitated, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes, but the smell of food pulled him forward. He slid into a seat at the kitchen table, still wrapping the blanket close around his shoulders. Y/N set a plate in front of him: eggs, toast, fruit, all arranged with quiet care.

For a moment, Yunho just stared at the food, uncertain. Then, at Y/N’s encouraging nod, he picked up his fork and took a tentative bite. The first mouthful was almost overwhelmingly warm, real, and offered without condition. He ate slowly at first, glancing up at Y/N between bites as if afraid the meal would disappear.

Y/N poured him a cup of tea and sat across from him, keeping their tone light. "There’s plenty more if you want it. Eat as much as you need."

As the meal went on, the silence softened. Yunho’s shoulders relaxed by degrees, and Y/N offered gentle conversation, nothing probing, just talk of the weather, the garden, and the best way to make tea. For the first time since he’d arrived, Yunho felt the gnaw of hunger fade and something like peace settle deep in his chest.

When he finished, Y/N gave him a soft, proud smile. "You did well. If you want to rest more or just sit here, that’s fine. This is your home too, for as long as you need."

Yunho didn’t trust his voice, but his eyes shone with gratitude. For a brief, golden moment, the horrors of the night before felt very far away.

Y/N let the quiet linger over breakfast before asking softly, "Yunho… can I ask what happened? Why were you out there in the storm?"

Yunho’s fork stilled. He stared at his plate, shoulders drawing up beneath the blanket. For a long moment, it seemed like he might not answer. Then, voice rough and low, he murmured, "I didn’t have anywhere else to go. People… when they find out what I am, it always changes. It’s always worse."

He swallowed, knuckles white around the fork. "I tried to stay out of sight. Sometimes I found work, sometimes a place to sleep. But it never lasted. Last night… I just couldn’t keep running anymore."

Y/N’s heart ached, but they kept their words gentle, "You don’t have to run now. You’re safe here. As long as you want."

Yunho gave a small, shaky nod. A silence grew, heavy but honest, and for the first time Yunho didn’t feel so alone with his pain.

The days that followed unfolded quietly, each one a small victory in the long war against Yunho’s fear. Mornings began with cautious breakfasts in the sunlit kitchen, Y/N always making more food than necessary and Yunho gradually eating his fill. Some days, he followed Y/N through the house as they worked, keeping to the edges of the room, never quite letting himself relax. Other days, he ventured into the back garden, soaking in the unfamiliar peace, golden ears flicking at every distant sound.

Y/N never pushed. They offered gentle invitations. Would you like to help with the groceries? Do you want to pick the music today? but Yunho was always allowed to say no. Bit by bit, he said yes more often, his tail wagging hesitantly, a flicker of warmth returning to his eyes.

At night, the couch became their shared island of comfort. Yunho still startled awake from nightmares, but there was always a steady hand or a whispered reassurance. Gradually, the distance between them shrank until Yunho no longer needed to hold Y/N’s sleeve to fall asleep.

By the end of the week, the mansion felt less like a temporary shelter and more like the beginning of something fragile and real, something that, given time, could truly become home. It was only then, as Yunho began to believe in safety, that two new shadows appeared at the edge of the property: a wary, sharp-eyed Maine Coon hybrid and a silent, protective Doberman watching from outside.

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he was the boy with soft eyes who always greeted your mom with a polite smile, the one who helped your dad carry groceries without being asked, the one who laughed with jaemin until their stomachs hurt and then turned to you—quiet, awkward you—and asked if you wanted to join them at the convenience store.

he noticed you. always.

and god, that was dangerous.

you kept your secret like it was sacred. folded it between pages of your diary, whispered it into the pillow late at night when your chest hurt with the weight of wanting someone who would never be yours. he was two years older. already shining, already so good.

you thought maybe—just maybe—he was too good to break your heart.

you waited until his last day of middle school. you had written the letter three times, burned one, hid another. the final version trembled in your hands as you gave it to him behind the school gate.

“please don’t read it here,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

“i won’t,” he promised, gentle as ever. “don’t worry, okay?”

and you believed him. you always believed him.

but the next afternoon, he asked to meet you behind the gym.

it was quiet. too quiet.

you remember the way he scratched the back of his neck, the way he couldn’t quite look at you when he said, “you’re really important to me. like a little sister, you know?”

you smiled, because you didn’t know what else to do. you smiled as your eyes blurred.

and then you cried—ugly, shaking, childlike sobs you couldn’t hold back.

he tried to hug you, but it made it worse.

he said, “i’m sorry.”

he said, “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

he said everything right.

but it didn’t matter.

because you were thirteen, and he was mark lee, and you had just learned that love doesn’t always mean something back.

high school didn’t make it easier. if anything, it made everything worse.

you tried. god, you really tried to move on—swallowed the ache, buried it deep under textbooks, sketchbooks, extracurriculars. you learned to walk past him in the hallways without letting your gaze linger too long, learned to smile politely when he said “hi” like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t held your broken heart in his hands behind the gym that day and handed it back to you gently, still cracked.

but the problem was: mark never changed.

he was still that boy—soft-spoken, warm, radiant. the kind of person who made you want to be better just by existing near him. and worse, he was always there.

your house, once a quiet place of safety, had become a second home for jaemin’s band of loud, chaotic friends. most days, the living room was full of snacks, game controllers, and laughter. renjun’s sarcasm echoing through the hall, haechan draped across the couch like he owned the place, chenle’s laugh piercing through every door, jisung awkwardly trailing behind them with his phone glued to his hand. and of course, mark. always mark.

sometimes he’d be in the backyard with your brother, their laughter drifting through the window while you did homework at the kitchen table, pencil trembling slightly every time he called your name to offer you a slice of pizza or a bottle of soda. sometimes he’d walk past you in the hallway and lightly ruffle your hair like he used to when you were twelve, before he knew how deeply you felt for him. before you knew what it meant to love someone who couldn’t love you back.

he still smiled at you like you were made of sunlight. still hugged you during holidays, still handed you wrapped presents on your birthday with that same soft voice: “happy birthday. i hope you like it.”

you hated how much you always did.

you hated how his scent lingered on the gifts long after you’d hidden them at the back of your closet. you hated how you still looked forward to seeing him, how your chest still fluttered when he said your name, how you felt thirteen and stupid every single time he was near.

but the worst was that he didn’t seem affected at all.

to him, nothing had changed. to you, everything had.

one rainy afternoon, you came home early to find the living room empty for once—blissfully silent. you kicked off your shoes, soaked to the ankle, hair damp and cheeks flushed from running back from school before the storm broke harder. you turned the corner to grab a towel from the laundry room when you saw him.

mark was there.

he stood by the window, alone, watching the rain. his hands were in the pockets of his black hoodie, hair slightly messy, lips parted in thought. he looked older. softer. like the kind of boy who belonged in a novel, not real life.

he turned when he heard your footsteps and smiled without hesitation. “hey,” he said, like it didn’t hurt, like your heart didn’t still beat for him in every goddamn way.

“hi,” you managed, holding the towel tighter against your chest.

“you’re drenched,” he said, walking toward you. “you’ll catch a cold.”

he was too close. you could smell the citrus of his shampoo, the faint vanilla of his cologne. when he reached out to brush a wet strand of hair from your cheek, you flinched—not visibly, just enough for him to stop, hand frozen mid-air.

“sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “force of habit.”

you shook your head, stepping back. “it’s fine.”

but it wasn’t. nothing ever was.

you escaped upstairs before your voice could betray you.

two weeks later, you found yourself sitting in the second row of the school auditorium, knees bouncing under the dim lights, your palms cold against the fabric of your skirt.

mark was playing romeo.

you’d heard about it from jaemin, of course—how their teacher insisted he was perfect for the role, how he’d been rehearsing every afternoon, how the girl playing juliet had been a little too eager during practice.

and now, here you were. watching him on stage under golden light, speaking lines you knew he barely even had to memorize—his voice calm, lyrical, achingly beautiful. his every movement was precise, full of emotion. he touched juliet’s face like it was made of glass, like she was something sacred.

you hated her.

she smiled when he held her hand. she leaned into him during the balcony scene. you saw her lips part just before the final act, the tension thick in the air as mark cupped her face. and then—slowly, tragically—he leaned in.

his lips brushed hers. soft. slow. real.

your throat closed.

your chest twisted so violently you thought you might get up and run. but your body stayed rooted in place, forced to watch as they collapsed together on the floor in a mock death, fingers intertwined, her head resting on his shoulder.

the applause was thunderous. everyone stood.

you did not.

you waited until after the show to find him. your feet carried you to the back hallway of the auditorium like they had minds of their own. your heart was a drum, wild and panicked.

he smiled when he saw you—still dressed in costume, hair tousled, sweat glistening on his brow.

“did you like it?” he asked, laughing softly. “i was so nervous.”

you looked at him. really looked.

“i still like you,” you said.

just like that.

no warning. no buildup. no sugarcoated version.

you were tired of pretending.

he froze. his smile dropped.

“i thought… i thought you were over it,” he said quietly.

“i wanted to be,” you whispered. “but i’m not. and watching you up there—watching her kiss you—i couldn’t pretend anymore.”

he looked down. exhaled slowly. ran a hand through his hair.

“you know i care about you,” he said gently, “but not like that. i’m sorry...”

same words.

same ache.

different year.

his hands lowered slowly, as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. his breath grew deeper, slower. he was about to say something. you were going to let him speak. but before he could, you stepped forward, close enough that he had no choice but to truly see you, to hear you, to feel the heat of your words.

“i don’t accept it.”

mark blinked. “what?”

you were trembling on the inside, but you didn’t back down. “i won’t accept a no. not yet. i’ve been in love with you for as long as i can remember, mark. and yeah, maybe you’ll never see me the way i see you. maybe you’ll never feel the same. but i’m not giving up. because i can’t. even if you ignore me, even if you keep looking at me like i’m just jaemin’s little sister… my feelings for you aren’t going anywhere.”

the silence was a wall between you. thick. breathless. mark didn’t know where to look. his jaw clenched slightly. but you saw it—how hard he swallowed, the way his throat bobbed like your words had tied a knot in it. and then… that little flush, that faint blush coloring his cheeks.

he didn’t respond. he just dropped his eyes and muttered something you couldn’t quite catch before saying he had to get back to the guys.

you stayed behind, again. but this time, something was different.

you weren’t broken.

you were alive.

the days after that were… strange.

you didn’t hide anymore. you didn’t avoid looking at him, didn’t steer away when he came into your house, didn’t pretend it didn’t still ache. if you saw him, you greeted him with a soft smile. if he made a comment, you replied with one slightly sweeter. if you were near, you allowed yourself to lean in ever so slightly, as if pulled by something invisible.

mark said nothing.

but he noticed.

and everyone else did too.

renjun was the first to ask—just a casual afternoon in the backyard, you laying on a blanket with a book, the boys talking nonsense as usual. it happened right after mark came back from the kitchen and handed you a water bottle without you asking, like he already knew you’d need it.

“are you guys, like… a thing?” renjun asked, half-joking, half-serious.

mark laughed awkwardly. “what? no. of course not.”

but you looked up from your book, calm, almost proud.

“i like mark,” you said. not shy, not hesitant.

the silence was immediate.

haechan stopped chewing his gum. jisung stared at you like you’d grown horns. chenle let out a choked “wait—seriously?” and jaemin… jaemin looked at you like he’d just uncovered a secret that had always been in plain sight.

mark tensed. his hand around the empty bottle clenched slightly. he didn’t look at you. but you looked at him.

“i like him,” you repeated, voice steady. “i don’t know if that’ll ever change. for now, it hasn’t.”

the air shifted, thick with something unspoken. jaemin cleared his throat.

“wow… okay, didn’t see that coming.”

mark let out a nervous chuckle. “seriously, there’s nothing going on.”

you smiled softly. “not yet.”

and that was that.

they tried to go back to talking about something else, but the topic hung in the air like perfume—sweet, heavy, impossible to ignore.

after that day, the looks between you and mark carried weight. not just because of what you felt, but because now everyone knew. his behavior became more cautious, measured, like every move might be misread, like every glance might be taken the wrong way.

but he still looked at you.

he still smiled.

sometimes, he still sought you out without realizing it.

and you…

you kept loving him, even when it wasn’t a secret anymore.

valentine’s day hit the school like a storm.

the halls were dripping in pink and red, balloons bumping against lockers, the air thick with the scent of cheap chocolate and desperation. you weren’t immune to it—if anything, you were worse.

you had spent the night before in your kitchen, standing over a counter covered in baking disasters, painstakingly melting chocolate, shaping little hearts by hand, writing stupid tiny notes on colorful slips of paper. you stayed up until almost three in the morning, ignoring your mother’s concerned looks, all for one boy.

mark lee.

you didn’t half-ass it either. no. you went full force.

you woke up at five a.m. on valentine’s day, backpack bursting with gifts, heart pounding with something between excitement and fear. the moment you got to school, you made a beeline for his locker. you stuffed it full—letter after letter, pink and red envelopes practically exploding out of the sides. every letter started the same way, "dear mark, i really really like you," and got progressively more unhinged as you got sleepier. one of them ended with a doodle of you two riding off into the sunset on a giant gummy bear. you didn’t even regret it.

and then, the chocolates. you had them in a heart-shaped box you decorated yourself, glitter peeling off the sides. you snuck into his classroom early, your hands shaking, and dumped them right on top of his desk—pile after pile of messy, misshapen chocolate hearts, each one lovingly wrapped in plastic and tied with curly red ribbon.

it wasn’t subtle. it wasn’t graceful.

but it was you.

when mark walked into class later, you watched from behind the doorframe like some kind of deranged cupid. he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the mountain of candy and cards like it might explode. his friends started laughing—haechan howling loud enough to draw attention from other classrooms, renjun pretending to cry from how beautiful it was, jisung muttering “bro’s got a stalker” under his breath while chenle recorded everything on his phone.

mark didn’t get mad.

he didn’t yell.

he just... looked so painfully polite about the whole thing, his bright smile twitching at the corners, his ears turning an adorable shade of pink. he stood there, awkward, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes scanning for an escape route.

you chose that exact moment to spring.

you practically bounced up to him, heart hammering, face on fire, and blurted out in front of everyone, “mark! i like you! a lot! like, a lot a lot! like, marry-me-under-a-rainbow kind of a lot!”

you didn’t know where that last part came from. you regretted it immediately.

mark laughed. this soft, helpless little sound that made your chest ache. he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, you could almost believe he was touched. or maybe just very, very overwhelmed.

"thank you," he said gently, voice a little strained. "you’re really sweet. but—uh—i think... we should just stay friends, yeah?"

you nodded furiously, tears pricking at the back of your eyes, but you smiled through it because you were determined not to make it worse.

"friends! sure! but, like, if you change your mind... i'm available. permanently."

haechan choked. chenle dropped his phone from laughing too hard. renjun whispered “oh my god, she’s serious,” like he was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

mark gave you a look, half grateful, half pleading, like he was begging the universe to save him from this situation without hurting you. he patted your head—your actual head, like you were a golden retriever—and hurried to clean up the mess you’d left.

the rest of the day, every time you crossed paths, you beamed at him and chirped "i like you!" like it was a greeting. he’d flinch slightly every time, force that damn brilliant smile, and respond with a tiny nod or a mumbled "thank you..." before speed-walking away like his life depended on it.

it became a running joke. teachers started asking him about his “secret admirer.” students left fake valentines in his locker just to mess with him. he took it all in stride, patient and painfully kind, but you knew deep down it was wearing him out.

still, you couldn’t help it. you were in too deep.

when the final bell rang, and you caught him stuffing all your letters into his bag like he was trying to hide contraband, you grinned so wide your cheeks hurt.

maybe, you thought, love didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

even if it was one-sided. even if it was a little ridiculous.

your heart still beat for him. and for now, that was enough.

you followed him to university without a second thought.

not because you were obsessed. not because you were desperate.

maybe it sounded crazier when you said it out loud, like some reckless teenage daydream you should have outgrown by now, but in your heart, it had always been simple. wherever mark went, you wanted to go too. so when he decided to major in literature at a university two cities away, you didn’t hesitate—you applied to the same program, you studied harder than you ever had in your life, and when that acceptance letter came, you clutched it to your chest and cried, thinking it was fate smiling at you.

you convinced yourself that it was a new beginning, that maybe, somehow, away from the crowded hallways of high school and the well-worn patterns of rejection and affection, things could be different. you could be different. you could be the kind of girl he might actually look at twice.

but reality wasn’t a fairytale, and no amount of shared classes or accidental brushings of hands across desks could change the fact that mark had drawn a line in the sand years ago—and he wasn’t about to cross it.

still, you stayed close, orbiting him like a stubborn, quiet moon, your love for him woven into every choice you made, every dream you dared to have.

he was still kind. still soft-spoken and careful with your heart. he’d pull out chairs for you in lecture halls, lend you his notes when you were sick, laugh at your dry jokes when no one else did. he still bought you birthday gifts—carefully wrapped, always with a little handwritten note in his neat handwriting. still hugged you every christmas. still remembered your favorite snacks and left them on your desk when you were cramming.

but he never crossed the line.

mark lee was a boy of boundaries. polite, good, respectful. especially with you.

especially because of jaemin.

the others —haechan, chenle, renjun, even jisung—had started making comments. light teasing when mark waited for you outside your dorm. when your fingers brushed as you passed him a pen. when he remembered things you said in passing and brought them up weeks later.

“just date already.”

“you’d make such a cute couple.”

“jaemin would murder you, but worth it.”

but jaemin never laughed. he’d stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

“it’s not happening,” he’d say flatly. “drop it.”

and mark—mark would just smile and shake his head.

“we’re just friends.”

always the same line. always gentle. always final.

and still, you stayed. because a piece of you still hoped. still wondered if maybe, maybe, something would shift.

until summer.

that was when everything changed.

it started small.

mark smiling at his phone when he thought no one was looking. mark turning down movie nights, saying he was “tired” or “busy.” mark humming under his breath as he walked across campus, like he couldn’t help it.

he looked… lighter.

brighter.

and he wasn’t looking at you.

you found out by accident.

a lazy sunday. mark had left his phone on the coffee table in the shared dorm lounge while he went to grab snacks. a message popped up, screen lighting briefly.

“can’t wait to see you again 💛” from: yerim 🍒

kim yerim.

a girl from another department. bright, confident, everything you weren’t.

you blinked at the message like it was written in another language. your throat tightened. your hands went cold. you couldn’t look away.

when mark came back into the room, smiling like he always did, you could barely breathe. he didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped. or maybe he did, but he didn’t say anything. just offered you a packet of chips like nothing had changed.

but everything had.

by the time the others found out, mark and yerim had been quietly seeing each other for nearly two months.

the teasing stopped.

no more jokes. no more comments. just a strange, heavy silence.

even haechan kept quiet. only once, after a long night out, he said it in a low voice—when mark had gone off to call her, when everyone else was half-asleep on the floor.

“you’d be better for him.”

you looked up. your eyes were wet. you hadn’t even noticed.

haechan’s gaze softened. “but he’s not ready to see that, huh?”

you didn’t answer.

because what was there to say?

you’d loved mark for so long it had become a part of your identity. it was in the way you walked, the way you chose your classes, the way your heart lit up every time you saw him laugh.

but he was never yours.

and now, there was someone else who made him laugh. someone he looked at like that. and the worst part?

he looked happy.

genuinely, radiantly happy. the kind of happy that couldn’t be faked.

so you smiled too. you congratulated him. you listened to him talk about yerim with soft eyes and careful words.

and when you were alone, you cried into your pillow, biting down hard to keep the sound in.

because this wasn’t betrayal. this wasn’t a lie. this was just love—one-sided, unchanging, and devastating.

you didn’t blame him.

you just didn’t know how to stop loving him.

you weren’t sure when yerim began to notice.

maybe it was the way you went quiet whenever mark entered the room. maybe it was how your eyes never quite met his anymore. or maybe it was something deeper—something only another woman could sense. a kind of residual ache, the ghost of something that used to be almost something.

she never confronted you. never threw it in your face.

but her gaze lingered.

a little longer than necessary. a little too perceptive. especially when mark spoke your name.

and mark—he started choosing his words more carefully. his laughter dimmed around you, like he didn’t know how to act anymore. like being near you was stepping into a room still filled with the scent of a fire long gone out.

you weren’t mad. you were exhausted.

your chest carried the weight of every second you’d spent wishing for something that never existed outside your imagination. you’d painted a fantasy in your mind and clung to it like a lifeline, and for what? he never promised you anything. never kissed you. never called you “mine.”

he was just… kind. and you were just stupid.

so when you met lee jeno, it was like inhaling after drowning.

he was part of the sports science department—tall, tan, always wearing that damned sleeveless hoodie like he knew the effect it had on people. he had this cocky little smile and a voice that made you pause. and god, he was smooth. but not in a sleazy way.

jeno was bright in a way mark never was. he didn’t hesitate. he didn’t overthink.

he noticed you from the first time you sat across from him in a shared elective. you were sketching half-distractedly, and he leaned over with that grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"you always draw like the world’s ending tomorrow?"

you blinked up at him, startled. "excuse me?"

he just laughed. “you’re good. i like intense girls.”

you rolled your eyes. but he didn’t stop talking to you after that. he’d walk you to class, show up with energy drinks during finals, and compliment the color of your nails like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

and one day, without drama or overthinking, he just asked:

“go out with me.”

no hidden meanings. no caution. just jeno, smiling, offering you something real.

you hesitated.

you thought of mark. of his careful hands, his lingering warmth, the smile he used to give you before it all got awkward. but that was the thing—it had gotten awkward. broken. distant. he belonged to someone else now. he never belonged to you.

so you said yes.

after weeks of holding onto a secret that was slowly tearing you apart, you finally decided to give jeno a chance. you couldn’t keep pretending like mark didn’t already have your heart in his hands, even if he didn’t want it. you couldn’t keep letting your feelings for him dictate everything, so when jeno, the charming and confident guy from your physical education class, asked you out one day, you hesitated.

you hesitated for a long time, thinking of how many times mark had walked right past you, never once acknowledging your heart, never once looking at you in a way that made you feel more than just his friend’s younger sister.

but this time, it was different. jeno was persistent, and there was a spark in his smile that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could move on. so, after a long conversation with yourself and an even longer discussion with your heart, you said yes. but you weren’t going to drag jeno into something he wasn’t prepared for, so before you agreed to anything, you told him the truth.

“i’ve been in love with someone else for so long,” you admitted, your voice soft, vulnerable. “and i don’t know if i can just let go of that... but i want to try. i want to try with you.”

jeno smiled at you, and his eyes softened, like he understood. “i know,” he said, his voice steady. “i’ve seen it. but i’ll do my best to make you forget about him. i’ll do everything i can so that you only look at me the way you looked at him.”

it wasn’t a promise of forever, but it was a promise to try. and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could start anew. so you accepted, feeling a little lighter, but still carrying the weight of what had once been.

the first few days were like walking on air. jeno was easy to be around—funny, charming, the kind of guy who made you feel like you mattered. when you walked around campus together, everyone noticed. people were happy for you, the long-lost couple that everyone was rooting for. but mark? mark looked like he had swallowed something bitter.

mark had never been good at hiding his feelings, and even if he tried, yerim saw right through him. it had been a few weeks since you and jeno started dating, and mark’s behavior was becoming more noticeable by the day. his lingering stares, the way he would look at you and jeno when you walked into a room together—yerim had seen enough. she had been patient with him, but there was only so much a person could tolerate.

you caught him looking at you and jeno one too many times, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a firm line. it made you uncomfortable, the way he would glance at you, then at jeno, like he was calculating something, weighing something in his mind. but you didn’t think much of it until the day he pulled you aside after a class, his face clouded with something unreadable.

“hey,” he started, his voice softer than usual, though there was still a bite to it. “i don’t think jeno is good for you.”

you blinked, startled. “what do you mean?” you asked, confused, but also feeling a knot tighten in your chest. why was he saying this now? after all this time?

mark rubbed the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “i mean... you’re my friend, and i care about you. i just don’t think he’s the right person for you. you deserve better than him.”

you could feel your heart racing. “what do you know about what’s good for me or not?” you replied, your tone sharp. “you’re not my... you’re not my anything, mark. i don’t need you to tell me what’s best for me.”

he frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but he didn’t apologize. instead, he sighed. “i’m just looking out for you, okay? you’re... important to me.”

the words stung more than they should have. important to him. you let out a bitter laugh. “important to you? you’ve barely noticed me for years, mark. don’t try to pull that with me now.”

his face shifted, caught somewhere between frustration and something else that you couldn’t quite place. “i’m serious, okay? just... be careful with jeno.”

before you could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, feeling more confused than ever.

but things didn’t stop there.

it wasn’t just that mark had said what he said—it was the way he started acting afterward. jeno was around, and whenever jeno was around, mark seemed to get this look in his eyes, like he was watching you two, trying to figure out something that wasn’t adding up. he started showing up more, always offering you little things, always asking if you needed anything. he would bring you your favorite coffee between classes, or linger a little longer than usual when he saw you and jeno walking together.

you noticed it. everyone noticed it. especially yerim.

it was one afternoon in the student lounge when yerim couldn’t hold it in any longer. “mark,” she said, voice tight, “you’re doing it again. you’ve been acting like this... like you’re in love with her.”

mark froze, caught in the act of watching you laugh with jeno. he opened his mouth to deny it, but yerim didn’t let him. “don’t even try to deny it,” she continued. “you’re constantly around her, always looking at her like you want something more. you’re jealous every time jeno is near her.”

mark looked at her, eyes wide with shock. “i’m not—i mean, no, that’s not it.”

“really?” yerim’s voice was sharp now. “because it looks like it. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hung in the air like a weight neither of them could lift. mark’s face went pale. he opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. then, slowly, he shook his head, almost as if to convince himself.

“no,” he muttered. “i’m not.”

yerim stared at him for a long moment, her expression a mix of disbelief and something more profound. “mark... you can’t just keep pretending you don’t care about her. you’ve been doing it for years, and now you’re pushing jeno away like this. stop lying to yourself.”

he didn’t say anything. he just stood there, looking at you as you laughed with jeno, the smile on your face not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

it was the last straw when mark once again casually mentioned your name while they were eating lunch together, and yerim couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“mark,” yerim began, her voice quiet but firm. “i can’t keep doing this.”

mark looked up from his phone, confused. “what do you mean?” he asked, trying to mask the tension in his voice.

“this,” she motioned between the two of them, the table between them feeling like a chasm. “your obsession with her. it’s becoming impossible to ignore, and frankly, i’m tired of it.”

he blinked, shocked by her bluntness. “what are you talking about? i’m not obsessed with anyone.”

“oh, really?” yerim’s eyes narrowed, her tone ice-cold now. “because every time i bring something up, you somehow find a way to tie it back to her. last week, we were talking about your plans for the summer, and you—” she paused, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “you brought her up. again. you’re not fooling me, mark. it’s always about her. i’m starting to think you’re not really here with me.”

mark opened his mouth to argue, but yerim held up her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “no. don’t try to lie to me. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hit him like a punch to the gut. he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. a flash of memories flashed in his mind—those moments when your name slipped out of his mouth without even thinking, how he’d catch himself whenever he accidentally mentioned you during their time together.

he remembered the time they were having a casual dinner at a restaurant and he had jokingly said, “y/n would love this dish.” yerim had paused, her fork mid-air, her eyes narrowing. but mark quickly covered it up, offering a distracted smile, as if it didn’t mean anything. another time, they were walking through the campus, and he had said, “this place reminds me of something y/n and i used to do.” yerim had looked at him, confusion and hurt crossing her face, but mark had just shrugged it off. it wasn’t anything, he assured her. just memories of a friendship.

but yerim wasn’t stupid. and she was done pretending she didn’t see it.

“you’ve been so distracted, mark. and i’m over it,” yerim’s voice grew stronger now, the anger finally coming through. “you don’t have the right to string me along while you’re still hung up on someone else.”

mark’s heart raced in his chest, the weight of her words sinking in. he couldn’t deny it anymore. yerim wasn’t wrong, and he hated himself for it. “i didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “it’s just... y/n... i never meant to hurt you.”

but yerim wasn’t having it. she was proud, and she recognized her worth. her eyes flashed with frustration as she stood up from the table, throwing her napkin down with a sharp motion. “it doesn’t matter what you meant, mark. what matters is that you’ve been leading me on, and i’m done. i’m not going to sit here and pretend everything’s fine when you clearly can’t even give me your full attention.”

mark stood up too, his voice soft, almost pleading. “yerim, please don’t—”

“no, mark. i’ve had enough. i need someone who’s here for me, not for someone else.” she turned to leave, but stopped at the door, her back still to him. “think about it, mark. because if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose both of us.”

the door slammed shut behind her, and mark stood there in silence, feeling the weight of her words settle in. but before he could process what had just happened, his phone buzzed in his pocket. he pulled it out, and there it was again—your name, flashing on the screen.

a flood of memories hit him all at once—the late-night talks with you, the way he had always put you on a pedestal, and how, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. he couldn’t stop caring about you. yerim had been right. it had been you, always you.

but that wasn’t all. as he sat there, the memories of his time with yerim also came flooding back. the times she’d gotten upset with him for talking about you too much. he had brushed it off, saying it was nothing, just casual references. but deep down, he knew he was never really there for her. not the way she deserved.

a sharp pain twisted in his chest, and he realized something—yerim had always been more than just a girlfriend to him. she was a distraction, a way to cover up the hole in his heart that he refused to acknowledge. but now, everything felt different.

it was supposed to be a day of fun, something to make you forget. jeno had planned a trip to the amusement park, hoping that the laughter, the rides, and the sweet cotton candy would distract you from everything that had been weighing heavily on your heart. he was always there for you, attentive and sweet, trying his best to make you feel special. his hand never left yours, and he had a way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even though you weren't sure it ever would be.

but as the day went on, the fun rides, the silly carnival games, and even jeno’s bright smile couldn’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to mark. you tried so hard to push them away, to focus on the moment, on the person beside you who was giving you his all. jeno was perfect. he was patient, kind, charming in ways that made you laugh without even trying. but no matter how much he tried to pull you out of the hole you’d fallen into, mark was still there, lingering in your heart like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

it wasn’t until you were sitting on a bench near the Ferris wheel, looking out at the glowing lights of the park, that the dam finally broke. tears blurred your vision, and for the first time in a long while, you let them fall. jeno’s hand gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away the first tear, and then another, as his soft voice reached your ears.

“hey,” he murmured, his eyes filled with concern and something deeper, like he already knew what was happening. “what’s going on?”

you shook your head, struggling to find the right words. “i... i’m so sorry, jeno. i thought i could... but i can’t. i can’t stop thinking about him.” your voice cracked, and the sobs you had been holding back spilled out. “it’s not fair to you. i feel like i’m using you, but i can’t... i can’t let go of mark.”

jeno stayed quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on your cheek, tender and warm. he didn’t look hurt, not the way you expected him to. instead, his eyes were filled with understanding, the kind of understanding that made your chest ache even more.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm. “you can’t force yourself to move on, y/n. you can’t just push those feelings aside because you want them to go away. i know that. i won’t ask you to stop thinking about him, or to stop loving him. but you need to realize that you’re only hurting yourself by holding onto something that might never be.” he paused, giving you a moment to absorb his words, his thumb tracing your cheek slowly. “if you’re not ready for this, if you’re not ready for me, then it’s okay. we can stop here.”

his words cut deeper than you expected. you looked at him, and in his eyes, you saw nothing but kindness, the kind of person who would never push you, who would never force you to be someone you weren’t. but that only made it harder to bear. jeno was giving you his everything, and yet, your heart was somewhere else.

“jeno...” you whispered, your voice shaking, “i’m so sorry. i wish i could just... let go. but i’m not ready for this. for us. i thought maybe... maybe i could love you. but i can’t stop thinking about him. and it’s not fair to you. you deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

jeno smiled at you, but it wasn’t the smile of someone who was happy. it was a smile tinged with sadness, a resignation that seemed to come from a place of understanding rather than disappointment. he took your hand in his and held it firmly, as if to reassure you that it was okay.

“i knew,” he said quietly, his voice soft but sure. “i knew this wasn’t going to be easy. and i’m not mad at you, y/n. i’m just... i’m just glad you’re being honest with me.” he gave your hand a squeeze. “you don’t have to force anything. if you want to keep holding onto mark, then do it. if that’s what you need to do to move on, then i won’t stop you. i want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

you blinked back more tears, unable to find the right words. jeno’s face was full of hurt, but also full of understanding, and you hated yourself for not being able to give him what he deserved. you loved jeno, you really did, but your heart was still anchored to mark, and nothing was going to change that just because you wanted it to.

“i don’t deserve you,” you said through a broken sob, the guilt overwhelming. “i’m sorry, jeno. i’m so sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” he said again, his voice steady and soothing, despite the sadness that lingered there. “just think about it, okay? take your time. but don’t stay in this place forever. don’t let yourself be stuck on someone who can’t give you the love you deserve.”

you nodded, unable to speak, and jeno, ever patient and kind, pulled you into a gentle embrace. his warmth was comforting, but it also reminded you of the hole in your heart that mark had left behind.

you could feel the weight of his words, the truth in them sinking deeper than anything you had ever felt. he wasn’t going to hold you to something that wasn’t real, and you hated the fact that it took you this long to realize it. jeno wasn’t just someone you could use to fill the gap mark had left. he was someone who deserved to be loved completely, and you weren’t capable of giving him that.

as you pulled away, you could see the understanding in jeno’s eyes, and it was that very understanding that made the pain in your chest grow even stronger. jeno wasn’t going to hold onto something that wasn’t meant to be. and maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest thing for you to accept.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice small, broken. “but i think i need to try with mark. maybe... maybe he’s the one i’m meant to be with.”

jeno smiled again, but this time, it was bittersweet. “then go for it, y/n. do what you need to do. i’m not going anywhere.”

and just like that, you knew. you had your answer. but the question now was whether mark would ever feel the same way.

the days at university dragged on, each one more suffocating than the last. you had your friends around you, and yet, you felt like you were drowning in the same sea of unresolved feelings. it was a strange comfort to be surrounded by people, but their presence didn’t erase the emptiness you felt inside. mark’s presence lingered everywhere, like a ghost. even in the cafeteria, you couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. his silence, his avoidance, it was all becoming too much to bear.

one morning, as you sat at a table with your friends, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught your attention. mark had arrived late, as usual, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, his gaze distant, his face blank. the usual chatter buzzed around you, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. the others seemed to sense it too, noticing how quiet everything had become since the both of you had entered the room.

haechan, always the one to try and lighten the mood, leaned back in his chair, his grin wide and teasing. “so guys, what’s going on here? someone want to spill the tea?” his tone was playful, but there was an edge to it that made it clear he wasn’t fully joking.

you felt your stomach twist, but before you could respond, mark shifted in his seat, his fork tapping against his plate. the room grew unnaturally quiet, the teasing atmosphere fading into something more uncomfortable. mark’s voice broke through the silence, his tone so flat it was almost impossible to read.

“yerim… she broke up with me,” mark said, the words coming out without any emotion, almost like he was just stating a fact. it wasn’t a confession or a cry for sympathy, just an acknowledgment of something that had happened.

the table fell completely silent. everyone, even haechan, froze, unsure of what to say. it was as if the air had thickened, and no one dared to move or speak for a moment. you kept your eyes fixed on your tray, unable to meet anyone’s gaze, though you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at mark from the corner of your eye.

he was eating his breakfast now, like it was just another normal morning, his face emotionless. but you could see the small, almost imperceptible signs of tension in his posture. his shoulders were a little more rigid, and his hand gripped his fork a little tighter than usual. but he said nothing more, and the others didn’t press him for details.

renjun, ever the curious one, broke the silence by shifting in his seat and looking directly at you. “what about jeno?” he asked, his voice soft but probing.

the question hit you harder than expected. it was like everyone had just been waiting for you to talk about it, to explain what had happened between you and jeno. you hesitated, biting your lip as you considered how to respond.

“i… i ended things with jeno,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

chenle raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. what? you were just starting to get into it. why would you stop now?”

you shrugged, feeling a lump form in your throat. “i wasn’t prepared for what he needed.”

another silence filled the room, heavier this time. you could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look up. the tension in the air was suffocating, and you could feel it building up around you like a thick fog. it wasn’t just the conversation that was uncomfortable—it was everything that had been left unsaid. the way mark kept his distance, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, the way you couldn’t shake the feeling that things were never going to be as simple as they once were.

you stole another glance at mark, your heart tightening at the sight of him. he was still eating, his movements slow and deliberate, but you could tell he was aware of the conversation. the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked toward you for a fraction of a second—it all spoke volumes. but he said nothing more. he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. he wasn’t going to chase you or beg for your attention. it was always like this with him, wasn’t it? he had this way of making you feel like you were the only one who cared, while he remained distant, unreachable.

as you sat there, feeling the weight of the silence press down on you, you realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who had been avoiding the truth. maybe mark was doing the same thing. maybe he, too, had been holding back, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t.

and then, as if on cue, mark glanced up at you. his eyes met yours for just a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, you saw something in them—something raw, something vulnerable. but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same mask of indifference he wore so often.

you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling the ache in your chest, the pain of wanting something that wasn’t yours to have. you didn’t know what this meant, what the silence between the two of you meant. but it hurt. it hurt in ways you couldn’t explain.

suddenly, mark stood up, his chair scraping against the floor, and without a word, he grabbed his tray and walked away, leaving the table in stunned silence once again. you didn’t know if it was his way of shutting everyone out or if he was simply tired of pretending that everything was fine.

haechan glanced at you, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. “well, that was... something,” he muttered.

but you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. all you could do was sit there, surrounded by your friends, but feeling more alone than ever before. you didn’t know what would happen next.

but you did know one thing: nothing was going to be the same again.

mark never liked to admit it, but the words yerim had said earlier echoed in his mind like a loud, unwanted reminder. "you're in love with her, aren't you?" he couldn't shake it. the way she confronted him, the certainty in her voice, it felt like she was peeling back layers of something he didn’t even know he was hiding. he tried to brush it off, told himself he wasn’t like that—he couldn’t be. you were his friend, his best friend’s sister, and he had always kept a distance for a reason.

but the more he thought about it, the more it hit him. the way his heart reacted when you gave him those letters, when you filled his locker with chocolates you’d made yourself, and when you said "i like you" so casually, so boldly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. mark could still feel the warmth in his chest when he read your letters. he could still picture the way you’d smile at him, your eyes shining with a hope that made him feel both uneasy and... strangely content. it made him feel things he couldn’t quite name.

he had always kept his distance, tried to maintain the line between friendship and something else, because he knew it was wrong. but what if it wasn’t? what if everything he’d told himself about not crossing that line was just an excuse to avoid the truth? there were moments, fleeting but intense, when he felt your gaze on him, when he felt you watching him more than anyone else, and it made him ache in ways he didn’t understand. it was subtle, but it was there—your attention, your small gestures that spoke louder than words.

and mark... mark had never been one to ignore someone he cared about. he would remember the smallest things about you—your favorite color, how you liked your coffee, the way you hated the cold but still insisted on walking with him outside when it was freezing, just because you liked the fresh air. he noticed these things, even when he told himself it was just concern, just the instincts of a friend. but now, in the silence of his own thoughts, it became clear: he was lying to himself.

it had never been just friendship. he was always there when you needed him, always paying attention to the little things that mattered to you. he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, those small acts of kindness had shifted into something deeper, something more complicated. and now that yerim had pointed it out, it was impossible to ignore.

the worst part? he didn’t want to. he didn’t want to admit that he was falling for you, that the thought of seeing you with someone else—a guy like jeno, someone who actually understood you in ways he never could—made him feel this... discomfort, this jealousy that gnawed at him, something he hadn’t ever expected to feel. it wasn’t like he hated jeno—no, he didn’t. he was a good guy. but the idea of him being close to you, of him holding your hand, of him kissing you... it made mark want to break something, even if he didn’t understand why.

he remembered the first time you told him you liked him. it had been so simple, so direct, and yet, it had left him shaken. "i like you, mark," you had said, and his chest had tightened. it wasn’t the confession itself—it was the way you said it, the sincerity in your eyes, the lack of hesitation. you made it sound so effortless, like it was no big deal. but to him, it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet. he had tried to laugh it off, tried to brush it aside, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and now, as he sat there, the realization hit him full force. yerim had been right. he was in love with you. and it scared the hell out of him.

he had always tried to convince himself that it wasn’t anything more than friendship, but the truth was staring him in the face now. this—his attention to you, the way he always found a reason to be near you, the way he knew things about you that no one else did—it wasn’t friendship. it was something else. and as much as he hated to admit it, it was something he couldn’t control anymore.

mark let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment. he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. he didn’t know how to face you, knowing this now. he had tried so hard to keep things uncomplicated, to keep the walls up, but somewhere along the way, they had crumbled without him even realizing it.

and then he thought about the way you’d looked at him this morning, about the way you’d still found time to check in on him, even though you were moving on with jeno. he hated it. he hated how much it hurt to see you with him, how it felt like he was losing you to someone else. but what could he do? he couldn’t just throw away the bond he’d spent years building with you. and yet, now that he had started to realize the truth—that he, maybe, maybe... loved you—it felt like everything he did was too little, too late.

mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising in his chest. he was an idiot. he always had been. and now... now you were slipping away from him. and maybe it was for the best. maybe he didn’t deserve you.

but god, did he wish he could change everything.

the professor of your writing class, a serious man with a gaze that seemed to read the minds of his students, made an unexpected announcement at the start of the class. there was a new activity, a group project where you had to work with a "superior," as he called it, to learn more about the challenges and demands that came with quality writing. as if it wasn’t enough, the professor began mentioning names, and when he got to yours, it wasn’t just any name.

"y/n," he said, his eyes locking with yours for a moment. "i know you all know mark lee. so, he'll be your partner for this task. i’m sure you'll learn a lot from him."

the entire class turned to look at you, and the blush immediately crept up your neck. they all knew you liked mark. it was obvious to everyone. a murmur spread across the tables, and a small ripple of laughter echoed in the air. your heart raced, and you could feel the tension building. you froze for a moment before quickly trying to compose yourself.

"after this class, i’ll be heading to mark’s group. so, i’ll let him know," the professor added, barely noticing your discomfort. it was as if he had done this before, pairing you two without a second thought.

the rest of the day felt like it was dragging, and even though you tried to distract yourself with the usual distractions of university life, everything felt off. your thoughts were heavy with mark. you had been in the same place so many times before, but now, it felt different. this wasn’t just any task; this was going to force you and mark into the same space, the same moments, and you didn’t know how to handle it.

later, as you met him in the university library, the tension was palpable. everything felt too familiar yet too strange. you hadn't been so close in so long, and now you were working on something that required your attention.

at first, there were small, careful interactions. you would look at him briefly, and he’d turn away, pretending to focus on the task. but soon, those little moments started to build.

one evening, you were sitting together at a table in the library. you were writing, trying to focus on the task in front of you, but mark was watching you, the air around you both charged. the quiet hum of the library didn’t help the feeling building between the two of you.

without realizing it, your hand brushed his as you reached for the same book. your heart jumped in your chest, and you both froze. he looked at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. when none came, he slowly took your hand into his, his fingers curling gently around yours. you didn’t pull away.

you continued to write, trying to act like nothing had changed, but every single brush of his fingers against yours made your heart race. mark, in his usual composed way, didn’t say a word. he just adjusted in his seat, took a deep breath, and continued flipping through a book with his free hand.

but you couldn’t ignore the feeling. your heart was pounding, and every moment felt too intense.

mark’s touch, his attention, was starting to feel different. the physical closeness, the subtle interactions, they were all making you feel things you didn’t know how to process.

one night, as you worked late on an essay, you were sitting in the university’s shared house, with mark next to you. the house was quiet, but the air between you two was anything but.

as you wrote the final paragraphs of your essay, mark casually placed his hand over yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. you froze for a second, then continued writing with your other hand. he didn’t let go of your hand, though. he just sat there, quietly turning the pages of his book, but his attention was completely on you.

you could feel the warmth of his hand, his fingers lightly tracing the back of yours. you were trying to focus, but everything inside you was screaming. 

what was happening between you two?

the moment felt like it would last forever. your heart raced, and your stomach twisted with nerves. the way his hand felt against yours, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him—it was all becoming too real. slowly, as if testing the waters, mark squeezed your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment that you were still there, together.

you tried to act normal, but the intensity of the moment was almost too much. you didn’t know what this was, but it felt like it was something more than you’d ever expected.

and as the days went by, you found that you were no longer just working with mark. you were starting to feel something again, something that wasn’t just based on your past feelings, but something that was growing stronger every time he smiled at you, every time he reached for your hand, every time his voice got just a little bit softer when he spoke to you.

you were starting to realize that you were falling for him all over again.

mark sat alone in his room that night, the moonlight spilling through the window as he stared at the pages of his book without really seeing them. his mind kept drifting back to the moments he had shared with you—those small touches, those fleeting glances that made his heart skip a beat. it was impossible to ignore the feelings that were starting to bubble up inside him.

why does it feel like this? he thought. this wasn’t supposed to happen.

he remembered when you first started writing him those letters, how you didn’t care that others saw, how you openly told him you liked him. at first, it made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t know how to react. but now, looking back, he realized it had always been more than just a casual thing for him. you had always been more.

mark sighed as he recalled those moments when he would catch himself thinking about you in class, or how his eyes would follow you around the room. it’s not just concern, is it? he thought. i care about you more than i ever wanted to admit.

he thought about how he would remember the little things—like how you always smelled like lavender, how you would always bite your lip when you were concentrating, how you’d laugh at the smallest jokes. he knew you so well. but why hadn’t he realized it before?

mark leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. it’s not just worry... it’s something more. his heart ached as he realized the truth, and it was almost too much to bear.

he was falling for you.

the days passed in a soft, almost imperceptible way, but mark could feel the change. it wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was there, lingering between you two like a quiet hum. at first, the moments were small — a brush of your fingers as you passed him the pen, a shared smile when the professor made an awkward joke, the way he always seemed to look for you in the crowded hallways. you had grown so accustomed to each other's presence that it felt almost natural to be together, even in silence. but there was a difference now.

he was aware.

mark noticed the way you would glance at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, the soft curl of your smile when he said something funny, or the way you always tried to be near him. he noticed the little things, things that before he might have brushed aside. it was easy to pretend that it was nothing, but deep down, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. you were changing something inside him, something he wasn’t sure how to handle.

they started to get closer, working together more than the project required, as if there was something magnetic pulling them together. late nights in the library, sharing the quiet, with nothing but the sound of papers shuffling and soft footsteps on the floor. the way mark would sneak glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, the way his hand would linger near yours when you passed the pencil over to him. it was simple, tender. there was no rush, no hurry — just a slow, steady burn.

one evening, as you both sat at the same table in the house, the quiet between you two felt charged with something unspoken. mark had just handed you a book you’d asked for, his fingers brushing yours for a moment too long. you felt it, and so did he.

"you’ve been quiet," mark said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "thinking about the project, or… something else?"

you glanced at him, feeling your heartbeat quicken. "maybe both," you replied, your voice soft.

mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "you know, it’s funny. we’ve spent all this time together, but i still don’t think i know everything about you."

you smiled, trying to play it cool, but inside, you were nervous. "what do you want to know?"

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips. "i guess… i just want to know how you see the world. the little things that make you… well, you."

you blinked, taken aback by the question. it felt oddly intimate, like he was asking to know you on a deeper level, not just as a classmate or a friend, but as something more.

"that’s… a lot to ask," you murmured, your cheeks flushing.

mark smiled, his gaze softening. "maybe," he said quietly. "but i think… i think you’re worth the effort."

the way his voice sounded made something tighten in your chest. 

you didn’t know what it was, but you felt it — that spark, that connection.

and so it continued, these quiet, intimate moments between the two of you. each one made the feelings grow stronger, but neither of you acknowledged it outright. there was no rush. this wasn’t about forcing something, it was just about being together, in whatever way it worked. a slow, steady love building like a quiet storm.

finally, the day came for you to present your project. everyone had gathered in the lecture hall, seniors and juniors alike. the professor was setting up the papers, his usual stern expression softened by the anticipation in the room. the seniors were all whispering among themselves, and you couldn’t help but notice how mark sat just a little too still in his chair, his eyes occasionally glancing over at you.

the professor cleared his throat, signaling that it was time. "alright, y/n, mark — it’s your turn. please come up and present."

you stood up, your heart beating a little faster as you walked up to the front, your palms sweaty. mark was beside you, his presence oddly comforting, though you could feel the tension between you two. you weren’t sure what to expect, but you knew that something was about to change.

mark didn’t speak right away. instead, he took your project, carefully setting it down on the desk in front of the class. you watched as he stood behind it, adjusting his posture and looking around at the gathered group. for a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then he cleared his throat.

"before i present this," he began, his voice steady but with a certain softness that made you pause, "i think i should talk about something else."

your stomach dropped. what was he doing?

the professor, who had been prepared to listen to a formal presentation, now looked intrigued. "mark?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

mark’s gaze shifted to you for a moment, then back to the class. he was taking his time, choosing his words carefully."this is a story about someone i came to know. at first, i didn’t think much of it. she was just someone i worked with, just another student. but as time went on, i began to notice little things. the way she always smiled, even when she was exhausted. the way she laughed at things that most people would have ignored. the way she always tried to be better, even when she didn’t have to."

mark paused, and you felt your heart race as your eyes locked with his. his voice had a strange warmth to it, and the room seemed to hold its breath as he continued.

"i don’t know when it happened, exactly. it wasn’t a moment — it wasn’t like i suddenly realized. but i know that one day, i found myself thinking about her when she wasn’t around. and when i looked at her, it felt like i was seeing something… something that was more than just a person. it felt like i was seeing a world, a life. and i wanted to know more, to be close to her, to understand who she was."

mark looked at you then, his gaze soft and steady. "this person… she’s not just anyone. she’s someone who changed the way i see things, who made me realize what it means to care about someone. and i think, somewhere along the way, i realized… i was falling for her."

you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

he was talking about you.

there was a stunned silence in the room. even the professor looked taken aback for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. mark continued, the words flowing from him almost effortlessly.

"this might not be the most professional presentation," he said, his voice now more playful, "but it’s the truth. and i think… that’s the most important part of any story."

the professor, still recovering from the surprise, gave a small chuckle, but quickly regained his composure. "well, mark," he said, "that was… certainly unexpected. but if after all that, you don’t present the real work," he said, raising an eyebrow, "i’ll have no choice but to fail you. and your partner."

mark smiled, but you could see the playfulness in his eyes fade. "don’t worry," he said softly, "the real work is here." he turned, pulling the actual project from under the desk and placing it in front of you. "y/n, it’s all yours."

you couldn’t help but blush, your heart still racing from his words. the class was silent, the weight of what had just happened hanging in the air. mark’s confession had left an unexpected warmth in the room, and for a moment, it felt like everything had shifted. everything felt different.

the rest of the room buzzed with whispers, the air thick with the lingering tension. you felt the weight of the moment heavy in your chest, but you were frozen, unable to move. mark’s words had completely caught you off guard, and now, as he stood there, his usual confident demeanor had softened — there was a vulnerability in his posture, a quiet but undeniable sincerity in the way his eyes met yours.

for a second, everything felt out of place, like time had slowed down just for you two. your heart was pounding in your ears, and yet, there was a part of you that was oddly calm. 

this was real.

this moment, this confession — it wasn’t just a dream.

you glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of your classmates. some of them looked just as stunned as you, others had the tiniest smirk tugging at the corners of their lips, and the professor, still slightly in shock, was scribbling something on his notepad, probably to process what had just transpired.

mark cleared his throat, his eyes still on you, waiting for a response. but you were too overwhelmed to speak. you just looked at him, taking in the moment, trying to find the words that seemed to be stuck in your throat.

the warmth from his words, the honesty in his voice, left a tingling sensation in the air. but as much as you wanted to hold it together, the words he said, the way he looked at you — it was too much. the feelings you had buried so deep, the longing you had hidden, began to spill out uncontrollably.

your hands shook as the tears began to well up. you couldn’t stop them. they fell freely, a mix of relief, sadness, and love all at once. the room fell silent, everyone staring at you. and you knew. they all knew. but now it was your turn to finally say it out loud, to let go of the fear of rejection.

"i’ve always loved you, mark," you whispered, your voice shaky, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "i’ve been in love with you for so long, thinking i was just some fool. but... i can’t hide it anymore."

you looked up, your vision blurry with tears, and there he was. mark, standing before you, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. he didn’t seem shocked, but there was something in his gaze that said he knew. it wasn’t a revelation to him — he had always known.

“i— i don’t know what to say, but... thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “thank you for loving me all this time. for waiting. for staying. i... i had no idea. i didn’t want to admit it to myself.” he paused for a moment, stepping closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "but now... i get it. i’m starting to understand what i feel, and it’s... you. it’s always been you."

your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might fall apart. but mark’s steady presence kept you grounded. he was here, and he was saying things you had longed to hear for so long.

“i’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out,” he continued, his voice quiet but filled with so much emotion. "i’ve been... holding back. afraid. but now, i can’t hide it anymore. i like you. i like you so much. i’ve been trying to pretend it was something else, but it’s you. it’s always been you."

your heart raced, your chest tight, as his words sank in. this wasn’t just a confession from you anymore. it wasn’t just about what you had been feeling. mark felt the same way.

“thank you for loving me,” he whispered, his hand reaching out slowly to take yours. his fingers brushed over your skin, sending a wave of warmth through your body. “it’s my turn now, to love you back. for real.”

you blinked, a soft gasp escaping you, and the tears came again, this time in a different way. not from sadness, but from the overwhelming emotion of knowing that after all this time, mark was finally letting himself feel the same. finally.

“you don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, still trying to catch your breath, but your chest felt full, the emotions swirling inside you, making it impossible to think clearly. "i just needed you to know how i felt. i... i never thought you’d feel the same."

mark smiled softly, stepping closer until his chest was almost pressed against yours. “i do. i really do. and i’m not going anywhere. i want to be with you, if you’ll let me. no more hiding. no more pretending."

your heart soared as you looked at him, standing so close, his eyes full of honesty. you had waited so long for this, and now it was happening.

“i want that too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "i want to be with you, mark. always."

mark nodded slowly, his hand resting gently on the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. "then let's not waste any more time," he said, his voice warm and soft, a promise in the words.

the world outside seemed to disappear as you stood there, together, finally on the same page. no more hiding, no more pretending. just the two of you, taking the first step toward what you both knew could be something real.

days passed, and the universe seemed to shift around you. mark and you were no longer just two people who shared silent glances and unsaid words. now, you were together, the air around you both full of something new, something beautiful. but not everyone understood it right away.

you and mark sat together in the cafeteria, just the two of you, laughing quietly. the others were around you, but it was as if the world had faded, and it was just the two of you in that small bubble. you could feel it—the connection, stronger than ever.

haechan, sitting across the table with jisung and jaemin, eyed you both with an exaggerated glance. his expression was a mix of disbelief and amusement. he leaned toward jaemin and sighed.

"i never thought i'd see mark being all... cheesy and love-struck like that," ahechan chuckled, nudging jaemin with his elbow. "i swear, he's practically glowing."

jaemin, who had been quietly observing, just shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "yeah, well, mark's always been that way when it comes to her," he muttered, already knowing what was coming. "took him long enough, though."

meanwhile, jisung, still looking grumpy about something, crossed his arms over his chest and shot a look at chenle. "you know what this means, right? i’m gonna have to give you 100,000 won now."

chenle grinned like he had won the lottery. "told you they'd get together eventually," he said with a teasing wink, clearly proud of his bet-winning skills.

jisung grumbled, staring at his half-eaten sandwich. "i hate you. i can’t believe i lost this bet."

"it’s not like you had much of a chance, anyway," chenle teased, laughing.

jaemin just sighed, shaking his head as if he already knew what was coming. "this was inevitable," he muttered under his breath. "mark was always going to fall for her. he just took his time."

you glanced at mark, your hand casually resting in his as you both shared a quiet smile. it was the kind of smile that said everything without saying a word.

renjun’s voice broke the moment. "so, when's the wedding?" he joked, but there was warmth in his eyes. "mark's acting like he's already head over heels. never thought i'd see the day."

mark’s cheeks flushed, but he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes soft. "i’m just taking my time with her," he said, his voice full of affection.

you laughed, your heart soaring. it felt right. this was real.

and though everyone around you may have teased and joked, you knew deep down that this was only the beginning. you and mark had found something special. something that, despite the slow burn, had bloomed into something beautiful and undeniable.

“so,” ahechan continued, looking at the two of you with a teasing grin, “when do we get to hear about your first official date?”

you turned to mark, your heart racing in your chest. "maybe you should wait for that one," you said with a wink, “but... it’s gonna be worth it.”

They made one up.

Her father’s identity had been a secret from the start, a mystery wrapped in whispered rumors and unanswered questions. Some tabloids swore he had been a rockstar, a fleeting love affair lost in the haze of the ‘70s. Others speculated he had been someone ordinary, someone her mother had chosen to protect from the chaos of her world. Y/N had stopped wondering a long time ago. Her mother had always said, "You don’t need to know where you come from to know where you’re going, baby." And maybe that was true. But sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she wished she knew which parts of her belonged to Stevie Nicks and which belonged to a stranger.

Still, despite the world’s obsession with her past, Y/N had built something of her own.

Her music was raw, poetic—a fusion of indie rock and dreamlike lyricism that belonged entirely to her. She wasn’t interested in stadiums or radio hits; she wanted songs that lingered in the bones, the kind that made people ache without knowing why.

And yet, no matter what she did, the headlines always found a way to reduce her to a footnote in her mother’s story.

"Stevie Nicks’ Daughter Haunts the Music Scene—Can She Ever Escape Her Mother’s Shadow?" "The Princess of Rock ‘n’ Roll: Y/N Nicks Inherits a Legacy of Magic and Tragedy."

She ignored them. Mostly.

But some nights, when the whiskey burned too much and the music wasn’t enough, she wondered if she’d ever just be herself.

The first time Y/N met Harry Styles, she was fifteen.

It was a warm summer night in Los Angeles, the kind where the air was thick with nostalgia, humming with the remnants of a golden era long gone.

Fleetwood Mac was playing at The Forum, and backstage was a haze of cigarette smoke, laughter, and the scent of aged leather. It was a world Y/N had always known, one that felt like home and yet never quite belonged to her.

She had been curled up on one of the velvet couches, her combat boots propped up on a glass table, flipping through an old notebook of half-written lyrics.

Her mother had walked in then, a force of nature even in her sixties, wrapped in flowing black fabric, rings glinting under the dim lights. And beside her—

Harry.

He had been twenty, freshly cut from the boyband machine but still unmistakably him. Messy curls, dimples carved deep into his cheeks, a floral button-up that hung loose over his chest. There was an ease to him, a confidence that most people his age hadn’t yet earned.

Stevie had smiled, her voice all warmth and amusement as she introduced them.

"Harry, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, sweetheart, this is Harry Styles."

Y/N had barely spared him a glance, disinterested in the way only a fifteen-year-old girl could be.

She had looked him up and down, unimpressed, before muttering, "Oh. You’re the boy with the hair."

There had been a beat of silence. Then—

Harry had grinned, wide and unbothered. "And you’re the girl who hates the spotlight."

That had made her pause.

She had finally looked at him properly then, taking in the twinkle of mischief in his green eyes, the way he had spoken to her like he knew her, like he could already see the edges of her soul.

She had hated that.

So she had rolled her eyes, shutting her notebook with a snap. "Yeah? What gave it away?"

Harry had only chuckled. "Just a feeling."

They hadn’t known it then, but that moment—that first careless exchange in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms—had been the beginning of something that would follow them for years.

They had drifted in and out of each other’s lives after that, their paths crossing at industry events, in backstage corridors, in places where music and fame blurred the lines between strangers and something more.

But they had never been close.

Not yet.

That would come later.

And when it did, neither of them would be able to stop it.

It was a city built on illusions, a place where the past and present blurred under neon lights and whiskey-soaked conversations. People changed here, or they lost themselves trying.

Y/N had spent years learning how to exist in the industry without letting it consume her. She had built walls, wrapped herself in the armor of cigarette smoke and sharp words, refusing to let the world shape her into something she wasn’t.

But some nights—nights like this—she felt the weight of it all pressing against her ribs.

She had been in the music industry long enough to know that these parties weren’t really about music. They were about power. Influence. The quiet, calculated dance of networking, where every glance and every handshake meant something.

Y/N hated it.

And yet, here she was.

The party was in the Hollywood Hills, tucked away in a mansion that reeked of old money and new fame. The kind of place where people got too drunk on tequila and promises they wouldn’t remember in the morning.

She had come because she had to—because being seen mattered, even when she wished it didn’t.

She was twenty-five now, no longer the sharp-tongued teenager who had met Harry Styles in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms.

She had grown into herself.

And so had he.

She saw him before he saw her.

Harry was in the center of the room, as he always was, laughter spilling from his lips as he leaned against a marble bar, his rings catching in the dim light.

He looked different now—older, surer, carved out of something stronger.

The curls were shorter, but still wild. The tattoos more visible, inked stories along his skin. He wore a suit, something sleek and expensive, but the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a silver cross against his collarbones.

Even here, surrounded by actors and musicians and people who pretended they belonged, he was the only one who looked like he truly did.

Y/N had spent years pretending she was immune to the charm of men like him.

But as she stood there, watching the way he moved, the way people gravitated toward him, she felt something stir in her chest.

Something she didn’t want to name.

She turned away, heading toward the bar, but it was already too late.

She heard his voice before she felt his presence.

“Well, if it isn’t rock royalty.”

Y/N exhaled, bracing herself, before turning to face him.

Harry was smiling, that slow, lazy grin that had made girls weak in the knees for over a decade.

“Pop star,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow.

His dimples deepened. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

Y/N shrugged, lifting her whiskey glass. “It isn’t.”

Harry’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. “Then why are you here?”

“Same reason you are,” she said, taking a slow sip. “To remind people we still exist.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to remind anyone, love. They never forget a Nicks.”

There was something in the way he said it—something almost… knowing.

She tilted her head, watching him. “And they never forget a Styles.”

His smirk deepened. “Touché.”

The conversation between them felt effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that came with years of shared history, even if most of it had been from a distance.

She had always liked that about him.

That he could meet her wit for wit. That he never backed down.

That night, they danced around the past without ever acknowledging it, teasing each other between sips of whiskey and stolen glances.

He called her "rock princess" like it was a private joke.

She called him "pop star" with just enough mockery to make him laugh.

The undercurrent of something more was there—tangible, electric, waiting to be acknowledged.

But neither of them touched it.

Not yet.

Later, when the party had thinned and the air inside had grown heavy with heat and smoke, Y/N slipped outside.

She kicked off her heels, stepping onto the cool stone of the balcony, and lit a cigarette with steady fingers.

The view of the city stretched before her, a glittering sea of headlights and broken dreams.

She inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine settle in her lungs, humming a familiar melody under her breath—one of her mother’s, an old Fleetwood Mac song that had been stitched into her bones long before she was born.

She didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Still hate the spotlight?”

His voice was softer now, missing the teasing edge from before.

She exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night. “I hate what it does to people.”

Harry leaned against the railing beside her, silent for a moment, as if turning over her words in his head.

Then, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Still the girl who hates everything?”

Y/N smirked, side-eyeing him. “Still the boy with the hair?”

Harry grinned, running a hand through his curls. “I like to think there’s more to me than that.”

Something unspoken passed between them then.

A shift. A breath.

A moment on the edge of something inevitable.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them said a word.

But in the silence, they both felt it.

A crack in the walls they had spent years building.

A spark that had always been there, waiting for the right time to catch fire.

Harry called her three weeks after the party.

It was late—too late for anything that wasn’t trouble.

She had been sprawled across her bed, an open notebook balanced on her stomach, trying to piece together a song that didn’t want to be written, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

She didn’t need to check the name.

There was only one person who would call her at this hour, as if he knew she’d still be awake.

She let the phone ring twice before answering. “You lost, pop star?”

Harry chuckled, his voice low and lazy. “Not lost, no. Just… thought of you.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Oh? Should I be flattered?”

“Dunno.” He paused. “Wanna come to the studio tomorrow?”

That made her sit up.

She knew Harry was working on a new album. The industry had been buzzing about it for months, but he had been careful—secretive, even—about who he let in.

And now, he was inviting her.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before saying, “What time?”

She arrived at the studio the next evening, her guitar slung over her back, dressed in a well-worn Fleetwood Mac t-shirt just to mess with him.

Harry was already there, sitting on the edge of a couch with a notebook in his lap, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the cover.

He looked up when she walked in, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Y/N dropped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like she owned the place. “Didn’t think you actually had a studio. Thought you just wrote love songs in expensive hotel rooms.”

Harry chuckled, flipping the notebook shut. “Maybe I do both.”

The night unfolded in quiet moments and half-sung melodies.

She watched as he disappeared into the recording booth, slipping the headphones over his ears, eyes fluttering shut as the music took over.

And for the first time, she let herself really listen to him.

Harry had always been a good singer. That much was obvious. But there was something about watching him like this—seeing the way he poured himself into every lyric, the way his voice carried a rawness that no amount of polish could hide—that made her breath catch.

He was singing something new, something unfinished.

And as his voice curled around the notes, thick with longing and something unspoken, he looked up—straight at her.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her whiskey glass.

The booth’s glass separated them, but the way he stared at her—intense, knowing, like he could see straight through her—made her feel like there was nothing between them at all.

She swallowed hard, looking away first.

Harry smirked.

One studio session turned into two. Two turned into three.

And then, before she knew it, she was on a plane with him, tucked into first-class seats as his tour swept across the country.

She told herself she was just tagging along for inspiration, a creative escape.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

But the late nights in hotel rooms told a different story.

They fell into a rhythm—drinking whiskey on balconies, trading lyrics like secrets, letting conversations slip into the kind of honesty that only existed between two people who didn’t want to admit what they were to each other.

Some nights, they wrote.

Some nights, they just existed—stretched out on hotel carpets, hands brushing when they passed the bottle back and forth, staring at ceilings like they held the answers to questions neither of them wanted to ask.

She hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected the way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Hadn’t expected the way she wanted to memorize the shape of his laughter.

Hadn’t expected the way she craved him, in the quiet, in the spaces between words, in the way his voice curled around her name like it was something sacred.

One night, she fell asleep in his hotel room.

They had been listening to records, the vinyl crackling in the background, the bottle of whiskey between them half-empty.

She had kicked off her boots at some point, curling up on the couch, his hoodie draped over her shoulders like she belonged in it.

Harry had been mid-sentence when he noticed she wasn’t answering.

He turned, finding her tucked into the cushions, her breathing soft, her hair spilling across her face.

Something in his chest tightened.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, telling himself to let it go.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, brushing her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a second too long.

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

And for the briefest moment, Harry let himself want it—let himself imagine what it would feel like to close the space between them, to taste the whiskey on her lips, to see if she’d kiss him back or push him away.

He hovered there, so close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back.

Shoving a hand through his curls, he let out a quiet curse, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over her instead.

Not now, he told himself.

Not yet.

He sat back, forcing himself to look away.

But even in the dark, even in the silence, he knew.

He was already in too deep.

London was cold, the kind of damp chill that clung to bones and made her wish she was still waking up in different hotel rooms, still stealing sips of his morning coffee, still pretending she didn’t care when he hummed her songs under his breath.

The withdrawal was annoying.

But not unexpected.

She had just finished scribbling notes for a new song when her phone rang.

“You still in town?”

She smirked, setting her pen down. “Didn’t know you missed me so much, pop star.”

Harry chuckled, that deep, lazy sound that made something twist in her stomach. “Not even denying it, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Styles?”

“Dinner.”

That made her pause.

Sure, they had spent weeks living in each other’s pockets—whiskey-soaked late nights, studio sessions stretched into dawn, long looks across dimly lit dressing rooms—but this felt… different.

Intentional.

Like he was asking for something neither of them were ready to name.

Still, she played it cool. “Where?”

“I’ll text you.” A pause. “Wear something nice.”

She showed up to the restaurant in a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and her mother’s old silver rings.

Let him try and tell her what to wear.

Harry was already there, tucked into a quiet corner, a half-full glass of red wine in front of him. His curls were messier than usual, his sweater hanging loose on his frame, and the moment he saw her, his dimples deepened.

“Very fancy,” he teased, flicking the collar of her jacket as she slid into the seat across from him.

Y/N smirked. “If you wanted a date, you should’ve said so.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

The air shifted.

She ignored the way her pulse quickened, instead reaching for the menu. “So. What’s good here?”

They fell into easy conversation, talking about the tour, the highs and lows, the stupid inside jokes they’d collected along the way.

But somewhere between the laughter and the second glass of wine, the mood softened.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers.

Harry tilted his head. “Of what?”

“Being… this.” She gestured vaguely at him, at the world outside the restaurant doors, at the weight of fame that followed them both. “The cameras, the expectations, the pressure. Do you ever just wanna disappear?”

Harry studied her, running his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember why I started. And it’s not about all the noise. It’s about the music. About…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “About moments like this.”

Y/N felt her heart lurch before she could stop it.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smirk. “Sappy.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You love it.”

She did.

That was the problem.

They should have known better.

A quiet dinner in London? No such thing.

The next morning, the headlines were everywhere.

Harry Styles and Rock Royalty: A New Power Couple?

The Fleetwood Mac Connection—Is Y/N Following Her Mother’s Footsteps in Love, Too?

Spotted: Harry & Y/N, Cozy London Date Night or Just Old Friends?

Y/N groaned, tossing her phone onto the kitchen counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry’s name lit up her screen.

She answered without greeting. “Tell me this will blow over.”

Harry chuckled. “It’ll blow over.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” Another laugh. “We could deny it.”

“Obviously.”

“Or…”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

Harry’s grin was practically audible. “Could always lean into it.”

She snorted. “You wish, Styles.”

He hummed. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Her stomach flipped.

Before she could respond, there was a knock on her door.

“Gotta go.” She hung up quickly, shaking off the warmth curling in her chest.

Then she opened the door.

And found her mother standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Y/N barely had a chance to step aside before Stevie breezed past her, silk scarves trailing, the scent of patchouli and incense filling the space.

She made a beeline for the kitchen, plucked Y/N’s phone off the counter, and squinted at the headlines.

Y/N sighed. “Good morning to you, too.”

Stevie hummed, tapping a red-lacquered fingernail against the screen. “So… you and Harry Styles.”

Y/N groaned. “For fuck’s sake, it’s nothing.”

Stevie arched a delicate brow, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that.”

Y/N scowled. “It’s not love.”

Stevie’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Love is messy in this business, honey.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, snatching her phone back. “I wouldn’t know.”

Stevie just laughed, something soft and far too smug in her gaze.

Because she knew.

Long before Y/N was willing to admit it to herself.

She spotted him immediately.

Harry.

Leaning against the marble bar, whiskey in hand, dimples out in full force as he laughed at something Lizzo said. He looked too good, annoyingly good, all effortless charm and understated power in his black suit, his sheer shirt open just enough to tease golden skin and the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Y/N swallowed hard.

It had been weeks since the headlines. Since her mother’s knowing smile. Since she had convinced herself she wasn’t thinking about him like that.

But now, with the golden glow of the chandeliers casting shadows over his cheekbones, his green eyes flicking up to meet hers across the room—she felt it.

The pull. The inevitable, undeniable pull.

She found herself at his side before she could think better of it, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

Harry glanced at her, eyes flicking over her outfit—a silk slip dress in deep navy, barely-there straps, silver chains glinting against her collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers tightening around his whiskey glass.

Interesting.

Y/N smirked, plucking an olive from the garnish tray and popping it into her mouth. “Enjoying yourself, pop star?”

Harry exhaled a laugh, tilting his glass towards her. “Was just about to ask you the same thing, rock princess.”

She arched a brow. “You clean up well.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “So do you.”

Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a slow sip of her drink.

They fell into easy conversation, but the teasing was sharper tonight, laced with something dangerous. He was closer than usual, his knee brushing against hers, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist when he reached for his drink.

And every time she laughed, his eyes flickered to her lips.

Sometime after midnight, when the party was loudest and the drinks were strongest, Y/N felt the walls closing in.

She had spent the last hour with his hand on the small of her back, his voice low in her ear, his eyes dark and unreadable whenever she so much as looked at someone else.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

So she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

Harry blinked, surprised, but let her lead him through the crowd, up a grand staircase, and through a side door that led to the rooftop.

The city stretched out below them, glittering in the darkness. The muffled bass of the party throbbed beneath their feet, but up here, the air was crisp, cool against flushed skin.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. “Y’finally had enough of all that?”

Y/N scoffed. “I just needed to breathe.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think about it too, don’t you?”

Her stomach clenched.

She turned to him, arms crossed. “Think about what?”

Harry took a step closer. “This.”

Her heart hammered. “Harry—”

“I think about you too much,” he admitted, voice quiet but firm, like he had been holding it in for years.

The air crackled between them.

Y/N’s nails bit into her palms. Her voice was steady when she said, “Then do something about it.”

Harry moved before she could take it back.

His hand found her jaw, fingers tilting her face up to his. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his breath fanning against her lips—giving her a chance to stop it, to pull away.

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to savor the moment. His lips were soft but firm, tasting like whiskey and warmth, like something she hadn’t realized she had been starving for.

And when she kissed him back, something inside him snapped.

A groan rumbled in his throat as he deepened it, his other hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The cold rooftop wall pressed against her back, his body against her front, caging her in.

She melted.

Her fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to make him growl into her mouth. She felt his smirk against her lips before he kissed her harder, licking into her mouth like he wanted to learn every single inch of her.

The city blurred around them.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only the moment they had spent years pretending they didn’t want.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N was breathless, lips tingling, her hands still fisted in his hair.

Harry smirked, eyes dark and hazy.

“Was wondering when you’d let me do that.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her fingers tracing his jaw.

“Shut up and do it again.”

And so he did.

They didn’t talk about it, not really.

They just acted.

And once that line had been crossed, there was no going back.

The secrecy of it all was intoxicating.

It turned the smallest moments into something electric—her fingers grazing his when she passed him a drink, the press of his palm against her lower back as he guided her through a crowd.

They stole kisses behind dressing room doors, in dimly lit hallways, in the backseat of a blacked-out SUV. It was a game neither of them acknowledged but both played with fervor.

It was thrilling.

It was dangerous.

It was them.

Harry had sent her nothing but a single text:

Room 1107. Door’s open.

So she went.

The moment she stepped inside, he was already reaching for her.

His hands were warm as they slid around her waist, pulling her in. His lips found hers before she could even make a remark about his audacity, and suddenly she was backed up against the wall, gasping softly into his mouth as his fingers gripped the hem of her hoodie—the one she had stolen from his suitcase weeks ago.

It smelled like him.

It felt like home.

“Missed you,” he muttered against her lips, his voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something softer, something sweeter.

She smirked, her fingers curling into his T-shirt. “You saw me three hours ago.”

Harry hummed, dragging his lips down the column of her throat. “Still too long.”

She rolled her eyes, but the shiver down her spine betrayed her.

But sleep had other plans.

Y/N woke up tangled in crisp white sheets, her limbs a lazy sprawl across the mattress. The scent of Harry—cologne, whiskey, and something distinctly him—wrapped around her like a second skin.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Her eyes flew open.

Harry groaned into the pillow beside her. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Harry? You up?”

His assistant.

Shit.

Y/N scrambled upright, heart racing. She barely had time to throw on his hoodie before Harry was tugging her off the bed, dragging her toward the closet.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” she hissed.

He just grinned, pushing the door open. “Get in.”

“Harry—”

“In, love.”

She barely had time to flip him off before he shut the door behind her, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, crouched between his suitcases, her bare legs chilled by the cool air inside.

She could hear everything.

The door creaking open.

Harry’s voice, rough from sleep. “Morning.”

The assistant’s knowing tone. “You sound like shit.”

A pause.

Y/N could feel the smirk in Harry’s response. “Yeah, well. Long night.”

Her glare could have burned through the door.

From the other side, she heard rustling—probably his assistant rifling through a bag.

Then—

“Oh, and by the way? If you’re gonna sneak someone in, maybe don’t leave two pairs of shoes by the door next time.”

Silence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Harry, to his credit, barely missed a beat.

“Right. Yeah. Noted.”

The door shut a moment later.

She barely had time to breathe before the closet door swung open, revealing Harry’s smug, dimpled grin.

“Next time,” he murmured, offering his hand to pull her up, “you’re hiding under the bed.”

Y/N smacked his chest.

And then kissed him.

It was meant to be quick—just a press of lips in playful retaliation—but Harry wasn’t one to let a moment slip away. His fingers curled around her waist, holding her there, deepening the kiss. It was languid, familiar, the kind of kiss that tasted like late nights and secrets, like comfort and hunger all at once.

She sighed against his mouth. “I should go.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moved.

It was only when the morning light began creeping through the curtains, spilling over their tangled limbs, that she forced herself to untangle from him. Harry stayed in bed, arm draped over his forehead, watching as she slipped into her jeans and pulled on his hoodie—her own top lost somewhere in the haze of the night before.

His voice was hoarse from sleep. “At least let me get you a car.”

“I’ll call one,” she assured him, raking her fingers through her messy hair.

Harry sat up then, brows knitting together. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, flashing him a small smile. She pressed a last kiss to his cheek, inhaled the warmth of his skin, and slipped out of the room.

And right into a camera flash.

The second she stepped onto the pavement, she knew.

The street wasn’t exactly swarming, but one paparazzo was enough. He was already snapping rapid shots, the sound of the shutter slicing through the dawn stillness like a guillotine. She didn’t run—that would make it worse. Instead, she pulled up the hood of Harry’s sweatshirt, kept her chin down, and slid into the waiting car.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached her apartment.

Maddie: Shit. Have you seen TMZ??

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t even shut the door behind her before she was pulling up the link.

The headline screamed at her in bold print:

Y/N Nicks Spotted Leaving Harry Styles’ Home—Rock Royalty & Pop Prince?

Her pulse pounded as she scrolled. Dozens of pictures. Some from last night when they arrived separately at his house. Some from this morning, catching her in the same outfit.

And then the comments.

Not surprised. The tension in that interview was insane. She’s not even that famous wtf. Fleetwood Mac and One Direction crossover??? Didn’t she date that bassist last year? She’s literally wearing his hoodie. IT’S HAPPENING. Harry can do better tbh.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

She should have known.

By noon, it was everywhere. Entertainment news, gossip sites, even actual journalists weighing in on the implications of her and Harry. She ignored the notifications, silenced her phone, but then came the email from her publicist.

And worse—Harry’s PR team.

We need to get ahead of this. No comment is best for now. We’re drafting a statement.

It was bullshit.

By mid-afternoon, she was at his house.

Harry was pacing the living room, phone in one hand, stress written all over his face. He looked up when she walked in, exhaling heavily. “They want me to deny it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “What?”

“They think—” He dragged a hand through his curls. “They think we can ride it out, wait for something else to distract them. If we say nothing, it dies faster.”

Something bitter lodged itself in her throat. “Say nothing? Or lie?”

He hesitated. And that was enough.

“You said we were in this together,” she said, voice sharp.

“We are,” he insisted. “But you know how this works, Y/N. It’s different for me. The fans.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Oh, the fans.”

“That’s not—” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Harry. I don’t.” She crossed her arms. “Because last I checked, I’m in this industry too. I’ve had my entire existence scrutinized since birth. Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have people picking apart my every move?”

His jaw clenched.

She pressed on. “But I’m not ashamed of you. And I sure as hell don’t want to pretend this isn’t real just because some PR team is scared of a few bad headlines.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said, voice low.

“Then why are you acting like you are?”

Silence.

Her heart hammered.

Finally, she exhaled shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “I want us to stop hiding. Please.”

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was her answer.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, nodded once, and turned for the door.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind her felt heavier than it should have.

It wasn’t dramatic—no slamming, no storming out. Just the quiet finality of leaving.

And yet, it echoed.

She didn’t cry in the car. Didn’t cry when she got home. Didn’t even cry when she scrolled through Twitter and saw her name still trending, the discourse evolving by the hour.

What does Harry see in her anyway? She’s just another nepotism baby. She’s so private—does she think she’s better than his other exes? She’s clearly using him for clout. She’s lucky to have him, but he deserves someone who actually appreciates him.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she locked her phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Let them talk. Let them spin their stories. It wasn’t like the truth mattered.

She went silent.

No Instagram stories, no late-night tweets, no cryptic lyrics. The press called it a calculated move, the fans called it suspicious, but in reality?

She just didn’t have the energy.

She slept too little and drank too much coffee. She ignored calls from her publicist. Ignored texts from mutual friends who wanted to check in but were probably just fishing for an inside scoop.

And Harry?

Harry didn’t reach out.

Not once.

Which, of all the things, hurt the most.

It had been three days.

She was at her mother’s house when it happened.

Stevie had always been able to tell when something was wrong, no matter how good Y/N thought she was at masking it. She hadn’t pried, though. Not yet. Instead, she let Y/N exist in the space, offering quiet company rather than questions.

But Y/N knew she wouldn’t escape forever.

That night, the house was quiet except for the hum of the wind outside. Stevie had gone to bed hours ago, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit living room, the grand piano standing in the corner like it was waiting for her.

She didn’t even realize she was walking toward it until her fingers brushed against the keys.

She sat down.

And she played.

It started as muscle memory, the chords slipping out in a familiar pattern, soft and haunting. The kind of song that lingered in the bones, that carried the weight of something unfinished.

"You could be my silver spring..."

The words came out quieter than she intended, but they were there.

"Blue-green colors flashing..."

Her voice wavered.

"I would be your only dream..."

Her fingers trembled over the keys, the melody filling the empty room.

"You will never be my lover..."

The tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

God.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the pictures leaked, not when the headlines turned ugly, not even when she walked away.

But here, under the weight of this song—her mother’s song—she broke.

She barely heard the footsteps approaching behind her.

But she felt the presence.

A hand, warm and familiar, rested gently on her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop playing.

Stevie sat down beside her on the bench, saying nothing.

She just listened.

And when Y/N’s hands finally fell away from the keys, when her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her mother reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, baby," she murmured softly.

And that was all it took for Y/N to shatter completely.

She turned into her mother’s arms, hiding her face against her shoulder as the heartbreak spilled out in ways she hadn’t allowed before.

Stevie just held her.

She didn’t say I told you so, didn’t say you knew this would happen, didn’t say I warned you, love is messy in this business.

She just let her cry.

Because what was there to say?

Y/N had been willing to fight for this. She had been willing to face the noise, the scrutiny, the world dissecting her every move—for him.

And he hadn’t even reached for her when she walked away.

She had loved him. Had let herself believe, even just for a moment, that they could exist beyond the secrets, beyond the fear.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he was never hers to begin with.

Meanwhile...

Harry hadn’t slept.

He had spent the last three days running on autopilot, going through the motions of studio sessions and meetings, pretending like everything was fine when it wasn’t.

He had tried to tell himself that this was the right move. That letting the story die on its own was the best way to protect them both.

But nothing about this felt right.

He had checked his phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over her contact, but he never typed anything. What could he say? Sorry I didn’t fight for us? Sorry I let the fear win?

He wasn’t sure what finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was the lack of her name in his messages, the absence of her voice. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent years wanting her and only had days before she slipped away completely.

Or maybe it was the video.

It wasn’t even a full clip, just a fifteen-second snippet someone had posted online.

Y/N, at a piano. Playing Silver Springs.

It was grainy, the lighting dim, but he knew her silhouette anywhere.

And he knew what that song meant.

His stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just the weight of the media or the PR teams or the fans that mattered.

It was her.

It had always been her.

And if he didn’t move now, if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose her for good.

The rain was relentless.

It hit the pavement in steady sheets, washing the city in silver streaks and the glow of streetlights. It soaked through Harry’s clothes, plastering his shirt to his skin, curling his hair against his forehead, dripping down his jaw like the storm itself was trying to pull him under.

But he didn’t care.

His heart was hammering, his chest tight with something wild and desperate as he stood in front of her door, fist poised to knock.

This was it.

No more hiding. No more silence. No more pretending like he could live without her.

His knuckles hit the wood. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

He swallowed hard, knocking again, harder this time, rainwater slipping down his wrist.

Still nothing.

His stomach clenched. What if she wasn’t here? What if she didn’t want to be here—what if she had already left, had already moved on—

The door swung open.

And there she was.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair damp, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

She hadn’t been expecting him. That much was obvious.

Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly as she took him in—the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way water dripped from his curls, the way his breath came ragged and uneven.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“Fuck the PR,” he blurted, voice raw. “Fuck the headlines.”

She blinked.

“I love you.”

The words hit the air like a lightning strike, sharp and electric.

A breath. A pause. A crack in the silence.

The rain hadn’t let up.

It streaked down the windowpanes, tapping a steady rhythm against the glass, pooling in the crevices of the street outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and something electric, something on the verge of breaking.

He stood there in her doorway, dripping onto the hardwood floors, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, darkened by the rain, molded to the sharp lines of his chest and the ridges of his stomach. Water curled at his jaw, trailing down the hollow of his throat. His breaths were heavy, ragged, like he’d run here in the downpour, like nothing in the world had mattered more than making it to this moment.

And she—

She just stared.

Chest rising and falling, lips slightly parted, fingers trembling at her sides.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, every unspoken word, every unshed tear, every almost hanging in the space between their bodies.

Her fingers fisted in the damp collar of his shirt.

She yanked him inside.

The door slammed behind them, but neither of them noticed.

His back hit the wood, a sharp inhale punched from his lungs as she pressed against him. Their bodies were a tangle of heat and desperation, a collision of limbs and longing, the storm outside nothing compared to the one building between them.

Her hands slid up, skimming over his shoulders, gripping the nape of his neck, pulling.

Their mouths crashed together.

It was rough. Messy. Clumsy in the way only something utterly inevitable could be.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, and he groaned into her mouth, his fingers threading into her damp hair, tugging just enough to tip her head back. His lips slanted over hers, deepening the kiss, tasting her like he was starved for it.

She gasped when his mouth trailed lower, down the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat. He bit down, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make her shudder against him.

Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but the fabric was stuck to him, refusing to give. Frustration twisted her features.

“Off,” she demanded, voice breathless, thick with need.

He barely pulled back long enough to shove the wet fabric off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a damp slap.

She pressed her palms against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the erratic beat of his heart beneath her touch.

Then, she leaned in, running her tongue over the rain-slicked skin at his throat.

His whole body tensed.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Losing Control

They didn’t make it far.

They stumbled through the flat, hands desperate, mouths never parting, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Her sweatshirt was the next casualty, pulled up and over her head, landing somewhere behind them. His hands were on her skin instantly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of her spine, dragging down, down—gripping the back of her thighs and hoisting her up.

She gasped against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist.

He walked them backward, moving blindly, guided only by instinct and the sound of her breathing, the little whimpers she made when he kissed the hollow of her throat, the way her hips shifted against him.

They hit the couch.

She was weightless for a moment, air rushing from her lungs as he dropped her onto the cushions, hovering above her, chest heaving.

His hands spread over her bare thighs, sliding up, up, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts. He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

“I’ve wanted you since that first night,” he murmured, voice rough, wrecked.

Her breath caught.

A single heartbeat. A moment suspended in time.

Then she was tugging him down, capturing his mouth with hers.

Heat.

That was all she could feel.

The press of his body, the weight of him between her thighs, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed a path down her stomach.

Her nails raked down his back, catching at the waistband of his jeans, tugging. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushed himself lower.

His lips ghosted over her navel, down further, until—

Her back arched, a sharp inhale punched from her lungs, a curse whispered into the air.

And then everything blurred.

A tangle of limbs, clothes stripped away piece by piece, moans swallowed in kisses, bodies moving together, frantic, unrestrained, the storm raging both outside and between them.

He pressed inside her with a shuddering breath, forehead dropping against hers, their hands gripping, clutching, desperate.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice hoarse, raw with something deeper than lust.

She did.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, bodies tangled.

Her cheek rested against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare spine.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but all she could hear was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly—

“You didn’t stop me from walking away.”

He exhaled, his lips brushing over her temple. “I wanted to.”

She glanced up at him. “Then why didn’t you?”

His throat bobbed. “Because you deserved more than that.”

Her heart ached.

She shifted, fingers trailing over his jaw, over the curve of his mouth. “And now?”

His hand tightened on her waist.

“I’m done running.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

And when she kissed him, soft and lingering, he knew—

So was she.

The world could burn. The headlines could scream. The fans could theorize. The PR teams could scramble.

None of it mattered anymore.

Because they were done hiding.

They chose the timing.

They chose the words.

They chose each other.

The cameras were set up in a cozy, softly lit studio, with plush chairs and warm lighting that made everything feel a little less staged, a little more intimate. She sat beside him, their hands resting on the space between them—not quite touching, but close.

The interviewer, an older woman with kind eyes, smiled at them both.

“So,” she began, “I think it’s safe to say the world has been dying to know. What’s the truth?”

Harry exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. He glanced at Y/N, his dimples peeking out as he grinned, then looked back at the camera.

“The truth?” he repeated, voice playful, teasing.

She nudged him, a silent Behave.

He ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m in love with her. Always have been.”

The interviewer made a sound of delight. The world outside exploded.

She turned to Y/N, who was smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

“And you?” the interviewer asked gently.

Y/N looked at Harry.

He was already looking at her.

“I’m in love with him too,” she murmured. “Obviously.”

The arena was packed.

The energy in the air was electric, a chorus of cheers and music and flashing lights. The setlist was nearly done, the concert winding toward its final moments. But before the last song, Harry paused.

“Alright,” he murmured into the mic, stepping back from the center of the stage. “I’ve got something special for you all tonight.”

The crowd roared.

His eyes found her, standing just offstage, watching him with an amused smile.

And then—he extended his hand.

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because, for the first time, this wasn’t just between them. This was in front of thousands.

He must have seen it in her eyes, because he smiled—soft, reassuring, knowing. He wiggled his fingers, beckoning her.

“C’mon, love,” he said. “Duet?”

The audience screamed.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous,” she mouthed.

But she took his hand.

The moment she stepped onto the stage, the noise doubled, an eruption of cheers and chants and camera flashes.

But none of it mattered.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

The first chords of the song played, slow and sweet, the melody wrapping around them like something sacred.

And then—

He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Soft.

Lingering.

Devoted.

The crowd melted.

But in that moment, as the lights bathed them in gold, as their voices wove together, as their fingers stayed entwined—

It wasn’t about the world watching.

It was about them.

Because for once, it didn’t matter who was looking.

They had each other.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

you tilt your head back, brow raised, and your stomach drops a little when you see it — the tiny sprig of mistletoe dangling above you on a thin string. it sways slightly from the draft, but you swear it tilts suspiciously toward clark, almost like fate itself is nudging you two closer. you blink once, then slowly turn around, and the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets makes your breath catch just slightly. clark’s cheeks are a soft pink from the cold, the color warming even deeper at your expression, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually look at him like that. he gives a small smile, tiny, soft, one side rising before the other and your heart tugs at the sweetness of it. “pretty sure the rules say something about this,” he says, eyes flicking up to the mistletoe… then down to your mouth.

you tell yourself the warmth in your chest is from the cider, not the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s waiting but trying not to hope too loudly. clark takes one step closer, careful, almost painfully gentle, as though the air itself might break. there’s a hesitation in his eyes, something like a question he’s too polite to ask, and you feel your breath tighten in your lungs because he’s too sweet, too careful, too impossibly endearing. you lift your chin just slightly, and the tiny movement is all the permission he needs. he leans in, slow, deliberate, the faintest whisper of his breath brushing your cheek before his lips follow. the kiss is barely a kiss at all, more a warm press of softness that lingers just one beat longer than necessary. long enough to make your pulse jump, short enough to pretend it was nothing.

when clark pulls back, he’s still close, so close enough that you can smell the peppermint on his breath, close enough that you can feel him thinking. his lashes dip, then lift again, and his expression is unreadable except for the faint curve of his mouth betraying him. he steps back, slowly, giving space even though you feel the tug of wanting him to stay. you swallow around a smile you don’t fully understand and slip away into the crowd, pretending not to feel his eyes on your back. the party resumes its rhythm, but your heartbeat does not. it’s still skipping around that tiny, lingering kiss under a sprig of mistletoe he definitely didn’t hang himself.

twenty minutes later, you find him again, well maybe he finds you, you’re not entirely sure. either way, the universe seems determined to shove you toward clark kent like it’s gently matchmaking a pair of awkward teenagers instead of two adults who should absolutely know better. you reach for a tray of cookies in the kitchen when you see it: another sprig of mistletoe, positioned suspiciously perfectly above the doorway. you stare at it then at the fresh tape barely hidden behind the molding. and then at the tall man standing sheepishly beside you holding a plate he clearly doesn’t need.

clark follows your gaze to the mistletoe and widens his eyes like he’s shocked to discover it. “what? that wasn’t there earlier,” he says, voice filled with a sincerity any normal person would buy… but you’re not normal, because you’ve watched clark kent try to lie exactly twice in the three years you’ve known him. you raise an eyebrow, and he fights a smile, poorly. “weird,” he adds, and you swear he’s going to break into laughter, except clark kent would rather be struck by lightning than flirt too confidently. still, there’s something in his tone, something teasing and low, that sends a flutter through your chest. “must be a very dedicated holiday elf.”

you take one step toward him, and he takes one toward you, like you’re both being drawn in by something magnetic. his eyes flicker down to your mouth again quickly, almost involuntarily and you feel heat unfurl at the base of your spine. “you know mistletoe rules,” you murmur, letting your voice dip just enough to see how he reacts. clark’s breath catches, just barely, but enough for you to feel it, enough to make your stomach flip. he takes your hand, gently, like he’s testing how much boldness he’s allowed to have tonight. “so i’ve heard,” he whispers.

his kiss this time isn’t as shy 'nor is it rushed, or hesitant, or accidental no matter how much the two of you might pretend otherwise. clark leans in slowly, fingers brushing along your waist in a way that is reverent and hungry at the same time. his lips find yours with a soft pressure that deepens almost immediately, something warm and intent pushing through the gentle facade he usually wears. he kisses you like he’s been imagining this not in detail, but in longing. not in fantasies, but in hopes he’s been too careful to voice.

when he finally pulls away, your breath is uneven, your lips tingling from the heat he left behind. clark looks at you like he’s memorizing your reaction, like he’s storing it away for later, like this moment means more to him than he’s ready to say out loud. his hand lingers on your waist for one heartbeat longer. then another. then another, until he finally seems to remember himself and steps back too far, too quickly, and you hate how much you miss his warmth the second it’s gone.

by the time the third mistletoe appears, you’re done pretending you don’t notice the pattern and you’re pretty sure clark’s done pretending it’s accidental.

the party’s calmed into a softer rhythm now, people nestling into conversations, laughter quieting, music dipping into the background like a warm hum. you slip into the hallway to take a breath, your pulse still unsteady from the second kiss he gave you. you don’t expect him to follow, but he does almost immediately, like your absence tugs at him harder than physics itself. “hey,” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with something thicker, warmer. “didn’t mean to crowd you.”

you open your mouth to tell him he’s not crowding you at all. in fact, you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted someone crowding you more but the words get stuck when clark lifts his hand. he’s holding a tiny sprig of mistletoe between two fingers, not taped, not rigged, even positioned by chance. just him, holding it like he’s finally admitting what he wants without hiding behind holiday rules. “guess we ran out of strategic locations,” he says, tone low, amused and hopeful.

you let out a soft laugh that comes out more breath than sound. he steps closer. until your back touches the wall, not because he pushes you there but because your legs carry you backward instinctively, your body reacting to the heat rolling off him in waves. clark doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his restraint feels like a match held an inch above gasoline. “this okay?” he breathes, voice almost trembling.

you nod and he doesn’t dare waste a second.

clark kisses you like he’s been holding back too long not rough, but deep, warm, hungry in a way that makes your entire body light up. his hand finds your waist again, and this time there’s no tentative testing of boundaries. he pulls you in fully, pressing the soft heat of his body against yours. you feel the strength beneath his sweater, the warmth against your chest, the faint tremble in his fingers as he cups your jaw with the gentlest touch imaginable. you kiss him back harder without meaning to, and he makes a low sound into your mouth. quiet, restrained, devastatingly soft and a sound that makes your knees weaken and your heartbeat thrum violently in your chest.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe against your lips. you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, fast and strong, matching your own like a mirrored rhythm. his forehead drops to yours, and he whispers your name like it tastes good on his tongue. “we’re not still calling these accidents, are we?” he mumbles, smiling against your mouth. you breathe out a shaky laugh as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “do you want them to be accidents?”

“no,” he admits, voice thick with a truth he can’t swallow anymore. “not even a little.”

he kisses you again, painfully slower this time, lingering, savoring, like he’s trying to memorize every possible version of your mouth. you sink into him, and he catches you effortlessly, large hands steady on your waist like you’re something he intends to hold onto. every kiss deepens the warmth between you, every breath shared pulling you further into a space where neither of you is pretending anymore. the mistletoe slips from his fingers and falls to the floor unnoticed. clark barely breaks the kiss to whisper, breath warm against your lips, “we’re gonna need… a lot more mistletoe.” you laugh into his mouth, breathless, dizzy, wanting him all over again.

he pulls you closer — not roughly, never roughly, just firmly enough to let you feel everything he’s been trying so hard not to show. your fingers thread through his hair, and he shivers under your touch. his hands slide up your back, heat radiating through the thin fabric of your shirt, and your breath stutters at the warmth of it. he kisses you deeper, hands holding you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. he murmurs your name again, softer this time, like he’s tasting it. like he’s falling into something he didn’t mean to fall into so quickly.

you lose track of time in that hallway every single kiss, every soft sound, every brush of his hands melting into the next. your mind goes hazy with warmth and want and the slow, addictive sweetness of him. clark kisses like he means it, like he’s been waiting for a reason, a moment, an excuse and now that he has one. he’s not pulling away, not tonight, not from you.

when he finally stops kissing you, it isn’t because he wants to, it’s because he needs air. you’re both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in uneven sync, the world outside the hallway disappearing completely. clark keeps his forehead against yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the closeness. “i’ve wanted to do that,” he admits softly, “for… a while.” his thumb traces your cheek, slow, gentle, almost reverent. “longer than i should say out loud.”

you swallow, heart racing. “you can say it,” you whisper, voice small but sure. his eyes drop to your lips again, darkened with everything he’s still holding back. “later,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “i wanna kiss you again first.” and he does much softer, slower, deeper like a promise.

the walk to your bedroom shouldn’t feel like this, like gravity got hands and wrapped them around clark’s wrist, tugging him behind you with something deeper than want. he follows you quietly, but not hesitantly; there’s a charged certainty in his steps, like he already made the decision the moment he kissed you in the hallway. the door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, and the sound steals both your breaths at once. clark stands there for a second, chest rising slowly, eyes tracing over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact moment you let him in. his voice comes out low, almost rough at the edges. “are you sure?”

you answer by stepping into him.

his exhale is soft but shaky, the kind of sound someone makes when a long-held restraint finally slips. clark’s hands find your waist like they’re drawn there, warm and steady, and the way he pulls you into him feels almost relieved. he kisses you again deeper, nothing tentative now. your fingers curl into his shirt, needing him closer than close. he walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to search your face for any flicker of doubt. there is none and you feel his breath against your lips, warm and wanting.

clark leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and whispers, “tell me what you need.” he always asked, no matter what cause it was you. his whole entire world, wrapped in one person.

his voice alone sends heat racing down your spine. you don’t answer with words, you simply tug him down with you, falling back onto the bed with a soft gasp as his weight settles gently above you. he braces one hand beside your head, the other sliding along your waist in a touch so careful it almost breaks you open. his lips find your neck, slow and lingering, each kiss deeper than the last, each one unraveling another piece of you. he’s warm everywhere, steady everywhere, but there’s a tension running through him like a wire pulled taught. a quiet, desperate wanting restrained only by his need to be gentle with you.

your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin, and clark makes a low sound against your throat, a soft breathy whine come undone. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, chest rising unevenly like he’s fighting not to lose control too quickly. his thumb strokes your cheek in the softest line imaginable. “you have no idea,” he whispers, “how long i’ve wanted you like this.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper the kind of kiss that feels like being discovered, not devoured. his hand travels up your side, under fabric, fingers tracing warm paths that make your breath stutter. you guide him closer, and clark follows instantly, letting out another quiet, fractured sound against your mouth. the room fades into warmth and breathes and the rustle of clothes, the bed shifting beneath you as he presses closer, deeper, without crossing any lines you haven’t invited him to. it’s the heat and tension with softness tangled into one moment that feels like it’s been waiting to happen for months.

clark kisses down your jaw, your neck, your shoulder slow, reverent, like he’s memorizing what you sound like when you breathe his name, just like the first time. the air between you grows hot and heavy, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that needs no guidance, no explanation. every touch he gives you feels intentional, slow-burning, patient but hungry underneath. he keeps whispering your name like it’s something sacred, something he’s been scared to say out loud like this.

when he finally settles against you again, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, his voice drops into something low and sincere. “i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip. “not tonight.”

you breathe something back you’re not sure what, its a blur of desire because his closeness scatters every coherent thought. his forehead rests against yours, warm and grounding, and you feel the shift in him the moment his restraint starts to fray. the way his fingers lace with yours and his breath stutters when your knee brushes open onto his hip. he whispers your name like it's the only hting he belives can save him. his mauved lips find yours, slower, thoughtful, a kiss that speaks more promises than words can say in an urgency.

your hands slide up the back of his shirt, feeling the soft strength there, tension he'd been holding since the first mistletoe of the night. clark exhaled against your mouth like you'd undone him without having to try. that was the one thing you adored the most about him, just you alone got him so boyish. the room grows warmer, soft and intimate as his touch becomes purposeful. he's not rushing, not. being greedy, just a firm steady kind of certainty. his touch knowing your body for months, your reactions, knowing your hearts desires.

every touch of his hands roam, just ignites some spark of desire inside you. you can't help but tug him closer, he instantly follows you. the sound of clothes shifting, not frantic, just with ease between those sweet whispered kisses and soft loopy smiles. thw outside world fades into nothing but the candlelit glow on the walls, the sound of heavy pants. your pants "haa, angh, clark..." he cups your jaw like you're the most precious thing to him, cause you are. he doesnt excute his strength because he's superman, he treats you as your a fragile being, someone he loves and intends to protect even in moments such as these.

the bed groans, creaks with a tired wail with settling springs as the movement picks up. clark's weight settles as he lifts himself up, his hands fast as he removes his shirt, chisled abs and a faint trail of hair leading south. he leans in, bracing himself back onto the mattress, hand pressed beside your shoulder. his eyes lock with yours that tender shade of blue darkening with want, with need, with something that steals the breath from your chest. “tell me what you need,” he whispers, voice husky enough to pull a shiver down your spine.

your chest tightens, heat coiling low, and you can’t hide it — your body leans into him, practically begging him without saying a word, wishing he’d stop asking and just take you already. you instantly follow through with your thoughts and guide him, and he listens. your hands guide his hands showing him exactly how to hold you, how to explore without breaking the unspoken rhythm between you. his fingers trace slow, reverent paths along your curves, tilting your body toward him, leaning into every shiver you make.

his mouth finds the soft skin of your neck, pressing gentle kisses that leave you gasping, heat pooling low in your stomach. you let your lips brush against his jaw, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer without meaning to. every touch, every brush of skin, feels like a quiet explosion, a wordless conversation that leaves both of you unsteady. he leans into you, chest against chest, arms around your waist, grounding you while making you ache for more without a single word.

his frustration getting the best of him, he practically tears your jeans off, only your soft pattern striped pink and silver panties with a soft wet patch are stopping him. "god your driving me insane clarkie, please." you huff out as you grab his hand and suckle onto his thumb, suddenly he picks up on what you want. his thumb is met onto your bud and rubbing slow careful circles. "haa! uh! fuck clarkie!" you gasp at the sudden pressure on your achy clit.

his hands move with a careful, deliberate pressure, every touch designed to make you shiver and gasp. you arch into him, body responding instinctively, every nerve alive under the warmth of his touch. he leans closer, lips brushing against your ear, whispering your name in a husky, low tone that sends heat pooling through you. your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close as the quiet friction and closeness coil tight inside you.

every brush, every press, every sigh becomes a silent conversation between the two of you, no words needed to know what the other wants. he stays attuned to you, careful and persistent, as if memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every breath, leaving you trembling beneath him. "golly i want to watch you fall apart honey." he pants, his cock straining against his jeans. he leans into you, words husky and full of want, and you can feel every ounce of his desire pressing into the space between you.

your fingers clutch at him, pulling him closer, heart hammering as his voice drips through you like fire and velvet at once. every brush of his body against yours, every sigh and whispered name, makes the air around you thick and heavy, impossible to ignore. he keeps his hands roaming, teasing, grounding, and guiding you, so aware of your reactions it leaves you trembling and breathless. your body responds instinctively, arching, shifting, drawn entirely to him, and it feels like the room exists only for the two of you.

his gaze never leaves yours blue darkened with want, warm and steady, memorizing every shiver, every gasp, every quiver, holding you completely in his focus. his tongue follows your neck as he dives into you, finally pushing himself inside you. so wrapped up in the bliss of pleasure he'd given you. he buries his face against you, lips and breath hot on your skin, every movement deliberate and teasing, making your body arch instinctively toward him. your hands thread through his hair, pulling him closer, reveling in the way he fits against you, the quiet weight and warmth of him holding you. his chest presses into yours, every shiver, every gasp met with a gentle, grounding touch, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him.

you tilt your head back, letting his whispers and low hums wash over you, each one sending warmth pooling through your core, leaving you trembling. "oh honey, golly your so beautiful like this. so pretty and fucked out huh?" the room shrinks to just the two of you. heat, breath, skin, the private storm of touch and want that makes the world outside fade completely.

he holds you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go, and you cling to him the same way, lost in the slow, perfect intensity of him. your orgasm nearly ripping you apart as you see stars and flashes of clark's expression, and the layer of sweat on his body. "go ahead darling, let go for me. i'm right... haa! right-right behind, golly... you!" he groans as ribbons of white spur inside you. your arms wrapped around clarks neck as he comes down from his high.

clark rolls gently off you, careful not to crush you under him, and collapses beside you with a soft groan that’s almost as breathless as yours. his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, chest to chest, the heat from his body still radiating into yours, grounding you both. you rest your head against his shoulder, fingers tracing idle, tender patterns along his back, the tension of the moment melting into quiet warmth. his lips brush the top of your head, soft, lingering, murmuring little words that make you melt, “you okay… you’re okay, darling.” he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, and whispers your name, like he’s memorizing the sound, the taste of it, the way it makes you shiver still.

for a long while, you both lie there, chests rising and falling together, heartbeats syncing, a quiet intimacy that says everything the kisses and touches did before, and more. clark shifts carefully, brushing stray hairs from your face as his fingers trace soft, gentle patterns along your skin. “let me,” he murmurs, leaning close, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the places where he knows you’re still sensitive, just to make sure you’re comfortable, cared for, safe.

his hands move with quiet attentiveness, slow and soothing, wiping away every trace of the night’s heat while murmuring little reassurances, “you’re perfect… just perfect, darling.” you lean into him, chest to chest, letting the warmth of his body seep into you, every shiver and flutter settling into a calm, steady glow. when he’s satisfied you’re completely tended to, he wraps you up in his arms, strong yet gentle, holding you like he never wants to let go, and you press yourself into him, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heart. eyes heavy from the activity the both of you just did.