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to the boys i’ve crushed on .ᐟ k.hj, j.yh, j.wy, p.sh

.ᐟ you’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic, even more so than you are a stumbling social disaster, which is saying something. you fall easily for four guys around campus and of course, because your luck is just that great, the sappy love letters you wrote to each of them end up delivered and send your usually uneventful life spinning into total chaos.

.ᐟ part one | part two (~17k) | part three | part four

.ᐟ music major!hongjoong x fem!reader, brother’s best friend!seonghwa x fem!reader, tutor!yunho x fem!reader, baseball golden boy!wooyoung x fem!reader

.ᐟ contains smut minors dni 18+ | cursing, reader can give second hand embarrassment, virgin!reader, oral (fem receiving), fingering, joong is condescending, biting, protected sex, overstimulation

.ᐟ not proofread please be nice! i love how this is progressing, this fic is my baby and i can’t wait to show you all where reader’s story is goinggg <3

It starts with the game on Saturday.

You remember that part clearly now, the way he mentioned it like it was the most important part of the plan.

“You’re coming to the first game next week,” he’d said, like it wasn’t even a question. According to him, Wooyoung doesn’t need to tell people you’re dating if you’re sitting in the stands wearing his number, if you’re there when most people who know him expect to see someone important. He says that’s the kind of thing that spreads on its own, carried in passing comments and half-heard conversations.

And then, he’d told you, the most important thing is consistency, because one appearance doesn’t make a relationship from thin air, but patterns do. So it won’t just be the game, or sitting together in econ, or one interaction in the campus square — it’ll be all of it, reinforced until it stops feeling like something new and starts feeling like something that’s always been there.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone buzzing slightly on the mattress. You reach for it, your fingers hesitant in a way that feels almost pathetic, hovering just above the screen before you finally pick it up. Your thumb lingers there for a second longer, bracing yourself, before you click on your phone and blanch.

Your most recent notification is from Seonghwa.

hey. can we talk?

It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a text from someone you know fairly well, but it presses against everything you’ve been trying to hide since you ran out of the library, because talking means actually standing in front of him. Talking means hearing his voice, soft and guilty, saying things you’re not ready to hear. It means hearing him tell you that you’re like a sister to him, but that he thinks your little puppy love crush is cute. You think you’d rather die than face that.

Your grip tightens slightly around your phone before you sigh, clicking it off and sighing into your hands.

Your life is fucking hell.

It doesn’t stop with one text. That’s the part that unsettles you the most.

You expect silence after you don’t respond; something passive-aggressive, maybe, or even just nothing at all, but you should’ve known better. Seonghwa doesn’t do that. He doesn’t fill the space with irritation or impatience, he fills it with something worse for your heart: care.

Your phone buzzes again an hour later, then again not long after that.

are you okay?

And then, after a stretch of time where you almost convince yourself it’s over, your phone buzzes again.

we don’t have to make it a big thing. just talk to me

You stare at the messages longer than you should, your thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, your chest tight in that quiet, suffocating way that has nothing to do with panic and everything to do with something heavier.

You don’t answer. You can’t, because answering means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means facing him, and facing him means seeing it in his expression — that soft, careful way he looks at you when he’s worried, when he’s trying to be gentle about something that is impossible for you to pretend is gentle at all.

You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you, dragging your hands over your face as you pace your room in uneven steps, your thoughts spiraling faster than you can keep up with. Every version of the conversation plays out in your head whether you want it to or not; him asking questions, you stumbling over answers, the inevitable shift in his expression when he realizes just how much of a hopeless, lovesick loser you are.

It makes your stomach churn, because Seonghwa isn’t like the others, not really. Hongjoong is a fleeting moment, something soft and unexpected that you can tuck away and romanticize without consequence. Wooyoung is chaos, confidence, something bright and overwhelming that you can barely keep up with even when he’s standing right in front of you. And if there’s one thing Yunho made clear in the library, it’s that he’s just your tutor.

But Seonghwa knows you, not the polished version you build in your head and not the edited, romanticized version you write into your letters. He knows the real one — the awkward pauses, the way you hover in doorways instead of entering rooms, the way you shrink into yourself when conversations last too long — and now he knows the rest, too, the parts you never meant for anyone to see.

Your grip tightens against your arms as you fold in on yourself slightly, sinking down onto the edge of your bed. Your gaze drifts, unfocused, landing somewhere near your laptop sitting shut on your desk.

That stupid, stupid laptop.

For a brief, irrational second, you consider opening it again, like maybe if you check hard enough, something will be different, like maybe the emails will be gone, like maybe this entire situation will have undone itself while you weren’t looking.

Your phone buzzes again, but this time you don’t move for it. You just sit there, staring at nothing, your thoughts looping in quiet, exhausting circles until even that starts to feel like too much.

The knock comes just as you start to convince yourself you might be able to sit here forever.

It’s sharp enough to pull you out of your thoughts immediately, your head snapping toward the door, your entire body going still as your body instantly assumes it’s for you, which is ironic, really. Your room has never really been a place people come to. There’s no unexpected visitors, no casual drop-ins, no boys lingering outside your door like this is some kind of scene out of the movies you spend half your life imagining yourself into. If anything, your door has always existed in a kind of quiet irrelevance, something people pass by without thinking twice about.

The knock comes again, firmer this time. You stand slowly, like approaching the door too fast might somehow make it worse. Your feet carry you across the room before you can fully talk yourself out of it, hand twisting the knob.

Kim Hongjoong stands on the other side like this is normal, like boys just show up at your door now. He looks casual, like this is a thing that happens to you, specifically, as if you’ve somehow crossed into a different genre of your own life without noticing.

Your brain doesn’t catch up fast enough, but your body does. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door and you start to push it closed again almost immediately, instinct kicking in before logic has a chance to intervene, because no. No, you’re not doing this again, not twice in two days, not another conversation about things that were never even supposed to exist outside of your own head.

“Hey—” he interjects, quick but not sharp, his voice catching the motion before it can fully happen. He doesn’t shove the door open or wedge himself in or push past your resistance the way Wooyoung had, all confidence and forward momentum. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, coming to rest against the wood lightly, his expression doing everything to tell you he sees you like a frightened deer right now, “I’m not here to embarrass you, I promise. I just wanna talk.”

Your grip loosens a fraction without your permission, because there’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel like a line, doesn’t feel like he’s trying to talk his way inside just for the sake of it. It feels considered, as if he’s already thought through how this might look from your side and decided not to make it worse.

You study him for a second longer than you probably should, your gaze flicking across his face in search for some hint of amusement, some flicker of this being funny to him in a way that would justify shutting the door in his face. You don’t find it.

“…You guys are really making this a habit,” you mutter before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out under your breath, edged with disbelief that you don’t even try to hide.

His brows pull together slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” you shoot back too fast, shaking your head as if that could erase it. Your body moves before your brain fully agrees, stepping back just enough to open the space between you. “…You can come in.”

He doesn’t question it. He just nods once, subtle, like he understands that this isn’t an easy concession, and steps inside without crowding you.

You close the door behind him, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet of your room.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You just stand there, your back to him, staring at the door, hoping that maybe, just maybe this isn’t real and your daydreams have just taken an unusually cruel turn.

You feel him there, not in an overwhelming way, but present enough that ignoring it would take more effort than facing it. When you finally turn, it’s slow, reluctant, like you’re bracing yourself for something you‘re not quite ready for.

He looks… exactly like himself. There’s something about him that always reads a little rough around the edges at first glance, the kind of style that leans into darker tones, layered pieces that look thrown together until you realize they’re not. The rings lining his fingers catch the light when he moves his hand, subtle flashes of silver that feel more like an extension of him than an accessory. His hair’s a little longer now than the last time you really let yourself look, dark strands falling just enough to frame his face without hiding it, softening something that might’ve otherwise come off sharper.

It should feel a little intimidating, but to you, it doesn’t. If anything, there’s a kind of ease to him that grounds everything else, like no matter what he looks like, he’s still just standing there, in your room, talking to you like this is normal.

Your arms tighten slightly where they’re folded over yourself.

For what you assume is your sake, he doesn’t drag it out. “I’m sure you know I read your email.”

Your gaze flicks away immediately, like eye contact would make it worse, your fingers curling slightly into the muscle of your biceps as if that might anchor you.

“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, the word slipping out before you can stop it, hushed and familiar and completely useless.

He tilts his head a little at that, something almost thoughtful in the motion. “Why?” he queries like it’s a genuine question, even though it seems like a ridiculously stupid one to you.

Why? Because you utterly laid your heart out for a guy you’ve spoken to twice! Because the contents of your letter were way too familiar coming from a girl he barely knows, embarrassingly delusional and completely humiliating.

You don’t answer him, because where would you even begin?

He exhales softly through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough that it softens the space between you instead of tightening it. “It was nice,” he tells you, like he’s commenting on something way simpler than this, “really nice, actually.”

Your gaze lifts just enough to look at him properly, searching his expression for any sign that this is leading into something humiliating you haven’t prepared yourself for yet.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, tone still casual in that way that somehow makes everything he says land heavier, “it didn’t come off weird, or creepy. Or whatever you’re probably thinking right now.”

You are definitely thinking that. Your lips press together slightly, your shoulders pulling in just a little tighter.

“I mean,” he adds, glancing at you again, something faintly amused flickering at the corner of his mouth now, “some parts were kinda…” he pauses, like he’s choosing the word carefully, “…intense.”

Oh god.

Your entire body tenses, your brain scrambling through every single sentence you’ve ever written, every overly romantic, completely unfiltered thought you’d poured into those letters.

“You— you don’t have to—” you start, panic creeping into your voice, but he talks over you just slightly.

“‘The way you look at people makes it feel like you’re listening to something more important than what they’re actually saying’,” he quotes, voice quieter now, almost fond but that fact does nothing to stop your breath from hitching in a horrified gasp.

Heat floods your face so fast it’s almost dizzying, your hands dropping from your arms just so you have something to do with them, your fingers curling uselessly at your sides. “Oh my god,” you breathe, barely audible, your gaze snapping away from him like you physically can’t look at him anymore.

“That one was my favorite,” he admits.

You make a small, strangled sound that you think might be your brain short-circuiting in real time.

“Or—” he adds, like he’s actually considering it, tilting his head slightly, “‘I don’t think you realize how easy it is to imagine something more with you.’ That one’s up there too.” His eyes flick back to you, something quieter settling there.

You cover your face with your hands immediately, mortified beyond recovery, your entire body curling inward like that might somehow erase the fact that he just said that out loud.

“Please stop talking,” you mumble into your palms, your voice muffled and desperate in a way that makes it very clear you are not surviving this.

And of course, he doesn’t stop talking, at least not completely. “You’re cute,” he asserts instead of torturing you by presenting you with your own words, but this is almost worse, in a way.

The words don’t land all at once. They settle slowly, like something sinking through water, reaching you in pieces rather than impact — first the tone, then the meaning, then the realization that he isn’t taking it back.

You look up before you mean to. It’s instinctive, almost reflexive, like your body needs to confirm that he actually said it, that this isn’t your imagination filling in gaps the way it always does. Your hands lower slowly, your fingers lingering near your mouth because you’re not entirely ready to let go of the shield they provide. Your expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and lingering embarrassment, your heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest that you don’t even want to try and name. “What?” you mumble in question, because that feels like the only possible response.

His shoulders lift slightly in a small shrug, like it’s not a big deal, like he didn’t just say something that completely derailed your ability to think clearly. “You are,” he repeats, simple in a way that frustrates you because Kim Hongjoong calling you cute is the furthest fucking thing from simple. “The way you write, the way you…” he gestures vaguely toward you, like he doesn’t feel the need to over-explain it. “All of it.”

Your breath catches in a way that’s subtle but impossible to ignore, your chest tightening around it like your body doesn’t know what to do with something like that. You’re used to imagining it, sure; building it carefully in your head, scripting out the exact tone, the exact timing, the exact way someone might look at you when they say something like that. But this is real life, not the fantasy you’ve created in your mind, so you don’t have a perfect, charming response like the most flawless version of yourself would.

Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, like they don’t know where to go now that they’re not hiding your face. You feel too aware of everything: the warmth in your cheeks, the way your shoulders are still slightly drawn in, the fact that you’re standing in front of him with every part of you feeling a little too visible.

And somehow, by what can only be the grace of God, you don’t immediately retreat from it.

There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something yielding settling in, like he recognizes that pause for what it is: not confidence, not quite, but something close enough to it that he doesn’t want to break it.

So instead, he takes a small step forward, gauging your reaction as he reaches a tentative hand to tuck a strand of your hair behind your head. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t seem to be that much better at this romance thing than you are, a small flush you’ve never seen on him dusting his cheeks.

Your breath hitches again, quieter this time, your body going still without pulling away. You’re aware of him in a way that feels different now. He’s not just as a presence in the room, but something closer, something you could reach out and touch if you just let yourself.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he maintains after a second, his voice nothing but a murmur now, “since I read it.” Your throat feels dry, your fingers curling faintly at your sides. “About you,” he adds.

That does something to you, a thread pulling tight somewhere in your chest. He watches you for a moment longer, searching for anything to tell him to stop before he takes this any further.

Whatever he finds in your expression isn’t that.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words hang there for a minute because your brain doesn’t seem to know how to form it into something coherent. This feels so different from everything else that’s happened this week, so different from the chaos and the panic, so different from the overwhelming, humiliating spiral you’ve been stuck in since that morning in the library.

Your heart is beating so loudly you’re almost certain he can hear it, your chest rising and falling just a little too fast as you stare at him, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of yourself that doesn’t get moments like this.

You realize he’s still waiting, eyeing you with that sure, serene look in his eyes that you fell so easily for.

You nod, small and nervous, and his hand, the one that had brushed your hair back, lingers near your cheek for just a second before settling lightly there, his thumb resting just below your cheekbone like he’s grounding himself as much as you.

There’s no rush to it, no sudden movement that steals the moment from you. It’s a slow closing of space, a quiet question even after he’s already asked it, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips like he’s checking one last time.

When he finally kisses you, it’s softer than you expected, softer than anything you’ve ever let yourself imagine in detail because imagining it always felt too indulgent. His lips are warm against yours, tentative in a way that mirrors your own uncertainty, as if he’s just as aware of how easily this could go wrong if he moves too fast.

Your brain lags behind your body again in a way that embarrasses you, trying to catch up to something it’s only ever rehearsed in theory. It’s small, almost hesitant, the way you lean into it just a fraction, your lips pressing back against his in a way that’s more feeling than technique.

Your other hand lifts without you thinking, resting lightly against his chest, your palm flattening there like you need to ground yourself in something solid. You can feel the steady rise and fall beneath it, just slightly uneven, and for some reason that steadies you more than anything else.

He shifts slightly at that, just enough to deepen the kiss, his lips dancing with yours. He exhales softly against you, the sound barely there but he’s close enough that you feel it, and it sends a small, quiet shiver through you that you don’t quite know what to do with. His free hand wanders to your hip and he begins shuffling the both of you backward without breaking the kiss, the backs of your knees hitting your bed before you even realize how far you’ve moved.

You both buckle against the mattress in a way that makes a laugh bubble up from your throat, his weight landing on his elbow by your head as he chuckles with you. He adjusts his weight so more of it rests on his elbow, his free hand coming to your cheek again.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of everything. You can’t ignore the easy way you’re half-laughing, half-breathless beneath him, the dip of the mattress under your weight, the closeness of him in a way that feels entirely different now.

Your hand is still on his chest, fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt like you forgot to let go. He looks at you for a second longer than necessary before he leans in again, leaving a chaste kiss against your lips.

“Are you… is this alright?” He checks, his hand slowly slips from your face to trail down your side, ringed fingers cold where they slip mindlessly under the hem of your plain cami.

You nod dumbly, because of course this is okay. It’s all you could do to avoid thinking about it since you met him, the image plaguing your mind in a way that made you feel like some kind of perverted freak.

“I can take this off?” He tugs lightly at the hem, the stretchy material yielding to his soft grip. You nod again, the words stuck in your throat, but he doesn’t seem to mind, helping you to pull the cami over your head. He mindlessly tosses it somewhere at the foot of your bed, too busy raking his eyes over your form to be bothered where it landed.

Hongjoong’s stare feels heavy in a way that has you curling in on yourself, your hands coming to cover your bare chest before his ring-clad fingers wrap gently around your wrist, pulling it away, “Don’t hide,” he waits for you to lower your other hand on your own, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your lips before pulling back to continue studying your form, “you’re beautiful. Really.”

You swallow your saliva, the compliment hitting you even harder than his earlier ‘you’re cute’, but you aren’t able to dwell on it before he’s pressing gentle, feather-light kisses down the valley of your breasts in a way that makes the butterflies rage in your stomach. All you can do is lay there and watch him as he descends, too afraid to say something that validates your fear that this moment will be nothing more than a fleeting memory.

“You ever done this before?” he mumbles against the skin of your abdomen, eyes trained on your face. You must look like a tomato, you realize as his fingers dance just slightly under the band of your shorts, waiting for your answer.

You let out a noise that can only be described as a squeak you wish you could take back, shaking your head.

“You’re gonna let me?” The question falls from his lips easily, confident and sure that you want this, all while giving you the space to prove him wrong if you need to.

You nod, pulling your lower lip between your teeth as you do, but apparently that doesn’t suffice for him. “Words, otherwise I can’t help you, baby.” As if he’s proving he’d make good on his threat, his hands retreat from your waistband, and you can’t stop the embarrassing whine that comes from your throat.

“W-Wait, no, I…” your hand shoots down to grab his wrist, trying to urge him to continue, “I’m sorry, I… y-yeah, I’ll let you.” Your nod as best you can while looking down at him, your chin brushing your sternum, “Please.”

His hand stills where you’ve caught his wrist, your fingers wrapped around it in a way that’s more instinct than intention. Then a smug grin spreads across his face, so far removed from the usual small twitches of his lips corners but still subtle in that same way. “Y’want it that bad?”

“Please,” you whisper, not giving him the satisfaction of response to a question he already knows the answer to.

Indulging you, he hooks his fingers into your waistband and panties at once, sliding them down your legs and throwing them wherever your cami ended up. Your legs instinctively go to close when your core is exposed to the cold air, but he pinches your thigh, hard, and it makes you clench around nothing in a way that surprises yourself. “What did I say about hiding?”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” you breathe as he flattens his palms against your inner thighs, spreading you open. He hums, one hand coming to spread the lips apart, the heat of your face deepening at being inspected in such a way.

“Poor girl, you’re soaked. Did you ever think about me like this before, when you were writing that sweet lil letter, or is this the first time I’m getting you this messy?”

You have thought about him like this before, but in your imagination he was never quite so vulgar and you were never quite so into that. The fact that his words alone are enough to make your thighs twitch surprises even you.

“Answer me, baby.”

There’s a strangled noise in the back of your throat that you can’t stop, and the petname somehow almost flusters you more than the way he’s spreading you open, because being called ‘baby’ was like a pipedream for a girl like you.

Granted, you usually imagined it in a more romantic way, the word coming from someone who’d shown you all the best sides of himself and seen all the worst parts of you and still stayed. This isn’t quite that, but somewhere in the back of your mind, your subconscious convinces you that it can be, with time. Maybe Kim Hongjoong could be the prince charming you’ve dreamed of since you were little.

Just as the thought forms in your head, his teeth sink into the meat of your thigh, causing you to squeal and writhe away slightly, only for him to wrap his arms under your legs and pull you forward again, “Stop gettin’ distracted. Get out of your head, baby.” He urges softly, like he understands that’s something you have a problem with so he won’t reprimand you for it too much, “Answer my question. Did you think of me like this?”

The words tangle behind your teeth, a small whimper slipping through in lieu of any coherent thought. You swallow down the knot in your throat before you try again, “Y-yes.”

An all-too-pleased grin settles on his face, “What was I like, in your imagination?”

You pause for a moment, trying to hurry and string together words even though he looks at you like he’d wait for you forever, “…Um… n-not like this,” you manage, but after considering it for a moment, you add, “but… I, um… this is…better.”

“Yeah?” he rewards your sentiment by leaning forward and licking a stripe up your core in a way that makes you squirm against his hold. “Barely started, baby. How’m I supposed to make you feel good if you’re moving around so much?” He broke off only for long enough to get the words out, connecting his mouth back to your core and wrapping his lips around your clit before he moves back down.

“‘m sorry, I— I can’t—“

“Yes, you can, come on,” He slurs against your hole, tongue darting out to collect your juices as soon as he was finished talking. He pulls away for a moment before you feel his finger prodding at your entrance, your knees trying to press together at the intrusion. He only shoves them further apart, humming to himself as he slides his middle finger past the resistance of your hole, “C’mon, baby, let me in.”

Hongjoong pushes his finger in until you’re leaking over his knuckles, maneuvering to slide another in alongside it. The cold of his rings at your core makes your hips jolt, but he pays no mind as he eagerly slurps at your clit, his fingers feeling around inside you for—

“Oh, there it is, isn’t it, sweetheart?” He coos against your slit when you jolt, and he presses his fingertips harder into that same spot.

“Fuck, fuck—“ You gasp, hand flying down to grip at his hair when he sucks harshly at your clit, hips canting upwards. They lurch when he pinches at your outer thigh again in reprimand.

“What’s a sweet girl like you doing talking like that?”

The words cause warmth to creep up your neck, dropping your head to the mattress to avoid the haunting memory of how he looks when he says things like that.

“Sorry—“ the syllables are familiar on your tongue, but you gasp as his tongue flicks your clit, hand pulling taut in his hair, “Sorry, Joong.”

Hongjoong regards you for a moment before his fingers pick up pace, “Make it up to me by making a mess on my fingers.” A moan garbles in your throat, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. Your hips move against his fingers and mouth without you realizing, pulling him closer by your grip on his strands.

“I’m— Joong, I’m g’na—“

“I know, baby,” he heaves against your core, hand never once faltering, tongue dancing across your slit. With one last sharp suction to your clit, you fall apart, eyes rolling back slightly as the wave of your climax crashes over you, back arching into his ministrations.

You don’t know long you lay there staring at the inside of your eyelids catching your breath before there’s two fingers tapping lightly at your cheek, drawing your eyes open. “You still with me, sweet girl?” You manage a nod, looking up at him where he now leans over you, studying your face. “You want more?”

“Please,” you say automatically, thinly veiled desperation lacing your voice.

“You got a condom?”

You pause for a moment because, no, you don’t. It’s not like you really made a habit of doing this, but, and you mean this is the most sex-positive way, Nakyung does. You’re thanking every god above that you’re pretty sure she and Yeosang take advantage of the empty dorm every time you’re out to visit San on Monday nights, because that means she probably has condoms in her nightstand.

“Um, I think maybe my roommate has some in her nightstand,” you gesture vaguely to the other side of the room where her bed lies, and Hongjoong wastes no time in pushing himself up from over you, crossing the room. He clearly had no qualms about snooping through Nakyung’s things, pulling open the nightstand and making a small ‘a-ha’ sound, reaching into it and pulling out a foil, turning to wave it at you with a grin.

You didn’t realize he was quite so dorky, but you think it almost makes you fall harder. You reach a hand to your mouth to hide your smile but he seems pleased at your expression anyway, returning to his spot in front of you.

“Is there anything you need from me, baby?” He’s being genuine, you know, seriously considering you in a way that would make your heart flutter in any other circumstance, but the way he says it now when you’re so desperate for him to continue grates against your nerves.

“Anything,” you whisper, “just do something, please?” your hands clutch at his shirt, and you realize now that you do need something from him, “Plea…please, take this off, Joong?” You were starting to feel a little out of place, completely exposed while he’s still fully clothed.

He presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to your lips before he pulls away, pulling his shirt and oversized zip-up over his head at the same time. His hands then start working at his belt as his eyes rake over your form. Once he’s slid the condom on, he’s back in his spot over you with his weight on his hand near your head. He leans closer, face inches from yours in a way that makes the heat rise to your cheeks all over again, “You’re so pretty, y’know that? Really, you are.”

Your hands come up to cover your face, in no position to navigate the trenches that are acknowledging the way compliments from him feel, “Stop.”

Hongjoong laughs, not that usual soft exhale that you know holds amusement or the subtle way his features tell on him when he tries to hide it, but a genuine, fond-around-the-edges chuckle. He reaches up to wrap his fingers gingerly around your wrist, pulling it from your face and bringing it to his instead, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Stop hiding, sweet girl,” his words remind you this is the third time he’s had to tell you, but there’s none of those punishing pinches or lingering bites; now, he’s just the picture of fondness, eyes studying your face in a way that feels way too intimate for this to end up being a one-time-thing.

His hand releases yours and you don’t quite know what to do with it until it lands on his shoulder when you feel the head of his cock sliding up and down your slit. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and look to his face, but he’s already looking down at where you meet, an expression on his face you’ve never seen before. As if he felt your gaze on his face, he looks up at you through his eyebrows, not pausing his movements, “You ready, baby? I’ll be gentle.”

“Mhm,” you nod in a way that’s a little too fast, a little too eager in a way that you’re sure will haunt you later when you try to sleep, but he seems more endeared by it than anything, hand settling on your hip as his tip catches at your entrance. His lips meet yours again, a precursor to the tender way he pushes into you, and you gasp against his mouth at the stretch. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, panting against your lips as his tongue slides along yours.

The further he pushes in, the more debauched he seems, lips pulling off of yours to trail them down your neck as he finally bottoms out, stilling for you to adjust.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against the skin of your shoulder, lips working along the surface as he tries to find his words. Finally, you think he decides on something, because his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, “Thank you, sweet girl,” he sighs out, a small gratitude that almost comes out more breath than words before he continues, “for letting me in this perfect pussy.”

You feel yourself clamp down around him at that and so does he, because he lets out a strangled ‘fuck’ before he speaks again, “Don’t do that, baby, shit,” he seems like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he wants to make this nice for you.

“D-Don’t say things like that, then,” you manage even though your voice feels like it’s all bundled up and stuck in your throat.

Hongjoong stares at you for a moment, then his lip curve and he shakes his head in an almost imperceptible way, “Nah. You like it, so why would I stop?”

You don’t have a good argument for that, but you do know that if he doesn’t move soon you think you might die. You clutch onto his biceps, trying to manage your best pleading doe-eyes, “Pl-Please move, Joong.”

Something akin to a hum leaves him before he pulls his hips back halfway, sliding back in and nudging against that same spot inside you. The feeling sends you scrambling up the mattress, trying at the very least to get a moment to breathe without that overwhelming pleasure shooting up your spine.

He presses up from where his weight was on his hand, leaning back now and placing his hands so they’re on your hips, yanking you back down onto his length. An embarrassing squeak falls from your lips and your hands scramble to push against his abdomen, only for him to gather your wrists in his hand and press them to the mattress above your head.

“C’mon, baby, you looked so pretty askin’ for this and now you’re gonna run from it?” He clicks his tongue in a reprimanding kind of way that makes you want to hide your face again.

“S-Sorry, it’s just—!”

“Just what?” he punctuates his words with another thrust, “You just gotta take it for me, baby, I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

You’re too lost in the pleasure to reply to him, so much so that time kind of blurs together, unable to focus on anything but the way his tip keeps nudging against your cervix. Luckily, you don’t think he expected a reply from you anyway, if the way the pace of his hips picks up tells you anything. Your noises pick up, whines and whimpers falling from your lips easily now that you don’t have the bandwidth to try to keep them in.

“Need you to cum for me, baby, can you do that?” His voice is huskier than you’ve ever heard it and it sends a shiver down your spine, clenching harder around him in a way that sends his hand traveling down your stomach.

“I— I don’t—“

“Yeah, you can,” he answers for you, as if he knew your capabilities more than you did, thumb drawing small circles on your clit, “you’re my sweet girl, aren’t you? All mine?”

It’s almost cruel that he expects a reply now, of all times, when your brain is the most fogged and your tongue is the most heavy. You must take too long to answer, because his fingers are pinching hard at your clit in a way that has you squealing, apologies spilling from your lips, hiccuped ‘sorry, ‘m sorry’s coming from your mouth as if it were gospel.

“Answer me, or I’ll leave you here just like this.”

“Y-Yes, yes, yours, just yours—“

“There you go, finally using that brain of yours.”

All you can hear are your own whines, desperate in a way that would be embarrassing if you weren’t so fucking close, hands scrambling to grab onto his biceps. “Please, please, s’so good, so close.”

“Fuck, y’sound so pretty, baby,” he breathes, thumb speeding up at your clit, his thrusts never faltering. Hongjoong pulls back slightly to draw his eyes to where he disappears inside of you, seeming dazed for a minute before he spits directly onto your pussy, filthy in a way that only draws you closer to the edge. His fingers continue to work at you, humming, “Come on, cum for me.”

It’s enough to send you over the edge, nails digging harshly into his upper arms as your vision blurs at the sides, pleasure so intense and nothing like anything you’ve ever been able to bring yourself to before.

“Jesus, so fucking tight around me,” he moans, breath coming out shaky and uneven as he’s drawn closer to his own peak, thrusts losing their otherwise perfect rhythm.

“P-Please cum, Joongie,” you manage through the haze, wanting to be able to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure he’s given to you.

“Aw, my— fuck, my sweet girl, begging me to cum even if I won’t be filling you up,” his voice is tight and pinched, sounds bubbling up from his throat that you think you’ll be hearing on a loop all week. His rhythm falters, leaning further over you to press his mouth to your shoulder as he finishes, pressing himself impossibly deep inside you.

There’s a quiet kind of intimacy in the calm that follows, Hongjoong panting into your shoulder with his weight collapsed on you and running his hands up and down your sides soothingly.

You think you can finally get a second to breathe, to process everything that just happened, but then he’s sliding down to his knees in front of the bed and slurping at your cunt. The first pass of his tongue alone is almost enough to make you panic, still sensitive so soon after your orgasm.

You gasp, reaching down to try and push his head away from your core, but he roughly grabs your wrist with his free hand and pins it against the bed, “S’too much, can’t—“

The small whimpers that come from your lips were dry until you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You were beginning to think he just wouldn’t respond to your pleas, until you hear him reply. “Just one more, baby, promise. You can do it for Joongie, can’t you?”

His expectant tone almost made you feel an intrinsic need to please him, like if you disappointed him it would feel as if you were turning your back on a fundamental part of your nature. It sounds dramatic but that’s really how it feels, his eyes trained on your face as he searches for what he knows he’ll find, for something that tells him you’ll do just as he asks no matter how hard it is.

Your hips squirm against him, his arm wrapped under your thigh and planted firmly on your abdomen as his tongue flicks insistently at your clit. You feel yourself getting close already, and he notices because of course he does, always observant.

“Yeah, there you go, feels good now, huh, baby?” Hongjoong slurs against your clit, sucking on it in a way that feels almost as much for him as it is for you. “Cum for me again, please? Make me proud, sweet girl?”

You nod dumbly at him, noises almost pornographic as they pitch up, thighs trying to close around his head and only being stopped by his free hand prying them back open. Your orgasm comes violently, crashing over you in a way that almost makes it hard to breathe, oxygen getting trapped somewhere in your chest as your eyes roll.

Time fades together and you think you might’ve blacked out for a minute when you feel a washcloth against your core, Hongjoong gingerly cleaning you up in a way you’re not sure you expected after the way he spoke, but are pleasantly surprised by. Somewhere through the haze, you can hear him faintly, whispering sweet, comforting words to you that you wish you could focus on clearly.

But all that’s clear in your mind now is that you just slept with Kim Hongjoong, and you told him you were all his even though you’re set to hard-launch your ‘boyfriend’ in a week.

Monday night is supposed to be predictable.

That’s the only reason you agreed to keep coming back, week after week, slipping into San’s off-campus apartment like it’s a fixed point in your schedule, because now it is. Monday nights are always quiet and low effort. You sit on the couch, you half-watch whatever San puts on, you listen to him talk about things you don’t always follow, and you exist in a way that doesn’t require too much of you. It’s a nice escape from the usual chatter in your head, and that’s something you’ve always appreciated, but something you definitely need now.

Lately, you’ve been far too aware of yourself, of the way your life has changed so quickly after the letters got out, and of the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in your dorm, tangled up in something you never thought would actually happen to you, especially not at the hands of Kim Hongjoong.

That realization settles heavy in your chest as you reach the door, your hand hovering for just a second before you knock, because you need that extra moment to pull yourself together. You need that time to press everything down into something manageable, at least for the sake of San and his kind of endearing attachment to your weekly routine.

San opens it almost immediately. “Finally,” he barely gives you time to register anything before he’s stepping aside with a distracted, ‘you’re late’, already turning back toward the living room like he assumes you’ll follow.

“I’m not late,” you mutter automatically, slipping past him and into the apartment, breath catching when you see Seonghwa on the couch like he’s been here long enough to make himself at home, one arm draped along the backrest, legs stretched out slightly, attention half on the TV and half on you.

“What—” the word slips out before you can stop it, your voice catching slightly as your eyes flick between him and San, your brain struggling to process how this is happening, why this is happening, why this is happening to you. “What is he doing here?”

San glances over his shoulder like he’s just now remembering to acknowledge the very obvious addition to the room. “Oh,” he says, casual, like this isn’t the worst possible thing that could’ve happened to you tonight. “I told him to come by.”

Your stomach clenches tight in your abdomen, “Why?” It comes out sharper than you mean it to, your fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your bag.

San frowns at you, brows pulling together like your reaction is the strange part of this situation. “Why not?” he shoots back, shrugging as he moves further into the apartment. “He was bored, I was bored, figured it’d be fine.”

“B-But—“ you start uselessly as you follow him inside, like maybe if you’re close enough at his heels, maybe if you come up with a good enough reason fast enough, he’ll kick Seonghwa out and save you the embarrassment, “Mondays are— they’re for us, it’s… it’s sibling night!”

San actually pauses at that, turning back to look at you properly for the first time since you walked in. His expression shifts into something caught between confusion and mild amusement, like he can’t decide if you’re joking or not.

“Sibling night?” he repeats, one brow lifting. “Since when do we have a label for this?”

You falter under that, your mouth opening and closing once, your grip tightening uselessly around your bag strap as you scramble for something that doesn’t sound as panicked as you feel. “I— we always hang out on Mondays,” you try, weaker now, already aware of how flimsy it sounds the second it leaves your mouth.

“Well,” San shrugs, “he’s just hanging out. Thought it’d be fine. Besides, he’s practically your second brother anyway, you’ll live.” He finishes, turning away again like that settles it.

You won’t. You’re fairly certain, actually, that this might be the thing that finally kills you, especially now that San’s said Seonghwa is like a brother to you, when you and now Seonghwa, too, knows that isn’t true.

You don’t look at Seonghwa, you don’t think you physically can without throwing up.

“…Right,” you murmur instead as your body moves on autopilot, following the routine you’ve carved out here despite the fact that everything about tonight feels fundamentally wrong. You set your bag down where you always do, near the arm of the couch, your fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary before you finally drop it and take your usual seat.

You’re not too close to San but not too far, just enough not to crowd him so he doesn’t start whining about it, which is the same distance you’ve always kept on your Monday movie nights. The only difference now is that Seonghwa is on the other side, close enough that you can feel his presence without touching him, close enough that you’re aware of every small movement he makes.

You keep your eyes on the TV like moving them anywhere else would condemn you to death, but you don’t register a single thing on it. It’s some action flick San put on, saying something about how it’s supposed to be really good.

San talks through half the movie like he always does, making commentary that ranges from mildly funny to completely irrelevant, occasionally nudging you with his foot when he thinks you’re not paying enough attention. You respond where you can, short answers, quiet hums, just enough to keep up appearances.

Seonghwa plays his part, too, laughing at the right moments and throwing in a comment here or there. He doesn’t look at you too long, not in a way that would draw San’s attention, but you can feel the tension, the way it hums beneath everything, threading through the space between you, something unsaid but fully understood.

Every time you shift, you’re aware of him noticing. Every time he moves, you feel it in your peripheral, like your body is tracking him without your permission. It’s exhausting.

You wonder if this is what it feels like to be slowly, quietly dying in real time.

Halfway through the movie, San groans loudly, throwing his head back against the couch. “I’m telling you,” he complains, reaching for his phone on the coffee table, “girls are actually insane.”

You blink, pulled out of your spiraling thoughts just enough to glance at him. “What?” you question even though you’re not sure you really want to hear the answer.

He shoves his phone in your direction like it’s evidence. “This girl I’ve been talking to just ghosted me out of nowhere.”

You glance down at the screen without really reading it, your stomach tightening slightly at the word. Ghosted. It hits a little too close to home considering the presence at your other side. “Maybe she’s busy,” you offer weakly, the irony of the statement not lost on you.

San snorts. “For days?” He scoffs, clearly offended on principle. “No way.” Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your sleeve where your hands lay in your lap. “I don’t get it,” he continues, shaking his head. “like, if you’re not interested, just say that. Why ignore someone? That’s so…” he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, dropping his phone back onto the table. “it’s annoying.”

There’s a small, uncomfortable moment where you’re too aware of the dip in the couch next to you.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa finally says in an undeniably pointed way, “I don’t really love being ignored, either.”

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. There’s this immediate, instinctive tightening in your chest, something invisible pulled too tight beneath your ribs. Your breath stutters and heat creeps up your neck, slow but undeniable, settling high in your cheeks in a way that makes you painfully aware of your own face.

The words echoes louder in your head than they ever did out loud, because it isn’t just a general statement, and you know that. You know it in the way your stomach twists, in the way your thoughts immediately scramble backward to those unread messages sitting in your phone, to the way you stared at his name on your screen and chose, very deliberately, not to respond.

You hadn’t thought of it as ignoring him, not really. You’d told yourself it was temporary, that you just needed time and you’d figure out what to say when you weren’t actively on the verge of combusting from embarrassment.

Your mind starts moving too fast, scrambling for something to do with it; say something, laugh it off, agree, disagree, change the subject. Anything to take the weight out of it before San notices.

But it’s too late, because his gaze flicks between the two of you, a slow, suspicious narrowing of his eyes that makes your stomach twist all over again. “Okay,” he drawls, dragging the word out like he’s already clocked that something’s off. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” you reply too rapidly, the words falling from your lips like maybe if you’re quick enough this moment will end sooner.

Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, because of course he doesn’t, leaving you to explain this tension to your brother by yourself.

San snorts lightly, unconvinced. “That,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you like the tension is something visible, something tangible he can point at. “That weird energy. Did I miss something?”

You feel it before Seonghwa says it, clear in the way he shifts beside you, the kind of movement that means he’s decided something, that he’s not going to let this sit in that half-hidden space anymore. “She’s been ignoring me,” Seonghwa finally lays it out there in the open, casual like the statement itself doesn’t drop straight into the room and split the air open.

There’s no room to deflect it, no room to pretend it wasn’t meant the way it was. It lands fully formed, unmistakable, and suddenly the thing you were trying so desperately to keep contained between the two of you is sitting right there in front of San like an open invitation.

San’s head turns sharply toward you, “You what?” he questions, more nosy than anything else, which you try to be grateful for. At least, you think, he’s not mad… yet. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s trying to piece something together. “Wait,” he starts, something almost amused creeping into his tone now, “since when do you two even text enough for her to ignore you?”

“I—” you try again, your voice thinner now, your fingers twisting tighter into your sleeves as your thoughts start racing, tripping over themselves in their urgency to find something believable.

“Sometimes,” Seonghwa answers for you, purposefully vague in that kind of way you both know will only stoke the flames of San’s curiosity.

San’s brows lift, interest piquing further. “Sometimes?” he echoes, glancing back at you with a look that’s equal parts suspicion and intrigue. “When did that start?”

Your chest tightens, breath coming just a little too fast now, your pulse loud and overwhelming in your ears as panic starts to bloom properly, no longer contained to something internal and manageable. You need to get out now, before San asks the next question, before he says something that corners you into admitting you sent an incredibly detailed love letter to his best friend.

“I have to go,” you blurt, the words rushing out uneven and abrupt as you push yourself up from the couch too quickly, your balance wavering for half a second before you steady yourself.

San blinks up at you, caught off guard, “What? Since when?”

“I just— I forgot I had something,” you ramble, already reaching for your bag, your fingers clumsy as they fumble with the strap. Your voice sounds wrong, too high and too rushed, but you can’t stop now. “I need to— I have to go, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Whoa, hey—” San stands halfway, confusion bleeding into concern now, “Did I do something, _____?”

“No,” you insist quickly, already backing toward the door, your grip tightening around your bag like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “It’s nothing, I just remembered something I have to do.” You don’t wait for him to question it further. You turn, your hand already on the doorknob, twisting it open with more force than necessary, the cool air from the hallway rushing in as you step out like you’re surfacing for air. Your movements are too fast, too uneven, your thoughts scrambling ahead of you, tangling together in your hurry to leave before anything else can be said.

You make it a few steps down the hall, your breath tight in your chest, your fingers gripping your bag strap so hard your knuckles ache, when the door behind you opens again. You don’t even need to look to know it’s him.

You try to speed up your steps to flee, but his strides are longer than yours and there’s a quick set of footsteps, controlled but purposeful before his hand clasps around your wrist.

You stop, your body going still as the door clicks shut behind him, the sound sealing the hallway into something more contained.

You inhale sharply, turning on him this time, the movement abrupt and unsteady, your emotions catching up to you all at once. “Why would you say that?” The words come out tighter than you intend, edged with something raw, your brows pulling together as you look at him properly for the first time since you arrived. “In front of him?”

Something subtle shifts in Seonghwa’s expression, and his hand yields his grip around your wrist, dropping his hand to his side now that he’s sure you aren’t going to leave without giving him the conversation he wants.

“Because it’s true,” he replies, his voice even, but there’s something underneath it now, less patient than before. “You have been ignoring me.”

“That’s not—” you cut yourself off, frustrated, your free hand coming up to push through your hair, the motion restless. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” he questions more directly now, disbelief woven into his tone like he can’t believe that you think ignoring him is somehow not the point.

“The point is that you can’t just… bring that up in front of San,” you insist, your voice lowering instinctively even though the door is already shut, as if the walls themselves might carry it back to him. “This isn’t something he needs to be involved in.”

Seonghwa’s brows knit slightly at that, his jaw tightening just a fraction. “Then maybe you should’ve talked to me,” he counters, and there’s frustration there now, clearer than before. “If you wanted it to stay between us, you don’t just… disappear for three days.”

“I— I didn’t disappear,” you argue weakly, even though you both know that’s exactly what you did.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet, controlled breath that feels like restraint more than anything else. “You didn’t answer me,” he corrects. “not once.”

You look away for a second, your gaze dropping to the floor between you, because that part you don’t have a defense for. The closest thing you can manage sounds weak, but you say it anyway, “…I didn’t know what to say.”

“Then you could’ve said that,” he replies immediately, the frustration slipping through a little more now, “Anything would’ve been better than nothing.”

Your head shakes quickly, almost instinctively. “No, you don’t get it,” you insist, your voice picking up again, nerves fraying at the edges. “it’s not just about what to say, it’s— it’s him.” You gesture uselessly to the wall that San’s apartment shares with the hallway.

“San can’t know about this,” you press, your words tumbling out faster now, less controlled. “He just— he can’t. You’re his best friend, Seonghwa. He’s known you longer than I’ve known half the people in my life, and if he finds out that I— that I sent you that—” your voice catches slightly, the memory of the letter alone enough to make your stomach twist. “He’s not going to see it as something normal,” you continue, your breathing uneven now, your thoughts spilling out in a way that feels too exposing, but you can’t stop yourself, “He’s going to think it’s weird, or inappropriate, or— or like I crossed some kind of line, because I did. I did, I know I did, and it’s not like you said anything first, I’m the one who— who put that on you, and if he thinks I made things weird between you two then that’s—”

Your throat tightens, “That’s going to ruin things. For— for you and for him and for me.” By the time you finish, your chest is tight, your breath uneven, like you’ve just run a distance you weren’t prepared for. The hallway feels smaller now, quieter in a way that presses in on you, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead suddenly too sharp against the ringing in your ears. You can feel the heat still lingering in your face, creeping stubbornly beneath your skin, and you hate it; how easily your body betrays you, how it insists on making everything visible even when you’re trying so hard to keep it contained. There’s a faint tremor in your hands that you try to still, pressing your thumb harder into the seam of your sleeve.

When you finally glance up, it’s hesitant, brief at first, testing the waters. The tension that was sitting so sharply in his expression before has eased, not gone entirely, but softened enough to give you hope that this won’t end in argument. His posture isn’t as rigid, his shoulders no longer held quite as tight, as if your words have given him something to work with.

“…Okay,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your eyes flick back up to him, surprised by the shift, “I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he admits, his voice measured. “not in front of him.”

The apology comes, simple and unembellished, and it lands in that strange, fragile space between you. It doesn’t fix everything, but it smooths over the sharpest edge of the moment and takes the immediate sting out of what just happened. You feel it in the way your shoulders drop just slightly, the way your grip on your sleeve loosens a fraction without you meaning for it to. For a second, it almost feels like you can breathe again.

But it doesn’t last.

“Did you mean it?” His gaze doesn’t waver, steady and patient in a way that makes it clear he’s not going to let this dissolve into avoidance again.

Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out at first. Your gaze drops again, instinctively, like you might find the answer somewhere in the space between your feet if you just look long enough.

Your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves, fabric bunching between them, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels remotely solid right now. Your pulse is loud in your ears and your thoughts are moving too fast, tripping over themselves in that familiar, panicked rhythm — fix it, say something, make it go away.

“It wasn’t—” you start, and your voice catches immediately, thin and uncertain. You swallow, forcing yourself to continue, “It wasn’t supposed to get sent.” Your gaze stays down, fixed somewhere near the floor between you. The words feel flimsy the second they leave your mouth, too small for what he asked, too far from an actual answer. “It just… did,” you add swiftly, the pace picking up as you try to build this into something that sounds more acceptable. “I don’t even know how— I must’ve clicked something, or—” you shake your head, cutting yourself off before you get stuck there, “it was an accident.”

You nod faintly, as if that settles it, but it clearly doesn’t because he’s still staring at you, waiting for an actual answer to his question in such a scrutinizing way that you scramble for the words to make this all better.

“And— and it wasn’t… recent,” you continue when you’re faced with his silence that makes you too aware of yourself, “I wrote that a long time ago.”

The lie sits wrong the second it leaves your mouth. Well, not completely wrong — there’s enough distance there that you can almost convince yourself it’s true if you don’t think about it too hard — but not right either, not when you remember sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed last year, typing it out slowly, obsessively, rereading every line like it mattered more than anything else, because at the time, it did.

“It was just…” you let out a small, awkward breath, something that almost resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite land that way, your shoulders shifting restlessly. Your hand lifts slightly, gesturing in that vague, dismissive way like you’re trying to wave it off. “You know. A crush.”

The word lingers in the space between you, and it almost feels too light for what it really is, but you need it to sound this way. You need him to believe that that’s all this really is.

“A stupid one,” you add quickly, layering over it before it can settle. “Like— like those… high school, puppy-love kind of things.” You shake your head again, a little more firmly now, because you’re convincing yourself as much as him. “I just— I got over it, eventually.” Your gaze stays lowered, fixed stubbornly anywhere but him. You’re afraid that if you look up, he’ll see straight through it.

The hallway falls quiet again, the hum of the lights overhead filling the space where your voice just was, and all you can hear now is your own breathing, uneven and shallow.

There’s a long, uncomfortable moment that almost makes you squirm before—

“Okay.”

Your breath catches slightly at the sound of it, your chest tightening again for a different reason now. Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your gaze just enough to look at him.

Seonghwa nods once, like he’s coming to terms with something, his jaw shifting faintly before it settles again. His expression isn’t hard, not upset in any obvious way, but there’s a subtle change there that you can’t quite place.

“If that’s all it was,” he adds after a moment, “…you could’ve just said that,” he murmurs, not quite looking at you this time, his gaze angled slightly past you down the hallway. “Would’ve saved you the trouble.”

He exhales lightly through his nose, dragging a hand back through his hair in a small, absent motion before his attention returns to you, more neutral now and hiding whatever confusing glint in his eyes that you couldn’t place earlier. “I won’t bring it up again,” he maintains after a moment, tone steady, “you don’t have to worry about San.”

For a second, the words don’t land the way they’re supposed to. They’re clean and simple and exactly what you wanted, technically: no confrontation, no drawn-out rejection, no careful, pitying explanation about why it could never happen. He takes what you give him and treats it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding, something small and already resolved.

It should feel like relief, but instead it feels like something hollowing out in your chest. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up to it, a strange, sinking sensation settling low in your stomach. Your shoulders feel lighter in a way that isn’t comforting, like you’ve set something down that you weren’t actually ready to let go of.

You got what you wanted, so why does it somehow feel worse?

Your gaze lingers on him a second too long now that you’ve finally looked up, like you’re trying to catch something before it disappears completely. There’s nothing obvious in his expression, no anger, no accusation, but there’s a distance there now that wasn’t there before. It’s subtle but undeniable, as if he’s already adjusted to this new version of things, already stepping back into a space where you don’t exist in that way anymore.

Your throat feels tight again, but there’s nothing you can say to fix it without undoing everything you just did, so you nod instead, small and almost mechanical. “Yeah,” you murmur, your voice striped of the frantic edge it had earlier. “It’s— it’s not a big deal.

The words taste strange in your mouth. Not a big deal. How could this ever not be a big deal?

Seonghwa watches you for a second longer, searching for something, but whatever he’s looking for, he either doesn’t find it or doesn’t bring it up. He just nods again, in that way that feels sickeningly final, “Alright.”

The hallway suddenly feels too still, the air heavier now that there’s nothing left to say. You become aware of everything all at once: the faint buzz of the overhead lights, the distant, muffled sound of San moving around inside the apartment, the way your heart is still beating just a little too fast for something that’s apparently over.

You shift your weight, the movement small but restless, your body already leaning away before you’ve fully decided to leave. “I should—” you start, your voice trailing off as you gesture vaguely down the hall, the excuse forming out of habit more than necessity. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he replies, easy, like this is normal, like this is how this was always going to end. “I’ll… see you around.”

See you around. It’s such a casual thing to say, something you’ve heard a hundred times before, from a hundred different people. It’s never sounded like this.

You nod again, because that’s all you can do, because it’s easier than acknowledging the way something in your chest twists at how final it feels. “Yeah,” you echo, and then you turn. Your steps feel strange at first, a little too speedy, as if you’re trying to outrun something. The hallway stretches out in front of you, familiar and unchanged, but it feels different now, like you’re moving through it wrong somehow.

You don’t make it far before the quiet starts to press in on you. It follows you down the hall, clinging in that way silence does when it’s not really silence at all, when it’s instead just everything you didn’t say.

Your hand finds the stairwell door without you really thinking about it, pushing it open harder than necessary, the heavy metal giving way with a dull clang that echoes a little too loudly in the enclosed space. The sound startles you more than it should, your shoulders tensing briefly before you force them to relax, exhaling through your nose like you can steady yourself that way.

You stop there for a second once you walk into the brisk end-of-February air, the door swinging shut behind you with a quieter, more final click. Your chest rises and falls a little too fast, your breath visible in the faint chill, and for a moment you just stand there, like your body doesn’t quite know what to do now that it’s over.

Because that’s what it is. Over.

By the time you make it back to your dorm, the world has settled into that late-night quiet that usually feels comforting.

Tonight, it doesn’t.

Your steps slow as you reach your door, your hand hovering over the handle for just a second longer than necessary. There’s a dull kind of exhaustion settling into your bones now, the kind that comes after too much thinking, too much feeling, too much holding yourself together in situations where you didn’t really want to. All you want is to get inside, collapse onto your bed, and not think for a while.

You push the door open and you only get one foot inside the dorm before she’s talking to you.

“Finally—oh my god, where have you been?”

Nakyung is already halfway off her bed, her energy filling the room so completely it feels like you walked into something already in motion. She doesn’t even pause to look at you properly, doesn’t clock the slight stiffness in your posture or the way your shoulders are still holding tension from earlier. She’s too busy, too wound up, her hands already moving as she talks.

“Do you know how I had to find out?” she continues, incredulous, like this is the biggest betrayal of the century. “From Yeosang. Yeosang!”

You blink at her, your brain lagging a full step behind as you shut the door behind you. “…What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” she shoots back immediately, pointing at you like you’re the problem here. “You’re dating Wooyoung? Since when? And why am I hearing it from someone who isn’t you?”

The words land all at once, stacked on top of everything else from tonight, and for a second you just stand there, your hand still loosely holding the knob behind you.

Right. That.

“Oh my god,” Nakyung groans, already pacing now, running a hand through her hair in disbelief. “How long has this been going on? Is it recent? Was it before the party? Wait— was it because of the party? That would actually make so much sense—”

“I—” you start, and immediately realize you have absolutely nothing prepared. You haven’t had the time to make up some meet-cute with Wooyoung, too busy falling into bed with Hongjoong and lying to Seonghwa.

Your mouth opens, then closes again, your brain scrambling uselessly as it tries to piece something together fast enough to keep up with her.

“It’s just—” you try again, your voice already thinner than you want it to be, “it’s… new.”

“That’s not an answer,” she cuts in instantly, waving you off as she continues her pacing. “Like, how new? First date new? Already-kissed new? Oh my god, have you kissed him?”

Heat creeps up your neck immediately, your fingers tightening slightly around your bag strap as your mind flashes — unhelpfully, vividly — to a pair of lips belonging to an entirely different person.

You swallow. “I— no,” you manage, because that part, at least, is technically true. “We just— we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s new.”

“Clearly,” Nakyung mutters, rolling her eyes, though she looks far too excited to actually be annoyed. “Except apparently Yeosang, which is wild, by the way, because how does he know before me?”

You latch onto that, desperate for something to ground the conversation, “I— I guess Wooyoung told him after he asked me to be his girlfriend—“

“Oh my god,” she interrupts again, gasping like this is the most romantic development she’s ever heard. “That’s literally insane. That’s actually insane. Do you even realize how many people would kill to be you right now?”

You let out a small, weak laugh, the sound barely holding together. “I don’t think—”

“Wooyoung?” she presses, turning to you fully now, eyes wide, sparkling with excitement. “Jung Wooyoung? Like, the Jung Wooyoung? Baseball, campus golden boy, annoyingly charming, way too good at everything— that Wooyoung?”

Your nails dig into your palms again, carving crescents into your flesh. “…Yeah,” you confirm, voice softer this time and almost a little resigned.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she can’t physically contain it. “And you just… didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t have time,” you admit, which is the closest thing to the truth you’ve said so far.

She’s already moving again, energy bubbling over, completely caught up in it. “Okay, no, I need everything. Like, right now. Start from the beginning. How did it happen? Who made the first move? Was it him? It was him, right? He definitely made the first move—”

Your brain scrambles again, piecing together fragments, trying to build something believable out of nothing, your thoughts still too tangled from everything else tonight to keep up with her pace. “It just kind of… happened,” you try, the words vague.

“That is not enough detail,” she complains immediately, though she’s already half-talking over you again, filling in the gaps herself. “God, I knew it though. I literally knew something like this would happen. I mean, come on,” she says, like it’s obvious, like this was inevitable from the start. “Sending those emails out? I knew it would land you with, like, some prince charming eventually.”

The world stops. It doesn’t feel dramatic when it happens, even though it absolutely should. It’s like something in you just goes still, the calm before the storm.

Your thoughts don’t crash or spiral like they usually do. They just cut off, abruptly, mid-motion, like someone pulled the plug on them. The room is still there, Nakyung is still talking, her voice continuing on in that same excited rhythm, but it sounds distant now, like it’s coming from somewhere just slightly out of reach.

“…honestly, I should get, like, roommate of the year for that,” she’s saying, laughing lightly to herself. “Landing you with the campus golden boy? That’s insane. You’re welcome, by the way—”

You’re still standing by the door, your bag hanging loosely from your shoulder, your fingers no longer gripping it the way they were before.

Sending those emails out. The words replay, slower this time, enough to pull you out of the halting lull of your mind.

Your gaze shifts to her, really looking at her now for the first time since you walked in. She’s still smiling, still caught up in her own excitement, completely unaware of the way your expression has gone completely blank.

“…What did you just say?” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own when you speak, low and cold and almost scary in a way you’ve never heard from yourself. It cuts cleanly through her ramble in a way that makes her pause for the first time since you walked in.

She blinks at you, thrown off, her momentum faltering. “What?”

You take a step further into the room now, your bag slipping from your shoulder, landing softly against your side, forgotten. “What did you just say?” you repeat, a little sharper this time.

There’s a brief flicker of confusion across her face, like she’s trying to figure out which part you’re asking about. “Uh—” she hesitates, then gestures vaguely, a small, uncertain laugh slipping out. “I said I should get roommate of the year?”

“The emails, Nakyung.” Your voice lifts, cracks through the space between you with something that makes her expression shift immediately, the realization hitting her fast: you’re pissed.

She freezes, actually freezes — mid-breath, mid-thought, her entire body going still because she’s just been caught in something she can’t talk her way out of.

Your heart starts pounding again, but it’s different now. It’s not anxious or panicked in the way you’ve gotten used to. This is something different: anger. “How—” you start, but the words tangle immediately, too many thoughts crashing into each other at once. You take another step toward her without really thinking about it, your movements sharper now, less controlled. “How could you do that?” Your voice rises, louder than she’s probably ever heard it from you, the restraint you usually cling to snapping clean through. “I thought it was an accident,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now, your hands coming up in a helpless, incredulous gesture. “I thought I messed something up, that I clicked something wrong, that I—”

“No, I—” she tries, finally finding her voice again, but it’s weaker now, unsure in a way you’ve never heard from her before. Her lips part, then press together again, her shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of your gaze. “…I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” you repeat, the disbelief in your voice almost incredulous. “Nakyung, those were private. Those weren’t— those weren’t meant for anyone to see, let alone all of them at the same time!”

You’re closer to her now, close enough that she has to tilt her head up slightly to meet your eyes, and there’s something in your posture that makes it look, for a split second, like you might actually do something about it. You don’t, and you wouldn’t, but the possibility sits there, unspoken, in the way your hands clench at your sides.

“I wrote those for me,” you press, your voice shaking now, anger bleeding into something more raw. “I didn’t send them because I wasn’t ready to deal with any of that, and you just— what? Decided to do it for me?”

“I was trying to help!” she blurts out, the words rushing out of her now that she’s been cornered into saying something. “You were miserable, okay? You kept sitting in the room all day, doing nothing, and when I found out about the letters that night of the party, I was sad for you! You were writing all those letters and never doing anything about it, and you were so— so lonely, and I just thought—”

“You thought what?” you demand, your voice rising again.

“That you deserved a chance!” she fires back, her own frustration breaking through now, even if it’s shakier than yours. “I mean, come on, you had, like, four different guys you were clearly into, and you were just sitting on it! I figured—” she gestures helplessly, like this all makes perfect sense in her head, “—four chances are better than one!”

You stare at her, the anger in your chest twisting into something tighter, something that makes your throat feel like it’s closing up.

Four chances. Like your life was some fucking game.

“So you just— what?” you question, your voice more hushed now but no less intense. “You picked for me? You decided that I should just… deal with whatever happened after?”

“I didn’t think it would be a bad thing,” she insists hurriedly, stepping back half a step as your proximity starts to feel like too much. “I thought maybe one of them would respond, and it would be cute, and you’d finally get out of your own head for once—”

“It’s not cute,” you snap, the word hitting harder than you mean for it to. “It’s humiliating!”

The word hangs there, sharper than you intended, heavier than anything else you’ve said so far, and that seems to hit her the hardest.

Nakyung’s expression falters immediately, the last bit of defensiveness draining out of her. Her shoulders drop slightly, the weight of what she did finally settling in properly.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out like the words have been sitting at the back of her throat waiting for a moment to escape. “I’m— I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t think it through,” she continues, her voice smaller now, stumbling over itself in a way that feels familiar even though you’ve never seen it come from her. “I swear I didn’t. I just— I saw them, and I thought it was sad, and I thought you deserved better than just… keeping everything to yourself and never doing anything about it, and I—” she cuts herself off with a frustrated breath, dragging a hand over her face. “I messed up, okay? I know I did.”

Your chest is still tight, your pulse still loud in your ears, the remnants of your anger sitting just beneath the surface like it hasn’t quite decided whether it’s done yet.

“I didn’t mean for it to turn into… this,” she gestures between you vaguely, like ‘this’ could even begin to cover it. “I didn’t think all of them would actually read them, or that it would get around, or— or whatever happened, I don’t know, I just thought maybe one of them would respond and it would be… good. And— I mean…” she hesitates, clearly grasping for something, anything that might make this better. “It kind of… worked? Right?”

You stare at her.

She winces slightly under the look but pushes through anyway, words tumbling out now, desperate. “Like— you’re with Wooyoung now,” she explains, gesturing toward you like that proves her point. “That’s not a bad outcome, right? He’s— he’s great, and he likes you, and you like him, and—”

You almost laugh. Of course she’d try to patch it together with something like that, as if the outcome could ever justify the means. “I didn’t plan that,” you mutter, “That’s not— that doesn’t make this okay.”

“I know,” she agrees, nodding, stepping forward just a little, testing whether it’s safe to close the distance again. “I know it doesn’t, I just— I’m trying to say it’s not all bad. I didn’t completely ruin your life, right?”

There’s a hopeful note in her voice that makes something in your chest twist, not in anger this time, but closer to reluctant understanding.

She’s not calculating, she’s not malicious, she’s just… impulsive and way overly confident in her logic. It’s frustrating, god, it’s so frustrating, but you know she wasn’t being cruel.

You look at her properly now, really taking her in — the way her hands are fidgeting at her sides, the way her posture is slightly hunched in like she’s bracing for you to keep going, the way her words keep tripping over themselves in that same clumsy, anxious way you know you sound when you’re the one trying to explain yourself.

You let out a long breath, your shoulders dropping slightly as the tension finally starts to bleed out of them. “Your logic was insane,” you tell her flatly, running a hand back through your hair. “Like, actually insane.”

“I know,” she expresses immediately, nodding a little too fast. “I know, it was— it was really bad.”

“You don’t just send people’s private stuff without asking,” you continue, your voice steadier, less sharp but still firm. “Ever. I don’t care if you think it’ll help or not.”

“I won’t do it again,” she promises quickly, stepping closer now that you’re no longer advancing on her like you’re going to swing. “I swear, I won’t. I’ll never touch your stuff again, I’ll— I’ll ask, or I’ll just stay out of it completely, I don’t know—”

“Good,” you cut in decisively. “…I’m still mad,” you admit after a second, your gaze dropping briefly before flicking back up to her. “Like— really mad.”

Her face falls a little, but she nods, accepting it. “That’s fair.”

“But…” you hesitate, the word sitting awkwardly in your mouth before you push through it, “I get that you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

That seems to matter to her more than anything else you’ve said so far, relief flickering faintly across her expression. “I really wasn’t,” she replies, gentler now. “I just… wanted something good to happen to you.”

You nod once, because that’s all you have the energy for, and turn away from her before the conversation can stretch any further. Your bag slips fully from your shoulder this time, landing by your desk as you move toward your bed, your movements slower now, heavier. You collapse face-first into the mattress.

You don’t have the capacity for any more conversation today.

By Wednesday, everything has started to blur together in that unpleasant, dragging fashion where time moves forward whether you’re ready for it or not.

You wake up tired, you go to class tired, you sit through lectures barely processing anything beyond the surface of the words being said. Your mind feels crowded, like there’s too much sitting in it at once — Wooyoung and his stupid plan, Hongjoong and the way his hands felt on you, Seonghwa and that look in the hallway, Nakyung and her apology that you accepted because it was easier than staying angry. It all overlaps, bleeds into everything else, makes it hard to focus on anything that used to feel simple.

So when you see the email from Professor Lee, it hits you harder than it probably should.

I’d like to speak with you after class regarding your recent performance.

You spend the rest of the lecture barely hearing a word he says, your eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes, your leg bouncing faintly under the desk. You already know what this is about. You don’t need him to say it. You’ve seen the grades, the slow but steady decline, the assignments you rushed through or turned in late or didn’t put nearly enough thought into.

Still, knowing doesn’t make it any easier when the room starts to empty out and you’re left behind.

The classroom feels too quiet once everyone else leaves, the usual hum of conversation gone, replaced with the faint shuffle of papers as Professor Lee organizes something at his desk. You linger for a second longer than necessary, gathering your things slowly, like delaying this will somehow make it better.

“Come on, have a seat,” he says when you approach, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You do, your movements careful and a little stiff. Your bag settles at your feet, your hands folding together in your lap because you don’t know what else to do with them. You can feel the anxiety sitting in your chest, heavy and familiar, your thoughts already bracing for impact.

He doesn’t drag it out, thankfully. He talks about your grades and how they’ve been slipping, not all at once, but enough to be noticeable. He mentions missed details, weaker analysis, a lack of engagement that wasn’t there at the beginning of the semester. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s firm, making it clear this isn’t something you can brush off.

You sit there, nodding occasionally, your gaze dropping to your hands, fingers twisting together slightly as he speaks. There’s a quiet kind of embarrassment settling in, the kind that doesn’t burn hot like earlier this week, but sits heavy instead, weighing you down.

“I think it would be beneficial for you to work with a tutor,” he maintains eventually.

Your head lifts slightly at that, something in your chest tightening again. A tutor. Of course.

“I’ve already reached out to one of our available tutors for this course,” he continues, glancing briefly at something on his desk. “Given your schedule and theirs, it seemed like the most efficient option.”

There’s a small, uneasy feeling starting to form in your stomach now, something you can’t place yet.

“They’ve agreed to take you on,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “You should be hearing from them soon, if you haven’t already.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten just a little more. “Who is it?” you ask before you can stop yourself, your voice smaller than you intend.

Professor Lee looks up at you, entirely neutral. “Jeong Yunho.”

For a second, you just stare at him, your brain refusing to process it properly, like if you don’t react, maybe it won’t be real, but it is real, sitting there in the space between you, unavoidable. Of course, after everything — after the letter, after the conversation, after the kiss — this is what happens next, like the universe is just… committed to making sure you can’t escape any of it, no matter how hard you try.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening slightly in your lap. “That’s… fine,” you manage, even though it doesn’t feel fine at all. It feels like the exact opposite of fine. It feels like being pushed right back into a situation you were considering killing yourself over the last time you faced it.

Professor Lee nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. I think this will help get you back on track.”

The conversation wraps up shortly after that, but you barely register the rest of it. You gather your things, thank him automatically, and step out of the classroom feeling completely dejected.

You don’t make it very far before the feeling settles in, a quiet kind of dread that makes everything feel just a little harder than it should be. Your thoughts keep circling back, looping over themselves in the most unhelpful ways possible. Very soon, you’re going to have to face Yunho, sitting in front of you again, trying to pretend like you didn’t jump him in the library.

You press your lips together, your grip tightening slightly on your bag strap as you walk. You need a distraction, or a reset, or anything that isn’t standing in the middle of campus replaying the worst possible sequence of events your life has decided to throw at you this week.

The café comes into view before you realize that was even your destination, tucked along the quieter side of campus like it always is, warm light spilling out through the windows. You’ve only been here just enough to know what to expect: low music, the faint hum of conversation, the smell of coffee and sugar that clings to the air in a way that feels almost comforting.

You push the door open and step inside, and the shift is immediate. The noise dulls, replaced with something cozier. There’s a kind of lived-in warmth to the place, wooden tables worn just enough at the edges, mismatched chairs that somehow work together, small plants sitting by the windows. It feels tucked away from everything else, like the world slows down just a little when you’re in here.

You exhale, some of the tension in your shoulders easing.

The line isn’t long, thankfully. You step up when it’s your turn, your voice coming out a little more tired than usual when you order, “Hot chocolate, please. Um… extra whipped cream.”

It feels childish, maybe, but you don’t really care right now. You just want something warm, something sweet, something that doesn’t require you to think too hard.

You take the cup when they call your name, the heat of it seeping into your hands immediately, grounding in a way that you didn’t realize you needed. For a second, you just stand there, letting it settle, before you turn and find a table near the window. You sit, your bag dropping to the floor beside you, your hands curling around the cup as you stare down at it.

The whipped cream is piled a little too high, already beginning to melt at the edges, and you watch it absently. The steam curls up in soft, lazy spirals, blurring your vision just enough that it gives you something to focus on that isn’t the mess in your head. You watch the whipped cream sink slowly into the chocolate beneath it, the edges dissolving in a way that feels unfairly easy compared to everything else in your life right now.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup, soaking in the warmth, trying to anchor yourself to it. Around you, the café continues on like nothing’s wrong, because nothing is. Quiet conversations continue at nearby tables, the low clink of ceramic sounds against wood, the distant whir of the espresso machine cuts clearly through the clutter. It’s all so normal that it almost feels dissonant, like you’ve stepped into a space where your chaos isn’t allowed to follow.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, like your chaos was summoned by your thoughts of it, there’s a soft, deliberate tap against the table.

Your breath catches, your head lifting too quickly, the world snapping back into focus all at once, and there he is. Yunho stands at the edge of your table, his fingers still resting lightly against the wood where he tapped.

He looks the same as last time you saw him, comfortably put together and soft in that effortless way he always is, but there’s something else there too, something more careful in the way he holds himself. It’s clear he’s aware this isn’t a normal interaction.

For a second, neither of you say anything. Your grip tightens around your cup, the warmth suddenly too noticeable, your pulse picking up. It feels unfair when you were just starting to calm down.

“Hey,” he greets awkwardly after a moment, his voice gentle like he’s trying not to startle you.

Your throat feels like the Sahara. “…Hi,” you manage, the word small and barely there.

There’s a brief pause, his gaze flicking over you, not invasive, but observant in a way that makes you feel seen whether you want to be or not.

“Can I sit?” he finally requests, motioning offhandedly to the seat across the table from you.

It’s instinctive and immediate: the urge to say no, to protect the fragile bubble of quiet you’d just managed to carve out for yourself. It’s the knee-jerk reaction to avoid this, avoid him, avoid the conversation that’s clearly coming whether you’re ready for it or not.

That thought runs straight into reality just as quickly. You’re going to have to see him anyway, soon and repeatedly. You’ll have to sit across from him like nothing happened, like you didn’t completely humiliate yourself in front of him and kiss him out of panic.

Avoiding him now won’t fix that, you realize, so you swallow, your fingers loosening slightly around your cup as you nod once, “…Okay.”

He pulls the chair out across from you, the soft scrape of wood against the floor loud in your ears, and sits down, careful in the way he settles. Yunho exhales lightly, his hands coming to rest on the table, fingers lacing together loosely before he glances down at them, then back up at you.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You don’t mean to say anything, you really don’t. You’re fully prepared to just sit there, nod when appropriate, let him say whatever he came to say, and survive this with as little additional humiliation as possible, but the second the silence stretches even a fraction too long, something in you gives.

“I’m really sorry,” You’re sitting there as the words tumble from your lips, hands curled around your cup, watching the last soft peaks of whipped cream collapse into the surface of the drink. “I—” you try again, and then it all spills out before you can stop it. “About the library. That— that wasn’t… I didn’t plan that or anything, I just— I panicked,” you rush, your fingers tightening around your cup, “It was a lot all at once and I didn’t really think and then it just happened and I know that’s not a good explanation but—” You cut yourself off with a small, breathless exhale, daring to chance a look up from your cup and to his face. “I’m really sorry,” you finish lamely.

“It’s okay,” he placates immediately, whether to reassure you or to put a stop to your hopeless rambling, you’re not sure. You glance up, hesitant. You’re expecting something else to follow — awkwardness, discomfort, anything — but it doesn’t come. Yunho just looks at you, shaking his head at the bewildered expression on your face, “Really,” he adds, “that’s not why I came over.”

Your thoughts stutter at that. What else could he possibly be here for, if not to address the way you threw yourself at him?

He exhales lightly, his gaze dipping for a second before returning to you. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t hurt you.”

You blink at that, “What?”

“Back then,” he clarifies, his voice still gentle. “When I—” he pauses, the word rejected hanging in the air between you before he continues, “I’ve been thinking about it,” he maintains, his fingers shifting slightly against the table, restless in an understated way. “About how I handled that conversation. I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed,” he tells you, his eyes steady on yours now, searching in a way that makes it hard to look away. “or like you did something wrong.”

Something in your chest pulls tight at that, because you did feel that way. You still do, a little.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, “about the situation, that it wouldn’t be right.”

You shift slightly in your seat, your shoulder brushing the back of the chair as you instinctively pull in just a fraction. Your gaze drops again, drawn back to the surface of your drink, even though you’re not really seeing it anymore.

“But…” He shifts slightly, a small adjustment in posture that feels like him recalibrating, choosing how far to go with this. “that doesn’t mean I didn’t, like… think about it.” The phrasing is vague, intentionally so, you assume.

As if just realizing how he sounded, he hurries to clarify, the tips of his ears gaining a pink tint, “Like, as in, I gave it thought. Not like, um—“ His breath stutters, and his hand reaches up to adjust his glasses. A nervous habit of his, you think, “I just— I just mean that I liked our sessions.” Your brows knit faintly, caught off guard by the shift. “I still do.”

There’s something in the way he says it, like it carries far more weight than the surface meaning. “You’re…” he pauses, his gaze drifting for a second like he’s searching for the exact word, then returning to you. “You’re really consistent.”

Your fingers still faintly against the cup, your attention catching on the word, trying to figure out what he means by it. It’s not what you expected, but you let him continue, hoping the longer he talks the more this will finally make some fucking sense.

“You show up,” he continues, his voice more thoughtful now, working through something he’s noticed over time. “Even when you don’t want to, or when it’s hard, you don’t check out, you try to understand it,” he carries on, “and even when you’re tired, or confused, or not in the mood for it, you still try.”

Heat creeps up your neck, slow and uninvited at the way he just tells you how you are, observant in a way you weren’t prepared for. “And you listen,” he adds, the faintest hint of something almost tender woven into his voice, “like… actually listen, not just to get through it, but because you want to understand.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“I like that about you, and I think… I think we’d make good friends, if you want that. I know your, um… feelings won’t just change, and, I, uh… I don’t want you to feel like you have to respond a certain way just because I’m your tutor,” he continues, nervous as your silence stretches on too long, “Or like I’m taking advantage of that. But, uh, just because we can’t… do whatever this would be,” he gestures faintly between the two of you, the motion small, “doesn’t mean we can’t still, y’know, be friends. Right?”

Your grip on the cup loosens without you realizing it, your fingers sliding slightly against the cardboard sleeve as the warmth fades into something barely there.

There’s a part of you, small and stubborn and a little pathetic, that wants to ask what he meant before, about thinking about it. You want to ask him about the way his voice dipped, just slightly, like there was more there that he wasn’t letting himself say.

But you don’t, because you’re afraid of ruining what has somehow, against all odds, turned into the best possible outcome of this situation.

Your throat feels a little tight when you finally lift your gaze back to him. He’s watching you patiently, bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say. “I…” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to, a little uneven at the edges. You clear your throat softly, trying to steady it, your fingers curling faintly against the cup again just to ground yourself, “Yeah, I mean… that would be good. I’d like that.”

It’s subtle at first, just the faintest lift at the corners of his mouth, but it builds quickly into something brighter and almost disarmingly genuine. He has the kind of smile that feels truly authentic, as if it slipped out before he could even think to contain it.

“Oh— okay. Yeah,” he grins, and there’s a noticeable shift in his energy, tension released. He sits up a little straighter without realizing it, his shoulders loosening, his hands fidgeting lightly against the table like he suddenly has too much energy and nowhere to put it. “Yeah, that’s— that’s good.”

There’s something almost endearing about the way he looks right now, the slight pink still dusting the tips of his ears, the way his smile lingers a second too long like he can’t quite hide how relieved he is with this outcome.

Your heart stutters, a traitorous flutter that you immediately try to ignore, your grip tightening faintly around your cup again. You just agreed to be friends, so why do you have butterflies over something as simple as his smile?

“Um—” he starts suddenly, like he’s just remembered something important, his gaze darting briefly toward the clock mounted near the counter. The shift is immediate, the easy warmth giving way to mild panic as his eyes widen just slightly. “Oh—wait, I—” He huffs out a quiet, breathy laugh, dragging a hand back through his hair in a quick, slightly flustered motion. “I’m gonna be late.”

The words come out rushed now, his body already shifting like he’s halfway out of the conversation before he’s even stood up. He gathers his things, stacking his notebook and adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder with slightly clumsy efficiency.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was,” he adds, glancing back at you, and there’s a glint of earnest apology in his expression, the kind that makes it hard to be anything but understanding.

“It’s okay,” you manage, watching the way he moves like he’s trying to be swift without being abrupt.

“I’ll—” he starts, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes again, something a little more grounded slipping back into his expression. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? For tutoring.”

“Yeah,” you echo lamely.

His smile returns, smaller this time but no less warm, and then he’s stepping back from the table, already turning toward the door. He gives a small, absent wave over his shoulder as he goes, pushing it open with his foot as he adjusts his bag again, the bell above the café door chiming softly as he disappears back out into the world you were trying to hide from just minutes ago.

And just like that, he’s gone.

The café settles back into its quiet rhythm around you, the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of cups and dishes behind the counter, the muted shuffle of people moving in and out. It’s all the same as before, unchanged.

You exhale slowly, sinking back slightly into your chair, your fingers tracing absently along the rim of your cup. Friends. The word lingers in your mind, a little uncomfortable for a reason you don’t want to address.

Your phone buzzes suddenly against the table, the sharp vibration cutting cleanly through your thoughts and making you flinch slightly. You glance down, your brows pulling together faintly as you reach for it, your hand hovering for just a second before you flip it over.

It’s a message from Wooyoung, the little gray ‘W’ that serves as his contact photo staring back at you.

change of plans, tiny

ur coming with me to hyunjin’s party

taglist | @j4mergy @yuki-sama6 @sinn6rs

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masterlist | part one , part two , part three , part four

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