winteringdream

You frown, a little embarrassed. “Isn’t that why you’re here too?”

He tilts his head slightly, “I’m writing a paper about how harmonic transitions in Romantic compositions reflect the era’s ideological shifts. Nationalism, revolution, that kind of thing.”

That’s not the answer you expected. You had thought he was one of your peers who has been trying to get his hands on the book. 

“You're using Schumann for politics?” you say, half-disbelieving. 

He smirks. “Originality gets you more points.”

You glance at the book again. He still hasn’t let go. The rain outside continues to drum steadily against the windows. 

“You let me borrow it first. I’ll scan what I need in twenty minutes and then it’s yours.” He offers suddenly, pulling the book out of the shelf.

“Why?” you ask, skeptical, narrowing your eyes.

Sungho glances at you and then his gaze flickers down for a second. He seems to notice something he hadn’t before.

“Your hands,” he says.

You follow his eyes instinctively. Your fingers are raw at the joints, a fading purple bruise near your thumb from hours of octaves. A few calluses where the skin never quite heals.

He doesn’t look away.

“You’ve probably practiced more in the last two days than I’ve slept,” he mutters, “I’m not exactly generous, but I know what that kind of dedication looks like.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “Take however long you like to scan the pages.”

A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It won’t take long,” he says, pulling out his phone and motioning for you to join him. 

You both make your way toward the small reading table tucked near the back of the store. You pull the book between you and sit down while he carefully opens it, sliding his phone out to scan a few pages.

He glances at you mid-scan. “So, you’re a student at Eunhae conservatory?”

You smile faintly. “Yes, that’s right. I’m currently in my second year and piano has been kicking my ass.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“I’m Park Sungho,” he says after a pause, offering his hand without looking up from the page. “Political science, as you may have guessed.”  

You hesitate a moment, then take it.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N L/N.”

“I’ll remember that name for when you’re famous.” Sungho jokes, as he flips the page. You grin, but it quickly falters. 

“I’m not so sure about famous.” 

The second time you saw Sungho was in the city park. You and your friend Nien were enjoying a picnic when the two of you decided to play some music just for fun. You pull out the ukulele that had been collecting dust in your room, and Nien chuckles at the sight of it. 

“I thought you had thrown it away.” She laughs, her hand reaching out to wipe away the dust on it. 

“I was thinking about it, but I’m too attached to it.” You reply, as you begin to tune it. It’s terribly out of tune, but it only takes you a few tries before it’s back in tune. 

You strum a few chords to make sure everything sounds fine before beginning to strum a familiar tune, one that Nien knows all too well. 

It’s I will by The Beatles, a song the two of you practiced in your freshman year as an assignment. 

“The memories!” Nien exclaims, as she hums along.

Laughter bubbles between you both as you miss a chord and quickly recover. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sungho walks  along the nearby path, his steps slowing as a faint melody catches his attention.  

“What are you looking at?” Riwoo asks, a few feet ahead of him. 

The scene before him is unexpectedly warm and genuine. Two friends singing a song they both seem to have practiced with genuine love for music. 

He watches as you strum, Nien’s laughter echoes through the park, and Sungho finds himself smiling without realizing why. 

Then his eyes land on you, really land. Recognition dawns slowly, that it’s you. The pianist he had met a few weeks ago at the book shop.

“Seriously?” he says under his breath, stepping forward.

“Sungho!” Riwoo calls out, a little louder this time. 

You look up, startled to hear his name spoken so clearly in the park. Sungho jumps up abruptly, cheeks flushed as he realizes he’s been caught watching you and Nien.

“Uh… hey,” he says, running a hand through his hair, trying to cover the awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I swear. I just heard music and thought I’d see who was playing.”

You smile, and watch as he walks over to your picnic blanket.

Sungho’s gaze flickers to your ukulele as you absentmindedly strum a soft chord. “That sounded really good, by the way.”

“We played this song for an assignment last year.” Nien explains as she eyes Sungho up and down once. “I’m Hsu Nien Tzu, by the way. Call me Nien.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Sungho smiles, “I’m Park Sungho, the two of us met when in the book shop.” He explains as he turns back to you

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to unwind lately. Piano’s been intense, especially with that Schumann midterm coming up.” You put down the ukulele and roll your wrists, feeling the pain from the numerous practice sessions. 

There’s a pause, the kind that’s comfortable rather than awkward. Then, gathering a bit of courage, you say, “Actually, I’m performing a recital next week at Eunhae Conservatory. It’s also a piece by Schumann. If you’re interested, you should come.”

Sungho raises an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden invitation. He looks at Riwoo, who gives him a thumbs up from afar. 

“A recital sounds serious. You must be really talented.”

You shrug, a small laugh escaping. “I’m still learning. Honestly, having someone there who isn’t a music major would be nice.”

He smiles, realising he’s happy to hear that you want him in the audience. “When is it?”

You pull out your phone and scroll to the event details, handing it to him. “Next Friday evening. It’s at the conservatory’s recital hall.”

Sungho studies the screen for a moment, then looks back up at you. “I’ll be there and if you want, maybe I can help you practice some political speeches in exchange for some piano lessons.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “We’ll see, I think your friends are waiting for you.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Then I’ll see you next Friday,”

He gives the two of you one last wave before running off to his friends. Nien studies your face as your eyes follow him. 

“I sense that there’s love in the air.” 

The polished wooden floor gleam softly under the dimmed lights, and rows of chairs are neatly arranged facing the grand Steinway piano that stands center stage. 

A quiet murmur of the audience fills the room, fellow students, professors and family have all joined.

Backstage, you sit in a small waiting area, your hands folded nervously on your lap. The faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers drifts through the air. Your fingers flex automatically, remembering the hours of practice.

The piece is muscle memory by now, all those days you spent practicing have all come down to this day. And even though you won’t get graded, even though this is just a way to showcase the students of Eunhae, you are extremely nervous. 

Nien is nearby, offering encouraging smiles but wisely keeping quiet. You can feel your heart beating loudly in your chest. Your gaze flicks to the program pamphlet in your hands, your name printed there, bold and clear: Y/N L/N —  Schumann Abegg variations, Op.1.

Then, a soft ripple of applause announces the previous performer’s final notes, and the stage manager nods toward you. 

You stand up, smoothing the front of your simple dress, and walk toward the stage. The spotlight warms your skin, and the auditorium seems to hold its breath as you settle onto the bench before the piano. The black and white keys glisten, the way they only do during recitals.

As you place your fingers on the keys, you catch a glimpse of someone near the front row. Park Sungho. He’s sitting upright, eyes focused intently. You give him a small nod, which he returns with a supportive smile.

You can feel the room’s stillness, the collective attention of the audience.  All the focus is only on you, every movement, every note you press being perceived by hundreds of people. 

At times, your muscles ache from tension, but you push through, determined to finish the piece the way you’ve practiced countless times .

When your hands finally leave the keys of the piano, applause breaks out. You stand up, your cheeks flushed. 

From the audience, Sungho is clapping the loudest, a proud glint in his eyes. You bow twice, before disappearing backstage again. 

Your heart is  still racing when you make your way to the hallway where everyone has gathered. Parents and friends warmly greet the person they’ve come to watch, and the strong scent of flowers lingers in the hallway.

Suddenly, you feel someone gently brush past the crowd toward you. You turn around to see Sungho holding a small bouquet wrapped in paper. Fresh lilies and soft white roses.

“For you,” he says, handing the flowers over with a shy smile. “I figured a recital without flowers just wouldn’t be right. I’m not lying when I say you were the highlight of the night.”

You smile, touched by the gesture, and reach out to take the bouquet. But as your fingers closed around the paper, a sharp twinge of pain shoots through your hand and wrist, making you wince.

Sungho’s hand swiftly closes around your lower arm, steadying you and keeping the flowers from slipping out of your grasp.

His eyes immediately narrow in concern. “Hey, are you okay? Your hand, did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing, just a little cramp from all the practice.” Although you’re a little startled yourself too. The pain in your hand has never been this bad before. 

He gently takes your hand in his, carefully inspecting it as if he can will away the pain with his touch. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, haven’t you? You should be more careful.”

You glanced down at your hand. For a moment, you consider brushing it off again, but something in Sungho’s worry makes you pause.

“Maybe I need to rest more,” you admit softly. “At least this recital is over, so I won’t be practicing as hard anymore.” 

Sungho gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. You’ll actually injure yourself if you continue to push yourself like this.”

You nod, feeling warmth spread not just from the kindness behind his words. Holding the flowers, your hand still aches, but you don’t want to make him worry any more.

A few days after the recital, you find yourself behind the counter of the small café where you work part-time. The familiar scent of ground coffee beans and the sweet scent of baked goods comforts you. 

Your right hand, still tender from the strain of recital practice, aches faintly. The doctor’s advice to rest it has been easier said than done. Every movement, every small task behind the counter, reminds you of the advice of the doctor. You keep your gestures slow, careful not to injure yourself even more.

The café is relatively quiet this late afternoon. A few students tap away at laptops, and a pair of elderly friends chat softly over tea. You move smoothly behind the counter, wiping down tables, restocking cups, and arranging pastries.

Then, the bell over the door jingles. You glance up and your heart unexpectedly flutters. It’s Sungho, dressed casually in a white shirt and dark jeans. His eyes scan the room and land on you with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he greets, approaching the counter. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

You smile back, a little breath caught in your throat. “Yeah, part-time, got to pay the bills somehow.”

He orders a black coffee, and as you prepare it, your fingers tremble slightly. You quickly hide it behind the counter.

“You okay?” Sungho asks, noticing your hesitation.

“Yeah, just still a bit sore from the recital,” you reply, forcing a light tone. “But it’s getting better.”

He nods, eyes lingering on your hand for a moment before looking away. “That’s good. You should take it easy though. I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

You nod, grateful for his concern.

Suddenly, the café grows a bit louder as more customers trickle in. A young woman behind you, balancing a tray with two steaming cups, steps forward hurriedly to get to a table.

“Watch out!” you hear a warning, but it’s too late.

The woman stumbles slightly on the uneven floorboard, her grip slipping. One cup of piping hot coffee tilts and before you can react, the scalding liquid splashes across your exposed right hand and wrist.

A sharp, searing pain erupts through your skin. You cry out involuntarily, jerking your hand back and dropping the towel you’d been holding. The hot liquid drips onto the floor as you clutch your hand tightly, your breath hitching with shock and agony.

Sungho immediately moves beside you, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh my god, are you okay? Show me your hand!”

The woman gasps, her face pale with guilt and fear. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to steady your shaking voice. The pain is sharp as you watch your skin turning red where the coffee touched you.

Someone from the café rushes over with a bowl of lukewarm water and towels. You dunk your hand carefully into the water.

Sungho kneels beside you, his brows furrowed deeply. “We need to get you to a hospital. This looks serious.”

The next few hours blur into a haze of sterile lights and antiseptic smells. At the emergency room, a doctor examines your hand, peeling back the wet cloths to inspect the burn.

“This is a second-degree burn,” the doctor explains gently. “You’ll need to keep it clean, apply ointment, and avoid any strenuous movement for at least a month.”

“I’m a music major, a pianist. Is it also necessary to avoid the piano?” You ask, your voice shaky because you already know what the answer is. 

“Yes, I’d recommend at least 2-3 weeks of no piano. Or at least not practicing for too long.” 

Your chest tightens, the words not even registering completely. Half a month without piano. You quickly thank the doctor, before exiting the room. 

Outside, Sungho jumps up at the sight of you. “Is it bad? Can you still practice?” 

You don’t reply, tears prickling at your eyes, not just from the pain, but the sudden, crushing reality of your situation. 

You already felt so uncertain about music, but now that you manage to get yourself injured you can’t help but think that maybe you shouldn’t have devoted yourself to music in the first place. 

“Hey,” Sungho tries again, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “What did the doctor say?”

You stand there, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on a spot just beyond his shoulder. If you look at him, if you see the concern in his face, you might cry right there in the hospital hallway.

“They said no piano,” you finally whisper. Your voice cracks, and your fingers curl slightly around the gauze bandages wrapped around your hand. “At least for a few weeks. I can’t even… I can’t even practice.”

Sungho exhales, a low breath between clenched teeth, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say quickly, but your voice is trembling. “It’s mine. I was already overworking my hand and now this. Maybe I’m just not meant to do this. Maybe I shouldn’t have—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. The tears you’ve been holding in finally begin to slip free.

Without a word, Sungho closes the distance between you. He doesn’t say anything at first, he just wraps his arms gently around you, careful not to touch your injured hand. 

“I know this feels like the end of the world right now,” he says into your hair. “But it’s not. You’re hurt, yeah, but it’s temporary. Your music isn’t going anywhere.”

You shake your head against his shoulder. “I’m not even sure if I’m any good. I’ve been wondering about that for months now. And now this, it’s like the universe confirming I’m not supposed to do this.”

Sungho pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting lightly on your arms. His expression is serious, his dark brows drawn together.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t twist one bad accident into a prophecy. You’re not cursed, you’re not untalented. You’re human. You worked your ass off for that recital, and you were brilliant. I watched every second of it and so did everyone else in that room.”

You bite your lip, looking away, but his words make something stir in your chest.

“You know what I think?” he continues. “I think you’re scared. Not because you can’t do this, but because you care so much, it hurts. That’s why it feels like the end of the world, because music matters to you.”

You stare at him and you feel your heart soften. Sungho notices the shift in your expression and gently brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. 

“Just focus on healing your hand. I’ll help however I can.”

You give him a faint, teary laugh and he smiles at the sound. 

“I’ll be okay, right?” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Sungho squeezes your uninjured hand gently. “Yeah. You will, and until you can play again, I’ll just have to keep you distracted.”

It’s a Saturday afternoon when Sungho texts you. He had promised to keep your mind off of not being able to play piano, but you didn’t think he actually meant it. 

[Sungho📚 ]: since you can’t play piano right now [Sungho📚 ]: i’ve decided you need a new talent [Sungho📚 ]: we’re cooking dinner at my place

You stare at your phone for a moment, amused, before replying:

[You]: Is this your sneaky way of making me suffer through your cooking? [Sungho📚 ]: yes. but you’re the co-chef so it’s technically your fault too.

You arrive at his apartment just as the sun begins to dip outside, casting golden light through his windows. He greets you with an apron half-tied around his waist. 

His house is tidy, but there’s a suspicious number of kitchen utensils already scattered across the counter. A cookbook lies open, its pages already stained with flour and a smudge of sauce.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits, gesturing toward an assortment of ingredients: garlic, some questionable onions, three kinds of pasta (“for options,” he claims), and what looks like a single shriveled tomato.

You laugh. “You said dinner. These ingredients won’t even produce enough food for a bird.”

“I have more in the pantry,” he says, picking up the tomato. “How do you chop this again?”

You take a seat at the counter, your bandaged hand resting in your lap. “You don’t, that tomato’s dead.”

Soon, you’re guiding him through the basics. He insists on doing all the work because “You’re the injured artist here”. So you sit and instruct, occasionally stepping in with your uninjured hand when he nearly burns something.

“You’re using the wrong knife,” you say for the third time.

He glares playfully, then points the spatula at you. “One more comment and I’m throwing you into the pasta.”

“I’d like to see you try.” You chuckle, as Sungho stirs the pasta that is boiling in the water. 

At one point, he’s stirring pasta and a bit of water splashes around. “Shit, did it get on you?” He asks, worried. Sungho mentally scolds himself for the fact that he’s putting you in danger even though he’s supposed to help distract you.

“It didn’t get on me.” You quickly say, hopping off of the counter. “Don’t worry so much, Sungho.” 

Dinner ends up being a strange hybrid of garlic bread, and pasta that tastes surprisingly good. You both sit on the floor with plates in hand, backs against his kitchen cabinets, laughing at how nice it tastes.

“You know,” he says, chewing slowly, “I think I’m getting better at this.”

“No,” you reply immediately. “But you’re excellent entertainment.”

He nudges your shoulder gently. “Hey. That was the point.”

You glance over at him and smile, heart swelling just a little. Sungho can’t deny the feelings bubbling up inside him. How he wishes he could reach out, brush the hair from your face, take your hand and just hold it. 

How he wishes he could tell you that you don’t have to prove anything, not to the world, not even to yourself.

He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. “You know, I wouldn’t be mad if this became a regular thing.”

You laugh, and you feel his gaze lingering on you and when you glance up, he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I meant it, you know,” he says, voice a bit lower now. “About helping you get through this. I’m not just saying it because you’re hurt.”

Your breath catches slightly. “Then why are you saying it?”

Sungho hesitates. “Because I care about you. More than I probably should, and I don’t want this to be temporary.” He says, his voice soft and certain. 

You don’t respond right away. You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist. Sungho watches as your fingers dance around on his wrist, as if they’re pressing the keys of the piano.

“It doesn’t have to be temporary,” you whisper.

Sungho has been coming over lately, keeping his promise to distract and help you with your injury. But, his help seems futile when all you can think about is how uncertain and unstable a future with music is.  

It starts with something small.

You’re reaching for your sheet music with your injured hand, mind elsewhere, focused on remembering how the chord progression in the second movement felt. Your fingertips graze the edge of the page when a hand intercepts yours.

“Don’t,” Sungho says gently, his palm brushing yours before he pulls the music out of reach. “You promised you’d rest today.”

You blink at him. “I am resting,” you say, but the words come out with more bite than intended. 

Sungho lets out a soft breath, tilting his head in that way he does when he’s trying to be patient. “You’re clearly not. I saw your hand shake yesterday when you poured tea. And today you’re trying to practice again. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to stop—”

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, but your voice trembles and you’re already pacing. “I know you mean well, but you don’t understand what this is, Sungho. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day wondering if you made the wrong choice, if the thing you built your entire life around is slipping through your fingers. I chose music because I believed in it, because it’s the only thing I’ve ever truly loved, the only thing I’ve ever given all of myself to.”

Sungho straightens up slowly, his arms folding across his chest. “I am trying to understand. That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time. Trying to be here, trying to protect you from making it worse.”

You laugh bitterly. “Right. Protect me.”

He says nothing.

You continue, the words bubbling up too fast, “I’m not your responsibility, Sungho. You don’t get to play nurse or savior just because you feel guilty for watching me struggle.”

His brow furrows. “You think this is about guilt?”

“I don’t know what it’s about,” you admit, voice cracking. “All I know is that every time you tell me to rest, to take it easy, it feels like you’re telling me I’m already failing, like it’s already over. If I stop now, I might not start again. Do you know what that feels like?”

He’s quiet for a beat, “No. I don’t. I’ve never had to wonder if my body would betray me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what pressure feels like, or doubt, or losing things that matter.”

You shake your head, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not the same. I can’t change bodies. I can’t start from zero. I only have this.” you lift your bandaged hand slightly “What if it doesn’t work again, then what am I?”

His face hardens, jaw clenching. “I’m only doing this because I care about you,” he says, voice low, quiet, but he sounds hurt. “I’ve been worried about you every day since the accident. But if you can’t see that I’m on your side, then maybe we need space.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You just turn away, staring blankly at the piano bench as you try to steady your breathing. 

“I’ll see you around,” Sungho says softly, as he closes the door. He looks back hoping you’d at least turn around, but you don’t.  

A few days passed with complete silence. No texts, no calls and no visits. Part of you wanted to reach out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start the conversation again. Because the truth still hadn’t changed: he didn’t understand.

So instead, you buried yourself in the only thing you had left: practice.

It wasn’t real practice, just slow scales with your left hand, and very very light practice with your right, nothing that would push it too far. You followed every rule the doctor gave you. 

But the silence between you and Sungho itched beneath your skin and made your fingers twitch. You needed to prove to yourself that you were getting better and that you could come back from this.

So, one late afternoon, when the campus was quiet, you slipped into an empty practice room and sat at the piano.

You told yourself it would just be a few chords, but your hand wanted more. You wanted more.

The familiar feeling of being able to play an actual piece is better than you expected. Ever since you were 5 you’ve been away from the piano for such a long time. A smile tugs at your lips, the music filling your ears 

Suddenly, pain blooms from your palm. Your fingers seize mid-motion, and you immediately stop playing. You let out a soft cry and jerk your hand back, clutching it to your chest.

Your hand trembles slightly, as you stare at the keys of the piano. After all that rest, 3 weeks of waiting as the doctor recommended, things still hadn’t improved. 

It wasn’t the burn wound that hurt, it was a pain that shot through your wrist and spread to your fingers, as if it came from somewhere else. 

You try to breathe through the panic and heavy disappointment. You can still hear the unfinished phrase echoing in your ears.

You don’t look when you hear the door creak open, assuming it’s another student looking for an empty practice room.

“I thought you might be here,” Sungho’s voice sounds loud in the quiet practice room.

You say nothing, mind still fixated on the pain. You feel him approach with caution. He stands in the doorway, watching you with that expression you’d seen before.

Gently, he kneels down beside you. “Can I see?” he asks.

You hesitate, then slowly hold your hand out. It’s trembling in that way you hate, as if doing nothing is already straining it. Sungho’s hands are warm and steady as he examines your hand, his thumb brushing the base of your palm with careful pressure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right. I don’t know how you feel, or how to help you. I thought that if I kept you away from the piano, you’d stop hurting.”

You finally look up at him.

“What am I supposed to do when this is all I know how to be?” You ask, voice barely a breath. 

He meets your gaze, “I don’t have the answers, but I think maybe  you just needed someone to sit beside you. Not to fix you, just to be here.”

The breakdown didn’t come that night.

It came the next day. 

You were home, curled up on the floor of your apartment. Your sheet music lay scattered across the rug and you couldn’t stop shaking. You didn’t even know why, not exactly.

Your mind spun in circles. What if it never heals? What if your right hand never recovers? What if you pushed yourself to the point of no turning back?

You tried to breathe, but you couldn’t, the what-if’s making you feel physically ill.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You picked up your phone.

“Park Sungo.” You mumble absentmindedly as you scroll through your contacts, your fingers trembling, not because of the pain, but because of the panic. 

He picks up immediately. “Hey, is everything okay?”

You try to answer, but the words catch in your throat. Your lips part, then close again, and suddenly it’s like you’ve forgotten how to speak. 

“I don't know,” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause on the other end, you can hear how quickly Sungho shifts. You hear rustling, the jingle of keys, the sound of a door slamming behind him.

“I’m coming,” he says without hesitation. “Don’t hang up, okay? Just stay with me.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Okay,” you whisper.

Your phone is warm against your ear as you continue to lay on the ground. He doesn’t talk much as he makes his way over. He just murmurs things now and then to let you know he’s still there. “Almost there.” “I’m turning onto your street.” “Just a minute more.”

You hear the knock at your door less than ten minutes later. He only knocks once, before opening the door himself. 

His hair tousled from running but he quickly steps inside without a word. He drops his bag by the door and gently makes his way over to you.

It’s not until he quietly reaches for your hand that the last thread snaps.

“I’m scared,” you breathe, and the tears come faster than you can stop them. “I’m so scared, Sungho.”

He pulls you into his arms without hesitation. His arms wrap tight around you as you sob into his shoulder.

Sungho doesn’t say anything, he just holds you tighter. You can feel his hand at the back of your head, his palm against your spine.

“You’re still you,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Even without the piano, you’re still you.”

You pull back a little, just enough to look at him. “But I don’t even know if I’m getting better. My hand, it seized up again. I felt it, and all I could think was, ‘What if this is it?’ What if I can’t come back from this?”

He cups your face gently, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Even if you walk away from it entirely,” he says. “I don’t care about your career. I care about you. The you who lights up when she hears her favorite chord progression. The you who still picked up a dusty ukulele in the middle of a park just to feel something again.”

“I just don’t want to lose it all,” you say.

He nods slowly. “I know. But even if everything changes, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s been a week since that night on your apartment floor. Things haven’t magically gotten better but it’s gotten better. 

One afternoon, your phone buzzes with a message.

[Sungho📚] do u have a couple hours free tonight? [Sungho📚] i want to take you somewhere. [Sungho📚] dress warm

[You]: mystery date should I be worried? [Sungho📚]: i’ll pick you up at 6 🫡

At 6 p.m. sharp, he’s outside your apartment in his usual black coat, a coffee in one hand and something paper-wrapped in the other.

“For you,” he says as you step outside.

You take it carefully and peel back the wrapping. It’s an almond pastry from the café you once told him you loved, even though you barely go anymore. 

“Where are we going?” you ask as he leads you down the street.

“You’ll see.”

You don’t even realize where you're headed until you turn the last corner. Your steps slow and Sungho chuckles at the look on your face when you see where the two of you are.

The little bookstore.

You stop just outside it. The same cracked wooden sign swings gently in the wind, the windows still a little bit dirty. It’s like nothing changed.

“I thought,” Sungho says softly, “maybe we could go back to where it all started.”

Your heart stutters. You glance at him, and he’s watching you with that quietly serious look he always has on his face.

“You remembered,” you murmur.

“Of course I did.” He pushes the door open for you, the bell above it chiming the exact same note you remember.

Inside, it’s almost empty. A soft jazz track plays from the corner speaker. It smells like old stories, paper and tea leaves.

You follow Sungho toward the music section, your breath catching when you pass the same table. The one where you first sat down together as strangers.

He gestures to it. “Thought maybe we could sit again.”

You lower yourself into the seat slowly, running your fingers over the grain of the wood. “You know,” you say, “I wasn’t even planning to go here that day.”

“You were escaping the rain.” Sungho recalls. 

“And you let me borrow the book.”

He smiles. “Still have the receipt you gave it back in.”

Your eyes widen. “You kept that?”

Sungho shrugs, almost sheepish. “I didn’t know why I did it at the time. Just felt like I should.”

The bookstore is quieter than you remembered it, and maybe that’s why your heartbeat feels so loud.  Maybe it’s the way  Sungho sits across from you like you’re the only person in the world, in the way his knee brushes yours under the small wooden table and doesn’t move.

You’ve spent nearly an hour there, looking through pages, talking about your first impressions of each other. At some point, he finds a candle on a shelf labeled “scent of old sonatas” and insists on buying it for you. You roll your eyes, but it ends up in your coat pocket anyway.

The sky is turning lavender-blue by the time you step out. It should be an ending to the date, but Sungho stops just outside the bookstore, near the edge of the sidewalk. His eyes are on the sky for a moment before they flicker down to you.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hm?”

“I was going to wait,” he says quietly, “but I don’t want to anymore.”

You pause, the air caught in your lungs. “Wait for what?”

He swallows, then shifts slightly, facing you more fully. “For the right time. For when you’re healed. For when you’re not overwhelmed or doubting yourself. But the truth is, I don’t want to keep pretending like I haven’t already.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath in. 

“I like you, a lot more than just like, actually.” His voice drops lower, steadier. “I know things are hard right now. I know you’re not sure where you’re headed, but I’m not here because I think you’re perfect or because I want you to be okay all the time. I’m here because even when you’re not okay I still want to be where you are.”

You stare at him and you can feel your cheeks heat up, your heart beating loudly.

“I’ve felt this way since that day in the park,” he admits. “And I thought maybe I should keep it to myself. I thought it was selfish to tell you about my feelings when you were struggling. But I can’t help it anymore. I just—”

You reach forward before he can finish. Your fingers wrap around his coat sleeve, pulling him closer to you.

“I like you too.” you whisper. “Even when I’m not sure about what will happen to me.”

“I know,” he says, not even hesitating. “But I’ll be there for you. If you’ll let me.”

He doesn’t kiss you, not yet. He just reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers and smiles. And as you smile back, Sungho feels like his heart is about to explode.

Tonight, it’s raining.

You’re curled up on Sungho’s couch in a hoodie that used to be his, watching the steam from your mug twist up toward the ceiling. 

Your hand rests on your lap, wrapped in a soft compression glove. Sungho is at the counter, warming up dinner. It’s kimchi fried rice that he swore would be “better than the last batch”.

He glances over. “Are you falling asleep again?”

“No,” you murmur. “Just listening to the rain.”

He brings over two bowls and sets one in front of you before flopping down beside you with his own. 

“I still think you have a superpower,” he says as he scoops a bite of rice. “You make silence feel nice.”

You raise a brow. “That’s the lamest compliment I’ve ever heard.”

He grins. “Don’t lie, I know you love it.”

You do.

The two of you eat in comfortable quiet for a while, until he sets his bowl down and leans back against the couch, watching you.

“You played today,” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod, trying not to sound too proud. “A full two pages without stopping.”

Sungho’s eyes brighten. “That’s amazing, Y/N.”

“It felt okay. ”

“Good.” He gently takes your hand and lifts it to his lips for a quick kiss. “You’ve been working so hard.”

You blink, a little stunned by how tender the gesture is. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice everything,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You look at him, heart swelling at how completely serious he is.

“And I don’t care how long it takes,” he adds. “If you never perform again, if you take five more years, if you change your path entirely. I just want to be the one beside you through it.”

Your eyes sting a little, and you hate how easily he can do that to you now.

“I think I’m getting used to having you around,” you say quietly.

Sungho smirks. “Only took three months of intense emotional labor.”

You laugh, and before you can say anything else, he shifts closer and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. You tilt your head up and Sungho knows exactly what you want as he presses a kiss on your lips.

When he pulls away, your heart is beating a little faster, but your hands aren’t shaking.

“Stay the night?” he asks, voice low. You nod, as you tilt your head towards him again. He chuckles, before pressing one last kiss on your lips before telling you to choose a movie.

You frown, a little embarrassed. “Isn’t that why you’re here too?”

He tilts his head slightly, “I’m writing a paper about how harmonic transitions in Romantic compositions reflect the era’s ideological shifts. Nationalism, revolution, that kind of thing.”

That’s not the answer you expected. You had thought he was one of your peers who has been trying to get his hands on the book. 

“You're using Schumann for politics?” you say, half-disbelieving. 

He smirks. “Originality gets you more points.”

You glance at the book again. He still hasn’t let go. The rain outside continues to drum steadily against the windows. 

“You let me borrow it first. I’ll scan what I need in twenty minutes and then it’s yours.” He offers suddenly, pulling the book out of the shelf.

“Why?” you ask, skeptical, narrowing your eyes.

Sungho glances at you and then his gaze flickers down for a second. He seems to notice something he hadn’t before.

“Your hands,” he says.

You follow his eyes instinctively. Your fingers are raw at the joints, a fading purple bruise near your thumb from hours of octaves. A few calluses where the skin never quite heals.

He doesn’t look away.

“You’ve probably practiced more in the last two days than I’ve slept,” he mutters, “I’m not exactly generous, but I know what that kind of dedication looks like.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “Take however long you like to scan the pages.”

A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It won’t take long,” he says, pulling out his phone and motioning for you to join him. 

You both make your way toward the small reading table tucked near the back of the store. You pull the book between you and sit down while he carefully opens it, sliding his phone out to scan a few pages.

He glances at you mid-scan. “So, you’re a student at Eunhae conservatory?”

You smile faintly. “Yes, that’s right. I’m currently in my second year and piano has been kicking my ass.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“I’m Park Sungho,” he says after a pause, offering his hand without looking up from the page. “Political science, as you may have guessed.”  

You hesitate a moment, then take it.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N L/N.”

“I’ll remember that name for when you’re famous.” Sungho jokes, as he flips the page. You grin, but it quickly falters. 

“I’m not so sure about famous.” 

The second time you saw Sungho was in the city park. You and your friend Nien were enjoying a picnic when the two of you decided to play some music just for fun. You pull out the ukulele that had been collecting dust in your room, and Nien chuckles at the sight of it. 

“I thought you had thrown it away.” She laughs, her hand reaching out to wipe away the dust on it. 

“I was thinking about it, but I’m too attached to it.” You reply, as you begin to tune it. It’s terribly out of tune, but it only takes you a few tries before it’s back in tune. 

You strum a few chords to make sure everything sounds fine before beginning to strum a familiar tune, one that Nien knows all too well. 

It’s I will by The Beatles, a song the two of you practiced in your freshman year as an assignment. 

“The memories!” Nien exclaims, as she hums along.

Laughter bubbles between you both as you miss a chord and quickly recover. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sungho walks  along the nearby path, his steps slowing as a faint melody catches his attention.  

“What are you looking at?” Riwoo asks, a few feet ahead of him. 

The scene before him is unexpectedly warm and genuine. Two friends singing a song they both seem to have practiced with genuine love for music. 

He watches as you strum, Nien’s laughter echoes through the park, and Sungho finds himself smiling without realizing why. 

Then his eyes land on you, really land. Recognition dawns slowly, that it’s you. The pianist he had met a few weeks ago at the book shop.

“Seriously?” he says under his breath, stepping forward.

“Sungho!” Riwoo calls out, a little louder this time. 

You look up, startled to hear his name spoken so clearly in the park. Sungho jumps up abruptly, cheeks flushed as he realizes he’s been caught watching you and Nien.

“Uh… hey,” he says, running a hand through his hair, trying to cover the awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I swear. I just heard music and thought I’d see who was playing.”

You smile, and watch as he walks over to your picnic blanket.

Sungho’s gaze flickers to your ukulele as you absentmindedly strum a soft chord. “That sounded really good, by the way.”

“We played this song for an assignment last year.” Nien explains as she eyes Sungho up and down once. “I’m Hsu Nien Tzu, by the way. Call me Nien.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Sungho smiles, “I’m Park Sungho, the two of us met when in the book shop.” He explains as he turns back to you

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to unwind lately. Piano’s been intense, especially with that Schumann midterm coming up.” You put down the ukulele and roll your wrists, feeling the pain from the numerous practice sessions. 

There’s a pause, the kind that’s comfortable rather than awkward. Then, gathering a bit of courage, you say, “Actually, I’m performing a recital next week at Eunhae Conservatory. It’s also a piece by Schumann. If you’re interested, you should come.”

Sungho raises an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden invitation. He looks at Riwoo, who gives him a thumbs up from afar. 

“A recital sounds serious. You must be really talented.”

You shrug, a small laugh escaping. “I’m still learning. Honestly, having someone there who isn’t a music major would be nice.”

He smiles, realising he’s happy to hear that you want him in the audience. “When is it?”

You pull out your phone and scroll to the event details, handing it to him. “Next Friday evening. It’s at the conservatory’s recital hall.”

Sungho studies the screen for a moment, then looks back up at you. “I’ll be there and if you want, maybe I can help you practice some political speeches in exchange for some piano lessons.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “We’ll see, I think your friends are waiting for you.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Then I’ll see you next Friday,”

He gives the two of you one last wave before running off to his friends. Nien studies your face as your eyes follow him. 

“I sense that there’s love in the air.” 

The polished wooden floor gleam softly under the dimmed lights, and rows of chairs are neatly arranged facing the grand Steinway piano that stands center stage. 

A quiet murmur of the audience fills the room, fellow students, professors and family have all joined.

Backstage, you sit in a small waiting area, your hands folded nervously on your lap. The faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers drifts through the air. Your fingers flex automatically, remembering the hours of practice.

The piece is muscle memory by now, all those days you spent practicing have all come down to this day. And even though you won’t get graded, even though this is just a way to showcase the students of Eunhae, you are extremely nervous. 

Nien is nearby, offering encouraging smiles but wisely keeping quiet. You can feel your heart beating loudly in your chest. Your gaze flicks to the program pamphlet in your hands, your name printed there, bold and clear: Y/N L/N —  Schumann Abegg variations, Op.1.

Then, a soft ripple of applause announces the previous performer’s final notes, and the stage manager nods toward you. 

You stand up, smoothing the front of your simple dress, and walk toward the stage. The spotlight warms your skin, and the auditorium seems to hold its breath as you settle onto the bench before the piano. The black and white keys glisten, the way they only do during recitals.

As you place your fingers on the keys, you catch a glimpse of someone near the front row. Park Sungho. He’s sitting upright, eyes focused intently. You give him a small nod, which he returns with a supportive smile.

You can feel the room’s stillness, the collective attention of the audience.  All the focus is only on you, every movement, every note you press being perceived by hundreds of people. 

At times, your muscles ache from tension, but you push through, determined to finish the piece the way you’ve practiced countless times .

When your hands finally leave the keys of the piano, applause breaks out. You stand up, your cheeks flushed. 

From the audience, Sungho is clapping the loudest, a proud glint in his eyes. You bow twice, before disappearing backstage again. 

Your heart is  still racing when you make your way to the hallway where everyone has gathered. Parents and friends warmly greet the person they’ve come to watch, and the strong scent of flowers lingers in the hallway.

Suddenly, you feel someone gently brush past the crowd toward you. You turn around to see Sungho holding a small bouquet wrapped in paper. Fresh lilies and soft white roses.

“For you,” he says, handing the flowers over with a shy smile. “I figured a recital without flowers just wouldn’t be right. I’m not lying when I say you were the highlight of the night.”

You smile, touched by the gesture, and reach out to take the bouquet. But as your fingers closed around the paper, a sharp twinge of pain shoots through your hand and wrist, making you wince.

Sungho’s hand swiftly closes around your lower arm, steadying you and keeping the flowers from slipping out of your grasp.

His eyes immediately narrow in concern. “Hey, are you okay? Your hand, did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing, just a little cramp from all the practice.” Although you’re a little startled yourself too. The pain in your hand has never been this bad before. 

He gently takes your hand in his, carefully inspecting it as if he can will away the pain with his touch. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, haven’t you? You should be more careful.”

You glanced down at your hand. For a moment, you consider brushing it off again, but something in Sungho’s worry makes you pause.

“Maybe I need to rest more,” you admit softly. “At least this recital is over, so I won’t be practicing as hard anymore.” 

Sungho gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. You’ll actually injure yourself if you continue to push yourself like this.”

You nod, feeling warmth spread not just from the kindness behind his words. Holding the flowers, your hand still aches, but you don’t want to make him worry any more.

A few days after the recital, you find yourself behind the counter of the small café where you work part-time. The familiar scent of ground coffee beans and the sweet scent of baked goods comforts you. 

Your right hand, still tender from the strain of recital practice, aches faintly. The doctor’s advice to rest it has been easier said than done. Every movement, every small task behind the counter, reminds you of the advice of the doctor. You keep your gestures slow, careful not to injure yourself even more.

The café is relatively quiet this late afternoon. A few students tap away at laptops, and a pair of elderly friends chat softly over tea. You move smoothly behind the counter, wiping down tables, restocking cups, and arranging pastries.

Then, the bell over the door jingles. You glance up and your heart unexpectedly flutters. It’s Sungho, dressed casually in a white shirt and dark jeans. His eyes scan the room and land on you with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he greets, approaching the counter. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

You smile back, a little breath caught in your throat. “Yeah, part-time, got to pay the bills somehow.”

He orders a black coffee, and as you prepare it, your fingers tremble slightly. You quickly hide it behind the counter.

“You okay?” Sungho asks, noticing your hesitation.

“Yeah, just still a bit sore from the recital,” you reply, forcing a light tone. “But it’s getting better.”

He nods, eyes lingering on your hand for a moment before looking away. “That’s good. You should take it easy though. I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

You nod, grateful for his concern.

Suddenly, the café grows a bit louder as more customers trickle in. A young woman behind you, balancing a tray with two steaming cups, steps forward hurriedly to get to a table.

“Watch out!” you hear a warning, but it’s too late.

The woman stumbles slightly on the uneven floorboard, her grip slipping. One cup of piping hot coffee tilts and before you can react, the scalding liquid splashes across your exposed right hand and wrist.

A sharp, searing pain erupts through your skin. You cry out involuntarily, jerking your hand back and dropping the towel you’d been holding. The hot liquid drips onto the floor as you clutch your hand tightly, your breath hitching with shock and agony.

Sungho immediately moves beside you, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh my god, are you okay? Show me your hand!”

The woman gasps, her face pale with guilt and fear. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to steady your shaking voice. The pain is sharp as you watch your skin turning red where the coffee touched you.

Someone from the café rushes over with a bowl of lukewarm water and towels. You dunk your hand carefully into the water.

Sungho kneels beside you, his brows furrowed deeply. “We need to get you to a hospital. This looks serious.”

The next few hours blur into a haze of sterile lights and antiseptic smells. At the emergency room, a doctor examines your hand, peeling back the wet cloths to inspect the burn.

“This is a second-degree burn,” the doctor explains gently. “You’ll need to keep it clean, apply ointment, and avoid any strenuous movement for at least a month.”

“I’m a music major, a pianist. Is it also necessary to avoid the piano?” You ask, your voice shaky because you already know what the answer is. 

“Yes, I’d recommend at least 2-3 weeks of no piano. Or at least not practicing for too long.” 

Your chest tightens, the words not even registering completely. Half a month without piano. You quickly thank the doctor, before exiting the room. 

Outside, Sungho jumps up at the sight of you. “Is it bad? Can you still practice?” 

You don’t reply, tears prickling at your eyes, not just from the pain, but the sudden, crushing reality of your situation. 

You already felt so uncertain about music, but now that you manage to get yourself injured you can’t help but think that maybe you shouldn’t have devoted yourself to music in the first place. 

“Hey,” Sungho tries again, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “What did the doctor say?”

You stand there, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on a spot just beyond his shoulder. If you look at him, if you see the concern in his face, you might cry right there in the hospital hallway.

“They said no piano,” you finally whisper. Your voice cracks, and your fingers curl slightly around the gauze bandages wrapped around your hand. “At least for a few weeks. I can’t even… I can’t even practice.”

Sungho exhales, a low breath between clenched teeth, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say quickly, but your voice is trembling. “It’s mine. I was already overworking my hand and now this. Maybe I’m just not meant to do this. Maybe I shouldn’t have—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. The tears you’ve been holding in finally begin to slip free.

Without a word, Sungho closes the distance between you. He doesn’t say anything at first, he just wraps his arms gently around you, careful not to touch your injured hand. 

“I know this feels like the end of the world right now,” he says into your hair. “But it’s not. You’re hurt, yeah, but it’s temporary. Your music isn’t going anywhere.”

You shake your head against his shoulder. “I’m not even sure if I’m any good. I’ve been wondering about that for months now. And now this, it’s like the universe confirming I’m not supposed to do this.”

Sungho pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting lightly on your arms. His expression is serious, his dark brows drawn together.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t twist one bad accident into a prophecy. You’re not cursed, you’re not untalented. You’re human. You worked your ass off for that recital, and you were brilliant. I watched every second of it and so did everyone else in that room.”

You bite your lip, looking away, but his words make something stir in your chest.

“You know what I think?” he continues. “I think you’re scared. Not because you can’t do this, but because you care so much, it hurts. That’s why it feels like the end of the world, because music matters to you.”

You stare at him and you feel your heart soften. Sungho notices the shift in your expression and gently brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. 

“Just focus on healing your hand. I’ll help however I can.”

You give him a faint, teary laugh and he smiles at the sound. 

“I’ll be okay, right?” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Sungho squeezes your uninjured hand gently. “Yeah. You will, and until you can play again, I’ll just have to keep you distracted.”

It’s a Saturday afternoon when Sungho texts you. He had promised to keep your mind off of not being able to play piano, but you didn’t think he actually meant it. 

[Sungho📚 ]: since you can’t play piano right now [Sungho📚 ]: i’ve decided you need a new talent [Sungho📚 ]: we’re cooking dinner at my place

You stare at your phone for a moment, amused, before replying:

[You]: Is this your sneaky way of making me suffer through your cooking? [Sungho📚 ]: yes. but you’re the co-chef so it’s technically your fault too.

You arrive at his apartment just as the sun begins to dip outside, casting golden light through his windows. He greets you with an apron half-tied around his waist. 

His house is tidy, but there’s a suspicious number of kitchen utensils already scattered across the counter. A cookbook lies open, its pages already stained with flour and a smudge of sauce.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits, gesturing toward an assortment of ingredients: garlic, some questionable onions, three kinds of pasta (“for options,” he claims), and what looks like a single shriveled tomato.

You laugh. “You said dinner. These ingredients won’t even produce enough food for a bird.”

“I have more in the pantry,” he says, picking up the tomato. “How do you chop this again?”

You take a seat at the counter, your bandaged hand resting in your lap. “You don’t, that tomato’s dead.”

Soon, you’re guiding him through the basics. He insists on doing all the work because “You’re the injured artist here”. So you sit and instruct, occasionally stepping in with your uninjured hand when he nearly burns something.

“You’re using the wrong knife,” you say for the third time.

He glares playfully, then points the spatula at you. “One more comment and I’m throwing you into the pasta.”

“I’d like to see you try.” You chuckle, as Sungho stirs the pasta that is boiling in the water. 

At one point, he’s stirring pasta and a bit of water splashes around. “Shit, did it get on you?” He asks, worried. Sungho mentally scolds himself for the fact that he’s putting you in danger even though he’s supposed to help distract you.

“It didn’t get on me.” You quickly say, hopping off of the counter. “Don’t worry so much, Sungho.” 

Dinner ends up being a strange hybrid of garlic bread, and pasta that tastes surprisingly good. You both sit on the floor with plates in hand, backs against his kitchen cabinets, laughing at how nice it tastes.

“You know,” he says, chewing slowly, “I think I’m getting better at this.”

“No,” you reply immediately. “But you’re excellent entertainment.”

He nudges your shoulder gently. “Hey. That was the point.”

You glance over at him and smile, heart swelling just a little. Sungho can’t deny the feelings bubbling up inside him. How he wishes he could reach out, brush the hair from your face, take your hand and just hold it. 

How he wishes he could tell you that you don’t have to prove anything, not to the world, not even to yourself.

He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. “You know, I wouldn’t be mad if this became a regular thing.”

You laugh, and you feel his gaze lingering on you and when you glance up, he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I meant it, you know,” he says, voice a bit lower now. “About helping you get through this. I’m not just saying it because you’re hurt.”

Your breath catches slightly. “Then why are you saying it?”

Sungho hesitates. “Because I care about you. More than I probably should, and I don’t want this to be temporary.” He says, his voice soft and certain. 

You don’t respond right away. You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist. Sungho watches as your fingers dance around on his wrist, as if they’re pressing the keys of the piano.

“It doesn’t have to be temporary,” you whisper.

Sungho has been coming over lately, keeping his promise to distract and help you with your injury. But, his help seems futile when all you can think about is how uncertain and unstable a future with music is.  

It starts with something small.

You’re reaching for your sheet music with your injured hand, mind elsewhere, focused on remembering how the chord progression in the second movement felt. Your fingertips graze the edge of the page when a hand intercepts yours.

“Don’t,” Sungho says gently, his palm brushing yours before he pulls the music out of reach. “You promised you’d rest today.”

You blink at him. “I am resting,” you say, but the words come out with more bite than intended. 

Sungho lets out a soft breath, tilting his head in that way he does when he’s trying to be patient. “You’re clearly not. I saw your hand shake yesterday when you poured tea. And today you’re trying to practice again. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to stop—”

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, but your voice trembles and you’re already pacing. “I know you mean well, but you don’t understand what this is, Sungho. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day wondering if you made the wrong choice, if the thing you built your entire life around is slipping through your fingers. I chose music because I believed in it, because it’s the only thing I’ve ever truly loved, the only thing I’ve ever given all of myself to.”

Sungho straightens up slowly, his arms folding across his chest. “I am trying to understand. That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time. Trying to be here, trying to protect you from making it worse.”

You laugh bitterly. “Right. Protect me.”

He says nothing.

You continue, the words bubbling up too fast, “I’m not your responsibility, Sungho. You don’t get to play nurse or savior just because you feel guilty for watching me struggle.”

His brow furrows. “You think this is about guilt?”

“I don’t know what it’s about,” you admit, voice cracking. “All I know is that every time you tell me to rest, to take it easy, it feels like you’re telling me I’m already failing, like it’s already over. If I stop now, I might not start again. Do you know what that feels like?”

He’s quiet for a beat, “No. I don’t. I’ve never had to wonder if my body would betray me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what pressure feels like, or doubt, or losing things that matter.”

You shake your head, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not the same. I can’t change bodies. I can’t start from zero. I only have this.” you lift your bandaged hand slightly “What if it doesn’t work again, then what am I?”

His face hardens, jaw clenching. “I’m only doing this because I care about you,” he says, voice low, quiet, but he sounds hurt. “I’ve been worried about you every day since the accident. But if you can’t see that I’m on your side, then maybe we need space.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You just turn away, staring blankly at the piano bench as you try to steady your breathing. 

“I’ll see you around,” Sungho says softly, as he closes the door. He looks back hoping you’d at least turn around, but you don’t.  

A few days passed with complete silence. No texts, no calls and no visits. Part of you wanted to reach out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start the conversation again. Because the truth still hadn’t changed: he didn’t understand.

So instead, you buried yourself in the only thing you had left: practice.

It wasn’t real practice, just slow scales with your left hand, and very very light practice with your right, nothing that would push it too far. You followed every rule the doctor gave you. 

But the silence between you and Sungho itched beneath your skin and made your fingers twitch. You needed to prove to yourself that you were getting better and that you could come back from this.

So, one late afternoon, when the campus was quiet, you slipped into an empty practice room and sat at the piano.

You told yourself it would just be a few chords, but your hand wanted more. You wanted more.

The familiar feeling of being able to play an actual piece is better than you expected. Ever since you were 5 you’ve been away from the piano for such a long time. A smile tugs at your lips, the music filling your ears 

Suddenly, pain blooms from your palm. Your fingers seize mid-motion, and you immediately stop playing. You let out a soft cry and jerk your hand back, clutching it to your chest.

Your hand trembles slightly, as you stare at the keys of the piano. After all that rest, 3 weeks of waiting as the doctor recommended, things still hadn’t improved. 

It wasn’t the burn wound that hurt, it was a pain that shot through your wrist and spread to your fingers, as if it came from somewhere else. 

You try to breathe through the panic and heavy disappointment. You can still hear the unfinished phrase echoing in your ears.

You don’t look when you hear the door creak open, assuming it’s another student looking for an empty practice room.

“I thought you might be here,” Sungho’s voice sounds loud in the quiet practice room.

You say nothing, mind still fixated on the pain. You feel him approach with caution. He stands in the doorway, watching you with that expression you’d seen before.

Gently, he kneels down beside you. “Can I see?” he asks.

You hesitate, then slowly hold your hand out. It’s trembling in that way you hate, as if doing nothing is already straining it. Sungho’s hands are warm and steady as he examines your hand, his thumb brushing the base of your palm with careful pressure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right. I don’t know how you feel, or how to help you. I thought that if I kept you away from the piano, you’d stop hurting.”

You finally look up at him.

“What am I supposed to do when this is all I know how to be?” You ask, voice barely a breath. 

He meets your gaze, “I don’t have the answers, but I think maybe  you just needed someone to sit beside you. Not to fix you, just to be here.”

The breakdown didn’t come that night.

It came the next day. 

You were home, curled up on the floor of your apartment. Your sheet music lay scattered across the rug and you couldn’t stop shaking. You didn’t even know why, not exactly.

Your mind spun in circles. What if it never heals? What if your right hand never recovers? What if you pushed yourself to the point of no turning back?

You tried to breathe, but you couldn’t, the what-if’s making you feel physically ill.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You picked up your phone.

“Park Sungo.” You mumble absentmindedly as you scroll through your contacts, your fingers trembling, not because of the pain, but because of the panic. 

He picks up immediately. “Hey, is everything okay?”

You try to answer, but the words catch in your throat. Your lips part, then close again, and suddenly it’s like you’ve forgotten how to speak. 

“I don't know,” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause on the other end, you can hear how quickly Sungho shifts. You hear rustling, the jingle of keys, the sound of a door slamming behind him.

“I’m coming,” he says without hesitation. “Don’t hang up, okay? Just stay with me.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Okay,” you whisper.

Your phone is warm against your ear as you continue to lay on the ground. He doesn’t talk much as he makes his way over. He just murmurs things now and then to let you know he’s still there. “Almost there.” “I’m turning onto your street.” “Just a minute more.”

You hear the knock at your door less than ten minutes later. He only knocks once, before opening the door himself. 

His hair tousled from running but he quickly steps inside without a word. He drops his bag by the door and gently makes his way over to you.

It’s not until he quietly reaches for your hand that the last thread snaps.

“I’m scared,” you breathe, and the tears come faster than you can stop them. “I’m so scared, Sungho.”

He pulls you into his arms without hesitation. His arms wrap tight around you as you sob into his shoulder.

Sungho doesn’t say anything, he just holds you tighter. You can feel his hand at the back of your head, his palm against your spine.

“You’re still you,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Even without the piano, you’re still you.”

You pull back a little, just enough to look at him. “But I don’t even know if I’m getting better. My hand, it seized up again. I felt it, and all I could think was, ‘What if this is it?’ What if I can’t come back from this?”

He cups your face gently, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Even if you walk away from it entirely,” he says. “I don’t care about your career. I care about you. The you who lights up when she hears her favorite chord progression. The you who still picked up a dusty ukulele in the middle of a park just to feel something again.”

“I just don’t want to lose it all,” you say.

He nods slowly. “I know. But even if everything changes, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s been a week since that night on your apartment floor. Things haven’t magically gotten better but it’s gotten better. 

One afternoon, your phone buzzes with a message.

[Sungho📚] do u have a couple hours free tonight? [Sungho📚] i want to take you somewhere. [Sungho📚] dress warm

[You]: mystery date should I be worried? [Sungho📚]: i’ll pick you up at 6 🫡

At 6 p.m. sharp, he’s outside your apartment in his usual black coat, a coffee in one hand and something paper-wrapped in the other.

“For you,” he says as you step outside.

You take it carefully and peel back the wrapping. It’s an almond pastry from the café you once told him you loved, even though you barely go anymore. 

“Where are we going?” you ask as he leads you down the street.

“You’ll see.”

You don’t even realize where you're headed until you turn the last corner. Your steps slow and Sungho chuckles at the look on your face when you see where the two of you are.

The little bookstore.

You stop just outside it. The same cracked wooden sign swings gently in the wind, the windows still a little bit dirty. It’s like nothing changed.

“I thought,” Sungho says softly, “maybe we could go back to where it all started.”

Your heart stutters. You glance at him, and he’s watching you with that quietly serious look he always has on his face.

“You remembered,” you murmur.

“Of course I did.” He pushes the door open for you, the bell above it chiming the exact same note you remember.

Inside, it’s almost empty. A soft jazz track plays from the corner speaker. It smells like old stories, paper and tea leaves.

You follow Sungho toward the music section, your breath catching when you pass the same table. The one where you first sat down together as strangers.

He gestures to it. “Thought maybe we could sit again.”

You lower yourself into the seat slowly, running your fingers over the grain of the wood. “You know,” you say, “I wasn’t even planning to go here that day.”

“You were escaping the rain.” Sungho recalls. 

“And you let me borrow the book.”

He smiles. “Still have the receipt you gave it back in.”

Your eyes widen. “You kept that?”

Sungho shrugs, almost sheepish. “I didn’t know why I did it at the time. Just felt like I should.”

The bookstore is quieter than you remembered it, and maybe that’s why your heartbeat feels so loud.  Maybe it’s the way  Sungho sits across from you like you’re the only person in the world, in the way his knee brushes yours under the small wooden table and doesn’t move.

You’ve spent nearly an hour there, looking through pages, talking about your first impressions of each other. At some point, he finds a candle on a shelf labeled “scent of old sonatas” and insists on buying it for you. You roll your eyes, but it ends up in your coat pocket anyway.

The sky is turning lavender-blue by the time you step out. It should be an ending to the date, but Sungho stops just outside the bookstore, near the edge of the sidewalk. His eyes are on the sky for a moment before they flicker down to you.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hm?”

“I was going to wait,” he says quietly, “but I don’t want to anymore.”

You pause, the air caught in your lungs. “Wait for what?”

He swallows, then shifts slightly, facing you more fully. “For the right time. For when you’re healed. For when you’re not overwhelmed or doubting yourself. But the truth is, I don’t want to keep pretending like I haven’t already.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath in. 

“I like you, a lot more than just like, actually.” His voice drops lower, steadier. “I know things are hard right now. I know you’re not sure where you’re headed, but I’m not here because I think you’re perfect or because I want you to be okay all the time. I’m here because even when you’re not okay I still want to be where you are.”

You stare at him and you can feel your cheeks heat up, your heart beating loudly.

“I’ve felt this way since that day in the park,” he admits. “And I thought maybe I should keep it to myself. I thought it was selfish to tell you about my feelings when you were struggling. But I can’t help it anymore. I just—”

You reach forward before he can finish. Your fingers wrap around his coat sleeve, pulling him closer to you.

“I like you too.” you whisper. “Even when I’m not sure about what will happen to me.”

“I know,” he says, not even hesitating. “But I’ll be there for you. If you’ll let me.”

He doesn’t kiss you, not yet. He just reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers and smiles. And as you smile back, Sungho feels like his heart is about to explode.

Tonight, it’s raining.

You’re curled up on Sungho’s couch in a hoodie that used to be his, watching the steam from your mug twist up toward the ceiling. 

Your hand rests on your lap, wrapped in a soft compression glove. Sungho is at the counter, warming up dinner. It’s kimchi fried rice that he swore would be “better than the last batch”.

He glances over. “Are you falling asleep again?”

“No,” you murmur. “Just listening to the rain.”

He brings over two bowls and sets one in front of you before flopping down beside you with his own. 

“I still think you have a superpower,” he says as he scoops a bite of rice. “You make silence feel nice.”

You raise a brow. “That’s the lamest compliment I’ve ever heard.”

He grins. “Don’t lie, I know you love it.”

You do.

The two of you eat in comfortable quiet for a while, until he sets his bowl down and leans back against the couch, watching you.

“You played today,” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod, trying not to sound too proud. “A full two pages without stopping.”

Sungho’s eyes brighten. “That’s amazing, Y/N.”

“It felt okay. ”

“Good.” He gently takes your hand and lifts it to his lips for a quick kiss. “You’ve been working so hard.”

You blink, a little stunned by how tender the gesture is. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice everything,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You look at him, heart swelling at how completely serious he is.

“And I don’t care how long it takes,” he adds. “If you never perform again, if you take five more years, if you change your path entirely. I just want to be the one beside you through it.”

Your eyes sting a little, and you hate how easily he can do that to you now.

“I think I’m getting used to having you around,” you say quietly.

Sungho smirks. “Only took three months of intense emotional labor.”

You laugh, and before you can say anything else, he shifts closer and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. You tilt your head up and Sungho knows exactly what you want as he presses a kiss on your lips.

When he pulls away, your heart is beating a little faster, but your hands aren’t shaking.

“Stay the night?” he asks, voice low. You nod, as you tilt your head towards him again. He chuckles, before pressing one last kiss on your lips before telling you to choose a movie.

BOYFRIEND WOONHAK WHO WOULD... pout if you didn’t give him enough attention, only to break into a huge smile the moment you look his way.

You’re sitting at your desk, completely focused on your work, when you feel a presence beside you. Ignoring it at first, you continue typing, until an exaggerated sigh sounds from beside you.

You glance up to find Woonhak standing there, arms crossed, lips pushed out in the biggest pout you’ve ever seen.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ve been ignoring me for exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds,” he huffs.

You roll your eyes. “You’ll survive, I need to finish this before the deadline give me a few more minutes.”

Woonhak lets out another dramatic sigh, loudly flopping onto the couch. But the second you turn your chair toward him, his pout vanishes, replaced by a bright, cheeky grin.

“Knew that’d get your attention,” he says, throwing a pillow in your direction.

You shake your head, laughing, before catching the pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me~” he sing-songs, winking.

BOYFRIEND WOONHAK WHO WOULD...never let you go to bed upset, staying up as long as it takes to talk things through and reassure you that everything is okay.

You sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the floor. The room is quiet. Woonhak is next to you, his usual playful energy gone.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. No teasing, no jokes just him patiently waiting.

You shake your head, not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t what to say.

Woonhak shifts closer, his fingers brushing yours before he takes your hand fully. “I don’t care how long it takes,” he murmurs. “I just don’t want you to go to sleep feeling like this.”

You swallow and slowly exhale. “I just… I don’t like fighting with you.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Me neither. But we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Are you mad at me? Do you hate me?” you murmur, refusing to look him in the eye.

“What? Of course not” he replies, tilting his head until he makes eye contact with you. "I'm not mad at you and I don't hate you. Couples fight, that's normal. I still love you, no matter what."

You nod, and Woonhak pulls you into his arms, holding you close like he has all the time in the world.

BOYFRIEND WOONHAK WHO WOULD... insist on winning you plushies at the arcade, and if he failed, he’d dramatically accuse the machine of being rigged.

The claw hovers over the plushie, Woonhak’s eyes locked on it with intense focus. You hold your breath as he presses the button, watching the metal claws go down, grip the stuffed animal.

Woonhak stands frozen as the stuffed bear tumbles back into the pile. There’s a moment of silence before he turns to you, eyes wide with betrayal. “What was that? I had it!”

"Or maybe you’re just bad at it.” you snort.

He gasps, clutching his chest. “How dare you?” Then, he spins back to the machine, jabbing a finger at it. “This thing is rigged. There’s no way.”

You cross your arms, amused. “So you’re done?”

Woonhak scoffs. “Obviously not. Have you never seen that mining picture, babe. Our next turn might be it!” He steps aside and gestures grandly. “So now it’s your turn. But don’t worry, I’ll coach you.”

You give him a look. “Oh, so now I have to play?”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “We win together.”

And just like that, he’s holding you by your shoulders, muttering game strategies like this is the most important mission of your life.

BOYFRIEND WOONHAK WHO WOULD... send you the most ridiculous selfies whenever he is bored

Your phone buzzes, and without even looking, you already know who it is.

Opening the message, you’re greeted by a ridiculously close-up selfie. His face scrunched in a way that somehow makes his nose look huge, chin tucked in for maximum effect.

"thinking about you… but also about chicken nuggets. idk which one i love more"

You giggle, typing out a reply to his text.

"glad to know I rank as high as processed chicken"

Almost immediately, your phone dings again. This time, it’s a picture of him with dramatically wide eyes, one hand over his chest as if your words physically wounded him.

"you don’t get it you and nuggets are my entire world"

Rolling your eyes, you’re about to respond when another picture arrives. This time, it’s him sitting in what looks like a fast-food restaurant, two orders of nuggets in front of him.

"one box is for you. come claim your place in my heart."

You shake your head, laughing to yourself. He’s ridiculous. But you’re already grabbing your jacket.

woonhak swore that he was fine. totally fine. it was just a little fall. it was totally worth the flip he tried to land off the bleachers ( it wasn’t worth it ). here he was now, sitting in class with a dumb bright cast on his arm and an obnoxious pout on his face. you walked in a bit late, as usual, sliding behind him before pointing at his casted arm. “so you actually broke your arm,” you chuckled, “you’re such a dumbass, oh my god!” you grinned. “it’s not broken, just fractured… ‘kay?” woonhak muttered, trying his hardest to sound cool, but his ears were already turning red. you sat next to him and grazed your hand over his cast, bland and boring you thought. “crazy how nobody has signed your cast yet,” you spoke, rummaging through your bag to find a sharpie. “it’s fine, not like i want—” he paused, eyes widened as he realized what was going on. “wait are you going too—” “yup,” you smiled, trying to think of something to write. woonhak tried his best to hide the smile that was creeping up his face. as woonhak looked away in embarrassment, you quickly wrote “woonhak, get better soon, or else.” with a cute heart on it. woonhak turned back and you gave him a cheeky smile, closing the marker and pushing it into your bag once again. he stared at the message as if it was carved into his soul. “damn, i’m never washing this cast..” “you’re not supposed to wash the cast in the first place…” you slapped your head in second hand embarrassment. “oh yeah..” he stifled a laugh. but for the rest of the day, woonhak kept staring down at the spot where you wrote your message—like it hurt a little less now lunch rolled around and woonhak was still babying his arm like it had been amputated. he had a tray on the non-broken arm, trying his best to balance it without looking like a complete idiot. you spotted him from across the cafeteria, walked over to him, and grabbed his tray before it could fall. “seriously.” you chuckled, “you’re walking so slow, gosh.” “i’m injured, okay?!” woonhak replied dramatically, already sliding into the seat next to you. you rolled your eyes, clearly done with his bull. “you fractured your arm and you're acting like you are a war veteran.” you said while setting the tray down. “still traumatic..” he mumbled, pouting while he looked away. you laughed, half because of how serious he looked and the other because his fork missed the chicken he was trying to stab. “do you also need help feeding yourself now?” “wouldn’t complain if you did…” he mumbled under his breath, his lips curling into a smile. you tried your hardest to ignore the flip your heart just did at that remark. “just say you want sympathy,” you whispered.  he shrugged, trying to act chill, but he was anything but that. woonhak stared at his cast—your handwriting filling his thoughts as he ghosted his fingertips across the writing. you moved your chair closer to him, watching as he stared at the cast. “you must really like what i wrote,” you sang, catching him in the act. woonhak blinked, caught in the act, “no—yes, maybe..” his voice suddenly got quieter—softer than you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth before. “it’s cute, the heart at least, not the part where you basically threaten me.” ‘well i meant what i said, do that again, and i’ll break your other arm.” you said coldly, making woonhak shiver. the both of you cracked up at the thought of that— woonhak with  casts on both of his arms. as the laughter died down, you noticed woonhak went back to looking at his cast, a cute smile plastered on his face. it was like it wasn’t as heavy whenever woonhak read your words in his head. “it was kinda worth it,” he mumbled, you looked up at him, setting your gaze on him as you watched him. “falling. getting this stupid cast. ‘cause now it has your name on it, and i like that.” you blinked. hard—trying to process what he said as if your heartbeat didn’t just quicken. woonhak didn’t say much after that, just looked up at you, with that dumb lopsided smile of his before eating his chicken once again.

BOYFRIEND LEEHAN WHO WOULD ... introduce you to his fish.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of Leehan’s room, glancing around, But your eyes eventually land on the real centerpiece of the space: his fish tank.

It’s big. Like, way too big for this room big. The water glows faintly blue, and tiny plants sway gently inside of it. A few fish swim by, darting in and out of little caves and decorations.

Leehan catches your gaze and perks up instantly. “Oh! You haven’t met them yet!”

“Met who?”

He gestures at the tank. “My fish. And one mystery shrimp I still haven’t figured out. Come, come.” He pats the floor beside him.

You scoot over, amused. Leehan kneels in front of the tank, hands behind his back like a tour guide.

“That one there,” he says, pointing to a fancy-looking fish with flowing fins. “He thinks he runs the place. He doesn’t, but don’t tell him that.”

“That one hiding in the log?” He lowers his voice. “ She’s shy, but she comes out when there’s music. She’s got taste.”

“Of course she does,” you reply, playing along. You try to hold back a laugh, but it escapes anyway. "You don't name them?"

"No, I don't bother naming them, I can recognise them anyway."

He points to a tiny creature floating near the bottom. “There's the shrimp. I’ve never seen him eat. He just stares at everyone.”

You can’t stop grinning now, face in your hands. “You’re so weird.”

Leehan gives you a proud little smile. “You love it.”

BOYFRIEND LEEHAN WHO WOULD ... remember all your important dates, even ones you forgot, and quietly plan something meaningful.

You don’t even realize what day it is. It’s just another Tuesday. Long, tiring and filled with meetings and errands and a to-do list that’s somehow longer now than when the day started.

By the time you make it over to Leehan’s place, you’re exhausted and ready to collapse into his couch and not move for an hour.

He greets you with that usual smile . You figure he’s just in one of his playful moods again.

But when you step inside, you freeze. On the table sits a small cake and two forks. Next to it is a tiny photo frame, with a picture of you from last year.

You recognize it immediately. It’s from the day you presented that personal project you worked on for weeks, the one you poured your heart into. You remember feeling proud but tired that day, and honestly? You didn’t think anyone else really remembered it.

“Wait… how did you?”

Leehan shrugs, casually pulling you inside and helping you out of your jacket like this is no big deal.

“You mentioned it once,” he says softly, “how proud you were of that project. You said it felt like a personal win.”

You turn to look at him. He’s avoiding your eyes in the way he does when he gets oddly shy about doing something sweet. “I just thought it deserved to be celebrated.”

You open your mouth to say something but he just grins and nudges you toward the couch.

“No talking, let's eat.” he says. “You already did the hard part. Let me handle the celebration part.”

BOYFRIEND LEEHAN WHO WOULD ... warm up your side of the bed before going to sleep.

You step out of the shower, hair damp. Your only goal is to collapse into bed and sleep for the next 10 hours.

When you walk into the room, Leehan’s already there, half-buried under the covers. He’s scrolling on his phone, the screen lighting up his face, but when he sees you, he perks up.

“There you are,” he says, tossing his phone to the side. “Come here, it’s ready.”

“What’s ready?” you rub your eyes.

He lifts the blanket and motions for you to come over quickly. “Your side. I preheated it. I laid on it for ten minutes. Rolled around a little too.” he says proudly.

You snort, too tired to pretend this isn’t ridiculously cute. “You’re serious?”

“Test it,” he challenges, grinning. “It's really comfy.”

You climb in beside him and immediately melt into the warm matress. The sheets are cozy, the pillow smells like him, and the chill you felt a moment ago disappears instantly.

“Okay, wow. This is really nice.”

“Told you,” he mumbles, already scooting closer to throw an arm around you. You let your head fall against his shoulder, eyes closing, body relaxing and Leehan’s hand rubs lazy circles on your back like he plans to keep you there forever.

BOYFRIEND LEEHAN WHO WOULD ... turn brushing teeth together into a nightly dance battle.

The two of you are brushing your teeth side by side, sleepy and quiet, the soft whirr of your electric toothbrushes buzzing.

You catch him watching you in the mirror, eyes squinting with that look he always has when he has a goofy idea. You already know he’s up to something. He does a little shoulder shimmy. Just a subtle one.

You try to ignore it. He raises an eyebrow, lifts his toothbrush like a mic, and starts bopping his head dramatically like he’s in a music video.

He doesn’t stop. He does a full spin, toothbrush still buzzing the whole time. He’s dancing like he's filming him a music video, shoulders popping, feet tapping, hips swaying way too enthusiastically for someone in pajama pants with toothpaste on his cheek.

You try to keep brushing, but now he’s trying to battle. He points at you with the toothbrush, challenging you.

“Show me what you got.” he mumbles through a mouthful of foam.

You sigh dramatically. But then you start to mirror his moves. A little moonwalk and a spin.

That’s when it’s on. Leehan takes over again, powerfully dancing around like he's at dance practice. It becomes full-blown toothbrush battle with exaggerated moves, laughter muffled by mouths full of toothpaste.

Neither of you wins, because you both end up nearly crying from laughing too hard.

Eventually, you rinse off, leaning on the sink for support as Leehan wipes toothpaste off your nose with a grin.

He grins. “We’re legendary.”

“he’s so in love with you, y/n.” leeseo said, giggling. “he waits and walks you to class even when his next lecture is across campus. i could never.” 

that was true, and occasionally, woonhak would be late for a few of his classes, but it was just something he did since the two of you became friends. it wasn’t a thing he did because he was in love, he’s been doing since you were kids. 

“it’s probably just a habit,” you shrugged it off. “he’s been doing it since we were seven.” 

to be honest, you too found it cute. you’d caught him waiting for you once, he hadn’t noticed you yet and his face was completely bored, but once he saw you? his whole body lit up – a big smile on his face, a sweet greeting, and already taking your bag off your shoulders so he’d carry it instead. maybe you liked him, maybe you just found it heart warming, but it sure didn’t help that he was good looking too. 

today was gonna be a busy day. you had no free periods to hang out with woonhak, your lunch was shortened to thirty minutes, and you had a club meeting after school that was gonna last over three hours. 

“woonhak,” you were walking to school with him, your feet dragging on the pavement in sync with his. “you shouldn’t wait for me today. actually, just don’t wait for me today.” 

he seemed upset by it, his pace slowing down a little. 

“what? why?” his voice sounded like he took it personally, and a small pout was on his lips, acting like he had done something wrong. 

“i’m gonna be really busy today, and i’m gonna be three hours, or more, late.” you gave him a soft nudge to the arm. “i don’t want you waiting that long for me, woon.” 

he didn’t say anymore, like he couldn’t accept it. a soft sigh escaped his mouth and an even quieter “fine.” 

you had no bad intention telling him this, but he seemed so bummed out, as if you banned him from waiting for you forever. it would just be one day, then tomorrow he’d see you after every class, but he acted as if he’d never be able to see you. 

“i wouldn’t be surprised if woonhak waits for you today.” leeseo teased, a grin on her face. 

you rolled your eyes at her. “i told him not to,” it had only been two periods, but you already started to miss seeing woonhak outside the door everytime. “he seemed kinda sad about it, though.” 

“of course he’s upset, y/n.” she said, brows knitted together as if you should’ve known it. “he likes you! obviously he’s gonna be sad, not being able to pick up his girlfriend.” she pinched your cheek, laughing like she was plotting something. 

“i am not his girlfriend, leeseo!” your eyes widened, pushing her arm just so she’d teeter in her chair. “he just… has a lot of free time.” truthfully, you had no clue why he was so distraught by it. and maybe leeseo was right, but that was beside the point. 

hours have passed since the end of school and all that's left in school is you and the other people in the club. you bid your friends goodbye and headed to the school gates when you spot someone standing there. 

it’s a faint shadow, a vague figure standing beneath the lamp post like they’re waiting for something or someone. 

as you get closer, you notice who it is. 

woonhak. 

you walk a little faster, wanting to meet him quicker. 

“woonhak,” you panted, trying to catch your breath. “i told you not to wait for me, i was gonna be late.” you pull your phone out of your pocket checking the time, 8:32pm. “woonhak, it’s late. let’s go.” instinctively taking his hand, but he doesn’t pull it away. 

“i couldn’t let you walk home alone, y/n.” he says cooly, holding your hand a bit tighter. “it’s dark, no one knows what could happen.” 

you repeated to yourself that it was him just looking out for you, but it didn’t help; your heart was still beating like you just ran a marathon. 

“a pretty girl like you shouldn’t walk alone.” he let go of your hand, and instead slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. 

“i heard you and leeseo’s conversation earlier today.” there wasn’t a readable tone in his voice. it sounded like a joke, yet confrontational at the same time, and you couldn’t tell which one he was putting forward. 

“i don’t wait for you because i have free time, y/n.” he said, letting out a low chuckle. “i like you. i’ve liked you for ages, since we met, actually. and you never realized.” woonhak stopped walking, held your shoulders and turned you to face him. “why do you think i wait for you even when my hall is on the opposite side of campus? i like you. a lot.” 

and at that moment, it felt like it was just you and woonhak on that street. even though it really was just you two. 

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. nothing you could say would come close to what you felt, because that's when you realized: he’s never been just a friend. 

in that moment, the moment of silence, everything in your head was telling you to say something, but if not, kiss him. and so you did. 

it wasn’t anything too bold or too flashy, just a quick peck on the cheek, but it still had woonhak blushing. the red tint on his face kept growing, even after you pulled away from him. 

“i’ll take that as you like me?” his face was still getting red, and a huge smile was on his face. 

you nodded eagerly. “yeah,” you smiled with him. “i like you, woonhak.” 

you hated to admit it, but after all this time, leeseo was right.

BOYFRIEND TAESAN WHO WOULD ... help you with your groceries, even if he doesn’t want to carry anything.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and you’ve just returned from the grocery store, bags in hand, feeling a bit more exhausted than you'd like to admit.

As you approach the house, you see Taesan sitting on the couch through the front window, scrolling through his phone.

You open the door with a quiet sigh, and he glances up, noticing you immediately. Without a word, he’s up and moving toward you, stepping outside to help.

"Let me take those," he says, reaching for the bags without waiting for you to protest.

You hesitate for a second, a bit surprised. "You sure?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "You were comfy on the couch."

He shrugs, effortlessly grabbing the bags from your hands. "You look like you’ve had enough of being on your feet all day. I’m not just going to let you carry this stuff alone."

"I didn’t think you’d actually help," you admit, watching him carefully balance the bags.

Taesan gives you a smirk, his tone light but sincere. "Well, we do live together, don’t we? It’s not a big deal."

BOYFRIEND TAESAN WHO WOULD ... take care of you, even if it means sacrificing his own comfort.

It’s the middle of the night when you wake up, your body aching and burning with fever. You try to move, to get up, but the effort only makes everything worse.

You barely notice when Taesan enters the room, his footsteps soft against the floor. He stops in the doorway, pausing for a moment, then crosses the room quickly when he sees how badly you’re shivering.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with sleep. He doesn’t wait for a response as he climbs onto the bed beside you.

Without saying another word, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tightly against his chest. His warmth floods over you, soothing the chill that had taken over your body.

"Stay close," he says quietly, his tone firm but gentle. "I’m not letting you freeze to death."

He stays awake with you, adjusting the blankets, making sure you have water to sip, and keeping you close. Despite the exhaustion in his eyes, he doesn’t let himself sleep. Not while you're like this.

"You’ll be okay," he mutters softly, his hand resting against your back, comforting and steady. "Just try to sleep. I’ve got you."

Even though he could have easily gone back to sleep, he stays by your side through the night, making sure you feel safe and cared for, his own rest sacrificed for yours.

BOYFRIEND TAESAN WHO WOULD ... challenge you to a video game, but secretly let you win to see your happy reaction.

The two of you are lounging on the couch in the living room. You’re both on your phones when Taesan suddenly has an idea.

"Hey," he says, setting his phone down and turning toward you. "Want to play a game?"

You raise an eyebrow, a little skeptical. "A game? You sure? I've never played your game before though."

"I’ll go easy on you. How bad could it be?" Taesan smirks.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. "Alright, let’s see if you can back up that confidence."

He grabs the controller, passing you the second one with a teasing smile. The game starts, and you both dive in. It’s a fast-paced, competitive fighting game.

At first, you can tell Taesan is taking it easy on you. He moves slower, lets you score some hits, even stands there for a second as you accidentally hit a combo and get in a lucky blow.

"Nice shot," he says, almost sounding genuinely impressed. You grin, feeling a surge of confidence.

As the game goes on, you start thinking that maybe you’ve finally gotten the hang of it. Taesan lets you rack up more points, all while maintaining his calm, almost bored expression.

He makes a few dramatic moves that make it look like he’s about to win, but somehow, you pull off a series of attacks and get the final blow.

The screen flashes with your victory message, and you let out an excited laugh, feeling a burst of pride.

"Yes! I actually won!" you say, jumping up from the couch, a wide grin on your face.

Taesan just leans back, his arms crossed behind his head, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. "You’re pretty good," he says, watching as you celebrate your victory. He wouldn't want it to have ended any other way.

BOYFRIEND TAESAN WHO WOULD ... remember the small details you mention and surprise you with them when you least expect it.

You’ve had a long, exhausting week. You’re wiped out, barely able to keep your eyes open. You’ve already spent the last hour lying in bed, scrolling through your phone, when you hear a soft knock on your door.

Before you can say anything, the door opens slightly, and Taesan peeks his head in, holding a small bag in his hand. His usual serious expression softens when he sees you, curled up in your blanket.

"Hey," he says quietly, stepping inside. "I got something for you."

"For me? What’s this?" you sit up, blinking in confusion.

He walks over to your desk and places the bag in front of you. "You mentioned that you were craving chocolate the other day. Thought you might need it."

Your heart skips a beat. You had, in fact, mentioned it casually weeks ago. The two of you were talking about snacks you used to have as a kid. But you had completely forgotten about it since.

"I didn’t expect this," you say, your voice soft. You look up at him, seeing the quiet care in his eyes, and the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Taesan leans against your desk, watching you closely. "I know it’s been a rough week. Figured this might help you relax a bit."

You can’t help but smile,"Thank you, Taesan. I honestly didn’t think you’d remember that."

He shrugs, not looking away, his gaze lingering on you. "I pay attention to the things you say. Even the little things."

You offer him a small but genuine smile. "You’re really sweet, you know that?"

Taesan just looks at you for a moment before nodding. "I try." He sits down beside you as you both eat the chocolates together.

he tries not to cry with how much you crack the joints of your knuckles and ankles, but with the constant pop of your bones it’s hard not to. He doesn’t know how to respond…concerned? Impressed? But one time you did it nonstop while counting to 100 ( real story btw i once popped my ankles 100 times nonstop in the car because I was bored ) and he just went 😦 because what is he supposed to respond to that? Definitely nags you LOADS though—pulling out all different kinds of articles of how bad it is for you to do so and when you don’t listen to him he begs you to stop doing it until you listen to him. Bribes you with home-cooked dinner as well to not do it for a month or whatever…and well, you aren’t gonna say no to that are you?

LEE SANGHYEOK | with a gamer partner

Sleepless nights become endless. But it’s fun; and with riwoo and you, life’s never dull. You're each other's partners in crime, each other's co-op teammate, and especially each other's rival in 1v1s. Competing with Riwoo in games is a must, for sure. it brings both your competitive spirits out and you usually add a wager to spice it up! If you're both good, enemy teams definitely hate you both. When one of you isn't in the mood to play games though, quality time is still really enjoyable— in fact, your favorite nights consist of you sitting on Riwoo's lap comfortably and napping while Riwoo grinds on LOL. Or when you play mobile games on the bed or couch and Rico puts his head on your lap to semi-cuddle with you. It's comfortable. Especially on days where both your social batteries run out and you don't want to speak anymore. One match to unwind, ya’know?

HAN DONGMIN | with a nonchalant partner

Sometimes people don’t even realize you two are dating. Taesan’s not used to that. With his members, his family—even past situationships—he’s always been the one people cling to. The one who gets showered with affection. But you’re different. You’re chill, unreadable, a textbook T in the MBTI system. And somehow, that makes him crave you even more. You don’t reach for his hand unless there’s a reason. You don’t baby him with goodnights or emojis. You’ll look at him with that neutral expression and ask, “You good?” and for some reason, that makes his heart pound. He starts being the one to reach first—with hugs, with compliments, with late-night texts that say “home yet?” like he’s trying to decode what love looks like through your eyes. It takes longer than most couples to get to pet names or “I love you’s.” But when it happens, it lands. It feels earned. Real. And yeah, emotional talks between the two of you always come with a bit of awkward silence or one of you going “this is so cringe,” but somehow… that makes it more you.? Dongmin wouldn’t trade it for anything.

KIM DONGHYUN | with a picky-eater partner

Honestly? It’s kind of hilarious how badly matched you both are when it comes to food. He’s picky, you’re picky—just in opposite ways. He doesn’t like things that are too sweet, you refuse anything that smells like vinegar. He can’t do weird textures, you can’t do anything green. Going out to eat is a minefield. Sometimes you spend longer choosing a restaurant than actually eating at it. But somehow, it works. You learn each other’s quirks fast—like how he always picks onions out of his food and you hand him your egg yolks without a word. There’s an unspoken routine to it now. People tease you both all the time, but it just makes you weirdly closer. There’s something oddly intimate about side-eyeing each other’s plates like “you’re seriously eating that?” but still sharing bites anyway. If anything, it makes your bond stronger. Neither of you feels judged. You get it. You understand. The picky solidarity is real. And when you both actually like something? Instant core memory unlocked.

KIM WOONHAK | with a dyslexic partner

Woonhak doesn’t mind reading things for you. In fact, he kind of… likes it? The first time you ask him to check a message because the words keep scrambling, he just nods, reads it casually, and hands your phone back like it’s no big deal. Because to him, it isn’t. He doesn’t see you as slow or weird or “bad at reading.” You just read differently. And if your eyes get tired or the letters bounce on a bad day, he’s already offering to help before you even say anything. The best part? He never makes you feel self-conscious about it. He’ll find creative ways to support you—voice notes instead of long texts, jokingly acting like a “human audiobook,” even quietly adjusting the subtitles so you don’t have to say it’s too fast. He’s sweet about it, but never coddling. You’re still sharp, still cool, still someone who gets his dumb references before he finishes them. And if you make a typo or skip a word? He just grins and says, “No worries. I understood you anyway.”

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