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"You lot coming?" Jude asked, already walking backwards down the corridor. "Mum's hijacked one of the lounges. Apparently we're celebrating properly before everyone disappears."
"When does your mum not celebrate properly?" you replied.
"Fair." He spun back around just in time to avoid colliding with a member of staff carrying a crate of water bottles. "See? Nearly died."
"You walked into him."
"He walked into me."
"You were walking backwards."
"I like to live dangerously."
"You like to blame other people."
Jude pointed at you dramatically. "Exactly why I keep her around. Keeps me humble."
"You'd be unbearable otherwise."
"I already am."
"True."
He beamed, entirely too pleased with himself.
Jobe watched the exchange with an expression that suggested he'd seen this exact conversation play out a hundred times before, because he had. The three of you had slipped into these dynamics years ago. Jude talked, you argued. Jobe watched, occasionally throwing in one perfectly-timed comment that somehow got the biggest laugh out of everyone.
The hospitality lounge was already buzzing by the time you arrived. England staff wandered between clusters of family and friends. Someone had put music on through a portable speaker. Kids sprinted between tables with enough sugar in their systems to power a small city.
The second Denise spotted you, she immediately abandoned her conversation. "There she is!"
You barely had time to say hello before she wrapped you in one of her signature hugs. "I saw you on the screen."
"So did half the country."
"I was going to text you."
"My phone exploded before the match even ended."
"I can imagine."
She pulled back, smoothing a strand of hair behind your ear with the same absent-minded affection she'd shown you since you were sixteen. "You look lovely."
"Thanks, Dee."
Mark appeared beside her, balancing two paper cups of coffee. "I told Jude you'd somehow end up getting more headlines than the actual game."
"I don't even do anything."
"You exist," Mark said simply.
"...Apparently that's enough."
"It usually is."
Mark handed you one of the coffees before you even had the chance to ask. He already knew how you took it. One sugar, just enough milk to take the edge off the bitterness, and always far too hot to drink straight away.
"Cheers," you murmured, curling your fingers around the paper cup.
"You staying in London long?" Denise asked as everyone drifted further into the lounge.
"A few days," you answered. "I've got a campaign shoot on Monday, but I'm free until then."
"Oh, good." She smiled, reaching over to smooth an imaginary crease from your sleeve. "You haven't been round for dinner in weeks."
"That's because your favourite son keeps disappearing to Spain."
"I have a career," Jude protested from somewhere over your shoulder.
"You have terrible scheduling."
"I have Madrid."
"You have excuses."
The exchange earned exactly the reaction you'd expected. Mark laughed into his coffee. Denise shook her head with the sort of fond exasperation only mothers seemed capable of mastering. Jude, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased that he'd managed to become the centre of attention despite technically being told off.
He bumped your shoulder with his.
"This," he declared dramatically, gesturing toward everyone in the room, "is emotional abuse."
"It's called accountability," you replied.
"It's bullying."
"You'll survive."
"I don't know..." He sighed theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm feeling faint."
"You've been dramatic since birth."
"I prefer charismatic."
"You'd prefer anything that flatters you."
He grinned. "You know me so well."
"I wish I didn't."
It was effortless.
It always had been.
The two of you slipped into conversations like people putting on old trainersβcomfortable, familiar, instinctive. Half the time you weren't even thinking about what you were saying anymore. Years of friendship had carved out its own rhythm, one where Jude supplied endless confidence and you existed largely to knock it back down to earth.
The people around you had learned long ago not to interrupt. It was simply how the two of you communicated. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Jobe watching.
Not staring.
Just... watching.
He stood a little apart from the conversation, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, quietly amused as Jude launched into another dramatic retelling of a tackle from the match. Every now and then his eyes flicked toward you instead of his brother, lingering for barely a heartbeat before drifting away again. You wondered if he'd always done that. Or if you'd only just started noticing.
The thought barely had time to settle before a younger cousin came running across the lounge, phone already held triumphantly in the air.
"Y/N!"
You immediately knew it couldn't be good.
"They've already made edits!"
"...Already?"
She shoved the screen in front of your face with the excitement only twelve-year-olds seemed capable of possessing. Sure enough, there it was. Slow-motion clips from barely half an hour ago. You waving at the stadium camera, Jude celebrating England's goal, the hug he'd given you underneath the stands.
The caption read:
they're literally inevitable.
The likes climbed so quickly you could almost watch the numbers change in real time.
You let out a long, defeated sigh. "I was on screen for maybe... five seconds."
"Apparently that's all they need," Jude said, leaning over your shoulder to look.
He sounded more amused than anything else. "Again?" he muttered.
"Again."
"We're never escaping this."
"I don't think we ever were."
His cousin looked between the two of you with complete sincerity. "I think you'd make a cute couple."
Jude laughed. "There you go."
You didn't even hesitate. "We'd kill each other."
"I disagree."
"You think highly of yourself."
"I think highly of us."
"There is no us."
He clutched his chest as though genuinely wounded. "Ouch."
"You'll recover."
"I don't know if I will."
"You absolutely will."
The conversation dissolved into laughter before anyone could dwell on it further, everyone quickly moving on to something else.
Everyone... Except Jobe.
You noticed him almost by accident. He hadn't laughed like everyone else had. Instead, he'd quietly wandered over to one of the refreshment tables, unscrewing the cap of a bottle of water with his head lowered. It wasn't that he looked upset exactly. Just... Quieter. You found yourself watching him for longer than necessary. Long enough that you almost didn't hear Jude speaking beside you.
"You've gone all quiet." You blinked.
"Hm?" He frowned slightly.
"You disappear like that sometimes."
"I do not."
"You literally just did."
"I'm tired."
"Liar."
"I'm holding coffee."
"You can be both tired and caffeinated."
You laughed despite yourself.
"I can multitask." His expression softened.
It always did.
For all the teasing and endless banter, Jude had always been strangely good at reading you. Better than most people, anyway.
"You alright?" The question came more quietly this time. Less joking. More genuine. Your smile faltered for only a fraction of a second.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Promise." He studied you for another moment before someone called his name from across the lounge.
One of the England staff members was waving him over.
Jude sighed dramatically. "Don't disappear."
"I'll try not to."
"I'll only be a minute."
"You said that last time."
"And?"
"You vanished for two hours."
"I was networking."
"You were talking."
"It's basically the same thing." He flashed one last grin before jogging across the room.
You watched him go until he disappeared into another group of players.
"You always watch him leave." The voice beside you was quiet enough that you almost mistook it for your own thoughts.
You turned.
Jobe stood there now, holding two bottles of water. He offered you one without saying anything else.
"What?"
"You watch him."
"I..."
"You always have." His tone wasn't accusing.
If anything, it sounded observational. Like he'd been noticing something for years.
"We've known each other forever," you said eventually.
"I know."
"So of course I do."
He nodded slowly, twisting the bottle cap between his fingers. "Yeah."
Around you, conversations continued uninterrupted. Someone turned the music up slightly. A little boy sprinted past with a football tucked under one arm while Denise unsuccessfully attempted to convince him not to play indoors. The room carried on, yet somehow it felt like the two of you had stepped outside of it.
"You know what everyone thinks," Jobe said eventually, eyes still fixed on the bottle in his hands.
You smiled tiredly. "The internet thinks a lot of things."
"They think you and Jude are..."
"I know."
"...They're wrong." He looked up then really looked at you.
"So you've never..." He hesitated.
"...liked him?"
The question hung between you. You didn't need to think about the answer.
"No."
"Never?"
You shook your head. "Not once."
"He neverβ"
"No." You smiled faintly.
"He's Jude."
As though that explained everything. Maybe it did.
"You don't choose who becomes your best friend."
Your gaze drifted across the room to where Jude was animatedly explaining something with both hands, somehow managing to make an ordinary conversation look like a press conference.
"He's family."
Jobe followed your line of sight, then looked back at you. Something in his shoulders seemed to loosen, almost imperceptibly.
"I always assumed..." he admitted quietly.
"What?"
"If you ever dated anyone..." He laughed under his breath, suddenly looking almost embarrassed by his own words. "I figured it'd be someone like him."
"Loud?"
"Confident."
"Impossible?"
He smiled. "...Yeah."
You found yourself smiling back. "I don't think that's my type."
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "No?"
You shook your head. "I think I like quieter people."
For a second, neither of you looked away.
Then an arm landed heavily across both of your shoulders.
"There you are."
Jude. Completely oblivious.
He pulled the two of you closer as if nothing in the world could possibly be complicated. "What've I interrupted?"
You and Jobe answered together.
"Nothing."
Jude looked from you... To Jobe... Then back again.
A slow grin spread across his face. "...That's twice tonight."
"What is?"
"The weird synchronised answers." He narrowed his eyes playfully. "I swear the pair of you are plotting against me."
Neither of you corrected him. Which, somehow, only made him more suspicious.
Judeβs grin only widened when neither of you answered. βThat is exactly what guilty people do, by the way.β
You took a sip of water to avoid speaking, while Jobe looked down at the floor with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
βSee?β Jude pointed between the two of you. βThere it is again.β
βYouβre imagining things,β you said, though your voice came out a little too quickly.
βMhm.β
βJude.β
βY/N.β
βStop being weird.β
βIβm not the weird one.β
He looked positively delighted with himself, and for a horrible second you wondered if he could somehow see the panic written all over your face. The rational part of your brain knew he was only teasing, Jude teased everyoneβbut that didnβt stop the sudden heat creeping up your neck. Because the problem wasnβt Jude. The problem was standing right beside you, looking unfairly pretty under the warm lounge lighting.
Youβd noticed Jobe was attractive before, in the vague, harmless way people notice that someone has grown up well. But this felt different. It felt like your brain had suddenly adjusted its focus and refused to switch back.
The curls that kept falling across his forehead, the way he smiled more with his eyes than his mouth, the slight flush still lingering in his cheeks from being out in the cold.
Even the stupid England jacket looked good on him, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. It was genuinely embarrassing how aware of him youβd become.
βYouβre staring again.β
You blinked. Jobe was looking directly at you now, amusement flickering across his face.
βIβm not.β
βYou are.β
βI was thinking.β
βAbout my face?β
You let out a laugh that sounded just a little too forced. "I was not thinking about your face."
Jobe tilted his head, unconvinced. "...That's not a no."
"It literally is."
"I don't know," he mused. "You looked pretty focused."
"Oh, shut up."
"I haven't even done anything."
"You've done enough."
"What have I done?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because, annoyingly, there wasn't an answer you could give that wouldn't immediately incriminate yourself.
You've grown up.
You've gotten ridiculously attractive.
You keep smiling at me like that.
None of those felt appropriate to say while his older brother stood less than 2 feet away. Jude watched the exchange unfold with open curiosity, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"What did he do?" he asked.
The question came out lighter than it felt. Jude laughed as he said it, a lazy grin still lingering on his face, but there was something else underneath it now. It was subtle, so subtle that most people probably would've missed it. The way his eyes stayed on you a fraction longer than usual. The way he didn't immediately look at Jobe after asking, as though your answer mattered more than his brother's.
You opened your mouth, only for absolutely nothing useful to come out. "...Nothing."
Jude tipped his head, one eyebrow lifting as though he'd expected literally any other answer. "'Nothing?'" he echoed, the corner of his mouth twitching. When you only repeated yourself with another, quieter, "Nothing," he let the silence stretch between the three of you. Beside you, Jobe glanced over with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, looking far too entertained by your sudden inability to string together a coherent sentence.
"I don't know," he said innocently, hands slipping into his pockets. "She seems pretty convinced I've committed some sort of crime."
You shot him a look sharp enough to make him laugh. "You have."
"Oh?" he asked, amusement bleeding into every syllable.
"You keep..." You hesitated, searching for somethingβanythingβthat didn't sound completely ridiculous. "...Talking."
For a beat, Jobe simply blinked. "...Talking."
"Yes."
"That's my crime?"
"It is today."
A quiet laugh escaped him as he ducked his head, shaking it to himself as though he'd already accepted that arguing with you was pointless. "I'll try to be quieter next time."
"You should."
His smile only widened. "I don't think you actually want that."
The words were light, harmless even, but your heart stumbled anyway. It wasn't anything he'd said so much as the way he'd said itβeasy, teasing, familiarβand before you could stop yourself, your smile lingered for just a fraction too long. Jude saw it. Not the words. Not even the joke.
The pause.
It barely lasted a second before you looked away, but Jude had spent enough years beside you to notice the tiny things other people missed. The hesitation before you answered. The smile you tried to hide. The way your eyes softened whenever someone caught you off guard. They were things he'd learned without meaning to, collected over years of friendship until recognizing your expressions had become as natural as breathing. His own smile didn't disappear. It simply changed.
The grin he'd been wearing eased into something quieter, almost thoughtful, though there was an odd tightness around his eyes now that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Huh."
You frowned immediately. "What?"
He looked back at you, expression smoothing over so quickly you almost thought you'd imagined it. "Nothing."
"No, what?"
He shrugged one shoulder, gaze drifting toward Jobe for the briefest moment before settling on you again. "...You two are getting on."
The comment was delivered casually enough that anyone else would've missed it. It sounded like an observation tossed into the conversation without much thought, something said simply to fill the silence. But there was something strange beneath it, something that made the words land heavier than they should have. "We've always gotten on."
"I know."
"You said that like it's new."
"I didn't."
"You implied it."
"I observed."
You narrowed your eyes. "You literallyβ"
"I observed," he repeated, smiling just enough to cut you off.
The two of you stared at each other for a second before Jude suddenly stepped closer, draping an arm over your shoulders with practiced ease. It was something he'd done countless times before, casual enough that nobody around you paid it any attention, but tonight the movement felt oddly deliberate. His hand settled against your upper arm, giving it a light squeeze before he leaned just enough of his weight into you. "There."
You blinked. "What?"
"Better."
"...What does that even mean?"
He shrugged lazily, though his arm stayed exactly where it was. "I'm comfortable now."
"...Comfortable?"
"Mhm."
"With what?"
"I dunno." His smile returned, but this one never quite reached his eyes. Instead, he reached across you to steal a crisp from one of the bowls on the nearby table, crunching thoughtfully before nodding toward the other side of the room.
"I think you've been spending too much time over there."
You followed the direction of his gaze. Straight to Jobe. Confusion settled across your face almost instantly.
"I've been standing here for, like, two minutes."
"Exactly."
"...Exactly?"
"That's at least a minute longer than usual."
A laugh escaped you despite yourself. "You're making things up."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He hummed around another bite of his crisp, pretending to consider it. "Maybe."
The word was playful. The way he kept glancing toward his brother wasn't.
The conversation eventually shifted, carried away by louder voices and easier stories. Denise launched into yet another tale from one of Jude's childhood football tournaments, earning immediate protests before she'd even reached the embarrassing part, while Mark jumped in with details that only made everything worse. Someone turned the music up another notch, glasses were refilled, and people slowly drifted into smaller conversations scattered around the room until laughter blended into a comfortable sort of background noise. It felt like the evening had settled again, everyone slipping back into the easy rhythm it had before. Everyone except Jude.
Because every few minutes, almost without realizing he was doing it, his eyes found you again. Not obviously. He wasn't staring. It was subtler than that.
A glance while someone else was talking. A quick look over his shoulder when he laughed at something Denise said. A split-second check across the room before forcing himself to focus back on whoever was speaking. The first couple of times, it happened so naturally he barely noticed it himself. By the fifth or sixth, he absolutely didβand somehow that only made it worse.
You noticed eventually, too.
The first time, you assumed it was coincidence. The second, you convinced yourself he was looking for someone standing behind you. By the fourth, you knew better.
You'd be halfway through a conversation with Denise when your eyes would drift across the room almost absentmindedly, only to find Jude already looking at you. Every single time, he'd look away a heartbeat too late, pretending to be interested in something else the second you'd caught him. It was strange enough that you found yourself thinking about it long after each glance ended.
Jude wasn't usually watchful. Not with you. He'd never needed to be.
The two of you had always existed in each other's lives with an ease neither of you questioned. You'd wander off, mingle with whoever happened to be nearby, and somehow always end up finding each other again without trying. There had never been any urgency in it before. Never any reason for him to keep checking where you were, or who you were talking to.
Tonight though, he kept looking. As if reassuring himself you were still there. Or maybe who you were there with.
It happened somewhere around the sixty-fifth minute of England versus Norway.
One second you were half-standing with thousands of other England supporters after a near miss, scarf hanging loosely around your neck, laughing as the woman beside you dramatically declared she'd "seen her life flash before her eyes."
The next, your own face appeared across the massive stadium screen.
A roar erupted almost immediately.
"Oh, there she is!" You instinctively buried your face in your hands before forcing yourself to smile anyway, lifting a sheepish wave toward the camera. The applause lasted only a few seconds before the screen returned to the match, but not before your phone buzzed relentlessly in your coat pocket.
You didn't even have to check. You're on TV.
Which, admittedly, wasn't exactly uncommon.
Being an influencer, and unfortunately born into a family people considered British royalty adjacentβmeant cameras had a habit of finding you whether you wanted them to or not. Add the fact that one of your closest friends happened to be Jude Bellingham, England's golden boy, and suddenly your attendance at a national team match became enough to send half the internet into cardiac arrest.
Still, it was embarrassing.
The second half resumed, and your attention returned to the pitch, at least until England scored six minutes later.
The stadium exploded.
Beer flew somewhere behind you. Someone grabbed your shoulders in celebration despite having never met you before, and for one glorious minute everyone was hugging strangers as England's players disappeared beneath a pile of white shirts near the corner flag.
You were cheering too, laughing helplessly as confetti cannons burst overhead.
By the time the celebrations settled and the final whistle eventually echoed around the stadium, your phone had accumulated enough notifications to qualify as a small-scale emergency.
The Bellinghams had stopped feeling like Jude's family somewhere around three years ago and had quietly become your family too. Denise always greeted you with a hug that lasted longer than necessary, Mark never let you leave without asking if you'd eaten, and the boys... Well...
Jude had become your person long before he'd become one of football's biggest names. Late-night FaceTimes after Champions League matches. Matching Halloween costumes that the internet still refused to let either of you forget. Holidays your families somehow ended up spending together despite living on opposite schedules. The kind of friendship that looked suspiciously romantic to everyone except the two people involved.
Well, maybe not everyone.
Because the comments had been relentless for months now.
It had become background noise. You and Jude simply rolled your eyes every time another edit of the two of you amassed a few million views. You guys were friends, that was all.
You tugged your coat tighter against the evening chill as security led you beneath the stands, familiar corridors replacing the deafening atmosphere of Miami Stadium. The muffled celebrations echoed through concrete walls, punctuated every so often by laughter from players making their way toward the dressing rooms.
You barely made it another ten metres before someone called your name. "There she is."
You looked up just in time for Jude to throw an arm around your shoulders with the effortless confidence of someone who'd done it a thousand times before.
"You've become more famous than the actual team," he said, shaking his head dramatically. "I can't take you anywhere."
"Oh, please."
"You got more cheers than I did."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did." He grinned, all dimples and self-satisfaction, before pulling you into a quick hug that smelled faintly of fresh grass and post-match sweat.
"You came."
"You literally texted me."
"I know." He shrugged. "Just making sure."
You laughed, giving his shoulder a shove. "Idiot."
"Missed you too."
A familiar voice interrupted before you could answer. "Mum's been asking where you are."
You turned instinctively. Only it wasn't Jude's mum, it was Jobe. He'd gotten taller... Again.
The last time you'd seen him in person had only been a few months earlier, yet somehow he'd stretched another inch or two, broad shoulders hidden beneath an England training jacket, curls slightly damp from the rain outside. He still looked unmistakably younger than Judeβsofter around the face, easier smiles, eyes that always seemed to give away exactly what he was thinking.
He was sooo cute. Dangerously cute.
He caught you staring.
One eyebrow lifted. "What?"
"...Nothing."
"You sure?"
"Yep."
"You've been looking at me for, like, five seconds."
"I have not."
Jude looked between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. "...Why are you both acting weird?"
"We're not," you and Jobe answered in perfect unison.
Then Jobe laughed first, it wasn't loud. Just one of those stupidly warm laughs that escaped before he could stop it, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. You hated that you noticed. You hated it even more when your stomach decided to notice too. Because this was Jobe. Jude's little brother.
The same kid who used to trail behind you both asking if he could join whatever game you were playing. The one you'd once let borrow your phone on a family holiday because he'd forgotten his charger and wanted to keep his Snapchat streak alive.
Except he wasn't really that kid anymore. And somewhere between then and now... That had become a very inconvenient realization. The worst part?
Jude was still standing right beside you, blissfully unaware, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he started rambling about post-match plans.
Meanwhile, all you could think about was how Jobe had somehow become unfairly attractive while you weren't paying attention.
ok so i have to have a sequel to kiss me and i might it was sooooo cute! i couldnβt stop smiling the whole time k read it - theyβre just so cute and precious and awkward! you perfectly captured first date energy!!!!!!!
THIS IS REALLY FUNNY TO ME BECAUSE I'VE NEVER BEEN TO A REAL DATE BEFORE... ππbut kiss me and i might is actually a sequel to nobody's wanted somebody more hehe i'll consider this after i finish writing my jude bellingham fic hehehe
warning/s: lamine yamal cheesing out internally, written in third person
summary: you're a pop artist that collabed with FC Barcelona, and that was supposed to be the highlight of your year. then lamine yamal started making it everyone's problem... by starting to date you.
authors note: if i hear one complaint about this being in third person ill slime u all out
"Courage" might've been giving him too much credit.
He'd spent nearly twenty minutes staring at your contact, typing and deleting messages that ranged from Do you want to grab dinner sometime? to I know this is random, but... before eventually settling on something so painfully straightforward that even he winced after hitting send.
He was standing just outside the restaurant, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a navy jacket, absentmindedly rocking back and forth on the heels of his sneakers. Every few seconds his gaze drifted up the street, then down again, scanning the crowd before pulling out his phone.
He unlocked it.
Looked at the time.
Locked it.
Then, less than ten seconds later, checked it again.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"So you've just been standing here?"
His head snapped up so quickly it almost startled him.
The second their eyes met, every trace of concentration disappeared from his face, replaced almost instantly by relief.
"Oh."
The word came out much quieter than he'd intended.
He pushed himself away from the wall a little too fast, nearly fumbling his phone before catching it awkwardly against his jacket.
"Iβ" He stopped himself, letting out an embarrassed laugh instead.
She was the first to rescue them from the silence.
"So..." she said, tilting her head ever so slightly. "How long have you been here?"
His eyes immediately flickered away. "...Not that long."
She folded her arms. "Lamine."
"What?"
"How long?"
He let out an exaggerated sigh, already knowing he'd been caught. "...Twelve minutes."
Her eyebrows shot up.
"Twelve?"
"I know."
"You told me seven-thirty."
"I also didn't want to be late."
She stepped a little closer, pretending to think it over as she looked up at him.
"So your solution was getting here..." She paused dramatically, as though doing complicated maths in her head. "...twelve whole minutes early?"
"When you say it out loud," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "it sounds a little embarrassing."
"A little?"
"...Okay." He laughed, surrendering immediately. "Maybe more than a little."
"I can't believe you were just standing out here."
"I wasn't."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I walked around the block."
"That doesn't make it any better."
"It made me feel busy."
"It made you feel less nervous."
He opened his mouth, fully intending to argue.
Nothing came out.
Instead, he looked down at the pavement with a sheepish grin before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose.
"...Yeah."
"I knew it."
"I changed my outfit four times."
She blinked. "You what?"
His face pinched into immediate regret. "...I probably shouldn't have admitted that."
"No," she said with a laugh, shaking her head. "I'm actually really glad you did."
"It gets worse."
Her smile only widened. "Oh?"
"I asked my mum which one looked best."
That was enough to make her laugh outright.
He watched her shoulders shake ever so slightly as she triedβand failedβto hold it back, letting out the most dramatic sigh he could manage.
"You're laughing."
"I'm trying not to."
"You definitely are."
"I'm smiling."
"That's not smiling."
"It absolutely is."
He held her gaze for another second before giving up completely, his own laughter escaping to join hers.
"'You look handsome in all of them,'" he said, slipping into a surprisingly convincing impression of his mum. "'Any girl would be lucky.'"
She pressed a hand over her mouth, still grinning. "That's actually really sweet."
"It wasn't helpful."
"I don't know..." she teased. "I think she was right."
Everything about him seemed to stop.
"...What?"
"You look nice." She said it so casually it almost sounded like an afterthought, giving a small shrug as she glanced at the jacket he'd spent entirely too long deciding on. "I like the jacket."
For a second, he genuinely forgot how to speak.
He'd spent most of the afternoon rehearsing this exact moment in his head.
He'd practiced different greetings in the mirror. Tried convincing himself he'd walk up confidently, say something charming, maybe even make her laugh within the first minute.
Not onceβnot a single timeβhad he imagined she'd be the first one to compliment him.
"...Thanks," he managed at last, his voice noticeably quieter than before.
Then, almost instinctively, he looked at her.
Not just a quick glance.
Really looked.
The restaurant behind her blurred into little more than warm lights and movement. The chatter from nearby tables melted into indistinct noise, forgotten almost instantly.
Instead, he noticed the loose strands of hair framing her face, the tiny necklace catching the glow of the streetlights whenever she shifted, the sleeves she'd rolled up because the evening had turned out warmer than expected.
She looked...
His eyebrows knit together. "I had something."
She tilted her head. "What happened to it?"
"It disappeared."
"You can take your time."
"I don't think it's coming back."
She laughed softly. "Poor thing."
"No, seriously." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I spent the whole drive over here telling myself, don't say anything stupid."
"And?"
"I've already forgotten everything I planned."
"I don't think that's true."
"It definitely is."
"You've managed to speak."
"Barely."
"I understood you."
"That's generous."
She watched him for another moment, the teasing smile on her face slowly softening into something gentler.
"I think you're doing okay."
His eyes met hers. "You do?"
"Mhm."
"I feel like I'm making a terrible first impression."
"I don't."
She answered so quickly that it caught him completely off guard.
"I think..." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before looking back up at him. "It's actually kind of nice."
He laughed quietly. "What's nice?"
"You don't seem like you're trying to impress me."
He stared at her for a second before letting out another laugh. "I was."
"Were you?"
"Very much."
"It doesn't feel like it."
"Really?"
She nodded.
"You just feel..." She searched for the right word, smiling when she finally found it. "...normal."
His smile came easier this time. "I'll take normal."
"I like normal."
The conversation settled into something quieter after that.
Not an awkward silence.
Just an easy one.
The kind that arrived only after the worst of the nerves had finally worn themselves out, leaving behind something softer. The excitement was still thereβif anything, it was stronger nowβbut it no longer felt like it was trying to trip over every sentence. It simply lingered between them in little smiles, in the way they kept catching each other's eyes for no reason, in the growing realization that talking to each other wasn't nearly as difficult as they'd feared.
Lamine glanced toward the restaurant before looking back at her. "I should probably get the door."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
Even so, he stepped around her, reaching for the handle and pulling it open before holding it there. "My mum would kill me if I didn't."
She laughed as she walked past him. "Then we definitely shouldn't upset your mum."
"I think she'd like you."
The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't even register them until she stopped walking.
His eyes widened. "...That sounded a lot less weird in my head."
She turned back to him, her smile growing warmer in a way that made his stomach perform another series of impossible flips. "I think I'd like her too."
For a brief second, neither of them moved.
Then, almost at the same time, they laughed.
The nervousness that had followed them all evening hadn't disappeared.
It had simply changed.
It no longer felt heavy enough to make them second-guess every word.
Instead, it fluttered somewhere beneath their ribs, light and impossible to ignore, mixing with excitement and the quiet thrill of realizing that maybe, this was exactly how a first date was supposed to feel.
And somehow, before they'd even stepped inside the restaurant, it was already going better than either of them had dared to imagine.
The hostess led them toward a small table tucked beside one of the restaurant's front windows, just far enough from the rest of the dining room that conversations from neighboring tables dissolved into a soft, indistinct murmur. Candles flickered lazily between polished wine glasses, casting warm pools of light across the crisp white tablecloth, while beyond the glass the city drifted by at an unhurried pace, headlights streaking past like tiny ribbons of gold.
It was quieter inside than she'd expected.
Not silent, but comfortable.
The sort of place where nobody felt the need to raise their voice, where the occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain filled the pauses between conversations instead of rushing to erase them. Everything about the restaurant seemed designed to encourage people to linger a little longer.
Lamine waited until she'd settled into her chair before taking the seat across from her. As she unfolded the napkin onto her lap, she looked up at him with a grin that already told him she was about to tease him again. "You really did practice opening the door."
A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "My mum would've asked."
She tilted her head. "Asked?"
He nodded, slipping into an uncanny imitation of his mother's voice. "'Did you open the door for her?'"
A quiet laugh escaped her. "And you would've told her the truth?"
"I would've had to."
"That's sweet."
He shrugged, suddenly finding the menu far more interesting than meeting her eyes. "I don't know if I'd call it sweet."
"I would."
He smiled to himself, though he made no attempt to argue.
A waiter appeared a moment later, introducing himself before asking if they'd like something to drink while they looked over the menu. Before she could answer, Lamine glanced across the table. "You choose."
She looked up from the drinks list, amused. "What if I choose something terrible?"
"I'll pretend to like it."
"You'd suffer through a bad drink just to be polite?"
"I think I'd survive."
She laughed, lowering her eyes back to the menu. "I don't know if that's reassuring."
"I wasn't trying to reassure you."
"I can tell."
Ordering, they quickly discovered, should've been the easiest part of the evening.
Instead, it somehow became a five-minute discussion over whether they should split a few dishes or each order something different.
"I don't mind sharing," she said eventually, setting her menu down.
"Me neither."
He paused. "But..."
She smiled knowingly.
"But what?"
"What if you don't like what I order?"
She blinked before letting out an amused laugh. "You've actually thought this through."
"I've thought about everything."
"You really were nervous."
"I told you I changed four outfits."
"I know," she said, shaking her head with another laugh, "but I didn't realize the overthinking extended to appetizers."
"It extends to everything."
Resting her chin lightly against her hand, she watched him for a moment, unable to stop smiling. "I think that's kind of adorable."
He groaned dramatically. "Please stop calling me adorable."
"You keep giving me reasons to."
"I was aiming for mysterious."
"I don't think you've ever been mysterious."
"I play football."
"You also asked your mum to help you pick an outfit."
He pointed at her accusingly. "...You said we weren't bringing that up again."
"I lied."
"You did."
"I'm okay with that."
He held her gaze for another second before giving in, laughter slipping out far more easily this time. It was quieter than before, softer somehow, as though the nervousness that had clung to him outside had finally started to loosen its grip.
"I don't think I've laughed this much in weeks."
The admission came so casually that she almost missed it. "Really?"
He nodded, absentmindedly tracing the rim of his water glass with his thumb.
"It's been..." He searched for the words. "Busy."
She understood immediately.
She'd spent enough of her own life moving between airports, backstage dressing rooms, hotels that all blurred together, and cities she barely had time to explore before leaving again. Busy wasn't just having a schedule.
It was waking up one morning and realizing you couldn't remember the last evening you'd spent doing absolutely nothing.
"I'm glad you asked me out then."
His eyes lifted from the table, meeting hers almost instantly. "So am I."
Somewhere between the appetizers and the main course, the conversation quietly stopped feeling like a first date.
There wasn't a clear moment when it happened.
No awkward transition.
No conscious decision to relax.
It simply... happened.
Questions melted into stories. Stories dissolved into laughter. Laughter gave way to comfortable silences that no longer felt like something either of them had to fill.
She learned that when he was eight, he'd become completely convinced he was destined to be a magician after receiving a toy magic kit for Christmas.
"It lasted three days."
She laughed. "What happened?"
"I accidentally showed everyone where I'd hidden the coin."
"You spoiled your own trick?"
"I panicked."
"You were eight."
"I was under pressure."
She smiled into her glass. "I can see that."
He leaned forward slightly.
"What about you?"
She hesitated, smiling to herself before answering. "I wanted to be a veterinarian."
He looked genuinely surprised. "You?"
"Mhm."
"I can actually see that."
"I lasted longer than three days."
"Oh?"
"Until I realized I'd have to..." She gestured vaguely with one hand. "...you know."
He frowned thoughtfully. "Touch animals?"
"No."
"Give them injections?"
She shook her head. "Clean up after them."
The laugh that escaped him was so sudden he had to cover his mouth. "I completely forgot that part existed."
"I didn't."
"So that ruined the dream?"
"It absolutely ruined the dream."
He was still smiling as he shook his head. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone give up on being a veterinarian because of... poop."
She pointed across the table at him. "It was a very important factor."
"I'll remember that."
At some point the waiter returned to refill their glasses.
Neither of them noticed until he politely apologized for interrupting.
She blinked, glancing down at the table.
Their plates were empty.
"When did we finish eating?"
Lamine followed her gaze. "...I don't know."
"I thought I still had fries."
"You definitely ate them."
"I don't even remember doing that."
"I think I stole one."
She gasped dramatically, placing a hand against her chest. "You what?"
"It was only one."
"You thief."
"I was hungry."
"I would've shared."
"I know."
She narrowed her eyes playfully. "So why'd you steal it?"
He looked almost embarrassed.
"...I honestly don't know."
She shook her head, laughing.
"I can't believe this."
"I can buy you another fry."
"One fry?"
"If it'll fix our relationship." The moment the word left his mouth, he froze.
His eyes widened just enough for her to notice.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it again. "...I meantβ"
"I know what you meant."
"You do?"
"I hope so."
A relieved breath escaped him. "Good."
She lowered her eyes to her drink, hiding the smile that threatened to spread across her face as a faint flush crept up the back of his neck.
The truth was, she'd been noticing everything about him all evening.
The way he absentmindedly folded the paper wrapper around his straw into tiny little squares whenever he was thinking.
The way his smile always appeared a heartbeat before his laugh.
The way he never interrupted her, even when he looked excited enough to burst.
She noticed that he'd remembered she hated sparkling water from a passing comment she'd made months ago during one of their campaign shoots. She noticed how, every time the waiter came over, he instinctively waited for her to answer first before adding anything himself.
Little things.
Tiny things.
The sorts of details most people overlooked without realizing it.
She found herself collecting every single one.
Across the table, he was quietly doing the exact same thing.
He noticed how she always tucked her hair behind the same ear whenever she became excited about a story. How she'd gradually started talking with her hands without even realizing it. How her smile always arrived a fraction of a second before her laugh, as though her happiness needed just a moment to catch up with itself.
He wondered whether she'd always been like this.
Or whether tonight simply brought something different out of her.
The thought settled somewhere deep in his chest.
Dangerously warm.
He reached for his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers before looking back at her.
"So..."
She met his eyes. "So?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm having a really nice time."
There was nothing rehearsed about the confession.
No carefully prepared line.
No attempt to make it sound smoother or more charming than it really was.
Just quiet honesty.
She smiled immediately. "I know."
His eyebrows lifted. "You do?"
"I can tell."
A laugh escaped him. "I was trying to play it cool."
"You gave that up about twenty minutes after we met."
"I think it was closer to ten."
"I was being generous."
Leaning back in his chair, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "I don't think I've impressed you once tonight."
She looked at him for a long moment before slowly shaking her head. "I don't think that's true."
"No?"
"You've impressed me the whole time."
His expression softened. "How?"
She smiled, her voice quieter now. "By not trying so hard anymore."
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
Then, almost unconsciously, he smiled too.
Not the nervous smile he'd worn while waiting outside.
Not the embarrassed smile that surfaced whenever she teased him.
This one was warmer.
The kind of smile that only appeared when someone said exactly what you didn't realize you needed to hear.
Neither of them noticed when the waiter quietly slipped the dessert menu onto the table.
Or that nearly two hours had passed since they'd first sat down.
By the time they stepped back onto the sidewalk, Manhattan had traded the chaos of rush hour for something slower.
The streets were still alive, of course they always were, but the sharp urgency that had filled them only a few hours earlier had settled into an easy rhythm. Yellow taxis rolled lazily through intersections, storefronts reflected across rain-darkened pavement from a brief shower earlier that evening, and somewhere down the block, a saxophonist played to a crowd that barely seemed to notice him.
Neither of them suggested calling a car. It wasn't discussed. They just simply started walking.
The conversation wandered as aimlessly as they did, drifting from childhood memories to the embarrassing photos their families still insisted on keeping. Every story seemed to lead to another, and every laugh somehow lasted longer than the one before it. At some point, she'd slipped her phone into her bag without thinking, and it wasn't until much later that she realized neither of them had looked at a screen all evening.
She couldn't remember the last time that had happened.
A comfortable silence settled between them as they crossed another intersection, the city humming quietly around them. It wasn't the awkward kind that demanded filling, nor the polite kind exchanged between strangers. It felt earnedβthe sort of silence that only arrived after hours of conversation, when simply walking beside someone somehow said enough.
Their hands brushed once, then twice, and the third time, neither of them moved away.
Lamine glanced down for only a second before looking back at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Can I...?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
She smiled, turning her hand just enough for their fingers to fit together naturally.
"There," she teased. "That looked difficult."
"It was."
"No, it wasn't."
"You don't understand," he laughed, shaking his head. "I've been trying to do that for, like... twenty minutes."
She looked up at him, unable to stop herself from smiling. "Seriously?"
"I kept talking myself out of it."
"You overthink everything."
"I do."
"I've noticed."
He let out a quiet laugh, giving her hand the smallest squeeze. "I'm working on it."
"I think you're doing alright."
The words lingered between them long after the conversation moved on.
By the time they reached her hotel, neither of them seemed particularly eager to acknowledge that the night had come to an end. They slowed almost instinctively, as though walking a little more slowly might somehow buy them another few minutes together.
"I had a really good time," he admitted, his voice quieter than it had been all evening.
She looked at him, warmth blooming somewhere deep in her chest. "I did too."
A smile spread across his face. Small, genuine, impossible not to return.
"So..." He shifted his weight, suddenly looking just a little uncertain again. "Would it be... too soon if I asked when I could see you again?"
She laughed softly. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to."
His shoulders relaxed almost immediately.
"So that's a yes?"
"It's definitely a yes."
The grin that broke across his face was so unguarded that it made her laugh all over again. "I'll text you?"
"You'd better."
"I was planning on it."
She took a few steps backward toward the hotel entrance before stopping, reluctant to disappear inside just yet. "Goodnight, Lamine."
"Goodnight."
She watched him turn the corner before finally heading inside.
She laughed to herself as the elevator doors slid open, stepping inside with a smile she already knew would be impossible to wipe off for the rest of the night.
Long after she'd changed into pajamas.
Long after she'd crawled into bed.
Long after she'd told herself to stop replaying the evening in her head.
She still found herself smiling into the darkness, already looking forward to the next time she'd see him.
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No. There was absolutely no chance. You unlocked your phone again. The notification was still there. Slowly, almost cautiously, you opened Instagram. Your message requests loaded. And sitting right at the top was the unmistakable crest of FC Barcelona. Your thumb hovered over Accept for several seconds before finally pressing it.
The final whistle had blown nearly half an hour ago, but the stadium still hadn't settled.
Even from inside one of the hospitality lounges overlooking the pitch, she could still hear the celebrations filtering through the glass. Every so often another cheer erupted from somewhere in the stands as supporters lingered long after the match had ended, waving flags and singing songs that echoed throughout the stadium. Groundskeepers had already begun rolling equipment onto the field, yet thousands of people remained rooted to their seats, unwilling to let the day come to an end.
She couldn't blame them.
She wasn't entirely sure she'd come down from the adrenaline either.
Watching football at home had never prepared her for what it actually felt like to witness a World Cup match in person. Every tackle seemed louder. Every near miss drew a collective gasp from tens of thousands of people all at once, and every Spanish attack had her halfway out of her seat before she'd even realized she was standing. Somewhere in the second half she'd completely forgotten there were cameras around the VIP section. She'd celebrated every goal exactly the way she would've if she'd been watching from her couch back in Los Angeles, clutching the sleeve of her jacket and shouting loud enough that her manager had eventually started laughing at her.
"You know they're going to use that footage somewhere," he'd teased afterward.
She'd groaned. "I know."
"You were supposed to look composed."
"I was composed."
"You nearly spilled soda on the former Spain manager."
"...He moved into my elbow."
"He absolutely did not."
She rolled her eyes, though she couldn't stop smiling.
An event coordinator approached their table a few moments later, her accreditation swinging gently against the front of her blazer.
"Y/N?"
She looked up.
"If you have a moment, some of the players are greeting guests in the hospitality suite downstairs. FC Barcelona asked if you'd like to come by before they leave."
Her stomach tightened almost immediately.
"Oh."
She hadn't expected that.
Not when she'd spent ninety minutes screaming every time Spain crossed the halfway line.
Her manager looked at her over the rim of his water glass.
"You okay?"
She exhaled through her nose.
"I suddenly wish I'd acted a little cooler during the match."
He laughed.
"Too late now."
The hospitality lounge downstairs felt completely different from the stadium above.
The noise was softer here, reduced to quiet conversations and the occasional burst of laughter as players drifted through the room with medals around their necks and damp hair that suggested they'd only just finished showering. Club officials mingled with sponsors, photographers quietly documented the evening, and waiters weaved effortlessly between clusters of guests balancing silver trays filled with drinks.
It felt strangely... normal.
As if the people who had just competed on one of the biggest stages in world football were simply unwinding after another day at work.
She was halfway through convincing herself she could survive the evening when she heard someone say her name.
She turned.
One of Barça's media coordinators smiled as he approached.
"I'm glad you stayed."
"Me too."
"I have someone I'd like you to meet."
There it was.
The sentence she'd been dreading.
She followed him through the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as conversations blended together into an indistinct murmur around them.
Across the room, Lamine stood talking to two teammates, still dressed in Spain's training kit, a bottle of water dangling loosely from one hand. He looked noticeably more relaxed than he had during the match, laughing at something one of them had said before absentmindedly running a towel through his still-damp curls.
The coordinator caught his attention with a small wave.
"Lamine."
He glanced over automatically.
The smile on his face remained until his eyes landed on the woman standing beside him.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to show that recognition had settled in.
For a second he simply looked at her.
Not because he didn't know who she was.
Because he did.
Very much so.
The coordinator smiled between them.
"I don't believe you've met properly yet."
Something about the word properly made her wonder whether everyone at FC Barcelona knew about the Instagram like.
She sincerely hoped they didn't.
"Lamine," the coordinator continued, "this is Y/N."
"We've been coordinating the campaign with her team."
Lamine blinked once before stepping forward.
"It's nice to finally meet you."
His smile was warmβslightly hesitant, but genuine enough that it immediately eased some of the nervousness knotting in her stomach.
"You too."
She reached out to shake his hand.
His grip was careful, almost tentative, like he was suddenly aware of where to put his hands.
"I, um..." He let out a quiet laugh, glancing down for a split second before looking back at her. "I think congratulations are in order."
She frowned.
"For what?"
"Everything."
He gestured vaguely with his free hand, clearly realizing how unhelpfully broad that sounded.
"Your tour. The album. The campaign."
His ears reddened.
"I had a better sentence in my head."
She smiled despite herself.
"I liked this one."
"You did?"
"It felt honest."
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I swear I'm usually better at talking."
"I don't know," she teased. "You're doing alright so far."
"I've already forgotten half of what I wanted to say."
"I'll pretend I didn't notice."
"You definitely noticed."
"I definitely did."
For the first time since she'd walked into the room, he laughed without sounding nervous.
And somehow, the conversation stopped feeling like an introduction between a football star and a pop singer.
It started feeling like two people who were unexpectedly relieved to discover the other was just as awkward as they were.
I was rewatching girl from nowhere and I got inspired by s1 ep 8 hehehe... I thought that the plot would suit Beom-seok the most heheh
CW: angst... heavy...??? oh and reader is evil I'm sorry you guys
ENJOY π
Youβd stolen from countless people before, slipping fingers into pockets like you were plucking petals from a flower, careful, practiced, bored of how predictable everyone was. Most people never looked at you twice, a quiet girl with polite eyes and soft hands couldnβt possibly be a threat. And maybe that was why you chose him. Oh Beom-seok stood alone at the lockers like heβd been abandoned there, headphones in, posture straight, wallet peeking out just far enough for someone like you to want to take it.
You didnβt think of him as a person; you thought of him as a gamble. A spark. A potential thrill to cut through the monotony of another school day. Your fingers slipped into the back pocket of his uniform trousers with the same confidence you always carried, already feeling the smooth edge of leather when his hand closed around your wrist. Not violently, not startled, but deliberately, like heβd been waiting for someone to try. Your heartbeat jumped, not from fear, but from how unexpected it was.
Beom-seok turned, eyes steady, unblinking, searching your face for the truth you were already preparing to lie about. βWhat are you doing?β His voice was soft but strangely firm. You smiled sweetly, tilting your head. βYour wallet was falling out,β you murmured, pretending innocence you knew he didnβt buy. For a moment, he didnβt let go. You felt the pressure of his fingers, cold, hesitant, but decisive. Then he released you with a quiet, unreadable breath. ββ¦Be careful next time. Someone else might misunderstand.β He walked away without looking back. You stared at his retreating figure with a grin you couldnβt suppress. Interesting. Far more interesting than anyone else youβd picked.
The next day, he found you first. He didnβt mention the attempted theft, but the air between you held the memory of it like a shared secret. You tested him again, sliding a pen off his desk when he wasnβt supposed to notice. He noticed. He always noticed. But instead of flinching, he simply raised an eyebrow, accepting your return of it later without a word, like heβd silently agreed to let you play your little games. And that alone hooked you harder than you expected. Soon he became the person you drifted toward in the halls, someone who mirrored your steps without needing to be asked.
You teased him by stealing small thingsβ erasers, keychains, receipts, nothing valuable, nothing devastating, but each time he responded with a faint, oddly pleased look, as if being chosen as your target meant more to him than he dared say. Maybe he liked that you weren't afraid of him. Maybe he liked that you werenβt disgusted by the darker edges beneath his politeness. Or maybe he liked the attention, even if it came wrapped in danger.
Your worlds collided late one evening when you dragged him into a convenience store and walked out with energy drinks hidden in your jacket pocket. The clerk shouted and you ran before he could see your faces, grabbing Beom-seokβs hand without thinking. He stumbled but held on too tight, like losing your hand was more frightening than being caught. You sprinted together through puddles, breathless laughter echoing into the empty street, the night swallowing your footsteps. When you finally ducked behind a dumpster, gasping for air, his fingers remained tangled with yours long after the danger passed. His chest heaved, his glasses fogged, his hair damp with sweat, and yet his eyes rested on you like youβd become his entire world in the span of a single sprint. He didnβt speak. He didnβt need to. The way he looked at you, wide, bright, quietly in awe said everything. You looked away first, heart beating too fast for your own comfort. βRelax,β you teased, slipping your hand from his. βWeβre fine.β But the moment you let go, you saw it: a flash of disappointment he tried to hide. A longing. A crack in him that somehow reached into you.
The next few days felt different. He hovered close, too close, constantly finding reasons to brush past you or let his shoulder bump yours. When you stole a teacherβs lost keys and tossed them at him, he caught them with a startled grin you hadnβt seen before. When you jokingly slipped your hand into his pocket to prove you could, he didnβt flinchβhe just swallowed hard and watched you like youβd put a spell on him. He began memorizing the rhythm of your steps, matching them without being asked. He stood between you and hall monitors. He followed you into empty stairwells where he lingered too long in the quiet. He laughed more. Smiled more. He was falling, softly, clumsily, completely. And you were the first person heβd ever let this close.
But closeness had always been dangerous to you. You didnβt want someone looking at you like that. You didnβt want someone choosing you. Because you knew how this always went: people wanted too much, expected too much, needed too much. And you could never give what they asked for. You felt it most clearly on a rainy evening when the two of you ran from another petty theft from an old boutique and collapsed together in a narrow alley. Your clothes were damp, hair clinging to your skin, breaths mingling in the cold air. His knee brushed yours as he turned to you slowly, as if afraid the moment would shatter if he moved too quickly. His gaze softened, warm, unguarded, painfully honest. You recognized that look immediately, and you hated how familiar it felt: the look of someone falling in love with you. A look you could not afford.
You forced a laugh, dismissing it, brushing off the moment like dust from your sleeve. βWhat?β you teased, trying to make it small. βDo I look that tired?β His voice was barely a whisper. βYou lookβ¦ like no one else.β And for one terrifying second, you felt your own heart dip toward him. So you shifted your body away, creating distance he pretended not to notice but absolutely felt. His expression flickered, hurt, confusion, something raw cracking under the surface, but he swallowed it, like he always did.
It shouldβve ended there. But he kept falling. Every day, deeper. Every small touch became a silent confession. Every shared smirk, every sprint, every crime committed shoulder-to-shoulder built a world only the two of you lived in, a world where he felt safe, seen, chosen. And maybe a part of you enjoyed being chosen. But a louder part whispered that this connection was tying itself around your throat like a noose. Beom-seok was becoming someone you could lose. Someone who could lose you. Someone who wanted something real.
So the plan formed slowly, cleanly, precisely, your exit strategy disguised as a grand adventure. A heist just big enough to bury everything. A plan he would follow without question because it came from you. A moment perfectly crafted to snap the growing thread between you before it had the chance to tighten.
It became a rhythm, danger stitched into the hours of their days, like something inevitable, something alive. Every morning, Beom-seok lingered by the shoe lockers pretending to check his laces, waiting for her to appear. Sheβd show up with that half-smirk that said she already knew heβd been there long before she arrived. They didnβt talk about it, didnβt define it, didnβt dare ruin whatever strange gravity kept pulling them together. Instead, they drifted close whenever no one was looking. Her fingers ghosted over his wrist as she slipped a pilfered keycard into his sleeve; he steadied her waist when she bent over a teacherβs desk and pretended to look for lost homework while expertly swiping the papers underneath. They were good, unsettlingly good. A quiet, synchronized, criminal ballet.
Beom-seok started getting bold in ways he never had before. Heβd tug her into narrow hallways when guards passed, breathing fast from the adrenaline but even faster from being too close to her. His hand always found hers first when they ran, tightening so instinctively that she almost forgot she was supposed to be the one leading him into trouble. Theyβd collapse behind dumpsters or stairwell doors, panting and laughing, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the thrill of getting away running hotter than the sprint itself. And in those moments, sheβd catch him staringβnot with the cautious, skittish look he used to wear, but with something soft and unguarded, something that made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Like he was memorizing her. Like she was becoming his safest place in a world that had never given him one.
She ignored it at first. Tried to. Attachment was dangerous; affection was a trap sheβd learned to avoid. She told herself Beom-seok was only clinging to her because she understood the rush, because she didnβt judge him, because they were partners in crime, nothing more. But then came the small things. The way he started saving the best seats for her in the cafeteria. The way his shoulder brushed hers for a second longer before he pulled away. The way he murmured her name like it was a secret he was scared the world might steal. And once, after they snatched a set of confiscated phones from the discipline office and sprinted across the courtyard, he cornered her behind the storage shed, nearly collapsing from laughter. When she reached out to brush dirt off his cheek, he froze. Not scared, not flinchingβjust overwhelmed. She pretended not to notice the way his breath hitched. She pretended even harder not to feel the tremor that ran down her arm when he leaned just slightly into her touch.
The plan for the heist didnβt start as a betrayal. Not at first. It came casually, whispered between them as they lay on the rooftop after skipping last period. The wind was cold; their shoulders were touching; they shared a stolen drink like it was a communion. βThe headmaster keeps all the emergency funds in that safe,β she murmured. βIn the east office. No cameras inside. Only in the hallway.β Beom-seok turned to her too quickly, eyes lit with something wild. βWe could actually do it,β he said, like she had offered him a real future, not a crime. She nodded, faintly amused by how fast he latched onto the idea. βWeβd need codes. And timing. And an excuse to be there after hours.β She didnβt mention the part where she could easily blame everything on him. She didnβt mention how the thought had already rooted itself in her mind.
The next week was a blur of planning disguised as flirting with danger. They scouted the hallway late at night, hiding behind trophy cases, whispering too close to each otherβs mouths. They mapped out guard rotations, Beom-seok pressed against her back as they leaned over the paper, his chin almost on her shoulder. She felt the warmth of him everywhereβhis nervous excitement, his hope, his trust. That trust hurt more than anything else. Sheβd never been trusted like that before. Never been looked at like she was someoneβs answer instead of someoneβs threat. And every time he intertwined their fingers while they walked back from schoolββjust in case someone sees usββshe had to remind herself that she was the one setting the fuse. Not him.
The night before the heist, they met in their usual alley, the one behind the convenience store where the streetlights couldnβt quite reach them. He arrived first for once, fidgeting with the straps of his backpack, eyes darting like heβd been waiting for hours.
When she stepped into the dim light, he relaxed in a way that felt too intimate. They went over the plan again, codes memorized, escape route chosen, timing synchronized down to the second. She recited each step with clinical precision; he listened like her voice was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
But then the conversation drifted, softened, cracked open. He talked firstβquietly, like pulling threads heβd kept buried. About how he never really had friends. How violence had been easier than vulnerability. How people always left. She didnβt say much, just watched the way his hands shook while he tried to keep himself from unraveling completely. And then he looked at her, really looked at herβwith eyes full of fear and devotion all at once. βJustβ¦ promise you wonβt leave me,β he whispered, voice breakingly sincere. βYouβre the only one I have.β
She felt the guilt punch straight through her ribs. It was too earnest, too raw, too much. For a moment she almost confessed everything, almost told him he was making a mistake trusting her, almost warned him that she wasnβt built to stay. But Beom-seok waited for her answer with his heart practically in his hands, and something inside her buckled. She stepped closer, fingers curling around the front of his shirt. His breath stuttered. And before she could thinkβbefore she could stop herself, she kissed him. Soft at first, then deeper, desperate, like she was trying to hide the truth between their mouths.
His hands grabbed her waist with a shaky tenderness, as if he couldnβt believe she was real. When they broke apart, he leaned his forehead to hers, eyes glassy. βI trust you,β he whispered.
She didnβt reply.
She couldnβt.
Because tomorrow, sheβd be the one to break him.
The night of the heist wraps around the school like a suffocating shroud, the kind of darkness that doesnβt just sit in the corners but presses, heavy and humid against your skin, making every inhale feel like pulling smoke into your lungs, and as you and Beom-seok slip into the courtyard, his footsteps practically tripping over yours because he refuses to stray more than a handβs width away, you can feel the excitement vibrating under his skin like a caged animal ready to bolt, and he keeps glancing at you with these small, anxious looks as if heβs checking whether youβre still beside him, whether youβre still real, whether youβre not going to disappear like everything else in his life always has. His sleeve brushes yours with every step, intentionally or not, and you force your expression into something unreadable, because the guilt gnaws at you, knifing into your ribs, but you canβt afford to let it show, not now, not when everything is poised on a fragile balance that will shatter by morning.
Inside the administrative wing, the kind of quiet that feels wrong settles over you both, amplifying every sound into something sharpβthe tiny metallic clink of keys in Beom-seokβs shaking hand, the subtle scrape of your shoes across the polished floor, the breath he exhales when the first door unlocks with a soft click, and he turns toward you with a smile that is so hopeful it almost feels like an accusation. βSee?β he whispers, voice shaking but shining, βI told you, weβre good at this. You and me.β He squeezes your wrist briefly, grounding himself, as if needing reassurance that you havenβt slipped through his fingers yet, and you can already tell heβs been building this moment up in his head for days, maybe weeks, imagining a victory he could share with someone for the first time in his life. And you nod, because thatβs the easiest thing to do, the least dangerous lie, and he grins like that tiny gesture is enough to tether him to the earth.
As you creep deeper into the building, he starts talking more, not loudly, but quickly, nervously, like someone trying to fill the silence before it swallows him, rambling about how he timed the guard rotations, how he memorized the headmasterβs schedule, how he practiced cracking a lock on an old storage safe he found behind the gym. He says it with this shy sort of pride that makes your chest tighten uncomfortably, because itβs so obvious he wants to impress you, wants you to see him as competent, valuable, someone worth standing beside. βIβve never done something like this with anyone,β he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at you as he leads you up the final staircase, βbut itβs weirdβ¦ I feel like I can do anything with you.β And you have to look away because it hits too close to the wound youβre trying very hard not to acknowledge.
The headmasterβs office is dark, the air stale and heavy, the kind of room that feels like a held breath, and as the door shuts behind you, sealing the two of you inside, Beom-seok stands very still for a moment, staring at the safe like itβs the gate to a future heβs only ever dared to imagine when he was alone and angry and wishing the world would break for him just once. Then he turns to you, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. βAfter tonightβ¦ things will finally be different,β he breathes, βwe wonβt have to run forever. We can leave. Start over. Just you and me.β His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but is terrified youβll pull away, and you swallow the instinct to flinch because nothing, not sincerity, not affection, not longing, can save him now.
He kneels at the safe with a reverence youβve never seen from him before, laying out his stolen tools like offerings, and he looks so focused, so determined, muttering to himself under his breath as he works, adjusting wires and listening for clicks and frowns of concentration pulling at his brows. Every few seconds he glances up at you, making sure youβre still there, still watching, still choosing him, and you force yourself to keep a neutral expressionβeven though watching him try so hard is like letting a knife drag slowly across your ribs. Heβs so proud when he makes progress; you can see it in the tiny uptick of his mouth, the shine in his eyes, the relief that exudes from him like warmth. He wants you to see him succeed. He wants you to be the first witness to a moment in his life where he doesnβt fail.
When the lock finally clicks open, the sound isnβt dramatic at all, but to Beom-seok it is the world ending and beginning at the same time; he freezes, breath catching in his throat, and then he swings the safe open with trembling hands, revealing bundles of money stacked neatly inside, and his expression... Godβhis expression is pure, unfiltered joy, a kind of joy no one has ever allowed him to feel without taking it away immediately after. βWe did it,β he whispers, turning to you with a grin that cracks something inside you, βwe did it, together.β And for a split-second, you almost step forward, almost let your face soften, almost let yourself be human, but the lights explode on above you before the weakness can bloom.
The hallway floods with teachers and guards, the headmaster himself pushing to the front with a snarl already forming on his face, and Beom-seok reels backward in shock, the joy drained from him instantly as he stares around with widening eyes, confusion spiraling into panic. He whips his head toward you, reaching for your arm instinctively, desperate for some anchor, some explanation, some sign that this isnβt what it looks like, but you donβt move. You donβt look at him. You remain perfectly still, perfectly calm, perfectly empty. His expression contorts like someone drove a fist straight into his chest. And then he finally, painfully, understands.
The headmasterβs voice rises, furious and laced with disgust as he accuses Beom-seok of everything, of planning the theft, of manipulating you, of corruption, of delinquency, and Beom-seok shakes his head violently, voice cracking as he shouts back, βWhaβNo! You donβt understand! Itβs notβIt wasnβtβ!β But the words choke him, stumble, collapse, because heβs staring at you the entire time, waiting for you to speak up, to defend him, to do anythingβand you donβt. You donβt even lift your chin. His breath shortens into something sharp and broken. βY/Nβ¦?β he calls out, voice trembling, βSay somethingβpleaseβplease say something, pleaseββ and teachers grab him by the arms before he can stagger toward you.
The headmaster steps closer, face twisted in contempt, and snarls, βOf course it was you, Beom-seok. Itβs always you. Trouble, filth, disappointment, how long did you think you could hide what you are?β And something in Beom-seok snaps so audibly you feel it crack through the air like lightning. βSHUT UP!β he screams, the word tearing from his throat like an animal in a trap, βSHUT UP, YOU DONβT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME!β His voice is hoarse and wild, edged with years of swallowed rage, years of being dismissed, blamed, cornered. βYOU NEVER CARED! YOU NEVER EVEN LOOKED AT ME!β He shakes in the teachersβ grip, face red, eyes bright with fury and betrayal. βNONE OF YOU EVER DID!β
When the headmaster steps in again, face twisted and mocking, Beom-seok lunges forward, not with calculation, not with thought, but with the raw, instinctive desperation of someone whose entire world is collapsing in real time, and he punches him square across the jaw. The impact is loud enough to echo through the room, teachers shouting, guards rushing in, the headmaster stumbling back with a shocked cry. But even thenβeven in the chaos, even as hands clamp down on his arms and drag him backward, Beom-seok doesnβt look at anyone else but you. His eyes lock on yours, wild and devastated and searching. βY/NβY/N, HELP ME!β he shouts, voice cracking open, βPLEASEβPLEASE SAY SOMETHINGβWHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE?!β
He thrashes against the guards, voice growing louder, more frantic, each word edged with disbelief and heartbreak, βY/N, TELL THEM! TELL THEM I DIDNβT DO THIS ALONE! TELL THEM YOU WERE WITH ME! PLEASEβPLEASE DONβT DO THIS TO MEβI TRUSTED YOU!β His voice breaks on the word trusted, something in it splintering beyond repair, and you still donβt move, still donβt speak, still keep that infuriatingly blank expression on your face. You can see the moment he realizesβfully, irrevocably, that youβre not going to save him. That you planned this. That you stood beside him and smiled and held his hand and ran with him, all while preparing the knife you would press into his spine.
βWhy?β he chokes out, tears starting to spill, not silently, not gently, but in harsh, gulping sobs he tries and fails to swallow, βWhyβwhyβwhyβwhy would youβafter everythingβafter all weβY/N, PLEASEβPLEASE LOOK AT MEβDONβT DO THISβDONβT DO THISβI NEED YOUβYOUβRE ALL I HAVEβWHY ARE YOU LETTING THEM TAKE ME?!β His voice hits a pitch so desperate the room stills for half a second, teachers hesitating, even the headmaster clutching his jaw and looking startled by the rawness of it. But you keep your face empty. Unmoving. Cold. Because the plan demands it.
They drag him toward the hallway, but he fights so violently they have to bring in another guard, and his voice rises louder with every step, echoing down the corridor, shattering whatever dignity he had left. βY/N! Y/N, PLEASE! Donβt let them take meβdonβt leave meβDONβT LEAVE ME ALONE AGAINβI DID THIS FOR USβFOR YOUβPLEASEβPLEASEβPLEASE SAY SOMETHING, JUST ONE WORDβJUSTβLOOKβATβMEββ His screams are hoarse now, raw and cracking, but he keeps calling your name like a lifeline. And you keep staring straight ahead, refusing to react, refusing to break.
He collapses once, knees buckling under him, and they haul him upright again, dragging him like a ragdoll, but even then, even when tears blur his vision, even when heβs gasping for breath, he twists desperate toward you, sobbing, βI TRUSTED YOU, YOU PROMISEDβYOU SAIDβYOU SAID YOUβD STAYβYOU SAIDβPLEASE DONβT DO THISβPLEASE DONβTβPLEASEβY/NβWHY? WHY?!β His voice cracks so violently on the last word that it sounds like something tearing inside him, something that will never quite heal the same way again.
The door slams shut behind him, muffling his final screamββWHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?!ββleaving the hallway in a thick, oppressive silence, and even though you remain standing perfectly still in the middle of the office, arms folded, expression neutral and unbothered, a quiet, steady part of you acknowledges the truth: you didnβt just betray him. You dismantled him. And he will remember the shape of your silence for the rest of his life.
note: aw guys I'm soooowwwyyy π₯Ήπ₯Ήπ₯Ή βπ»βπ» I'll make it up to you guys
Fake dating was supposed to be funny. That was the rule Ye-jin kept repeating to herself whenever Hyun-tak slung an arm around her or leaned in too close in the hallways. It was supposed to be a game, something they could laugh about once the whole campus got bored of them. And at first, it was fun.. the teasing, the whispering from the freshman hallways, the way people from different grades started calling them βYeTakβ like they were some kind of campus legend. She didnβt notice how naturally she started walking beside him, or how she stayed a little longer after classes just to match his pace. She didnβt realize how often she looked for him during breaks, expecting to see him leaning against a wall, waiting to annoy her. She certainly didnβt notice how quickly her heart tightened when she saw someone else smile at him. But she did notice Baku.
Baku was soft-spoken, calm, the type of guy who listened before he spoke, nothing like Hyun-tak, who lit up every room he walked into like a match dropped onto gasoline. Baku was gentle, checking on her ankle every practice, always remembering the things she said offhandedly. He stayed late to help her tape her injury, and sometimes he would smile, small and sincere, in a way that made something flutter in her chest. Ye-jin didnβt think much about it, not really. It was just admiration. Curiosity. Attraction, maybe, if she was being brutally honest with herself. But she didnβt see how Hyun-tak had stopped teasing whenever Baku approached, or how his eyes always shifted first to her expression, reading every tiny reaction like it was an answer to a question he was too afraid to ask.
Hyun-tak tried to be subtle about it. He tried not to stare when she laughed at Bakuβs jokes, tried not to roll his eyes when Baku handed her water after practice, tried not to break his pen when she smiled softly after Baku complimented her spike. He kept telling himself it didnβt matter, because this wasnβt real. Because she wasnβt his. Because she didnβt choose him. And because a fake relationship gave him no right to feel anything at all. But every time she brightened at Bakuβs voice, something inside him cracked, splintering in ways he couldnβt tape back together with bravado.
He became quiet. Quieter than he meant to. He sulked without realizing it, slipping into these long stretches of silence during their walk home, answering her questions with distracted hummed responses, avoiding her eyes because he knew if he looked directly at her, all his feelings would spill out, messy, humiliating, too much. Ye-jin noticed in small ways: how he didnβt wait for her by the gym doors anymore, how he stopped offering to carry her bag, how he didnβt crack jokes during lunch. But she didnβt connect it. Why would she? Fake boyfriends didnβt get jealous. Fake boyfriends didnβt care.
But real ones wouldβve cared. And he was dangerously close to being one, except he had no place to stand. No title. No claim. Nothing.
The volleyball finals came faster than she expected, and Hyun-tak showed up head to toe in team colors, red jacket, themed wristbands, face paint under both eyes like he was a warrior ready for battle. He even brought a massive banner that said, βEunjang #4 IM YE-JIN, MY CAPTAIN ALWAYS WINS!!!β The boys from Class 2 teased him nonstop, but he didnβt care; he wanted her to see him. He wanted her to know he was proud, not as her fake boyfriend but as someone who loved her fire, her stubbornness, her drive. And when she walked into the court and saw him yelling her name louder than her entire team combined, she laughed, cheeks reddening in a way she didnβt understand yet.
The match was brutal, full of long rallies and vicious spikes that made the bleachers scream. Ye-jin played like she was on fire, adrenaline pumping in her veins, and every time she scored, Hyun-tak stood up so aggressively his paint smeared. He didnβt care. He looked like he could burst from pride when she won the final point. But right after the last cheer, when the gym roared with victory, Baku ran over, not hesitating, not thinking, and pulled Ye-jin into a hug. A long, full-bodied, arms-around-her-waist kind of hug. Too intimate. Too warm. Too comfortable.
Hyun-tak froze. Completely.
The banner in his hands lowered. The cheering around him faded until it was nothing but a dull roar he couldnβt feel. In that moment, something sharp twisted inside himβ jealousy, betrayal, heartbreak, all tangled together in a way that made his throat close. He had come for her. He had painted his face like an idiot for her. And she was in another guyβs arms, smiling into his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He turned and left. He didnβt wait for the team to gather for photos. He didnβt wait for Ye-jin. He didnβt wait for anyone. He just walked, fast, determined, wounded, out of the coliseum into the cold rain.
Ye-jin noticed instantly. She pulled away from Baku mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as she scanned the crowd. Hyun-takβs red jacket was unmistakable, especially disappearing through the exit doors at a pace that was almost angry. She muttered something to her coach before sprinting after him, slipping through the wet concrete path outside. The rain was coming down in sheets, hammering hard enough to blur the lights of the parking lot.
βGo Hyun-tak!β she shouted.
He didnβt stop. He didnβt even turn around. If anything, he walked faster, shoulders tensed like he couldnβt bear to look at her.
βHyun-tak!β she yelled again, voice louder, cracking slightly. βStop walking away from me!β
He didnβt. His chest was too tight, his pride too bruised, his feelings too raw.
So she ran, faster than she ever had during practice, and grabbed his arm with a force that almost spun him around. Rain dripped down her hair, her cheeks flushed with anger and confusion.
βTalk to me,β she demanded, voice trembling. βRight now.β
Hyun-tak finally turned, jaw clenched, eyes darker than sheβd ever seen. βWhy?β he said, voice hoarse. βSo you can run back to him? You looked pretty happy.β
She blinked, stunned. βWhat?β
βYou heard me.β His voice cracked, frustration spilling out unchecked. βYou can hug whoever you want. You can like whoever you want. Itβs not like weβre real, right? Itβs not like Iβm allowed to feel anything.β
Ye-jin stared at him, heart pounding. βWaitβare you jealous?β
He laughed, bitter, broken. βOf course Iβm jealous. Iβve been jealous. For weeks. And itβs pathetic, because I donβt even get to say anything. Iβm just the guy pretending to date you while you look at someone else like... like that.β
Ye-jinβs breath hitched, anger mixing with something deeper. βYou think I donβt care? You think I donβt feel anything either? I was looking for you the entire time. I wanted you there with me. I wanted you to be the first person I talked to after the match. You walking away feltββ she swallowed, voice straining. βLike you didnβt want me.β
The rain hammered harder, thunder rumbling like punctuation.
Hyun-tak stepped closer. βYejinβ¦ what are you saying?β
βIβm saying I like you,β she snapped, voice tight and shaking. βIβm saying Iβve been trying not to like you for weeks because I didnβt want to ruin whatever this was supposed to be. But you keep making it impossible. You make me nervous. You make me angry. You make me...β She exhaled shakily. βYou make me care.β
He stared at her, stunned, rain dripping down both of their faces.
And then she whispered, βSo if youβre going to confess, do it properly.β
Hyun-tak didnβt hesitate.
He grabbed her face in both hands, pulled her in, and kissed her like he had been waiting months β maybe even years, for this exact moment. It was messy, emotional, teeth and breath and rain soaking their clothes, but it was real. Raw. True. Everything they had been holding back crashing into each other all at once.
She kissed him back just as fiercely, hands gripping his jacket, pulling him closer like he was the only solid thing in the storm.
Fake dating burned away instantly, leaving something terrifyingly genuine in its place.
By the time they pulled apart, breathless and drenched, Hyun-tak rested his forehead against hers.
βBe my girlfriend,β he whispered. βFor real, this time.β
Ye-jin nodded, smiling through the rain. βI thought youβd never ask.β
π Freedom Wall Post:
Someone just SAW Ye-jin and Go Hyun-tak kissing in the RAIN outside the coliseum�?? RARE YETAK PULLLL THIS IS NOT A DRILL. YETAK IS REAL.
Comments:
@eunjangvbmanager: I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. IβVE BEEN SAYING THEYβRE ENDGAME.
@anonymous22: Hyun-tak had face paint on⦠and he still looked fine as hell wthelly.
@2B_Shin: I walked past them pls ts is so corny π
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note: omd i haven't posted an actual ff for so long I'm so sorry lmao
!!char guide!!
The gym was alive with its usual noise, the squeak of sneakers against the floor, the heavy bounce of basketballs, the sharp smack of volleyballs hitting the court. The air was thick with the kind of tension only competition could create.
In the middle of it stood Im Ye-jin, captain of Eunjangβs girl's volleyball team, who was trying to focus on drills despite the constant distraction coming from the other half of the gym. Across the divider, Go Hyun-tak, captain of the basketball team, was laughing with his teammates, throwing taunts loud enough for her to hear. It wasnβt new. It wasnβt even surprising.
βHey, Captain Im!β he called out, spinning a ball on his finger, voice dripping with playful arrogance. βYou planning to keep the court hostage again? Or do we get to actually practice today?β Ye-jin didnβt bother looking up from her clipboard. βMaybe when your team learns to dribble without tripping over their own feet, Iβll think about it.β
A chorus of βooohsβ rose from both sides. Someone whistled. Someone else yelled, βShe got you there, Hyun-tak!β But he only grinned, tossing the ball lazily from hand to hand. βYouβre lucky youβre cute when youβre mad,β he said.
Ye-jin looked up sharply. βYouβre lucky Iβm too tired to spike this ball at your face.β Her teammates tried not to laugh. His team was egging him on. And from the bleachers, Yeon Si-eun, Ahn Su-ho, and Seo Jun-tae watched the entire exchange unfold like they were sitting in front of a live drama.
βTheyβre at it again,β Si-eun muttered, barely glancing up from his notes.
βTheyβve been at it since the semester started,β Su-ho replied, smirking. βHonestly, Iβm starting to think they like it.β
Jun-tae snorted. βNah, this is straight-up enemies to lovers in real life. Just wait for the confession episode.β
The whole school knew about them, the way they fought for gym schedules, argued over bulletin space, and turned every interschool sports meeting into a shouting match. Yet beneath all that banter, there was something else. Something neither of them would admit, but everyone saw.
When practice ended, Ye-jin was gathering her things by the lockers when Hyun-tak passed by again, still sweaty, still annoyingly smug. βYou know,β he said casually, βif we teamed up, we could probably wipe out every other school in the regionals.β
She didnβt even glance up. βWe play different sports.β He chuckled, walking away. βWe would still make a good team though,β She rolled her eyes but found herself smiling as his voice faded down the hall. Sheβd never admit it, but there was something about Hyun-tak, something infuriating, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.
π Freedom Wall Post:
βCan someone PLEASE tell Ye-jin and Hyun-tak that their sexual tension is distracting the entire gym π every time they fight itβs like a kdrama episode playing live.
Comments:
@suhoo_: ref do something π
@yeonsieun: the noise pollution is real.
@juntaeyaa: iβm starting a betting pool for who confesses first.. hehe
It was already past six when Ye-jin finally dismissed her team. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, half the gym dark except for the side where she stayed behind. She was the type who didnβt stop until she got it perfect. So even when her players left, she kept serving, again and again, chasing consistency, chasing control. Then one jump went wrong. The moment her foot landed, pain shot through her ankle like electricity. She gasped, knees buckling as the volleyball rolled across the court.
βYe-jin?β She looked up, startled. Of all people, it had to be him.Go Hyun-tak was standing in the doorway, hair damp from his own late practice, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His expression shifted instantly when he saw her on the ground. In two strides, he was at her side, crouching down. βWhat happened?"
βNothing,β she muttered through clenched teeth. βJust a small twist.β
βSmall twist,β he repeated flatly, eyes scanning the swelling already forming around her ankle. βYou canβt even stand. Stay still.β She tried to pull away, but he caught her ankle gently, the warmth of his hands surprising her. His tone was softer now, but firm. βStop being stubborn for once.β
βIβm notββ she started, but hissed when he pressed slightly to check the joint. He sighed. βYouβre impossible.β Then, without another word, he slipped her arm over his shoulder.
βCome on.β
βI can walkββ
βNo, you canβt.β His voice left no room for argument. He tightened his grip and helped her stand, steadying her when she stumbled. His other hand hovered near her waist as they slowly made their way to the exit.
The air between them shifted quieter now, charged with something unfamiliar. The usual teasing was gone, replaced by something that felt dangerously close to tenderness. For once, Ye-jin didnβt have anything to say. Then, somewhere behind them, a camera clicked. Neither of them noticed.
π Freedom Wall Post:
βHYUN-TAK CARRIED YE-JIN OUT OF THE GYM LAST NIGHT ππ LIKE FULL ON HERO-MODE BRIDAL STYLE. HE LOOKED SO WORRIED TOO π??? MY YE-TAK HEARTTTT
Comments:
@juntaeyaa: saw it happen. man looked like he was in a drama finale.
@suhoo_: hell naw this school needs a privacy policy
@yeonsieun: everyone should start minding their own business.
@imyejin: DUDE THIS HAPPENED JUST 5 HOURS AGO
@gotakkie: they're fast π€·π»ββοΈ
By morning, the Freedom Wall was chaos. Students were whispering, giggling, showing screenshots from the post. Every time Ye-jin walked down the hallway, conversations died mid-sentence. Sheβd barely made it to her locker when she heard his voice, that same confident, teasing tone that somehow always found her. βMorning, Captain.β
She looked up to see Hyun-tak leaning casually against her locker, hands in his pockets, that infuriating grin on his face.
βYouβre trending,β he said. βThanks to you,β she shot back. βNext time, donβt play the hero.β He raised an eyebrow. βYouβre welcome, by the way.β βI didnβt say thank you.β
βYou didnβt have to.β He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping low enough for only her to hear. βYou donβt need to act tough all the time, you know.β
Her heart stuttered before she could stop it, and she hated that he noticed. βYouβre seriously enjoying this, arenβt you?β
βMaybe,β he said with a shrug. βItβs cute when you get flustered.β She blinked. βI am notββ But before she could finish, a group of students passed behind them, whispering loudly enough to hear.
βItβs them! YeTak!β someone giggled. βThey actually look good together!β Ye-jin sighed, dragging a hand down her face. βGreat. They made a ship name. This is your fault.β
Hyun-takβs smirk deepened. βThen maybe we should give them something to really talk about.β βDonβt you dareββ
He didnβt let her finish. One second, he was smirking; the next, his lips were on hers. It wasnβt long, a few seconds at most, but it was enough to silence the entire hallway. Enough to send a ripple of gasps and whispers down the corridor.
When he finally pulled back, his grin was all satisfaction. βThere. Problem solved.β Ye-jin stood frozen, completely speechless, her face burning. βYou.. you just kissed me!β He gave a lazy shrug. βRelax, Captain. Itβs all for show. Fake datingβs a great PR move.β βPR move?!β she echoed, still reeling. βCome on,β he said, walking past her, completely unfazed. βYouβll thank me later.β
Her mind was still spinning when she heard the sound of fingers typing rapidly nearby. Someone was already posting about it.
π Freedom Wall Post:
βSTOP WHAT YOUβRE DOING. HYUN-TAK JUST KISSED YE-JIN IN THE HALLWAY. I REPEAT. KISSED. IN. FRONT. OF. EVERYONE. WTF"
Comments:
@suhoo_: what did i just witness π
@juntaeyaa: this schoolβs turning into a shoujo anime!!!
Affiliation: Eunjang High β Volleyball Team Captain
Appearance:
Ye-jin has a clean, natural beauty that doesnβt need effort to stand out. Her fair skin always seems to catch the light softly, and a faint blush lingers on her cheeks whether from the sun or from practice. Her eyes are round and expressive, the kind that seem gentle at first but harden when sheβs focused. Straight black hair frames her face neatly, bangs brushing her lashes, usually tied back in a ponytail for games but left loose when sheβs off-court. She dresses simple, old gray shirts, loose joggers, hair tied with an elastic from her wrist, but somehow she still looks put-together. When she smiles, itβs quiet, almost shy, but genuine enough to disarm even her rivals.
Personality:
Ye-jin is disciplined, grounded, and fiercely competitive, the kind of leader who doesnβt shout to command respect but earns it through consistency and heart. Sheβs sharp-tongued when provoked (especially by Hyun-tak), yet behind her pride is someone deeply caring about her team and friends. She doesnβt open up easily, but she feels deeply, every loss, every word, every betrayal. Sheβs stubborn to a fault, always pushing herself harder than anyone else would dare to. But that same determination makes her magnetic. People are drawn to her steadiness, her quiet fire, the way she stands her ground even when everythingβs against her.
Off the court, sheβs unexpectedly soft, the type to bring snacks for everyone after practice but deny it if asked. She pretends not to care about gossip, yet secretly reads the Freedom Wall posts about her and Hyun-tak just to roll her eyes at them. Despite her teasing rivalries and sarcasm, she has a very empathetic core, one that often surprises those who misread her stoicism as coldness.
Strengths: Leadership, self-discipline, emotional restraint, empathy under pressure.
Weaknesses: Overworks herself, hides vulnerability, gets flustered when feelings are involved.
Go Hyun-tak (κ³ νν)
Age: 18
Affiliation: Eunjang High β Basketball Team Captain
Appearance:
Hyun-tak has that kind of presence that fills a room before he even says a word. Tall, athletic, and effortlessly confident, he walks like he knows exactly who he is and what people think of him and he doesnβt mind leaning into it. His hair is usually messy from practice, but it suits him; his sharp jawline and tired eyes give him that unintentional heartthrob look every student at Eunjang seems to notice. Thereβs always a hint of mischief in his grin, a spark that says heβs about to start something just for the fun of it. Even when heβs in his uniform, his shirtβs half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, basketball under one arm like the rules donβt quite apply to him.
Personality:
On the surface, Hyun-tak is the definition of charm confident, easygoing, and infuriatingly good at getting under Ye-jinβs skin. He jokes through tension, flirts through arguments, and pretends nothing ever really affects him. But behind that teasing exterior is someone much more complex. Heβs a natural leader who carries pressure quietly, pushing himself harder than he admits. He has a short fuse when it comes to unfairness quick to defend his teammates, even quicker to take blame for their mistakes. Despite acting like he doesnβt care, heβs incredibly loyal.
Hyun-tak thrives in competition. Whether itβs basketball or banter, he loves the rush of being challenged which is exactly why he canβt stay away from Ye-jin. Her fire matches his in a way that keeps him awake at night. Heβs drawn to her focus, the way she refuses to bend, and he canβt decide if he wants to win against her or win her. Beneath the jokes, though, heβs careful with her protective in subtle ways heβll never admit out loud.
Strengths: Charisma, leadership under pressure, intuition, emotional courage.
Weaknesses: Impulsiveness, pride, difficulty expressing real emotions.
a/n; this is the last part TT this was my first EVER smau but ik theres more coming cause i have SOOOOMANY ideas but so little motivation:< ty for reading and pls repost !! ty so much for the support <3
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