initially I didn't want to post anything but after reading some fics here I think I might do some random prompts here and there just for me to keep myself

@theartofmadeline

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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Andulka

Discoholic 🪩

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
noise dept.
Not today Justin

Janaina Medeiros
DEAR READER
wallacepolsom

#extradirty
RMH
🪼

roma★
Mike Driver
i don't do bad sauce passes
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

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@bread5173
initially I didn't want to post anything but after reading some fics here I think I might do some random prompts here and there just for me to keep myself
stop posing like a manwhore (not derogatory) and stop bringing out the other bisexual side of me (the one who likes men)
"...You deserved…better."
"You deserve someone who can give you the things you deserve."
"why couldn't that be you?"
just found out that it's okay to have sex while being pregnant?? why am i slow
You know I’m no Good
tw’s//angst, smut, dom!momo, sub!reader, nerd!momo x popular fem!reader, pussy eating, fingering, praise, hate sex, makeup sex, arguments, r! turns into a pathetic loser lowk, momo!redemption arc lowk.//
part 1, part 2, part 3
The ceiling fan spins. Same speed. Same lazy rotation. You've been watching it for an hour now, lying flat on your bed, phone face-down on your nightstand because every time you pick it up, you're tempted to text her again.
You stopped counting how many messages you've sent that she's never answered.
Your apartment smells like stale takeout. Dishes piled in the sink. Empty coffee cups on your desk. You can't remember the last time you did more than the bare minimum—classes, back home, repeat.
It doesn't help.
Nothing does.
Your roommate knocked earlier asking if you wanted to go out. You said no. She stopped asking after the first week.
The hollow ache in your chest has become so constant you've almost gotten used to it. Almost.
But then you'll see her—crossing the quad, in the library, walking past the dining hall like you don't exist—and it all comes rushing back. The look on her face that night. The tears. The way her voice cracked when she said I loved you.
Past tense.
You roll onto your side, pulling your knees to your chest.
Your phone buzzes. For one desperate second, your heart leaps—
It's just Sana. —“you skipping class again or what?”
You don't respond.
It’s finally Monday. Back to Reality.
You drag yourself to campus because you've already missed too many lectures and your GPA is hanging by a thread.
The quad feels different now. Or maybe you're different. People still nod at you, still say hi, but there's a distance. Like they heard something, know something.
Jihyo's been distant. Nayeon too. They don't bring up that night, but it sits between you like a fifth person at every group hangout.
Only Sana looks at you the same way she always has—with that knowing, slightly pitying expression that makes you want to disappear.
You spot Momo outside the student center.
She's wearing a leather jacket you've never seen before. Hair tied back. Laughing with some guy from her computer science program.
She looks... good. Settled, even.
Without you.
The realization hits like cold water.
You take a step toward her. Then another. Your mouth opens—
She sees you.
Her smile drops. She says something to the CS guy, adjusts her bag, and walks in the opposite direction.
Doesn't even hesitate.
You stand there on the pathway, frozen, as students flow around you with their coffee cups and backpacks.
You try everything.
Texting: you’re blocked.
Waiting outside her classes: She takes the long route back to her dorm.
Leaving notes in her mailbox: Returned, unopened.
You even try catching her at the late-night library sessions she always went to, but the second she sees you, she packs up and leaves.
"Please," you say one night when you catch her in the campus coffee shop—the same one where you used to meet between classes. "Just give me five minutes—"
She doesn't even look up from closing her laptop. Just packs it away, grabs her cup, and walks out.
The door chimes as it closes behind her.
You stare at your reflection in the dark window—shadows under your eyes, hair you barely bothered to fix, wearing the same hoodie for the third day straight.
You look like you're drowning.
Two Weeks Later
You finally corner her after a lecture you know she can't skip—it's required for her major.
She tries to slip past you at the lecture hall doors, but you step in front of her.
"Move," she says flatly.
"Not until you listen—"
"There's nothing to say."
"Momo, please—"
"No." Her voice is hard. Cold. Nothing like the soft way she used to say your name. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to destroy me and then decide when we're okay again."
"I know I fucked up—"
"You didn't just fuck up," she cuts you off, stepping closer. Her eyes are blazing. "You threw me under the bus to save yourself. You called me obsessed. You made everyone think I forced myself on you."
Each word lands like a blow.
"I was wrong—"
"You were calculated," she says, voice shaking now. "And I'm fucking done being your collateral damage. I'm done being the person you use when it's convenient and discard when it's not."
"That's not—I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." She pushes past you, shoulder checking yours. "You meant every word. And now you have to live with it."
She walks away.
This time, you don't follow.
You just lean against the wall and slide down until you're sitting on the floor, head in your hands, trying not to break down in the middle of the hallway.
—
And here comes the breaking point.
It happens in the parking lot after evening classes.
You're sitting in your car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, when you see her. Walking to her car. Alone.
Something inside you snaps.
You get out. Walk toward her on unsteady legs.
"Momo—"
She stops. Doesn't turn around. "Leave me alone."
"I can't." Your voice cracks. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep—" A sob chokes you. "Please. Please just look at me."
Slowly, she turns.
And the second you see her face—guarded, exhausted, hurt—everything comes pouring out.
"I'm sorry," you gasp, tears streaming now. "I'm so fucking sorry. I was scared and stupid and I—" You can barely breathe. "I ruined everything. I know I did. And I don't—I don't know how to fix it but I need you to know that I—"
You collapse. Literally fall to your knees on the asphalt, hands covering your face as you sob.
"I loved you too," you choke out. "I still do. And I'm so sorry."
Silence.
You can't look up. Can't bear to see her face.
Then—footsteps. She's walking toward you.
She crouches down. Eye level now.
"You hurt me," she says quietly.
"I know."
"Really hurt me."
"I know." You're shaking. "I know, and I'm so—"
"Stop apologizing," she says, and there's something softer in her voice now. "Just... stop."
You finally look up at her through blurred vision.
She's crying too.
"I don't forgive you," she whispers. "Not yet."
Your heart breaks all over again.
"But..." She wipes her face roughly. "Maybe we can try. Slowly."
You blink. "What?"
"I'm not promising anything," she says quickly. "And if you ever—ever—pull that shit again, we're done. For real this time."
"I won't," you say desperately. "I swear—"
"We'll see." She stands up, offering you her hand.
You take it.
—
Three Weeks Later…It starts small.
Coffee at the 24-hour place off campus. In her car. Parked behind the grocery store where no one from school goes.
You talk. Really talk. About everything—the party, the lies, the fear. She listens. Doesn't let you off easy. Calls you out when you try to rationalize.
"Own it," she says one night. "You were a coward. Say it."
"I was a coward," you repeat, throat tight.
"Again."
"I was a coward."
She nods. "Good."
Slowly—painfully slowly—she lets you back in.
A text here. A short conversation there.
You don't push. Don't demand more than she's willing to give.
And somehow, it works.
You start seeing each other more. Still careful. Still private.
But it's something.
—
You're at lunch off-campus with Sana when it happens.
"So," she says casually, stirring her iced latte. "How's Momo?"
You freeze. "What?"
"Oh, come on." She rolls her eyes. "You two have been sneaking around for weeks. Your car's been spotted at that coffee place past midnight multiple times."
"I don't know what—"
"Y/N." She gives you a look. "I'm on your side. Relax."
You slump in your seat. "Please don't tell anyone."
"I won't." She pauses. "But... Nayeon might already know."
"What?!"
"I may have... accidentally mentioned it."
"Sana!"
"Sorry!" She winces. "It slipped out! But she's cool about it, I promise."
You groan, head in your hands.
The next day, Sana and Nayeon show up at your apartment unannounced.
"So," Nayeon starts, leaning against your kitchen counter. "Momo, huh?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Too bad," Sana says, making herself comfortable on your couch. "We're talking about it."
"There's nothing to—"
"Are you two back together?" Nayeon interrupts.
"No. Maybe. I don't know." You rub your face. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?" Sana presses.
"Just—can we not do this right now?"
They exchange a look.
"Fine," Sana says. "But you can't avoid this forever."
You don't answer.
—
One Week Later, you're on your couch with Sana and Nayeon, half-watching some Netflix show, when there's a knock at the door.
"I'll get it," Sana says, jumping up before you can move.
You hear the door open. Muffled voices.
Then footsteps.
Momo appears in your living room, holding two CVS bags that rattle with medicine bottles and Gatorade. She looks confused, concerned, her eyes scanning the room before landing on you.
Your brain short-circuits.
"Hey," she says softly, stepping closer. She crosses the room, setting the bags on the coffee table before reaching for your face. "Sana texted me that you were really sick. I came as fast as I could—"
Her palm presses against your forehead. Cool. Gentle.
"You don't feel feverish," she murmurs, brow furrowing as she tilts your chin up to check your eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?"
You're frozen. "What—why are you—"
"Sana said you got drunk and were throwing up, that you might need to go to urgent care," she says, genuine worry in her voice as she examines you. "I was scared something happened."
Your head snaps toward Sana so fast your neck cracks.
She's grinning. Absolutely shameless.
"I had to make you confront her one way or another," she says with a shrug.
Momo's head whips toward Sana, eyes wide. "Wait—what? You lied?"
"For a good cause," Sana says, completely unbothered.
"Sana!" Momo protests, but Sana's already grabbing Nayeon by the belt loop.
"We're gonna go get food," Sana announces. "Call me when you're done."
"Wait—" you try, but they're already gone.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
You and Momo. Alone in your apartment.
You feel the walls closing in.
"I'm fine," you say quickly, putting on that familiar edge—the defensive armor. "You didn't have to come."
But even as you say it, you hear how weak it sounds. How uncertain.
Momo raises an eyebrow. "Really? That's how we're doing this?"
"I don't know what you—"
"Stop." She steps closer. "Stop putting up walls. You know where that got us last time."
Your jaw clenches. "They might come back—"
"They're not coming back," Momo says flatly. "Sana orchestrated this whole thing."
Of course she did.
You're spiraling. The facade is cracking and you can feel it—the desperation, the fear, the horrible aching need clawing up your throat.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out. "I'm sorry, I know I keep saying it but I don't know what else—"
"Y/N—"
"—I fucked up so bad and I don't deserve—"
"Stop—"
"—I can't lose you again, I can't—"
Your knees hit the floor.
You don't even remember dropping down, but suddenly you're there—on your knees in your own apartment, hands clutching at her jeans, tears streaming down your face.
"Please," you sob. "Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. I'll tell everyone. I'll—I'll give up everything, I don't care anymore, just please—"
You're a mess. Completely pathetic. Dignity shattered.
But you don't care.
"Please forgive me," you choke out. "Please. I need you. I can't—I can't function without you—"
Momo stares down at you, lips parted, eyes wide.
For a long moment, she doesn't move.
Then—slowly—her expression shifts.
Something darkens in her eyes. Her lips curve.
She's almost... smirking.
"You know," she says slowly, voice low and dangerous, "I hate how I think you look so fucking pretty when you cry."
Before you can process that, her hand shoots out, fisting in the collar of your t-shirt.
She yanks you up—rough, demanding—and crashes her lips against yours.
The kiss is sloppy, aggressive, all teeth and desperation. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against her as she walks you backward toward the couch.
"Momo—" you gasp against her mouth.
"Shut up," she mutters, pushing you down onto the cushions.
She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips, hands sliding under your shirt.
"You're on thin ice," she breathes between kisses. "You know that, right?"
"I know—"
"One wrong move and I'm gone."
"I know," you repeat, hands tangling in her hair.
She pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. Her thumb traces your bottom lip.
"I still want you," she whispers. "God help me, I still want you."
"Then take me," you breathe.
Something snaps in her eyes.
Her mouth is on yours again—hungrier this time, needier. Her hands roam, grabbing, claiming, like she's trying to prove a point.
You arch into her touch, gasping when her teeth find your neck.
"Say it," she demands against your skin.
"What—"
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you gasp immediately. "I'm yours, I'm—"
She kisses you quiet, swallowing the words.
The couch creaks beneath you as she presses closer, her weight pinning you down in the best way. Your hands slide under her jacket, finding warm skin, and she shivers.
"Fuck," she mutters. "I missed this. Missed you."
"I missed you too," you whisper, pulling her back down.
Her hands work your shirt up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Your bra is next, unclasped with practiced ease before she's kissing down your neck, your collarbone, lower.
"Momo—" you gasp when her mouth finds your nipple, her tongue swirling and tugging gently.
"Shh," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you."
Her hand slides down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. You lift your hips and she tugs them down, leaving you exposed beneath her.
She kisses down your stomach, teeth grazing your hip bone, and you're already trembling.
"Look at you," she whispers, spreading your pussy lips with her fingers. "So needy for me already."
Before you can respond, her mouth is on you—tongue thrusting in slow, deliberate strokes that have you arching off the couch.
"Oh god—" Your hands fist in her hair.
She works you methodically, alternating between sucking and flattening her tongue, her fingers joining her mouth to finger you. The sounds are obscene—wet and desperate—mixing with your broken moans and sobs you were still holding back.
"That's it," she murmurs against your pussy, the vibration making you whimper. "Let me hear you."
Your thighs start to shake, that familiar heat building low in your stomach. She feels it too, doubling her efforts, fingering faster, harder, curling her fingers just right—
"Momo, I'm—I'm gonna—"
"Come for me," she demands, and that's all it takes.
The orgasm crashes through you, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches, a broken cry tearing from your throat as you cum against her mouth. She doesn't stop, working you through it until you're trembling, oversensitive, trying to push her away.
She pulls back slowly, lips glistening, looking up at you with dark, satisfied eyes.
"Beautiful," she whispers, crawling back up your body.
When she kisses you, you taste yourself on her tongue—salt and heat and something that feels dangerously like belonging.
The kiss deepens. Slows. Shifts from desperate to something softer—almost tender.
When she finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
She rests her forehead against yours.
"I forgive you," she whispers. "But you're still on thin ice."
"I know."
"And if you ever—"
"I won't," you promise. "Never again."
She searches your eyes for a long moment. Then nods.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Okay."
She doesn't move. Just stays there, straddling you, one hand cupping your face.
"You're stuck with me now," you murmur, trying to smile through the tears still drying on your cheeks.
"Good," she says. "That was the plan."
And then she kisses you again—slow and deep and full of promise.
Outside, your phone buzzes with a text from Sana: you're welcome babe xx
You ignore it.
Right now, nothing else matters except the girl in your arms and the second chance you definitely don't deserve but are absolutely not letting go of.
Not this time.
Not ever.
YIPEE YIPEE NO MORE TRAGIC YURI
where are the... 3rd/4th gen gg fics....
I loved the second part of when did you get so hot? 😍 Can we have more maybe? 👉🏼👈🏼 Please🙏🏼 If you are up to it of course.
Never getting laid
Tw’s// angst, fluff, suggestive, arguments, substance abuse, physical violence, make out sesh, manipulation, lowkey doomed yuri//
Pt.1, Pt.2
—
The classroom hums with lazy Friday energy — pens tapping, chairs creaking, the faint buzz of the flickering overhead light. You’re half-slouched in your seat, one leg crossed over the other, Jihyo sprawled next to you, Sana tapping through her phone, Nayeon idly doodling hearts and curse words on her notebook.
It’s the usual: whispers, laughter, inside jokes, the kind of effortless rhythm only a clique could have. Then the door opens — that slow creak that somehow makes everyone look up — and in steps Momo.
The chatter dips, just for a beat.
She looks different again: hair brushed neatly, a soft beige hoodie replacing her usual gamer tee, a new pair of jeans that actually fit her. Her eyes flick around, unsure where to sit, before landing on your group.
“Over here!” Jihyo calls out, voice too bright, too sweet. She waves exaggeratedly, patting the empty seat near her. Momo hesitates before shuffling over, clutching her bag like a shield.
The second she sits, the show begins.
“So, Momo,” Sana starts, resting her chin in her palm, flashing that practiced smile. “You survived last weekend. That’s impressive. Most people don’t make it past the first round of Jihyo’s drinking games.”
Momo chuckles softly, rubbing her neck. “Yeah, um… it was fun, I guess.”
“You guess?” Nayeon echoes with a teasing grin. “You were gone, girl. I’ve never seen anyone throw up, rally, and still dance like that.”
Laughter ripples through the table — light, harmless on the surface. You smirk faintly but stay quiet, stirring your iced coffee with a straw.
Momo smiles along awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess I… let loose a bit.”
“She means ‘lost all control,’” Jihyo cuts in with a playful jab. “Speaking of which—” she leans forward, grin wide — “we’re doing it again this weekend. Same place, same chaos. You in?”
Momo hesitates, chewing on her lip before nodding. “Uh… sure. I don’t wanna, like… miss out.”
There’s something in the way she says it — that quiet, eager edge — that makes your stomach twist.
You look at her, watching how she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers trembling just slightly. She still wants to belong. Still trying. And for some reason, that makes you angry.
“Wow, Hirai’s really turning into a party girl,” you mutter, tone sharp but lazy. “Didn’t think you’d survive your first social event, but here you are — climbing the ranks.”
Jihyo snorts, elbowing you. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not,” you shrug, eyes locked on Momo. “I’m just… impressed. She’s really committing to the whole new me thing.”
Momo looks down at her desk, pretending to laugh. “I guess I’m just trying to, you know… not be the weird one anymore.”
You hum, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right. Gotta love a rebrand.”
Sana gives you a subtle side-eye, clearly clocking the tone. “Anyway—” she cuts in smoothly, flipping her hair — “we should make it themed this time. Like halloween night or something. I can get the decorations.”
“Girl, it’s November,” Nayeon deadpans, side-eyeing her.
Jihyo shrugs. “And? My cat ears still look good in November.”
“You’re so unserious,” you mutter, rolling your eyes but smiling a little.
“No, no—” Sana perks up suddenly, pointing her finger like she just solved a murder. “Halloween theme. But like, make it hot. Sexy witch, sexy vampire, sexy—”
“Sexy disappointment?” Nayeon teases.
Sana flips her off, grinning. “Fine, you can be that. I’ll be a sexy angel or something. Jihyo’s the jock devil, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Jihyo says, flexing her bicep with a laugh.
“And Momo—” Nayeon cuts in with a smirk — “hmm, what should you be?”
The way she says it — half-teasing, half-condescending — makes the table chuckle softly. Momo fidgets with her hoodie strings. “I don’t really do costumes…”
“Oh come on,” Sana coos. “It’s easy! Just wear, like… black and some eyeliner. Boom, spooky.”
You rest your chin on your hand, voice coming out cool and cutting. “She’s already spooky. Just let her come as herself.”
The group laughs — too loud, too easy — and you see it in Momo’s eyes, that tiny flicker of hurt before she covers it with a small laugh.
“It’s fine,” she says softly. “I’ll… figure something out.”
The guilt hits sharp in your chest, but you bury it fast, twirling your pen like you don’t care.
“So, same place?” Jihyo asks, scribbling notes on her worksheet like she’s actually planning something productive. “Drinks, lights, music?”
Sana nods. “I’ll bring decorations. I still have leftover Halloween stuff — skulls, fake cobwebs, LED candles. I’ll make it look cute.”
“Cute’s not the goal,” Nayeon chimes in. “We’re going for sinful.”
Sana snorts. “Fine. Cute but sinful.”
“Just don’t black out this time,” you say suddenly, eyes flicking to Momo. “I’m not dragging you upstairs again.”
She looks at you, meeting your gaze for the first time since she sat down. “I can handle myself this time.”
The group ohhhs, the sound loud and playful, but you hold her stare a moment longer than you mean to — something sparking there, unspoken and tense.
Finally, you smirk. “We’ll see.”
The bell rings, the sound slicing through the laughter. Everyone groans, packing their bags. Jihyo leans back in her chair and announces, “Saturday night. Costumes mandatory. Don’t be lame.”
You’re halfway out the door when you glance back — Momo’s still sitting there, fumbling with her bag strap, stealing a look in your direction. You catch her gaze for just a second before you look away, heart twisting, pretending it doesn’t.
And yet, as you walk out, her soft voice trails after you — “See you at the party?”
You don’t answer.
You just lift your hand in a lazy half-wave and keep walking.
But you can’t shake the feeling of her eyes still on you.
Lunch break came like a sigh of relief. The bell rang, and everyone poured out of the classroom — laughter echoing through the halls, sneakers squeaking against linoleum floors. You walked with your group, the same crew as always — Jihyo, Nayeon, Sana — their voices already loud, filling the air with gossip and half-whispered insults that felt sharper than usual.
“Did you see how she dressed today?” Sana snickered, biting into her sandwich. “Like, is she trying to be invisible or something?”
“Who, Momo?” Jihyo asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Obviously,” Nayeon said, rolling her eyes. “She’s cute, but she dresses like she still shops in the kids’ section. Girl needs a stylist, or at least a mirror.”
You stayed quiet, staring down at your tray, pushing your food around with your fork. The sound of their laughter faded in and out, blending with the buzz of the cafeteria.
You knew where Momo was. You always did. Same place she always went when things got loud — the bathroom at the end of the hall, the one with the flickering light and peeling white paint on the door. You’d caught her there before, tucked away with her headphones on, eyes focused on her phone, playing some game only she cared about.
As your group got up to toss their trash, you trailed behind.
“Where we sitting today?” Jihyo asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Outside,” Sana said. “Sun’s nice. Come on.”
You nodded, starting to follow — but as you passed the hallway that led to the bathroom, your steps slowed. That faint sound — soft electronic blips and clicks — reached your ears. The same game.
You froze mid-step.
“Go ahead,” you said quickly, forcing a small grin. “I’ll meet you guys outside. I just—uh—need to pee.”
“Ew, TMI,” Nayeon laughed, waving you off. “Don’t take forever.”
You waited until their voices faded around the corner before turning back down the hall.
The bathroom door was cracked open slightly, light spilling out onto the dull tile floor. You could hear it clearer now — the little melody of her game, that same focus and calm she always had when she was alone. You lifted your hand, ready to knock — loud, teasing, the way you always did — but your fingers stalled midair.
Before you could decide, the door creaked open from the inside.
Momo stood there, hoodie slightly askew, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes softened the moment they met yours.
“Hey…” she said quietly, like she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or nervous.
You blinked — the sound of your own heartbeat louder than it should’ve been — and then you smiled back. “Hey.”
For a second, neither of you said anything. Then you stepped closer, slowly, until your breath brushed her cheek. You reached up, cupping her face gently, and pressed your lips to hers — soft but full of meaning, full of everything you hadn’t been able to say. Her skin was warm under your fingertips.
When you pulled back, you exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, brushing your thumb against her cheek. “For… everything. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I just— I can’t really show… affection. Not around them.”
Momo shook her head lightly, eyes darting between yours. “It’s fine,” she whispered, her voice small but sincere. Her hands rested on your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt like she was afraid to hold on too long. “I get it.”
You smiled faintly, fingers reaching up to fix a loose strand of hair that had fallen into her face. “You tried today,” you teased softly. “Your hair looks cute.”
She laughed under her breath, cheeks pinking. “I tried.”
“You going to the party?” you asked.
Momo nodded, a bit uncertainly. “I think so. Jihyo told me to come.”
“You should,” you said, smoothing down her hair once more, “it’ll be… fun.”
Momo hesitated before mumbling, “Maybe… we could pick costumes together? Later?”
You paused, pretending to think even though your heart already said yes. “Yeah,” you said softly, taking her hands in yours. “Text me when you’re free, okay?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around yours, the tiniest bit of hope glimmering in her eyes.
You smiled, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I have to go. They’re waiting for me.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to hide the disappointment that flickered across her face. “Okay. I’ll, um… see you later then.”
You nodded, stepping back reluctantly before turning toward the hall. “Yeah. Later.”
She watched you go, her gaze following the rhythm of your steps until you disappeared around the corner.
Then, when she was sure you were gone, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She leaned back against the bathroom door, sliding down until she sat on the cool tile floor, heart pounding against her ribs.
Her hands flew up to her face, palms pressing against her warm cheeks as a helpless laugh escaped her.
“Holy crap,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head with a shaky smile.
Yeah, she was completely screwed.
The final bell rang and the chatter of students filled the room like static. Chairs scraped against the floor, papers shuffled, and everyone started drifting out toward the weekend. You were stuffing your notebook into your bag when Momo appeared by your desk, hands shoved awkwardly into her hoodie pocket.
“Hey,” she said softly, leaning down a little, the corners of her lips curving up. “You still wanna… go? Costume stuff?”
You glanced up, pretending to be casual, even though your stomach was already twisting. “Yeah,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Let me just grab my stuff.”
She nodded, rocking on her heels. “Cool. I parked out back.”
The way she said it — quiet, almost too careful — made you smile. She’d been like that all week, tiptoeing around you, like she was scared to break whatever strange, fragile thing had formed between you two.
Outside, the air was warm, sun dipping just low enough to spill gold across the parking lot. Momo’s car sat in the same spot as before — spotless, weirdly tidy for her. She hurried ahead to open the door for you again.
“Still doing this, huh?” you teased, raising a brow.
“It’s called being polite,” she said, smirking a little.
You rolled your eyes but got in anyway, hiding the small smile tugging at your lips. She caught it in the reflection of the window.
“See? You like it,” she murmured as she closed your door.
The drive to the costume store was easy — the radio playing something soft, city lights flickering past the windows. Every now and then, she’d tap her fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm, or reach across the console to fix a loose strand of your hair like she couldn’t help herself.
When you got to the shop, she stopped to hold the door open. “After you,” she said, dramatically bowing.
“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, brushing past her.
Inside, rows of costumes and glittery masks filled every inch of space — witches, superheroes, fake blood, tangled wigs. Momo’s eyes lit up like a kid’s.
“Oh my god, look at this one,” she said, holding up a ridiculous vampire cape that looked two sizes too big.
“Yeah, perfect,” you said flatly. “Really brings out your tragic side.”
She laughed and bumped your shoulder with hers. “So mean to me.”
“I’m honest,” you said, grinning. “There’s a difference.”
You ended up helping her dig through the racks — she tried on cat ears, then a pirate hat, then something with angel wings that nearly smacked a mannequin over. Every time she came out from behind the rack to show you, you found yourself watching her too closely — the way she scrunched her nose, how her hoodie slipped down one shoulder.
Finally, you picked one out and held it up against her — a simple fitted black costume with faint gold detailing. “This one,” you said.
She turned to the mirror, tilting her head. “You think?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “It suits you.”
For a second she just looked at you through the mirror, your reflection meeting hers — that same slow warmth rising between you.
Then the door to the shop jingled open. Loud laughter. Familiar voices.
“Shit,” you muttered, recognizing Sana’s voice instantly.
Momo blinked. “What?”
“My friends— they’re here.” You grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the changing room area.
“What are we doing?” she whispered, trying not to laugh as you ducked into a narrow corner between racks of wigs and props.
“Hiding,” you hissed.
“In the wigs section?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Her giggle escaped before she could stop it, and you shot her a warning look. “Shh—”
But then her hand brushed your arm — gentle, steady — and the tension snapped. You realized just how close you were, her breath warm against your cheek, her perfume faint and familiar.
Her voice softened. “You’re cute when you panic.”
You turned to glare, whispering, “I am not panicking—”
Before you could finish, she reached up and tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your jaw. You froze.
“Sure you’re not,” she murmured, eyes glinting with amusement.
Your heart hammered. You had no idea if it was from fear of being caught or because she was looking at you like that.
After what felt like forever, your friends’ laughter faded toward the front of the store. You exhaled and stepped back. “Okay, coast’s clear.”
“Shame,” she said, grinning. “I liked our hiding spot.”
You shoved her playfully. “Let’s just pay for the costume.”
She followed you to the counter, still smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to you.
When you got outside again, the sun had dipped low, painting the street orange and pink. Momo held the bag out to you. “Thanks for helping me, by the way.”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “You look good in it. Don’t screw it up at the party.”
“I’ll try not to,” she teased. “You hungry?”
You glanced over. “A little.”
“Cool.” She pointed across the street. “There’s an ice cream place. My treat.”
You wanted to say no, to keep your heart out of whatever this was, but you followed her anyway.
You shared a cup — chocolate chip and vanilla — trading the spoon back and forth. She leaned on her elbow, watching you with that small, soft smile again.
“You always look like you’re trying not to enjoy things,” she said.
You looked up, mid-bite. “I’m not.”
“Really?”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
She chuckled and stole the spoon from your hand, taking another bite before holding it out to you again. You hesitated, but leaned forward anyway, lips brushing the edge of the spoon — and maybe, just barely, her fingers.
Her gaze lingered on you for a beat too long. “You’ve got something,” she said quietly, brushing the corner of your mouth with her thumb.
You swallowed hard. “You did that on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
When she finally dropped you off, the air between you felt charged — quiet, but alive. You unbuckled slowly, not wanting to get out yet.
“Well,” you said, “thanks for the costume and the ice cream.”
Momo smiled, leaning her arm on the steering wheel. “Anytime.”
You opened the door halfway before she leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.
You froze — heart stuttering.
“See you tomorrow,” she whispered, voice low, almost teasing.
You stepped out, your face hot. “Yeah,” you managed to say. “See you.”
You shut the door gently, watching her taillights fade down the street before you turned toward your house, biting back the small, stupid smile threatening to form.
—
The curling iron hissed softly as you ran another strand of hair through it, the faint smell of heat and perfume mixing with the sugary scent of the pumpkin-scented candle Sana insisted on lighting. Her vanity was a battlefield of lip gloss tubes, lashes, open palettes, and costume accessories.
You squinted at your reflection, adjusting the little bunny ears on your head. “I look ridiculous,” you muttered.
“You look hot,” Sana corrected immediately, applying her lipstick with infuriating precision. “You’re like Regina George if she had bite.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” she teased, then leaned back to admire her own reflection. “God, Lara Croft could never.”
You laughed, watching as she posed dramatically, holsters strapped to her thighs. “You’re really committed to the bit.”
“Of course I am,” she said. “Someone has to carry this party on their back.”
Downstairs, the muffled chaos of Jihyo and Nayeon could already be heard — laughter, clinking bottles, and at least one crash.
You sighed and adjusted the neckline of your costume again. “I can’t believe I let you convince me to wear this.”
Sana smirked, leaning against the vanity. “Please, you chose it yourself. I just encouraged your delusion.”
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered anyway. You didn’t want to admit who you were really dressing up for.
“So…” Sana started, in that sing-song tone that meant trouble. “You and Momo still doing your little secret costume-shopping rendezvous?”
You froze mid-curl. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” she said, laughing. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, right?”
You blinked rapidly, pretending to focus on your hair. “Notice what?”
“That you’ve been acting weird. All shy and quiet and—” she gasped dramatically— “nice.”
You groaned. “Shut up.”
“I’ve known you since middle school,” Sana said, picking up a comb and flicking it playfully at your arm. “I know your tells, Y/N.”
“Okay then, how?” you challenged, turning toward her, crossing your arms. “You can’t even name a single person I’ve liked.”
Sana smirked like a cat who had just been handed a canary. “Mina. In high school. You liked her so much you made her transfer schools because of how much you tormented her.”
Your jaw dropped. “That’s not— okay, maybe slightly true, but she had a thing for me too!”
“Mhm,” she said. “Then there was Chaeyoung in junior year. She followed you around like a lost puppy. And you—”
“She was adorable,” you said defensively. “And she offered to carry my bag first, okay?”
Sana leaned closer, grinning wider. “Don’t make me bring up your crush on Ji—”
You slapped your hand over her mouth so fast your bunny ears nearly fell off. “Fine! Fine, alright!” you hissed, cheeks burning red. “I think I like her, okay?! Happy now?!”
Sana’s muffled laughter vibrated against your palm before you pulled your hand away. She smiled softly this time, not teasing — a rare look of genuine affection.
“It’s okay, babygirl,” she said, ruffling your freshly curled hair. “I’ll make sure you get her.”
You groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“Love you too.”
Before you could argue, the door burst open and Nayeon stumbled in, followed by Jihyo, both looking far too good for how chaotic they were.
“Why are you two hiding up here?” Nayeon whined, posing dramatically in her black nun outfit — a short, satin dress with a fake halo that was definitely crooked.
“Because we’re not trying to summon the dead downstairs like you two,” you shot back.
“She’s just jealous,” Jihyo said smugly, adjusting her police hat. Her costume — all black leather and silver cuffs — left little to the imagination.
“Oh, officer,” Sana gasped, clutching her chest. “I swear it wasn’t me.”
Nayeon leaned in close to you, smirking. “Damn, bunny girl. You trying to get arrested too?”
You gave her a dry look. “You sound like a walking HR violation.”
“Compliment accepted,” she said, flipping her veil dramatically.
“You two could’ve helped us instead of flirting in the mirror,” Jihyo added, hands on her hips. “We’re drowning in fake cobwebs and Nayeon nearly stapled her hand.”
“It was one time!” Nayeon yelled.
You and Sana exchanged looks before bursting into laughter.
“Fine, fine,” you said, standing up and smoothing your outfit. “Let’s go help before the house burns down.”
As you walked out, Sana hooked her arm through yours and whispered, “She’s so gonna lose her mind when she sees you in that outfit.”
You shot her a look. “Who?”
She winked. “Oh, come on, you know who.”
Your stomach twisted again, but you didn’t say anything. Downstairs, the bass from the speakers was already vibrating through the floor, and all you could think about was the one person who hadn’t shown up yet — the one you were suddenly very, very nervous to see.
The bass thrums through your ribcage. Bodies everywhere. The smell of cheap vodka and expensive perfume mixing into something heady and suffocating.
Then the door opens.
Momo steps in—black costume fitted perfectly, gold detailing catching the strobe lights. Hair styled just like you told her. She looks—god, she looks good. Too good. Your stomach flips before you can stop it.
Jihyo spots her first. "Hirai! Get your ass over here!"
And just like before, it starts. A red cup shoved into Momo's hand. Then another. Nayeon laughing too loud, Jihyo egging her on, the whole group circling like sharks sensing blood.
"Come on, Momo, don't be boring!" Jihyo hollers, tipping another drink toward her lips.
Momo laughs—awkward, forced—and drinks. Her eyes search the room until they find you.
You're leaning against the wall, bunny ears slightly crooked, watching. When your eyes meet, something shifts. She smiles—small, private, just for you—and starts making her way over.
The crowd parts. She's close now. Too close. Her breath ghosts against your ear as she leans in.
"You look really good," she whispers, voice low enough that no one else can hear.
Your knees nearly buckle. Heat crawls up your neck. You hate how easily she does this to you—turns you into something soft and pliable when you're supposed to be sharp edges and cold shoulders.
"Thanks," you mutter, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering.
Her hand brushes yours. Barely. A whisper of contact that sends electricity straight through you.
But then Nayeon's voice cuts through. "Aw, look at you two! Bonding!"
Your spine stiffens. You step back, putting distance between you and Momo like she's contagious.
"Don't be weird," you say, sharper than necessary.
Momo's smile falters. Just a flicker, but you catch it.
The night spins on. Music pounding. Drinks flowing. Momo stays close—orbiting you like she can't help it—and you yo-yo between hot and cold. One minute you're laughing at something she says, fingers brushing her arm. The next you're rolling your eyes, making some cutting remark that makes her flinch.
"God, you're so awkward," you say when she stumbles over her words trying to tell a story.
She laughs it off. "Yeah, I know."
But there's something in her eyes—hurt, maybe. Confusion.
You see Sana watching from across the room. Her gaze sharp, assessing. She knows. Of course she knows.
The alcohol makes everything louder. Brighter. Meaner.
Momo tries to touch your hand again and you yank it away. "Personal space, Hirai."
"Sorry, I just—"
"Just what?" you snap, louder now. People are starting to look. "Can't take a hint?"
Her jaw tightens. "I thought—"
"You thought wrong."
It's cruel. You know it's cruel. But you can't stop yourself. The fear of being seen, of being caught, of admitting what this is—it all twists into something ugly.
You shove her shoulder. Not hard. But enough.
"Back off," you say.
Momo's eyes flash. Something dangerous flickering there.
"What's your problem?" she asks, voice low.
"You," you spit. "You're my problem. Coming here, acting like—like we're—"
"Like we're what?" she challenges, stepping closer. "Say it."
The room feels too small. Too hot. Everyone's watching now. Jihyo. Nayeon. Sana with that knowing look.
You shove her again. Harder this time.
"I said back off—"
Momo doesn't back off.
She grabs your wrist. Pulls. Hard.
"What the fuck—" you start, but she's already dragging you through the crowd, past the shocked faces, down the hallway.
"Momo, let go—"
She doesn't. Just pulls you into a room—a walk-in closet—and slams the door behind you both. The lock clicks. Darkness. Then she finds the light switch.
You're trapped. Surrounded by hanging coats and the faint smell of cedar.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she yells, and it's the first time you've ever heard her raise her voice.
"Me? You're the one who—"
"Who what? Who tried to be nice to you? Who actually gives a shit about you?"
Your chest heaves. "You don't know anything—"
"I know you're scared!" she shouts, stepping closer. "I know you can't admit what this is because you're terrified of what they'll think—"
"Shut up—"
"Make me."
You shove her. She shoves back. Harder. You stumble against the wall, coats rustling around you.
"You're such a coward," she hisses.
"Fuck you—"
"No, fuck you!" Her hands grip your shoulders. "You act like you're so above everyone but you're just—you're just—"
"Just what?" you scream, voice cracking. "Say it!"
"You're just afraid of being human!"
The words hit like a slap. Your eyes burn. Tears spilling over before you can stop them.
"I hate you," you choke out, but it sounds wrong. Broken.
"No you don't."
"I do—"
"Then why are you crying?"
You can't answer. Can't breathe. Everything is too much—the lights, the noise bleeding through the door, her standing there looking at you like she can see straight through every defense you've ever built.
You snap.
Hands fisting in her costume, you yank her forward and crash your lips against hers. It's not soft. Not sweet. It's desperate and demanding and angry—teeth clashing, your tears mixing with the kiss, tasting like salt and frustration and something that feels dangerously close to need.
She gasps against your mouth but doesn't pull away. Her hands find your waist, trembling as they grip you like she's afraid you'll disappear if she lets go.
You kiss her harder. Deeper. Pouring everything you can't say into it—the fear, the want, the awful aching truth that you've been running from since that first party.
Her fingers tighten. You feel them shake.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together in the dim closet light.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice wrecked. "I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Shh." Her thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear. "I know."
"I don't know how to do this," you admit, the words spilling out raw and honest. "I don't know how to be—"
"Then let me show you," she says softly.
Her lips find yours again. Slower this time. Tender. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise, like a beginning, like everything you've been too afraid to reach for.
Your hands slide up to cup her face. She sighs into your mouth, and the sound breaks something open in your chest—something warm and terrifying and utterly inevitable.
Outside, the party rages on. But in here, in this small closet surrounded by winter coats and shadows, it's just you and her and the truth you can't hide from anymore.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours.
"Don't push me away again," she whispers. "Please."
You nod, unable to speak, and pull her back into another kiss—this one hungrier, needier, your body pressing against hers until there's no space left between you.
Her hands roam—tentative at first, then bolder—tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair and knocking your bunny ears askew.
You don't care. You don't care about anything except the way she tastes, the way she holds you like you're precious, the way your name sounds when she breathes it against your lips.
"Momo," you gasp when she kisses down your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak.
"I've got you," she murmurs against your skin. "I've got you."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe it.
You let yourself fall.
Her hands slide lower, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against her. The kiss deepens—hotter, messier, all tongue and teeth and desperation. Your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp into your mouth.
"Fuck," you breathe against her lips, and she swallows the word, kissing you harder.
Your back hits the wall again. Coats rustle and fall around you. Her thigh presses between your legs and you can't stop the sound that escapes—half whimper, half moan.
"Shh," she whispers, but she's smiling against your mouth, clearly pleased with herself.
"Don't tell me to—" you start, but she kisses you quiet, one hand sliding up your side, fingers grazing the edge of your costume.
Your bunny ears fall off. Neither of you notice.
She's kissing down your neck now, finding that spot that makes you arch into her, and your hands are everywhere—her shoulders, her back, tugging at the gold detailing on her costume like you want to tear it off.
"Momo," you gasp, breathless.
"Yeah?" Her voice is rough, wrecked.
"Don't stop."
She laughs—low and dark—and pulls you closer. Her hands grip your thighs and suddenly you're lifted, legs wrapping around her waist instinctively as she presses you harder against the wall.
The closet feels too small, too hot. Your heart pounds so loud you can barely hear the music bleeding through the door. All you know is her—the way she holds you like you weigh nothing, the way her lips feel against your collarbone, the way your name sounds when she breathes it.
"You're so—" she starts, but doesn't finish. Just kisses you again, deep and needy.
Your hands slide under her costume, finding warm skin. She shivers at your touch.
"Please," you whisper, not even sure what you're asking for.
Outside, someone's calling your name. Distant. Muffled.
You ignore it.
Momo's hands roam higher, bolder, and you're so lost in her you don't hear the footsteps getting closer.
Don't hear the doorknob turning.
The door swings open.
Light floods in.
"There you are! I've been looking every—"
Jihyo freezes.
You freeze.
Momo freezes.
For one horrible, suspended moment, nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
Jihyo stands in the doorway, hand still on the knob, eyes wide as she takes in the scene—you pressed against the wall, legs around Momo's waist, both of your costumes disheveled, lips swollen, hair messed.
"What the fuck," Jihyo says slowly.
Your heart stops.
Momo's grip on you loosens and you slide down, feet hitting the floor. Your hands shake as you try to fix your costume, smooth your hair—like that will somehow undo what Jihyo just saw.
"Jihyo, I—" you start, voice cracking.
But she's already backing away, shaking her head. "What the fuck," she repeats, louder this time.
"Wait—" Momo tries, reaching out.
"Don't," Jihyo snaps, pointing at her. Then her eyes land back on you. "How long?"
Your mouth opens. Closes. No words come out.
"How. Long." Jihyo's voice is sharp, dangerous.
"It's not—we're not—" you stammer.
"Oh my god." Jihyo laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Oh my god."
Then she turns and walks away.
"Jihyo, wait!" you call, stumbling after her, but she's already halfway down the hall.
You chase her. Momo follows behind you, calling your name, but you can't look at her right now. Can't think. All you can focus on is Jihyo's back as she storms into the main room where everyone is.
The music seems to lower. Or maybe it's just your hearing tunneling.
Jihyo stops in the center of the room. Nayeon and Sana look up from their conversation.
"You're not gonna believe what I just saw," Jihyo announces, voice carrying over the bass.
Your stomach drops.
"Jihyo, don't—" you plead, finally catching up to her.
But she whirls on you. "Don't what? Don't tell them that you and Momo were hooking up in my closet?"
The room goes silent.
Every single person turns to look at you.
Nayeon's jaw drops. Sana's eyes go wide. Someone near the speakers turns the music down.
"Wait, what?" Nayeon says, looking between you and Momo, who's appeared at the edge of the crowd.
Your pulse hammers in your ears. Every face is staring. Judging. Waiting.
Panic claws up your throat.
"That's not—" you start, voice shaking. "She—"
Think. Think. Say something. Anything.
"She came onto me," you blurt out.
Momo's face drains of color.
"What?" she whispers.
You can't stop now. The lie is already out, already spreading like poison. "I tried to get away but she kept—she kept pushing—"
"That's not true," Momo says, voice breaking. "You know that's not true."
"She's been obsessed with me," you continue, louder now, desperate. "Ever since the first party. Following me around, texting me constantly. I tried to be nice but she wouldn't leave me alone and tonight she just—"
"Stop." Momo's voice cuts through like glass. "Stop lying."
Tears are streaming down her face now, and something inside you fractures.
But you can't stop. You're in too deep.
"I'm not lying," you say, even though your voice wavers. "She's the one who—"
"You kissed me!" Momo shouts, and her voice cracks on the words. "You kissed me first! In the bathroom, at the costume store, in that fucking closet just now—you kissed me!"
The room is so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.
Sana is staring at you with something that looks like disappointment. Nayeon looks confused, uncomfortable. Jihyo's face is unreadable.
"Tell them the truth," Momo says, voice shaking as she takes a step toward you. "Tell them about the ice cream. About helping me pick my costume. About—" her voice breaks— "about how you said you were sorry. How you held my hand."
Your throat tightens. You can't breathe.
"Tell them," she repeats, quieter now. Pleading. "Please."
Everyone's watching. Waiting.
You open your mouth. The truth sits right there on your tongue.
But what comes out instead is: "I don't know what you're talking about."
Momo flinches like you've slapped her.
"You're a coward," she whispers, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I thought—god, I actually thought you were different. That underneath all the mean girl bullshit you were actually—" She chokes on a sob. "But you're worse. You're so much worse than all of them."
"Momo—" you start, reaching for her.
She jerks away from your touch like it burns. "Don't. Don't ever touch me again."
She looks around the room—at all the faces staring at her, at Jihyo and Nayeon and Sana—and lets out a broken laugh.
"You know what the sad part is?" she says, wiping at her face. "I actually liked you. I actually thought—" Her voice cracks again. "I'm so fucking stupid."
"You're not—" you try.
"I loved you," she says quietly, and the words hit like a bullet. "And you just—you just threw me away. Again. To save your fucking reputation."
The silence is deafening.
She looks at you one last time—eyes red, face blotchy, completely shattered—and shakes her head.
"I hope it was worth it," she whispers.
Then she turns and walks toward the door. Nobody stops her. Nobody says anything.
You stand there, frozen, as you watch her leave.
The door slams shut.
The music starts up again, awkward and too loud.
People start whispering. Someone laughs uncomfortably. The party tries to restart itself around the wreckage you just created.
But all you can focus on is the empty space where Momo was standing.
And the hollow, sick feeling spreading through your chest.
Sana appears at your side. She doesn't say anything. Just looks at you with those knowing eyes—the ones that see right through you.
"You fucked up," she says simply.
You can't argue.
Because she's right.
You stand there in your bunny costume, surrounded by your friends, your reputation intact, your lie believed.
And you've never felt more alone in your entire life.
the way my headache went away while reading this and then it suddenly came back and hit me like a truck at the ending
Omg you should totally do a part 2 of When did you get so hot?... Like omg I need more
So Responsible.
Tw’s// angst, fluff, slight argument, emetophobia, hangovers/ after the party, kissing, that’s it tbh//
Pt.1 here
—
Your head pounds like someone’s hitting the inside of your skull with a hammer. The room is too bright, too quiet—Jihyo’s mansion stripped of its noise and bodies, only the faint hum of the AC still alive.
When you sit up, your stomach flips. The taste of bile burns the back of your throat. You stumble to your feet, one hand braced against the wall, and half-run to the bathroom.
The door’s already cracked open. You drop to your knees and don’t even have time to shut it before you’re heaving into the toilet. It feels endless—your whole body shaking as everything you drank, ate, and probably said last night comes clawing out. When it’s finally done, you’re a shivering mess, sweat damp on your hairline.
You reach for a handful of tissue, wipe your mouth, lean back against the cold tile. The air feels too still, heavy with stale beer and the faint sour tang of the party’s aftermath. You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the nausea.
A sound breaks the silence—a faint scrape of glass on porcelain. You jerk, eyes snapping open.
In the bathtub, half hidden by a curtain, is Momo.
She’s slumped there like a fallen mannequin, hair sticking in every direction, a dozen empty beer bottles rolling lazily around her. Her tank top’s twisted, one strap sliding down her shoulder showing her bra, jeans half-unzipped as if she’d given up midway through undressing. There’s a smear of glitter on her cheekbone and a red mark along her jaw from resting her hand there.
Her eyes blink open slowly, unfocused. “You… okay?” she mutters, voice raw and husky.
You freeze. Every image from last night surges back in one dizzy, unwanted rush—the music, the shouting, her face too close, the heat, the anger.
“Yeah,” you manage, too quickly, turning toward the sink. “Can’t say the same about you.”
You run the faucet just to have something to listen to, splashing cold water over your face until your skin stings. The reflection that looks back at you is wrecked: smeared mascara, pale lips, a few faint bruises on your collarbone that you don’t want to think about.
Behind you, Momo groans softly, dragging herself a little higher in the tub. A bottle clinks to the floor and rolls against your shoe. You step aside wordlessly, grabbing a towel from the counter, anything to keep your hands busy.
The silence stretches, thick, awkward. The only sound is the drip of the faucet and the faint buzz of the AC somewhere in the walls.
Momo shifts in the tub, blinking hard, trying to focus on you. “Hey… about last night—”
You don’t let her finish.
The words scrape at something inside you. You grab your phone from the counter, push past her voice, and snap, “Save it.” The bathroom door slams behind you with an echo that bounces down the hallway.
You stand there for a second, jaw clenched so tight it hurts, the sting of tears threatening again. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron. Get it together, you think, shoving your hands into your hair.
The house feels like it’s been hit by a storm.
You stumble down the grand staircase, each step creaking under your unsteady balance. The air smells like stale alcohol, sweat, and something sweet that’s gone moldy overnight.
Confetti sticks to your socks. There are shirts on the banister, a pair of heels balanced on the chandelier chain, and a mess of glitter ground into the carpet.
Nayeon’s sprawled across a couch, a track-team girl slumped on her lap, both of them dead asleep. One of Nayeon’s arms hangs off the edge.
Across the room, Jihyo’s on the kitchen island, face-down, still clutching a half-crushed beer can. Her hair has come undone, fanned across the tile. Sana, perfectly unbothered, is sitting beside her, using Jihyo’s back as a makeshift stand for her phone.
You just stare for a moment, blank. The TV’s on some random K-drama, blaring at full volume, the dialogue sharp and cheerful against the wreckage. Sana’s spooning cereal into her mouth like this is a normal Sunday morning.
She turns when you clear your throat. “Oh, good morning.” Her voice is irritatingly calm, all sunshine and ease, her hair still perfect.
You grab a water bottle from the counter, then reach into a familiar cabinet for the hangover pills Jihyo keeps stocked for mornings like this. You pop two into your mouth, chasing them with half the bottle.
“You passed out really bad yesterday,” Sana says, still focused on her screen. “Missed out, y’know?”
You groan, slumping onto the stool beside her. “What did I miss?”
She gives a small laugh, twirling her spoon. “After you knocked out, we did beer pong. Momo threw up in the sink again—gross—and then went missing in the bathroom. Nayeon finessed some girl from track. And Jihyo? She was playing Wii Sports with Jeongyeon on the big screen before she face-planted right there.” She nods at the kitchen island. “We kind of just… forgot everyone existed after that.”
You press the cool bottle to your temple. “Well that’s… wow. I’m so glad I slept through that.” Your voice drips sarcasm.
Sana giggles, bumping your shoulder lightly before leaning against you. Her perfume is clean and soft, completely out of place in the stale air. “Say,” she starts, teasing in her tone, “what did happen when you went off with Momo?”
Your stomach tightens. Heat flashes up your neck before you can stop it. “Nothing,” you say too quickly. “She was—uh—just drunk, and annoying, and I… I don’t know.”
Sana’s eyes flick toward you, skeptical, her smile small but knowing. She doesn’t press—just hums, the sound almost sing-song. “Mhm. Sure. You sound totally convincing.”
You whip your head toward her. “I’d rather die,” you snap, maybe louder than you mean to.
She laughs, the sound bright and easy. “Come on, you can’t lie. She looks kind of hot when she dresses like a normal person.”
Your eyes widen. You slap a hand over her mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Sana.”
Her muffled giggle escapes between your fingers. “Okay, okay,” she mumbles when you finally let go.
The room quiets again. The cereal in her bowl has gone soggy, the show’s laugh track echoing through the stillness. You both just sit there, pretending to be absorbed in the screen, pretending the tension isn’t gnawing underneath your skin
The house had finally gone quiet again — just the hum of the fridge, the faint chatter from Sana’s phone, the soft clink of her spoon against the bowl. You were almost starting to relax, sinking into the chair beside her, when—
CRASH.
A clatter of cans and a heavy thud shook the floor. Something metallic rolled across the ceiling above you, followed by a muffled groan.
You and Sana froze mid-bite, eyes meeting instantly — a silent exchange that said everything.
You sighed. “I’ll go get her.”
“Yeah,” Sana said around a mouthful of cereal, a smug little smile tugging at her lips. “Go do that.”
You shot her a glare before trudging toward the stairs, gripping the railing to keep your still-dizzy balance. Each step creaked under your weight, the smell of stale beer growing stronger the higher you went.
“Momo?” you called out, voice echoing through the quiet hall. “You okay? You dead?”
No answer — just the sound of something shifting behind one of the doors. You groaned, pushing it open, but it swung inward faster than you expected.
Momo stood there, suddenly right in front of you.
You froze. She was too close — close enough that her breath brushed your skin, sharp with leftover alcohol. Her hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and her eyes were tired but alert.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, voice gravelly. “I’m fine.”
You hadn’t realized before how she slightly towered over you, how the hallway light caught the faint curve of her jaw, how her tank top clung unevenly to her frame. You felt heat creep up your neck, immediately pushing it down.
“Alright. Whatever.” You backed up, arms crossed, trying to sound unfazed. “Just… don’t knock the house down again.”
You almost pushed her out of the way to leave, but your hand hesitated mid-air. Instead, you turned sharply, heading into the room you’d passed out in.
The second you stepped inside, the smell hit you — faint perfume, alcohol, something warm and human. The sheets were a mess, the faint indent of where you’d been still visible. And just like that, flashes from last night flooded back. Your stomach twisted.
Behind you, Momo’s voice wavered through the air. “Can we talk about—”
Click.
You slammed and locked the door before she could finish.
You pressed your forehead against the wood, eyes squeezed shut, trying to get your heart to stop racing. “Not now,” you muttered, scanning the room for your phone.
It wasn’t on the nightstand. Not under the pillow. Not even in the blanket folds. You cursed under your breath, dropping to your knees to check under the bed — and there it was, wedged way in the back.
You stretched, grabbed it, and pulled it free, exhaling in victory. “Finally.”
But then your thumb hit the button, and—
Nothing.
Black screen.
Dead battery.
“Of course,” you hissed. You’d left your charger at home. Perfect.
Outside, the knocking stopped. You heard Momo sigh — long, defeated. Then the faint shuffle of her footsteps turning away.
You hesitated. Guilt flickered, small but persistent. Before you could overthink it, you twisted the doorknob open.
Momo was still in the hall, halfway to leaving. She turned, startled.
“Oh—uh,” she started, rubbing the back of her neck. Her hair fell into her eyes as she spoke. “I tried looking for a charger for you, but… I kinda got sidetracked.” She gave a weak, sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
You stared at her, lips parted but no words coming out. The air between you hung heavy, uncomfortable.
“It’s fine,” you finally muttered, brushing past her.
You didn’t look back as you headed down the stairs, clutching your dead phone. Behind you, Momo followed — quiet, uncertain, almost like a lost dog trailing its owner — until you both reached the first floor again.
Sana’s voice drifted from the kitchen, light and teasing as always.
You drag your feet down the last step, the sound of your soles squeaking faintly against the sticky floor. The air on the first floor was still heavy with the scent of alcohol and cheap perfume. Sana didn’t even bother looking up when you entered—still perched on the kitchen stool, spoon in hand, her eyes glued to her phone screen as some loud drama blared from it.
You clear your throat, trying to sound casual even though your voice cracks slightly. “Hey… Sana.”
She hums, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Hey, you found Sleeping Beauty, I see.” She tilts her chin toward Momo behind you, her tone dripping with teasing sweetness.
“Yeah,” you mutter, “she was busy reenacting The Hangover upstairs.”
That earns a soft chuckle from Sana. She finally looks up, eyes half-lidded, messy bun somehow still perfect. “So what? You want a medal or something?”
You ignore the jab, rubbing the back of your neck. “I was actually gonna ask if you could, you know—give me a ride home. My phone’s dead, I can’t call an Uber.”
Sana blinks once, then scoffs softly. “Yeah, no. I’m not leaving this seat, babe. You can walk.”
You blink back at her, incredulous. “Are you serious? Sana, I live across town.”
She shrugs, spoon in her mouth. “Then it’s cardio day. You’ll survive.”
You let out a groan, slumping against the counter. “You’re impossible.”
Sana smirks without looking away from her phone. “And yet, you still love me.”
You’re about to shoot something back when Momo’s voice cuts through the room quietly but firmly.
“I can take you home,” she says.
You blink, turning to her as if you didn’t hear right. She’s standing there awkwardly, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, hair still messy but her expression calm and sincere.
“You’re kidding, right?” you laugh, trying to play it off.
But she doesn’t laugh. Her face stays serious—almost too serious.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, rubbing your temple. “You’re actually serious.”
Sana’s grin widens as she watches the whole thing unfold. She sets her bowl down with a soft clink, leaning her chin on her hand. “Aww, how cute. You two go have fun,” she says, tone drenched in mock sweetness. “Don’t crash the car—or each other.”
You shoot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”
“Love you too,” she hums.
You bite your cheek to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret, finally pushing off the counter. “Fine. I’ll be waiting outside.”
Momo nods, straightening slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Okay. I’ll just—say bye first.”
You don’t answer, just walk past her and out toward the front door, the cold air from outside cutting through the thick haze of the house.
Behind you, Sana waves lazily. “Bye, honey,” she says casually, her voice echoing through the kitchen.
Momo smiles faintly at her before turning to follow you out, the sound of her footsteps light and hesitant against the marble floor.
Momo steps out first, her sneakers crunching against the gravel of the long driveway. She circles around without saying a word, and when she opens the passenger door for you, you blink—caught off guard by the quiet gesture. Her hand doesn’t even brush yours, but something about the motion makes your chest flutter for a split second before you shut it down. No way. Not her.
You slide in, muttering a half-hearted thanks that she doesn’t seem to hear. She closes the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side. The car hums to life with a low purr—smooth, clean, and way too put-together for someone like her.
The interior is spotless. Leather seats that smell faintly of pine and citrus. Dashboard gleaming under the soft light. Not a single stray candy wrapper, no tangled cables. You glance around, confused, then glance at her—hair still a little messy, eyes faint with sleep, yet somehow composed behind the wheel.
You shiver as the AC kicks in, goosebumps racing up your arms. You don’t say anything, just cross your legs tighter and rub your arms for warmth.
Then, without a word, Momo leans back slightly and reaches one hand toward the back seat. Her eyes never leave the road. A rustle of fabric, then a soft fwip—a blanket lands neatly across your lap. Warm. Soft. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and… her.
Before you can react, she unfolds a corner of it, using one hand to gently pull it around your shoulders. She still hasn’t looked at you, the other hand steady on the steering wheel.
You blink, lips parting slightly. “I could do that myself, y’know.”
Her voice comes low, casual, almost under her breath. “Then why did you let me do it?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t have an answer, so you just stare out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the passing lights.
Silence fills the car—thick, but not uncomfortable. The kind that hums under your skin. You can feel your pulse in your wrist, feel every little turn of the wheel through the shift of her arm beside you.
After a while, you frown, noticing the scenery isn’t familiar. The GPS keeps recalculating, the robotic voice repeating “rerouting” every few seconds.
You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t the way to my house, kidnapper.”
Momo’s mouth twitches, like she’s fighting back a grin. “I know,” she says simply. “I’m just gonna get you something before I drop you off.”
You tilt your head, skeptical. “Get me something?”
She doesn’t elaborate—just keeps driving, eyes on the road, fingers tapping the steering wheel in rhythm with the soft music playing from the speakers.
And maybe it’s the hangover, or the silence, or the way the late afternoon light hits her jawline—but you find yourself staring.
At the way she bites her lower lip when she makes a turn.
At the small curve of her nose.
At the way her triceps flex when she shifts gears, the muscles beneath her skin tight and defined.
You look away quickly, biting your tongue, pretending you’re not thinking about how unfair it is that someone you’d written off as a complete loser could look this… good.
You shift in your seat, clutching the blanket tighter, as the GPS chimes again—rerouting one more time.
You let out a tiny hum as you drifted in and out of sleep, the hum of the tires melting into a soft white noise. The world outside blurred into a stream of color through half-lidded eyes; you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt warm like this; blanket tucked under your chin, the low vibration of the car like a lullaby.
Then a hand brushed the back of your neck.
You tensed at first, half expecting a jolt of cold air or some clumsy movement. But instead, Momo’s fingers barely grazed your skin, slow circles at the nape where the fine baby hairs curled. She wasn’t really petting you—more like absently fidgeting, tracing lines the way someone would doodle on paper when they’re lost in thought.
You wanted to tell her to stop. To pull away.
Instead, you groaned under your breath and slumped further into the seat. Her touch was steady, warm, grounding in a way that made it impossible to stay awake. You exhaled once, long and slow, before your body gave in.
When the car rolled to a stop, the change in motion tugged you awake. The world came back in pieces—the blanket sliding down your shoulders, the faint smell of fries and engine oil, the blur of red neon outside the window.
A burger joint.
Momo was already unbuckling, her movements soft and unhurried. She cracked open her door, and cool air swept in. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be back.”
You blinked at her, still half asleep, as she shut the door behind her.
Minutes passed. The sound of cars, the dim chatter of people outside. You rubbed your eyes and tried to piece together what the hell you were even doing there before the driver’s side door opened again. Momo slid back in, arms full—two steaming containers balanced carefully in one hand.
She placed one on the roof of the car for a second while she got situated, then reached back up to grab it and set it in front of you. “I hope you like it,” she said quietly, eyes flicking toward you, then away. “I didn’t really know what you’d want.”
The lid clicked open with a puff of heat, and the smell hit you like a punch. Loaded fries—beef, bacon, melted cheese, all golden and greasy and perfect. Your stomach growled so loud that Momo let out a tiny laugh under her breath.
You scowled half-heartedly. “Don’t laugh.”
She only shrugged, still smiling a little as she opened her own container. Then, without thinking twice, she picked up your plastic fork, tore open the wrapper, and handed it to you before doing her own. “Enjoy, Y/N.”
You blinked at her—surprised by the gentleness in the gesture—then muttered a small “thanks” and dug in.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was quiet, easy. The kind of stillness that didn’t need words. The radio played something faint—soft, lo-fi beats—and the car lights from the drive-thru flickered across her face every now and then.
After a few minutes, she reached into the bag again and pulled out a cup. A milkshake. Chocolate, judging by the color. She held it out toward you with a small, almost shy smile. “Got you a milkshake too.”
You took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second. “Thanks,” you mumbled, then added quickly, “I’ll pay you back when I’m home. Didn’t bring my wallet.”
Momo’s eyes flicked to you before going back to her food. “You’re good. You don’t owe me anything.”
Then, quieter—barely above the hum of the engine—she added, “Think of it as… an apology. For, uh… last night.”
Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, and you glanced at her, mid-bite. She looked down at her fries as though they might swallow her whole, cheeks faintly pink under the dashboard light.
And for once, you didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry about that too,” you finally mutter, breaking the tense silence in the car. “I shouldn’t have spilled that drink on you.”
Momo glances at you from the corner of her eye, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips as she rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve been through worse,” she giggles softly, the sound light but carrying a strange weight. It feels bittersweet to you, like a small apology wrapped in self-deprecation.
“Plus… I was being stupid,” she adds after a pause, her hands steady on the wheel as she casually steers through the quiet streets. “I just wanted to fit in.”
“You shouldn’t try to,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out with more honesty than you intended. “I think… you’re nice as yourself.”
The car goes quiet. The only sounds are the soft hum of the engine and the faint shuffle of her fingers along the wheel. You immediately regret your words, your cheeks warming, but before you can look at her, she clears her throat.
“Thanks,” she mutters quietly, not looking at you but still, somehow, letting the weight of the words linger.
“And… I’m sorry for taking all my frustration out on you,” she adds, her voice barely above the hum of the tires on the asphalt.
“It’s okay… I, uhm… I enjoyed it,” you mumble softly, surprised at the admission even from yourself.
“I’m glad you did…” she replies, her tone softening just slightly as she takes a turn. The car tilts gently in response to her maneuver, and you can’t help but notice the way her long fingers flex over the wheel, precise and effortless.
“The party was fun, though,” she continues after a moment, voice quieter now, almost contemplative, “I just wish I’d been a bit more… rational.”
You glance at her, the sunlight catching in her hair and the faint curve of her lips, and you feel your chest tighten. “I didn’t think you’d be the type for parties,” you say, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
“Oh, trust me,” she says, letting a small laugh escape her, “you haven’t seen me once summer hits.”
You both laugh softly, a little too long, too intimate, and you feel the faint twinge of nerves. “You seem really… nerdy,” you say, attempting to break the tension. “I mean, you barely look like you touch grass.”
“Well,” she says with a shrug, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “I am. I do admit I’m a nerd. Sure, I like gaming and… silly things, but… well… I’m just me.”
You feel your heart skip, unexpectedly, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “And… I like that.”
Immediately, you smack your mouth shut, cheeks burning. “Yeah…” you mumble, your ears nearly catching fire.
She lifts an eyebrow, eyes glinting with amusement, and smirks. “Really? That’s… good to know.”
The car grows quiet again, the hum of the tires somehow louder than it was before, the air between you taut with unspoken tension.
“Well… we’re here,” she says at last, pulling into the driveway of your house.
“Yeah… thanks,” you say, fumbling with the seatbelt as you prepare to step out. “I’ll… I’ll text you, yeah?”
Momo nods, her smile faint but real. “Bye now…”
“Yeah… bye,” you reply softly. You step out and gently close the door behind you. The cool air of the evening hits your skin, but you freeze, feeling her gaze on you.
Her window rolls down slowly, and she watches as you start walking toward your front door, making sure you get inside safely. But impulse strikes—your feet stop. You turn on a dime, heart racing.
Before you can think, your hand is on her jaw, tilting her face toward yours, and your lips crash against hers in a long, yearning kiss. It’s desperate, fleeting, and full of everything you haven’t allowed yourself to admit.
When you pull away, breathless, you grin, a little cocky despite the fluttering in your chest. “Come to the next one, yeah? I’ll wait for you.”
You pinch her cheek lightly, playfully, before bolting toward your house. You wave one last time before closing the door behind you.
Inside the car, Momo sits frozen, eyes wide as she watches you disappear. She slowly rolls her window up, the metallic clonk sounding impossibly loud in the quiet night. She flinches at the sound, hands still resting on the wheel, and mutters to herself, barely above a whisper:
“Holy shit.”
so easy (to fall in love)
minatozaki sana x fem!reader ; fluff
synopsis: you start noticing the cute woman in your building that always takes the same elevator as you.
warnings: reader is taller than sana sorry to my short queens... other than that NONE!! ; fluff fluff fluff ; just wanted to write smth cute for my cutie ; i misssssed writing for sana ; anything else i didn't mention ; not proofread
a/n: based off this video i watched a few months ago (as well as this song) its sooooo cute ugh how i missed writing for my wife
you never sleep well before the week starts.
the sunday night air keeps you up and never fails to have you groaning every monday morning.
today is monday.
today is no exception.
SANAAAAAA
i do wonder why i need to blend in, in order to be liked. Am i not enough as i am
your girl (me) is seeing twice in October 🥹
also guys what happened to yearning delusional fics it’s mostly smut now pls i just wanna be giggly and kicking my feet up n shit what happened to the drive to be like mmMmm coffee shop au once again
In Every Lifetime
Their time was cut short, so they made a promise to find and love each other in every lifetime.
Fluff, a bit of angst
Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem!reader
Word count: 4.5k
____________________
winter fluffssss pleaseeeeeeee!!!! love her so muchh and there needs to be more cute fluffy stories of the precious winterr! lovee ur writings btww
eminem gf
summary u came home super late to an unimpressed minjeong, who gives her the deadliest silent treatment ever.
genre established relationship / fluff / crack
pairing kim minjeong x fem!reader
masterlist.
this is something i would do i fear
DISTRACTION ✵ YU JIMIN
ARE YOU DOWN TO BE A DISTRACTION, BABY?
BUT DON’T DISTRACT ME, LET ME ASK YOU BABY
ᝰ.ᐟ when rising designer y/n jeon is forced to marry her rival, karina yu as pr for her upcoming fashion launch, the only thing that proves to be messier than their contract is their feelings.
ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. model!karina × fashion designer!fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. enemies to lovers, slow burn ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. forced/fake marriage, kissing, cursing, mutual pining, jealous karina, unresolved tension, yall argue and bicker a LOT, one bed trope 🥳 feat. sana of twice && giselle of aespa
ᝰ.ᐟ wc 12.5k (not proofread and ik there’s sm typos cause i was working on this late nights. i apologize chat i’ll eventually get to them and fix them all 🥀)
ᝰ.ᐟ katty a birthday present for my goat ( @1luvkarina ) <3 it was so longg and very much overdue but… happy belated birthday again angel 💕
(🎧) now playing — distraction by kehlani.
masterlist.
I’m Always Right
Karina x fem!reader
Word count: 5k
Play angst/filthy smut
Summary: Your girlfriend and you play fight often, but when Karina takes it too far and keeps poking- you need to exact your revenge by making her jealous with one of her best friends. This leads to a very heated confrontation at a birthday party.
TW: hi this is very aggressive. There’s some consensually forceful moments but consent is not discussed in this (though it would’ve been discussed prior). Consent of both parties is very important and I want to make that very clear! Please read with caution! Degrading, choking, alcohol, uhmmmm arguing, flirting with people who are intoxicated, jealousy, aggressive behavior. THIS IS AGGRESSIVE SMUT PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!
A/N: hiiiiii! It’s been a while, I know. BUT I wrote this fic for my Shayla @sscieloz for her birthday and with permission from that precious angel, I’m going to post it as my first fic that isn’t a twice fic! I hope you enjoy this fic! It was very fun to write and for one of my besties too! Makes it all the more special.
Also, I recently hit 900 followers and THANK YOU SO MUCH! I’m so grateful that you all are here and it really brings me joy knowing that you like my works enough to follow and interact! I hope you all have a LOVELY day/night/afternoon! Mwah mwah mwah!
“Are you seriously thinking about skipping out on Aeri’s party because she’s going to be there?” Winter huffed out to you over FaceTime, disappointment across her brow- upset that this little game you were playing was going to impact the party.
“I don’t want to… I know that Giselle would be upset if I did, but Karina pissed me off…like how could she do that and still think she’s right? It makes no sense!” It’s been a few days and you and Jimin hadn’t resolved this tiff you’ve had.
JUST FINISHED READING THIS HEHEHEHEH AGGRESSIVE RINA GOT ME GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET
ANNOYING NEIGHBOR NEXT DOOR
Synopsis — you thought the idea of having a new neighbor was nice, everywhere would be peaceful you and the new neighbors would exchange one or two greetings anytime you collided in the hallways but Minjeong makes you view it all differently now
Contains — fluff, strangers to enemies to lovers (in y/n’s head), strangers to lovers (in Minjeongs head), neighbors au , golden retriever x black cat, nickname: princess grumpy and clownjeong, Minjeong is head over heels, y/n thinks Minjeong is annoying at first, kissing (once), mention of a man (y/n goes on a date with a man)
WORD COUNT — 11k
A/N — I just have a thing for when idols are so loser/puppy coded 🙏🙏 had so much fun writing this 😭
You weren’t asking for much just a bit of peace and quiet.
After six long months of enduring your current neighbor’s obsession with playing electric guitar at ungodly hours (always off-key, always with the passion of a man fighting demons), you’d nearly cried when you saw him hauling boxes out of his apartment. “I’m finally free,” you whispered to yourself, forehead pressed against the peephole like you were watching the gates of heaven open.
The day he left, you lit a scented candle, ordered takeout, and played lo-fi music at a responsible volume, basking in the silence like it was a luxury spa. No more screeching solos at 3 a.m., no more mystery smells wafting under your door. You even dreamed of a future where you and your new neighbor might exchange polite nods in the hallway maybe even a friendly wave if things got real wild.
So, of course, the universe decided to spit in your face.
Because that very night, at exactly 12:03 a.m., the bass dropped.
You were jolted awake like someone had thrown you out of a moving car. The walls vibrated. The floor thumped. There was shouting, cheering, even…..and was that a dog barking? You blinked at the ceiling in confusion, wondering if you’d been dropped into an underground club by accident. But no, this was your bed. Your home. Your sanctuary. And whoever had just moved in next door was trying to turn it into Coachella.
Your first instinct was denial. Maybe they were just celebrating. A little housewarming moment. It was their first night, after all who were you to judge?
Then the clock hit 2:37 a.m. And then 4:19 a.m. And then, when the sun was beginning to rise at 6:01 a.m., the music finally stopped, right around the time you had to drag yourself out of bed for work.
You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, half-asleep with pillow lines etched into your cheek, and said out loud: “I hate her.”
You hadn’t even seen her yet. All you knew was that your new neighbor had the audacity to throw a full-blown rave on a Tuesday night like she was allergic to peace. But it didn’t matter you already hated her.
And thus began the war.
The next few days were a study in chaos. While you clung to a strict 10 p.m. bedtime and folded your laundry like a normal adult, she lived in a completely different universe. One where music blasted at random hours, someone was always laughing (suspiciously loud and way too attractive), and packages kept piling up outside her door like she was running an online shopping empire.
You finally saw her a week later. And you were prepared to give her a tight-lipped smile, maybe a passive-aggressive “Hey, how’s the soundproofing in your place?” if the opportunity arose.
But the second she stepped into the hallway, your brain short-circuited.
Because she was unfortunately hot.
Like, unfairly hot. Hoodie hanging off one shoulder, damp hair from a shower, iced coffee in hand even though it was cold outside. She looked like she walked straight off the set of a coming-of-age Netflix drama, and your brain decided to betray you by going completely blank.
“Oh hey,” she said, giving you a smile that was way too bright for 8:30 a.m.
You blinked. “Huh?”
“Neighbor, right? I just moved in.” She extended a hand, which you stared at for a second too long before awkwardly shaking.
“Y/N,” you managed.
“Minjeong,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
It wasn’t. But you couldn’t say that out loud.
Minjeong gave you another smile, then walked off humming a song you’d definitely heard through the wall at 2 a.m. the night before. You watched her go, equal parts stunned, annoyed, and deeply concerned by how nice her shampoo smelled.
That’s when you made your first critical mistake: you decided she was the enemy.
You convinced yourself that she was the type who wouldn’t remember your name in a week. That she didn’t care about being a decent neighbor. That her whole vibe, hot, effortlessly charming, chaos incarnate was a personal attack on your carefully constructed life of order and adulting.
Meanwhile, in Minjeong’s head, something very different was happening.
Because from the moment she saw you bedhead, hoodie with your office logo on it, slippers shaped like cats. she was, in her words, “done for.” She talked about you for ten minutes straight to her friend Ningning that afternoon.
“She’s so cute,” she said, dramatically sprawled across her couch. “Like, ‘excuse me’ cute. Like grumpy librarian meets off-duty model. She has these little sleepy eyes and I think she judged my coffee order and it was kind of hot.”
“Did she smile at you?” Ningning asked.
“Kind of. In a way that said, ‘I hate you but I could also fall in love with you if you stopped being annoying.’”
“You’ve known her for five minutes.”
“That’s enough.”
From that day on, Minjeong made it her mission to win you over. She started with greetings. Always cheerful. Always a little too loud. Always with some oddly specific detail about her day you didn’t ask for.
“Hey, Y/N! I got a blender! It’s pink!”
“Morning! You should try this new place downstairs. They make this disgusting matcha latte I can’t stop drinking.”
“Hey, you looked really focused yesterday when you left for work. Like, very serious. Do you do spy stuff?”
You responded with polite nods. Barely-there smiles. The occasional grunt when you were too tired to pretend.
You were convinced she was messing with you. No one could be that cheerful at 7 a.m. Especially not someone who hosted parties with that many screaming people and three separate Spotify playlists labeled “Vibe Only.”
And yet despite your best efforts you found yourself noticing things.
Like how Minjeong always held the elevator door open for you, even when you were at the end of the hall. Or how she complimented your outfits in weirdly specific ways (“That blazer makes you look like you just won a court case and I’m into that”). Or how she never seemed to mind your half-dead zombie face in the morning and even once said, “You’re like… charmingly exhausted. It’s kind of your thing.”
You tried to stay annoyed. You really did.
But the thing about Minjeong was she grew on you. Like mold. Hot, annoyingly persistent mold.
The final straw was when she knocked on your door at 9 p.m. on a Friday with two bowls of ramen and a sheepish smile.
“I may have accidentally broken my stove,” she said. “Do you wanna eat this with me or let me suffer alone?”
You stared at her. Then at the ramen. Then back at her.
“…Fine.”
You told yourself you were just being polite. That it was a one-time thing. That this didn’t mean anything.
But an hour later, you were laughing at her impression of your building manager, and she was sitting way too close on your couch, and the thought floated into your head uninvited:
You’re in trouble.
You weren’t paranoid. You were just observant.
It started with the elevator. You’d always had a good rhythm going. leave the apartment at exactly 8:37 a.m., elevator arrives by 8:39, and you’re out the lobby doors by 8:42, no interruptions. It was your sacred little ritual. Peaceful. Predictable. Perfect.
Until Minjeong started showing up.
At first, you chalked it up to coincidence. People lived in the same building. Elevator overlap was bound to happen. But then it happened again the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Every single morning, without fail, the doors would slide open and there she’d be: oversized hoodie, iced coffee in hand (yes, still in winter), eyes lighting up like she was happy to see you.
“Morning, Y/N!” she chirped on day five.
You didn’t respond. You just stared at her and shifted to the farthest corner of the elevator, clutching your bag like it could protect you from whatever chaos she radiated.
“You always leave around this time, huh?” she added, like she didn’t already know. “I should’ve guessed. You seem like a very… punctual person.”
That was it. You narrowed your eyes.
She was tracking your schedule.
You didn’t have any proof, not really but deep down, you knew. No one just accidentally showed up that many times in a row. She was either trying to annoy you on purpose or attempting some weird form of social ambush. Either way, you weren’t having it.
So you left earlier the next day. 8:27 a.m. Just to be safe.
You strutted down the hallway feeling smug. Minjeong wouldn’t be expecting that. She’d probably still be in bed, dreaming about whatever hot people dream about. You were halfway to the elevator when—
“Y/N?”
You stopped in your tracks. Turned. And there she was.
Standing in front of her door. Holding a bag of trash. Looking far too surprised to be innocent.
“Oh! Didn’t think I’d see you this early,” she said, smiling like she hadn’t just given herself away. “Taking the trash out too?”
You glanced at your work tote, your blazer, your very obvious lack of a trash bag.
“No,” you said flatly. “I’m going to work.”
“Oh. Right.” She shifted awkwardly. “Well… have a good day!”
You walked into the elevator without responding, hit the button, and as the doors closed, you muttered under your breath: “Stalker.”
You tried to switch it up even more after that. Left at different times. Took the stairs. Waited until the last possible second. Nothing worked. Minjeong was always there sometimes miraculously appearing just as you were unlocking your door, sometimes already waiting in the lobby “just hanging out.”
And it wasn’t just in the mornings.
She bumped into you at the coffee shop near your building.
“Oh hey! I didn’t know you came here too!” she said on your third visit, as if she wasn’t very clearly sitting at the window watching the door.
You ran into her at the laundry room.
“Wow, same laundry day? That’s so domestic of us,” she said, dropping her basket with a dramatic sigh like you were starring in a sitcom together.
You even saw her at the tiny corner market two blocks down.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, grinning. “Are we… synced?”
You almost dropped your basket.
You weren’t dramatic. You weren’t. But you were convinced Minjeong was following you. No one was that coincidental. No one was that present all the time. You’d never met someone who appeared more often than your own reflection.
Your group chat was torn.
You: she’s stalking me. I’m serious. She’s like a flirty ghost that refuses to be exorcised
Jisoo: …are you sure you’re not just finally making a friend?
Nari: is she hot
You: yes but IRRELEVANT
Jisoo: this sounds like a Wattpad fic
Nari: she’s into you
You: SHE’S INTO ANNOYING ME
But even they had to agree that the coincidence level was suspicious.
It all came to a head the day you went for your usual lunch break walk to clear your head from your hellish job, only to spot Minjeong sitting on your bench. The one you always claimed under the tree, away from all the noise and pigeons and people who breathed too loud.
And she was just… there. Drinking a smoothie. Wearing sunglasses. Waving.
You stopped walking.
“No way,” you muttered, turning back toward your office building. “I’m hallucinating. I’m under stress. That’s not real.”
“Y/N!” she called. “Hey! Do you wanna sit?”
You turned slowly.
“How do you know I come here?”
She blinked. “I didn’t! I was just… passing by.”
You stared at her. “You live 20 minutes from here.”
“Exercise?” she tried.
“It’s a Tuesday.”
“Exactly. Cardio Tuesdays.”
You stared harder.
She finally cracked, giving you a sheepish grin and pulling her sunglasses up onto her head.
“Okay, fine. I might’ve overheard you on the phone once. Saying this was your favorite lunch spot.”
You blinked. “You were listening to my phone calls?”
She winced. “No! I mean. I was coming up the stairs and you were outside your door and talking loudly and I have really good hearing and maybe I just… remembered.”
You just stared. For a long, silent moment.
“…You’re so weird,” you muttered, walking past her and sitting down anyway because you weren’t going to let her take your bench, even if she was wearing stupidly nice sunglasses and had a stupidly cute dimple that showed up whenever she was nervous.
She perked up, scooting over like you hadn’t just insulted her.
“I don’t get it,” you said finally, watching her sip her smoothie. “Why are you always around me?”
She blinked. “You make it sound like I’m haunting you.”
“You are.”
Minjeong looked at you for a long second.
Then shrugged. “I like being around you.”
You turned to her slowly.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do.” She counted off on her fingers. “You like your coffee black unless it’s a Monday, and then you get it with caramel. You always take the elevator unless you’re mad, then you take the stairs. You hum when you’re concentrating. You say thank you to the mail guy even when he’s grumpy. And you pretend to hate me but I bet you’d miss me if I stopped showing up.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
“You’re insane,” you said.
Minjeong smiled.
“You didn’t deny it.”
You scowled and turned away, hiding the warmth rising in your face behind your cup.
You were not falling for her.
Not even a little bit.
You were just… concerned. She was obviously obsessed with you. You were just trying to survive. That was all. Nothing more.
Still, later that night, when she didn’t show up in the hallway like usual, you found yourself staring at your peephole for a suspiciously long time.
Not that you missed her.
You just liked… knowing where she was.
For safety reasons.
Obviously.
You’d almost convinced yourself it wasn’t going to happen again.
Almost.
After all, it had been nearly a week since Minjeong’s last impromptu DJ set featuring bass-heavy remixes and the occasional scream-laugh echoing down the hallway. You’d thought naively, so foolishly that maybe she’d grown out of it. That she’d settled into adulthood, learned the sacred unspoken rule of Apartment Peacefulness, and realized normal people didn’t party on weeknights.
But then Friday night rolled around.
And at exactly 11:56 p.m., the music started.
At first, it was just bass. The kind that vibrated through your mattress like a second, more annoying heartbeat. Then came the chorus of voices, shouting, singing, laughing, like a horde of frat boys had possessed her living room.
You stared at your ceiling, dead-eyed. Hands by your side. Mentally writing your resignation letter.
It was louder than the last time.
Somewhere around 2:00 a.m., someone yelled “DO A FLIP” and glass shattered.
You were fully feral by then exhausted, furious, and moments away from snapping. You tried earplugs. Then a white noise app. Then your emergency calming playlist (ironically, it included whale sounds). Nothing worked. The floor trembled every time the bass dropped.
By 3:27 a.m., you were throwing things into your overnight bag like you were escaping a war zone. Which, in a way, you were.
You texted your friend:
You: coming over. not dead but might commit crime soon.
Jisoo: is it the hot neighbor again?
You: she’s SATAN with lip balm.
Jisoo: door’s open. there’s leftover pizza. bring your rage.
You packed your office clothes, toiletries, charger, and one incredibly petty note you debated sliding under Minjeong’s door on your way out.
You didn’t, though. You were better than that.
Barely.
You left the building with dark circles under your eyes and a migraine forming behind your left eye, muttering curses with every step as the party raged on behind you.
Sleeping at Jisoo’s was bliss. Silent, pizza-filled bliss.
You got six whole hours of uninterrupted rest, a luxury you hadn’t had in weeks. And the next day, you even managed to survive work without collapsing or snapping at anyone. The anger was still there, buzzing low in your chest, but it was buried beneath a thin veil of exhaustion and iced coffee.
It wasn’t until after work, when you finally trudged back into your building hoping for nothing more than a hot shower and your own bed, thats when you saw her.
Minjeong. Leaning against her door. Holding what looked like a box of cookies.
And her face lit up the second she saw you.
“There you are!”
You blinked. Paused. Considered turning around.
“I didn’t see you at all today,” she continued, walking toward you like you were happy to see her. “I thought something happened. Were you okay?”
You stared at her.
Then pointed to her apartment. “You mean after your rave last night?”
She winced. “Okay, yeah. That was maybe a bit much.”
“A bit?”
“I didn’t think it’d go that late! People just… kept coming.”
“Because you INVITED THEM.”
Minjeong blinked, clearly taken aback. “Whoa. Are you mad?”
“No. I’m exhausted. There’s a difference.”
She hesitated, then held out the box like it was a peace offering. “I brought cookies?”
“I left my own apartment because of you.”
She froze. “Wait. What?”
You sighed, shifting your bag onto your shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep. Again. So I packed a bag and stayed at my friend’s. Because I literally couldn’t take another night of… whatever the hell that was.”
Minjeong looked genuinely stunned. She lowered the box slowly. “You… left?”
“Congratulations,” you said dryly. “You threw a party so loud it evicted me.”
Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Oh my god.”
“I don’t think you get how loud it is. I work. I need sleep. And you treat this place like a musician afterparty venue.”
Minjeong looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. “Y/N, I’m… I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought it was just kind of background noise.”
“You had conga lines in the hallway.”
“…Okay, that might’ve gotten out of hand.”
You let out a breath and leaned against your doorframe, suddenly too tired to keep the full force of your anger alive. The truth was, you didn’t even want to fight. You just wanted her to get it. You wanted her to take something, anything seriously for once.
Minjeong stepped back, rubbing the back of her neck, looking a little smaller now.
“I didn’t mean to drive you away,” she said, voice softer. “That wasn’t… I thought maybe you didn’t mind it anymore. You hadn’t complained in a while.”
“That’s because I was trying to be civil. And delusional, apparently.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “I missed seeing you today.”
You blinked. “What?”
She glanced up at you, looking suddenly sheepish. “You’re… always around. Not in a weird way!” she added quickly. “I just… like running into you. Even if you’re grumpy.”
You stared at her, floored by how earnestly stupid that sounded.
“I literally left because of you.”
“I know. I messed up. Big time. But I wasn’t trying to be a bad neighbor. I just…” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Got excited. I haven’t lived alone before. I kind of went overboard. And I didn’t realize how much it was bothering you until now.”
You studied her face. For once, she wasn’t smiling. No smug grin. No flirty wink. Just a slightly panicked, flushed Minjeong, fidgeting with the corner of the cookie box like it held all her regrets.
“…You really didn’t know?”
“No. But I do now.”
You crossed your arms. “And?”
“I won’t do it again. Promise. No more parties. Not even a little one. Just quiet Minjeong. Book club Minjeong. Baking show Minjeong.”
“…That last one better not be code for another rave.”
She laughed, weakly. “It’s not. I swear.”
You stared at her. Then, reluctantly, reached for the cookie box.
“I’m only taking these because I’m hungry. Not because I’m forgiving you.”
“Got it. No forgiveness. Just food-based tolerance.”
You turned to unlock your door, but paused when she added softly:
“I really am sorry, Y/N.”
Something about the way she said it made your chest pinch.
You didn’t look back. Just muttered, “You should be,” and closed your door behind you.
Still… the cookies were warm.
And you hated that they were kind of good.
You weren’t planning on inviting her.
Of course you weren’t. Why would you?
Game night was a sacred event. A no-chaos, no-stress, friend-only sanctuary held in the cozy confines of Jisoo’s apartment, complete with snacks, wine, and passive-aggressive Uno wars. It was not for random neighbors who threw parties at ungodly hours and wore smiley socks like a personality trait.
And yet there she was.
Minjeong. Standing in Jisoo’s doorway, clutching a bag of chips and a six-pack of soda like she belonged there.
You stared at her. She grinned.
“Hey, neighbor.”
You turned slowly to your traitorous friend. “Jisoo.”
Jisoo didn’t even pretend to look sorry. “She was in the hallway, I think she came to visit her friend soooo, I invited her. You said you were trying to be civil.”
“Civil doesn’t mean social,” you hissed.
“She brought chips,” Jisoo replied, entirely unhelpful.
Minjeong held them up. “They’re spicy-flavored. Like your attitude.”
You blinked. “What?”
She winked. “It’s a compliment.”
You stared at her. Then at Jisoo. Then back at Minjeong. “You can’t just show up. At my friend’s apartment. During game night.”
“She’s my friend now too,” Jisoo cut in, already leading her to the couch. “We talked about Taylor Swift in the hallway for twenty minutes.”
You looked like you might combust.
“Let her stay,” Nari added, flopped upside down on the floor. “The drama’s fun.”
“I’m not dramatic,” you snapped.
“You stormed into the group chat last week and said you were going to buy noise-canceling grenades,” Nari said. “That’s not drama, that’s war.”
“I was venting.”
“You also called her a noise goblin,” Jisoo added.
Minjeong gasped in mock offense. “You called me a goblin?”
“A noisy one. And it was accurate.”
She shrugged, plopping down beside Nari. “I accept it. Goblins are kinda cute.”
“Why are you like this?” you muttered, sitting as far from her as possible.
“Genetics. Charm. Possibly divine intervention.”
The games began.
And much to your dismay, Minjeong wasn’t bad at them. No, she was the worst kind of game night guest, the kind who got overly competitive and overly charming. She made jokes. She got high-fives. She somehow convinced Nari to partner with her in Pictionary even after drawing a “dog” that looked like a loaf of bread.
She kept looking over at you, too. Like you were in on some inside joke you never agreed to be part of.
You ignored her. Or tried to.
Halfway through Uno, Minjeong stacked three “draw fours” on you with a smile that made your blood pressure spike.
“Sorry, Y/N,” she said sweetly. “It’s just the game.”
You slammed your cards down. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you.”
The room went dead silent.
You blinked. Hard. “What.”
“I meant this. This vibe,” she corrected quickly, cheeks flushing. “You. Us. Uno tension. It’s electric.”
“I will actually fight you.”
“Please do,” she said. “I’d let you win.”
Jisoo made a noise like a dying kettle.
“Okay, hang on,” Nari said. “How are you two not dating?”
You and Minjeong spoke at the same time.
You: “We’re NOT.”
Minjeong: “…We’re not?”
You turned your whole body toward her. “Did you think we were?”
She blinked. “Well. No. But like. Spiritually?”
“What does that even MEAN?”
“You bicker. You storm into hallways. You leave me cupcakes and glare at me in elevators. classic enemies to lovers pipeline,” You looked like you’d swallowed a lemon. “It was ONE cupcake. Out of guilt. And you all need to stop reading fanfiction.”
Nari shrugged. “Can’t help it. You two have the tension of a slow burn.”
“There is no tension.”
“You’re literally vibrating.”
“That’s called rage.”
Minjeong smiled. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
You stood up.
“I’m going home,” you announced.
Jisoo tugged your wrist. “No, no! Y/N, come on, it’s just teasing.”
“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, grabbing your coat. “I came here to play Uno and make fun of Nari’s drawing skills. Not get shipped with the world’s most obnoxious neighbor.”
Minjeong stood too, looking surprisingly serious for once. “Hey—Y/N. Wait.”
You paused. Eyed her warily.
“I’m sorry if I ruined your night,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you.”
Your brows furrowed. “Then what were you trying to do?”
Minjeong opened her mouth. Closed it. Shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know. Be near you?”
You blinked. Again.
“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused.
She let out a laugh, soft and slightly exasperated. “Because I like you. Even when you’re mad at me. Even when you call me names and act like being near me is torture.”
“It is.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You scowled. “You should.”
She smiled. “Then why’d you stay at game night this long?”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“You flipped me off during charades.”
“Politely.”
Jisoo groaned loudly from the couch. “Can you two just kiss already?”
“WE’RE NOT—!”
Minjeong leaned in suddenly.
You flinched back, eyes wide. “What are you doing?!”
“Nothing!” she said quickly, hands up. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t gonna kiss you. I just—got excited. You looked soft.”
“I will shove you.”
She beamed. “Do it.”
You shoved her shoulder. She laughed.
You hated that it sounded nice.
You left eventually, claiming you had work in the morning (you didn’t). Minjeong didn’t follow, but she waved from the hallway like she hadn’t just publicly embarrassed you and/or sent your brain into chaos.
You walked home feeling… confused. And annoyed. And warm.
But mostly annoyed.
Because now your friends thought you liked her.
And worst of all, you couldn’t stop thinking about how her smile had looked when she said she liked you.
You were not falling. You were just… disoriented. Sleep-deprived. Emotionally harassed by Uno.
Yeah. That was all.
Definitely.
You were asleep.
Blissfully, deeply, finally asleep wearing your ugliest pajama set (neon green shorts and a t-shirt that read “nap queen” in cracked glitter) and drooling into your pillow when the world ended.
Or at least, that’s what your brain assumed when the blaring WEE-OOH WEE-OOH of the building’s fire alarm shredded through your dreams like a chainsaw.
You bolted upright, heart racing.
“What the—”
WEE-OOH WEE-OOH
“Are you kidding me?!”
You flailed for your phone, knocked it off the nightstand, cursed creatively, and finally caught sight of the building text notification: Fire drill. Do not panic. Please exit calmly.
Exit calmly?
You were in glittery pajamas and bunny slippers.
There was no calm.
You grabbed your keys and phone, stomped out of your apartment, and joined the parade of annoyed residents spilling out into the cool night air like sleepy, grumpy zombies.
And of course.
Of course.
There she was.
Minjeong. Dressed like a K-drama lead in joggers and a hoodie, leaning against a tree like she posed for the emergency.
She spotted you immediately. Her smile bloomed like spring.
“Hey, neighbor.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No, you don’t get to speak to me right now.”
“I wasn’t the one who caused the fire drill,” she said, eyes crinkling as she tried not to laugh. “Though, if I had known you owned that shirt, I might’ve.”
You looked down at yourself.
Nap Queen.
You considered dying on the spot.
“Shut up,” you muttered, folding your arms tightly. The wind blew. You shivered slightly. Not enough to be noticeable. Totally manageable. You weren’t cold. Nope.
Minjeong tilted her head. “Are you shivering?”
“No.”
“You look cold.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“You want my jacket?”
“I want you to spontaneously combust.”
“That would probably trigger another fire drill.”
You glared. “That’s the goal.”
She grinned anyway. Then, without asking, she started shrugging off her hoodie.
You held up a hand. “Do not.”
“Too late,” she said, stepping forward and gently wrapping it around your shoulders.
It was warm.
It smelled like fabric softener and vanilla and something slightly citrusy and stupidly nice.
You immediately wanted to hurl it into a sewer.
But it was warm.
You stiffened. “I don’t want this.”
“You literally just called for me to combust.”
“I was being dramatic.”
“You’re always dramatic.”
“Take it back.”
“Nope.”
You looked down at the hoodie, oversized and soft and covering the worst of your glowing nap queen shame. You scowled.
“This doesn’t mean I’m cold,” you mumbled.
“Of course not,” Minjeong said, eyes dancing.
“And it doesn’t smell good.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“It smells… aggressively normal.”
She nodded solemnly. “Totally unremarkable.”
You turned your face away so she wouldn’t see the smile trying to betray you.
She didn’t press further. Just stood next to you, not touching, occasionally glancing your way with a look that made your stomach feel like it was doing cartwheels.
Which was dumb.
Dumber still was what came next.
“Hey,” she said after a few minutes. “I think I dropped my phone. Can I use yours to call it?”
You blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
You unlocked your phone and handed it over without thinking. Because you’re nice. Or at least functional. And she looked genuinely concerned.
She dialed.
And her phone immediately rang inside her hoodie pocket.
She froze for half a second, then slowly pulled it out and smiled sheepishly. “Oh. Wow. Would you look at that?”
You narrowed your eyes. “It was in your pocket the whole time?”
“Must’ve fallen in.”
“You’re wearing joggers with no pockets.”
“I have mysterious thighs.”
“…What?”
“Thanks for the help,” she said sweetly, handing your phone back.
You stared at her, but your sleep-deprived brain was too foggy to clock anything suspicious. You just muttered something unintelligible and stuffed your phone away.
The fire drill ended. You returned to your apartment. You shed her hoodie, cursed the part of you that thought it smelled nice again, and threw it over a chair.
And maybe, maybe you washed it the next day.
But only because you were going to give it back.
Definitely not because you kept sniffing it like a lunatic every time you passed it.
At night, after work, you stood in front of her door with the hoodie folded neatly and a small sticky note attached.
You pressed it against the wood, knocked once, and power-walked back to your apartment like the building was on fire for real.
The note read:
”This is not a thank you.”
She texted you three hours later.
Unknown Number: so it’s not a thank you but it’s clean and smells like flowers?? suspicious.
You blinked.
Who was this? Why did they know about the note? Why did your chest tighten in a weird, fluttery way?
You: who is this??
Unknown Number: seriously?
it’s minjeong lol. from last night. pajama queen. remember?
Your stomach dropped.
You: how did you get my number?
Minjeong: i got it from you yesterday?
You: ???
when?
Minjeong: during the fire drill. you called my phone remember?
You stared at the screen, mind blank.
Then it clicked.
You: YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE?!
Minjeong: i plead the fifth
and yes
You almost threw your phone.
You: you manipulative little—
Minjeong: smooth. the word is smooth.
You: blocked.
Minjeong: no you’re not
You weren’t.
And worse, you were smiling.
A little.
Maybe.
You were trying to live a normal life. A peaceful, quiet, normal life. One that did not involve your neighbor appearing at random intervals like a lovesick golden retriever with boundary issues.
But Minjeong did not understand the concept of "normal."
And worse, she had started calling you, God help you…..Princess Grumpy.
It began on a random Tuesday, as most horrors do. You had stepped out to grab your mail, still in your work clothes, hair in disarray and a very visible stress induced coffee stain on your blouse. Minjeong was there, leaning against the wall with her phone in hand like she lived for dramatic entrances.
“Morning, Princess Grumpy.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Is this a delayed insult or a head injury?”
Minjeong grinned, unbothered. “Neither. It’s a nickname. It suits you.”
You stared at her. “I don’t need a nickname.”
“But I do,” she said brightly. “I need at least one endearing term to whisper to myself when I’m making breakfast and thinking about you.”
You actually dropped your mail.
“What—”
“Anyway,” she said, skipping past your impending spiral, “you coming to the building event on Friday? There’s karaoke. I want to see if your singing voice is as angry as your resting face.”
You turned on your heel and walked straight back to your apartment.
That should’ve been the end of it. But no.
She started using it everywhere.
“Morning, Princess Grumpy!” when you passed each other in the hall.
“Looking good, Princess Grumpy,” when you came back from the gym, half-dead and sweating like you’d just fought for your life in a war zone.
“Princess Grumpy, you left your delivery at the front door. Again.”
You tried to fight back once. You called her “Clownjeong.”
She gasped. “Did you just give me a nickname back?”
“I insulted you.”
“Yeah, but like—affectionately.”
“I was going for mild psychological warfare.”
“You’re so cute when you threaten me.”
You blocked her number for ten minutes after that.
It didn't help.
Then came the hoodie return. Again.
You’d already given it back once with a note that said “this is not a thank you.” So when she somehow left it outside your door again (this time with a packet of your favorite chips tucked inside), you stormed across the hall and banged on her door.
Minjeong opened it with a smile. “Hey, Princess Grumpy.”
You held out the hoodie. “Stop returning this. I don’t want it.”
She tilted her head. “Then why do you keep washing it so nicely?”
“I have standards, okay?! I wasn’t raised by wolves.”
“And the chips?”
“Bribery doesn’t work on me.”
“Then what does?”
You blinked. That shouldn’t have felt like a real question.
You shoved the hoodie into her hands and turned to leave, only for her to call after you: “See you later, Princess G!”
You didn’t slam your door.
But you definitely closed it with emphasis.
You tried not to think about it. About her. About her dumb smile and her dumber nickname and how she seemed to be infecting every part of your day like a very pretty virus.
You still didn’t like her.
She was loud, and chaotic, and annoying.
But the worst part? The absolute worst part?
You noticed when she wasn’t there.
Like on Thursday, when you didn’t run into her in the hallway at all. Not in the morning. Not at night.
No “good morning, Princess Grumpy.”
No obnoxious grin.
And you, you, the hater, the indifferent, the emotionally bulletproof missed it.
You sat on your couch that night, hoodie-free and annoyed at how quiet the building felt.
You even opened your door for a second, just to… check.
No Minjeong.
You closed the door.
You didn’t sigh.
(Not out loud.)
The next morning, she was back.
With two iced coffees, one of which she held out to you with a sheepish grin. “Got you one. Didn’t see you yesterday.”
You frowned. “Were you looking for me?”
She shrugged. “Only a little.”
You took the coffee. Just so she’d go away.
Not because it was your exact order. Or because the straw was already unwrapped and ready, the way you liked. Or because the corner of the napkin had “for Princess Grumpy <3” scribbled on it in the world’s most offensive cursive handwriting.
You drank it.
It tasted good.
You hated her.
You really, really hated her.
That night, you were walking back from the trash chute when you ran into her again.
Minjeong, in pajama pants and a tank top, hair up in a messy bun. She looked sleepier than usual.
“You okay?” she asked, blinking at you.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re making your grumpy face.”
“I always look like this.”
She smiled. “I know.”
You stared at her for a beat. “Do you really think I’m grumpy?”
“I think you’re adorable,” she said instantly, like she’d been waiting to say it.
You stared harder.
She didn’t back down.
“You’re very annoying,” you said, finally.
“And you like me anyway.”
You walked away.
Your ears were burning.
The next time you saw her, she had a bracelet wrapped around her wrist made of little pastel alphabet beads. You spotted it while she was talking to someone outside the building, laughing about something dumb.
The bracelet spelled: P R I N C E S S G
You choked.
Later that evening, you saw her in the hall and pointed at it accusingly. “Is that about me?!”
She glanced down, deadpan. “You think I have multiple princesses in my life?”
You groaned. “Why are you like this?!”
“Down bad,” she said cheerfully. “Terminal case.”
You were pretty sure you were catching something too.
You didn’t want to name it yet.
That night, you found yourself smiling at your phone when she texted you something dumb.
Minjeong:i just realized you’ve never actually smiled at me. like at me. not once.
You stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
You: good. i’d hate to encourage you.
Minjeong: so it’s on purpose?
You: obviously.
Minjeong: so you think about me?
You didn’t respond.
You didn’t have to.
She was right.
And that was the problem.
You didn’t want to go.
You’d made that very clear to your sister five times, in five different tones, including one voice note where you pretended to be choking on your own excuses.
She didn’t care.
“You’ve been single since birth,” she said. “It’s not cute anymore.”
“Thanks, love you too,” you muttered as she shoved the date’s number into your phone and threatened to block Netflix until you followed through.
So now here you were, standing in front of your apartment, dressed in something *date-ish,* trying not to physically cringe every time you adjusted the neckline.
You checked your phone for the tenth time.
Any second now.
And as if summoned by the gods of bad timing, the door across the hall opened.
Minjeong.
Of course.
Her eyes landed on you instantly. She was holding a cup of instant noodles in one hand and a spoon in the other, her hoodie slightly off one shoulder and her hair in a high bun like she’d just rolled out of a Pinterest board.
She blinked at you.
Paused.
Then: “Whoa. You look...”
You braced yourself.
“...like you’re going to a tax-themed gala.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Like, very responsible. But also tragic.”
You stared at her. “That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome.”
You rolled your eyes, adjusting your bag. “I have a date.”
You said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t specifically said to see how she’d react.
Minjeong went still.
Then she laughed, a little too quickly. “A date? With who? Mr. Responsible Gala?”
“His name is Jason,” you said, hating how defensive you sounded. “He’s a dentist.”
“Sounds thrilling,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Will you guys be discussing plaque or...?”
You glared at her. “Not everyone likes karaoke parties at 2am and naming houseplants.”
“Yeah,” she said, “some people like dates with guys who wear button-ups unironically.”
Before you could retort, a horn honked from outside.
Minjeong looked toward the sound. Then back at you.
There was something in her expression, tight, unreadable.
“Well,” she said, taking a bite of her noodles, “have fun.”
You turned and walked down the hallway, ignoring the way her eyes felt like a magnet at your back.
The date was fine.
Okay, no, it was awful.
Jason was nice. In the same way white rice is nice. Safe. Bland. Acceptable in emergencies.
He talked about teeth. A lot.
Like… a lot a lot.
You weren’t sure how molar structure turned into a twenty-minute TED Talk, but somehow, it did. The highlight of the night was when he accidentally knocked over his water and tried to blame the table for “being too slippery.”
By the end of it, your face hurt from all the fake smiling.
When you got back to your building, all you wanted was to rip off your shoes, crawl into bed, and erase the whole night from your brain.
You didn’t expect the knock on your door.
It came twenty minutes after you got in, just as you were wiping off makeup and aggressively texting your sister a strongly-worded “NEVER AGAIN.”
You opened the door.
Minjeong stood there in sweats, holding a bag of popcorn in one hand and a DVD of Shrek 2 in the other.
“I come bearing comfort cinema,” she announced.
You blinked. “What?”
“Just thought you might need it. After that disaster of a date.”
“It wasn’t a disaster.”
She raised a brow.
You crossed your arms. “I had a great time.”
She looked at you. Looked at the ponytail already forming in your hair and the way your mascara had been wiped half off.
“Really?”
You hesitated. “Yes.”
Minjeong held up the DVD. “Okay, then you won’t need this iconic healing film.”
You stared at it longingly.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
She started to turn.
You gave in.
“Okay, wait maybe it was a little boring.”
Minjeong smirked like a cat who just watched a bird fly into a window.
You stepped aside without a word, letting her in. She sauntered to the couch like she owned the place, tossing the popcorn onto the coffee table and flopping down dramatically.
You followed, grabbing a blanket and collapsing next to her with a sigh.
She held out the DVD. “Come on. Donkey’s waiting.”
Halfway through the movie, your head somehow ended up leaning on her shoulder.
You weren’t sure when or how it happened, but there it was your cheek resting against soft cotton, her breath slow and steady beside you.
She didn’t say anything.
You didn’t move.
You told yourself it was just because you were tired.
But then she spoke, voice quiet.
“So... Jason.”
You groaned.
“I’m just asking,” she said innocently.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my favorite source of weekly drama,” she teased. “And because I can’t believe you wasted an outfit on a man who probably say ‘moisturizer is for women.’”
You snorted.
Minjeong smiled, triumphant.
“He did call vegan cheese unnatural,” you admitted.
“I knew it. Dates with men are never the best”
You sighed. “My sister forced me into it.”
“Ah,” she said, “sibling betrayal. The deepest cut.”
You glanced at her. “You really showed up with Shrek because you thought I’d come back sad?”
“No,” she said, and then, after a pause: “Yes. But mostly I just wanted to see you.”
You stared at her.
She didn’t look away.
And then, in the softest voice:
“Glad you’re home, Princess Grumpy.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.
“You’re such a weirdo.”
“Your weirdo?”
“Don’t push it.”
Minjeong leaned back, smug.
You let her stay a little longer than necessary when the movie ended.
Just until the credits.
Maybe a bit after.
But that didn’t mean anything.
Not yet.
You fumbled with the keypad like it was a math test you hadn’t studied for.
The numbers glowed mockingly under your finger as you squinted, missed, and cursed softly under your breath.
Three wrong tries.
The lock buzzed angrily.
You shushed it.
“Don’t yell,” you whispered, as if the door could hear you. “I’m trying my best…”
Minjeong, standing casually in the hallway, watched the scene unfold like she was at a live comedy show. She hadn’t said anything yet just leaned against the wall in her hoodie and sweats, sipping from a juice box of all things.
You hadn’t noticed her.
Not until you swayed a little too far to the left and almost kissed your welcome mat.
A pair of hands caught you.
Strong, warm, and annoyingly familiar.
“Oh my god,” Minjeong murmured. “You’re so drunk.”
You turned around, blinking up at her like she’d just appeared out of nowhere. “Minjeong?”
“That’s me.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why are there two of you?”
“There aren’t.”
“Suspicious.”
She laughed, still holding onto your waist as you tried to balance. “Need help getting in?”
You gestured vaguely at the keypad. “The door hates me.”
“What’s your pin?”
You looked at her. Considered. Then blurted, “It’s my cat’s birthday and my childhood address.”
She stared. “That helps me in no way at all.”
You leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered the actual numbers into her ear.
She punched them in with expert calm, like she hadn’t just been given the keys to your kingdom. The lock clicked open. You blinked.
“Wow,” you said. “You’re smart.”
“And you’re really drunk.”
Minjeong guided you inside with gentle hands, closing the door behind you and helping you kick off your shoes. You immediately face-planted onto the couch.
“I was at a bar,” you mumbled into the cushion. “With my sister. She wanted to celebrate… something. I don’t remember. Probably me being alive.”
“Well, I’m glad you are,” she said lightly, moving to the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water.
She returned and handed it to you like she’d done it a hundred times before. “Drink.”
You took it without argument.
“You always take care of people like this?” you asked between sips.
Minjeong shrugged, settling into the armchair across from you. “Only the ones I like.”
You squinted at her.
Then laid back dramatically, one arm across your eyes. “You’re too nice.”
“I’m literally just giving you water.”
“No, you’re like… a good person. It’s irritating.”
“Sorry?”
“And you smell nice.”
She laughed again, the sound warm and stupidly comforting. “Okay, now you’re just saying things.”
You sat up suddenly, finger pointing at her like you were in a courtroom drama. “You are nice. Too nice. Like, let me help you with your groceries, water your plants, listen to your drunk rambling nice.”
“I am currently doing all of those things.”
You nodded. “Exactly.”
There was a beat of silence. You stared at her. She stared back, amused.
Then, with a sigh, you slumped back down.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
You mumbled into the pillow, “I think I’m slowly falling for you.”
The room went silent.
You didn’t notice. You were too busy groaning at yourself.
“Why are you so… Minjeong-y?” you whined. “You’re like sunshine but also chaos.”
Across from you, Minjeong was frozen.
She blinked once.
Twice.
“…What?”
You lifted your head groggily. “What?”
“What did you just say?”
You frowned. “I said I hate bike lanes. Too narrow.”
“No, before that.”
You squinted. “I like… popcorn?”
Minjeong stared. Her ears were visibly red.
“You said you were falling for me.”
You blinked. “I did?”
“You did.”
“Did I say it in a cute way or like, scary?”
Minjeong just stared at you, wide-eyed and pink in the face.
You sat up straighter, suddenly realizing the full weight of what had just come out of your mouth.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” she said, voice soft. “Oh.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “Forget I said that.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You have to.”
“You literally just told me I smell nice and you’re falling for me. This is my Roman Empire now.”
You peeked at her through your fingers. “Are you laughing at me?”
“I’m blushing because of you,” she said, flustered and very much not meeting your eyes.
You stared. “Wait! you’re flustered?”
“I’m trying not to combust.”
“Oh my god.”
Minjeong buried her face in her hands. “This is worse than when I called you Princess Grumpy.”
“You still call me that!”
She peeked out between her fingers. “And you let me.”
You groaned, flopping onto the couch again. “This is the worst night of my life.”
“No, that was your date with Jason the dentist.”
“Shut up.”
Minjeong giggled.
You groaned louder.
After a minute of mutual internal crisis, Minjeong said, more quietly now, “You really meant it?”
You hesitated.
Then: “Maybe.”
She nodded, still red, still smiling like someone had just given her a hundred free kittens. “Good to know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very smug for someone who’s not supposed to know how I feel.”
She raised both hands. “Hey, you’re the one confessing things on your couch like we’re in a teen rom-com.”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
Then you asked, “Do you want to help me learn to ride a bike?”
She blinked. “What?”
“I said earlier. I never learned.”
Minjeong laughed. “Oh. I thought you were joking.”
“I joke about a lot of things. Not about wheels.”
There was a pause. Then Minjeong stood.
“Alright, drunk girl,” she said, reaching for a throw blanket and tossing it over you. “Sleep it off. Tomorrow, we’re getting you a helmet.”
You peeked out from under the blanket. “You’re gonna teach me?”
Minjeong gave you a smile, sweet, warm, sincere. “Of course. Princess Grumpy deserves to fly.”
Your heart did something very stupid.
You looked away. “You’re so annoying.”
She leaned down, tucking the blanket around you gently.
“And you’re falling for me.”
“Shut up, Minjeong.”
But your smile gave you away.
You regretted everything the second you saw the bike.
It was bright pink.
With a tiny silver bell.
And a matching helmet that had glitter stars on it.
“This is bullying,” you said flatly, staring at the monstrosity on two wheels.
Minjeong beamed like she’d just unwrapped a present. “You said you never learned. You didn’t say you had standards.”
You gave her a long, pointed look. “I will push you off this thing.”
“You’d have to catch me first.” She patted the seat. “Come on, Princess Grumpy. Time to fly.”
You muttered something not-so-princess-like under your breath but stepped forward anyway. It was early enough in the morning that the park was mostly empty, and the little path she’d chosen was tucked under a line of trees, secluded and shaded.
You didn’t miss how Minjeong was already pulling out her phone.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warned.
She grinned. “Too late. This is historic. First bike. First bruised ego. First scraped knee. First—”
“First time I punch you?”
Minjeong just laughed, lowering her phone and setting it aside. “Okay, okay. We’ll start easy.”
You looked at the bike again. “It has streamers.”
“Bonus style points,” she said cheerfully. “Now, get on. I’ll hold the back.”
“Promise you won’t let go?”
There was something vulnerable in your voice, something that made her expression soften.
“I promise,” she said, voice quieter now. “I’ve got you.”
You nodded once, and she moved behind the bike, one hand gripping the back of the seat, the other hovering near your side. With shaky hands, you got on, feet finding the pedals.
She didn’t laugh when you wobbled.
She didn’t tease when your knees knocked together.
She just stayed close, steady.
“Okay,” she said gently, “start pedaling.”
You did.
Slowly. Cautiously.
Minjeong jogged beside you, hand still on the seat. “That’s it! Look at you! Natural disaster!”
“You mean natural talent?”
“Nope. You’re a disaster, but a charming one.”
You laughed, almost losing your balance. “Don’t make me laugh, I’ll fall!”
“I told you I’m chaos and sunshine!”
You got about fifteen feet before your foot slipped and you panicked, skidding sideways into the grass.
Minjeong caught you before you could fully hit the ground, arms wrapping around you in a blur of motion. You ended up half on her, half on the grass, breathing hard and laughing.
“You said you wouldn’t let go,” you mumbled.
“I didn’t,” she said softly. “You just got too fast for me, Tour de France.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t move.
She didn’t either.
The sun filtered through the trees, dappled and warm on your faces. You were close enough to hear her heartbeat, steady beneath her hoodie. Her hands were still on your arms, and yours were gripping the fabric of her sleeves.
It would’ve been easy to look away.
You didn’t.
“You okay?” she asked.
You nodded. “You?”
“Always.”
And then, before you could ruin it with a joke or say something to deflect, Minjeong inhaled deeply.
“Can I tell you something?”
You hesitated. “Yeah.”
She didn’t let go of you. Just shifted a little so she could see you better.
“I think I’ve liked you since the first time you yelled at me.”
You blinked. “The day you threw a massive party, woke me up and made me evacuate the building?”
Minjeong smiled. “Yeah. You were angry and exhausted, I just started to see you differently”
You groaned. “Tragic.”
“I thought you were hot.”
You blinked again.
“What?”
“I did,” she said simply. “Still do. But now I know you’re also stubborn, dramatic, kind of awkward, and you make this scrunchy face when you’re confused. Like now.”
You touched your face. “I do not—”
“You totally do,” she laughed, then looked down, tone softening. “And… I think I really like you. Not in a ‘you’re pretty’ way. But in a ‘you make everything feel a little better’ way. Even when you glare at me. Or insult my socks. Or pretend you hate me.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Then opened it again.
“I don’t think I’m falling for you,” you said.
Minjeong’s face faltered for a split second.
“I know I am,” you finished, and her eyes snapped back to yours.
“I’ve just been trying to be sure,” you admitted. “Because I thought maybe I was just getting used to you. Or that you were just really persistent and weird and eventually I’d start tolerating you.”
Minjeong snorted. “Romantic.”
“But then you… remembered my favorite snacks. And gave me your jacket without asking. And showed up with popcorn after my date. And you’re so nice and soft and confusing—”
“I’m confusing?”
“Yes,” you said, a little breathless now. “Because I spent so long being annoyed by you and now I kind of want to kiss you.”
Minjeong blinked.
Then: “That’s really good timing.”
“Why?”
“Because I kind of want to kiss you too.”
You stared.
She smiled, all dimples and shy hope.
You leaned forward without really thinking eyes slipping closed, lips brushing hers in the softest, most hesitant way.
It wasn’t fireworks.
It was better.
It was quiet and warm and slow. Like falling asleep next to someone you trust. Like laughing into someone’s shoulder. Like a promise with no words.
When you pulled away, she looked dazed.
“You’re good at that,” she murmured.
“I learned from watching movies,” you said.
She laughed, and the sound was bright enough to chase the morning chill away.
“Come on,” she said, brushing grass from your elbow. “You’re not done learning.”
“Thought we were having a moment.”
“Oh, we were. But now you have to actually ride the thing.”
You groaned.
Minjeong stood, offering you a hand.
You took it.
And for the rest of the morning, she didn’t let go.
It all started when you needed to borrow Minjeong’s phone.
Your own had decided to die a dramatic death in the middle of texting your sister. screen frozen, battery dead, everything unresponsive no matter how many times you pressed the power button like that would somehow revive it. So naturally, you stomped your way into Minjeong’s apartment to complain and steal her charger.
“You can use my phone if you need to text someone,” she offered sweetly, holding it out to you. “Just don’t open the ‘Photos’ app.”
“…Why?”
“No reason.”
That should’ve been your first red flag.
But you were distracted, so you just rolled your eyes and took the phone. Except the second you tapped the home button to unlock it, your entire soul left your body.
There, in all its poorly lit, mid-rant glory, was a photo of you.
Mouth open. Hands flailing. Eyebrows furrowed like you were giving a TED Talk about why pineapple on pizza was a war crime. You recognized the hoodie you were wearing, it was a night you stayed over a few weeks ago after Minjeong begged for “one movie and snacks,” which had turned into four movies, no snacks, and a heated argument about cereal brands.
“WHAT IS THIS.”
Minjeong, sipping from her juice box (of course), blinked innocently. “My lock screen.”
“WHY?”
“I like to be reminded of your passion.”
You stared at her. She looked pleased.
“This is the ugliest picture I’ve ever seen of myself,” you said, voice strangled.
Minjeong peered over. “Really? I think it’s cute.”
“Minjeong.”
“Like, look at how intense you are. It’s giving presidential campaign speech.”
“Minjeong.”
“You were yelling about how cereal is a capitalist scam, and I was moved.”
You covered your face with your hands.
“I’m breaking up with you.”
“You can’t. You haven’t even officially said we’re dating yet.”
You peeked through your fingers. “…Are we not?”
Minjeong tilted her head. “I mean, I think we are. You kissed me and then made me pancakes.”
“…So we’re dating.”
“Yeah.”
You sighed. “Then I am breaking up with you.”
She stood up and pried your hands off your face gently, holding them in hers. “You wouldn’t.”
“I have dignity.”
“You have a very expressive forehead and zero filter when you’re passionate about breakfast food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the worst.”
“You’re the prettiest ranting disaster I’ve ever seen.”
You tugged your hands away and turned to the couch with a groan, flopping face-down into a pillow. “I hate you.”
Minjeong sat next to you, patting your back. “No you don’t.”
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“I want to delete the evidence!”
“I’ve already backed it up to the cloud.”
You lifted your head and glared. “You’re sick.”
She looked proud. “You’re dating a sick woman. Congratulations.”
You threw a pillow at her. She caught it with a grin.
Later that evening, you were curled up on her couch with one of her hoodies draped over you, scrolling mindlessly through your now-charged phone.
Minjeong was in the kitchen, humming some song that didn’t match the beat while microwaving popcorn. You heard her muttering under her breath, something about “extra butter is the only way to live” and “if she judges me again I’ll just kiss her quiet.”
You pretended not to hear the last part.
When she came back, she tossed a piece of popcorn into your mouth like she was feeding a zoo animal.
“Caught it,” you said triumphantly.
“You’re amazing.”
“At eating.”
“At everything.”
You raised a brow. “Smooth.”
“Thank you. I practice in the mirror.”
You snorted, taking the bowl and shifting so your legs were stretched over her lap. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Minjeong leaned back with a smug smile. “I am very lucky.”
There was a moment of quiet, the kind that always settled between you when things felt soft and good and easy. You hated how natural it felt, hated how your heart skipped a beat when she reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear, like she’d done it a million times.
“You really like that picture?” you asked quietly, half-teasing, half-curious”
Minjeong nodded. “I love it.”
“But it’s hideous.”
“Exactly. You’re not trying. You’re just being you. Loud. Dramatic. Nerdy. Unfiltered. It’s my favorite version of you.”
You stared at her.
“I mean—” she coughed. “I have, like, normal ones too. Cute selfies. Stuff from when you were sleeping.”
“You take pictures of me sleeping?!”
“Occasionally. It’s romantic.”
“That’s criminal.”
“I’m in love. That’s a defense.”
You paused.
She did too.
Neither of you moved for a second.
You looked at her. “You said you’re in love.”
“I meant it.”
You sat up a little, the popcorn bowl sliding off your lap.
“I haven’t said that yet,” you whispered.
Minjeong just smiled, like she wasn’t expecting anything, like she was already full just being near you.
You touched her cheek, just a light brush.
“I’m getting there,” you said softly. “I think… I’m really close.”
Minjeong leaned in, pressing your foreheads together.
“I can wait.”
Jisoo had texted you the most casual invite in the world.
come over. bored. bring your beautiful face and your opinions on whether cereal is soup.
You read it while Minjeong was brushing her hair on your bed.
“They want to argue about food definitions,” you told her, phone still in hand.
“Sounds like my kind of night,” she said, tossing her brush aside.
“You’re not invited.”
Minjeong blinked at you. “Excuse me?”
“It’s best friend bonding time. I’m going alone.”
“But I’ve already bonded with them. I’m Jisoo’s soulmate. Nari said she wants me in her will.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I don’t make sense, and yet here you are. In love with me.”
You groaned into your hands. “Fine. Get in the damn car before I change my mind.”
Minjeong fist-pumped on her way to the door.
You didn’t warn Jisoo.
Honestly, you forgot.
The ride was full of Minjeong telling the Uber driver you were mad at her because she stole your last grape (you weren’t even mad), and by the time you rang Jisoo’s doorbell, you were distracted and half-annoyed and definitely not prepared for what was about to happen.
Jisoo opened the door, eyes lit up like usual then froze.
“Uh,” she said, blinking between the two of you. “Why is she here?”
Minjeong smiled innocently. “Surprise.”
“Why are you standing so close to her?”
You blinked. “Because we’re dating.”
Jisoo made a noise like a dying bird.
“YOU’RE WHAT?”
Minjeong stepped inside casually, brushing past her. “Don’t worry, she’s still grumpy and mean. But now she kisses me.”
You nearly tripped. “Minjeong!”
“What,” she said sweetly. “Too soon?”
Jisoo turned to you, eyes wide. “You brought your girlfriend to hang out like that’s normal?”
“It is normal!”
“No. Normal would’ve been you telling me you were dating the hallway menace.”
“She’s not—ugh.” You stepped inside too, glaring. “She’s not a menace anymore.”
“I’m reformed,” Minjeong added helpfully. “Ask your game night snacks. I only stole three last time.”
“You’re dating her,” Jisoo repeated, still stunned.
“Is that a problem?” Minjeong asked, and she tilted her head in that way that made her look way too innocent for someone who used to throw midnight parties like it was her life’s purpose.
Jisoo held up both hands. “No! No problem. Just—wow.”
Minjeong beamed.
“She’s literally glowing,” Jisoo muttered to you. “She looks like she won a bet.”
“She probably did,” you said under your breath.
Nari arrived twenty minutes later, holding bubble tea and absolutely not prepared.
“Hey, losers,” she greeted. “I brought—wait. Why is Minjeong here?”
You sighed. “Okay, we’re doing this again.”
“We’re dating now,” Minjeong said proudly.
Nari blinked. “Wait, for real?”
“Yes,” you said.
Nari looked at Jisoo, who nodded solemnly.
Nari looked back at you.
Then she burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “I knew it. I knew there was sexual tension during game night.”
“There was not,” you deadpanned.
“There was so much,” Minjeong said at the exact same time.
Jisoo groaned. “You could’ve told us!”
You folded your arms. “You guys liked her too much. I was scared you’d betray me.”
Minjeong gasped. “Betrayal? Me?”
“You’re so dramatic,” Nari said, sitting down next to her like they were already co-conspirators.
“She kissed me first, you know,” Minjeong added, leaning back smugly.
You threw a pillow at her.
It didn’t take long before everything slipped into its usual chaos.
Minjeong had claimed your seat like it was hers, Jisoo had grilled her on her most “annoying girlfriend habits” (there were many), and Nari had pulled out her Notes app like she was taking psychological data.
“And you knew you liked her when?” Nari asked.
“I didn’t know,” you said. “She was just…there. All the time. Loud. Smiling. Feeding me.”
“So you fell in love with her snacks.”
“No,” you muttered. “With her.”
The room went quiet for a beat.
Minjeong turned her head slowly, watching you like she hadn’t expected you to say that in front of anyone.
You didn’t meet her eyes.
Instead, you kicked her foot under the table and mumbled, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
She smiled so wide it almost hurt to look at.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “But thank you for saying it.”
Nari clutched her chest. “I’m going to cry. Who let you guys be real?”
Jisoo blinked. “Wait, is this why she’s been nicer lately? You’re soft now?”
“I am not soft.”
“You just said you fell in love with her.”
“Shut up.”
Minjeong rested her chin on your shoulder, smug and glowing and warm against your side.
“Wanna tell them how you said you *might* be falling for me when you were drunk and tried to enter your apartment with a grocery store receipt?”
“Minjeong.”
“Or how you asked if I smelled like marshmallows.”
You groaned into your hands.
Nari and Jisoo just laughed.
Later that night, after way too many snacks and way too much teasing, Jisoo pulled you aside while Minjeong was helping Nari clean up the table.
“She really makes you happy, huh?” she said softly.
You blinked at her.
“…Yeah,” you said eventually. “She does.”
Jisoo smiled. “You better tell her that properly someday.”
“I’m working on it.”
“She’s already head over heels, you know.”
You nodded. “I know.”
“And you?”
You glanced over at Minjeong, who was trying (and failing) to stack cups and accidentally knocked one onto the floor.
She looked up, met your eyes, and grinned like an idiot.
“…Yeah,” you said. “Me too.”