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[lovhyeon]

everything has changed

— kim juhoon

⸻ for kaikai, the d1 jjuholic

pairing. actor ! juhoon / f ! actress reader

warnings + info. fluff, childhood friends to lovers, flashbacks, based off song mv, kissing, miscommunication, hella song references

synopsis. when you look back on your friendship kim juhoon, you wonder if he's always been the same guy or if everything has changed?

PAGE ONE | PAGE TWO

wc. 23.1k

▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated ▸ not proofread ▸ split bc of blocking limit

LISTEN TO... everything has changed by t-swizzle

maddy's note. had this idea rotting for like months bc i js see baby juhoon w this mv if ykball you’ll get it 😏😏😏 if not just ignore me…. &eway this ones for twizzy @kaikaikoi (she is prob dead rn) bc we have literally had an ongoing conversation feining for juhoon for like 2 days straight now 😹😹😹😹 ANDDD for all u juhoon feins who’ve been begging for more juhoon for AGES..

lovhyeon © 2025 | all content belongs to me

twenty years old

loving u almost feels like something when no one’s around me, u lost and found me i was surrounded with open, open, open, open arms

You stood in front of the vanity mirror while someone dusted powder across your cheeks, tilting your face left and right like you were some kind of doll. The makeup artist hummed along to whatever was playing through the speakers—some sweet SZA song that didn't match the anxiety currently eating through your stomach.

You shouldn't have been nervous. You'd done a hundred shoots before. More, probably, but this one felt different. Not just because the studio smelled like an explosion of Bath&BodyWorks candles and a load of hairspray, but...

Because he was going to be here.

Kim Juhoon. CORTIS's Juhoon. Your childhood-friend-turned-awkward-acquaintance-you-saw-at-family-dinners Juhoon.

Your mom had mentioned it last week in passing, way too casual for something that made your brain stop short. "Oh, Juhoon's doing that Vanity Fair magazine shoot with you next month. You know, the fall campaign? His mom told me. Isn't that nice?"

Nice was one way to put it. Sure. If nice meant spending an entire day pretending everything was normal when you could barely get through his dad's birthday dinner four months ago without wanting to crawl out of your skin.

That night had been painful in a way you weren't at all prepared for.

You'd known he'd be there obviously—it was his dad's birthday—but somehow you'd convinced yourself it would be fine. That enough time had passed since his debut, since the distance started, that seeing him wouldn't feel like touching a bruise you'd forgotten about.

You were wrong.

The dinner was at some expensive Korean BBQ place his parents loved, the kind with private rooms and servers who grilled the meat for you. You'd arrived with your parents and immediately spotted the Kims at a large table in the back. Juhoon's mom waved enthusiastically and your mom pulled you along, all smiles.

Juhoon had been sitting at the far end of the table between his dad and some uncle you vaguely recognized. He looked up when you walked in and your stomach dropped.

He looked different. Not in an obvious way—he was still him, still had the same face you'd known since you were five—but there was something about him now that felt unreachable. His hair was darker than you remembered and styled in a way you'd never imagine your Juhoon to have worn on the regular. He wore a simple black button-up, nothing flashy, but somehow he looked expensive. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, a little more careful, a little more aware of being watched. Or maybe it was just that he'd spent the last three years in a completely different world than you.

He smiled when he saw you but it was polite and distant. The kind of smile you'd give an acquaintance at a work function.

You smiled back the same way.

Your parents had ushered you into a seat directly across from him because of course they did. Because the universe loved making things as uncomfortable as possible. His mom was already gushing about CORTIS before your ass even hit the chair.

"Did you see them at the AMAs last month? I still can't believe it. My baby at the AMAs!" She beamed at Juhoon, who looked vaguely embarrassed. "And the award—tell her about the award, Juhoon-ah."

"Mom—"

"They won Best Performance at the AMAs," she continued, not letting him deflect. "Can you believe it? I cried. I actually cried."

Your mom joined in immediately. "We watched! It was incredible. You looked so handsome up there, Juhoon-ah."

You just sat there, picking at your napkin, hyper-aware of the fact that Juhoon was right there and somehow a million miles away. You could feel him looking at you. Or maybe you were imagining it. You didn't know anymore.

The server came by and started grilling the meat. Everyone else fell into easy conversation—your dads talking about work, the moms catching up on neighborhood gossip, the uncle asking Juhoon about tour schedules. You focused on the sizzling sounds of the grill, the smell of sesame oil and garlic, anything to avoid the weird pressure building in your chest.

Eventually your mom nudged you. Hard. "You should congratulate him."

You wanted to disappear. Just fully cease to exist. But you couldn't, so you looked up and met Juhoon's eyes for the first time all night.

"Congrats on the award," you offered, trying to sound genuine and not like your throat was closing up. "And the MC gig. I saw you hosted that music show last month. You were really good."

Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he hadn't expected you to know about that.

"Thanks." His voice was careful and measured. He wasn't quite looking directly at you. "How's acting going?"

"Busy. Good. Just wrapped a drama, actually. Lots of auditions coming up."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

And that was it. The extent of your conversation. It was painful and sterile and nothing like how you used to talk to each other.

After that, you both found excuses to be anywhere else. He got up to help his dad with something. You went to the bathroom twice even though you didn't need to. When the food came, you focused on eating. He did the same. You could feel your moms exchanging looks across the table. You pretended not to notice.

The worst part was how normal it should have been. You'd known each other your entire lives. Your families had spent countless dinners together just like this. But somewhere along the way, you'd become strangers who happened to share a history.

You made it through the meal, through the cake, through the singing. You smiled at the right times and laughed at the right jokes and tried not to think about how Juhoon's voice had gotten deeper, how his hands looked different now, longer and more deliberate when he moved them. Really tried not to think about how you used to know everything about him and now you didn't even know what his favorite song was anymore.

But then there was this moment in the living room.

After dinner, everyone migrated back to the Kims' house for drinks. It was tradition—birthday dinners always ended at someone's place with soju and beer and whatever dessert someone had brought.

You'd tried to get out of it. You claimed you were tired, had an early call time tomorrow, but your mom had given you that look. The one that said we're not leaving yet and neither are you.

So you ended up in the Kims' living room, perched on the edge of the couch with a glass of wine you weren't really drinking, watching your parents laugh and reminisce with Juhoon's parents like nothing was weird at all.

Juhoon was across the room, sitting in the armchair by the window. He had a beer in his hand but you noticed he'd barely touched it. His uncle was talking at him about something—probably asking the same questions everyone always asked idols. How's the group? When's the next comeback? Are you dating anyone?

You looked away before he could catch you staring.

The moms were in the kitchen getting more drinks. Your dad and Juhoon's dad were looking at something on a phone, laughing about god knows what. The uncle eventually got up to join them.

And then it was just you and Juhoon in the living room.

The silence felt odd and heavy. Not at all comfortable like it used to be when you were kids, when you could sit together for hours without saying anything and it didn't matter. This was different and unbearable. You hated it. You felt out of place in a living room you spent your whole life orbiting in.

You sipped your wine even though you didn't drink red wine these days because of the polyphenol content that your manager advised you about.

He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

"So," he started, then stopped. Tried again. "That drama you wrapped. What was it called?"

You blinked. He was actually asking something and initiating conversation.

"Um. Between the Stars. It's supposed to air next month."

"I'll watch it."

You didn't know if he meant that or if he was just being polite. Probably the latter.

"You don't have to," you said, then immediately regretted it. Why did you say that? Why did you sound so defensive?

"I want to." His voice was softer now. He was looking at you properly for the first time all night, and it made your stomach flip over. "I always watch your stuff."

Oh. Oh.

You didn't know what to do with that information.

"I didn't think you—" You cut yourself off. "I mean, you're busy. I figured..."

"I make time, I guess." He looked down at his beer, like he was suddenly very interested in the label . "It's good. Your acting. You've gotten really good."

Your chest felt tight. "Thanks."

Another silence, but this one was different. It was less awkward, more... something else. Something you couldn't quite name but it didn't feel nearly as unbearable as before.

"I saw the VMA performance," you admitted quietly. "You were incredible."

His eyes snapped up to yours. They looked like you ignited something in them unintentionally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He smiled, small and genuine, and for a second he looked like the Juhoon you used to know. The one who'd sit with you at the playground until your moms picked you up. The one who'd held your hand at the dentist even though you were both terrified. The one who'd shared pho with you on prom night and almost said something that would've changed everything.

"I miss—" he started, then stopped.

Your heart was pounding. "What?"

But before he could answer, your moms came back from the kitchen, all loud laughter and clinking glasses, and the moment shattered like glass.

Juhoon straightened in his chair, that careful idol mask sliding back into place. You looked away, back down at your wine.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. More small talk, more forced smiles. When your parents finally said their goodbyes, you walked out without looking back.

You sat in the car and stared out the window the whole drive home, replaying that unfinished sentence over and over.

I miss—

What? What the hell did he miss?

You didn't let yourself think about it. Couldn't let yourself think about it.

You hadn't spoken to him since.

"All done," the makeup artist chirped, snapping you out of the memory. "You look gorgeous."

"Thanks," you managed, even though you felt like you were about to throw up.

You stood and smoothed down the outfit they'd put you in—oversized cream sweater, light-wash denim skirt, brown boots. Very fall. Very young love. Very we're-going-to-make-you-pose-with-your-estranged-childhood-best-friend-and-pretend-it's-not-weird.

The studio door opened and your heart kicked against your ribs. And there he was.

Juhoon walked in with his manager beside him, looking exactly like he did on your Instagram feed except somehow more real. His hair was a little longer than it had been at the dinner, dark and falling into his eyes. He wore a simple black puffer jacket over a hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets, and even from across the room you could see the tiredness around his eyes.

He looked good. Exhausted, but good. He scanned the room and then his gaze landed on you.

For a split second, neither of you moved.

Then he smiled—polite and careful—the same smile he'd given you in that living room four months ago, and lifted his hand in a small wave.

You waved back. Calm and collected and normal. Not at all like your brain was actively melting.

His manager said something to him and he nodded before heading toward the styling area on the other side of the room. You watched him go, watched the way he moved, and hated how familiar it still felt even after all this time.

"Alright, everyone!" The producer clapped his hands, pulling your attention away. He was older, enthusiastic and already holding a clipboard like it was a weapon. "Let's get started. Our concept today is warm fall young teen love. Think natural, nostalgic, like you've known each other forever. We want that organic chemistry, that easy comfort."

You almost laughed.

Organic chemistry and easy comfort... sure. No problem. This was doable–maybe three years ago.

Juhoon emerged from styling ten minutes later and you had to actively stop yourself from staring or dropping your hand fan.

He was wearing a Ralph Lauren cable knit pullover in this warm caramel color, paired with dark jeans that fit him perfectly. The sweater looked expensive and soft. He looked grown up. Polished. Like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread—which, to be fair, he had. Multiple times.

But it was his hair that got you.

Someone had styled it messy, tousled in that effortless way that probably took twenty minutes to perfect. And it looked exactly like how he used to wear it when you were younger. When you were kids running around the neighborhood, when he'd show up to acting classes with his hair sticking up in every direction because he'd been playing outside. When he'd sit next to you at the playground and you'd reach over to fix the pieces that stuck up funny.

Your heart ached. Like actually physically ached in your chest.

Because he looked so different and exactly the same all at once, and you didn't know what to do with that feeling.

When he caught your eye across the room, he looked just as uncomfortable as you felt. Maybe even more. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense despite how relaxed he was supposed to look.

The photographer waved you both over to the set—which was a vintage couch, warm lighting, about a thousand props screaming autumn romance. Pumpkins. Plaid blankets. A stack of old books that were definitely just for aesthetic.

You walked over, boots clicking against the studio floor. Juhoon did the same from the other side, hands shoved in his pockets.

And then you were standing next to each other for the first time since that living room. Four months ago but it felt like yesterday and also a lifetime ago.

You could smell his cologne now. It was musky and woody which you didn't recognize. Nothing like the cheap stuff he used to wear in high school. This was different. Expensive and even grown up.

Everything about him was different now. Except the hair. Except the way he still couldn't quite look at you directly.

"Hey," he said quietly, finally glancing at you.

"Hey."

'cause all i know is we said hello and ur eyes look like coming home

A pause. His eyes flicked over you, quick, like he was trying not to be obvious about it. They lingered for half a second on your face before darting away.

"You look good," he offered.

"Thanks." Your voice came out steadier than you expected. "You too."

Another pause but this one was longer.

He shifted his weight, hands still in his pockets. You noticed his fingers tapping against his thigh through the denim. An old nervous habit. Some things never changed.

This was unbearable. You truly wish nothing had changed. You didn't even know when the drift really happened.

The photographer stepped forward, still grinning like this was the easiest job in the world. Like he couldn't feel the tension radiating off both of you in waves. "Perfect! Okay, let's start simple. Stand close, face each other, relax."

Relax... easy enough.

You turned toward Juhoon, movements stiff and mechanical. He mirrored you, equally awkward, and for a second you both just stood there like mannequins waiting for someone to pose you properly. Fuck, this was making you look like some kind of rookie. Every other co-star you worked with, you had immediate chemistry with, so why was this any different? If anything, this should be easier, shouldn't it?

Neither of you knew what to do with your hands. Yours felt too heavy at your sides and useless. His were fidgeting with the hem of his sweater, fingers playing with a loose thread you could see unraveling.

"Closer," the photographer called out, voice chipper and completely oblivious.

You took a small step forward, boots scuffing against the studio floor. The sound felt too loud. Juhoon did the same, sneakers barely making a sound. The gap between you shrunk but it still felt massive.

"Closer," he repeated, like it was that simple.

Another step. You could see the individual fibers of Juhoon's sweater now, the cable knit pattern up close. Could see a small coffee stain near the collar that the stylist had probably tried to hide. Could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, slightly faster than normal.

Now you were close enough to see everything. The faint scar on his chin from when he fell off his bike at nine, the one that needed three stitches and made him cry even though he tried to act tough. Close enough to notice he still did that thing with his tongue, pressing it against the inside of his cheek when he was thinking too hard. You used to tease him about it when you were kids. Told him it made him look like a hamster.

Close enough to count his eyelashes if you wanted to. They were long, dark, and when you were younger, you remember people always said they were wasted on boys.

You didn't want to count them. (You kind of did.)

(You'd already started. Lost count at fifteen on the left eye.)

"Relax," the photographer laughed, the sound grating against your nerves. "You two look like you're about to take mugshots. Loosen up! You're supposed to be old friends, I read about it somewhere."

Old friends.

The words hit different than they should have. Because you were old friends. Had been. Past tense. Now you were just... what? Strangers who happened to share a childhood? People who saw each other at obligatory family dinners and made painful small talk?

Juhoon's mouth twitched and the corner lifted just barely, not quite reaching a smile but close enough that you recognized it. "Guess we're out of practice."

His voice was low, meant just for you. It did something to your chest, made it feel tight and too full at the same time.

You huffed out a breath that might've been a laugh, might've been you just trying to breathe normally and failing. "Right."

The camera clicked.

The flash made you blink, white spots dancing in your vision for a second. When they cleared, Juhoon was still looking at you. Not at the camera. At you.

"Better!" the photographer encouraged, voice bright with approval. "See? That's what I'm talking about. Now look at each other. Really look. Like you're remembering something good."

You met Juhoon's eyes properly this time.

They were dark, darker than you remembered, but maybe that was just the lighting. Or maybe it was the weight behind them, all the things neither of you were saying piling up in the space between you. You could see yourself reflected in them, small and distorted.

His pupils dilated slightly. You noticed because you were staring, because you couldn't help it.

And just like that, you were five years old again.

five & six years old

The playground was empty except for you and Juhoon.

Everyone else had been picked up already—all the other kids from the after-school program whisked away in minivans and sedans, leaving behind the smell of car exhaust and the echo of car doors slamming. But your moms were late. Again. Probably stuck in traffic on the expressway, or caught up browsing in some department store, or just losing track of time the way they always did when they got together.

You didn't really mind though. Not when Juhoon was still there too, his Pokemon backpack sitting in the wood chips next to your Sailor Moon one like they were having their own little conversation.

He was sitting next to you on the swings, legs dangling uselessly, too short to reach the ground. You were the same, both of you just hanging there, swaying slightly with the breeze. His sneakers had Pokemon on them too. Pikachu on the left, Charizard on the right. They were starting to get dirty from where he'd been running around earlier, white rubber turning brown at the edges.

The sky was doing that thing it did sometimes, turning all orange and pink and purple like someone had taken watercolors and just smeared them everywhere. It was this sunset that made everything look softer, prettier, even the rusty old swing set and the wood chips that always somehow ended up in your shoes.

The air smelled like someone in the nearby neighborhood was grilling samgyeopsal, the scent of meat and sesame oil drifting over from one of the apartment buildings. It made your stomach growl. Dinner felt like it was a million years away.

You could hear cicadas starting up their evening song, that buzzing sound that meant summer was really here. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance. A car alarm went off and then stopped.

"Do you think they forgot about us?" you asked, kicking your legs out just to feel them swing in the air.

Juhoon shook his head immediately, confident in that way only little kids could be. His hair was sticking up in the back where he'd been lying down in the grass earlier, pretending to look at clouds. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. "No. They're probably just talking. My mom and your mom always talk forever."

It was true. You'd seen it happen a hundred times. They'd run into each other at the grocery store and suddenly an hour had passed. They'd plan to meet for coffee and end up sitting there until the café closed.

"That's true," you agreed.

You dragged your foot through the wood chips below you, making a little line in them, watching the patterns form. Juhoon did the same on his side, his line intersecting with yours to make an X.

"I'm hungry," he announced, like this was breaking news.

"Me too."

Your stomach growled again to emphasize the point. Juhoon must have heard it because he giggled, that high-pitched little kid laugh that always made you laugh too.

"I have crackers." He hopped off the swing with a little thump, his sneakers hitting the wood chips and sending some scattering. He dug through his Pokemon backpack, tongue sticking out in concentration as he searched through what looked like a mess of papers and random toys and who knows what else.

Finally he produced a package of those little white crackers shaped in squares—the ones that smelt so distinctly like childhood and left a salty residue on your fingers. He held them out to you like they were treasure. "Want some?"

You nodded eagerly and he climbed back onto the swing next to you, the chains creaking under his weight. He ripped open the package with his teeth because neither of you could ever open those things properly, and the smell of artificial vinegar filled the air between you.

You each took turns grabbing crackers, crunching them loudly, swinging your legs in sync without even meaning to. The rhythm of it was comforting. Swing, crunch, swing, crunch.

"These are good," you mumbled through a mouthful, white crumbs probably all over your face.

"I know. My mom always packs them." He shoved another handful in his mouth. His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. "She says I need snacks or I get cranky."

"You do get cranky."

"No I don't!"

"Yes you do. Remember last week when you didn't have snacks and you cried because Minho took the red crayon?"

Juhoon's face went pink. "I wasn't crying. I had something in my eye."

"Sure you did."

He kicked at you playfully, his sneaker barely grazing your leg, and you kicked back, and for a minute you both just swung there giggling and kicking at each other like it was the funniest thing in the world.

The sunset was getting prettier because all the colors bleeding into each other now, orange melting into pink melting into purple melting into that deep blue that meant night was coming soon. The street lights around the playground were starting to flicker on, one by one, casting everything in this warm yellow glow.

You'd never seen anything like it. It made your chest feel weird. Full and achy in a way you didn't have words for yet.

"Juhoon?"

"Yeah?" He was licking powder off his fingers, completely unselfconscious about it.

"Do you think we'll be friends forever?"

He looked at you like it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard in his entire five years of life. His face was so serious, eyebrows scrunched together. "Obviously."

"How do you know?"

"Because." He shrugged, like the answer was the simplest thing in the world, like he couldn't understand why you'd even ask. "We just will. We do everything together."

And it was true. You'd lived in the same neighborhood since you were both born, your moms meeting at some mommy-and-me class when you were babies and becoming instantly inseparable. You'd been in the same playgroups, the same preschool class, the same acting lessons that your moms had signed you both up for because you were "such natural performers."

You'd been at each other's birthday parties every single year. You knew his house as well as you knew your own, knew that the third step on his staircase creaked, knew where his mom kept the good cookies, knew that his dad always fell asleep watching TV after dinner.

You couldn't imagine life without Juhoon in it. Literally couldn't picture it. When you tried to think about the future, he was always there, a constant, like the sun coming up or dinner at six o'clock.

"Okay," you agreed, feeling better about it.

"Okay."

He held out his pinky, face solemn like you were about to do something very important. "Pinky promise?"

You linked your pinky with his without hesitation. His hand was smaller than yours back then, sticky from the crackers and probably from whatever else he'd gotten into earlier. But it was warm and soft and quite sold for a 6 year old.

"Pinky promise."

He reached over and tapped your nose with his finger, grinning. "There. Now it's official." 

"Why'd you do that?" 

"I dunno. Felt right."

You sat there together as the sky turned darker and darker, sharing the last of the crackers and swinging your legs and waiting for your moms, absolutely certain that nothing would ever change. That you'd always be like this—you and Juhoon against the world, pinky promises and fish crackers and sunsets that made everything feel infinite.

The cicadas got louder and the grilling smell faded. The street lights buzzed and Juhoon almost fell off the swing with how fast he was swinging.

And you were happy.

twenty years old

"Perfect!" the photographer called, his voice cutting through the memory like scissors through paper.

You blinked. Once, twice, three times.

You were back. Back in the studio with its artificial lighting and the smell of hairspray and coffee someone had left sitting out too long. Back to being twenty, standing in a denim skirt and borrowed boots that pinched your toes slightly. Back to the reality where the playground had been torn down three years ago to build luxury apartments.

Back to standing two feet away from Juhoon while a camera flashed in your face and a stranger told you to look in love.

But something had changed.

Maybe it was the memory that still clung to you like the smell of that grilled meat from the playground, like the feeling of sticky fingers and orange cracker dust. Maybe it was the way Juhoon was weirdly looking at you right now—soft around the edges, eyes a little sad, a little wistful, like he'd just been standing in that same memory with you. Like he could still taste those fish crackers too.

His pinky twitched at his side. Just barely, so small you almost missed it. But you'd spent five years holding that pinky, making promises with it, and you noticed.

Some habits never died, apparently. Even when everything else did.

"That's exactly what I needed," the photographer said, chipper as ever, reviewing the shots on his camera screen. The blue light illuminated his face as he scrolled through, nodding to himself. "See? You two have history. I can see it in every frame. There's something real there. Let's keep that atmosphere."

History.

Yeah. You had that in spades. Twenty years of it, most of it good until it wasn't, until it became this awkward thing you both tiptoed around at family dinners while your moms watched hopefully and you both pretended not to notice.

"Alright, next setup," the photographer announced, gesturing toward the vintage couch they'd set up on the other side of the set. It was velvet, deep green. Honestly, it looked expensive and uncomfortable in equal measure. More props surrounded it—pumpkins in various sizes, plaid blankets that were definitely too warm for the studio heat, a stack of old hardcover books that were probably just decorations. "Let's move over there. I want you two sitting close, casual. Like you're just hanging out on a lazy afternoon. Natural and comfortable."

Just hanging out.

You hadn't just hung out with Juhoon in years. Actual years. The last time you'd hung out—really hung out, not awkward family dinner hung out—was probably that pho night.

Three years ago now. It was prom night, when everyone else was at the dance and you were both in a cramped restaurant booth, scrolling through Instagram stories of the people living normal teenage lives while you both sat there in the in-between.

But you followed the photographer anyway because that's what you did. You were professional. You could pretend.

Juhoon moved at the same time, both of you walking toward the couch from opposite sides. The studio floor was cold even through your boots. You could hear the crew murmuring to each other, someone adjusting a light, the photographer's assistant setting up reflectors.

When you reached the couch, you sat down first, smoothing your skirt underneath you. The velvet was rough against your bare legs. Juhoon sat a moment later, and you were hyperaware of the space he left between you.

Not too close nor too far but just... careful.

Exactly measured, like he'd calculated the precise distance that would look natural on camera but wouldn't make things weird in real life. Three inches between his thigh and yours. Maybe four.

He was always so careful now. So measured. The Juhoon you knew used to throw himself onto furniture, would sprawl across couches taking up all the space, would sit so close your shoulders touched without thinking about it.

You hated how calculated this felt. (You understood it. You'd done the same thing, created the same careful distance.)

(You hated that too.)

The photographer was doing something with the lighting, talking to his assistant about bounce and shadows and warm tones. You weren't really listening. You were too busy being hyperaware of Juhoon's presence next to you—his knee three inches from yours, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind you but not quite touching your shoulders. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly you'd be against his arm.

You didn't lean back.

His cologne was stronger now with him this close. Still that woody, clean scent but you could pick out other notes too—something citrusy, cedar maybe, and underneath it just him. That smell that was uniquely Juhoon, the one you'd know anywhere even if you'd never admit it out loud. It was weird that he had such a distinct smell, but everyone had one, you guessed.

"Relax into each other," the photographer instructed, positioning his camera. "You're not strangers. Get comfortable. Like you're watching a movie together, or you just woke up on a Sunday morning. That kind of ease."

Comfortable. Riiiight.

Juhoon shifted slightly, and you felt it more than saw it. His arm dropped lower behind you, not touching your shoulders still but closer now because it was present and there. His fingers curled slightly where they rested on the velvet, close enough to your shoulder that you could probably feel the warmth if you focused on it.

You could feel him looking at you from the corner of his eye. Could sense him trying to figure out how to sit, how to be, how to do this without making it weird.

The camera clicked.

And clicked.

And clicked.

Flash after flash, each one burning white spots into your vision.

"Beautiful," the photographer murmured, voice distant like he was talking more to himself than to you. "Now talk to each other. I don't care what about. Just talk. I want natural interaction. Real conversation."

Talk.

You looked at Juhoon. He was already looking at you, had been for who knows how long. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the studio lighting, but there was something in them. Something that looked like the same thing you'd seen in his parents' living room four months ago before your moms came back and ruined everything.

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The silence stretched, pulled taut like a rubber band about to snap.

Then Juhoon's mouth quirked up at one corner, the smallest hint of a smile. Real this time, not the polite careful one from earlier. "Remember when we used to share those fish crackers at the playground?"

Your heart stopped. Then started again, too fast.

He remembered.

Of course he remembered. He'd been in the same memory you had, probably saw the same sunset, felt the same sticky-fingered pinky promise.

"Yeah," you said softly. "I remember.

The camera clicked again but you barely heard it.

Juhoon's smile widened just a fraction. "You always ate more than me. I'd pack extra because I knew you'd finish yours first and then just stare at mine until I shared."

You felt your mouth curve up despite yourself. "I did not stare."

"You absolutely stared. You had this face." He made an expression, eyes going wide and pleading, and it was so stupid and so him that you actually laughed. A real one that bubbled up before you could stop it.

You laughed at his face andIt felt like you were seventeen again.

"I did not look like that."

"You really did."

The photographer made a satisfied noise behind his camera. You'd almost forgotten he was there. Almost forgotten about the crew and the lights and the fact that this was work, that you were being paid to sit here and pretend to be comfortable with someone who used to be your whole world and was now practically a stranger.

Except he didn't feel like a stranger right now.

Not with that smile on his face, the one that crinkled his eyes at the corners. Not with the way he was looking at you like you were eight years old again and nothing had changed.

"Okay, beautiful," the photographer interrupted. "Let's switch it up. I want you closer. Lean into him," he directed you. "And Juhoon, put your arm around her. Actually around her this time, not hovering."

Your stomach flipped.

and all i feel in my stomach is butterflies, the beautiful kind, making up the lost time—

Juhoon's arm had been resting on the couch behind you this whole time, careful and not touching. Now he was supposed to actually touch you. You were supposed to lean into him like it was normal, like you did this all the time.

You felt him hesitate. Just for a second and it was so brief you might've imagined it.

Then his arm settled around your shoulders. It was warm and solid and real. His hand curved around your upper arm, fingers gentle, and you could feel each point of contact like a brand even through your sweater.

You leaned in because that's what you were told to do. Stay professional. Just work.

But the second your shoulder pressed against his chest, something in you cracked.

He was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Warm in a way that made you want to sink into him, made you remember every time you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during long car rides when you were kids. Made you remember what it felt like when things were easy.

It was funny; his appearance now, you would’ve thought he was cold and hard (you realized this doesn’t make sense but you mean it in a sense that he seems detached).

He smelled the same underneath the expensive cologne. Like laundry detergent and something sweet you could never place. Some things didn't change, apparently.

"Perfect," the photographer murmured. "Just like that. Oh, how natural! Like you've done this a million times."

We have, you thought. We used to do this all the time. 

Juhoon's thumb moved. Just slightly, brushing against your arm through the sweater in what might've been an accident or might've been on purpose. You couldn't tell.

The camera clicked and clicked and clicked.

"Now look at each other," came the instruction.

You tilted your head up. He looked down.

And you were close. Closer than you'd been in years. Close enough to see the tiny mole on his neck that you'd forgotten about. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his dark eyes that only showed up in certain lighting.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

Your heart was racing. You wondered if he could feel it.

"Tell me something," he said quietly. So quiet the photographer probably couldn't hear. "Something I don't know."

You blinked. "About what?"

"Anything. I just..." He paused, and something vulnerable flickered across his face. "I feel like I don't know anything about you anymore."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because he was right. You didn't know him either. Didn't know his favorite song anymore, didn't know if he still hated mint chocolate ice cream, didn't know what he did on his days off or if he even got days off. You knew CORTIS's Juhoon—the one in music videos and on stage—but you didn't know your Juhoon.

Wasn't sure he was still your Juhoon at all.

"I'm scared of birds now," you offered finally.

His eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Birds. I'm scared of them. It happened on set last year. This pigeon flew at my face during an outdoor scene and I just... freaked out. Now I can't be near them without panicking."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "You used to chase pigeons in the park."

"I know. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid." His hand squeezed your arm gently. "It was… kind of cute, actually."

Your face heated. You looked away but there was nowhere to look except at his chest, at the cable knit pattern of his sweater up close. You could see the rise and fall of his breathing. Could feel it, really.

"Your turn," you said.

"My turn?"

"Tell me something I don't know."

He was quiet for a moment. You could feel him thinking, could feel the slight tension in his arm around you.

"I still have it," he admitted finally.

You looked back up at him. "Have what?"

"Choco. One of my turtles. From when we were eight."

Turtle…?

And just like that you were eight years old again, standing in a pet store with fluorescent lights too bright and the smell of sawdust and fish food heavy in the air.

eight & nine years old

It was your mom's idea.

Well, technically it was Juhoon's mom's idea first, but your mom had agreed enthusiastically, and once both of your moms agreed on something there was no stopping it. You were getting pets whether you wanted them or not.

Not that you didn't want them. You'd been begging for a puppy for months. You’d made presentations with poster board and markers about why you were responsible enough, had promised to walk it every day and feed it and clean up after it. Your mom had always said no—too much work, too messy, maybe when you're older.

But then Juhoon's mom mentioned getting Juhoon a pet to teach him responsibility, and suddenly your mom was completely on board with the idea.

And this was how you ended up at the pet store on a Saturday afternoon, you and Juhoon practically vibrating with excitement while your moms talked to the employee about good starter pets for children. The store was overwhelming. Everywhere you looked there was something new—fish tanks glowing blue and green, birds chirping in cages, hamsters running on wheels, reptiles basking under heat lamps. It smelled weird, kind of musty and alive, but you didn't care.

Juhoon grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the reptile section, his eyes huge.

"Look at that one!" He pressed his face against the glass enclosure, breath fogging it up. Inside was a turtle, small and green with yellow stripes on its shell. It was just sitting there on a rock, completely still except for the slight movement of its head.

"It's not doing anything," you pointed out.

"It's thinking."

"How do you know?"

"I can tell. Look at its face. It's a thinking face."

You leaned closer to look. The turtle did kind of look thoughtful. You know, if turtles could look thoughtful. Its’ eyes were dark and shiny like little beads.

"It's cute," you admitted.

"I'm gonna name it Choco," Juhoon declared. "Because it looks like a red bean bun."

"What?" You tilted your head, trying to see it.

"Look at the shell. It's brown and round. Like a red bean bun."

You squinted at the turtle. "I guess?"

"You just don't get it because you don't like red bean buns."

"They're weird."

"You're weird."

The logic was flawless, obviously.

Your mom and Juhoon's mom came over, the employee trailing behind them. He was young, probably college age, with a name tag that said DANIEL.

"Found something you like?" Juhoon's mom asked, smiling at how Juhoon was still pressed against the glass.

"This one." Juhoon pointed emphatically. "This turtle. Choco."

"You've already named it?" His mom laughed.

"Obviously."

Daniel opened the enclosure and carefully picked up the turtle. It pulled its head into its shell immediately, legs disappearing too. "This is a red-eared slider. They're pretty hardy, good for beginners. Live a long time though—like twenty, thirty years if you take care of them right."

"Thirty years?" Your mom looked skeptical. "That's a big commitment."

"I'll take care of it forever," Juhoon promised, eyes never leaving the turtle. "I promise."

His mom looked at your mom. Some silent parent communication happened. Then she sighed. "Okay. But you're responsible for feeding it and cleaning the tank."

"I will! I promise!" Juhoon was practically bouncing.

Daniel smiled and went to grab a tank and supplies. Juhoon followed him like a duckling, asking a million questions about what turtles ate and how often you had to clean the water and whether Choco would recognize him.

You stayed with your mom, watching them go.

"What about you?" your mom asked, running her hand over your hair. "Do you still want a puppy?"

Did you want a puppy? You'd wanted a puppy for months. Had dreamed about it, planned out names, imagined walking it around the neighborhood.

But now, watching Juhoon's excitement over a turtle that barely moved, you felt something change in your mind gears.

"Can I look around first?" you asked.

Your mom nodded. "Take your time."

You wandered through the aisles slowly. Peeked at the fish but they seemed too fragile, too likely to die if you forgot to feed them for one day. Looked at the hamsters but they were nocturnal, would be asleep when you wanted to play. Looked at the birds but they were loud and your dad hated loud noises.

And then you found the puppies.

They were in a big pen in the back corner, a litter of golden retriever mixes tumbling over each other in a pile of fur and paws and wagging tails. There was a sign that said 8 WEEKS OLD - READY FOR HOMES.

But there was another sign too, smaller, taped to the side of the pen in red marker: ONLY 2 LEFT - LAST CHANCE.

You stared at it, the words not quite making sense at first.

Last chance for what?

You knelt down in front of the pen. There were only two puppies now that you looked closer. The rest must have already been adopted. One was curled up sleeping in the corner, and the other one—the smaller one with light golden fur—bounded over immediately, tail going so fast its whole butt was wiggling.

It had huge brown eyes and oversized paws it hadn't grown into yet. It licked your fingers through the bars and made a little whimpering sound, like it was begging you not to leave.

"Mom," you called over your shoulder. "What does last chance mean?"

Your mom came over, saw the sign, and her expression shifted into something sad that you cound’t quite understand.

"It means..." She paused, clearly trying to figure out how to explain. Your mom never lied to you, never sugarcoated things, even when maybe she should have. "It means if no one adopts them soon, the shelter will... they'll have to put them to sleep."

You blinked up at her. "Like a nap?"

"No, honey. Like... permanently."

It took a second for your brain to process that. Permanently asleep. Which meant—

"They're going to kill them?" Your voice came out too loud, cracking on the last word.

The puppy was still licking your fingers, tail still wagging, completely unaware that it might die if someone didn't take it home. The sleeping one in the corner looked so small and defenseless.

Your eyes started burning.

"It's not that simple," your mom tried to explain, crouching down next to you. "Shelters don't have enough space for all the animals, and if they can't find homes—"

"But that's not fair." Your voice was shaking now. "They didn't do anything wrong. They're just puppies."

"I know, sweetheart."

"We have to take one." You looked at her desperately, tears spilling over now. You couldn't stop them. "Mom, we have to. We can't let them die. Please."

"Honey—"

"Please." You were full-on crying now, hiccuping through the words. The puppy seemed concerned, pressing its nose against the bars like it was trying to comfort you. That made you cry harder. "I'll do everything. I'll walk it every single day, I'll feed it, I'll clean up after it, I'll use my allowance for food, I promise, I promise, please—"

Your mom's expression crumpled. She looked at the puppy, then at you, then back at the puppy.

"Okay," she conceded softly.

You sniffled, wiping your nose with your sleeve. "Really?"

"Really." She smiled, even though her eyes looked a little wet too. "But you have to promise me you'll take care of it. A dog is a lot of responsibility."

"I will. I promise." You pressed your face against the bars, trying to get closer to the puppy. "What about the other one?"

Your mom glanced at the sleeping puppy in the corner. "Let's make sure this one has a good home first, okay? Maybe someone else will come for that one."

You nodded, even though you wanted to take both of them. Wanted to save them both. But one was better than none.

"Can I hold her?"

An employee came over—a girl with purple hair and kind eyes who'd probably heard you crying. She opened the pen without you even having to ask. "Here you go, sweetie. This one's a girl."

The puppy was warm and wriggly in your arms, immediately trying to lick every part of your face it could reach. Its fur was so soft, and it made these little snuffling noises against your neck that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

You held her tight, careful not to squeeze too hard. She was so small and so alive. And she'd almost died.

"I'm gonna name her Duri," you whispered into her fur.

"Duri?" Your mom's voice was gentle.

You looked up, eyes still wet. "It means two. Because there's two of us now. And because..." You swallowed hard. "Because she gets a second chance."

Your mom's face did something complicated. She reached out and brushed your hair back from your face. "That's perfect, baby."

Duri licked your cheek, tail thumping against your arm, and you started crying again but this time it was because you were happy. Because she was safe now. Because you'd saved her.

Juhoon appeared then, Choco's tank in his hands—well, Daniel was carrying it, but Juhoon was directing him very importantly. His small eyebrows were furrowed into concentration with the slight weight of the tank. He saw you holding the puppy with tears streaming down your face and his expression immediately shifted to concern.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"She almost died," you managed to get out.

His eyes went huge. "What?"

"The puppies. They were gonna—" You couldn't even say it. "But I'm taking her home now. She's okay."

Juhoon came closer, and Duri immediately tried to lick him too, tail wagging even harder. He let her lick his cheek, but his eyes were still worried when he looked at you.

"She's not gonna die now, right?"

"No," your mom assured him. "She's safe."

"Good." He reached out and patted Duri's head very gently. Then, very seriously, he looked at you. "You saved her."

You nodded, sniffling.

He reached out and tapped your nose gently. "You're a hero." 

You sniffled, wiping your eyes and prying his hand away. "Stop it." 

"It's true though." He did it again, that same gentle tap, and somehow it made you feel better. "That's really cool," he said quietly.

And somehow that made you feel better and made the tightness in your chest ease a little. Duri snuggled into your arms, completely content, completely unaware of how close she'd come to never existing in your life.

You held her tighter.

"She's so cute," Juhoon said, letting Duri lick his nose now. Then, very seriously: "Choco and Duri should be friends."

"Obviously."

"We should have playdates. Like, they can hang out."

You imagined it—a turtle and a puppy having a playdate. It seemed logistically difficult but you nodded anyway. "Okay."

"Every week," Juhoon decided. "Every Saturday. They'll be best friends."

"Like us."

"Like us," he agreed.

Your moms were smiling at each other in that way moms did when they thought their kids were being cute. The employees were probably smiling too but you weren't paying attention to them.

You were too busy looking at Juhoon, at his excited face and the turtle tank he was already protective over, at the way he let Duri lick his nose and didn't even care.

And you thought: yeah. Forever. Just like we promised.

The ride home was chaotic. Duri wouldn't sit still in the carrier, kept whining and scratching. Choco's tank sloshed every time your mom took a turn. Juhoon was in the back seat next to you—both of your moms had decided to carpool, his mom driving—giving you constant updates on what Choco was doing.

"He moved his head."

"Cool."

"Now he's moving it back."

"Wow."

"He's looking at me. I think he likes me."

Duri whined again and you stuck your finger through the carrier to let her lick it. She was probably scared, being taken away from her siblings. You made a mental note to give her extra cuddles when you got home.

"Do you think they'll actually be friends?" you asked Juhoon, keeping your voice low so the moms couldn't hear.

He looked at you like you'd asked if the sky was blue. "Duh. They have to be. It's the rule."

"What rule?"

"The rule that best friends' pets have to be best friends too." He said it with such conviction, like it was written down somewhere official. "It's science."

You were pretty sure that wasn't science but you nodded anyway.

When you got home—your house first—your mom helped you set up Duri's crate and bowls and all the supplies you'd gotten. Duri immediately started exploring, sniffing every corner of the living room with her tail wagging nonstop.

Juhoon and his mom stayed for a bit, helping set everything up. Choco's tank was already set up at his house but he wanted to make sure Duri's area was good too.

"She needs a bed there," he pointed to a corner. "So she can see the whole room. Dogs like to see everything."

"How do you know?" you asked.

"I saw it on TV once."

Again, flawless logic.

When they finally left, Juhoon made you promise to send pictures of Duri every day. You made him promise to send pictures of Choco.

"And we start playdates next Saturday," he reminded you at the door.

"Next Saturday," you agreed.

Your moms were already planning it, probably. Already coordinating schedules and deciding whose house and what snacks to have. This was going to become a whole thing, you could tell.

But you didn't mind.

After they left, you sat on the floor with Duri in your lap. She'd finally tired herself out and was dozing off, little puppy snores making her whole body move. She was so small, fit perfectly in your arms.

"You're gonna meet Choco next week," you whispered to her. "He's a turtle. He doesn't do much but Juhoon loves him so you have to be nice."

Duri snuffled in her sleep.

You imagined next Saturday—you and Juhoon in your backyard, Duri running around while Choco sat in his tank watching. Juhoon would probably try to get them to interact somehow. Would probably narrate what Choco was thinking.

The thought made you smile.

Forever, you thought again. You and Juhoon and now Choco and Duri.

Nothing was ever going to change.

twenty years old

"You still have Choco?" you repeated, snapping back to the present.

You were in the studio, on the couch. Juhoon's arm was still around you.

He nodded, and there was something almost shy in his expression. "Yeah. He's... he's seventeen now. Big guy. Barely fits in his tank anymore."

Your chest ached. "I can't believe you kept him."

"I promised I would. Remember? I told that Daniel guy I'd take care of him forever."

"We were eight."

"So? A promise is a promise."

God. Goooood.

How were you supposed to deal with that? How were you supposed to sit here with his arm around you and hear him say things like that and not feel like your entire chest was caving in?

"What happened to Duri?" he asked quietly.

Your throat got tight. "She died two years ago. Cancer."

"Shit. I'm sorry." His hand squeezed your arm again, gentle. "I remember her. She was so hyper."

"She never calmed down. Not even when she got old." You smiled despite the sting in your eyes. "Remember how she used to try to play with Choco?"

"And Choco would just hide in his shell."

"Every time."

"But she never gave up. She'd just sit there and wait for him to come back out."

You laughed, wet and a little broken. "She was so dumb."

"She was perfect."

The camera was still clicking but you barely noticed. You were looking at Juhoon and he was looking at you and you were both remembering a time when things were simple. When the biggest commitment either of you had was taking care of a pet. When forever seemed easy.

"I miss her," you admitted.

"Yeah," Juhoon said softly. "I bet Choco does too."

"Alright, let's take ten!" the photographer announced, straightening up from his camera. "We need to do some lighting adjustments anyway. Grab some water, stretch, whatever you need."

Juhoon's arm slipped away from your shoulders immediately. The absence of warmth felt stark, like stepping from sun into shade.

You both stood at the same time, that careful distance reasserting itself. The bubble you'd been in—talking about Choco and Duri, remembering when things were simple—popped just like that.

Reality came flooding back. The crew moving around you, adjusting reflectors and checking equipment. The makeup artist approaching with powder and brushes. The stylist hovering nearby with a lint roller.

"Just some touch-ups," the makeup artist said cheerfully, gesturing for you to sit in one of the director's chairs they'd set up off to the side.

You sat and let her dab at your face with powder, reapply lipstick you didn't remember wearing off. Watched Juhoon across the set getting the same treatment, his stylist fussing with his hair even though it looked exactly the same to you.

He caught your eye for a second but ooked away just as fast.

The careful distance was back. The walls were up again.

You hated it.

Someone from the crew came by with a tray of refreshments—bottles of water, cans of iced coffee, and a plate of snacks. You reached for a water bottle without really looking, but then something on the plate caught your eye.

Red bean buns.

The individually wrapped ones from the convenience store, the kind that came in those clear plastic packages. There were maybe five or six of them piled on the plate, looking completely out of place next to the fancy catered sandwiches and fruit.

Your stomach did something complicated.

"Oh, those are for Juhoon," the crew member explained, noticing where you were looking. "His manager said they're his favorite, so we made sure to grab some."

Of course they did. Of course his manager knew. Probably had it written down somewhere in a file: Kim Juhoon - red bean buns, barley tea, no lime on anything.

You looked over at Juhoon again. He was still getting his hair fixed, hadn't noticed the snacks yet. His manager was next to him scrolling through his phone, probably checking schedules or emails or whatever managers did. The makeup artist moved on to someone else. You were free to go, but you stayed in the chair, staring at those red bean buns like they'd been making faces at you and mocking you.

Except they hadn't. They were just buns. Just bread filled with sweet bean paste that you'd spent your entire childhood claiming to hate while simultaneously stealing bites from Juhoon's.

God, you hadn't thought about that in years.

The memory hit you before you could stop it, sharp and sudden like biting down on aluminum foil.

twelve and thirteen years old

You were going to die.

You were one hundred percent going to die in this dentist chair, and your last thoughts were going to be about how the ceiling tiles had brown water stains and the fluorescent lights were flickering slightly and how weird was it that dentist offices always smelled like a mixture of mint and anxiety?

"You're doing great, sweetie," the dentist said in that overly cheerful voice all dentists seemed to have. Like this was fun. Like you weren't actively having teeth ripped out of your skull.

You couldn't respond because your mouth was propped open with what felt like a medieval torture device and there were approximately seven thousand hands and metal instruments crammed in there. The numbing shots they'd given you earlier had made your entire face feel like it belonged to someone else—heavy and swollen and completely useless.

You'd had to get two teeth pulled. Baby teeth that hadn't fallen out on their own like they were supposed to, and now your adult teeth were trying to come in crooked. The dentist had explained it all very calmly, showing you x-rays and diagrams, while you'd nodded along pretending you understood anything beyond they're going to pull teeth out of your face.

Your mom was in the waiting room. She'd asked if you wanted her to come back with you but you'd said no because you were twelve, practically a teenager, and teenagers didn't need their moms to hold their hands at the dentist.

You regretted that decision now.

There was a cracking sound that you felt more than heard, followed by pressure and tugging and—

"All done!" The dentist rolled his chair back, holding up a tooth with his pliers like a trophy. "See? That wasn't so bad."

It was bad. It was so bad. Your eyes were watering and you couldn't feel half your face and there was blood in your mouth that you couldn't swallow properly because everything was numb.

He pulled the second tooth just as quickly—more cracking, more pressure, more wanting to die—and then finally, finally, he was removing all the equipment from your mouth.

"You did wonderfully," he praised, like you'd had any choice in the matter. "Rinse and spit, okay?"

You did, and the water in the little bowl turned pink. Cool. Sweet. Definitely not traumatizing at all.

He gave you gauze to bite down on where the teeth had been, rattled off instructions about not eating hard foods and being careful not to bite your numb lip. You weren't really listening. You were too focused on how your entire jaw felt like it was vibrating and how you could feel drool starting to leak from the corner of your mouth because you couldn't control your lips properly.

"Your mom can bring you back to the desk," the dentist concluded, already moving toward the door.

You nodded, then immediately regretted it because the motion made your head feel loose and floaty. The numbing medication was strong. Really strong. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges, like you were underwater.

You stood up carefully, gripping the chair for balance. The room tilted slightly. The dental assistant—a woman with kind eyes and purple scrubs—steadied your elbow.

"Whoa, easy there. The medication can make you a little woozy. Take your time."

You nodded again, slower this time. You shuffled toward the door like you were ninety years old. Your legs felt weird, disconnected from your body.

The hallway was too bright. Why was it so bright? Did they always keep the lights this intense or was this a numbing medication side effect? You were convinced they gave you something else to make you hallucinate at this point.

You squinted, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

And then you saw him.

Juhoon was sitting in the waiting room in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, looking completely out of place in his basketball shorts and graphic tee. His hair was sticking up in the back—he'd probably been lying down before coming here. There was a handheld game console in his lap that he wasn't looking at.

He was supposed to be at basketball practice. You knew this because he'd mentioned it last week, complained about how his coach was making them run extra drills because someone—probably Minho—had mouthed off.

But he was here instead. In the dentist office waiting room at 3pm on a Wednesday.

Your mom was next to him, smiling at something he'd said. They both looked up when you appeared in the doorway.

Juhoon's eyes went wide.

You realized, with horror, that you probably looked insane. Your face was still half-numb and swollen, you had gauze sticking out of your mouth, and you were pretty sure you were drooling. Not a cute drool either. A full-on can't-control-your-face drool.

You tried to close your mouth. Your lips didn't cooperate. More drool leaked out. This was so annoying!

Juhoon's mouth twitched. He was trying not to laugh. You could see it, the way his lips pressed together, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Don't," you tried to say, but it came out more like "Dohhhh" because your tongue was the size of a planet and your lips were made of rubber.

He lost it.

It wasn’t a polite laugh either. Literally this full-body laugh that made him double over, hand pressed to his stomach. His shoulders shook. He tried to stop, pressing his hand over his mouth, but that just made it worse because then he was laugh-snorting.

"Juhoon-ah," your mom scolded, but she was smiling too. Traitor.

You wanted to be mad. You wanted to storm over there and hit him or yell at him or something. But your legs were still not working properly and your face was numb and honestly? Watching him laugh that hard was kind of making you want to laugh too, which was a problem because you physically couldn't without drooling more.

"You—" he gasped between laughs, "you look like—" More laughing. He couldn't even finish the sentence. The dental assistant was still holding your elbow. She guided you toward your mom, probably worried you were going to face-plant into the magazine rack.

"How are you feeling, baby?" Your mom stood up, immediately going into mom-mode, checking your face with gentle hands.

"Mmphine," you managed. Fine. You were trying to say fine.

Juhoon was still wheezing, wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh my god. Your face."

You shot him the dirtiest look you could manage with half your face paralyzed.

That just made him laugh harder.

He reached over and tapped your forehead softly. "You're gonna be okay, chipmunk." 

You tried to swat his hand away but your coordination was shit. "Don't… tap me." 

"Why not? I always do." 

Did he? You couldn't remember through the medication fog, but it felt familiar.

Your mom signed some paperwork at the desk while you stood there contemplating murder. The receptionist handed her a paper bag with aftercare instructions and medications. Everyone was being very professional and pretending Juhoon wasn't actively dying of laughter in the corner.

"Come on," your mom finally said, car keys in hand. "Let's get you home. And you—" she pointed at Juhoon, "—are coming with us. Your mom said to bring you back after."

Juhoon nodded, still grinning, and fell into step beside you as you all headed toward the parking lot.

The fresh air helped a little. Made your head feel less foggy, though your face was still completely useless. You were very focused on not dripping blood-tinged drool onto your shirt.

"Why are you even here?" you mumbled at Juhoon, words slightly clearer now that you'd been out of the chair for a few minutes. "Don't you have practice?"

"Skipped," he shrugged. "Your mom told my mom you were getting teeth pulled. Figured you'd need moral support or whatever."

Your little tween stomach felt something like butterflies, but you weren’t sure. He'd skipped basketball practice—his favorite thing—to sit in a dentist office waiting room for you.

"You're an idiot," you told him.

"Yeah, well. You look like a freaking chipmunk."

"I hate you."

"Sure you do." He grinned, then seemed to catch himself. His expression shifted, got a little more serious. "Does it hurt?"

You shook your head. Couldn't feel anything yet. That would probably come later when the numbing wore off.

"That's good." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I brought my PSP if you want to play later. While you're recovering or whatever."

Your mom unlocked the car. You climbed into the back seat, Juhoon sliding in next to you. The middle seat was down, making it feel less like you were sitting directly next to each other and more like you had space.

You appreciated that. Your face was already embarrassing enough without sitting pressed up against him.

"Where should we go first?" your mom asked, starting the engine. "Home?"

"Actually," Juhoon piped up, "could we stop at the convenience store? I'm starving."

Your mom glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Didn't you eat lunch?"

"Yeah, but that was like four hours ago."

She laughed. "Alright. Quick stop."

The convenience store closest to your house was the one you and Juhoon went to constantly—the one with the nice ahjumma who always gave you free samples and the weird cat that lived in the alley behind it. The fluorescent lights were too bright and it smelled like ramen and cleaning products.

Juhoon made a beeline for the food section. You followed slowly, still feeling floaty, while your mom grabbed something from the drinks fridge.

"Oh!" Juhoon's face lit up. "They have the red bean buns. The good ones."

He grabbed three of them from the shelf—the individually wrapped ones that were still slightly warm because they'd been sitting in the heated display case. Then he turned to you, holding them up like an offering.

"Want one?"

You shook your head. Couldn't eat anything right now anyway with the gauze in your mouth and your face being half-dead. But also: "I don't even like red bean buns."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

"You always say that but then you eat half of mine."

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

You didn't have a good answer for that. Your brain was still fuzzy from the medication and trying to form coherent arguments was beyond your current capabilities.

Your mom appeared behind you with her arms full—bottles of barley tea, some ramyeon cups, a container of soup. "This okay?" she asked, gesturing to the soup. "Soft foods for the next day or two, right?"

You nodded.

"I'll get these too," she added, taking the red bean buns from Juhoon. "For both of you. After care package."

"But I don't—" you started.

"You love them," Juhoon interjected, grinning. "Stop lying."

"I literally hate them."

"Literally?"

"Literally."

Your mom was laughing as she paid, chatting with the ahjumma at the register about dentists and kids and how fast they grow up. You leaned against the counter, trying not to drool on the display of lighters and gum, while Juhoon hovered nearby looking way too pleased with himself.

The ahjumma handed your mom the bag of food, then looked at you with sympathy. "Teeth pulled?"

You nodded.

"Poor thing. When the numbing wears off, drink cold water. It helps."

You nodded again. Words were still hard.

Back in the car, Juhoon immediately opened one of the red bean buns. The smell filled the car—sweet and yeasty and distinctly red-bean. He took a massive bite, made an exaggerated sound of satisfaction.

"So good," he mumbled through his mouthful. "You're missing out."

You rolled your eyes. Couldn't respond because your mouth was still full of gauze and you were pretty sure if you tried to talk you'd just drool more.

He took another bite, then—without asking—broke off a piece and held it out to you.

You stared at it.

"You can't eat it right now anyway," he reasoned. "But when you can, you're gonna want it. And then you're gonna admit I'm right."

"About what?" your mom asked from the front seat, amused.

"She says she doesn't like red bean buns but she's lying."

"I'm not lying," you protested, words garbled. "They're mid."

"Mid," Juhoon repeated, incredulous. "MID? They're literally perfect. They're sweet but not too sweet, the bread is soft, the filling is—"

"Tastes like dirt."

"Oh my god." He looked genuinely offended. "You take that back."

"No."

"Take it back or I'm eating your piece too."

"Go ahead. I don't want it anyway."

He narrowed his eyes at you, assessing. Then he slowly, deliberately, took another huge bite of his bun while maintaining eye contact. It should've been funny but instead it was weirdly intense, and you felt your face get hot—or maybe that was just the numbing wearing off. Hard to tell.

"You're annoying," you informed him.

"You're in denial."

Your mom was full-on laughing now, watching you both in the rearview mirror. "You two are ridiculous."

By the time you got home, the gauze was completely soaked and disgusting. Your mom helped you change it out for fresh pieces, made you drink some water, got you settled on the couch with pillows and blankets like you were recovering from major surgery.

Juhoon sat on the floor in front of the couch, PSP already out, loading up some racing game. He'd kicked his shoes off at the door, his socked feet stretched out in front of him.

The numbing was starting to wear off now. You could feel the beginning of an ache in your jaw, dull and throbbing. It wasn't terrible yet but you knew it would be soon.

"Here." Your mom appeared with pills and more water. "Take these before it gets bad."

You swallowed them obediently, then leaned back against the pillows. Your whole face felt swollen. You probably looked like absolute shit.

Juhoon glanced back at you. "You okay?"

"Mmhmm."

"Liar. You look like you're in pain."

"Gee, thanks."

"I mean it in a nice way."

"There's no nice way to tell someone they look like shit, Juhoon."

He grinned. "There kind of is though."

You kicked at him weakly with your foot. He caught it, pushed it away, went back to his game.

For a while you just watched him play. The sound effects were repetitive and kind of annoying but also oddly soothing. The afternoon light coming through the window made everything feel soft and drowsy.

You must've dozed off at some point because when you opened your eyes again, the light had changed. More golden now, late afternoon turning to evening. Juhoon was still on the floor but his game was paused. He had one of the red bean buns in his hand, was eating it slowly while scrolling through his phone with the other hand.

Your jaw was throbbing now. A steady, insistent pain that made you wince when you tried to move your mouth.

"Hey," Juhoon noticed you were awake immediately. He put his phone down. "How're you feeling?"

"Like crap," you admitted.

"Yeah, you look it."

You would've hit him if moving didn't hurt.

"Your mom left medicine on the table," he gestured. "Said to take more in an hour if you need it."

"What time is it?"

"Almost six."

You'd been asleep for like two hours. Fantastic.

Juhoon was still holding the red bean bun, had probably been about to take another bite when you woke up. The bag was on the coffee table—your mom must've left them out for you.

"Want some?" he offered, even though you both knew you couldn't eat solid food yet.

"I can't eat that."

"Not now. But later." He broke off a piece like he had in the car. Held it out. "Come on. Just try it. Admit they're good."

"They're not good."

"They're amazing."

"They taste like sadness."

"They taste like HAPPINESS. Pure joy in bread form."

You snorted, then immediately regretted it because the motion hurt your jaw. "Ow. Stop making me laugh."

"Then stop being wrong about red bean buns."

"I'm not wrong."

"You are SO wrong."

This was stupid. This argument was so stupid. But it was also the most normal you'd felt all day—sitting here bickering with Juhoon about food preferences like the dentist hadn't just ripped teeth out of your skull.

"Fine," you relented. "When I can eat solid food again, I'll try one."

His face lit up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I'm not gonna like it."

"You're absolutely gonna like it."

"Wanna bet?"

"What are we betting?"

You thought about it, brain still slightly fuzzy from pain and medication. "If I like it, you win. If I don't, I win."

"Okay, but what do we get?"

"I don't know. Bragging rights?"

"Boring." Juhoon considered, then grinned. "If you like it, you have to admit—out loud—that I have good taste and you were wrong."

"And if I don't like it?"

"Then I'll..." He paused. "I'll never bring them up again. Ever. Even though you're wrong."

You stuck out your hand, the one not propped under your head. "Deal."

He shook it, his hand warm and solid around yours. His fingers were longer than yours now, you noticed. When had that happened? Last year you'd been the same height, the same size. Now he was getting taller, growing into himself in that awkward pre-teen way where nothing quite fit right yet.

"Deal," he agreed. Then, quieter: "You should rest more. You look tired."

You were tired. Exhausted, actually. Your whole body felt heavy.

"Wake me up if I start drooling again," you mumbled, already closing your eyes.

"No promises."

You drifted off to the sound of his game starting back up, the repetitive beeps and boops of the racing track, the soft sound of him eating the rest of his red bean bun.

When you woke up later—properly woke up, evening turning to night—your mom had ordered food and Juhoon was still there, now playing a different game. His mom had texted saying to just keep him for dinner, that she'd pick him up after.

You managed to eat some soup, soft noodles that didn't require chewing. Juhoon ate some tuna mayo kimbap and kept offering you bites even though you obviously couldn't have them.

"Tomorrow," he promised. "When your face works again."

"My face works fine."

"You drooled on the pillow."

"I hate you so much."

He just grinned.

Two days later, when the swelling had gone down and you could chew again without wanting to die, he showed up at your door with a red bean bun.

"Time to pay up," he announced.

You took it. Unwrapped it. Took a bite.

It was... actually pretty good. Soft and sweet and warm. The red bean filling was smooth and not too sugary, and the bread practically melted on your tongue.

Damn it.

Juhoon was watching you with this insufferable knowing expression, arms crossed, waiting.

"Well?" he prompted.

You chewed slowly, making him wait. Swallowed. Took another bite just to torture him.

"It's... okay."

"OKAY?" He looked personally offended. "Just okay?"

"It's fine. Not terrible."

"Not terrible," he repeated flatly. "Come on. Admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That they're good. That I was right. That you've been wrong this whole time."

You took another bite, mostly to avoid answering. But the smile tugging at your lips probably gave you away.

"You like it," Juhoon accused, pointing at your face. "You're smiling. You LIKE it."

"I'm not smiling."

"You absolutely are."

"Maybe my face is just stuck like this from the dentist."

"Oh my god." He shoved your shoulder lightly. "Just SAY IT."

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were full-on grinning now. "Fine. They're... good. Happy?"

"Say the whole thing."

"Juhoon—"

"Say it. You have to. We made a deal."

You sighed dramatically. "You have good taste and I was wrong. There. Are you satisfied?"

The smile that broke across his face was ridiculous. Too wide and way too pleased with himself. "Very. See? Was that so hard?"

"The worst."

"You're welcome for expanding your palate."

"Shut up."

But you were still smiling. And when he broke off half of his own red bean bun to give to you, you took it without arguing.

twenty years old

"Juhoon, you want a red bean bun?"

The crew member's voice snapped you back to reality. You blinked, disoriented for a second, caught between thirteen and twenty, between your childhood living room and this studio.

Juhoon was walking over to the snack table, hadn't noticed you staring at the buns like they held the secrets of the universe. "Yeah, thanks," he said, picking one up.

He unwrapped it without thinking, muscle memory, and took a bite. His eyes closed for just a second, savoring it, and something about that small gesture made your chest ache.

Some things never changed.

He turned then, caught you watching. His chewing slowed. There was a question in his eyes, something uncertain.

You looked away first.

The makeup artist was heading back toward you, powder brush in hand. Time to get back to work. Back to pretending this was normal, that sitting close to him didn't make you feel like you were back in his living room again waiting for him to finish a sentence that started with "I miss—"

"Ready to go again?" the photographer called out, clapping his hands. "Let's do some standing shots now. I want you two closer this time, really in each other's space. We're going for intimate, remember. Like you can't imagine being anywhere else."

You stood. Juhoon was still by the snack table, red bean bun in hand, and when your eyes met this time neither of you looked away.

He took another bite. Swallowed.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "You ever start liking them? The red bean buns?"

Your heart stopped.

He remembered. Well… of course he remembered. This was Juhoon.

"Yeah," you admitted. "I did."

He softened, surprisingly. "Told you."

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug. I'm being right. There's a difference."

And just like that, the wall between you cracked a little more. Not broken, not gone, but definitely cracked.

The photographer was waiting with his camera ready. You walked toward your mark and Juhoon followed, still holding what was left of his red bean bun.

When you stopped next to each other, you were closer than before. Close enough that you could see the crumbs on his lips from the bun. Close enough that when he smiled—small and private and just for you—you felt it everywhere.

"Alright, different atmosphere now," the photographer announced, gesturing toward another part of the set. "Let's move to the backdrop. I want something more dynamic, more movement. Like you're caught in a moment."

The backdrop he indicated was set up on the opposite side of the studio—a massive printed canvas of a forest scene, all autumn colors and dappled light filtering through trees. Very romantic. Very "we're lost in the woods together and finding our way back to each other" aesthetic.

You and Juhoon walked over. The crew was already adjusting lights again, positioning reflectors. Someone handed you a flannel shirt to throw on over your sweater—extra layers for the fall vibe, apparently.

"Okay, so here's what I'm thinking," the photographer said, already framing shots with his hands like a director. "Juhoon, I want you to catch her. Like she's falling backward and you're stopping her. Can you do that?"

Your stomach dropped.

Catch her. Falling backward and complete physical contact.

"Uh," Juhoon glanced at you, uncertain. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

"Great! And—" the photographer turned to you, "—I need you to trust the fall. Just really lean back, let him support your weight. It'll look more natural if you're actually falling."

Trust the fall. Sure.

You nodded even though your heart was already racing and tucked a few strands of hair behind your reddening ear.

The photographer positioned you first, had you stand with your back to Juhoon. You could feel him behind you, close enough that the heat from his body radiated against your back. Could hear his breathing, slightly faster than normal.

"Okay, Juhoon, arms up. You're going to catch her around the waist and upper back. Like this—" The photographer demonstrated the position. "Support her weight but make it look effortless. Like you've done this a thousand times."

Juhoon's hands settled on your waist first, his touch tentative. It was warm even through your sweater and the flannel. His fingers spread wide, steadying.

"Higher with the other hand," the photographer directed. "Middle of her back. You need to support her when she leans."

His other hand slid up your spine, settled between your shoulder blades. You could feel each individual finger through the layers of clothing. Could feel your heart hammering against your ribs and wondered if he could feel it too.

"Perfect. Now—" the photographer stepped back, camera raised, "—on three, I want you to lean back. Like really commit to it. Juhoon will catch you."

"You sure about this?" Juhoon's voice was incredibly low, and obviously meant just for you. His face was close enough that his breath moved your hair. “I can ask if we can do another pose.”

"No," you admitted. "But when has that ever stopped us?"

You felt more than heard his quiet laugh.

"One," the photographer counted. "Two... three!"

You leaned and fell.

For a split second, there was nothing but air and gravity and the swooping sensation in your stomach. Then Juhoon's arms tightened, caught you, held you suspended at an angle that should've felt precarious but somehow didn't.

He had you in his arms completely. His arm around your waist was solid, his hand on your back steady. You were tilted back far enough that you could see his face above you if you looked up—his jaw tight with concentration, eyes focused.

The camera clicked.

"Beautiful! Hold that."

You were acutely aware of every point of contact. His forearm against your ribs, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the way your hip was aligned with his. How close you were to his chest, how if you shifted even slightly you'd be pressed against him completely.

"Now look at each other," came the instruction.

You tilted your head back. He looked down.

And suddenly you were fifteen again, on a different floor, in a different position, with that same look in his eyes that you'd spent years trying to forget.

fifteen and sixteen years old

The studio clock read 11:47 PM.

You'd been here since eight, had lost track of time somewhere between running lines and helping Juhoon with choreography. The building was supposed to close at midnight but the owner—a former dancer who'd taken pity on two ambitious kids—let you book the space late as long as you locked up properly.

It had become your thing. Tuesday and Thursday nights, 8 PM to midnight, Studio C on the third floor. Your schedules were getting insane—your drama filming was picking up, Juhoon's training was intensifying now that debut talks were getting serious—but you both carved out these nights. Refused to let them go.

The studio was small. There were mirrors covering two walls, a ballet barre running along one side. The floors were scuffed from years of dancers, and there was a weird water stain on the ceiling that looked like a dragon if you squinted. The whole place smelled like sweat and wood polish and the vanilla air freshener someone had plugged in by the door that didn't quite mask the sweat smell.

Right now you were sprawled on the floor, script pages scattered around you, highlighting lines in yellow while Juhoon ran through choreo in the mirror. He had his phone propped against the wall, music playing through a portable speaker—some R&B track with a heavy beat that made the floor vibrate slightly.

You'd already helped him with the moves he was stuck on. He'd already helped you rehearse the emotional breakdown scene you had to shoot next week. Now you were both just existing in the same space, comfortable silence broken only by music and the sound of his sneakers on the floor.

He was wearing his practice clothes—black joggers and a white tank top that was darkened with sweat around the collar. His hair was pushed back with a headband, the ends sticking up in a way that should've looked ridiculous but somehow didn't.

You'd been trying not to stare for the past hour. Failing, mostly.

When had he gotten so... like that? Tall and lean with actual muscle definition instead of the gangly limbs you'd grown up with. His face had changed too, jawline sharper, features more defined. He was growing into himself in a way that made something in your chest feel tight.

It was weird. He was Juhoon. Your Juhoon. The kid who'd shared crackers with you on the playground and stayed with you after the dentist and named his turtle after a pastry. He wasn't supposed to make you feel like this—flustered and hyperaware and weirdly jealous when other people looked at him.

But lately...

"You're staring again."

You blinked, snapping back to reality. Juhoon had stopped dancing, was looking at you in the mirror with an amused expression.

"I'm not staring," you lied, looking back down at your script.

"You absolutely were. You do that thing where you chew your pen cap when you're distracted."

You realized you were, in fact, chewing on your highlighter cap. You pulled it out of your mouth, face heating. "I was just... thinking."

"About?"

You, your brain supplied helpfully. About how you got hot and I don't know how to deal with it.

"My scene," you said instead. "The blocking is confusing."

"Want to run it again?"

"No, I've got it." You shuffled your papers, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. "You should keep practicing. You've almost got that transition part."

He studied you for a moment longer, like he didn't quite believe you, then shrugged. "Alright."

The music started again. You went back to your script, reading the same line four times without actually processing it because you were too busy watching Juhoon in your peripheral vision.

He moved through the choreography, and you could see how much he'd improved even in the past few months. He'd always been athletic—basketball and soccer and whatever the fuck else he picked up over the years (the tryhard he was) had given him good body control—but this was different. More precise, more fluid. He was actually good at this.

You felt a weird surge of pride mixed with something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like fear.

Because he was going to debut soon. Like actually debut, with a group, under BigHit. He'd be famous. He'd be busy. He'd be surrounded by people who were prettier and more talented and actually part of his world.

Where would that leave you?

You shoved the thought down, tried to focus on your lines. But the tightness in your chest didn't go away.

At some point around 11:30, voices echoed from the hallway. Female voices, high-pitched and giggly. You looked up just as the studio door opened.

Three girls you vaguely recognized—probably from one of the dance classes that used this building—poked their heads in. They were around your age, maybe a year older, dressed in practice clothes with gym bags slung over their shoulders.

"Oh!" one of them said, eyes immediately landing on Juhoon. "Sorry, we didn't know anyone was still here."

Juhoon paused the music, slightly out of breath. "No worries. We've got it booked until midnight though."

"You're a trainee, right?" another girl asked, stepping fully into the room now. Her eyes were doing that thing girls' eyes did when they looked at Juhoon lately—all bright and interested. "At BigHit?"

Your stomach clenched.

Juhoon nodded, wiping sweat off his forehead with his arm. "Yeah."

"That's so cool!" The first girl smiled wide. "We saw you in the practice room last week. You're really good."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Are you debuting soon?" The third girl moved closer, and you noticed she had her phone in her hand. Probably wanted a picture. They always wanted pictures. "We heard BigHit is debuting a new boy group."

"Uh, hopefully? Nothing's confirmed yet."

"That's so exciting!" The second girl was practically bouncing. "You're going to be famous."

You stared at your script, the words blurring together. Your jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

They were flirting with him. Obviously flirting, with the hair touching and the giggling and the way they angled their bodies toward him. And Juhoon was just... being polite. He was smiling his polite smile, answering their questions, completely oblivious to the way your hands were gripping your highlighter hard enough to crack it.

"Can we get a picture?" one of them finally asked. "For Instagram?"

"Sure," Juhoon agreed easily.

Of course he did. Because he was nice. Because he didn't know how to say no to people. Because he probably didn't even realize they were flirting.

They crowded around him, angling for the best selfie position. One of them put her hand on his arm. Your highlighter cap cracked between your teeth.

"You should follow us," another said, showing him her phone. "We post dance covers. Maybe we could collab sometime?"

"Maybe," Juhoon said noncommittally.

"Before you get too famous to talk to us," the third one added with a laugh that sounded fake even from across the room.

You stood up abruptly. The movement drew their attention and suddenly three sets of eyes were on you.

"Oh, is she your girlfriend?" one of them asked, and something in her tone made it clear she hoped the answer was no.

"No," Juhoon said quickly. Way too fucking quickly for your liking. "We're just friends. Childhood friends."

Just friends.

The words shouldn't have stung. You were just friends. That was the truth. But hearing him say it so easily, so dismissively, made something in your chest crack.

"Cool," the girl said, brightening. "So you're single then?"

You couldn't do this. Couldn't stand here and watch them flirt with him and pretend it didn't make you want to scream.

"I'm gonna get water," you announced to no one in particular, already heading toward the door.

"There's some in my bag—" Juhoon started.

"From the fountain," you cut him off, not looking back.

You escaped into the hallway, the fluorescent lights too bright after the dimmer studio. The water fountain was down the hall, one of those old ones that barely worked and tasted vaguely metallic. You pressed the button and bent down, letting the lukewarm water run over your face more than into your mouth. You were being ridiculous. They were just some girls. Juhoon could talk to whoever he wanted. You had no claim on him, no right to feel like this.

But you did feel like this. Had been feeling like this for months now, maybe longer. This weird possessive jealous thing that made your skin feel too tight whenever anyone else looked at him the way you'd been trying not to.

The studio door opened behind you. Footsteps approached.

"Hey." Juhoon's voice. "You okay?"

You straightened, wiping water off your chin. "Fine."

"You left pretty fast."

"I was thirsty."

He leaned against the wall next to the fountain, close enough that you could smell his sweat and deodorant and that laundry detergent his mom used. Close enough that you had to actively stop yourself from looking at him.

"They wanted your number," you said flatly.

"I know."

"Did you give it to them?"

"No." He sounded confused. "Why would I?"

You shrugged, jaw still clenched. "They were pretty."

"I guess?"

"And they liked you."

"Okay?" He was looking at you now, you could feel his eyes on the side of your face. "What's your point?"

You didn't have a point. Or you did but you couldn't say it. Couldn't tell him that watching other girls flirt with him made you feel like you were being scraped hollow. That lately every time someone else showed interest in him, you wanted to step between them and stake some claim you didn't have.

"Nothing," you muttered. "Forget it."

"No, seriously. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're lying. You always chew things when you're upset. First your pen cap, now your bottom lip."

You stopped biting your lip. Crossed your arms instead. "I'm just tired."

"Bullshit."

"Juhoon—"

"Just tell me." His voice was softer for you now. He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours against the wall. "Come on. It's me."

That was the problem though. It was him. It was always him. And lately that meant something different than it used to.

"I don't know," you admitted finally, quietly. "I just... didn't like it. Them talking to you like that."

"Like what?"

"Like they wanted something from you."

"They were just being friendly."

You made a noise that might've been a laugh. "Juhoon, they were flirting with you."

He blinked. "What? No they weren't."

"Yes, they absolutely were. The touching, the hair flipping, asking for your number? That's flirting."

He looked genuinely surprised. "Oh."

"How are you this oblivious?"

"I don't know! I wasn't thinking about it like that. I was just... trying to be polite."

You wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both. The feelings were getting confusing.

"Whatever," you said, pushing off the wall. "Let's just go back. We only have like fifteen minutes left anyway."

You started walking. He caught your wrist, stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned, heart hammering. His hand was warm around your wrist, thumb resting against your pulse point. He had to feel how fast your heart was beating.

"Why does it bother you?" he asked. "That they were... flirting or whatever?"

Because I want to be the only one who looks at you like that, your brain supplied. Because the thought of you with someone else makes me want to set things on fire. Because somewhere between going to all your dumb games and basically raising a dog and a turtle with you I fell for you and I don't know how to un-fall.

"I don't know," you said instead, voice way smaller than you meant it to be.

He was still holding your wrist. Still looking at you with those dark eyes that saw too much. His thumb moved slightly, probably unconscious, a small circle against your skin.

"We should go back," you tried again.

"Yeah," he agreed, but he didn't let go. Didn't move.

The hallway was too bright and too empty and too quiet except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. You were standing too close. You could see the small mole on his neck that you'd never really noticed before.

"Juhoon—"

Whatever you were going to say died when the studio door burst open and one of the girls poked her head out.

"There you are! We were wondering where you went." Her eyes flicked between you and Juhoon, landing on where his hand still held your wrist. Her smile tightened. "We're heading out but we wanted to say bye."

Juhoon dropped your wrist like it burned. Stepped back, putting space between you that felt like miles.

"Oh. Uh, bye. Thanks for stopping by?"

She giggled. "Maybe we'll see you around?"

"Sure," he said noncommittally.

She waggled her fingers in a wave—shot you a look you couldn't quite read but you could read between the lines— then disappeared back into the studio. You heard murmured voices, the sounds of bags being gathered, then footsteps heading toward the stairs.

Silence settled over the hallway again.

"We should probably..." Juhoon gestured vaguely toward the studio.

"Yeah."

You walked back together, that careful distance reasserting itself. The moment—whatever it had been—was gone.

When you got back inside, the music was still paused. Your script pages were still scattered across the floor. The clock read 11:54.

Six minutes left.

"Should we just call it?" Juhoon offered. "We're basically done anyway."

"Yeah, okay."

You started gathering your stuff, shoving papers into your bag with more force than necessary. Juhoon grabbed his phone and speaker, unplugged them, shoved them in his backpack.

The silence felt different now. It wasn’t comfortable like it usually was.

"Hey," he said finally.

"Yeah?"

"About earlier—"

"Forget it," you cut him off, zipping your bag with finality. "It was stupid. I was being weird."

"You weren't—"

"I was. Just drop it, okay?"

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then closed it. And just nodded like he was just accepting his fate.

You grabbed your stuff and headed for the door. He followed, turning off lights as you went. You locked up like you always did, returned the key to its hiding spot, walked down the stairs in silence.

The street outside was empty, lit by yellow streetlights and the glow from a 24-hour convenience store across the road. It was late enough that the buses had stopped running. You'd have to walk home or call for a ride.

"Want me to walk you?" Juhoon offered.

"I'm good. My mom's picking me up." A lie. But you needed space, needed air, needed to not be around him right now.

"Oh. Okay."

You stood there on the sidewalk, streetlight buzzing overhead, both of you not quite knowing how to end this. Usually you'd hug goodbye or he'd ruffle your hair or something equally platonic and easy.

But nothing felt easy right now.

"Text me when you get home," he finally said.

"I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He smiled, small and uncertain, then turned to head in the direction of his house. You watched him go, watched him walk away under the streetlights, hands shoved in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder.

And you thought: 

I'm in love with you.

The realization hit like ice water. Sharp and shocking and completely unwelcome because...

You were in love with your best friend. Your childhood friend. The person who knew everything about you and who you were supposed to know everything about.

When had it happened? When had the worlds of friend and love crossed into this?

You didn't know. Couldn't pinpoint a moment. Maybe it had been gradual—years of shared moments compounding into something bigger. Maybe it had been sudden—one smile or laugh or touch that rewired your entire brain.

It didn't matter.

Because he'd said it himself, so easily: Just friends.

That's all you were. All you'd ever be.

You watched him turn a corner, disappear from view. Then you pulled out your phone and called your mom for real this time.

By the time she picked you up twenty minutes later, you'd convinced yourself you could un-feel this. Could push it down, lock it away, pretend it didn't exist.

You'd been wrong about a lot of things throughout your fifteen years of living.

But you'd been especially wrong about that.

maddy speaks! —i did in fact reach tumblr's dumb 1000 block limit so click down below for continuation, sorry :) this is NOT a part two btw

PAGE TWO here!

[cosmiho]

HEAD OVER HEELS ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS : Your annoyingly charming boyfriend throws rocks at your window in the middle of the night and demands you come out with him, how could you say no to a face like that?

W.C : 6.2k

CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, established relationship, stealing, sneaking out, kissing (lots of it), physical touch, lots of flirting, mentions of jumping off a cliff, brief mention of injury

PLAYLIST : Head over heels - Tears for fears; Heaven - Bryan Adams; Is this love - Whitesnake; True - Spandau ballet; Be like a woman - Chris Rainbow; (I just) died in your arms - Cutting crew

The phone cord stretched across your bed, wound twice around your wrist, the plastic warm from your skin. You lay on your stomach, chin propped on one hand, flipping through a magazine you'd already read twice. The pages were soft now, the corners curling, the articles blurring together.

“—He does this thing,” you muttered. “He comes up behind me and just stands there.”

A pause, your friend mumbling something.

“Yes. Just stands there. For, like, a full minute. And then he leans down like he's about to say something actually important and then just—”

You lightly flicked your own forehead with the hand holding the magazine, the paper crinkling.

“Every. Single. Time.”

Your friend's laugh crackled through the line, sharp and delighted. You pulled the receiver away from your ear, wincing, but you were smiling too.

“It's not funny,” you said, but there was no heat in it. “He thinks he's so clever.”

She asked something, her voice breaking up over the crackle, but you caught the gist.

“No, I don't hit him back.” You paused, chewing on your lip. “Okay, I did once. But he moved into me! Like he saw it coming and just sidestepped. Made me look like an idiot.”

Another laugh, louder this time, and you let it wash over you.

“And then he just smiles,” you went on, your voice softening without permission. “That stupid smile. Like he's proud of himself.”

A beat. She was waiting.

“I don't hate it,” you admitted, quieter now. “I just… he's so annoying.”

Your friend said your name in that tone. The one that meant she knew something you didn't want to admit.

“Don't,” you warned, pointing at the phone like she could see you.

She said something else, teasing but gentle, and you could hear the grin in her voice.

“He's cute, okay? Obviously. I'm not blind, why do you think I'm dating him?” You let out a breath, staring up at the ceiling. “He's just… him. I don't know how else to explain it.”

She spoke again, softer now, and you could feel the warmth in her words even through the crackle.

“Yeah, yeah. I'll see you tomorrow.” You reached for the receiver, already smiling. “Goodnight.”

You hung up before she could say anything else, and the room settled into silence around you. For a moment, you just sat there, the phone still warm in your hand, the magazine open beside you. Then you pushed yourself up off the bed.

The brush was on your desk where you always left it. You picked it up, ran it through your hair once, twice, whilst your reflection stared back at you: messy hair, flushed cheeks, that look you got when you'd been talking about him for too long.

The house was quiet, everyone else had already gone to sleep. You could feel them in their rooms: your parents down the hall, your brother next door. All that stillness pressing in.

The clock on your nightstand ticked. Outside, the streetlight glowed orange through your curtains.

You were still sat there, brush sifting through your hair when—

Tap.

The sudden noise made you turn toward the window, your hairbrush frozen halfway as your eyes widened slightly.

Tap. Tap.

You glance at your door, scared your parents may have heard, already knowing who was guilty of making a ruckus. You stand quickly, approaching the window and pulling the curtain aside.

He was standing under the streetlight, a small rock still in his hand. When he saw you, he dropped it like he’d been caught doing something he definitely shouldn’t be doing. His other hand was behind his back.

You shoved the window open. “Eom Seonghyeon, are you serious?”

He looked up at you, all easy confidence and that half-smile you knew too well. “What, no hello? No 'I missed you, my wonderful, amazing, loving boyfriend'?”

“It's been six hours.”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “Felt longer.”

You stared at him. “You're going to wake someone up.”

“Then you better come down before I throw another rock.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The word hung in the air. He didn't smile. Didn't look away. Just let it sit there between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand tightened on the windowsill. “…What?”

“Come out,” he said, and now the smile was back, small and knowing. “I promise it's worth it.”

You glanced back at your door, then at him. He was already reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling something out, holding it up just enough that the light caught it.

A cassette tape. Handwritten label. You couldn't read it from here, but you recognised the handwriting.

“I made you something,” he said. “But you gotta come get it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You could've just given it to me at school.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

Another glance at your door. The hallway outside was dark and quiet, your room was the only one with the light still on.

“…Give me a second.”

He grinned. It was the kind of grin that probably got him out of trouble more often than it should. “Don't take too long. I get lonely.”

You shut the window before he could see you smile, pulling the curtain back into place as you turned away, already moving. Your closet door creaked softly as you grabbed something random to throw on: a sweater and jeans, changing quickly, your movements rushed but quiet.

A quick glance in the mirror where you smoothed the clothes down, and you were out of your room.

You stepped carefully, easing your door shut behind you as gently as you could. Every sound felt louder now: the floor creaking faintly under your weight, the house settling around you.

You skipped the one step you knew would give you away, hand brushing the wall as you made your way down.

At the bottom, you paused and listened, but heard nothing. Reaching down, you grabbed your shoes, spending less than a second deciding which pair before continuing to walk forward.

Slowly, you reached for the front door, turning the handle as gently as possible.

Click.

You froze.

Waited.

Still nothing.

You slipped outside, closing it just as carefully behind you.

Outside, the air was cool. Seonghyeon was leaning against the low wall at the edge of your yard, arms crossed, watching your door like he was waiting for a show.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

You shoved your feet into your shoes. “I had to not get caught.”

“You look stressed.”

“I'm not stressed.”

“Okay.” He pushed off the wall, walking toward you with his arm still hidden behind his back. “You look cute.”

You stopped mid-lace. That boy and his flirting. “What?”

He shrugged, easy. “You heard me.”

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could see the way his hair was still slightly damp from a shower he’d obviously taken after practice, meaning he had probably rushed over immediately afterwards.

You straightened up, crossing your arms. “You dragged me out of bed to tell me I look cute?”

“No.” He finally pulled his hand from behind his back, and there they were: a small bunch of flowers, messy and uneven, tied with kitchen string. Cornflowers. The exact kind that grew in Mrs. Park's garden. “I brought you these.”

You blinked at them. “…Did you steal those?”

Seonghyeon looked offended. “Borrowed.”

“From Mrs. Park’s garden?”

“She wasn't using them.”

You stared at him. He stared back, that stupid smile tugging at his mouth.

“You're such a sap,” you said, and took the flowers.

The stems were cool, slightly damp. You turned them in your hands, trying not to smile. One was bent.

“These are uneven.”

“They're perfect.”

“This one's bent.”

“It's got character.”

You looked up at him. He was watching you, not the flowers, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach flip.

“You picked these yourself.”

“Maybe.” Seonghyeon stepped closer. “You gonna keep complaining, or are you gonna say thank you?”

You lifted your chin. “Thank you.”

“See? That wasn't so hard.” He tilted his head, looking down at you. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was close now. Close enough that you could smell whatever soap he'd used, something clean and warm.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, light and quick, and then he was pulling away, already walking toward the car parked down the street.

“Coming?” He called over his shoulder.

You stared after him, your face warm. “Where?”

He turned, walking backward for a few steps, that grin firmly in place. “You'll see.”

You followed, the flowers pressed against your chest.

The convertible was burgundy, rusted around the edges, definitely not his. You slowed when you recognised it. “That's your dad's car.”

Seonghyeon opened the passenger door like the gentleman he is, looking at you expectantly. “Yep.”

“You're not allowed to drive that.”

He leaned slightly against the open door, casual as anything. “You gonna tell on me?”

You crossed your arms, staring him down. “This is a bad idea.”

“The best ideas usually are.” He nodded toward the seat. “Get in.”

You hesitated. “…You want me to sit there while you illegally drive your dad's car?”

He raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “You'd rather sit on my lap?”

Your face went hot and he was looking at you like he was enjoying this way too much, a smirk on his face as he watched you internally panic.

“You're so annoying,” you said, sliding into the seat.

“That's not a no,” he said, and closed the door.

You watched him walk around the front of the car, that stupid swagger in his step. The flowers were crushed a little against your chest. You fixed them, smoothed the bent stem, told yourself your heart wasn't racing.

He slid into the driver's seat, the car dipping under his weight before he reached into his pocket without looking and pulled out the tape he'd shown you earlier, sliding it into the deck.

The song started playing and you instantly recognised it, a song he constantly played whenever you were near because he knew it was your favourite. It cut in midway, like he had been playing the tape on his way over to your house. 

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

He leaned back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, and looked at you.

“You’re so cheesy for this.” You squint your eyes at him, but the smile on your face gave you away.

‘I never find out until I’m head over heels’

“I can’t play my girlfriend’s favourite song now?” Seonghyeon throws you a cheeky smile as you just roll your eyes, shifting to face forward so he couldn’t see you blush. He could anyway.

He reached over, turned the music up a little before turning the key. The engine rumbled to life. “Seatbelt.”

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

You turned to look at him. “What?”

“Seatbelt,” he repeated, nodding toward the strap hanging beside your shoulder. His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something in his expression that wasn't. “I'm not getting yelled at by your mom if you crack your head open.”

“Oh, so you have limits.”

“Apparently.”

You reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across your chest. The metal latch clicked into place and you settled back into the seat. The flowers shifted in your lap, and you adjusted them again, making sure they wouldn't fall.

‘Ah, don’t take my heart, don’t break my heart’

He watched you do so, his eyes tracking your face mainly before you looked up, your cheeks reddening further, if even possible, when you realised he was staring.

“Go on then.” You mumble, looking straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact as he smiled to himself before turning forward.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t throw it away.’

Seonghyeon eventually pulled away from the curb, one hand easy on the wheel, the other reaching over to rest on the back of your seat as he looked over his shoulder. Smooth.

The streetlights slid across his face, light and shadow as the song continued in the background.

He glanced at you, quick and warm. “You're gonna love this.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Because it's true.” He looked back at the road, but his hand didn't move from the back of your seat. “Believe me?”

You looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the small smile that said he already knew your answer.

You looked down at the flowers in your lap. 

“…Okay,” you breathed. “Fine.”

His smile widened. He took the next corner a little too fast, and you slid across the seat, your shoulder bumping his.

He didn't apologise and you didn't move back.

You watched the houses slip by, dark and quiet, their windows blank. Streetlights cast long shadows across Seonghyeon's face, carving out the shape of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other now resting on the centre console between you, fingers loose. You noticed he'd moved it there after the last turn, like he was waiting for you to do something about it.

You didn't. Not yet. But you also didn't move away from where your shoulder was still pressed against his, and you could tell he'd noticed that too.

The flowers sat in your lap, their stems cool against your jeans. You kept touching them without meaning to, smoothing a petal, adjusting the string. Something to do with your hands.

“You're gonna wear those things out,” he said.

“They're already bent.”

“They're fine.” He glanced at you, quick, and his eyes lingered on your face for a beat too long. “Almost as cute as you.”

You blinked. “Did you just compare me to stolen flowers?”

“Borrowed.” He grinned. “And yeah. You're both pretty. Both a little bent.”

“I am not bent.”

“You're dating me, aren't you?” He raised an eyebrow. “That takes a certain kind of crazy.”

You shoved his arm. He caught your hand before you could pull it back, pressed a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road, and let go like it was nothing and he hadn't just made your entire face go warm.

The car hummed beneath you, the engine a low, steady pulse as the tape continued, playing through as many love songs Seonghyeon seemed to have found. Outside, the neighbourhood was giving way to something emptier: fewer houses, more trees, the road starting to climb. You'd been driving for a while now, long enough that you'd lost track of the turns, the streets narrowing into something that felt less like a road and more like a suggestion.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“Somewhere good.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only one you're getting.” He glanced at you sideways, that half-smile playing at his lips. “You trust me, don't you?”

“Debatable.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you'd wounded him. “After seven months. After I brought you flowers. After I let you keep my jacket—”

“You didn't let me keep it, you left it in my room and never asked for it back.”

“Same thing.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck just slow enough to make your breath catch. “I like seeing you wear it.”

You swatted his hand away. “Eyes on the road.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He saluted, insufferable, but his hand found yours on the console and laced through your fingers. His thumb traced circles on your skin, slow and absent, and you let your head fall back against the seat, watching the trees blur past.

The road curved, then curved again, climbing higher. The trees began to thin, giving way to rock and scrub brush, and somewhere ahead you could see the sky getting lighter, not with dawn but with something else. City lights, you realised. The whole valley, spread out below.

He pulled off onto a dirt turnout, gravel and dust crunching under the tires, and came to a stop, keeping the engine going so the tape didn’t stop.

He didn't move. Just sat there, one hand still on the wheel, the other still holding yours, looking out at the view. You watched his profile, the way the dashboard lights caught the edge of his face, the way his jaw was relaxed now, easy.

“Seonghyeon.”

“Yeah?”

“What is this place?”

He let go of the wheel, turned in his seat to look at you. “Found it last summer. Used to come up here sometimes when I needed to get out.” He shrugged. “Never brought anyone else, though.”

You looked out at the city below, the sprawl of lights stretching to the horizon, tiny and distant and beautiful. “It's incredible.”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But not as incredible as you.”

You turned to look at him. He was already looking at you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead.

“That was so corny,” you said.

“Was it?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “I thought it was pretty smooth.”

“It was terrible.”

He reached out, tugged lightly on a strand of your hair. “You're smiling though.”

You were. You couldn't help it. He had that effect on you, had since the beginning, and he knew it—he definitely knew it, from the way his grin widened.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for his door handle. “I wanna show you something.”

The air outside was cooler up here, thinner, carrying the smell of dust and dry grass and something green underneath. You pulled your sweater tighter around you, the flowers still clutched in one hand. He came around the front of the car, hands in his jacket pockets, his steps slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

He stopped in front of the hood, leaned back against it, and looked at you with an expression that made your stomach do something complicated.

“Put the flowers down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to come here.”

You narrowed your eyes but eventually set the bouquet on the hood beside him, careful with the bent stem. The metal was cool under your fingers, still holding the evening's chill as the tape kept playing in the background.

“Baby…” He said with the only intention to tease you, and your face went hot.

“Don't.”

“Don't what?” His eyes were bright, amused. “You like it when I call you that.”

“I do not.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

You crossed your arms. He uncrossed them, pulling you forward by your wrists until you were standing between his legs, his hands settling on your waist.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “That's better.”

“You're so full of yourself.”

“Maybe.” He looked up at you, and his expression shifted to something warmer. “But you still got in the car with me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

“You can keep saying that.” His thumbs traced small circles on your waist, light and slow. “But you're still here.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was looking at you in the way he knew made your knees weak.

“What?” he asked, innocent. “Cat got your tongue?”

“You're impossible.”

“You've mentioned before.” He pulled you closer, until you had no choice but to brace your hands on his shoulders. “Anything else? Or are you just gonna stand there looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kill me.” He grinned. “Or kiss me. I can never tell with you.”

“Both,” you said. “Usually both.”

“That's my girl.”

He tugged you forward, and you stumbled into him, your hands sliding up his chest to steady yourself. He caught you easily, his arms wrapping fully around your waist now, his face tilted up toward yours.

“You look good from this angle.”

“You look annoying from every angle.”

He laughed, low and warm, and you could feel it through his chest, through your hands, through everywhere he was touching you.

“You love me,” he said.

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

He pulled you down, and you went, because you always did, because you'd been doing it since he'd first asked you out and you'd never once regretted it.

The moment your lips met his, the world seemed to narrow to just this: the warmth of his mouth, the way his hands found the small of your back, the way your fingers threaded through his hair before you'd even made the decision to move them.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Slow and deliberate. 

His lips were soft, softer than you’d expect from someone who spent half his afternoons throwing himself around in games, and they moved against yours with an ease that came from months of practice, from the hundred other kisses you'd shared in cars and hallways and once, memorably, behind the bleachers when you'd both skipped third period.

He tasted like the mint gum he was always chewing and something else underneath, something that was just him, and you wanted to drown in it.

His hands slid up your back over your sweater, palms flat, fingers spread wide like he was trying to cover as much ground as possible. The fabric was thick, but you could still feel the warmth of him seeping through, the slight roughness of his palms from whatever he'd been doing at practice that afternoon. He pulled you closer, and you let him, your hands pressing against his shoulders, his knees bracketing your hips, the metal of the car cool on your shins but everything else so, so warm.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. It was soft there, at the nape of his neck, the ends curling slightly around your knuckles. You'd always loved the way his hair felt: thick and just long enough to get your hands into, hair that begged to be touched. 

His hands moved, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, the other pressing flat against your spine, holding you against him like he was afraid you might disappear. His thumb traced the curve of your skull, slow and absent.

He eventually pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in warm, uneven puffs against your lips. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck, the way his chest was rising and falling beneath your hands.

He then opened his eyes, taking one look at you before immediately grinning like he'd won something, his chest still heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen, his hair a mess from your fingers. He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.

“See?” he said, breathless. “Told you it was worth it.”

“You haven't even shown me the view yet.”

“I'm looking at it.”

You shoved his chest. He caught your hands and held them against his jacket, right over his heart. You could feel it beating, fast and steady, the same way yours was.

“You're so annoying,” you said.

“You’re still here.” He kissed your palm softly.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn't pull away. He shifted, sliding off the hood and before you knew it, he was lifting you up onto the hood of the car.

“Seonghyeon!”

“What?” He stood between your legs, arms locking around your waist, looking down at you with that stupid, insufferable grin. “Better view from up here.”

“I'm going to push you off this cliff.”

“No you're not.” He leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth. “You like me too much.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him closer. “I really don't.”

“Liar.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his arms tightened firmly around you, his hands splaying flat against your back and pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you, until your chest was pressed against his, your ribs aligned with his ribs, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it. 

His fingers pressed into your back, five points of pressure on each side, and you couldn't move even if you wanted to—which you didn't, not really, not ever when it came to this. The position should have felt precarious, balanced on the hood of a car at the edge of a cliff, but his arms were locked around you like iron, like he'd never let you fall, and somehow, impossibly, you'd never felt safer in your life.

His mouth moved against yours, insistent but not demanding, and you could feel him smiling. Actually smiling. The curve of his lips pressed against yours, and you could feel the shape of it, the way the corners of his mouth tilted up, the way his teeth grazed your bottom lip just slightly because he was too busy grinning to kiss you properly.

It was infuriating. It was so, so infuriating.

You wanted to shove him. You wanted to kiss him harder. You wanted to tell him to stop smiling and kiss you properly, and also you never wanted him to stop smiling, not ever, not for any reason, because when he smiled like this—like he was happy, like he was exactly where he wanted to be—it did something to your chest that you still didn't have words for after months of dating him.

You hated it. You hated him. You really, truly hated him.

Except you didn't. You never had.

You thought about all the times you'd told yourself you hated him: the forehead flicks, the way he'd appear behind you without warning, the way he'd wait until you were mid-sentence to do something that made you forget what you were saying. You'd been telling yourself you hated him since you started dating, maybe earlier, maybe since that first day he'd sat next to you in class and asked to borrow a pen and then never gave it back, just kept it in his jacket pocket like a trophy.

You'd never hated him. Not once.

Not when he flicked your forehead so hard it left a red mark between your eyebrows. Not when he dragged you out of your house in the middle of the night, throwing rocks at your window like some character in a movie, like he had any right to pull you away from your bed and your sleep and your sensible, reasonable life just because he wanted to see you.

You'd never hated him. You'd never even come close.

What you felt for Seonghyeon was so far from hate that you almost laughed at the word, at how small it was, how inadequate. Hate was for things that didn't matter. Hate was for teachers who gave too much homework, for the cafeteria's mystery meat, for the way your hair frizzed in humidity. Hate wasn't for the boy who stood under your window in the dark, who picked you flowers he didn't have permission to pick, who drove his father's car without permission just to take you somewhere beautiful.

Hate wasn't for the way he looked at you, the way he was looking at you right now, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard, his breath warm against your lips, your breath warm against his.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, and his eyes shone in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something else there too: something soft, something wondering, something that made your chest ache in a way you were starting to recognise, in a way you were starting to accept.

His hands were still pressed flat against your back, still holding you against him, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his breath was still coming in short, uneven pulls. His hair was even more of a mess from your hands, sticking up in the back, falling across his forehead, and he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“Okay,” he said. “Now you can look at the view.”

You turned your head, and there it was: the whole city spread out below, gold and white lights flickering in the dark, stretching to the horizon. The sky above was deep blue, almost purple, with stars starting to show through. It was beautiful. It was the kind of view that made your chest ache.

But his hands were warm on your waist, and his hip was solid against your knee, and he was looking at you like you were the view.

“You're not even looking,” you said.

“I told you.” His thumb traced a pattern on your side, slow and deliberate. “I'm looking at it.”

You reached down, grabbed the flowers from where they were sitting on the hood, and hit him in the chest with them.

He caught them, laughing. “What was that for?”

“For being too flirty.”

“You love it.” He placed the flowers far to the side, shifting to slide onto the hood beside you, his hand never leaving your waist and his eyes tracking you the entire time. “Admit it.”

“Never.”

“Come on.” His nose brushed against yours, the hood creaking slightly under both your shared weight. “Just say it.”

“No.”

“Say 'Seonghyeon, you're the most charming, handsome, incredible boyfriend in the entire world'.”

“I would literally rather jump off this cliff.”

He laughed, full and bright, and you felt it everywhere. “That's fine.” He kissed you once, quick. “I'd jump with you.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and his hand tightened on your waist, his breath catching.

A new song began playing from the tape, and you instantly recognised it as his favourite song. The piano intro of ‘heaven’ by Bryan Adams filled the air as he stared at you for a long moment, something flickering across his face. 

Seonghyeon then laughed, shaking his head, and rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“You're gonna kill me,” he said, muffled against your sweater. “You know that, right?”

You ran your fingers through his hair softly. “Probably.”

He lifted his head, looked at you. His expression had softened, the teasing edges worn off, leaving something else underneath.

“I'm really glad you came out tonight,” he said quietly.

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before tracing the collar of his jacket with your finger. “Me too.”

He kissed you, quick this time, barely allowing you time to close your eyes and embrace the feeling of his lips on yours again before he pulled back, his eyes bright.

“Come here,” he said, tugging you sideways towards him whilst his other hand braced himself against the hood.

“I'm already here.”

“Closer.”

Seonghyeon pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you, and you went willingly, letting yourself be held. His chin rested on top of your head, and you could feel the rumble of his voice when he spoke, could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

“Look,” he said softly.

You turned your head, and faced the exact same view, except the lights seemed softer, the stars seemed closer, the whole valley seemed smaller and all you could focus on was his warmth wrapped around you.

“It's beautiful,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “But not as beautiful as you.”

“Again?” You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed, breath warm against your hair.

“I had to,” he said. “It was right there.”

“You’re such a flirt.” You say, shifting into a more comfortable position as he adjusts his arms to fit you properly, letting out a small sigh whilst his thumb traced a circle onto your sweater.

“You know the other mixtape I'm making you.” Seonghyeon ignored your comment, eyes just watching the horizon as the song continued to surround you both.

“The one that's been in progress for three months?”

“Almost three,” he corrected. “I figured out how to end it.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached behind him, grabbed the flowers, and tucked one of the cornflowers behind your ear, his eyes looking at you so intensely you felt you were going to melt. His fingers lingered, brushing against your cheek. “I'm gonna put this song on it.”

That’s when your ears finally acknowledged the song properly, listening to the lyrics.

‘Baby, you're all that I want, when you're lyin' here in my arms’

“This song?” you asked.

“This song.” 

‘I'm findin' it hard to believe, we're in heaven’

Seonghyeon slid off the hood again, pulling you along with him into his arms, his hands finding your waist, yours finding his shoulders. He thought for a moment. “Remember how this song was playing at Mina's party? How you made me dance to it?”

You laughed. “I didn't make you do anything. You asked me.”

“I asked you because you were standing in the corner looking at me until I gave in.”

“I was not.”

“You were, ‘cause you know it’s my favourite song.” He kissed the top of your head quickly. “And you were wearing that blue dress. The one with the buttons.”

You went warm. “You remember what I was wearing?”

“I remember everything.”

Seonghyeon’s face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours, and there was something in his expression that made your chest ache in the best way.

‘Yeah, love is all that I need, and I found it there in your heart’

“Dance with me.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s my favourite song.”

At that he started swaying slowly, and you let him pull you into it. The city lights flickered below. The stars blinked between the faint clouds. His voice was low and warm against your ear as he lightly hummed along to it, and you could feel the vibration of it in your chest, in your bones.

‘It isn't too hard to see, we're in heaven, yeah’

You ran your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face to attempt to fix the mess you’d made. It fell right back, the way it always did. “You're such a romantic.”

“Don't tell anyone.” He leaned into your touch, just slightly, just enough that you noticed. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“What reputation? The one where you flick your girlfriend's forehead every chance you get?”

“That's called flirting.”

“That's called annoying.”

He grinned, continuing to sway with his hands on your waist, your arms now wrapping around his neck, hands toying with the hair on the nape of his neck. “Same thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the song continuing in the background but your attention remained focused on the boy in front of you. “Your secret's safe with me.”

He spun you once, slow, and pulled you back in, your back against his chest, his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, his voice now humming along, and you closed your eyes and let yourself be held.

“Seonghyeon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for stealing the flowers.”

He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Borrowing,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms, faced him. His face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

“Borrowing,” you agreed.

He kissed you again, and everything faded into the background. There was nothing but him, his mouth on yours, moving like he was trying to memorise the shape of them, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do with his time. 

When you finally broke apart, it was slow, reluctant, like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes so impossibly soft, and there it was. That smile. The one that had gotten you into trouble from the very beginning.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, careful of the flower. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

“About how I'm gonna have to make that mixtape even longer now,” he said. “Because I’ll keep finding new songs that make me think of you.”

Your chest tightened. “What new songs?”

Seonghyeon shrugged, easy, but his eyes were warm. “Ones I haven't heard yet. Ones that I’m gonna hear and instantly think of you.” He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose. “You're gonna have to stick around for a while.”

“How long?”

“Dunno.” He pulled you closer, if even possible, and tightening his arms around you, his chin on top of your head. “Maybe forever.”

You pressed your face into his chest, felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and real.

“Forever's a long time,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “Guess that means you're stuck with me.”

The city hummed below. The stars wheeled overhead. Seonghyeon held you against him, humming along to the song that he didn’t realise was now your favourite, because it was his and it would always be his, because everything that belonged to him seemed to belong to you now. And you let yourself stay there, right where you belonged.

[young2keu]

don't leave yet

pairing brothers bsf!kim juhoon x gn!reader

word count 1.5k

contains sfw. fluff. reader is martin's younger sibling. mutual pining. jju sneaking away from his friends to find you. martin doesn’t know yet. kim juhoon is a little shit, yn is a little flustered. teasing & banter. neither of them has game.

warnings none.

part 2: you didn't leave but it's sort of fem!reader.

keukeu-note 🥥 based on this ask! requests are open btw ^^ also i struggle so bad with tense can we pretend like its not a thing pls only semi-proofread, feel free to point out mistakes/improvements!

passing by the living room, your steps had slowed, just enough to see your brother and his friends sprawled on the floor, controllers in hand. juhoon was there too, leaning back against the couch, half-laughing at something martin had said. nothing spectacular. just him being him. but you’d caught yourself staring a little longer than necessary. 

now, back in your room, you were sitting on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, scrolling without really looking. music played softly from your laptop, and the low hum of its fan filled the space. your thoughts wandered to the living room again—the laughter, the shouting—and, unavoidably, to juhoon. that corner of your mind kept nudging you toward him, like he was still somehow there, even though you were alone. 

your room was quiet in comparison. too quiet, maybe. but just enough for you to notice a small shift. a shadow spilling through the doorway. 

you looked up. of course it was him. juhoon. leaning lightly against the frame, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. he looked… almost hesitant. like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there at all. his gaze flicked to you, then to the wall, before it landed on you again. 

“hey,” he said, voice soft. “didn’t know you were... busy.” 

your stomach did something stupid. fluttered, twisted, like it was trying to climb out of your ribs. “i’m… just working,” you managed to mutter back. voice catching on the last word, too high, too fast, too everything. 

he nodded slowly, eyes darting to the laptop on your bed, then back at your face. “right… working.” the words came out slow almost as if he was considering them. “...makes sense.” 

you tried to focus on the idle, totally-not-work-related screen, dragging your laptop closer as if it could somehow shield you from him. 

truth is, you weren’t working, you weren’t doing anything but thinking about him. which made your chest ache in that stupid, fluttery way it always did around him. 

he takes a tentative step into the room, letting the doorframe brush against his shoulder as he leans slightly forward, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets. his eyes linger on the idle screen of your laptop and the phone in your hand. his voice gains its usual teasing lilt when he speaks again. “looks more like you’re avoiding something.” 

“i’m not avoiding anything,” your words come out a little mumbled. hurriedly pulling your laptop closer, as if it could somehow shield you from his gaze. but that’s where your attempt at looking busy ended. you hadn’t been working. you don’t have any work to do. and he is standing there. watching you, like it’s his favorite pastime. 

“right.” his voice was even quieter now, the word teasing and drawn out. “sure. avoiding nothing.” he steps fully inside now, leaning one hand against the doorframe, tilting his head—infuriatingly so, while his other hand stays tucked into his pocket. “you good?”

you swallowed thickly, feeling the heat creeping up your neck. “i—i’m fine,” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that you were lying. fine? fine wasn’t the word. your heart was hammering. your stomach twisting. every nerve suddenly felt too sensitive, too aware of him. 

he just grins. “uh-huh.” he releases the doorframe and edges closer, resting a hand lightly on the footboard of your bed, his presence pressing in closer on your space without crowding you. “you’re lying. i can tell.” 

you groaned. tilting your head back and pressing your fingers over your eyes. “…why are you like this?” 

“like… what?” he teased, but the warmth in his tone made your chest ache. 

“like… i—” you falter, words tangling in your throat. hands dropping from your face to grab onto your laptop again.

juhoon tilts his head, grin teasing but soft, as if he knows exactly how tangled you’re feeling and is enjoying it. “like… what, exactly?” 

“like… like– i don’t know why you’re here,” you manage, voice wobbling more than you’d like to admit. 

“oh, that’s rich,” he murmurs, letting go of the bed frame and plopping onto your bed sideways, legs dangling off the edge. he turns his head sideways to glance at you. “you do know, don’t you?” 

you look up, cheeks warming, and catch his gaze. his eyes glint with that infuriating mixture of amusement and something softer—something that makes your chest tighten. “i… don’t,” you lie, voice barely above a whisper. your stomach twists, your pulse hammering, and your hands feel clammy.

you do know. 

he hums, low and deliberate, adjusting slightly to face you more directly. “hm… really?” he says, voice teasing but careful. “you’re always… so convincing when you’re lying to me.” 

you groan, burying your face in your hands again. “…why are you like this?” 

“like… what?” he repeats, voice soft now, the teasing edge softened by a warmth that makes your knees feel weak. 

“like… like you know exactly what you’re doing,” you mutter, peeking through your fingers at him. “and you do it on purpose.” 

his grin widens. “maybe i do,” he says, leaning back on his hands, close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo. “maybe i just like… seeing you squirm.” 

you stare at him for a second before groaning dramatically and dropping your head against the wall behind you. “you’re actually insufferable.” 

“that’s not what you usually look like when i’m talking.” 

your head snaps back up. “usually?” 

he shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish hidden underneath the teasing curve of his smile. “i don’t know. you get this look on your face sometimes.” 

“what look?” 

“like you’re trying really hard not to smile.” 

you immediately press your lips together. 

his smile widens. “there it is.” 

“oh my god.” you grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him. it hits his shoulder with a soft thud before dropping uselessly onto your bed. “shut up!”

juhoon laughs quietly, reaching a hand out to grab the pillow you just threw. “violent too. scary.” 

“leave.” 

“martin says that to me all the time too.” 

instead of leaving, he stands, shoving the door closed only halfway, then turns back and plops onto your bed sideways, propping his head on the pillow you’d so generously given him, his legs curled up to avoid hanging off the edge. 

your stomach flips. 

he notices your expression immediately and lifts a brow. “what?” 

“nothing.” 

“you keep saying that.” because saying nothing is easier than saying you make me nervous in a way that’s genuinely embarrassing. 

he adjusts slightly, his cheek pressed into the pillow under his head. “you haven’t typed a single thing since i got here.” 

“maybe i type invisibly.” 

“maybe you’re just bad at lying.” 

you narrow your eyes at him. “you seem really confident for someone standing in his best friend’s sibling’s room right now.” 

that gets him. just a little. his ears go pink before he looks away with a quiet scoff. “okay, don’t make it weird.” 

you blink at him. “i’m making it weird?” 

“yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck now. “you are.” 

“you came in here!” 

“and you let me stay.” 

your mouth opens. closes again. because annoyingly enough, he’s right. 

the room goes quiet for a second after that. not awkward exactly. just full. heavy in that soft way silence sometimes gets. downstairs, someone shouts loud enough for both of you to hear followed by martin yelling something incoherent back. 

juhoon snorts under his breath. “they’ve been arguing about the same game for like forty minutes.” 

“that’s because you all suck.” 

his eyes narrow. “you all?”

“mhm.” you lean back slightly against your pillows, finally feeling your heartbeat settle a little. “you all hang out with martin— for free. that’s some kind of it’s own stupidity. sorry.” 

“that’s harsh.”

“truth hurts.”

he shakes his head, smiling to himself before his gaze drifts back to you. and lingers. not in a heavy way. not intense enough to make you look away immediately. just… there. warm. comfortable. 

your fingers fidget against the edge of your phone. “what?” you mumble. 

“nothing,” he says lightly. 

you squint. “liar.” 

he grins again, smaller this time. “maybe i just like being in here more than downstairs.” your heart does something deeply unhelpful. 

before you can think of a response, martin’s voice suddenly echoes from the hallway.

“juhoon?” 

both of you freeze. juhoon looks toward the door immediately while you nearly drop your phone. footsteps pass by, then fade again toward the kitchen. 

the silence afterward feels louder somehow. 

you slowly look back at juhoon. “see? this is exactly why you should leave.” 

he huffs out a quiet laugh, pushing himself up from the bed, tousled hair falling over his eyes. “yeah, yeah.”

but before he leaves completely, he pauses. glances back at you once. “you know,” he says casually, “you’re really easy to fluster.” 

you grab the pillow beside you threateningly. “go away!” 

the sound of his soft laughter follows him down the hallway long after he's gone.

©young2keu, 2026

🥥 is typing...

didn't know where to take this.... i want to rewrite blanket pile now... @enha4cortis i hope it doesnt suck too much...

[chamuznie]

සියොන්ග්යොන් x කාන්තා පාඨකයින් - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (Wattpad හි) https://www.wattpad.com/1630575543-seonghyeon-x-female-readers-%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%A1%F0%9D%90%9E-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%AD%F0%9D%90%9A%F0%9D%90%AB%F0%9D%90%AD-%F0%9D%90%A8%F0%9D%9D%9 0%9F-%F0%9D%90%87%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%AB-%F0%9D%90%83%F0%9D%90%AB%F0%9D%90%9E%F0%9D%90%9A%F0%9D%9D%90%A6?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=chamucznie "ඇය... හැම විටම මේ තරම් ලස්සනද? නැත්නම් මම ඇයව කලින් දකින්න බැරි තරම් අන්ධද?" - සියොන්ග්යොන් සියොන්ග්යොන් x කාන්තා පාඨකයාගේ කතාව මෙන්න - රහසිගතව විවාහ ගිවිසගෙන, ඔවුන්ගේ පවුල් අතර ගිවිසුමකින් බැඳී ඇත. ඔහු ඇයගෙන් එය රහසක් ලෙස තබා ගන්නා ලෙස ඉල්ලා සිටියි, නමුත් ඔවුන් පාසල් ජීවිතය එකට ගමන් කරන විට, ඔවුන්ගේ ව්‍යාජ දුර සැබෑ හැඟීම් බවට පත්වේවිද?