: ̗̀➛ pairing — volleyball player!hyunjin x reader, university au
: ̗̀➛ word count — 19k
: ̗̀➛ content — angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, MDNI due to very mature themes (smut warnings below the cut), underaged blogs will be blocked, mentions of an injury, grief over identity loss, lots of crying and kisses, they're in love your honour
you’re dating the university’s best right-side hitter—hyunjin, best of the court, all instinct and fire. volleyball is everything to him. has been since before you met. but when an injury cuts his season short, hyunjin’s forced to face something he’s never had to before: a future without the one thing that’s always defined him. now, with his knee and his heart barely holding together, he has to figure out who he is off the court—and what it means to still be worthy of love, purpose, and you.
author's note: i had way too many of these long fics collecting dust in my drafts so i figured… might as well post this one! volleyball is everything to me so this one’s super self indulgent and written straight from the heart 💔🏐 i hope you enjoy it <3
: ̗̀➛ smut warnings: two sex scenes, oral (m. receiving), cw! safeword (used, respected but late; very very mild nonconsensual elements, not glamorized), piv, protected sex, dirty talk
volleyball was everything to hyunjin.
not just a sport. not just a hobby. it was the pulse in his fingertips, the reason he got up in the morning, the way he measured time—not in months, but in seasons. you met him at one of those tournaments, back in high school, when your team had already been knocked out and your friend dragged you to the other gym to “watch the boys play.”
you’d rolled your eyes. “what, like for fun?”
but then you saw him.
and suddenly, it was fun.
you’d never seen a guy move like that before. there was something different in the way he played—like every step was instinct, like he knew where the ball was going to be before it even left the setter’s hands. he played right side, but there was nothing “side” about the way he commanded attention. his hits were vicious. his blocks were surgical. and when he smiled—after a perfect kill that sent the crowd erupting—you felt it all the way in your ribs.
you’d played too, but never like that. never with that fire. you had enjoyed the sport. he loved it.
somehow, he noticed you that day.
maybe it was because you were still in your jersey. maybe because your friend was not-so-subtly pointing at you while whispering. maybe—he’d later tease—it was because you didn’t look impressed, and that irritated him just enough to want to change your mind.
from there, things moved fast—faster than either of you expected. a few exchanged dms turned into late-night facetime calls, which turned into weekend meetups halfway between your schools. it didn’t take long for hyunjin to ask you out officially, nervously gripping the edge of his gym bag like it might shield him from rejection. you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence.
after graduation, the decision was easy. he got a scholarship for volleyball—a full ride, no surprise—and you got accepted into the same university for a program that made your high school guidance counselor say, “you sure about this?” you were. you always had been. smart, focused, maybe a little stubborn—your idea of a challenge was enrolling in the hardest courses they offered, just to see if you could survive.
so there you were. two years into university. him, chasing championships. you, chasing equations, reports, exams you barely had time to breathe through. but somehow, it worked. you studied while he practiced. he came to your presentations in a hoodie and brought you bubble tea after midterms. you helped him stretch when he was sore. he held you when you broke down from stress.
you both had it all sorted out.
the alarm blared at 7:00 am, dragging you out of a dream you barely remembered. you groaned, buried under a mess of tangled blankets and limbs. hyunjin mumbled something incoherent beside you and flopped onto his stomach, arm stretching across your waist, pulling you closer without even opening his eyes.
you lay there a second longer, eyes still shut, nose tucked against the side of his neck. he smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and something warmer underneath—something you’d learned to associate with safety.
“i have weights in forty minutes,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
“and i have a chem lecture in thirty,” you mumbled back.
“skip.”
“you skip.”
a pause.
he peeked one eye open. “can’t. game tonight.”
that made you smile. because even now, even half-asleep, his entire face changed at the mention of it. his mouth curved up automatically. his eyes lit up, even through the haze of grogginess.
tonight’s game was big.
hyunjin had been talking about it all week—hell, for the past month. their rivals from the west coast were flying in. undefeated so far, just like his team. he’d been studying footage of their right side like he was prepping for an exam.
“it’s gonna be a bloodbath,” he’d said last night, lying back on the dorm floor, tossing a stress ball in the air while you highlighted your textbook. “in a good way.”
“is there a good way for a bloodbath?” you’d asked without looking up.
“for the winners, yeah.”
he was so ready. sharpest he’d ever been. his vertical had improved, his timing was better, and he’d finally stopped complaining about the weird new brace he had to wear on his ankle. every time you saw him walk out onto the court, you swore he looked taller. like something about it gave him a new center of gravity.
and now? now the alarm was screaming, and still—neither of you moved.
“five more minutes,” you muttered, curling into him.
hyunjin groaned into your hair. “ten.”
“we’re going to be late.”
he exhaled heavily, like the weight of responsibility was something he could blow off with enough dramatic flair. but he didn’t let go. his leg was tangled with yours. his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, just resting there, warm against your skin.
“i can never get up when you sleep over,” you murmured, voice still scratchy with sleep.
your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair—soft and messy from the pillow, a little damp at the nape from how warm it had gotten under the covers. he sighed, melting a little under your touch, his whole body relaxing like you’d pressed a switch.
hyunjin shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck as he spoke, voice muffled and boyishly whiny. “well your bed’s comfier than mine.”
you smiled, still playing with his hair. “it’s the same mattress, genius. university-issued.”
“yeah, but yours also smells like vanilla and detergent.” he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle under your chin. “mine smells—not like this.”
you groaned, the alarm still blaring beside you like an obnoxious countdown to responsibility.
“okay, that’s it,” you muttered, reaching out with one arm and slapping the snooze button harder than necessary. silence, blessed and brief, fell over the room.
then you turned back to hyunjin and gave him a shove. “up. seriously. we’re gonna be late.”
he grunted dramatically, refusing to budge. “just a few more—”
“no,” you said, already halfway untangling yourself from the sheets. “we're not doing this again, hwang hyunjin.”
but before you could escape, he hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you back in with one quick tug, your back flush to his chest.
“hyun—!”
he was already on the attack, pressing quick, fluttery kisses against your cheek. “you’re so mean to me in the mornings,” he whined between kisses.
you squealed, squirming as his lips trailed toward your jaw, tickling your skin with every dramatic pout he planted there. “hyune—stop, i’m gonna be late—!”
“you say that every time,” he said, voice smug now, lips brushing just under your ear. “and you’re always exactly on time.”
you were laughing now, full and unfiltered, even as you tried to wriggle free. “that’s because i sprint across campus!”
“good cardio,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth like punctuation. “you’re welcome.”
you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, grinning as you pushed at his chest.
“dick,” you whispered under your breath, eyes narrowed but your mouth twitching with a smile.
his jaw dropped. “me?”
you shook your head, biting back another laugh as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching with a small groan before grabbing the t-shirt draped over your desk chair. you tugged it down over your sleep shorts and ran a hand through your hair, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.
“i swear,” you muttered, turning toward the door, “when i come back, you better be gone.”
hyunjin was already spreading himself out dramatically across your bed, arms tucked behind his head, hair fanned out against your pillow like he lived there. he rolled his eyes with the laziest grin.
“yeah, yeah. kick me out of my own second home, why don’t you.”
you chuckled, shaking your head as you opened the door. “i’ll see you tonight.”
“six p.m.,” he said immediately, eyes flicking toward you like he’d already counted the hours in his head. “stadium.”
you nodded, one hand still on the knob. “wouldn’t miss it.”
a pause, just long enough to make the next part soft.
“love you,” you said.
hyunjin didn’t even hesitate. “love you too.”
you smiled, small and real, before pulling the door shut behind you.
the hallway was already buzzing—dorm doors cracking open, slippers shuffling against linoleum, the distant hiss of a kettle in someone’s shared kitchen. you padded down toward the shared bathroom, toothbrush in hand, weaving past two girls arguing over whose towel was dripping onto the floor.
the mirror was still a little foggy from someone’s shower, but you wiped a stripe clear with your palm and leaned in.
you knew today would be a good day.
it always was when it started with him.
the sky had started to dip into that golden haze that only showed up right before sunset, warm and honey-colored, stretching long shadows across campus as you and your friends made your way toward the stadium.
you were ready, as always.
university tee half-tucked into your jeans, a hoodie tied around your waist just in case it got cold later, and two neat stripes of your school’s colors painted on your cheeks. your friends had done them for you in the dorm bathroom twenty minutes ago, giggling the whole time and arguing over whether the stripes should be angled or horizontal.
they settled on angled—“for spice,” someone said.
now, the group of you walked in a loose formation down the path that led toward the stadium, sneakers scuffing pavement, laughter bouncing off the brick walls of nearby buildings.
hyunjin had texted you an hour ago: you better be loud.
you chuckled to yourself, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your friends kept chatting, loud in that way they always were before a big game.
“i can’t believe the season’s only just started and we’re already undefeated,” one of them said, adjusting her hair in a compact mirror before snapping it shut. “like, they’re actually insane this year.”
“did you see the last match? they crushed them. that one guy on the other team literally fell over trying to block hyunjin.”
you bit back a smile. “he just… misjudged the angle.”
“mmhmm,” another friend teased, bumping her shoulder against yours. “downplaying your man like he doesn’t hit like a cannon.”
you rolled your eyes, cheeks warming just a bit under the paint. “i’m just saying. he doesn’t try to humiliate people.”
“sure, but he still does,” someone laughed. “he’s too good. honestly, the whole team is stacked this year. if they keep this up, they’re gonna make playoffs easy.”
“maybe,” another added cautiously, “but tonight’s gonna be rough. the other team’s no joke.”
you glanced over as she pulled up a screenshot from their athletics page, stats already loaded. “their outside hits like a monster, and their libero—what’s his name again?”
“bang chan.”
everyone groaned in unison.
“that guy’s insane,” someone muttered. “like, literally everywhere at once. how does someone cover that much court?”
“i know,” your friend said, squinting at the screen. “his defense is gonna be annoying as hell. they’re never letting the ball drop.”
“but hyunjin’s a smart hitter,” one of your friends chimed in, shifting her tote bag higher up her shoulder.
“he’s been studying chan for weeks,” you said, a little proud, a little breathless just thinking about it. “like, frame-by-frame footage. movement patterns, positioning, even how he transitions between zones.”
“god,” someone groaned, “that sounds exhausting.”
you shrugged. “not to him. he actually gets excited about it.”
“of course he does,” another one laughed. “i swear hyunjin would analyze a toddler’s footwork if it helped him.”
“we shouldn’t even be worried,” one of them said, pushing open the stadium door as the music grew louder, brighter. “this is our court. we got this.”
you stepped into the arena, and the atmosphere hit you all at once—bright lights, echoing shoes squeaking across the court, the rhythmic thud of volleyballs being peppered back and forth. the crowd was already buzzing, rows of students and alumni piling in, decked out in school colors and face paint, waving foam fingers and handmade signs.
your eyes found him almost instantly.
he was across the court in his warmup jersey, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back loosely. he looked focused but relaxed, like his entire body was vibrating with anticipation. his approach was clean even during warm-ups, like he didn’t know how to give less than everything. you watched him leap—effortless, practiced, beautiful—and send the ball flying just inside the corner line.
you smiled, already feeling your chest tighten.
“seats there!” one of your friends pointed, already heading toward a row just off center court, a perfect view of hyunjin’s side.
you all squeezed in, tossing bags under the bench and adjusting your hoodies as you settled.
hyunjin was locked in.
even from the stands, you could see it—that razor-sharp concentration that settled over him like armor. he moved with precision, muscles coiled and ready, every jump timed to the millisecond, every swing calculated. he jogged to the sideline to grab a water bottle, tilting his head back for a quick sip. his coach leaned in, already pointing toward a clipboard, going over rotation tweaks. hyunjin nodded, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the notes and the court.
then, just for a second—his gaze lifted.
he scanned the crowd like he was looking for something he already knew would be there.
and when he found you, his lips curved, small but unmistakable. the kind of smile meant for one person only. quick, careful, just enough to say hi.
your heart did a little flip.
you raised your hand in a tiny wave, fingers wiggling, trying not to grin too hard.
he held your gaze for just a beat longer, then dropped his eyes back to the clipboard, nodding again as his coach spoke.
“gag, you two are so gross.” your friend beside you muttered.
you rolled your eyes, leaning on her dramatically. “shut up.”
the other team began filing in from the opposite tunnel.
their uniforms were sleek, crisp white and navy. they looked good—annoyingly good. confident. sharp. a few of them glanced toward your team’s side of the court as if sizing them up before the first whistle.
your heart was racing.
it wasn’t nerves—not exactly. more like adrenaline, like your body already knew something big was coming and was bracing for it. you crossed your arms loosely over your chest, trying to play it cool, but your knee bounced under your seat.
on the court, the other team began their warm-up routine.
clean, practiced, ruthless.
their libero—bang chan—moved like he was born there, gliding from one end of the court to the other, dropping into receive like it cost him nothing. the way he read every toss, every angle, every fake-out—it was unreal. you watched him dive for a pancake save that should’ve been impossible, only to bounce back up like it hadn’t even winded him.
their outside’s swing was vicious. quick wrist, sharp cross. every hit landed with a smack loud enough to echo through the gym.
your friends went quiet. no more teasing.
“okay… they’re kind of terrifying,” someone finally whispered.
you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. not with how your chest had gone tight.
across the court, your team was finishing their own lines of warm-ups—hyunjin among them, focused, shoulders rolled back with that quiet confidence he always carried on game days. but even so, you could see it in the way his brows furrowed for just a second after the opposing outside hit another brutal cross.
he saw it too.
the competition was real.
ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. the music cut.
a few quick announcements echoed through the gym—rosters, school chants, the referee’s name, the starting rotations—but it all blurred in the noise, the kind that made your chest vibrate from the inside out.
then the whistle blew for real.
first serve: one of your team’s middles. he bounced the ball twice, exhaled, and sent it clean over the net.
the other team received it smoothly, the pass was perfect. set. attack. your team scrambled into defense. a diving dig from the back row saved it just in time.
quick set on your side. middle hits—blocked, but avoids it.
the rally built fast, back and forth, clean hits and sharper recoveries. you were already on the edge of your seat, watching the ball blur between teams like it had a mind of its own.
and then—finally.
another pass. another set. this one floated just high enough, just fast enough.
hyunjin’s.
he was already moving, feet thudding against the court in three quick steps, arms swinging back. you knew that approach—the precise angles of it, the sheer snap in his body as he launched into the air.
once he hit it, the ball shot across the net, slicing through space and aiming dead for the back corner, right where he mastered it.
“mine!” someone from the other team yelled—too late.
the ball hit the floor with a smack so loud it echoed in tangible vibrations.
the stadium exploded.
cheers erupted around you—students jumping to their feet, fists thrown into the air, stomping and shouting. the first point was yours.
you and your friends jumped up instantly, yelling over the chaos.
“let’s go!” one of them screamed, cupping her hands around her mouth..
you clapped hard, heart pounding, adrenaline syncing with the rhythm of the chants echoing through the stadium.
then the next serve from your team came—and the other team answered.
quick pass, faster tempo. a sharp hit split the seam between your blockers. the ball slammed into the floor with just as much force, just as much precision.
point: theirs.
a collective groan rippled through your side of the gym, but no one sat down.
and your team didn’t back down.
the pace picked up fast, every point earned with blood and sweat. it was a tug-of-war. one point for you, one point for them. hyunjin hit clean again. bang chan dug it up like it was nothing. then another rally—your setter faked to the middle, backset to hyunjin again, and he threaded the ball through hands that never even touched it.
then they answered with a kill off the block.
it was a beautiful game.
terrifying game.
every serve, every swing, every dive left you holding your breath. you could feel the pressure mounting with every passing minute, the margin for error shrinking. both teams were reading each other too well.
before you knew it…
your server missed. an ace from the other side. another tight roll shot that just barely dropped over the net. and all of the sudden—
they were pulling ahead. by four. and not fluke points—smart ones. high digs. strategic hits. they were pulling ahead with control, and you could see the frustration start to creep into your team’s side like a slow leak. a few mistimed passes. a block that wasn’t there fast enough. a shake of someone’s head. it was all piling.
your friends tried to keep the energy up—clapping, chanting, yelling encouragement—but you could feel it. the shift.
and suddenly to you, it wasn’t just about the game anymore.
it wasn’t about the scoreboard or the rally count.
it was about him.
when hyunjin played well—really well—it was electric. he’d leave the court flushed and buzzing, body thrumming with victory, adrenaline humming through every cell. he’d throw his arms around you in the hallway after and talk a mile a minute about everything—the timing, the blocks, the play he almost fumbled but didn’t. he’d be unstoppable.
and sometimes—more than once—those were the nights you’d end up in his dorm room, down on your knees before he even got his jersey off, just because you were both so high on the win it didn’t make sense to stop. you loved seeing him like that. weightless.
when he lost, you also knew him. sometimes, sure, he’d shake it off. crack jokes in the locker room, say stuff like we’ll get them next time, tug you close and act like nothing had ever gone wrong.
but other times…other times it hit him like a brick wall. you’d seen it. after certain games, he’d shut down completely. he wouldn’t want to talk. wouldn’t want to eat. wouldn’t even want to be touched—not even by you. and not out of anger, but out of guilt. out of this impossible pressure he carried like it was stitched into his skin.
tonight felt like one of those times. you could already feel it closing in around you.
he was playing well. that was the worst part. he was moving sharp, hitting smart, putting everything he had into every point—but it wasn’t enough. not yet. and you knew exactly how much harder that would be for him to swallow.
the whistle blew, cutting you from your thoughts. timeout—your side.
your team gathered near the bench, forming a loose huddle around the coach, towels slung over shoulders, water bottles passed down the line. from the stands, it was hard to hear what was being said, but you could see it all in their faces—tight jaws, shallow breathing, sweat glistening down temples.
hyunjin was the last to step into the circle.
he ran a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose as if he couldn’t stand it anymore. it flopped down messily over his forehead, but he didn’t bother fixing it. he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, listening, nodding occasionally.
the coach was gesturing rapidly now, drawing imaginary lines in the air, shifting pieces they couldn’t afford to lose. you could practically hear the urgency just from the way he moved—faster than usual, clipped and sharp.
one of the middles clapped his hands, trying to hype the group up. another player tapped his chest twice, mouthing something. the timeout ended with one last sharp clap from the coach, and just like that—they were moving again.
your team filed back onto the court, more focused now, like something had shifted in those sixty seconds. you leaned forward in your seat, hands curled tightly in your lap as your friends whispered around you.
“what do you think they’re trying?”
“i don’t know—but they’ve switched completely.”
and they were.
it wasn’t obvious at first, but then you saw it—hyunjin wasn’t starting from his usual position. the setter had shifted too. your middle blocker was crouched lower than usual, almost like he was prepping for a sprint, not a block.
and then the whistle blew.
the serve flew over—clean, controlled.
your team received it smoothly, but instead of setting to the outside or middle, the setter jump set backwards across the court—a full-speed, cross-body set with almost no telegraphing.
it landed perfectly in hyunjin’s zone.
he wasn’t even fully visible to the blockers until the last second—disguised behind the rotation shift. he came flying in from the back row, not where they expected him, soaring with his body stretched out like a missile.
the crowd gasped before the ball even touched his hands.
you sat up straighter, brows furrowed. “wait—what are they—?”
hyunjin launched from the back row like it was second nature, legs slicing through the air, body twisting mid-air to angle the hit just right. and then—
crack.
he didn’t go cross. he didn’t go down the line.
he hit straight into the softest, most empty pocket on the entire court—dead center, back row, right behind their setter. not even bang chan could cover it.
the ball smacked the floor.
perfect. no touch. clean.
you didn’t even have to wait for the whistle.
point. yours.
you were on your feet in an instant, mouth wide open, cheering at the top of your lungs, barely hearing yourself over the roar around you. your friends were jumping, grabbing each other, laughing in total disbelief.
“holy shit!” someone yelled beside you. “that was insane!”
but just as quickly as it started—the noise stopped.
like someone hit mute.
a chill crawled up your spine.
you turned back to the court—confused, heart already thudding for a different reason—and your eyes locked on the place where hyunjin should’ve been standing.
he wasn’t.
he was on the floor.
no.
he was clutching his knee. his fingers were digging into it, and his face was twisted in something you’d never seen on him before.
not pain from a cramp or a bruise.
something deeper. sharper.
you felt the blood drain from your face.
his teammates were already moving—rushing to him from every side, their celebration cut off mid-cheer like someone had yanked the breath out of the room.
the setter dropped to his knees beside him. the middle crouched low, hands hovering like he didn’t know what to touch.
and hyunjin wasn’t getting up.
you couldn’t even hear the crowd anymore.
just the dull ringing in your ears and your heartbeat thudding somewhere too high in your chest.
“no,” one of your friends whispered beside you, voice tight. “no, no, no…”
you couldn’t move.
you were frozen in place, staring at him through the blinding white of the stadium lights, through the sea of players gathering like a wall between him and the rest of the world. you could barely see his face anymore—but you remembered the way it looked.
like he knew.
like in that one second—he knew something was wrong. something bad. something he couldn’t walk off.
suddenly, the crowd shifted, murmurs rising like smoke. they were carrying him.
two staff members on either side, arms looped under his shoulders, another holding his leg steady as they carefully lifted him off the court. hyunjin’s face was buried in the crook of his elbow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension from where you sat.
you stood halfway out of instinct, trying to follow him with your eyes, but the mass of movement on the court swallowed him up. the trainers led him to the far corner near the benches, behind a curtain.
and just like that, he was gone from view.
your stomach dropped.
on the court, your coach looked stunned—frozen for a second too long, his clipboard limp in his hands. he blinked hard, almost like shaking himself out of a daze, and then turned, his voice barely carrying over the now-muted stadium.
a sub scrambled to his feet, face pale as he stripped off his warm-up jersey and jogged toward the line. no one looked ready. no one was ready. the rotation was lopsided now. the rhythm shattered.
they had to play without him.
your team returned to their positions like ghosts, stiff and quiet, eyes flicking toward the sideline every few seconds.
you didn’t even realize you were walking until your feet hit the concrete stairs of the bleachers.
one step. then another.
the sound of the game behind you dulled into nothing. cheers, squeaks of sneakers, whistles—it all faded into a low hum, like your ears were full of cotton. you pushed past people in the aisle without meeting their eyes, murmuring apologies you didn’t really mean.
you couldn’t stay in there.
not with the scoreboard still ticking. not with them still playing like everything was normal.
you slipped out the side exit of the stadium, the heavy doors swinging shut behind you with a thud that echoed down the hallway.
the air out here was colder. sterile. the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you moved past storage closets and empty water coolers, the polished floors squeaking under your shoes. no signs. no directions. just your gut pulling you forward.
you passed the locker rooms. the hallway turned narrower, less familiar, walls a little grimier, like you weren’t meant to be here without a staff badge. but you kept going. past laundry carts and low murmurs behind closed doors.
and then—around a final corner—you saw it.
the door leading to the first-aid clinic. you moved closer, careful, heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs.
you reached for the handle.
it didn’t budge.
locked.
from inside, you could hear muffled voices—the medic speaking low and even, someone voice barely audible in return. you leaned in instinctively, trying to catch a word, a phrase, anything that would make this feel less terrifying.
but you couldn’t make anything out.
your fingers stayed wrapped around the doorknob for a second longer, trembling slightly, and then finally dropped to your side.
you backed up a step. then another.
your back hit the cold concrete wall behind you, and you slid down slowly, knees folding until you were crouched there in the hallway like you’d forgotten how to stand.
you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes.
everything felt warped, like the fluorescent lights above you were humming louder than they should, like the cold of the floor had sunk all the way into your bones.
you didn’t hear the door open. you only saw it move.
a creak. a shift. then a sliver of light spilled into the hallway.
someone—one of the medics, probably a student trainer—poked his head out. young. clipboard in hand. his brows knit as he glanced down and saw you there, curled up in your hoodie and university tee, the stripes of face paint still smudged across your cheeks.
you blinked up at him, dry-mouthed.
“hi,” you said.
it came out too soft. like a question you weren’t sure how to ask.
he stared for a second, taking in your whole mess of a posture and game-day colors, your trembling hands and your knees drawn up to your chest. his eyes flicked to the crest on your shirt, the one that matched the jersey hyunjin had been wearing.
“were you trying to open the door?” he cleared his throat. “can i help you?”
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. you looked down at yourself—still dressed like you were going to war for school spirit, like this was just a fun night out.
you felt ridiculous.
you looked up at him, throat tight. “is hwang hyunjin in there?”
the man nodded slowly, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “yeah. he is.”
something in you relaxed at the confirmation, just for a second—but it didn’t last.
the guy looked over his shoulder, then back at you, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, i get it. i do. but you shouldn’t be here.”
your stomach twisted.
you nodded, more out of instinct than agreement. “i know,” you whispered.
“it's nothing personal. he's just not in great shape right now,” he said, more gently this time. “they’re still figuring out the damage. trying to keep things quiet. we don’t want anyone back here yet.”
you nodded again, this time more shakily, pressing your fingers into the hem of your sleeve just to feel something solid. the man lingered for a moment, still halfway in the doorway, like he didn’t want to be the one to push you away completely.
then, after a beat, he sighed. “but i can check.”
your head snapped up.
“really?” you breathed, eyes wide.
he hesitated—then gave you a look that said don’t make me regret this before slipping back inside and gently shutting the door behind him.
you stayed frozen in place, heart in your throat, chest rising and falling way too fast. you stared at the door like you could see through it, like if you just focused hard enough, it would let you in.
seconds passed. maybe a minute. it felt like an hour.
then the door creaked open again.
the man leaned out and gave a slight tilt of his head. “come in,” he said quietly.
you didn’t even hesitate.
you scrambled to your feet, legs still shaky, and followed him inside.
the room was colder than you expected. colder and too bright.
it smelled like antiseptic and old sweat and something metallic, like the sharp edge of panic that hadn’t quite left the air. you stepped inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the stark contrast between this place and the roaring stadium just minutes ago. the walls were a dull gray, the floor scuffed with years of cleats and court shoes. it didn’t feel like a place where someone like hyunjin should be.
he sat on the padded table, jersey still on. his left knee was wrapped, elevated on a foam wedge. his face was pale, damp with sweat, lips parted like he’d been breathing through pain for too long.
the doctor stood beside him, glancing at a clipboard. “alright, hang tight,” she said gently. “we’ll be back in a few with imaging details, okay?”
hyunjin nodded slowly, not quite meeting her eyes.
then she turned to leave, pausing only to give the trainer a quiet nod. they both slipped past you, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.
you stood there.
for a second, hyunjin didn’t move.
then his head turned toward you, slow and heavy like it took effort just to look.
his eyes found yours—and they weren’t the ones you knew.
this was something else entirely. empty. distant. like he was still falling, even now.
he didn’t say anything.
his jaw was tight. his hands rested stiffly at his sides, like he didn’t trust them to hold anything—not even his own weight. his shoulders were tense, his posture too upright, like the pain was the only thing anchoring him.
you took a few slow steps forward, hesitant like you were approaching a stranger.
“hyune,” you said softly.
nothing.
just the faintest twitch of his fingers.
you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the way his lip wobbled for a half-second before he caught it. he blinked—once, then again—and looked away, back down to his knee like if he stared at it hard enough, it might undo whatever had just happened.
you took another cautious step toward him, watching him crumble in slow motion.
your voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath. “one to ten?”
it was a thing you always did—after tough practices, late-night cramps, bruises from blocked spikes. you’d ask it with a smile, even when he was clearly hurting, and he’d roll his eyes and say two or four, just to seem tough. sometimes he’d lie and say ten, just to make you laugh.
but this time, he didn’t answer right away.
he let out a sharp breath through his nose, almost like a laugh—but there was nothing funny in it. his hands finally clenched into fists at his sides.
then he looked at you, and something behind his eyes snapped.
“it doesn’t matter.”
his voice was flat. cold. shaky with everything he was trying not to feel.
you froze.
“i’ve seen this,” he said, more to himself now. “i’ve seen guys go down just like this. same way. and just like that—” he snapped his fingers harshly. “they’re done.”
you shook your head instinctively. “no, hyun—”
“it’s over,” he said, cutting you off, voice cracking around the edges. “do you get that? and i felt it the second i landed.”
he paused, shoulders rising like he was trying to hold himself together with just breath. you stepped closer, barely breathing, your hands aching to reach for him—but still unsure if he’d even let you.
“i know,” you said gently. “i know it feels like that right now. like everything’s ending. but it’s not—hyunjin, it’s not over.”
“no,” he said sharply, voice rising, fraying. “y/n, don’t—don’t say that.”
your heart splintered.
his hands trembled on the edge of the table, clutching the vinyl padding like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“you don’t get it,” he said, turning his face away from you, eyes glistening. “you’re brilliant. you’ve always known what you’re doing. everyone on my team does too,” he kept going, his voice shaking harder now, barely holding together. “they’ve got degrees lined up. internships. backup plans.”
his chest rose and fell faster, his breath uneven. he finally looked at you, and the heartbreak in his face knocked the wind from your lungs.
“i don’t,” he said, quietly, helplessly. “i don’t have anything else.”
his chin trembled. and then—just like that—he broke.
tears welled in his eyes too fast to stop, slipping down his cheeks before he could even wipe them away. he tried—he really tried—to hold it in. but it was no use.
“this sport is all i have,” he whispered again, voice barely there, shattered between sobs.
you didn’t say anything.
you couldn’t. there was no fixing this with words. no comforting lie that would make him believe it wasn’t happening. so instead, you stepped closer, so gently, and reached a hand toward him.
fingers threading through his hair—slow, steady, soft.
he flinched at first, like touch would be too much, but the second your hand settled there, something in him caved. his shoulders dropped. his head tilted forward into your palm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
your other hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him forward.
he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently into your stomach, his whole body folding inward. you wrapped your arms around him, holding his head like something precious—like you were trying to shield him from the weight of what was happening.
and for the first time since the fall, he let himself be held.
it had been a few days. to no one’s surprise, the other team took the win home.
the official word came down two mornings after the game: full acl tear, grade three. complete rupture. months of rehab. no return this season. no guarantees beyond that.
you’d been there when they told him. sat beside him in the tiny office with the blinds drawn, the doctor’s voice steady and clinical as she read off the report. hyunjin hadn’t said a word the entire time. just stared down at his hands, jaw locked, expression unreadable in that terrifying way it gets when he's not okay but refuses to show it.
since then, everything had been... quieter.
the news spread fast, of course. the university’s athletic account posted an official update—“wishing a full recovery.” his teammates rallied around him publicly, reposted the announcement with hearts and strength emojis. but under all that noise, in the places that mattered, it was like someone had pressed pause on hyunjin’s whole world.
and your friends never asked either.
not really.
they gave you the space to bring it up first, which you hadn’t. a few of them texted to say they were sorry, or that they’d heard and were thinking of you both. but no one asked how he was holding up. no one pushed.
you appreciated it more than you could say.
because honestly, you didn’t even know what to tell them.
he’d texted earlier this morning to let you know he was in his dorm room when you asked him where he was.
he hadn’t wanted to talk volleyball. at all. the day after the diagnosis, he shoved his gear into a box and pushed it into the back of his closet. he didn’t even watch the next game.
so he tried something else.
a distraction. something that didn’t involve courts or rosters. something that felt like anything but the thing he loved most.
you found him in the corner of his dorm room, tucked beside his desk where the late afternoon light streamed in from the window. his crutches leaned against the wall beside him, forgotten for the moment. he was sitting on a low stool, hunched over a sketchpad with a charcoal pencil in hand, his left leg extended stiffly in front of him in its brace.
you paused in the doorway for a second, just watching.
there was smudge on his cheek. a little streak of black where he must’ve rubbed his face without realizing. his hair was pulled back in a messy bun. there were shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he ever said it out loud.
he lifted his head when he heard your footsteps.
you softened instantly. “hi, hyunjin.”
he gave you a small smile—barely there, but real. “hey.”
you made your way over, sliding onto the empty stool next to him, careful not to bump his leg. up close, you could see more of the charcoal dust on his fingers, the soft curve of concentration still lingering in his brows.
“whatcha working on?” you asked gently, nodding toward the sketchpad in his lap.
he looked down at it, then tilted it slightly so you could see.
it was a portrait—stunning, honestly. still unfinished, but already detailed enough to recognize the profile, the emotion, the shadow work. you blinked at it, impressed.
“is that…?” you started.
“one of my favorite movies,” he said, lips twitching up just a little. “it’s the scene i always liked.”
“it’s really good,” you said honestly. “like… really good.”
he gave a little shrug, wiping his thumb along the side of the paper to soften a line. “i still remember a bit from when i used to do art. a few years ago. took a class once. my teacher said i had a gift.” then he smiled again, sheepish this time, “and i ignored her and spent all my time elsewhere.”
you knew what elsewhere meant.
volleyball. always volleyball.
but you didn’t push.
instead, you just nodded softly, watching the way he blended the shadow near the jawline with a precision that felt both practiced and instinctive.
“how’s your knee?” you asked after a quiet moment.
without looking up, he murmured, “honestly? it hurts pretty bad.”
your chest tightened.
he shifted a little on the stool, trying to get more comfortable, but winced when his brace caught against the edge of the table leg. “the meds help a little, but the brace is stiff as hell. and i keep waking up at night.”
he rubbed his palm over his knee gently, not like it helped, more like it was habit. a quiet frustration simmered beneath his words—one you’d come to recognize too well. the kind that wasn’t about pain alone.
you reached over and brushed some charcoal dust from his wrist.
“i'm sorry,” you said, softly.
he looked at you, then—not just glanced, but really looked. eyes a little red, a little tired.
but grateful.
you let your fingers linger just a moment longer against his wrist, feeling the faint tremble in it even as he tried to keep his hand steady over the page.
“when’s surgery, again?” you asked gently.
he looked down at his knee again, then exhaled slowly through his nose. “this weekend.”
you nodded, the word settling heavy in your chest even though you’d known it was coming.
“saturday morning,” he added. “they want me there by seven. it’s at the ortho clinic just off campus.”
“are you nervous?” you asked.
he didn’t answer right away.
then, with a voice so quiet it barely made it to your ears, he said, “yeah.”
you nodded gently, already a step ahead of him.
“i’ll borrow my friend’s car,” you said. “to come get you that morning.”
hyunjin looked up, surprised.
“i talked to her about it already,” you added with a soft smile. “it’s all set. i’ll drop you off and take you home after. whatever you need.”
his eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders melting just slightly. “thank you, really.”
you didn’t look away.
“of course,” you whispered.
there was a pause, a quiet beat that hung between you like a thread.
his eyes flickered to your mouth—slowly, deliberately.
and before you could even catch your breath, he leaned in.
the kiss wasn’t rushed. it was careful, like he was trying not to break something fragile—like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly become unsteady.
his lips lingered on yours for a breath longer, then another—like he didn’t want to let go. when he finally pulled back, it was just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, breath brushing softly against your skin.
he didn’t say it. just stayed there, breathing quietly, forehead against yours.
trying not to think about how it used to feel to have you underneath him. or how badly he missed it.
because this wasn’t how it used to be.
whenever you two made out, i would get…physical. you used to kiss like you couldn’t get enough. tangled limbs, rushed hands, mouths colliding again and again between laughs and gasps. he used to grab you by the waist and lift you right into his lap, pin you to the bed. you’d end up flushed and breathless, clothes half-off, his hands under your shirt, yours in his hair.
but now…
now there was no way he could move like that. couldn’t let things get wild or fast or messy. his knee wouldn’t let him. the brace made everything stiff, every shift a risk. he couldn’t even kiss you too hard without pain flaring through his leg.
his breath hitched.
still close, still barely touching, but something in him had started to tremble. not from pain—at least not just pain. his skin had gone hot. your mouth had been so soft against his. your fingers, gentle on his wrist. the warmth of your breath, the kindness in your voice—it stirred something in him that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with need.
real, aching, quiet need.
and you hadn’t noticed yet. you pulled back just slightly, blinking at the way his face had tensed, how a sheen of sweat had started to rise along his brow.
“hyunjin?” you asked softly, brows drawing together. “are you okay?”
he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes for a second, jaw tightening as he breathed out slow through his nose, like maybe he could will the heat in his body to disappear.
you leaned in, frowning, thumb brushing a bead of sweat off his cheekbone. “what’s wrong?” you whispered, more worried now. “what do you need?”
you started to move—maybe to grab water, maybe just to give him space—but his hand shot out and caught your wrist before you could stand. not rough, but firm. stronger than he’d touched you all week. his eyes met yours then, wide, dark, burning in a way you hadn’t seen since before the injury.
“you,” he breathed.
you blinked, breath caught somewhere in your throat. “what?” you asked, voice small, barely more than a puff of air.
hyunjin didn’t answer right away.
instead, his gaze held yours and then he guided your hand down, slow, deliberate, until your palm met the heat between his legs. his fingers curled lightly around your wrist, pressing, just enough for you to feel it.
hard.
you froze.
he was already so hard it pulsed beneath your touch, straining against the soft fabric of his shorts, hot through the cotton. your lips parted in a quiet, startled breath—eyes flicking up to meet his again, searching, questioning, caught between confusion and something much heavier.
he swallowed.
and then he was looking at you differently—like he couldn’t stop. like he’d forgotten everything else. the pain. the brace. the sterile clinic room with its sharp fluorescent lights. all of it faded as he stared at your face now, your wide eyes and parted lips, your fingers still resting right over his cock, uncertain but not pulling away.
you looked so soft. so concerned. so painfully beautiful.
too good for him.
too gentle to be caught up in whatever this was trying to turn into.
the image of how you used to look beneath him—hair spread out on the pillow, flushed cheeks, that gasp you’d make when he kissed your neck just right—it slammed into his chest so hard it almost knocked the air out of him.
and still, your hand stayed
you didn’t even realize your thumb had shifted slightly, tracing the heat through the fabric without thinking. you could feel how hard he was now, pulsing against your palm like his body was begging without him having to say a word.
but your heart was racing, chest tight, torn between the rush building in your core and the sting of guilt that came with it.
“i…” you started, voice catching, eyes flicking down, then back to his. “i can’t—hyunjin, you’re hurt…”
the words felt wrong even as you said them. his leg. his knee. the brace locked stiff across the line of his thigh. he couldn’t move the way he used to, couldn’t roll you under him, couldn’t press his weight into you like before. and part of you was terrified of doing anything that might make it worse.
but hyunjin didn’t flinch. didn’t let go.
his fingers tightened around your wrist, just a little. his throat worked around a thick swallow, adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to speak.
“we don’t have to…” he started, voice hoarse. “go all out,” then he exhaled—long and slow, jaw clenched like it physically hurt to hold the words back—and the sound that came with it wasn’t just breath.
it was a moan.
and it hit you somewhere deep.
your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up—heat blooming between your legs. his voice always did that to you, but hearing it like this—like he couldn’t even help it—made something tighten hard in your belly.
“just…” he breathed again, eyes dragging across your face like he couldn’t get enough, “just something.”
his gaze dipped lower. to your mouth. the flush climbing your throat. the way your thighs had pressed together just slightly as you sat.
and still, you looked at him with that soft concern. the look in your eyes that made his cock twitch painfully inside his shorts.
for a second, you didn’t say anything—just stared at him, fingers still resting on the thick heat of him, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. the room felt too small, too quiet. you were straddling the edge of something, dizzy with want but scared to fall all the way in.
then—slowly—you reached behind you.
your hand found the door handle, turned it, and you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place.
hyunjin’s eyes tracked every movement.
you still didn’t look at him as you pulled your hand back, settling it in your lap. “i’m scared,” you whispered.
it wasn’t a plea. it was just the truth. raw. honest. the way your voice only got when you couldn’t hide what you were feeling anymore.
and he softened immediately.
not in his body—he was still hard, still aching—but in his face, in his eyes, in the way his hand slowly loosened its grip on your wrist and slid up to cup your waist instead. “don’t be,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your shirt. “you’re with me.”
you swallowed hard, then reached up and gathered your hair in both hands. twisting it quickly, you tied it into a loose knot at the top of your head—out of the way. practical. familiar.
his breath caught.
you didn’t have to say anything. he understood.
his cheeks flushed, mouth falling open slightly as he watched, and then—careful, slow—he rolled his chair back a few inches. the wheels squeaked softly against the floor, giving you more space, clearing the narrow strip between him and the edge of the desk.
then he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his sweatpants.
the fabric caught for a second on his brace, but he tugged gently, shifting the good leg first, inch by inch. down past his hips, baring the tight line of his stomach, then the hard length of him straining up against his briefs, thick and flushed and twitching where it pressed into the cotton. he pushed them down too, just enough, cock springing free with a soft thud against his lower belly.
he watched you the whole time.
like you were the only thing in the room. like every breath he took depended on what you would do next.
it took you a second to breathe.
the way he looked sitting there—back against the chair, legs parted carefully around the brace, chest rising and falling under his t-shirt, flushed and exposed and completely still except for the twitch of his cock—was enough to make your knees feel unsteady even though you weren’t standing.
he was beautiful.
long and thick, flushed at the tip, a bead of slick already welling there as if his body was just as impatient as his eyes. his body tensed when you leaned in, gaze flicking between his face and the heavy line of him resting against his lower stomach.
you reached out with your hand—no hesitation this time—and wrapped your fingers gently around the base.
he hissed through his teeth.
“fuck—” he breathed, head tipping back against the edge of the chair.
you stroked once, slow and curious, thumb brushing just beneath the tip. he twitched again, harder, a tremble running down his thighs as he tried to hold still. his hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white.
“is this okay?” you asked, voice low, thumb circling now.
he nodded, eyes half-lidded. “yeah. yeah, that’s—” he couldn’t finish. his head rolled back, dark hair threatening to slip free from the messy bun. it spilled around his shoulders as he exhaled, a shuddering breath that turned into a soft moan when your grip tightened just a little.
you did it again. squeezed at the top, slow twist of your wrist, then slid your hand back down. you couldn’t stop watching his face—the way it tensed, the way his mouth parted just slightly, the sheer effort it took for him to stay still in that chair.
and he was so warm in your grip. so hard. so desperately full.
you leaned in.
hyunjin’s eyes snapped down to you, breath hitching audibly. his fingers twitched at the edge of the chair arm, and then your mouth was on him.
he let out a sound—half-moan, half-gasp—as your lips slid over the head of his cock, tongue swirling to catch the taste of him. you moaned around him, soft and quiet, and the vibration made him groan aloud.
“ah, fuck—baby—”
you took him deeper, slowly, carefully, easing your lips down his length while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach.
hyunjin’s breathing turned ragged, each inhale sharper than the last, his chest rising fast beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. you could feel him throbbing on your tongue, as your lips slid down again—deeper this time, slower, letting the stretch of him fill your mouth.
his moans were coming more freely now.
soft, broken things that fell from his lips with no control. his hand finally let go of the chair arm, trembling as it hovered in the air for a second before he reached out and touched you.
fingertips to your temple first. featherlight. like he was afraid he’d shatter if he took more than that.
then his palm curved behind your head. but it didn’t stay gentle. the longer your mouth worked around him, the more his grip tightened, his breath falling faster.
and then he started pushing.
harsh and mindless.
each time you tried to ease back, his hand would push forward again, holding you there longer, deeper, chasing the heat of you without any thought. his hips couldn't do what they used to—his knee locked him in place—but his hand compensated for everything his body couldn’t. and it kept pushing, guiding, pressing you down until you couldn’t take more without your throat burning and your breath catching.
you let out a muffled noise, hands bracing against his thighs, trying to signal to him to slow down—but he didn’t hear it. didn’t see. his head had dropped back, hair falling loose around his flushed face, lips parted in a moan that sounded more like a sob.
he wasn’t with you.
he was inside himself—somewhere dark, somewhere drowning—and using your mouth like it was the only way to claw back toward the surface.
you choked softly, eyes stinging, unable to pull back. your throat ached.
every push of his hand kept you down longer than the last—too deep, too fast. your jaw was sore, your eyes blurred, your lungs clawing for space that wouldn’t come. the weight of him, the pressure, the heat—it wasn’t pleasure anymore.
not for you.
it didn’t feel like him.
not the way he usually was. not your hyunjin, who used to check on you between every kiss, who held your face like it was something sacred, who used to stop even if you blinked too fast.
now it felt like he didn’t see you at all.
like you weren’t a person anymore—just something to forget the pain in his knee and the fear in his chest. he wasn’t here. not really. his head was thrown back, hair falling wild around his face, mouth parted like he was dreaming. his hips twitched and his grip only tightened.
and you couldn’t breathe.
you reached up blindly, panic crawling up your spine, and your fingers found his wrist. you squeezed—hard—nails digging in, not gentle. you tugged, sharp and clear, trying to break through the fog he’d sunk into.
he didn’t respond.
you let out a sound around him—muffled, choked—desperate, strained. the shape of your safe word barely formed against his skin, but you tried. a soft, garbled syllable that wasn’t a word but should’ve been enough.
he finally stilled.
right on the edge of another thrust, his body went stiff, lips parting like he was about to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but you beat him to it.
you yanked your head back with what little leverage you had left, slipping free from his grip, from his cock, from everything.
you coughed, choked, gasping as cool air hit your throat again, and then the tears came—hot, sudden, uncontainable.
“red,” you managed to say, voice cracked and hoarse. “red—red—”
the word hit like a gunshot.
hyunjin froze.
his whole face changed in an instant. every bit of color drained from his cheeks, and his hands, which had just been gripping the arms of the chair like a lifeline, fell limp.
“oh my gosh.”
you were already sliding backward, falling to the floor, knees knocking the desk leg as you curled in on yourself. your hands shook where they braced against the tile, and your chest heaved as you tried to pull in air that wouldn’t come smooth. you were crying now—no sound at first, just tears streaking hot down your cheeks, lips parted in a silent sob, your throat too raw to speak.
he scrambled, clumsy, heart in his throat. one hand yanked his sweatpants back up, barely getting them over his hips.
“hey, baby, i didn’t fuck, i didn’t know—i wasn’t thinking, i’m so—” his voice broke, and he reached for you with trembling hands. “i’m so fucking sorry—”
he touched your face, barely.
fingertips to your temple, your jaw, trying to check if you were okay, trying to wipe the tears that kept coming. his touch was gentle now. so different from how it had been minutes before, like the realization had shattered something inside him.
but you couldn’t look at him.
you were shaking too hard, too fast, every breath coming short, sharp, uneven. you curled further into yourself, arms hugging your sides, forehead pressed to your knees. you didn’t push him away—but you didn’t answer him either.
your skin recoiled under his fingertips.
even though his hands were soft now—so soft, barely brushing along your jaw like he was scared to break you—you still flinched. a subtle twitch at first, then a shiver so full-body it knocked your balance as you tried to push upright.
“don’t,” you rasped, voice raw and shaking. you didn’t mean to sound so small. so scared. but you were.
he froze.
you didn’t even look at him. you couldn’t.
your hands scraped the floor as you stood—clumsy, uneven, like your legs weren’t steady under you. you grabbed for your bag, for your phone, for something solid to hold onto. everything in your chest felt like it was spinning, tearing, trying to collapse into itself.
“i need to go,” you whispered, backing toward the door.
hyunjin’s mouth opened, but no words came. just a broken sound, breath catching, shoulders shaking like his whole body had stopped working.
“i didn’t know,” he finally said, voice cracking. “i didn’t mean to—i wasn’t—”
he was crying now. not quietly. not the kind of tears you hide.
they poured down his cheeks, one after the other, lips trembling, eyes wide and full of everything he couldn’t fix. “i’m so sorry,” he choked out, curling forward like the words hurt. “please, i didn’t mean to hurt you, baby—”
but you were already reaching for the door handle.
your hand shook as you unlocked it, chest tight, the cool metal grounding you even as the room blurred with tears. you still couldn’t look at him. not with how scared you still were.
the door clicked open beneath your trembling fingers, and cold air spilled in from the hallway—but it didn’t clear your head.
it didn’t make anything better.
you stood there for a second, caught in the threshold, chest still heaving, heart still slamming like it didn’t know how to stop. you didn’t look back. couldn’t. you could hear him behind you though, curled forward on the floor, gasping through sobs he couldn’t swallow down.
but that wasn’t him.
that wasn’t hyunjin.
not the one you knew. not the one who used to cradle your face between kisses, who used to hold your hand in the dark just because he liked the way your fingers fit his. not the one who used to whisper how much he loved your voice, even when you were only reading out loud from your textbook.
this wasn’t him.
and whatever this injury had done to him… it went deeper than you thought.
it had eaten something. hollowed him out.
left behind someone who could shut his eyes and chase comfort in your body without even hearing you cry.
you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but more tears came.
because you knew him. you knew his heart. you’d seen every soft piece of it. you’d held it. and even now, you wanted to believe that he didn’t mean it—that the real hyunjin was buried under all that pain and grief and fear of losing the one thing he’d built his life around.
but wanting to believe wasn’t enough. not tonight.
you stepped out into the hall. the door clicked shut behind you.
and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t feel safe with him.
it was still dark when you parked outside his dorm.
the campus was quiet—too quiet for 6:30 a.m., the sky barely touched with light, the windshield misting over with the last traces of night. you sat there in your friend’s borrowed car, engine idling low, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the front door.
a minute passed. then two.
and then—you saw him.
hyunjin came down the steps slowly, crutches under each arm, hood pulled up, sweatpants hanging loose over the bulky brace on his leg. his pace was careful, uneven, but steady. he moved like he didn’t want anyone to look at him too long.
you got out immediately, door creaking in the quiet. “do you need help?”
he looked up and gave you a small smile—gentle, so much softer than you expected. “no i’m okay,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “thank you.”
you stepped back as he opened the passenger door and climbed in, easing himself down. he slid the crutches into the backseat, shut the door, and settled in without a sound.
you walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and pulled your seatbelt over your shoulder.
as you started the drive, the streets still empty and blue-tinted with morning, he turned to you.
“you really didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something heavy.
and maybe he was right.
you shouldn’t be here. not after what happened. not after how he hurt you—physically, emotionally, in a way you still hadn’t figured out how to name. but you were here. because you loved him. because no matter how much pain there was, you couldn’t stand the thought of him going through this alone.
so you just said, “it’s okay. i didn’t want you to be alone after surgery.” you glanced at him, voice soft. “i know anesthesia can make you dizzy.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment. but when you stopped at the red light and looked over, you saw the way he was staring at you—like your care was something he couldn’t quite believe was still his to receive.
his eyes stayed on you, searching. you could feel the weight of it even in the stillness.
then, his voice broke through the quiet. fragile. raw.
“i’m sorry, baby.”
you didn’t respond right away. your fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, your throat catching.
“what i did… that day…” he shook his head, gaze dropping to his lap like he couldn’t even look at you. “it was unforgivable.”
you opened your mouth to say something, anything—but he kept going.
“are you okay?” his voice cracked. “did i hurt you?”
you didn’t answer immediately, and that silence alone made his breath hitch.
you wanted to say no. wanted to take his pain and carry it for him, like you always did. but you couldn’t lie—not about this.
so you whispered, barely audible, “a little.”
he flinched. your hands were still on the wheel, eyes locked on the road, but you could feel him unravel beside you.
you swallowed hard. “you didn’t mean to. i know that.”
“but i did,” he said, almost to himself. “i was so far gone i didn’t even see it.”
the pain in his voice made your chest ache.
and still, the car kept moving forward—two people in the same space, carrying wounds too fresh to fully name, but still choosing not to let go.
the clinic came into view faster than you expected—just a few more turns, a quiet lot, and a small sign out front that read orthopedics in clean, neutral lettering.
you pulled into a space near the entrance, engine humming to a stop. the sky was still a soft gray, the sun just beginning to push up over the horizon, casting a pale gold light across the windshield.
neither of you moved.
there was still time. maybe ten minutes before they’d call him in. enough to sit in the quiet. enough to say the things that hadn’t found a place yet.
hyunjin stared out the window for a moment, then turned toward you slowly. his face was pale in the early light, eyes heavy with everything he’d been holding back.
“i don’t even know how to start,” he said softly.
you glanced at him, your heart twisting.
he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of the car like maybe it would offer answers. “i’ve never felt so… lost. i thought i could just push it all away. pretend like it didn’t matter if i played again. pretend like i didn’t care.”
“but you do,” you said.
he nodded slowly, eyes closing. “i do. i care so much it’s eating me alive. and i used you to make it stop for a second.”
you looked down at your hands, folded in your lap
“i don’t know what i’ve become,” he whispered, voice cracking like the words hurt more coming out than staying in. “i look at myself and i don’t… recognize it. the way i think. the way i treat you. the way i can’t stop being angry.”
he stopped, swallowing hard.
“and even after everything,” he went on, quieter now, shaking his head in disbelief, “you still show up. at ass o’clock in the morning, no less.” he gave a broken laugh. “still with that look on your face like you don’t hate me.”
you looked up at him then, and he met your eyes, raw and stunned and aching.
“you’re still the sweetest damn thing,” he said. “and i feel terrible.”
he meant it. every word. you could hear it in the way his voice faltered, in the way he couldn’t even look at you too long without blinking hard, like he was afraid he’d cry all over again.
and in that moment, it wasn’t just guilt.
it was grief—for the person he used to be. for the person he thought he ruined. and for the fact that you stayed anyway. you reached over, gently placing your hand on his arm—warm, steady, grounding him in the silence between you.
“you’re going through so much right now,” you said softly. “more than i can imagine. and… i get it. i do.”
he didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the way his muscles tensed under your palm. like the weight of your understanding was heavier than blame.
“i’m not saying it’s okay,” you continued. “it’s not. what happened scared me. and i’ll admit that—because i can’t lie to you. it was scary.”
he flinched, but you squeezed his arm gently.
“but i still want to be here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “because i know your heart and what happened that day wasn’t you.”
he turned to you, eyes glassy. “i don’t deserve you.”
“that’s not for you to decide.”
he exhaled shakily, dropping his forehead for a moment like he needed to gather every ounce of control he had left. then, with his voice low and sure, he looked up and said:
“i promise… nothing like that will ever happen again.”
you watched him, holding your breath.
“i swear, y/n,” he said. “i’ll never put you in that place again. you’ve never had to say our safe word before that day, not once. and from now on… you won’t. you never will.”
you saw the guilt in his eyes. but more than that—you saw the intent. the need to mean it. to prove it.
you nodded slowly, your chest tight with everything you hadn’t said but still felt. and then, without overthinking it, without needing to say another word—you leaned in.
you kissed him.
his lips moved against yours with the same softness, like he understood exactly what you were offering. like he was afraid to take too much. one of his hands moved to your jaw, barely brushing your skin, his thumb trembling just slightly as it hovered near your cheek.
he kissed you like he wanted to be better. like he needed to show you that he could be.
you pulled back slowly, your forehead resting gently against his.
there was a beat of silence.
then you whispered, “ready to get cut open?”
a huff of air left his nose, and he actually chuckled. a real one, small and hoarse, but real. “god, you really know how to set the mood.”
you smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting just enough to feel like hope.
without another word, you unbuckled your seatbelt and opened your door, the early morning air spilling in, cool and crisp.
hyunjin followed, slowly shifting forward and carefully maneuvering his crutches. you circled around the car as he swung the door closed behind him, crutches tucked under his arms, his weight shifting just slightly as he adjusted. you could tell it still hurt.
still, he looked at you—and you both started toward the entrance together.
click. you locked the car behind you, the sound echoing in the quiet lot.
the automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and the two of you stepped into the quiet sterility of the clinic lobby. the floors gleamed under fluorescent lights.
hyunjin made his way to the front desk while you hovered just behind him. he gave his name, confirmed the time, signed a clipboard with a hand that trembled more than he probably meant it to.
the nurse behind the counter offered a polite smile. “we’ll call you when he’s in recovery.”
you nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.
hyunjin turned to look at you then—nervous, but trying not to show it.
you reached out and gently brushed your fingers down his sleeve. “i’ll be right here when you wake up,” you said softly.
his eyes lingered on yours like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just nodded.
and that was enough.
the room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of a monitor and the pale light bleeding in from the hallway. hyunjin lay asleep in the recovery bed, his face slack with exhaustion, an oxygen clip on his finger and a thin hospital blanket draped up to his waist. one arm rested loosely at his side, the other still bandaged from the iv.
you sat quietly in the chair next to him, one leg pulled up to your chest, your phone dimmed low in your hand.
you hadn’t meant to look it up. you weren’t sure what made you do it—curiosity, maybe. restlessness. you didn’t want to call it masochism.
but there it was. the clip.
posted on some account. zoomed in.
you watched it with your stomach in knots, biting the inside of your cheek as the moment played out on repeat. the set. hyunjin’s approach. the jump. you already knew what was coming, but even bracing for it didn’t soften the blow.
then the landing.
your eyes flinched before your body could.
the twist of his knee was subtle—too fast, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. you hadn’t even noticed it that night in the stands. not like this. not with the slowed frame-by-frame and the awful, perfect clarity.
and then the collapse.
he went down like someone had pulled the ground out from under him. you winced, lowering the phone, suddenly too aware of the weight in your chest.
you slammed your phone down onto your thigh, a little harder than you meant to. the sharp sound cracked through the stillness of the room like a drop of glass, and the screen went dark in an instant.
you exhaled shakily, your eyes finding him again—hyunjin, pale and quiet, the blanket pulled up to his waist, the brace peeking out from underneath. he looked fragile in a way that didn’t suit him. too still. too quiet.
and then—his fingers twitched.
you sat up straighter.
he stirred, eyelids fluttering once, twice. slowly, he blinked open one eye, unfocused and hazy.
“hi,” he murmured, voice low and rasped and soft as crushed velvet.
your chest squeezed.
“hi, hyunjin,” you whispered back, immediately leaning in.
you kissed his forehead gently, your hand brushing through the strands of hair damp against his temple. he smelled like antiseptic and warmth and something familiar underneath.
“how are you feeling?”
he blinked again, a tiny, tired breath escaping his lips. “fine.”
you smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek.
“i’ll get someone,” you said. “let them know you’re awake.” you said softly, and reached for the small remote clipped to the side of his bed. you pressed the call button, the little light blinking red.
you sat back a little, still holding his hand, your thumb moving in slow, absent circles against his skin. he was drifting in and out—still groggy, but awake enough to keep his eyes on you, like you were the only thing anchoring him.
there was something else you had to say. something you'd been told in the hallway an hour ago by a nurse with an apologetic smile and a quiet voice.
you waited, watching him breathe, steady and slow.
then finally—quietly—you said, “there’s something i should probably tell you.”
his eyelids lifted slightly, still heavy from the meds. “hm?”
you hesitated.
“i don’t think you’ll want to hear it,” you admitted, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “but… your coach is coming here.”
that got through.
his expression didn’t change much, but you felt the shift. a tension curled through his body—subtle, but there. like something bracing underneath the surface. his fingers tensed under yours.
“he called while you were in surgery,” you continued gently. “said he wanted to see you himself.”
hyunjin stared at the ceiling, his jaw tightening just a little.
you didn’t push him to respond.
you just kept holding his hand.
you were here. no matter who else came through that door.
hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment longer, eyes still on the ceiling like he was searching for something in the sterile white above him. then his grip on your hand loosened—not letting go, just… relaxing.
“it’s okay,” he murmured. “i need to talk to him at some point.”
you gave him a small smile, brushing your thumb along his knuckles.
a few moments passed in comfortable silence before the door creaked open and a nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand. she offered you both a warm smile as she crossed to hyunjin’s side.
“hey there,” she said gently. “how are we feeling?”
“numb,” hyunjin deadpanned before breaking into a smile.
the nurse chuckled. “fair enough. let’s run some vitals, make sure you’re tolerating everything okay.”
he nodded, letting her work. blood pressure. pulse. pain scale. you watched as he cooperated without complaint, quiet and steady, his expression unreadable but calm.
just as she finished scribbling the last of her notes, she looked up. “by the way,” she said lightly, “your visitor is here.”
hyunjin stiffened for a half second. then he adjusted his posture slightly, pulling the blanket up a little higher, straightening in the bed as best he could.
“he can come in,” he said quietly.
the nurse nodded and stepped out.
the door opened again, and this time a tall man stepped in—mid-forties maybe, graying at the temples, weathered face, windbreaker zipped up halfway with your school’s logo printed over the chest. he paused inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room until they landed on hyunjin.
you started to rise, hand slipping from hyunjin’s as you moved toward the door, ready to give them privacy—space for whatever this conversation was going to be. but before you could even take a full step, his fingers tightened around yours.
you stopped.
his grip wasn’t firm, but it was certain. quietly asking you to stay with him.
so you stayed.
you eased back into your seat beside the bed, glancing up as the coach stepped further into the room. he was tall, broad-shouldered in a way that made the space feel smaller, more serious. but his eyes weren’t cold—just tired. like someone who’d been doing a lot of thinking.
you cleared your throat gently. “hi, sir.”
he looked over at you and gave a small nod, his voice low but familiar. “y/n.”
then his eyes returned to hyunjin.
“hi, coach,” hyunjin said, his tone polite, quiet. measured.
the man stepped closer, stopping just at the foot of the bed. “how’re you holding up?” he asked.
and somehow, the question felt heavier than it sounded. not just about recovery. not just about the knee. it was everything.
hyunjin didn’t answer the question at first. he just sighed—long and slow—his eyes falling to the edge of the blanket draped over his brace. the weight of it all was written in the slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers idly traced the seam in the bedsheet like he needed something to do with his hands.
the coach watched him for a beat, then took a breath. “i’ve been thinking about that last rotation,” he said, voice even but laced with something deeper—guilt, maybe. “i pushed for the shift. pulled you from front to back too fast. you were approaching from the wrong angle and i knew it. that back-row pipe—” he stopped himself, rubbed his jaw, “—that’s a brutal landing when your momentum’s off. you were running too shallow and i let it happen.”
hyunjin’s eyes lifted slowly.
“you’ve done it in practice, yeah. but not like that. not with the pressure we had. i was thinking strategy, not bodies. and yours paid for it.”
“it’s not on you,” hyunjin said, almost too fast.
the coach didn’t argue. he just gave a quiet nod and said, “things like this happen.”
but there was no ease in the way he said it. no comfort.
hyunjin went quiet again, his gaze flickering back to the ceiling, and you stayed still in your chair beside him, fingers curled lightly in your lap, unsure if you should say something or just keep breathing.
then, the coach glanced at you—kindly, not harsh—and said, “y/n, could we have a minute? just the two of us?”
you turned immediately to hyunjin.
his eyes met yours, unreadable at first… then, after a moment’s hesitation, he gave the faintest nod.
you nodded back, slowly rising to your feet. “i’ll just be outside,” you said gently, the words meant more for him than anyone else.
you gave the coach a polite bow before slipping out of the room, leaving the door to click softly shut behind you.
the hallway was quiet, cold, the kind of sterile stillness that made every sound feel sharper. you lowered yourself into the nearest chair just outside his room.
their conversation carried on—quieter now, more personal. you couldn’t hear the words anymore. just tone.
and then—silence.
you sat back against the wall, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, eyes drifting closed for just a moment.
whatever was being said inside that room… you hoped it was enough.
it had been a few weeks since the surgery.
the brace was still on, the crutches were still with him, and the follow-up appointments had become part of your shared routine. you’d bring him snacks while he iced his leg. he’d quietly wait for you outside your lectures, scrolling through his phone without really reading anything.
but something had shifted.
not physically—he was healing fine. but emotionally? that was harder to track. harder to measure.
because he hadn’t told you what his coach said that day in the hospital room. not once. you never asked. not because you didn’t want to know, but because part of you was afraid of what it would mean if he told you.
still, you noticed the change.
he’d started talking to his teammates again. slowly at first. then it was late-night facetimes, low conversations on speakerphone while you worked next to him, laughter that didn’t sound forced.
and with you? he was closer.
he reached for you more now—your hand, your waist, your sleeve as you walked beside him. he asked you to stay longer, hang out more, nap in his room, sit in silence and just be. you figured it was because he wasn’t practicing anymore—because the hours he used to fill with drills and reps now echoed open and unstructured.
but still… there was something.
something you couldn’t name. like he was hugging you a little tighter for reasons you didn’t understand. like he was grateful in a way that didn’t quite match the moment. like every time you kissed him, he wasn’t just kissing you back—he was holding onto something.
right now, you were walking beside him through one of the quieter buildings on campus, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the tile. the hallway was nearly empty—just the occasional distant echo of footsteps and the buzz of old overhead lights.
hyunjin moved slowly, carefully, but smoother than he had in weeks. he only needed one crutch now, swinging it lightly with each step like he was getting used to the rhythm. his other hand was in yours, fingers laced together, warm and easy.
you were telling him something ridiculous—some story about your friend’s disastrous attempt at making microwavable dumplings and accidentally melting the lid of a tupperware container into something that looked like abstract art.
hyunjin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “how is she still alive?”
“honestly?” you said, grinning, “i ask myself that every day.”
he smirked, then glanced down the hallway, squinting at a door at the end of the corridor.
“oh, hey—look,” he said, nodding toward the wide windows. “that’s the gym.”
you followed his gaze, eyebrows lifting. “huh. i didn’t realize we were near here.”
he leaned a little toward the glass, cupping a hand around his eyes. “looks empty.”
you looked in too—big open court, polished floor, no lights on but the sun slanting in through the high windows gave everything a golden glow.
“let’s go in,” you said, nudging him playfully.
hyunjin moved to the edge of the court, leaning lightly against the wall, one crutch tucked under his arm.
you peeled off toward the storage room, curiosity tugging at you, and came back a moment later holding a volleyball. scuffed, slightly deflated, but good enough. you dropped it to the ground and gave it a bounce.
thud.
it echoed through the empty gym, and hyunjin’s head snapped toward you, eyes lighting up with something close to amusement—maybe even delight.
he laughed, short and warm. “do you even remember how to play?”
you raised a brow, spinning the ball in your hands. “um, of course.”
he gave you a look. “you wore your kneepads under your knees.”
you gasped dramatically. “because all the girls did that! all the time!”
“yeah, and none of you could walk straight after practice.”
you grinned, bouncing the ball again. “listen, it was about the aesthetic, not the function.”
he shook his head, biting back another smile, and for a moment—just a flicker—something in his posture loosened. like this place didn’t just hold what he lost… but also what he loved.
you caught the ball, turning it over once in your hands, then glanced up at him with a little smirk.
“ready?”
without waiting for a response, you tossed the ball gently in his direction—a soft arc, easy and slow, aimed straight for the area in front of him.
he didn’t even shift his weight.
just lifted his hands, angled his forearms, and bumped it back with a crisp pop, so clean and precise it floated right back into your arms without even spinning.
you caught it, eyes wide. “okay, show-off.” you bounced the ball again, the sound echoing lightly off the gym walls. “wanna pepper?”
hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “you sure?”
you grinned. “i’m not that out of practice.”
he chuckled, pushing off the wall a little. “alright, but if you hit it like, way over there—” he gestured loosely to the far side of the court—“i’m not hobbling after it. i’m on injury probation, remember?”
you nodded solemnly. “deal.”
and then you tossed the ball up and bumped it gently, the pass floating toward him with enough air for him to set it.
he caught it with his fingertips and flicked it up with practiced ease—smooth, clean, almost too perfect. it dropped right above you, and you popped it back over with the heel of your hand.
he bumped it again—still sharp despite barely shifting his feet—and this time, you set it back high and slow.
and then—he slammed it.
not full power, but with that controlled snap of the wrist that made it drop out of the air like it’d been yanked by gravity itself.
you squealed, lunging forward with both hands out, managing to dig it just before it hit the floor. the momentum tipped you over and you rolled, laughing as you landed flat on your back, arms outstretched.
at least the ball floated back toward him.
he tucked it casually into the crook of his arm and grinned down at you.
“you’re mean,” you said breathlessly, still grinning, hair a mess, pride only slightly bruised.
he laughed, eyes crinkling as he looked down at you sprawled across the court.
“you’ve still got it in you, baby,” he said.
you chuckled, brushing hair out of your face as you pushed yourself up to stand, brushing your hands against your jeans. “you’re just saying that because i nearly sacrificed my knees for your hit.”
“hey,” he said, the ball still tucked in one arm. “don’t complain about your knees to me.”
you rolled your eyes, walking toward him with a dramatic limp. “oh, i’m sorry. want me to tear the other one so we match?”
his eyes widened in mock horror. “you wouldn’t.”
you smirked. “i might.”
he shook his head, biting back a grin. “you’re evil.”
you chuckled, that warm kind that came from somewhere deeper, and leaned in before he could say anything else—pressing a kiss to his mouth, soft and sure.
he kissed you back instantly, instinctively. like it was muscle memory. like you were the one thing he never had to think twice about.
his hand slid up your waist, slow and careful, fingers curling around your side as if he needed to hold on to something real. you melted into him—every part of you relaxing, sighing against his lips like this was home, like he was.
when you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice was quiet, steady.
“i love you, hyune.”
his eyes searched yours for a moment, wide and open and impossibly full.
“i love you too,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against your side.
you stayed close, your forehead resting gently against his, his breath still warm against your lips.
but then he shifted—just slightly. his hand lingered at your waist, but something in the way his fingers curled changed. slower. hesitant.
“y/n…” he said softly.
you pulled back just a little to look at him.
your eyes searched his, waiting, sensing it.
he was about to tell you something.
you could feel it in the silence that stretched after your name.
but then he blinked, looked away for a second too long, and his hand dropped back to his side.
“never mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “it’s nothing.”
you turned your gaze forward, toward the far wall of the gym, swallowing the ache in your throat.
because it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t. but you also knew he wasn’t ready.
not yet.
the room was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the bedside lamp. the sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed like they’d been pushed down in your hurry to get close.
hyunjin lay propped against the headboard, pillows stacked behind his back, his bad leg stretched out carefully. his other knee was bent slightly, his chest bare, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you—like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch again.
you were straddling his hips, thighs braced on either side of his waist, your palms resting gently on his chest. the stretch of you around him made your breath catch, and his hands trembled slightly as they found your hips, grounding himself in the heat of your skin.
his hands, still trembling slightly, smoothed up your sides beneath the hem of your soft cami, the thin cotton clinging damply to your back with sweat. you rocked your hips down again with a muted gasp, the motion achingly slow, the stretch deep and languid.
“ah fuck,” hyunjin hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat. his fingers dug into your hips, but not hard enough to hurt. just enough to keep himself tethered to the moment. “you feel so fucking good like this.”
your breath caught on a tiny whimper as you lifted again, the slick sound of him leaving you wet and open echoing faintly in the quiet room. you were trying to be gentle, mindful of the way his injured leg stretched out beside you, but each time you rocked down again, that careful rhythm unraveled a little more.
“hyune,” you breathed, voice shaking as you bent forward and braced your hands on either side of his chest. the motion pressed your cami tighter across your breasts, the thin fabric straining where your nipples peaked, soaked slightly where sweat clung. he looked up at you like you were something divine, dazed and reverent, his lips parted in awe.
“you’re killin’ me, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding from your hip up to the curve of your waist, fingers splaying under the hem of your shirt. he dragged it a little higher but didn’t take it off. “you’re gonna make me come just like this, fuck—”
you clenched around him, involuntarily, your thighs trembling. his voice cracked when he spoke again, rough and ruined and soft all at once.
“when my leg is healed” he started, mouth moving against your skin, teeth grazing lightly, “i’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you. i swear to god. gonna make up for every time i made you do the work. every single one.”
you whimpered, your whole body twitching in response, overwhelmed by the promise laced in every word. “y-yeah?” you managed to breathe, rocking into him again, the angle shifting just enough to brush something electric deep inside you. your legs shook harder.
he nodded, his hands gripping your waist now, steadying you. his eyes burned up into yours, pupils blown wide. “yeah. gonna have you under me, bent over. won’t let you move without feelin’ me deep. gonna fuck you ‘til you cry.”
his eyes, dark and glistening under the low light, locked onto yours like you were the only real thing in the world. his breath stuttered as he watched the way your face contorted, trembling with need, sweat beading at your temple, your thighs trembling against his hips. you rocked into him again, slow and deep, and he felt it—felt that flutter around his cock, the tight drag of your walls clenching just a little harder as the friction built.
“i love you,” he said suddenly, voice raw, breaking like a wave against your skin. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your cheekbone. “fuck, i love you so much—”
your breath caught, your entire body jerking with the force of it, the sweetness cutting right through the heat and making your chest ache.
“i—i love you too,” you whispered, voice cracking, every word ragged with pleasure and emotion. “i love you, hyun—i’m so close, i can’t, i need—”
he didn’t wait. his right hand slid down from your waist, fingers skimming over the curve of your stomach before settling between your thighs. the pad of his middle finger found your clit, slick and swollen, and began to rub slow, tight circles with practiced pressure.
“right here?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice shaking with restraint as he moved in rhythm with your hips. “right here, baby? gonna come for me like this?”
you moaned helplessly, louder now, no longer trying to hold anything back. “oh gosh—hyun, please—right there, don’t stop—”
his hips jerked beneath you, his control unraveling. “fuck, i’m close too—so close,” he gasped, his cock throbbing inside the condom, still buried deep, pulsing with every clench of your cunt around him. the way your walls squeezed him each time he rubbed over that spot—it was too much, too perfect.
you clung to his shoulders, nails pressing half-moon imprints into his skin as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably. you rolled your hips forward, just a little, and his finger pressed harder to your clit as he gasped out your name.
that was it.
your orgasm hit like lightning, white-hot and overwhelming. you cried out, your voice a broken sob of his name, your body locking tight around him. he felt every twitch, every contraction as you fell apart in his arms.
his hips bucked once, twice, and he buried himself as deep as he could, cock swelling, spurting into the condom as he came with a low, guttural groan against your neck.
his hands clutched your waist as you both trembled through the aftershocks, breath mingling in broken pants and gasps, bodies locked together in a perfect, trembling knot.
you were still pulsing around him, thighs twitching, mouth open and eyes glazed, his cock softening slowly inside you. his hand lingered between your legs, rubbing you gently through the afterglow until you whined and squirmed from the sensitivity.
“hey,” hyunjin whispered, brushing your hair back with a hand. his other arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you close, eyes soft. “you did so well, baby. so, so good for me.”
you shifted slightly, thighs sore, core still pulsing. with care, you lifted yourself off of him, wincing just a little at the sensitivity. hyunjin’s hands steadied you as you moved, his eyes never leaving your face.
“i got it,” he said, sitting up slightly despite the stiffness in his brace. he pulled the condom off, tying it quickly before tossing it into the small trash bin beside his bed. then he reached for the tissue box on the nightstand.
his touch was gentle as he wiped between your thighs—tender, almost reverent, like you were something sacred. “still okay?” he asked, voice low and sweet.
you nodded, cheeks flushed. “yeah. i promise.”
he nodded too, lips pressed together like he was holding back something bigger than a smile. he cleaned himself next, wincing slightly as he adjusted his leg again, then tossed the tissues away and reached out for you.
“c’mere.”
you didn’t hesitate. you crawled back into his arms, your body folding against his like you belonged there—because you did. he pulled the blanket up over you both, tucking it behind your shoulders, then tucked your head under his chin.
he exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that let everything finally settle. his hand found your back again, drawing lazy circles as your breathing began to match his.
you yawned softly, the kind that made your whole body rise and fall with it, head burrowing a little deeper into his chest. the sound made hyunjin smile—tired, full, quiet.
he kissed the top of your head gently.
“y/n,” he murmured, his voice barely above the hum of the bedside lamp.
“mhm?” you replied, eyes still closed, voice muffled into his skin.
he paused. you could feel it in the way his chest stilled under your cheek—like something shifted. his fingers stilled too, resting softly against your spine.
“what would you say,” he said slowly, “if i told you volleyball isn’t my life anymore?”
your eyes opened at that, the sentence settling slowly into your sleep-fogged mind. you tilted your head slightly, just enough to see him. “what?”
hyunjin didn’t answer right away.
his eyes flicked toward the ceiling again, lips parted like the words were there, just stuck somewhere behind his teeth. you waited, watching the way his throat bobbed in a slow swallow, the way his arm tightened just slightly around your waist.
you blinked, still half-draped over him, heart starting to thud with a dull ache. “what do you mean?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “it’s always been your life.”
“i know,” he murmured. his voice was low—like he didn’t want to scare the words away.
his hand drifted slowly along your back, thumb brushing the curve of your spine. “it always was. volleyball… it used to be everything. but ever since this injury…” he paused, inhaling shakily. “i’ve come to learn things. about myself. about life.”
you looked up at him then, brows drawing together, curiosity flickering behind the sleep still clinging to your eyes. “like what?”
he didn’t answer right away. just stared up at the ceiling, as if the words were etched into the plaster and he was tracing them with his eyes.
“i’ve learned that it’s always been something else,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.
you blinked. “something else?”
his eyes stayed on the ceiling, but you felt the way his fingers flexed gently against your waist, like he was anchoring himself in the feel of you.
“over the sport,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “even when i didn’t realize it. even when i said volleyball was my whole world.”
you shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow now, your gaze searching his face. “hyun… what could possibly mean more to you than volleyball?”
his eyes flicked down to meet yours.
he didn’t say anything.
not a word.
just looked at you—really looked—like you were the only thing that made sense in a world that had stopped making any. his lips parted like he might speak, but nothing came out. no dramatic confession. no flourish of words.
just silence.
and then, softly—so soft you barely heard yourself—you said, “oh.”
it hit you all at once.
you.
it was you.
you were the something else.
the thing bigger than the game. you were the only thing he was holding onto when everything else had slipped.
you laid your hand over his heart, feeling it thump unevenly beneath your palm.
you blinked hard, the weight of it pressing into your chest. “where is this coming from?” you asked quietly, eyes never leaving his.
hyunjin’s gaze dropped again, drifting toward the edge of the blanket between you. he swallowed.
“that day,” he said slowly, “when my coach came to see me after the surgery.”
you waited, heartbeat skipping.
“he told me something.”
you sat up a little straighter, heart inching into your throat. “what is it?”
he hesitated, like saying it out loud might split something wide open all over again. his fingers found the hem of your shirt and tugged at it absentmindedly, grounding himself in the soft cotton and your even softer skin beneath it.
“i was scouted,” he said finally. “before the injury.”
your breath caught.
his voice was steady, but quiet. “there was a team. a higher league. semi-pro. they were gonna offer me a spot.”
your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“i didn’t know,” he added. “he was going to tell me after the game. but after i got hurt… they pulled the offer. said they couldn’t take the risk.”
you felt your heart twist, like something inside you folded over on itself.
“i would’ve said yes,” he admitted, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “if i hadn’t gotten injured, i would’ve gone. even if it was across the country”
the silence pressed in around you again—thick and heavy.
“but after everything that happened,” he continued, voice thinner now, like he was peeling something vulnerable straight off his ribs, “i don’t know if that choice would have been the same.”
you stared at him, your fingers tightening slightly where they rested on his chest. “what do you mean?”
hyunjin’s gaze stayed distant for a moment, somewhere just past your shoulder, like he was still watching a version of himself walk away without looking back.
“i mean…” he exhaled, slow and unsteady, “i used to think i’d drop everything if the opportunity came. no questions. i thought that was the only path that mattered. that if i didn’t take it, i’d be nothing.”
he looked at you again, and the rawness in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you.
“but then i got hurt. and everything stopped. and you were still there.”
you didn’t speak—you just waited, the knot in your throat growing tighter by the second.
“and for the first time,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “i had to sit in the stillness. in the silence. and all i could think about was you. not the scouts. not the stats. not the path i’d worked my whole life for. just… you.”
his thumb brushed absentmindedly along your hip.
your chest ached.
not in the way it used to when he was on the court and you were in the stands, watching him soar.
this ache was deeper. heavier. like your heart finally understood the cost of everything he’d carried—and everything he was letting go of.
you leaned in slowly, your forehead pressing gently to his, your breaths mingling in the soft space between words.
“you’re everything to me as well,” you whispered, voice trembling slightly, “but… i prepared myself for anything, hyun. i always knew volleyball came first. i knew it was your number one. and i never wanted to be the thing that got in the way.”
his hands found your face, cupping your cheeks like he couldn’t believe you were even saying that.
“but it’s not,” he said, firm now. immediate. like the words had been waiting just beneath his ribs. “it’s not anymore.”
you blinked, lips parting, but he kept going— his eyes locked on yours.
“it used to be. it used to be everything. but that version of me…” he exhaled, shaky but sure, “he didn’t know what it felt like to almost lose you. to really see what we have. what we built. that version of me didn’t know how much this” his thumb brushed beneath your eye “could wreck me in the best way.”
he leaned his forehead harder into yours now, eyes fluttering closed.
“you’re not in the way,” he murmured. “you’re the way forward.”
you let out a sound between a breath and a sob, something quiet and broken and whole at the same time. your hands slid up to hold his wrists, grounding him just as much as he was grounding you.
“i didn’t want you to have to choose,” you whispered. “but i’m so glad you did.”
“i didn’t choose because i had to,” he said.
“i chose because i finally saw what mattered the most.”
you breathe in.
let it out.
all you can focus on is the ball.
the sun’s high, white-hot above you, and the roar of the ocean fades into a blur behind the thud of your heart and the beat of your bare feet in the sand. everything else—voices, heat, even the sting of sunscreen in your eyes—melts away. you watch the opposing server toss the ball up. perfect arc. sharp spin.
and then—smack. it’s coming.
you move, knees bend, arms out. you bump it up to your teammate, the ball floating clean and high. she’s already there, ready. you sprint toward the net, muscles burning, the sand pulling at your ankles like it’s trying to slow you down but it won’t—not this time.
your friend sets. high. wide. just how you like it.
you jump.
arms raised, eyes locked on the ball as it hangs in that slow-motion drop of gravity.
and then—
hands.
fast ones.
hyunjin.
he’s already there. tall and smug and laughing as he blocks your spike like he was born to ruin your day. the ball ricochets off his hands with a satisfying smack, straight back into your side of the court.
point: him.
you groan, letting yourself fall dramatically into the sand.
“are you serious?” you yell, spitting a bit of hair from your mouth as you push yourself back up. “you couldn’t let me have one?”
he’s already on the other side of the net, grinning so hard his eyes crinkle.
you narrow your eyes. “oh, that’s it.”
he sees it—your posture, the way you start dusting sand off your knees with purpose—and his grin widens into something almost nervous.
“y/n,” he warns, backing up a step. “let’s not do this—”
you duck under the net without a word.
he yelps.
“you’re insane!” he shouts, already turning, already running—feet kicking up clouds of sand as you sprint after him.
“you’re dead!” you call back, laughter bubbling in your throat as your feet pound across the beach.
he’s fast, but you’re faster.
he bolts for the shoreline like it’s his last line of defense, chest heaving, arms flailing a little as he yells back, “you’re gonna ruin my hair!”
“i’m gonna ruin your whole life!”
by the time he reaches the water, it’s too late. you’re right behind him, and he dives into the shallows with a splash, trying to put distance between you like the ocean’s suddenly his new home turf.
you charge in after him without hesitation. the cold water smacks against your legs, but you don’t stop.
you launch yourself forward, leaping onto his back with a triumphant shout. he staggers, arms pinwheeling as he lets out a loud, delighted, “agh!” before catching your legs instinctively.
“you menace!” he laughs, gripping your thighs to keep you from sliding off. “you were actually trying to take me down!”
“i succeeded,” you declare proudly, clinging to him like a backpack as he spins in a slow, splashing circle. “it’s justice for that block.”
“justice my ass,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning too wide to mean it.
you wriggle off his back and drop into the water beside him with a splash, waves slapping against your sides as you gather both hands full of seawater.
“don’t you dare—”
splash.
right in his face.
you’re already sticking your tongue out at him, playful and smug. “oops.”
he shakes his head, then tips it forward sharply, water flying off his hair like a wet golden retriever.
“ugh,” he says through the dripping mess, “i hate you.”
you raise a brow, wading back a step, hands spread in mock offense. “you do not.”
he glares at you—then ruins it with a grin.
“no,” he says, stepping closer, sloshing through the surf until he’s right in front of you. “i really, really don’t.”
you barely have time to breathe before he leans in and kisses you—warm and smiling against your mouth like he can’t help himself. you break the kiss with a grin, breathless and glowing, then splash one last bit of water onto his chest before turning to wade out of the surf.
“c’mon,” you call over your shoulder. “i need a towel before i start growing gills.”
hyunjin jogs after you, still dripping, grabbing your hand just as you hit the edge of the beach. the sun’s warm against your skin now, sticky with salt and laughter, and your friends are scattered across the sand—some sprawled out tanning, others still bickering over who’s winning the volleyball rematch.
you find your towel half-buried under a tote bag and collapse onto it with a happy sigh. hyunjin flops beside you with the grace of a man who has zero shame about tracking wet sand onto everything.
he starts towel-drying his hair while you lean back on your elbows. that’s when you notice the sketchbook tucked beside his bag, its pages curling a little in the heat.
“oooh,” you hum, reaching for it. “whatcha working on?”
he lifts his head, a little surprised, then wipes his hands on the towel and scoots closer. “you can look,” he says, reaching out to open it to the latest page.
you blink.
it’s the beach. this exact beach—down to the curve of the shoreline and the way the volleyball net leans slightly in the wind. but what gets you is the color. the emotion in it. the tiny splash of a figure in the water, mid-jump, arms outstretched like she’s flying.
“hyun…” you say, voice soft, awed. “this is beautiful.”
he shrugs, ducking his head a little. “just messing around.”
you look at him, fully. “don’t do that. don’t downplay it. this is crazy good.”
his cheeks flush, but he smiles as he flips to the next page—another sketch, this one of his teammates gathered around a bench.
“y/n,” he says, leaning back on one arm, gaze drifting out toward the water, “i’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
you glance at him, curious. “what is it?”
he bites his bottom lip, then says, “the university’s letting me switch my major. i’m going into kinesiology.”
your mouth drops open. “what?”
he grins. “yeah. like, officially. rehab sciences. sports performance. biomechanics. they even said i could tailor a track toward athletic recovery and art-based therapy if i submit a proposal.”
you blink rapidly, heart swelling so fast it nearly bursts. “hyunjin, that’s… that’s amazing. that’s so you.”
his gaze flicks to yours. “you think?”
“i know.” you reach out and squeeze his hand. “i’m so proud of you.”
his fingers curl around yours, warm and a little sandy.
“thanks,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “i didn’t think i’d ever get excited about a future that didn’t have a court in it.”
“you don’t need a court to make an impact,” you say, nudging him gently. “you just need a place to land.”
he smiles at that.
then he kisses the back of your hand, quick and bashful, like he’s still getting used to this version of life—one where he’s building something new, with you beside him.
you let the moment sit there, warm and full, before you smirk.
“a place to land,” you repeat. “y’know… preferably without tearing anything this time.”
before you can blink, his fingers are at your sides.
“hyun—” you shriek, twisting away as he pounces. “don’t you—ah!”
he tickles you mercilessly, fingers digging into all your worst spots as you writhe and kick, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
“say sorry!” he demands, grinning like a madman.
“never!”
he wiggles his fingers harder. “say it!”
“fine—fine!” you gasp, tears streaming down your cheeks from laughter. “i’m sorry! you’re a graceful athlete with good landing skills!”
he finally stops, letting you collapse against the towel in a breathless heap. you’re flushed, still giggling, your hand swatting weakly at his arm.
“you’re evil,” you mumble.
he stretches out beside you, completely at peace. “you started it.”
you glance over at him, watching the way the sunlight catches the curve of his smile, the softness in his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to see today—or maybe ever.
and somehow, with your hair a mess and your clothes damp and your skin covered in sand, it hits you all at once.
you’ve got it all figured out.
this boy. this life. this love.
you didn’t know if the pieces would fit—through injuries and arguments and fear—but they did.
they do.
hyunjin nudges you gently with his foot, still smiling. “what are you staring at?”
you hum, scooting a little closer. “just the rest of my life.”
🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ LOG 4 — SYSTEM INSTABILITY (chapter 4 of my spiderman!jisung series)
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader, college spider-man au, established relationship
synopsis: the dangers of seoul are no longer limited to crime alone. mutants, robots, and unfamiliar threats are appearing more frequently. it's becoming apparent that spiderman can’t account for every variable on his own.
warnings: ~5k words, semi-graphic injury and blood descriptions, negative thoughts, fluff, angst, implied sex, profanity, mutated entities so milddd body horror
a/n: thank you for waiting!! hope you enjoy this chapter 🤍 also creds to my lovely friend for helping me voice professor han because I am NOT that intellectual
prev/next
“fucking hell,”
jisung hissed, the words scraping out of his throat as he stumbled after landing on the rooftop of the university dormitory.
he didn’t stick it. his foot slid on the ledge and for half a second he genuinely thought he was about to become a public stain on the sidewalk below, before instinct kicked in and he caught himself. his vision swam. one of his lenses was smeared with something he really hoped wasn’t blood, and his head felt like it had been rattled around.
he lurched toward the nearest structure and collapsed against it, sliding down until he was sitting, knees bent awkwardly. his hand flew to his side, pressing hard where a mutant he fought earlier had impaled him with a rusted piece of rebar.
lately it seems like he’s had more near-death experiences than ever. somewhere along the way, he’d stopped being the cautious wuss he used to be and started recklessly throwing himself in front of danger without thinking too hard about the aftermath.
hence the rebar.
he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallow, then cracked one open to look down at himself. big mistake.
there was so much blood. so much that it would instantly make you feel sick.
he really should’ve thought this through before throwing himself in this situation, because he currently had zero plan and one very large problem.
and absolutely, under no circumstances, did he want you to see him like this.
still, he knew you were smart and brave enough to take this on. you’d signed up for a clinical skills course at uni because you wanted to try everything, which was admirable and, frankly, very useful, given how often your boyfriend showed up injured. you’ve helped him with many scrapes and cuts. the worst was that one time his head split open. this was worse than that. by a lot.
he squeezed his eyes shut, forehead tipping forward. he could already picture you going pale, and he’d absolutely cry on the spot.
maybe he could sleep it off and pray his spider healing did a miracle. and if he didn’t wake up, which was alarmingly possible, then this would be a really stupid way to go.
he’d always imagined it being way more badass. finally taking out the asshole who’s putting seoul in danger and making it a shithole. he’d be midair with explosions. dying along with the bastard like the heroes in movies.
who knew his death would be this stupid.
“no,” he whispered to himself. “don’t think like that.”
he knew he was being an idiot. he was just dizzy from losing blood and it let his brain go places it shouldn’t. he was still someone’s son. still someone who had a life outside this suit. his parents were down south. his mum would be inconsolable. and he had you.
he couldn’t bear the thought of you finding out he’d died alone on a rooftop, having given up that easily. he loved you too much to leave without saying goodbye. he loved you too much to stop trying.
his eyes burned. he sucked in a shaky breath and pressed his forehead against his knee, forcing himself to stay present.
and that was enough to make him move again.
he planted his hand against the vent and forced himself upright before limping towards the edge of the roof and crouching down. for a second he stayed there, breathing through the dizziness, then turned and swung himself over the ledge, hanging by his hands. he slid down and started climbing on the wall of the building. he avoided the open windows, ducking past lit rooms. he’d done this more times than he could count.
once he reached the window with the pink curtains, he slipped his fingers around the handle and lifted the sash. it was always unlocked.
“jisung!”
your voice came immediately once you heard him, and the curtain shifted as you rolled your chair over. you pulled the curtain aside, and the warm light from your room spilled over him, bright enough that he had to squint.
his eyes landed on you once his vision cleared and he saw you in the university sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants. notes were spread across your desk like you’d been mid-study and dropped everything the second you heard him.
“baby,” he croaked, trying for a grin as he hauled himself inside. his foot caught on the sill and he stumbled, barely catching himself with one hand.
“i heard about what happened on the radio,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over each other as you took another step toward him. “they said you got badly injured—jisung, i was so scared.”
“breathe, y/n. i’m here. see? very alive.” he said quickly, squinting once he had a wave of fainting trying to stay upright.
you made a small sound that was halfway between a gasp and a sob, once you saw the state he was in.
“hey, hey,” he spurted, immediately backtracking. “no, don’t do that. please don’t make that face. i’m okay. i promise.”
“sit down. sit down right now.” you said, panic bleeding through every word as you stood up.
he shuffled obediently onto the chair.
“if this is too much for you,” he said, grunting softly as he lowered himself, taking his mask off, “we can go to the hospital. i can take the suit off. pretend i’m just… peter han who fell and accidentally stabbed himself.”
he paused, considering it.
“…which, to be fair, is very on brand for him.”
“jisung,” you said, “people saw this happen to you. if you walk into a hospital like this, they’ll connect the dots in about five seconds and everyone will know who spiderman is.”
he opened his mouth, then thought better of it and shut it again.
you crouched in front of him, careful not to touch yet, eyes tracking the rebar with growing horror.
“and besides,” you went on, voice wobbling despite your best efforts, “this shouldn’t need surgery. your healing factor can handle the tissue damage and blood loss. i just need to pull the rebar out without making things worse.”
he swallowed hard.
he was less scared of that than he probably should’ve been. what scared him was how shiny your eyes were and how you sniffled quietly while holding yourself together by sheer will.
you exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over your face.
“god, jisung,” you said, voice wobbling despite yourself. “i don’t want to blame you, i really don’t but how could you let it get this bad?” you looked at him again, eyes shining. “i always tell you to be careful. was there any way this could’ve been avoided?”
“i—i wasn’t thinking,” he said quickly, panic bleeding into his voice. “i’m sorry. please don’t cry, if you do, i’m gonna cry and then this is gonna be really unproductive.”
you dropped to your knees in front of him and he watched your hands as you worked.
the kit you pulled out from under the desk was bigger than the one you usually used on him and he noticed that immediately. this one had more compartments and more things inside it than bandages and antiseptic wipes. you took it home after practicals last week at the university hospital.
you spread a sheet over the floor, smoothing it out with your palms before snapping the case open properly. you tugged on a pair of gloves, the snap loud in the room.
“i hate that this keeps happening to you,” you said, voice rough as you laid things out one by one, deliberate and careful. gauze. forceps. “you shouldn’t have to keep paying because some asshole decided the city was expendable.”
his jaw set.
“i know,” he said quietly. “i know.”
you shook your head. “until you find them, it’s never going to stop.”
“i will, baby,” he said. “i’ll find whoever it is, i'm close.”
you searched his face, only finding a reassuring smile that hid how much pain he was in.
“and then?” you asked softly, eyes glassy.
“then you won’t have to wonder if i’ll make it home in one piece. never again.”
a few days later, you’re back in class.
chemistry. you slide into your seat, dropping your bag at your feet, already reaching for your notebook.
jisung healed.
after you’d taken the rebar out and stopped the bleeding, his spider powers had done their thing pretty much overnight. by next morning, the wound had closed like it had never happened. apparently, immunity to tetanus was just another perk of his healing factor.
you didn’t have chemistry with jisung, so you weren’t exactly sure where he was right now. still, you caught snippets of conversation from the row behind you—something about a robbery in gangnam, not linked to any of the usual enemies.
which probably meant that’s where jisung was.
you sighed, dropping your forehead briefly against your notebook. the city felt tenser by the day, people acting out in ways that only made everything worse. and jisung already had more than enough on his plate. the thought of him having to fix a mess made by your own civilians made you frustrated for him.
your usual chem professor, dr. park, still hadn’t shown. thank the lord. you’d never liked that woman.
people started checking the time, whispering about class being cancelled now that she was ten minutes late. half the room was halfway out of their seats when the door opened.
the chatter died instantly.
a man stepped in with a confident posture. you recognized him instantly.
this was the man jisung always raved about. professor han.
“my apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly, setting his bag down. “your professor had some matters she needed to attend to, so i was asked to cover today.”
professor han was older than you’d expected, middle-aged, tall.
“i teach another section of this course,” he continued, glancing around with a small, reassuring smile. “so you’re in good hands.”
a few people visibly relaxed.
he turned toward the board, uncapping a marker. “you were scheduled to start discussing reaction kinetics today,” he said, writing as he spoke. “equilibrium, predictability.”
the marker paused.
“but lately i find that this particular topic doesn’t quite align with what we’re seeing outside this classroom.”
your pen hovered over the page.
“seoul has changed,” he went on calmly. “crimes that escalate faster than expected. mutated entities that outpace the known species on earth. technology that shouldn’t be as advanced—or as resilient—as it is.”
a few students shifted in their seats.
“you’ve spent almost an entire term studying systems that assume stability,” he said, turning back to face you all. “controlled environments. reactions that behave the same way every time.”
his gaze swept the room slowly.
“and yet,” he added, “much of what’s happening right now defies the science we talk about in this room.”
the lecture hall was completely silent now. no phones out. no whispering. even the people who usually looked half-asleep were watching him.
you found yourself leaning forward without realizing it.
professor han let the quiet sit for a moment before continuing.
“take the phenomenon people have been calling spider-man,” he said casually. “by all observable metrics, he shouldn’t exist.”
a few students exchanged glances. someone let out a quiet laugh, unsure if he was joking.
he wasn’t.
“we’re seeing resilience far beyond expected biological limits,” han continued. “recovery times that defy known healing processes. reflexes that operate faster than conscious thought. strength output that doesn’t match muscle mass.”
his eyes flicked over the room again.
“if something defies our models,” he said, “the answer isn’t to dismiss it.”
a hand went up a few rows ahead of you.
professor han turned. “yes?”
the guy hesitated, clearly aware of the attention, then went for it anyway. “uh so, like is spider-man actually a real person? or is he, i don’t know, some kind of engineered thing by the government? or an alien or—”
a collective groan rippled through the lecture hall.
you closed your eyes at the idiot in front of you. oh my god. what else would he be? he waves at kids. he’s funny. use your brain.
professor han didn’t look annoyed. if anything, he looked amused.
“a fair question,” he said mildly, and the groaning died down. “spiderman demonstrates conscious decision-making, moral reasoning, and restraint. so yes, spider-man is human and a good one at that.”
“individuals with that kind of power would seek recognition and control,” han went on. “spider-man does none of that. that alone tells us a great deal about his character..”
you felt something warm bloom in your chest. you understood why jisung liked him and you were already excited to tell him about this later.
professor han clearly spoke with a kind of respect for jisung that made your shoulders relax without you realizing they’d been tense.
your boyfriend had great judgment.
later that afternoon, you found yourself standing outside professor han’s office. you knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
“come in,” a voice called.
you stepped inside. his office was neat but lived-in—books stacked in uneven piles, papers clipped and re-clipped, a half-empty mug on the corner of his desk. he looked up and smiled.
“yes?”
“hi,” you said quickly. “i’m y/n. i was in the chemistry class you covered this morning.”
“ah,” he said, brightening. “please, come in.” he gestured to the chair across from him. “how did you find the lecture? i hope i didn’t derail things too much.”
you shook your head, sitting. “no, not at all. it was incredibly enriching. you see, that class usually feels… very contained. with everything going on in the city, it actually put my mind at ease a little. the chaos feels less—random, i suppose.”
“i’m glad,” he said warmly. “understanding better tends to do that.”
there was a small pause.
you cleared your throat. “actually, that’s kind of why i wanted to talk to you.”
he leaned forward slightly. “go on.”
“i’ve always been really interested in what’s been happening lately,” you said carefully. “i’m curious about whether there’s anything linking the incidents together. the mutants, advanced robots. i know a lot of it sounds speculative, but i thought—given your background—you might have some insight.”
you forced a small smile.
“purely academic curiosity, of course.”
“that’s a very intelligent line of questioning,” he said at last. “and not nearly as speculative as you might think.”
your pulse quickened.
“i can’t give you definitive answers,” he continued, “but i do believe there are connections. and i’d be happy to discuss what we know so far.”
he folded his hands on the desk. you nodded, already mentally cataloguing everything he might say. jisung needed answers. and for the first time, it felt like you might be closer to finding them.
you hesitated, then reached into your bag.
“well… there’s something i’ve been working on,” you said, a little sheepish. “it’s probably overkill, but i figured if i was going to worry about this stuff, i might as well organize it.”
professor han’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “by all means.”
you opened the same exact google doc that jisung still didn’t know existed. now it included a lab report that you’ve been secretly working on. the cursor blinked in the new section as you turned your laptop towards him.
does the presence of spider-man influence the frequency and severity of citywide incidents?
the recent rise in high-risk incidents within the city appears correlated with spider-man’s activity, suggesting the possible presence of an external targeting force. current data implies that an unidentified agent—or agents—may be actively seeking him, thereby influencing both the frequency and severity of these events.
observations:
incident frequency: events have increased by an estimated 20 percent over the last month, particularly within central districts.
severity index: average threat levels show a consistent upward deviation from previous baselines.
escalation rate: hostile activity initiates more quickly upon spider-man’s arrival, indicating direct provocation (?)
you paused, cheeks warm. “the numbers aren’t perfect,” you added. “i’m pulling from public reports, police scanners, news footage.”
notes:
current data suggests possible feedback-loop dynamics: an incident arises, spider-man intervenes, and subsequent incidents intensify.
spider-man may be being pursued or influenced by an external factor. motive unknown.
professor han sat back slowly, eyes still on the screen.
“this is very well organized,” he said at last.
your head snapped up. “thank you.”
he nodded. “you’re asking the right questions. you’re careful with your language. you acknowledge uncertainty instead of forcing conclusions.” he glanced at you.
relief washed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.
“if spider-man were simply causing chaos, we’d see random distribution. instead, we’re seeing pattern clustering.” he continued calmly.
your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the laptop.
“so… you think he’s being targeted,” you said.
“i think,” the man replied, “that someone out there is very interested in how he responds under pressure.”
your brows knit together before you could stop yourself.
“but… i thought,” you said slowly, choosing your words with care, “i always assumed he was being targeted because someone wanted to eliminate him. like they were trying to kill him.” you shivered internally at the thought.
professor han watched you closely, like he’d expected it.
“that would be the simplest explanation,” he said. “and sometimes the simplest explanation is correct.”
he paused, folding his hands together again.
“but killing him outright doesn’t seem to be the goal,” professor han continued. “if it were, the escalation would look different. more direct and aggressive. less… experimental than it seems right now.”
experimental. huh.
“the incidents increase in complexity,” he went on. “the threats adapt and learn. each encounter pushes him harder than the last, but always leaves room for survival.”
your fingers tightened on the laptop.
“so whoever’s behind this,” you murmured, “they don’t want him dead.”
“not yet,” professor han replied. “and possibly not at all.”
he met your gaze steadily.
“they want to see what he’s capable of.”
professor han leaned back slightly, thoughtful rather than ominous.
“in your research,” he said, tapping the edge of your laptop lightly, “you actually touch on both possibilities.”
you looked up at him.
“you frame him as either responding to a city that’s becoming increasingly dangerous on its own,” he continued, “or as someone being pursued.”
you nodded once, slow.
“the first possibility shouldn’t be dismissed,” han said. “it’s entirely plausible that someone is destabilizing the city for its own sake. in that scenario, spider-man is simply doing what he always does, trying to save people.”
you swallowed.
“it’s possible both are true,” professor han said calmly. “someone may be endangering the city because spider-man exists within it.”
you let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“so… if that’s true,” you said carefully, “then he’s probably not going to—” you stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “they’re not trying to kill him. at least not right now.”
professor han nodded once. “correct.”
that was meant to be reassuring.
it helped. a little.
you frowned, fingers worrying the edge of your laptop. “but why?” you asked. “why would anyone want to see how he reacts? why push him like this and endanger people?”
professor han tilted his head slightly.
“y/n, is it?”
you nodded.
“have you ever thought,” he continued, voice gentle and almost curious, “about how he came to be? who created him?”
your mind jumped instantly to the spider. the bite that changed everything. the thing jisung still talked about like it was a fluke, like it hadn’t rewritten his entire life.
you hesitated, then lied, “i’ve wondered about it before. i just… never came to any real conclusions.”
professor han’s lips curved, just barely. “i believe it’s reasonable to think the creator and the observer might be the same.”
you swallowed.
“which might explain,” you murmured, “why they wanna go after him”
professor han met your gaze, calm and steady.
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“this was really insightful,” you said, earnest now. “thank you, professor han. it actually helped a lot.”
he waved a hand dismissively, the corner of his mouth lifting. “no trouble at all. curiosity like yours is always welcome.”
you smiled, feeling lighter than you had walking in. “actually, um, my boyfriend’s in your section,” you added, unable to stop yourself. “he’s always talked about how much he enjoys your lectures. he thinks you’re incredible.”
professor han brow lifted with interest. “is that so? who might that be?” he asked.
“han jisung.”
instant recognition flickered across his face
“ah,” he said. “yes. smart kid, that one.”
your smile widened. “really?”
he nodded. “i’ll be transparent, i don’t always remember names. but he’s memorable. very engaged.”
you beamed. “he’d be really happy to hear that.” you stood, gathering your things. “thank you again. seriously.”
as you turned toward the door, his voice stopped you.
“y/n.”
you paused, heart skipping, and looked back.
“if you get the chance, please remind mr. han,” the professor said calmly, “to start watching his attendance. we haven’t seen him much lately.”
your stomach dipped.
“yeah,” you said quickly. “i’m always on him about that. but he’s been juggling a lot these days. family stuff.”
professor han studied you for a moment.
“i’m sure he is,” he said at last. “he has a tendency to take on more than he should.”
your chest tightened at how close that felt to the truth.
“i’ll let him know,” you added quickly.
then he smiled. “thank you for stopping by, y/n.”
you returned the smile, gathered your things, and slipped out into the hall. you exhaled slowly.
you were closer to the truth than you’d ever been.
“holy shit,” jisung groaned as he came down his high, his head tipped back into your pillow.
you lifted your head, wiped your lips with your finger. you licked it clean, before tugging his sweatpants back up over his hips and climbing up beside him. he barely waited a beat before pulling you in and pressing a kiss to your forehead, fingers already slipping under your shirt with full intention to return the favour.
“it’s fine,” you shook your head, voice now a little scratchy.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, lips jutting out in a small pout. “baby, no—”
you laughed, cutting him off as you nudged his shoulder. “it’s okay. we need to get to studying.”
before he could argue again, you swung your legs over the side of the bed. he watched you for a moment, then sighed, flopping back against the pillow. it was probably for the best. he’d missed too many days of class and had a lot to catch up on. he’d come over for you to help him with that, after all.
he just hadn’t been able to turn down your offer to help him relieve some stress first.
you sat down at his desk, already flipping your notebook open. a second later, he dragged himself up and joined you, chair scraping softly as he dropped into it. he blinked, still a little dazed from you sucking the soul out of him.
“okay,” you said, scanning the page. “where were we?”
he leaned over your shoulder. “uh, i think we were gonna go backwards,” he said slowly. “the stuff that’s fresher for you. you had chem yesterday, right?”
you paused.
your eyes drifted to the margin where the topic should’ve been, and it hit you a second later why there was nothing there.
“…actually,” you said, tapping the page, “we didn’t really cover any material.”
he pulled back slightly. “how come?”
you hesitated, then glanced down again like the notebook might answer for you. “we had a substitute.”
“mm,” he hummed.
“it was professor han.”
his head snapped up so fast his chair creaked.
“well, how was it?” he asked immediately, already leaning closer, eyes bright in a way that made your chest warm. you knew how much he liked him.
“he was great,” you said. “just like you always said.”
a proud smile tugged at his mouth.
you watched it fade almost as quickly as it appeared when you added, “he talked about you.”
“me?”
“well, spider-man.”
“oh,” he said quickly, then frowned. “wait, please don’t tell me he’s one of those grown-ass men who hates me.”
you snorted. “he actually… seems to like spider-man.”
“me,” he corrected, gaze brightening. “he seems to like me.”
“yes, you,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “and i thought—well, i thought he might actually be able to help us figure some things out. so i went to his office after class.”
the brightness drained from his face, his shoulders stiffening just a notch.
“you… went to his office?”
“yeah,” you said quickly, words tumbling out now that you’d started. “we talked for a while, and there’s so much we went over. maybe we’re closer to understanding what’s going on—”
“hold on,” he cut in, sharper than before. “you told him i was spiderman?”
“what? no, obviously not,” you said immediately. “i didn’t tell him. i just asked about the city. about what might be happening, and how spiderman—how you might be connected to it.”
his jaw tightened.
“and he said,” you continued, excitement creeping back in despite yourself, “there’s a chance whoever’s behind all this isn’t trying to kill you. and it might have something to do with the spider…”
you stopped mid-sentence.
because jisung wasn’t looking at you anymore. his expression had gone dark as he furrowed his eyebrows, struggling to hear you out.
“y/n,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice coming from somewhere closer to fear than anger, “you can’t bring other people into this. not even professor han. if someone really is watching me, then anyone who starts asking the questions becomes a target. and i can live with that risk for myself, but i can’t live with it for you.”
he ran a hand through his hair, breathing out hard.
“whatever that spider did to me, whatever this is, it’s mine to figure out. it’s reckless to loop other people into this.”
you bit your lip, the excitement draining out of you all at once.
“well,” you muttered, looking down at the notebook instead of at him, “sue me for wanting to help.”
jisung’s expression faltered almost immediately.
“look, baby,” he said quietly.
you glanced up.
“i just—every time you get closer to this stuff, i panic.” he went on, rubbing a hand over his face. “i don’t want you anywhere near the fallout if something goes wrong.”
you swallowed.
“i just need you to stay out of it,” he said gently. “for me. okay?”
“okay,” you said quietly.
he searched your face for a second, then nodded, relief flickering through his features.
“okay,” he said. “good.” he tried to lighten his tone, forcing a small smile. “i love professor han, but we really need to be careful here. and he can’t know we know each other, or he’s gonna start growing quite suspicious of the student who barely shows up to his lectures anymore,” jisung continued, trying to keep his tone light.
your heart dropped.
“—especially if that student’s girlfriend is asking a lot of questions about spider-man.”
your throat tightened.
you forced yourself to nod, keeping your face carefully blank. “yeah,” you said, a little too quickly. “of course.”
he relaxed, missing the way your shoulders had gone stiff.
and you sat there, heart pounding.
you hated lying to jisung.
anomalies - hjs
you hadn’t renamed the document in a long time.
at first, it had been a place to dump all the weird little things about your boyfriend before you found out he was spiderman. his sudden disappearances, the bruises.
now the document had turned into something else entirely.
the cursor blinked at the bottom of the page, waiting. you felt no motivation or urgency to type. you could still hear jisung’s voice in your head saying “stay out of it”.
it was almost three in the morning.
your gaze drifted from the laptop to the bed behind you.
jisung was dead asleep on your bed behind you, sprawled on his stomach with one arm tucked under the pillow, hair a mess from hours of studying that had finally knocked him out.
you frowned.
how could he possibly handle this on his own?
suddenly, a shadow passed over the wall.
you stiffened as you looked around until your eyes landed on the window.
the shadow moved behind the pink curtains covering your window, slow enough that your brain had time to register it before it disappeared completely.
your chair creaked softly as you stood, heart beating fast.
the shadow came back and it was more defined this time. it looked almost human-like.
you swallowed and took a careful step toward the window.
it vanished again.
you flinched. you realized that you were less afraid than you should’ve been. maybe because jisung was right there with you.
hesitantly, you reached for the curtain and tugged it aside.
nothing.
just the usual view. rows of lit windows across other dorms, lit roads, other buildings in the way. you stepped closer until your face was near the glass. you noticed a damp patch of fog, right at eye level. as if something warm had been breathing there moments ago.
that was when it dropped into view from above.
you sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back half a step.
it was a mutant. just like you’ve seen on the news.
it was pressed against the outside of the window. it almost looked human if you didn’t stare too long. exposed flesh and bones. long limbs and sharp teeth. cloudy eyes staring right at you. its mouth was hanging open with its head tilted.
you were in such shock you couldn’t scream. your breath came heavy and shallow as you froze, heart slamming against your ribs. from this angle, your bed wasn’t visible so neither was jisung. it must’ve thought you were alone.
the mutant lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass, staring straight into your eyes.
for one horrifying second, you thought it might attack you right there and then. but suddenly, it slipped out of view as quickly as it had appeared, retreating upward, leaving nothing behind but your reflection in the window and a faint handprint on the glass.
you stood there for a beat longer than necessary, then yanked the curtain closed with shaking hands.
you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.
from everything you’d ever tracked—everything you’d read, logged, and overthought to death—mutants never lurked in the middle of the night.
so either you’d imagined it, or sleep deprivation was finally making you hallucinate..
you dragged a hand through your hair, exhaling shakily, then turned away from the window and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
you quickly slipped into bed behind jisung, careful not to jostle him, curling into his back. your arm slid around his waist, your hand sneaking under his shirt until you felt his abdomen.
you pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades, squeezing your eyes shut. it felt like being a little girl again, hiding under blankets from monsters that weren’t real. except this time, they were very real.
when jisung stirred awake, you realized you must’ve held onto him tighter than you intended to.
“mmm,” he murmured, shifting, then rolling onto his side until he was facing you, half asleep. his eyes cracked open just enough to find your face. “you okay?”
you nodded even though your heart was still racing. he leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against your lips.
“i love you,” he mumbled, already drifting again.
“i love you too,” you whispered back, holding him closer as his arm wrapped around you instinctively.
objectively speaking, being held by the amazing spider-man was probably the safest place to be in seoul right now.
Synopsis: You spend your days writing romance, wondering when it will find you. Unaware that it’s right next-door. (20,8k words)
Author's note: Happy new year and as Hyunjin said, let's continue to live life romantically ❣️
You’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as you can remember.
Not the vague kind of wanting, either—the kind that shifts shape every few years. You knew. Even when you were younger, scribbling stories in the margins of notebooks and filling entire pages with feelings you didn’t yet have words for, you knew this was what you wanted to do. You were always drawn to love stories. To the way emotions could be stretched, heightened, made beautiful on the page. You liked the idea of writing something that made people feel… things.
So you grew up and did it. You became a writer. A romance writer, of all things.
You sit in your chair now, feet tucked beneath you, laptop warm against your thighs, and watch the cursor blink at the top of a blank page. This part should be easy. It always is. You know how to write longing. You know how to pace desire, how to make a single look feel like a promise. You know how to build a love story that burns slow and ends soft.
What you don’t know—what you never quite figured out—is how to live one.
You scoff quietly and lean back, the chair creaking in the silence of your apartment. Another night, another deadline, another fictional couple about to fall into each other’s arms right on schedule. Meanwhile, the room around you is still, unromantic in a way that feels almost deliberate. You’re still in your pajama pants. The coffee on your desk has gone cold. The crumpled papers spilling out of your trash can. Dirty dishes piling on your sink.
You write bestselling romance novels under a pseudonym. Spicy ones. The kind that get passed around group chats and dog-eared on bedside tables. Readers tell you your stories feel real. They assume you must know exactly what you’re talking about—love, intimacy, being the one true love and all.
They don’t know your name. Not the real one, at least. They don’t know that the person behind the words is sitting alone in an apartment that smells faintly of stale coffee, wondering when exactly her life veered so far from the stories she’s so good at telling.
You stare at the paragraph you wrote earlier and feel something twist in your chest. You highlight it and press delete.
Your life has never looked like this. No grand gestures, no cinematic confessions. Just routines and deadlines and the dull, persistent awareness that you are very good at writing romance and very bad at finding it.
The cursor blinks, wating. You exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys, and try to convince yourself that this is enough. That wanting something since you were young doesn’t mean you’re entitled to all of it. That writing about love still counts, even if it doesn’t happen to you.
Still, the thought lingers, quietly and uncomfortably.
You always believed in romance. You just didn’t expect it to feel so far away.
-
Once you’ve done the dishes, you feel a lot better and ready to get back to work.
You open a new document beneath the abandoned chapter and type a name you’ll probably change later. Male Lead. Placeholder. Temporary. You crack your knuckles and try again.
He needs to exist first, you tell yourself. The rest will follow.
You close your eyes for a second, letting the image form the way it usually does. You imagines a man leaning against a doorway. Rings on his fingers. Ink curling up his forearms like secrets he doesn’t bother hiding. There’s an ease to him, a confidence that isn’t loud but feels inevitable. Someone who looks like trouble in the way that makes people lean closer instead of stepping back.
Your fingers move as you picture him. You give him a crooked smile, a voice that carries a laugh even when he’s serious. You imagine the way he’d look at the his love interest like he already knows how the story ends.
There’s a faint thrill in your chest, the familiar hum of creation, of possibility. This is the part you’re good at—building someone from nothing, shaping desire until it feels real enough to touch.
Then, your phone rings. You flinch, eyes snapping open, the image dissolving instantly. The name on the screen pulls you fully back into your apartment, your chair, your life.
Hyunjin.
You answer without thinking. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless, like he’s juggling things. You can picture him with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, one hand on the espresso machine, the other probably reaching for a cup. “I hate to ask you last minute, but—are you busy?”
You glance at your laptop, at the half-formed man on the screen who will still be there later. “Not really.”
“Could you maybe pick up Archie from daycare?” he asks. “I got held up at the shop. Delivery issue. I’ll owe you. Again.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. “You already owe me, like, ten times.”
“I’ll make it eleven.”
You laugh softly, pushing your chair back as you stand. “Yeah, I can do that. I was going to take a break anyway.”
“That’d be amazing,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “Thank you. He’s probably been asking when you’ll show up.”
“He always does,” you say, fondness slipping in uninvited. Archie has a habit of spotting you before anyone else, face lighting up like you’re part of his routine—which, somehow, you are. “I’ll head out now.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Hyunjin says. “Seriously.”
“I know,” you teasingly reply with a sly smile.
You hang up and grab your keys, casting one last look at the screen before closing your laptop. The male lead stares back at you, unfinished, waiting.
-
The walk to the daycare is short, just a few blocks away, but you take your time anyway. The air outside feels cleaner than the stale quiet of your apartment, the city moving at a gentle, late-afternoon pace around you. You pass familiar storefronts, cracked sidewalks you’ve memorized without meaning to, and you feel your shoulders loosen with every step.
Picking up Archie is always like this—an excuse to step out of your head.
By the time you reach the daycare, you’re already smiling, and it only grows when you spot him inside. He sees you before you even open the door, face lighting up so brightly it almost feels unfair to everything you were brooding over an hour ago.
“You came!” he says again, like it’s a surprise every single time.
“Hi, Archie,” you softly greet, crouching down as he barrels into you, all elbows and enthusiasm. His laugh is loud and unfiltered, the kind that doesn’t worry about being too much.
Archie is a mini version of Hyunjin — dark shiny hair, small eyes, small face and even the whisker dimples that appears when he deeply smiles. In other words, he’s just as beautiful as his dad and you doubt that the mother had any part in it except for brought Archie to the world.
Walking home with Archie is your favorite part. He slips his small hand into yours, swinging it slightly as you head down the sidewalk together. The sun is lower now, bathing everything in a soft, forgiving light and he starts talking almost immediately.
“And today we had painting time,” he says, words tumbling over each other, “and Miss Laura said mine was very good but I got paint on my shirt but that’s okay because it was blue and blue is Daddy’s favorite color and then—oh!—and then we played dinosaurs and I was the big one and Leo was scared but not really scared—”
You hum and nod, letting him ramble, asking small questions at the right moments.
There’s something precious about the way he talks, like every detail matters because it does to him. His excitement is infectious, pure and uncomplicated, untouched by expectations or disappointment. You listen intently, smiling when he laughs at his own story, when he stops mid-sentence because he’s remembered something even more important.
Archie’s world is simple in the best way. Today was good. He painted. He played. He laughed.
That’s enough.
As he talks, something inside you quiets and all of your worries fade into the background. This easy companionship, this small joy — feels like a kind of rest you didn’t realize you needed.
A mental snooze, you think, smiling to yourself.
By the time the apartment building comes into view, Archie is still talking, still animated, still very much five years old and wholly himself. You squeeze his hand gently, grateful for the break, for the moment, for the way something so simple can make the world feel softer.
You don’t think about romance once on the walk home and maybe that’s exactly why it feels so good.
-
You let yourselves into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare key he gave you months ago. Archie kicks off his shoes by the door without being told, backpack abandoned in the exact spot it always ends up. You follow suit, slipping out of yours and setting your bag down, already moving through the space like it’s your own apartment.
You know his routine by heart at this point. Snack first—apple slices today, because that’s what he asked for on the walk home. Wash hands. Cartoon on low volume while he settles. By the time you pull the coloring book from the drawer in the coffee table, he’s already climbing onto the rug beside you, crayons scattered between you like confetti. You stay with him like this while the afternoon drifts into evening, coloring shapes that don’t stay inside the lines and praising every choice like it’s the right one. Archie narrates as he goes, explaining why the dinosaur is purple today and why the sun has a face.
The front door opens just as you’re deciding whether the sky should be green or blue.
“Daddy’s home,” Archie announces casually, not bothering to look up.
Hyunjin steps inside, the door closing behind him with a tired sigh. His long dark hair is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, loose strands escaping around his small face. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with coffee grounds and the evidence of a long day. He looks exhausted in that specific way that only comes from being on your feet since dawn.
The fatigue softens instantly when he sees you and Archie, a warm smile spreading across his face as his eyes move from you to his son sprawled happily at your side. “Hey,” he says gently. “Daddy’s home.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Archie replies, still coloring, still firmly seated next to you.
Hyunjin pouts from the lack of enthusiasm. “That’s it? No running hug? No ‘Daddy!’?”
You bite back a smile while picking the color of the crayons.
Hyunjin drops his keys onto the counter and makes a show of sighing. “Wow. I see how it is.”
You keep coloring, glancing up at him briefly. “Tough crowd.”
He crosses his arms, pretending to think. “Well, I guess if you’re too busy to say hi, maybe you’re also too busy to have your favorite food for dinner.”
Archie gasps, drops the crayon, and scrambles to his feet, sprinting across the room. He crashes straight into Hyunjin’s legs, arms wrapping around him without hesitation.
“No! I want it! I want it!” he insists.
Hyunjin laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and squats down to gather his son into a proper hug, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Who wants chicken noodles for dinner?”
“Me! Me! Me!” Archie enthusiastically shouts, raising his hand in the air.
Hyunjin presses a quick kiss to his temple and then brushes the hair stuck to his forehead. “Then tell me about your day.”
Archie launches right back into his stories, just as animated as before, hands gesturing wildly as Hyunjin listens, nodding, murmuring encouragement, entirely focused.
You watch them for a moment, something warm blooming quietly in your chest but decide to interrupt.
“Hey, do I get chicken noodles for dinner too?”
Hyunjin looks up at you, still crouched, still smiling. “Of course.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer at the same time, voices overlapping.
-
Dinner is easy in the way only familiar things are.
Hyunjin sits across from you, shoulders slumping a little now that the day is over. He looks softer like this, hair still in its messy bun, exhaustion worn openly instead of tucked away behind customer smiles and polite conversation. He thanks Archie for waiting before taking his first bite, listens patiently as his son talks with his mouth half-full, gently reminds him to chew.
Hyunjin wasn’t always this version of himself. You know that. Two years ago, before you moved into this building, his life cracked open. A divorce that didn’t explode but still left wreckage. A toddler who suddenly became his whole world. He doesn’t talk about it often, only in small, honest pieces when it comes up naturally. You know enough to understand that it wasn’t bitter—just sad. That sometimes things don’t survive, even when people try. You fall in love and that means, you can fall out of love too.
Now he’s a single dad, doing his best, owning a coffee shop three blocks away. The place is an extension of him—warm, welcoming, unpretentious. The kind of café where people linger without being rushed, where names are remembered and regulars are greeted like friends.
That’s how you met him, actually.
Your first day in the apartment building, arms full of boxes and memories, the knock came before you’d even figured out where the mugs went. Hyunjin stood outside your door with a basket of pastries balanced on one arm and two cups of coffee in the other, Archie tucked against his leg like a shadow.
“Hi, we’re your next-door neighbors,” he’d said, smiling a little shyly.
“I’m Hyunjin and this…” he placed a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Archie.”
You remembered offering a warm smile at them as you introduced yourself back to them. Then, you crouched down to his Archie’s level to greet him. “Hi, Archie. I hope we can be friends.”
Archie had taken one look at you and decided, immediately, that you were safe. He’d clung to your leg like you’d known each other forever, peeking up at you with wide eyes while Hyunjin apologized profusely. You hadn’t minded. Not even a little.
Somehow, that moment became the foundation for everything that followed. You’ve been living next to each other in quiet harmony ever since—borrowing things, sharing food, watching Archie when shifts run late. It was never something you sat down and defined. It just… happened. Slowly. Naturally.
After dinner, Archie sits patiently while you dab at the sauce smeared around his mouth with a napkin. He squirms, protesting more out of habit than anything else, and you laugh quietly as you catch the last stubborn streak on his chin.
“All clean now,” you announce.
Hyunjin is already moving around the kitchen, stacking plates, rinsing them before setting them in the sink. The space feels smaller when he’s in it—occupied in a comforting way. You stand halfway, instinctively ready to help.
“I’ve got it,” he assures you.
You hesitate, then settle back into your chair, watching as he works.
There’s something unhurried about the way he does things, even when he’s tired. He doesn’t rush through motions; he finishes them properly.
“Archie,” he says gently, glancing over his shoulder. “Wash up and change into your pajamas, yeah?”
“Okay, Daddy,” Archie replies, sliding off the chair and padding down the hallway.
The apartment goes quieter once he’s gone, the absence noticeable in the best way. Hyunjin turns back to you. “Coffee?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Actually… do you have something harder?”
He snorts, entirely unimpressed. “Decaf it is.”
You chuckle softly. “I didn’t say yes to that.”
“You didn’t say no either,” he counters, already reaching for the coffee canister.
You watch him as he scoops the beans into the grinder, measuring by instinct rather than sight. His sleeves are still rolled up, forearms relaxed as he grinds the coffee patiently, listening to the sound like it tells him when it’s ready. He pours the grounds into the filter, taps it just once to level it, then slowly starts pouring hot water over it. The coffee blooms, dark and rich, dripping steadily into the pot.
Hyunjin is handsome in a way that sneaks up on you. Not flashy. Just… solid. Familiar. His profile softened by concentration, his movements careful and practiced. You’ve watched him do this countless times, but it still feels oddly hypnotic—like witnessing a ritual.
You lean your chin into your hand. “You know,” you say lightly, “you could just give me instant coffee and save yourself the trouble.”
He looks at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Where’s the romance in that?”
You scoff and lean back on your chair. “Pfft… Romance? But that’s my job. I’m the one who writes romance books, and look at me.”
That earns his attention as if he’s just remembered something. “How’s the writing going? Did you start the new one yet?” he asks, tone casual but curious.
“Barely. I keep trying, but everything feels off. Ideas slip away before I can grab them.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I think it’s because my life lacks romance.”
Hyunjin hums, noncommittal, as he pours the coffee into two mugs.
“I’ve been single for years,” you continue, words spilling easier now. “I barely go out. I sit at home and write about love all day, and the only thing I share my bed with is my laptop. There’s nothing romantic about that.”
“What you do is romantic,” he says calmly, handing you a mug.
You roll your eyes. “My readers would think I’m a fraud if they knew who I really am. How I live.”
He smiles at that, unfazed. “So what do you expect to happen, then?”
You take a sip, thinking. “I don’t know. I just think that it’d be a good time for my dream man to walk into my life.”
He chuckles, almost teasing. “What, a knight in shining armor? A prince on a white horse?”
You glare at him. “Dead wrong.”
“Oh?” He leans against the counter, amused. His eyes are on you, giving all of his attention.
You straighten slightly, warming to the idea. “Someone different. Someone confident. I don’t mind a tattoo or two. Piercings, maybe. Creative. A little reckless. Someone who feels like he stepped out of a story.”
Hyunjin laughs. “I’ve got at least three regulars like that at the shop.”
“I am not shopping for men at your coffee shop,” you say, scandalized.
Before he can reply, small footsteps thunder down the hallway.
Archie reappears in a dinosaur onesie, arms raised proudly. “Look!”
You coo immediately, setting your mug down and kneeling. “Oh my god. You’re too cute.”
You lean back just enough to take a good look at Archie, noticing the way he’s almost outgrown the onesie — proof of how much he’s grown. “Please, stop growing up! You have to stay like this forever,” you murmur as you pull him for tight hug.
“No!” Archie protests. “I wanna be big. Bigger than Daddy.”
You grin, then stand as you realize it’s time for you to leave so the boys can settle gently into the night. “I should head back. You’ve got bedtime duty.”
You hug Archie tightly, wishing him goodnight, then turn to Hyunjin. “Goodnight.”
You walk up to the counter, picking up the mug to take it home with you.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin says quietly. “For today.”
“No worries,” you reply while raising the mug of coffee. “I live right there.”
It really is just across the hall.
Your apartment greets you with its familiar clutter—notes, books, your open laptop waiting where you left it. You sigh, sinking back into your chair, fingers finding the keyboard again.
This time, you don’t scoff. You take a sip of your coffee and start to write.
-
Morning arrives with a dull knock cutting through the haze of sleep.
You groan, lifting your head with effort, neck stiff from the angle you fell asleep in. Your chair creaks as you shift, and the screen in front of you flickers awake when your knee nudges the desk. The cursor blinks insistently in the middle of a paragraph, proof that you were writing right up until sleep claimed you without permission.
Figures.
The knocking comes again, firmer this time. You glance at the clock on your screen and wince. Too early. Definitely too early. You scrub a hand over your face and push yourself up, legs protesting as you stand. Your reflection in the darkened laptop screen is… rough. Bed hair pointing in every direction, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and clinging, glasses still abandoned somewhere on the desk.
“Coming,” you call out, voice hoarse with sleep.
You gather your hair into a messy bun with one hand, shove your glasses onto your nose with the other, and shuffle toward the door, bare feet dragging softly across the wooden floor. In your foggy head, the picture is already formed—Hyunjin on the other side, coffee in hand, apologetic smile ready, probably here because he needs your help to take Archie to kindergarten.
The knock comes again.
“I said—coming,” you mumble, fingers fumbling with the lock.
You twist the knob and pull the door open. You freeze because it is not… Hyunjin.
It’s someone else entirely. Someone with a gummy smile, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Someone with overgrown dark, permed hair falling into his eyes, silver glinting faintly at his ears. Tattoos peek out from the sleeveless top he’s wearing, ink curling along skin like it belongs there. He looks awake in a way you decidedly are not—alert, amused, taking you in with a slow, curious glance.
For one disorienting second, you wonder if you’re still asleep at your desk.
“Uh,” he says, lips quirking. “Hi, I’m your new neighbor.”
Your brain lags behind the moment, scrambling to catch up. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair a mess. Heart doing something inconvenient.
This—this is impossible.
Because standing in front of you, framed by the hallway light, is someone who looks alarmingly like the man you were imagining just hours ago.
The dream man.
-
For a second, you just stare at him.
Your brain refuses to cooperate, still caught somewhere between sleep and the impossible coincidence unfolding in front of you. He shifts his weight slightly, waiting, the hallway light catching on the silver at his ears.
“I’m Han,” he says, like this is normal. Like he didn’t just step straight out of your half-written chapter.
“I moved in just now. Next door.” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment beside yours. “I was wondering—do you happen to have a hammer I could borrow?”
A hammer. The word floats around uselessly in your head.
“Oh—uh—yeah,” you say finally, far too late. “I think so. I mean. I think I do. Somewhere.”
Without giving him time to respond or yourself time to think, you turn and retreat back into your apartment.
The door closes behind you, and you stop in the kitchen, gripping the counter. You glance at your reflection in the microwave door and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. Messy bun threatening to collapse. Glasses slightly crooked. Old, faded T-shirt. Bare feet. Absolutely not the first impression you imagined giving your dream man. You groan softly, then remember—he’s still waiting.
Right. Hammer.
You drop to your knees and rummage through the bottom cabinet, dragging out a dusty toolbox you don’t even remember buying or having. You flip it open, hopeful for half a second. No hammer.
You sigh, push yourself up, and head back to the door. Han is still there, patient waiting with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, flustered all over again. “I don’t actually have one. But—I know someone who does.”
He smiles easily. “Lead the way.”
You cross the hall before you can overthink it, unlocking Hyunjin’s door and letting yourself in like you always do.
Hyunjin is at the counter, packing Archie’s lunch into his backpack with practiced efficiency. “Hey,” he says without looking up. “Coffee’s—”
You clear your throat. “Uh—Hyunjin?”
Hyunjin turns and pauses when he sees someone else with you.
Han steps forward slightly. “Hey. I’m Han. The new neighbor.”
Hyunjin blinks once, then smiles politely. “I’m Hyunjin. And this is Archie.”
Archie looks up from the sofa where he’s wrestling with his socks. “Hi,” he says cheerfully.
Han waves. “Hey, man.”
“I just needed to borrow a hammer,” Han adds.
“Sure, just give me a second,” Hyunjin says immediately, already heading down the hallway.
While he’s gone, you suddenly find the ceiling very interesting. The floor, too. Anywhere but Han. You drift over to Archie instead, crouching down to help him tug his sock over his heel.
“Your sock’s inside out, buddy,” you murmur.
“It’s fine,” Archie says seriously.
Hyunjin returns with the hammer, handing it over. “Bring it back whenever.”
“Thanks,” Han says. “Appreciate it.”
Then he’s gone, door closing softly behind him.
The second it clicks shut, you straighten and practically vibrate.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” you freak out, flailing your hands and pacing the room.
“Did you see him?” you whisper fiercely. “Hyunjin, that’s him. That’s exactly him. I literally described someone like that last night. Tattoos, piercings—this could be it. This could actually be it. Romance might finally be—”
Hyunjin doesn’t say much, moving around the apartment, grabbing Archie’s jacket, checking his bag. You keep talking anyway, words tumbling out unchecked.
“And the timing? He just shows up? Like that?”
He finally stops, crouching to help Archie into his shoes. “You can tell me the rest later,” he says gently. “We’re going to be late.”
“Oh. Right.”
He gestures toward the counter where the coffee pot rests. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Archie hops off the sofa and walks over to you. “Bye.”
You kneel and hug him tight. “Have the best day, okay?”
“Okay!”
Hyunjin grabs his hat and jacket, ushering Archie toward the door. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he says to you.
“I won’t. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
The door closes behind them, leaving the apartment quiet again. You stand there for a moment, coffee steaming on the counter, heart still racing.
Next door, somewhere beyond the wall, Han exists.
And suddenly, romance doesn’t feel so far away after all.
-
The next few days pass in a strange, quiet blur.
You don’t mean to observe him at first. It just… happens.
You start noticing patterns the way you always do when you’re building a character—small details that stack up without you realizing you’re collecting them. The sound of a door opening down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. A low hum of music bleeding faintly through the walls at odd hours.
Han leaves his apartment late in the mornings, usually when you’re already awake but pretending not to be. You learn this by accident the first time, standing in your kitchen with a mug of coffee cooling in your hands when you hear his door open. You peek through the peephole without thinking, and catch a glimpse of him slipping his jacket on, keys already in hand.
After that, you notice it more.
Some days he leaves closer to noon, hair still damp like he showered in a rush. Other days, it’s earlier, sunglasses perched on his head even when the sun isn’t particularly bright. There’s a guitar case slung over his shoulder more often than not, stickers peeling at the edges like it’s been everywhere with him. Not sure if he plays guitar as a hobby or it’s his job or… he’s in a band. Either way, you like the fact that he plays guitar.
Then, you start recognizing the sound of his return, too. The way he unlocks his door without fumbling. Sometimes it’s early evening. Sometimes it’s well past midnight, the hallway quiet and dim when he finally comes home. On those nights, music filters faintly through the wall—something fast and chaotic, not loud enough to be intrusive, just present enough to let you know he’s there.
You pass him in the hallway once, hands full of groceries. He flashes you an easy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply, a little too quickly.
Another time, you’re both waiting for the elevator. He smells faintly of smoke and soap, a combination that shouldn’t work but does. He asks how your day’s been. You say “good” even though you’ve spent most of it staring at a blinking cursor.
Sometimes you hear him humming under his breath when he locks up. Sometimes he nods at you with a tired grin, like you’re already familiar.
Nothing progresses. Nothing happens. But you notice everything anyway.
The days settle into a rhythm that now includes him, threaded quietly through your routine. You find yourself timing your coffee refills, your trips out, your walks to the mailbox, hoping that you might run into him. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.
At night, when you sit back down at your desk to write, the male lead in your book starts to look a little different. His habits more specific. His movements more familiar. You tell yourself it’s coincidence.
Still, when you hear Han’s door click shut down the hall, you pause mid-sentence every time.
Just for a second. Just long enough to wonder.
-
By the third day, you stop pretending it’s accidental. You know his timing now—give or take five minutes. So you wait by your door, already dressed, laptop bag slung over your shoulder like an alibi. You ditch your glasses in favor of contacts, smooth your hair, take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Different. Awake. Presentable. The kind of person who looks like they might casually exist in the same world as someone like Han.
You intently listen through the door and right on cue, you hear the soft click of a lock down the hall.
You give it two seconds, just enough to make it believable and then step out into the hallway, locking your door behind you with practiced ease. You keep your face calm as you press the elevator button.
Against the pulse drumming in your ear, you can hear his footsteps approaching.
“Hey,” Han says first, voice easy.
You turn, heart jumping anyway. “Hey.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. He steps aside, holding the door for you. “After you.”
“Thanks,” you mutter as you step in, standing a little too straight as he follows.
The doors slide shut, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, enclosed in a space that feels far too small for how aware you are of him. Silence settles and you can only hope he can’t hear the way your heart beating out of your chest.
You inhale quietly, then force yourself to speak. “That’s a guitar, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the case on his back.
He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “Yeah. I’m in a band. Kinda lame, though.”
You chuckle despite yourself. “I don’t believe you.”
He grins. “Yeah, me neither.”
The elevator hums as it descends. He looks at you. “You heading somewhere?”
“Yeah,” you say, grateful for the question. “Going to do some writing at the coffee shop.”
“Oh.” He raises his brows. “You’re a writer?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“What kind of stuff?”
To say that you write romance kind of… uncool. You hesitate for half a beat—just long enough to decide. “Just some lame books.”
He laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “Welcome to the club then.”
The elevator chimes, doors sliding open onto the lobby. He steps out first this time, glancing back at you. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Outside, you part ways—him heading down the street in the opposite direction, guitar case bouncing lightly against his back. You turn toward Hyunjin’s coffee shop, heart still racing, a smile you don’t bother hiding tugging at your lips.
Nothing monumental happened. No sparks. No declarations. But it feels like a win anyway.
You know something new about him now and somehow, impossibly, he feels even cooler than before.
-
Madeleine has been a staple of the friendship between you and Hyunjin. He brought a basket full of them when he first introduced himself to you and you gushed to him about how delicious they were the next day.
Since then, Hyunjin always has madeleines waiting for you in the coffee shop, baked specially for you. He slides a tray onto your table with a soft clatter—still warm and dusted lightly with sugar, a cup of freshly brewed coffee steaming beside them. He’s in his apron, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied into a messy bun that’s halfway given up after the morning rush.
“So,” you start immediately, leaning forward like you’ve been holding this in your lungs the entire walk here, “I talked to him.”
“Mhm,” Hyunjin hums, already turning to grab a stack of abandoned mugs from the table next to yours.
“In the elevator,” you add. “Casual. Natural. Effortless. Very rom-com coded.”
“That’s great,” he says, distracted, balancing cups in his hands.
“And he’s in a band,” you continue, lowering your voice like it’s a secret meant only for the two of you. “A band, Hyunjin.”
He pauses just long enough to glance at you. “Is he?”
“Yes. Guitar. Very cool about it too. Like, oh, this old thing energy.”
Hyunjin exhales through his nose, amused despite himself, and resumes gathering dishes. “And you’re already sure he’s your great romance?”
You nod emphatically. “I know.”
“How?” he asks, genuinely curious now.
You blink at him. “Duh. I’m a romance writer.”
He snorts. “Right.”
“I can feel these things,” you insist. “The timing. The vibe. The guitar case. It’s all very—meet-cute adjacent.”
Hyunjin sets the cups down behind the counter and looks at you. “So are you actually planning to write today, or did you just come here to gush about Han?”
“I am writing,” you defend quickly. “I just need inspiration first.”
He arches a brow. “Does that mean you came here just because you wanted to run into him again?”
You grin, unrepentant. “I came for multiple reasons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And one of them,” you add, reaching for a madeleine and taking a bite, “is your coffee. And these. Which are amazing, by the way.”
That finally gets him—a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the skepticism. “Flattery won’t save you.”
A customer steps up to the counter, and Hyunjin straightens, slipping smoothly back into barista mode. “Be right with you,” he says before glancing back at you. “Write something. Don’t just stare at your screen.”
“I’m trying,” you shoot back.
He shakes his head fondly and turns away. You open your laptop, the familiar glow lighting up the table, coffee warm under your hands, crumbs dusting the page of your notebook.
You let Hyunjin fade into the background again—the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of the shop settling into its late-morning rhythm. Your fingers finally move, words spilling onto the screen in uneven but earnest lines. It’s not perfect, but it’s something, and something is better than the blinking cursor that haunted you all night.
You’re mid-sentence when a ripple of giggles drifts in from the table beside yours.
“…I’m telling you, he’s so handsome.”
“And a single dad,” another voice adds, breathless. “That’s, like, illegal.”
You quietly glance over the next table, two girls leaning close, whispering like they’re sharing state secrets, eyes flicking not-so-subtly toward the counter where Hyunjin stands as he warmly chats with a customer. He laughs at something, head tipping back just slightly, and the girls nearly lose it.
You press your lips together, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Of course. Of course Hyunjin draws this kind of attention. He exists in soft mornings and warm smiles and freshly brewed coffee. He lives romance without trying, while you—ironically, tragically—sit here writing about it like it’s a distant myth.
A flicker of jealousy settles in your chest, gentle but undeniable. Funny, isn’t it? You think. The one who writes love stories hasn’t lived one in years, while the man steaming milk three feet away inspires them just by existing.
-
Archie’s hand is warm and a little sticky in yours as you walk him to kindergarten, his backpack bouncing with every step. He’s talking about a game they played yesterday, about how today he might get to be the line leader—and you hum and respond at all the right places, smiling because this is easy. This part always is.
You stop just outside the gate where his teacher is already waiting, clipboard tucked under her arm, cheerful as ever. She greets Archie by name, and he lights up like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
You crouch down, smoothing his hair with your palm before pulling him into a hug. “Have fun, okay?” you say softly.
“I will!” he promises, already half-turned toward his friends. He waves at you with all the enthusiasm a five-year-old can muster before being gently ushered inside, and you wave back until he disappears through the door.
Only then do you straighten, exhaling. As you start the walk home, you pull out your phone and text Hyunjin.
Archie’s in school. Safe and happy.
You don’t expect an instant reply, knowing that Hyunjin will be too busy to even check his phone. You slip the phone back into your pocket and continue down the sidewalk. Enjoying the way the city quiets down as most people have already settled into their routine — work, school, business to do.
You slow when you see a hair salon sits on the corner, the owner flipping the sign on the front door to ‘Open’. You glance at your reflection in the glass without meaning to—messy bun, familiar length, the same look you’ve had for… how long, exactly?
The thought lands quietly, then blooms. Maybe it’s time for a fresh cut.
Not because of certain someone. Not because of a guitarist next door or the way your heart keeps doing stupid things lately. You scoff under you breath, shaking your head.
Before you can overthink it, or talk yourself out of it, you reach for the handle and step inside.
Almost an hour later, you walk out of the salon feeling… lighter and also strangely exposed.
The cut sits differently against your neck, unfamiliar when the breeze slips past it. You keep catching your reflection in car windows as you walk—tilting your head, squinting, deciding you don’t hate it, deciding you’re not sure yet.
Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing yourself altered. Maybe it’s the quiet fear that you’ve changed something you can’t quite take back.
You check your phone and find a reply from Hyunjin.
Your treats are ready, ma’am.
-
The café is calmer than the morning rush—no frantic office workers lined up three-deep, just a handful of people lingering at tables. Someone reads a newspaper by the window. Someone else scrolls on their phone, coffee cooling between their palms.
You step inside and wait at the counter while Hyunjin finishes filling an order. He moves with practiced ease, apron tied snug around his waist, hair pulled into that familiar messy bun that always looks like it took zero effort and somehow still works.
When he finally looks up, he pauses just a second too long. But you catch it immediately.
Your hand flies to your hair. “Why? Is it bad?” you blurt out before he can say anything.
Hyunjin tilts his head, still can’t decide.
Your insecurity creeps in. “That bad?” You ask, anxiously touching your hair.
Hyunjin blinks, then shakes his head. “No. It looks good on you. You look beautiful.”
The knot in your chest loosens almost instantly. You smile, small and a little shy, fingers still brushing the ends of your hair. “Thanks.”
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a tray, the smell of freshly baked madeleines drifting up between you. “What do you feel today? Milk or no milk?” he asks, knowing that your coffee’s preference is based on your mood.
An idea comes to mind at the sight of the warm, sweet-smelling madeleine. You hesitate but before you can second-guess yourself, you shake your head.
“Actually, can you pack those to go? And… make two coffees?”
Hyunjin arches a brow, curious but amused. “Two?”
You nod, feeling something spark under your skin. Determination, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.
“I’m done waiting for romance to happen,” you say, half-joking, half-serious. “I think I want to try making it happen instead.”
Hyunjin studies you for a moment—really looks at you, at the new haircut, the way you’re standing a little taller than usual.
Then he smiles as he repeats your order. “Romance to go, coming right up!”
-
Your palms are a little sweaty around the paper bag and the two coffee cups as you stand outside Han’s unit, heart thudding like it’s trying to break free of your ribs.
You rehearse a few openings in your head. Something cool, something effortless, something that says it’s all casual instead of the fact that you’ve been overthinking it for ten minutes straight.
After a moment, you settle simple. Hey, I came here to drop these.
You mentally rehearsed the sentence in your head. You inhale, then knock.
You can hear music bleeding through the door, it’s loud and chaotic, it’s impossible for him to hear you knocking. You knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. By the third knock, you’re practically pounding.
Finally, the door swings open. Han smiles the moment he recognizes you.
“Hey, I—”
But then he turns and walks back inside, door left open behind him. No explanation, no pause.
You stand there for half a second, wondering if you’re supposed to follow or… You settle on the former, stepping into his apartment on hesitant feet.
It’s… exactly what you expect. Bare in places, cluttered in others. A guitar leaning against the wall. Jackets tossed over a chair. A very single-man kind of space.
He crosses the room and turns the volume down on the record player, the music softening into something you can finally hear without it rattling your bones.
“Sorry,” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear you knocking.”
“It’s fine,” you reply quickly, trying to sound like you didn’t nearly talk yourself out of this. Your eyes drift to the record player. “What’re you listening to?”
“It’s one of my favorite bands.” He lifts the sleeve so you can see it.
Sex Jerkers. The band name makes your eyebrow raises for a second, definitely never heard of them. You lean in anyway, nodding like this is extremely familiar territory.
When he straightens, he looks at you expectantly. “So… can I help you with something?”
Right. This. The reason you’re here.
“I came here to drop these,” you say it casually like you didn’t rehearse it in your head for the last ten minutes. “Coffee and some warm madeleines.”
“Oh—thanks. That’s really nice of you.” His expression softens, gesturing toward the counter. “You can put them there.”
You do, carefully setting everything down. And then… nothing. Your mission is complete. You hover, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned beyond deliver baked goods. Well, you kind of imagined that he’d tell you to have a set and enjoy the goods together.
But Han is pacing now, grabbing his keys, checking his phone. Definitely getting ready to leave.
“Are you heading out?” you ask, aiming for casual again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m late for band practice.”
“Oh,” you reply, nodding. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
You turn toward the door, ready to make a graceful exit—only to stop short.
Han pulls his T-shirt over his head like you’re not even there. Not even the slightest bit of hesitance. Then, it’s just skin, warm and honey skin—toned, solid, tattoos spilling over his right shoulder and down his side. Too bad you can’t read the rest of the tattoo as it’s disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans that is… slung low… on his hips. Your eyes pivot to the way his pelvic bones narrowing down to—
You gulp and look away immediately. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He chuckles, soft and easy. He grabs a clean T-shirt and seamlessly puts it on. “I should be the one apologizing. Didn’t exactly treat you like a proper guest. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, mortified and flustered and very aware of your pulse. You step toward the door to get out of his way.
He grabs the coffee cup, lifting it slightly. “I’ll eat the cookies later. Thanks again.”
You nod, mumble something that might be no problem, and the two of you step out into the hallway together. You move toward your door, suddenly very invested in unlocking it slowly and calmly like a normal person.
Before you can, Han steps closer and gently catches your arm. The contact is brief—but it sends a jolt straight through you.
“Next time,” he says, raising the coffee cup with a grin, “it’s my treat.”
Then he’s gone, striding toward the elevator. The doors slide shut, and he flashes you one last smile before disappearing.
You wait until you’re safely inside your apartment to let out a squeal.
God. That was a rush.
You press your hand to your arm where he touched you, where the warmth lingers, skin buzzing like it’s been struck by lightning.
And a tad bit romantic.
-
Your desk feels familiar again, the half-finished sentence blinking patiently at you like it knows you’ll come back eventually.
Out of curiosity, purely out of curiosity—you open a browser tab and type in the band name Han mentioned. You click the first result and—
Chaos.
Loud, unfiltered, crashing straight into your apartment like it owns the place. It’s messy and raw. You let it play, tapping your fingers against the desk, imagining Han in the middle of it all—guitar slung low, lost in the noise.
You didn’t hear it until you see the door swings open.
“What god-awful sound is that?!”
Hyunjin stands in your doorway, jacket still on, keys dangling from his fingers, face twisted in genuine offense.
You shrug as you stand from your chair, entirely unbothered. “Why? It’s cool.”
His forehead wrinkles like you’ve just spoken another language. He opens his mouth and closes it, then sighs. “Can you turn it down? I need to tell you something.”
You grin and comply, pausing the music. The sudden quiet feels loud in comparison. You turn to face him properly.
“Thanks,” he says, then clears his throat. “So uh…”
“Yeah?” you ask, letting him know he has your full attention.
“Archie has a school play this weekend.”
“Oh,” you say, immediately brightening.
“It’s this Saturday. He asked if you’d come.”
“Yes,” you answer without even thinking.
Hyunjin blinks. “You don’t have to if you’re busy.”
You wave him off. “Romance can wait for a day.”
That earns you a soft, fond chuckle from Hyunjin. He holds his hand out at you, showing you a foil-wrapped packet he’s been holding in his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Egg sandwich,” he says. “Archie asked me to make it. I figured I’d make one for you too.”
The second you feel the warmth and catch a whiff at it, you tear the foil open and take a bite, humming immediately, eyes fluttering a little at how good it is.
“This is so good,” you say, mouth full, completely unashamed.
Hyunjin shakes his head, amused. “Enjoy it.”
He heads back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Saturday. Ten a.m.”
“Saturday, ten,” you repeat, still chewing.
You hear his laugh—warm, real—just before the door clicks shut behind him.
You swallow, smile to yourself, and sit back down at your desk, crumbs on your fingers and music still paused on your screen.
Everything feels… full. In a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.
-
You don’t usually dress like this.
Most days, you live in comfort and practicality—things you can sit in for hours, things that don’t demand to be seen. But tonight, you have to put a little effort as you have a meeting with your agent which guarantee an adult conversation that doesn’t involve coffee orders or five-year-old bedtime routines.
You settle on a simple dress, just enough to feel intentional. A little color on your cheeks, concealer to cover the sleep you didn’t get, a swipe of lipstick to brighten the whole look. You study yourself in the mirror for a second longer than usual, then decide it’s good enough.
When you step out into the hallway, the elevator arrives like it’s been summoned on cue.
The doors open to reveal Hyunjin and Archie—hands linked, a grocery bag hooked over Hyunjin’s arm.
“Hold it!” you call, hurrying forward.
Hyunjin reaches out and keeps the doors open without a second thought.
Archie looks up at you, eyes going wide. “You look beautiful. Like a princess,” he says, completely earnest, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
You stop short, flustered. “Thank you so much, Archie,” you reply softly, smiling at him.
Hyunjin glances at you but his eyes seem to betray him as they sweep over you, head to toe and back to your face. Something flickers across his face before he masks it with a small smile. “Where are you heading?”
“Meeting my agent,” you say, already stepping into the elevator. “And I’m running a little late.”
As the elevator descends, you press your back lightly against the wall, heart still fluttering—not from nerves about the meeting, but from the way Archie’s voice had sounded so sure.
Beautiful. Like a princess.
You breathe out slowly and straighten your shoulders.
Tonight, at least, you believe it.
-
The bar is dim in that intentional way. You sit across from your agent, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around a glass of water you ordered on purpose, laptop bag tucked neatly by your feet.
She flips through her notes while you talk. You tell her about the new book. The premise, the tone, the themes you’re circling. You don’t give away too much, just enough to prove that the story exists, that it has potential, that you’re not stalled even if it sometimes feels like you are.
She listens, nodding, humming thoughtfully. “Okay,” she says eventually, satisfied. “It’s taking shape. I can hear it.”
Relief loosens your shoulders and the meeting winds down quickly after that.
She checks her phone, grimaces. “I’ve got another thing I need to run to.”
“That’s fine,” you say, already gathering your bag.
“But,” she adds, standing, “you’re having a drink before you go.”
“Oh—no, I wasn’t planning to—”
Too late as she steers you toward the bar with a firm hand on your elbow like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Sit,” she says, pointing to a stool.
You sigh but comply, sliding onto the seat. You don’t plan on drinking as you have Archie’s play to attend tomorrow and you can’t show up with a hangover.
She flags down the bartender with a sharp lift of her fingers. “Make her your finest cocktail. And don’t let her leave until she finishes it.”
“I really don’t need—” you start.
Then you hear the bartender’s voice. “Got it.”
You turn on your stool and Han stands behind the bar. Your brain short-circuits so hard you almost laugh.
Your agent doesn’t notice as she’s already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Enjoy,” she says cheerfully, before disappearing into the crowd.
Han lifts an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips as recognition settles in. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, eyes locking onto yours.
“Clearly,” you manage.
He reaches for a shaker, smoothly pouring the concoction into it. “Guess I’ve been instructed not to let you escape.”
His gaze flicks back up to you, amused. “I’ll make sure of it.”
You realize, somewhere between the ice clinking in the shaker and the easy way Han moves behind the bar, that you’re barely paying attention to the drink in front of you.
You watch him instead. The way he takes orders, leaning in just enough to hear people over the music. The way his hands work automatically, confident, practiced. He looks like he belongs here in a way that’s different from the next-door neighbor Han, and the contrast makes your chest feel tight in a way you’re still learning to name.
When he finally comes back to you, he glances at your glass. “You haven’t finished it,” he says, mock-serious. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
Your cheeks warm but you quickly say, “No, the drink is fine.”
You convince him by taking a small sip of it, wincing at the sourness biting at your tongue.
He smirks and tilts his head. He drops his voice just a notch as he adds, “or are you just trying to linger?”
That does it. You straighten on the stool, flustered. “I—no. I mean—yes, it’s good. The drink. It’s good.”
He grins like he’s won something.
“So,” you say, eager to redirect, “do you work here?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies. “Lame band by day, lame job by night.”
You laugh. “You really love that word.”
He shrugs. “How about you?”
“I was meeting my agent,” you say. “Talking about my lame book.”
That earns you a soft chuckle. “Seems like we’re both very successful people.”
Somehow, your glass is empty before you realize it. Han notices immediately.
“Another?” he asks.
You hesitate—then decide you’re already here, already buzzed, already smiling more than usual. You’re sure one more drink won’t be a problem. “Okay. Just one more.”
He makes it while looking at you this time, not rushing, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. When he’s done, he grabs another glass and pours something for himself.
“Wait,” he says.
You pause with your hand wrapped around the glass.
“I’ll be drinking with you this time,” he says, taking a glass and pouring liquor into it.
He raises his glass toward you. “Cheers.”
You clink glasses, take a sip, feel warmth bloom low in your chest.
“So,” he says, leaning forward on the counter, close enough that you can see the little mole on his cheek, “you gonna tell me about this book?”
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the dim lights. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he actually wants to know.
You smile, slow and teasing. “If I tell you,” you say as you lean forward, “I’d have to kill you.”
He laughs and it’s loud and unguarded. “Didn’t know you were like this.”
You bite your lip, surprised at yourself too. “Neither did I.”
And for the first time, you realize you’re not pretending.
This version of you—the one flirting back, the one lingering on a barstool, the one letting romance exist without trying to write it into shape—she’s real and she’s having fun.
The flirting settles into something easy from there. Small smiles, lingering looks, the kind of banter that hums quietly beneath the noise of the bar. Han leans in when he talks to you. You laugh a little more than usual. Time slips by without either of you really noticing.
When he gestures toward your glass again, eyebrow lifting, you already know what he’s going to ask. “Third round?”
You hesitate—then shake your head, regretful but firm. “I can’t. I’m a lightweight. If I have another, I’ll be drunk.”
“Then I’ll take you home,” he easily says with a smirk and crinkle in his eyes. “Perks of being neighbors.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You smile and honestly, tempted because you want to say yes. You want to stay. To keep talking, keep hovering in this warm, buzzing space between possibility and intention.
But you remember Archie’s play and you promised Hyunjin that you’ll come.
“I really can’t,” you say gently. “I promised someone I’d be up early.”
Han nods, understanding settling in without complaint. “Fair.”
“I should close my tab,” you add.
“I’ve got it,” he says, already reaching for the register.
You insist anyway, sliding your card across the counter. He gives in with a soft laugh, hands it back once everything’s done.
“Get home safe,” he tells you.
You smile. “I will. Thank you.”
As you step away from the bar, you glance back just in time to see him disappear into the crowd—slipping between bodies, back into the rhythm of the place like he was never yours to begin with.
Your heart is still racing as you head for the door.
And somehow, you’re okay with that.
-
The kindergarten hallway is chaos in its purest form.
Parents crowd every available inch, teachers herding small bodies in mismatched costumes with the patience of saints. You weave your way through it all, scanning faces until you spot Hyunjin exactly where he said he’d be—standing just outside Archie’s classroom, hands in his pockets, looking only mildly overwhelmed.
You reach him and grab his arm. “I’m here, I’m here.”
He turns, breaks into a smile, and immediately hands you a tumbler. “For you.”
You scoff, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Figured you’d need it.”
Soon enough, the teacher starts ushering everyone toward the small auditorium. You and Hyunjin end up in the middle rows, close enough to the stage that Archie will be able to spot you, close enough that Hyunjin keeps glancing around like he’s trying to mentally map every possible angle.
A couple seated nearby turns toward him. “You’re Archie’s dad, right?” the man says.
Hyunjin stands to greet them, and you rise automatically with him, offering a polite smile. The woman looks between the two of you, eyes warm with curiosity. “I’ve seen you picking Archie up a few times,” she says to you. “Are you his mom?”
“It’s okay,” Hyunjin assures her easily, and after a few more pleasantries, they return to their seats.
You and Hyunjin sit back down. You lean in, whispering, “Did she thinks I look old enough to have a child?”
He snorts softly. “And you’ve only realized it now?”
You elbow him without thinking.
He yelps—loud.
“Shh,” he stage-whispers immediately, rubbing his side. “It’s about to start.”
The lights dim, chatter quiets, and the curtain begins to lift.
Archie stands there in a tiny bunny costume—floppy ears slightly crooked, face paint smudged just enough to make it even cuter. You bring a hand to your mouth without realizing it, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He’s so cute.”
Beside you, Hyunjin is already in full dad mode. Camera up. Finger clicking nonstop. Leaning forward in his seat like he can somehow get closer through sheer will alone. You stifle a laugh as you watch him, completely unapologetic, documenting every second.
Then Archie’s eyes scan the audience and the moment he spots you and his dad, his whole face lights up. He sings louder. Dances harder. Arms swinging with enthusiasm that has nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with being seen.
This is what people meant when they say showing up matters. You feel something warm bloom in your chest as you wave subtly, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.
Hyunjin lowers the camera just long enough to catch it too, eyes shining.
The performance is chaos in the best way—off-key singing, uneven dancing, pure joy radiating from the stage and when it ends, the room erupts into cheers.
Everything feels full. Loud. Soft. And dare you say… kind of romantic.
-
Lunch turns into a small celebration without anyone needing to say it out loud.
The three of you sit around the dining table, plates of spaghetti in front of you. You keep gushing about the play because how could you not? You’re telling Archie how amazing he was on stage, how brave, how cute, how the bunny ears were the best part. You reach over with a napkin, gently wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.
Hyunjin watches the whole thing with a quiet smile, elbow propped on the table, eyes soft.
Archie, meanwhile, tries very hard to act cool about the praise. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just steal the entire show.
“Do you know how cute you were with your bunny ears and painted nose?” you ask, dabbing the spaghetti sauce on his chin.
“I know,” Archie answers without a beat.
You and Hyunjin exchange a look, both surprised and amused before letting out chuckles.
Then, Archie looks at his dad. “Daddy, can I have ice cream after this?”
Hyunjin doesn’t even blink. “I think you have enough for today, don’t you think?”
Archie frowns.
You lean forward on the table, leaning close to Hyunjin. “But he worked really hard. Plays are exhausting.”
Archie’s eyes light up. He turns fully toward Hyunjin and puts on his best puppy eyes, voice dropping into a soft, pleading whine. “Pleaaase?”
You join him, tilting your head, widening your eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you. His resolve lasts exactly two seconds.
“…Fine,” he sighs. “Ice cream.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer in unison.
Hyunjin shakes his head, defeated but smiling as he’s walking to the fridge to get the hard-earned ice cream for the three of you.
The afternoon stretches gently after lunch and nap time always wins. Hyunjin gently lays Archie into his bed, adjusting the blanket, brushing hair from his forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little.
In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water, suddenly aware of how tired you are—how keeping up with a five-year-old is a full-body workout.
Hyunjin joins you, voice low. “Can I have a glass?”
You nod, pour another glass, and the two of you settle back at the dining table, shoulders relaxed, the day finally catching up.
“So,” he says casually, “how’s the romance going?”
You snort softly. “Straight to it, huh?”
He shrugs.
You tell him about last night. About meeting your agent. About Han. About the drinks, the flirting, the way it felt different from anything you’d expected. How the whole thing felt serendipitous.
Hyunjin listens, then smirks. “Didn’t think you even knew how to flirt.”
You smack his arm lightly.
He yelps quietly this time and immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, glancing toward Archie’s room.
“Worth it,” you whisper.
He grins. “So what happens next?”
You shrug, staring into your glass. “I don’t know. Potentially, a date? I just… don’t know if he’ll ask.”
“What do you even like about him?” Hyunjin asks, genuinely curious.
“He’s cool but also… hot,” you pause to let out a shy giggle. “He’s confident. I like how he carries himself, the intensity.” You start listing things you like about Han but it all sounds familiar even as you say it.
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “You know a lot for someone you’re not close with.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m getting there.”
He smiles, satisfied. “Good luck then.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but soft. The kind that settles after a good day. But then reality nudges you — writing to do, book to finish.
“I should go,” you say, pushing yourself up your chair.
“Wait a second,” Hyunjin says, getting up from his chair and reaching for his bag.
A while later, he returns with a paper in his hand and hands it to you. From the glasses and the way he colored the hair the same as yours, you believe it’s Archie’s drawing of you.
“His teacher shared the drawings Archie made at school,” Hyunjin shares.
When you look up from admiring the drawing, you find Hyunjin’s eyes on you, soft and earnest.
“Thank you for coming today,” he says quietly. “Archie was sad his mom couldn’t make it. It meant a lot to him that you came. To me.”
Your throat tightens, not expecting that your presence meant a great deal to someone. “You know I’d do anything for Archie,” you say honestly. Then, playfully, “Not for you.”
He chuckles. “Sure.”
You fold the drawing and hold it close to your chest. “I’m going, okay?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods but there’s this look on him that seems reluctant to let you leave.
You linger by the doorway to flash him a smile and say bye. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”
Hyunjin grins. “I’ll try.”
You walk out of his apartment, cross the hall and step back into your own. Before sitting down to write, you stick Archie’s drawing on the wall next to your desk. Every time you stop and see it, you can’t help but smile.
-
It’s Wednesday’s afternoon and you’re tucked into your usual corner at Hyunjin’s coffee shop, laptop open, fingers moving steadily. Words blur into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages. You don’t realize how long you’ve been there until you lift your cup and find it empty. You frown at it like it personally betrayed you because you really need the caffeine.
Before you can stand, a shadow falls over the table. Hyunjin appears, already setting down a fresh cup of coffee and a small tray of madeleines, warm and dusted lightly with sugar.
“Oh—thank you,” you say, looking up.
He just smiles, then takes your empty cup and disappears behind the counter.
You take your first sip, humming softly in approval, when you hear the giggling. As expected, a group of girls by the counter accept their drinks from Hyunjin, whispering to each other, cheeks flushed, eyes following him a little too obviously. You shake your head with a fond kind of disbelief.
Hyunjin is completely oblivious to the effect he has on people — girls, specifically.
The door opens and your brain stalls when you see the person who’s just stepped into the coffee shop. Han with sunlight briefly framing him before the door shuts behind him. You don’t know why your first instinct is to duck, but you try anyway—lowering your head, hiding behind your laptop like that’s going to save you. Too late though as his eyes land on you instantly and flashes you a smile.
Shit.
He heads to the counter and you watch as he and Hyunjin exchange pleasantries before taking his coffee order — Ice Americano, less ice with extra shot. While waiting, Han walks straight over and drops into the chair across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You smile but it comes out a little stiff. “Hey,” you weakly greet.
He flashes you his gummy smile. “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Writing,” you say casually, like your heart didn’t just kick into a faster rhythm.
“Can I see?”
You scoff. “I’d still have to kill you.”
He chuckles softly, then goes quiet. He looks at you, noticing something on you. “You cut your hair.”
Well, you cut it like days ago but it feels nice that he finally noticed it. You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of it. Of how it sits today. Of how you styled it without thinking much about why.
“It looks good,” he says.
Before you can respond, Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the shop. “Han!”
Hearing his name on Hyunjin’s lips makes something odd twist in your chest.
The chair scrapes as Han stands. “That’s me.”
He excuses himself to grab his coffee, and the second his back is turned, you glance at your laptop screen—using the dark reflection to fix your hair, smooth it behind your ear, adjust yourself just enough.
When Han comes back, you pretend to fiddle with your laptop.
He stops by your table again with a coffee in his hand. “Hey, uh—my lame band is playing at this bar on Friday. I’d love for you to come.”
He tilts his head and playfully adds, “If you’re up for seeing a lame band.”
You chuckle, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I’d love to see your lame band.”
“It’s Friday night,” he adds.
“Friday night,” you repeat, nodding.
“I’ll see you then,” he says with a smile, satisfied, then heads for the door.
You wish him a good day, and just like that, he’s gone. You wait exactly three seconds before abandoning your table and marching to the counter.
“Oh, my God. Did you hear that?” you whisper-rant at Hyunjin, who’s cleaning the espresso machine.
“What? I only heard him ask you to see his lame band,” he says.
“He asked me out.”
Hyunjin pauses. “That’s… not what I heard.”
“It’s indirect,” you insist. “But it… is.”
He hums, unconvinced. You decide to ignore that part entirely and focus on the important thing—you were right. You’re getting closer to Han.
“That’s good then,” Hyunjin says with a small smile before moving away to hand off another order.
You don’t let yourself think too hard about his reaction but walk back to your chair. You stare at your laptop, trying to continue writing but your mind is already elsewhere.
Friday night. What to prepare. What to wear. What to expect.
-
Friday night arrives faster than you expect.
You stand in front of your mirror longer than usual, tugging at fabric, tilting your head, changing your mind twice before settling on something that feels right. Something special but not loud about it. Effortless, you tell yourself. Like you didn’t think about this all week.
You smooth the material down, check your reflection again. Good. You look like yourself. Maybe a slightly braver version.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, face-down, and your heart does a stupid little jump even though you haven’t checked it yet.
You’re buzzing, restless, excited. For the past two days, your imagination hasn’t given you a moment of peace.
You imagine walking beside Han down a dim street, shoulders brushing. You imagine him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes finding you in the crowd and staying there. You imagine him stepping offstage, a little flushed, walking straight toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. You imagine drinks. Laughter. The easy kind that comes from being a little buzzed and a little brave. You imagine him leaning in close at the end of the night, voice low, mouth warm against yours. You imagine him coming back to your place. You imagine—
You stop yourself with a sharp inhale, heat rushing to your cheeks.
Okay. Enough.
You shake your head, laugh under your breath, and turn back to the mirror. You adjust your hair, add one last touch. Just enough to feel confident. Just enough to feel like tonight matters.
You don’t need to imagine anymore. You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself, and smile.
Tonight, romance is going to happen.
-
The bar is louder than you expected.
Not bad—just… a lot. The music vibrates through the floor, bass-heavy and messy, and Han’s band takes the stage with confidence that makes the crowd cheer before they even start. You watch him from where you stand near the back, guitar slung low, hair falling into his eyes. He looks good up there like this is exactly where he belongs.
You smile. You really try to.
But as the set goes on, you realize you’re not listening for the music anymore—you’re listening for how it makes you feel. And the feeling never quite arrives. The songs blur together, loud and chaotic, and while the crowd is jumping and shouting lyrics back at him, you’re nursing your drink and wondering how long you’re supposed to stay before it’s polite to leave.
When Han finally comes offstage, he’s flushed and glowing, adrenaline still buzzing through him.
“Did you like it?” he asks, hopeful.
You nod. “Yeah. You were great.”
And he was. That’s the frustrating part.
He introduces you to his friends and they’re loud and affectionate but already halfway drunk and suddenly you’re bar-hopping, squeezing into cramped spaces, shouting conversations over music you don’t know.
Han keeps a hand at your lower back, guiding you through the crowd, ordering drinks without asking what you want.
It’s not unkind. It’s just… unfamiliar.
At one point, you’re sitting on a sticky barstool, watching him laugh with his bandmates, and it hits you—this isn’t a date. You’re not being chosen. You’re being folded into his night.
You thought you knew him. Or maybe you thought you wrote him.
The version of Han in your head is quieter, more attentive, someone who’d lean in to hear you speak instead of leaning away to greet someone new. You realize, with a strange calm, that none of that is fair—to him or to you.
When he finally looks back at you and asks, “You good?”
you smile and say, “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s the truth. Just not the whole one.
Later, when he walks you home and kisses your cheek instead of your lips, you feel relief instead of disappointment.
When you close your door behind you, the silence feels kinder than the noise ever did. You sit on your bed and laugh softly to yourself. Not because it went badly. But because it didn’t go wrong—it just didn’t go right.
You don’t cry. You just stare at the wall and think about how you’re going to need time to understand what that means.
-
The days after Friday blur together quietly.
You’re back at your desk, laptop open, fingers moving more out of habit than inspiration. The room is dim except for the warm pool of light from your desk lamp, the kind of night where the world feels paused just enough for thoughts to get loud.
You’re mid-sentence when a knock sounds at your door. Your heart jumps—annoyingly hopeful, annoyingly wary.
You move to the door, peeking through the peephole first because you’re not ready. Not ready to see Han. Not ready to smile politely and pretend you didn’t dismantle an entire version of him in your head.
Thankfully, it’s Hyunjin.
Relief washes through you so quickly you almost laugh. You open the door and step aside to let him in. “Hey, come in.”
He softly smiles when he sees you, but there’s something else there too—a quiet concern that sits just beneath the surface.
“So Archie is at his mom’s,” he says instead, lifting the plastic bag in his hand. “And I can’t finish all these dumplings myself.”
You smile and usher him toward the kitchen. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“Thought I’d share the burden,” he replies easily.
You eat in comfortable silence, the clink of chopsticks against plates filling the gaps. It feels grounding, the simplicity of it.
After a while, Hyunjin glances at you and asks, “How’s the book going?”
“I’ve been writing a lot lately,” you simply answer.
“Is that why I haven’t seen you much?”
You nod.
He hums, accepting it, and the quiet settles again—this time heavier, waiting. Then, gently, “How was the date?”
You sigh before you even realize you’re doing it. Your shoulders slump, and you stare at your plate for a moment longer than necessary before finally speaking.
“I think I’m stupid,” you say, letting out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “For believing there’s such a thing as a dream man.”
Hyunjin’s expression sharpens, not with judgment, but concern. “Did Han do something?”
You shake your head. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not him.”
“Then who?”
“My expectations,” you say quietly. “I projected this whole character onto him. Built this romance in my head and expected it to just… happen.”
You laugh again, but it’s hollow. “So I guess that’s on me. Maybe I don’t deserve romance after all.”
Hyunjin’s chair scrapes softly as he shifts closer. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady, rubbing small, comforting circles into your back.
“What makes you think that?” he asks gently.
You don’t answer right away.
“You’re so busy looking for romance,” he continues, “that you don’t realize how romantic the things you do already are.”
You turn your head to look at him, comforted but unconvinced, and he notices. He always does.
“I watch you work and know how hard you worked on your writing.”
You scoff lightly. “You’re biased.”
“And your book,” he adds. “It feels warm. Like… it cares about people.”
You shake your head. “How would you even know?”
He hesitates for half a second and admits, “I read it.”
You snort. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he insists, smiling sheepishly. “Archie always wants to know what I’m reading, so I keep it in my bedside drawer and only read it before bed.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, shaking your head but warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.
Then Hyunjin’s hand moves from your shoulder to your jaw. He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.
“You’re amazing,” he says, looking straight into your eyes. “You write beautifully. What you create entertains people. It warms them. What could be more romantic than that?”
Something in you cracks open—not painfully, but softly. Your heart trembles at how genuine he is, how steady, how sure. How he knows the words you needed to hear.
You place your hand over his and lean into his touch. “Thank you,” you whisper.
For a moment, the two of you staying like that, sitting in a comfort that doesn’t need imagining to exist.
Another moment later, you rinse the last plate and set it carefully on the rack while Hyunjin dries his hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter like he belongs there—like he always has.
“Oh,” he says casually, as if it just crossed his mind. “I’m taking Archie to the aquarium this weekend.”
He adds quickly, a teasing lilt in his voice, “I know there’s absolutely nothing romantic about going to the aquarium with a divorced dad and his kid. But… I thought it might help take your mind off things a little.”
It is a good idea since you’ve been cooped up in the apartment for the last few days but still, you pretend to consider it for a moment just to tease him. Then you break into a smile and nod, “…Yeah, I’d like that.”
Hyunjin nods, clearly pleased but pretending not to be. “Cool. I’ll pack lunch,” he says, already planning. “You can treat us to ice cream.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”
“Nope.”
You sigh dramatically. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
When everything’s done, he pauses and leans over the dining table, hands propped against it. “Are you going to continue writing tonight?”
“It seems like it, yeah,” you answer.
“Just… make sure you rest too,” he says.
You promise with a nod, even if you’re not sure you’ll keep it.
At the door, you thank him again and reach for the handle, but before you can open it, Hyunjin gently pulls you into a hug. It’s long and tight, like he’s trying to pass something to you through sheer closeness. Warmth. Comfort. His real, solid presence.
You don’t resist. You melt into it, arms wrapping around him, breathing him in, catching the faint smell of coffee clinging to his clothes. It feels nice. Too nice.
When you pull back, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay on you, just enough to keep you close. Your eyes meet and for a split second, something sparks right in your chest.
Hyunjin swallows, then murmurs, “Goodnight.”
Only then does he let go.
“Goodnight,” you breathe back, still a little breathless as he steps out and the door clicks shut behind him.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart thudding, unsure of what just happened—
Only that it stole your breath anyway.
-
The aquarium entrance looms ahead, glass doors glinting under the sun, and Archie is already bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands are warm in yours, small fingers threaded tightly as he wedges himself between you and Hyunjin.
“Ready?” Hyunjin asks, glancing down at him.
Before either of you can answer, Archie jumps.
You and Hyunjin instinctively lift your arms, hoisting him up for a few seconds, his laugh bursting out loud and uncontained before you set him back down.
“Again!” Archie demands immediately.
You exchange a look with Hyunjin, his mouth already twitching with a smile and do it again. And again. Until Archie’s laughter turns into breathless giggles and the line starts moving.
The moment you step into the aquarium, Archie goes quiet. His eyes widen, reflecting the blue glow of the tanks as fish glide past the glass like living brushstrokes. He lets go of your hand without warning, darting forward with a gasp.
“Wait—Archie!” you call, hurrying after him.
He presses his face close to the glass, pointing excitedly, words tumbling out too fast for you to catch. You slow him down, gently steering him from tank to tank, trying and failing to keep pace with his excitement.
Behind you, Hyunjin lingers, unbothered. He lifts his camera, capturing the way Archie’s mouth drops open in awe, the way you crouch beside him, explaining fish names you half-remember.
“Are you even helping?” you call over your shoulder.
Hyunjin chuckles, snapping another photo. “You’re doing great.”
You shake your head, breathless and smiling, while Archie tugs at your sleeve, already dragging you forward. In the next exhibit, you take the camera from Hyunjin without asking, fingers already curling around the familiar weight of it.
“Hey—” he protests.
“It’s your turn!” You say as you aim the camera at him.
Then Archie gasps, pointing at the massive tank ahead, and Hyunjin lifts him up without another word. Archie settles easily in his arms, one small hand braced on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he leans closer to the glass.
Schools of fish glide past them, slow and hypnotic, and something bigger passes in the shadows, making Archie suck in a sharp breath.
“Dad,” he whispers, reverent.
You raise the camera and Hyunjin doesn’t even realize you’re taking pictures at first. His head is tilted slightly toward Archie, his arm secure around him, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against Archie’s back.
There’s a softness in his face you don’t see often—unguarded, fond, full in a quiet way. You press the shutter again and again, capturing the warmth of it, the way love looks when it’s lived in.
When Hyunjin finally glances over and notices you, he raises an eyebrow. “You done?”
“Not even close,” you say, snapping one last photo as Archie laughs at something swimming past.
You move on to the touching pool after that, Archie skipping ahead while sucking on a juice box, already announcing to anyone who’ll listen that there are baby sharks inside.
You peer into the shallow tank, watching the small, sleek shapes glide through the water. “I don’t know about this.”
Hyunjin grins. “They’re harmless.”
You shake your head, folding your arms. “Easy for you to say.”
Without hesitation, Hyunjin rolls up his sleeve and dips his hand into the water. One of the baby sharks swims close, brushing past his fingers. He doesn’t flinch.
“See? Totally fine.”
Purely out of curiosity, you slowly lower your hand into the pool. The water is cool, your pulse loud in your ears as a small shark swims toward you. You watch it intently, holding your breath—
Hyunjin suddenly yelps and at the same time, his hand shoots out and grabs yours under the water.
You scream, jerking your hand back so fast you nearly stumble. “Hyunjin!”
He bursts out laughing, loud and unapologetic, doubling over as you stand there mortified, heart racing.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, slapping his arm again and again. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I couldn’t help it,” he laughs, failing to dodge your hits.
Archie giggles uncontrollably from the side, juice carton forgotten in his hand. “You scared her!”
“You’re both terrible,” you mutter, cheeks burning as a few nearby visitors glance over with amused smiles.
Hyunjin finally lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Worth it.”
You glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. Not with Archie laughing like that. Not with the warmth still lingering from the moment before. Still, you give Hyunjin one last slap for good measure.
“Absolutely not forgiven,” you say but you can see Hyunjin’s smile only goes wider.
By the time the three of you arrived home, Archie is completely out—head tucked under Hyunjin’s chin, mouth slightly open, limbs loose from a day filled with too much excitement and too much food.
You unlock the door into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare keys you have and hold it open while Hyunjin steps inside. He heads straight for Archie’s room, disappearing down the hallway, and you move to set the backpack down, lining up the jacket, placing the little sneakers neatly by the door.
The sight of Hyunjin’s camera catches your attention so you pick it up and allow yourself to sit on the sofa.
There are so many pictures of Archie—him pressing his nose to the glass, arms spread wide like he’s trying to become a fish; him crouching near a tank, mimicking the posture of a stingray; him baring his teeth proudly like the statue of the sharks next to him. You smile without realizing it.
Then there are photos of you and Archie together. One where you’re pointing excitedly at something in a tank while Archie looks up at you like you’ve just told him a secret. Another where you’re laughing, head thrown back, completely unaware.
You pause on one photo in particular of you standing slightly to the side, Archie right next to you, both of you staring at a tank full of glowing jellyfish. The light bathes everything in blue and violet, soft and dreamy.
It’s… aesthetic. Hyunjin takes beautiful pictures. Which also annoys you because he’s just so good at everything.
You scroll again and realize the next few are unmistakably the ones you took. You can tell because they’re not as composed. Slightly crooked. Too close. Taken with a kind of rushed affection.
You continue scrolling and then stop when you find a picture of you. Your face turned toward the glass, expression relaxed, almost thoughtful. The glow from the tank kisses your cheekbones, your eyes soft, unguarded. There are more like it—small moments, stolen from angles you didn’t know he was watching from.
They’re different. Taken with such great care. Tender. Almost… romantic.
“You know,” Hyunjin’s voice cuts in, amused, “I should’ve taken a picture of you freaking out at the touching pool.”
You yelp softly and turn, immediately slapping his arm. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs as he sits beside you on the sofa, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. You hand him the camera back, then lean into the cushions with a long sigh. “You know,” you say, staring at the ceiling, “your life is way more romantic than mine.”
Hyunjin tilts his head. “How is that so?”
You count them off without even looking at him. “You have a beautiful, loving son. You own a coffee shop. You brew your own coffee. You bake. You have… secret admirers. You take beautiful photos like this.” You gesture vaguely. “And that’s not even all of it.”
Hyunjin hums thoughtfully and then, narrows his eyes at you. “Secret admirers?”
You grin and bump your shoulder lightly against his. “The girls at the coffee shop. The giggling. The whispering. The very obvious swooning.”
He scoffs, trying to look indifferent. “I don’t notice that.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but you catch the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears.
You shift closer without really thinking about it—your legs tucked under you now, Hyunjin’s shoulder warm against yours.
Hyunjin clears his throat, then says, almost too casually, “You know… there are a few romantic things about you too.”
“A few, huh?” you scoff, turning toward him.
He smiles, that soft one he only ever wears around you, and leans back into the sofa. “A few. Yeah.”
You cross your arms together, unimpressed yet curious. “Let’s hear it then.”
“I think it’s romantic when you’re writing at the coffee shop,” he starts with a soft smile. “You don’t notice anything around you—your coffee going cold, people coming and going. The sunlight hits you just right and it’s like you’re… glowing. Like you’re somewhere else.”
Your breath catches, just a little. Not expecting that.
“I think it’s romantic the way you use words,” he continues. “You make people feel things. You make me feel things, even when you don’t realize it.”
You swallow because your chest suddenly feels tight.
“I think it’s romantic when you enjoy my coffee and my madeleines like they’re something special,” he adds, quieter now. “When you come over and I find you and Archie on the floor, coloring or laughing like you belong there.”
His eyes meet yours.
“And I think it’s romantic that you’re always there,” he says. “When I need help. When Archie needs someone. When I’m too tired to ask.”
The air between you thickens, crackles.
Then, softer, almost vulnerable, he says, “And I think… there’s something romantic between you and me.”
You smile shyly, heart stuttering. “You and me?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin doesn’t even try to hide it.
You decide to be playful about it. “Okay, I guess we’re… kind of romantic.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he leans in just a fraction, gaze deepening, voice dropping low and warm.
“Should we make it more romantic?”
Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But there’s no panic. No urge to pull away. Just this steady, grounding warmth like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
“I guess we can make it romantic,” you answer, breathless and a little trembling.
Hyunjin’s hand comes up gently, like he’s afraid of startling you, and then, the next thing you know, his lips are on yours, soft and plush. The kiss is tender, almost innocent, like a promise instead of a question.
You melt into it, eyes fluttering shut. Because this—
This feels romantic.
-
You pull away first, breath shaky, your hand flying up to cover your lips like you need to physically hold yourself together.
Hyunjin’s lips are a little swollen, a little red, still glossy from the kiss, and the sight of him looking worried like that almost makes you laugh. “What? Did that feel weird?” he asks quietly.
You’re still processing the way your heart is racing, the way your body feels warm and light and grounded all at once. Then you nod.
“It feels weird because…” you say honestly. “It doesn’t feel weird at all.”
He exhales a laugh, soft and relieved, shaking his head like he should’ve known better. He doesn’t rush you, rush this moment. Then, carefully, like he’s asking permission with every movement, he reaches up and brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger there, warm against your skin.
You don’t expect to feel this with Hyunjin, whom you’ve known for years and you’ve comfortably shared part of your life with. You hesitate for a second and then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can we uh… can we try again?”
His smile this time is slow, sure. “Yeah.”
You scoot closer, close your eyes, and lean in first. And you expect to feel his lips on you soon, but no. Instead, you feel his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks. He presses a kiss to your eyelid. Then the other. A soft one to your cheekbone. A lingering kiss along your jaw that makes your breath hitch.
When your lips part and a breathless gasp escaped your lips, only then does he kiss you again.
This time, you don’t hold back. The kiss deepens naturally, carrying you both somewhere heavier, warmer. Hyunjin leans in until you’re sinking into the cushions, the sofa dipping beneath you, his body braced carefully above yours—close, but never careless.
When he pulls away, it’s only to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, lower—each one slow enough to make your head spin.
You try to stay quiet. You really do. But the soft, breathless sounds slip out anyway.
He catches the last one with a kiss that steals what little air you have left. When he finally pulls back, he stays hovering above you, eyes dark, amused and tender all at once.
“You okay?” he asks.
You give him a shaky thumbs-up.
He laughs quietly, brushing your hair away from your face again. “Good.”
Then, his eyes look deeply into yours and says, “I know the part of me that says ‘divorced, single dad’ doesn’t sound very romantic.”
He punctuates it with a quick kiss to your lips. “But,” he adds, lingering close, his mouth grazing yours, “it does mean I’m pretty confident about the… spicy parts.”
He pauses, searching your face, the teasing replaced with care. “We can stop. Or we can move forward. It’s up to you.”
Still breathless, cheeks burning, you try to sound casual. “Yeah. I think we can… move on to the spicy part.”
He chuckles, clearly delighted, and you immediately cover your face with your hands, mortified.
“Don’t look at me.”
Instead of teasing you, Hyunjin scoops you up without warning.
You squeal, clapping a hand over your mouth as reality kicks in that Archie is sleeping. “Hyunjin—"
Your hands clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as he carries you down the hallway. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, heart pounding, warmth blooming everywhere.
“I’m just,” he adds softly, “trying to make it more romantic.”
Somehow, it already is with the way he carries you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and the care in it makes your chest ache.
Hyunjin lowers you onto the bed slowly, one hand braced beside your head, the other still steady at your waist like he’s afraid of letting go too soon. He hovers above you again, eyes searching your face, and then his lips find yours—soft at first, then deeper, dizzying.
It goes on like that. Kissing. Shifting closer. Bodies pressing together until the room feels smaller, warmer, filled with nothing but breath and heat and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.
It all starts to feel like too much in the best, overwhelming way. You pull back gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Hyunjin… give me a second.”
He immediately stills. “Yeah. Of course.”
He stays close but doesn’t touch, giving you space without leaving. You use the moment to really look at him. His eyes are softer up close. You trace the little mole under his left eye with your fingertip, your touch feather-light, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you press too hard. Your thumb brushes over his lips, plush and slightly swollen from kissing you.
You’ve known him for years, seen him almost every day, but never like this. Never this close. Never with this quiet, electric romance humming between you.
Hyunjin is so beautiful it steals the air from your lungs.
“God,” you murmur without thinking. “You’re… really beautiful.”
His mouth curves into a smile, shy and amused all at once. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Hyunjin shifts, sitting up. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.
Your eyes widen, heart pounding, you’re helpless under him and absolutely not complaining. You bring a hand to your mouth, biting back any sound as he shrugs the shirt off, exposing his toned arms, his chest, the quiet strength in the lines of his body. Heat rushes through you, settling everywhere all at once.
Hyunjin glances down at you, clearly enjoying the reaction, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” he asks softly, “what do you think?”
You swallow. “I’m thinking… a lot of girls would be really jealous of me right now.”
Something curious pulls at you then. Your hand reaches for him, hesitant, half-convinced he’s just a figment of your imagination. He notices immediately and takes your hand, pressing it flat against his chest.
“I’m very much real, yeah,” he jokingly says with a soft chuckle.
You touch him gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. “I didn’t expect this under the dad sweaters and barista apron.”
He scoffs lightly. “Hey. I look good in those.”
You meet his eyes. “Well, honestly, you look good in everything.”
That makes him smiles, soft and pleased. He leans down again, bracing himself carefully above you, and captures your lips in a long, deep kiss that pulls you right back under him.
And whatever line there was between romantic and something more… it fades quietly, willingly, as you let yourself follow him there.
You kiss him back just as eagerly, your hands roaming over his bare upper body. He feels warm and solid beneath your palms, soft skin over strength that makes your head feel light. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, slow and consuming, until you’re dizzy from it, until the room feels like it’s tilting.
When his hand drifts toward the opening of your blouse, a shaky breath slips out of you before you can stop it.
Hyunjin immediately stills, lifting his head to look at you. “You know you can stop me anytime, right?”
You shake your head quickly, flustered. “I—no. I’m just… shy.”
He scoffs playfully. “What, you think I’m hiding abs under here and you’re not?”
You laugh, the sound easing something tight in your chest, and that little moment of humor makes everything feel safer, easier. You lift yourself just enough to undo your blouse, and he helps you ease it off, careful and unhurried. Jeans follow, his first and then yours, movements clumsy but sweet as clothes are kicked aside and forgotten on the floor.
When there’s nothing left between you, reality hits all at once. You sit back against the pillows, arms crossed over yourself, legs tucked in shyly.
Hyunjin tilts his head, smiling. “What are you trying to hide from me?”
“The most un-romantic part of me,” you meekly answer.
He laughs softly before crawling closer anyway. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”
He gently moves your hands away, not rushing or forcing, just guiding until you’re lying bare beneath him. Your heart pounds, worry creeping in, all those quiet insecurities whispering at once.
But the way he looks at you… it’s nothing like you feared. His eyes trace you with awe, like he can’t comprehend it, like he can’t believe you’re real. His hands follow, touching you with reverence, slow and indulgent, making you shiver at the tenderness of it. He drags his hand from the base of your throat down the valley of your breasts, he rests his hand for a brief moment there on the ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of it with every breathe you take.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and the words sink deep, settling somewhere warm inside you.
His lips replace his hands, kisses pressed to your collarbone, under your breast, your navel, your hip. Each kiss is unhurried, lingering and each one making you more breathless than the last. You gasp softly as he moves lower, taking his time, clearly enjoying every reaction he pulls from you.
Hyunjin knows where you want him the most, but he doesn't give it to you. Not yet. With a smirk, he pulls away, knees propped against the bed. A hand reaches for your leg and lifts it, there isn’t slightest of hesitation as he presses a kiss to your ankle.
From there, he continues to make a trail of kisses down your leg until he's there, head hanging between your leg. He looks at you, making you wait in anticipation for what he’s going to do next.
You feel faint from how much you’ve been holding your breath and when his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt, a breathless gasp spilled out of your parted mouth.
Hyunjin begins by landing kitten licks between your folds, making you wetter than you already are. His tongue darting out, the hot and slick of it pressing on your clit before it moves in slow, circular motions.
You’re squirming under him, your hips lifted off the bed, seeking pleasure of his hot mouth on you, but the hand resting on your stomach, firmly holding you down, not letting you go.
When he finally looks up at you, lips flushed, eyes dark and playful, the heat of his attention alone is enough to make you squirm. He doesn’t waste another second but to dive back in, giving you more of those delicious curls of his tongue on your clit, between your folds, around the entrance. He plants his mouth on your clit, sucking at it in such gentleness and intention and it feels overwhelming, dizzying.
Your moans slip out before you can stop them and hurriedly press your lips together, aware that Archie is sleeping in the next room. You clamp a hand over your mouth, body tensing even though every nerve is screaming otherwise.
Saying Hyunjin’s name feels like dragging it out of your lungs, broken and whispered, and you tug at his hair in a desperate attempt to get his attention.
“Hyunjin…”
He doesn’t hear it at first. Or maybe he does, but he’s far too focused, far too intent on pleasing you with his mouth like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists. You’re helpless beneath him, caught between wanting him to stop and wanting him never to.
Your pleas dissolve into soft, ruined sounds, and you can’t even tell anymore what you’re asking for. Then everything inside you coiling, winding, overwhelming and when it finally breaks, you bite down hard on your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you fall apart in silence, every sensation crashing over you at once.
Hyunjin slows and then pulls back. He watches you with a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as you ride out the last of your orgasm, breath shaking, chest rising and falling.
Before you can even gather yourself, he’s above you again, one hand braced beside your head as he leans down and captures your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you have a taste of you lingering on his tongue and lips.
The two of you stay like that for a moment longer, just kissing with your body still humming as you drift down from the edge you’d just tipped over. Hyunjin’s mouth stays soft on yours, but there’s an unmistakable pull beneath it, a promise you both feel building again with every breath you share. There’s no denying that you’re both ready for what’s next.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. “Give me a second, yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shifts to the side. You watch him open the bedside drawer and there, next to his box of condoms is your book.
You laugh softly when you see it and reach for it before he can stop you, holding it up with a grin. “So you didn’t lie, huh?”
He doesn’t even deny it, just shrugs, a little sheepish, a little smug. You flip it open and spot the bookmarked part of the story. “Oh, you’re in the juicy part.”
“And I think,” he says, holding a condom in his hand now, voice teasing but steady, “we should catch up to it.”
You tuck the book away, suddenly shy all over again, and watch him with a kind of breathless awe as he takes his time, tearing through the foil packet and then carefully rolls the rubber down his stiff member.
When he looks up and catches you staring at his hard length, you don’t even bother pretending.
“I don’t think—” you start, then stop yourself, laughing softly. “It’s… big.”
His smile is easy, reassuring. “We’ll make it fit.”
The way he says it sends a shiver straight through you—half terrifying, half thrilling. You barely have time to react before he’s back with you, laughter and warmth knocking the air from your lungs as you both sink into the mattress again.
When he looks at you, his expression turns serious, tender. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, okay?”
You nod, and he takes his time—kissing you, touching you, grounding you—until your body softens, relaxes, opens to him without fear.
When Hyunjin finally settles between your legs, everything slows even more. He’s using his long, slender fingers to tease until you’re wet, drenched and only then, he begins using the tip of his cock to smear your essence all over your entrance. When he deems you're ready to take him, he aligns his cock and begins pushing into you.
The stretch, the sheer size of him, the sudden fullness — it’s overwhelming, not painful, just surprising. You cling to his shoulders, breathing through it, and he pauses immediately.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just—wow.”
“Should I continue?”
“Definitely, yes,” you eagerly answer.
Hyunjin slowly pushing the remaining length with utter cautiousness and care. A breath caught in your throat the moment he’s fully buried inside you and your hands clawing at his shoulders, needing time to adjust to him and so does he.
Hyunjin presses his forehead with yours, just existing, processing that you're both connected to one another now and when he opens his eyes, they found yours instantly. He smiles a soft smile and says, "Let's take it slow, mmh?"
You nod, agreeing to it with a long kiss on his lips. For a moment, the two of you stay like that, adjusting to each other, just existing in the moment.
When he finally moves, it’s slow, agonizingly slow as if he wants you to feel everything.
And you do. The closeness. The heat. The way his lips keep finding yours, as if he can’t help it. It feels so deeply intimate that you're shivering all over.
A sound slips out of you before you can stop it, and his eyes darken with amusement. “I like hearing your beautiful moans,” he murmurs against your lips. “But if you get too loud, Archie’s going to hear.”
You barely have the presence of mind to be embarrassed. “But it— it feels too good,” you admit breathlessly.
His smile is pure trouble. One hand cups your jaw. “Then I’ll just have to keep kissing you.”
He does exactly that, mouth never leaving yours as his movements grow surer, deeper, more confident. But the moans keep slipping out of your mouth in between kisses anyway as Hyunjin is rocking his hips in this fluid motions, his cock nudging you right in the spot.
You lose yourself in it—cling to him, wrap yourself around him, let the sensations take over until everything else fades.
“Hyunjin, I’m close,” your voice breaking against his lips
He smiles against your lips. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Then his hand reaches yours, slipping his fingers in the gaps and interlaced it together. He pins your interlocked hands next to your head as he adds more intensity and speed to his thrusts.
Soon, your moans turn into whimpers and cries against his lips but that seems to drive him further as he continues moving and taking you closer to your high. You cling to him, your legs wrapped tightly around him, not letting him go.
When the high finally crashes, you fall together. It’s messy, breathless, overwhelming. You shatter first, and he follows right after, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid to let go.
When it’s over, you’re still tangled together, fingers laced, foreheads touching, hearts racing in the same uneven rhythm.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. For now, it’s enough to stay exactly like this.
-
The room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing as Hyunjin lies close to you.
Hyunjin is already half-gone, sleep pulling him under with that unfair ease of his. His arm is draped around you like it belongs there, heavy and warm across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side. Every so often, he shifts closer in his sleep, instinctive, like he’s making sure you haven’t disappeared.
You’re too aware of everything—of the way his chest rises beneath your cheek, of how his face softens completely when he sleeps, lashes resting against skin that still holds a trace of warmth. He looks different like this. Younger. Gentler. Less guarded. Real.
You trace nothing, touch nothing, just watch and quietly imprinting it in the back of your head.
Your body is tired in the best way, pleasantly sore, deeply comfortable, but your mind won’t slow down. It keeps replaying moments—the way he looked at you, the way he asked instead of assumed, the way he held you afterward like this was exactly where you were meant to be.
Romance.
The word doesn’t feel stupid right now.
Hyunjin exhales, long and slow, and tightens his arm just a little, pulling you closer in his sleep. Your forehead ends up tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together without either of you meaning to. Your chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with something fragile and hopeful. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your hand, and for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t scare you.
For so long, you thought romance was something loud. Grand. Scripted. Something you had to chase or imagine into existence. Maybe you’ve found it.
And maybe, this time, it’s not something you made up.
-
You wake up slow, heavy-limbed, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t quite register at first.
The ceiling isn’t yours. That’s the first thing that feels off. The light is different too—softer, slipping in through unfamiliar curtains, painting the room in pale gold. You blink, disoriented, heart giving a small, confused jump before reality comes rushing back all at once.
Hyunjin. Last night. Everything.
A smile blooms on your lips before you can stop it, small and private and a little stunned. It lingers until you shift and feel cool sheets beside you. His side of the bed is empty.
Your chest tightens just a little as you turn, half-expecting the room to be empty, half-dreading the ridiculous thoughts that try to creep in, but then you see him.
Hyunjin stands by the wardrobe with his back to you, rummaging through hangers like this is the most normal morning in the world. He’s wearing only his jeans, hair still messy from sleep, sunlight spilling over his bare upper body like it’s intentional—like the universe is showing off.
You stay quiet as you don’t want to break this moment, eyes admiring the muscles on his back as he grabs a T-shirt, biceps flexing as he slips it on.
Then he turns and catches you watching. He doesn’t tease you. He just smiles. He crosses the room and climbs back onto the bed, moving carefully, like he’s aware you’re still half-dreaming.
You instinctively pull the duvet up to cover half your face, suddenly shy in that dazed, just-woke-up way, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good morning.”
You don’t answer. You just stare at him, eyes wide, still trying to reconcile this version of reality with the one you had yesterday.
He chuckles quietly. “Still weird?”
You nod.
He tilts his head. “Weird because it doesn’t feel weird?”
Another nod.
His fingers brush your hair back gently, but instead of stopping there, his lips trail to your bare shoulder. A kiss. Then your neck. Your jaw. Slow. Warm. When he finally kisses your lips, it’s brief and sweet, like punctuation instead of a question.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll give you time to process,” he says softly. “When you’re ready, come out. I’ll make breakfast.”
You nod again, the words still stuck somewhere in your chest.
Hyunjin presses one last quick peck to your lips, flashes you a smile that feels dangerously domestic, and slips out of the room.
The second the door clicks shut, you fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling, hands flying to your face as a muffled squeal escapes you. This is your life now and it’s real.
After a while, you decide you can’t stay buried in the bed forever, no matter how tempting it is. Reality has caught up to you whether you’re ready or not—so you sit up, rub at your face, and shuffle straight into the bathroom to fix whatever crime sleep has committed on your appearance.
You splash water on your face. Tie your hair. Stare at your reflection a little too long.
And then a very silly, very romantic thought slips in.
You step back into Hyunjin’s bedroom and drift toward his wardrobe. It’s annoyingly neat, everything folded and hung with care. You tug on a pair of his pajama pants that are much too long on you, the fabric pooling at your ankles, then a soft sweater that smells faintly like coffee and him.
You pad out of the bedroom slowly, still half-processing everything, when a door creaks open to your left.
Archie with his hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded as he rubs at them with tiny fists. He looks at you and you look at him. There’s a beat of silence where your heart politely panics.
Recognition dawns and his face breaks into a sleepy smile. “Oh. It’s you.”
He doesn’t question why you’re there, doesn’t question the clothes. In his mind, you’re just… you. A friend. Someone safe. Someone who belongs.
He reaches out and grabs your hand with surprising determination. “Come on,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “Let’s have daddy cook waffles.”
Before you can even respond, he’s already tugging you down the hallway, calling out, “Daddyyy!” like it’s the most important announcement of the morning.
The kitchen smells like coffee when you arrive. Hyunjin is by the counter, grinding coffee beans, sleeves pushed up, hair still soft and messy. He looks up at the sound of Archie’s feet stomping against the wooden floor and when he sees Archie dragging you along by the hand, something in his expression melts instantly.
“Morning, beautiful boy,” he says, warm and gentle.
Archie lets go of you only to climb straight into Hyunjin’s arms. Hyunjin lifts him without effort, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Did you sleep well?”
Archie mumbles something about sharks or jellyfish or some hybrid creature only his dreams can invent, probably mixing it up with the memories from yesterday’s aquarium trip and you smile to yourself, watching the way Hyunjin listens like it all makes perfect sense. Then his gaze shifts to you.
“How about you?” he asks, playful. “Did you sleep well?”
You lean against the counter, sweater sleeves hiding your hands, and smile back at him. “The best sleep I’ve ever had.”
Hyunjin’s lips twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to react too much.
Archie, meanwhile, has already moved on to his next priority. “Waffles,” he announces firmly.
“Yes, waffles,” you echo, immediately siding with him.
Archie grins and turns his full puppy eyes on his dad. You do the same, dramatically clasping your hands together like this is a life-or-death negotiation. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you, utterly outnumbered. “…I was going to make toast,” he starts.
“Nooo,” Archie whines.
“Please,” you add, not even pretending to be subtle.
He sighs, defeated, but smiling. “Fine. Waffles.”
“Yay!” You and Archie cheer in unison.
As Hyunjin moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients, brewing coffee, slipping seamlessly into this routine, you realize something quietly, deeply terrifying—
This doesn’t feel new. It feels like something you’ve been doing for a long time already and God, it feels romantic.
-
The morning is warm with the promise of spring that will arrive soon. Archie’s small hand fits in yours as you walk him to kindergarten. He’s chatty as usual, talking about his funny classmate and the pet fish in his class and how his dad promised his favorite food for dinner later, and you listen, smiling, nodding, feeling strangely at home beside him.
Arrived at the gate of his kindergarten, you kneel to straighten his jacket and he hugs you without hesitation.
“Have the best day ever, okay?” you say when you pull away, patting his cheek gently.
He eagerly nods and raises his hand for a wave. “Buh-bye,” he says with his whisker-dimpled smile before disappearing inside with his teacher following closely behind him.
You walk back alone, heart light. You pull your phone out and compose a text: Mini Hyunjin is safely at school.
When you step into your apartment, your phone buzzes with his reply: Big Hyunjin is baking your treats.
You smile at the screen, something fond settling in your chest: Big??!!!
Hyunjin’s reply comes in an instant: You said it yourself. Remember?
Your mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Just a quiet shock. You used to be scared of this, of this change, afraid that everything else will change as well. But nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels different in a way that’s scary. He’s still the next-door neighbor who own a coffee shop. You’re still the writer with deadlines and empty coffee cups. Archie still needs to be walked to school. Coffee still tastes the same. Yet everything feels new and more… romantic.
You grab your laptop and just as you’re about to start typing, a knock echoes through the space. You freeze for half a second and then walk to the door. When you open it, you’re genuinely caught off guard.
Han stands there, coffee tray balanced in one hand, a paper bag of pastries in the other. He smiles when he sees you, easy and familiar, like he’s always belonged in your doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “I brought coffee.”
You blink once. Twice. Then you step aside, opening the door wider.
“Oh—yeah. Come in.”
A moment later, the two of you are in the living room, coffee cups warming your hands, pastries spread out on the table. There’s a little bit of everything in the bag.
“I couldn’t remember what you got me that day,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “So I just… panicked and bought all of them.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot.”
After a while, you add, “but I appreciate it.”
It goes quiet for a moment until Han clears his throat. “Haven’t seen you much lately,” he says. “Figured you were either busy writing or… avoiding me.”
You shake your head quickly. “Just busy. Writing.”
He nods, accepting that easily. Silence settles again and then he exhales. “Can I ask you something?”
You look at him and nod.
“That night,” he says carefully. “Did I do something? Or say something that annoyed you?”
This only proves that you always know that Han is a decent person and you didn’t made up that part of him. You hesitate, then shake your head. “No. It’s not about that. You’re fine—everything’s fine.”
You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your cup. “If anything, it’s me. Not you.”
Han nods like he understands, like he really does. Then he grins.
“Or you can be honest and say that it’s my lame band.”
You laugh despite yourself. “No.”
He narrows his eyes at you as he says, “I can tell that you hated the band.”
“I didn’t hate it,” you correct honestly. “It’s just… not really my cup of tea. But it’s not lame.”
He hums, considering. “That’s good to hear.”
The conversation flows easier after that, lighter. He asks about your book, and you tell him you’re still working on it.
“Do I get a copy when it’s done?” he asks.
You smile. “Do you even read romance books?”
He shrugs. “What, you think a guy in a band can’t enjoy romance?”
You shrug back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The two of you laugh, and for the first time in days, the tension in your chest loosens. When Han eventually leaves, coffee cups empty and pastries half-gone, you realize you’re smiling, not because of what could’ve been, but because things ended exactly the way they should’ve.
-
You’re writing at Hyunjin’s coffee shop again like always and time slipping through your fingers without asking permission. Words come easily today, sentences stacking gently on top of each other.
You only realize how long it’s been when you lift your cup and find it empty. Before you can even sigh about it, a fresh one appears in front of you. You look up and find Hyunjin standing next to you, already smiling.
“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers curling around the warm ceramic.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, conspiratorial and soft. “Someone wants me to say this to you.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, already amused. “Yeah?”
“He says you’re beautiful,” Hyunjin continues, eyes bright, “and he wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with him and his very charming five-year-old son.”
Your smile blooms because you know exactly who that someone is, but you decide to play along. You lean in too, whispering back, “Tell him he shouldn’t flirt with his regular.”
Hyunjin’s smile turns smug. He leans even closer, close enough that only you can hear him. “Perks of being the owner.”
Before you can reply, he steals a kiss, almost sneaky. His plush lips brushing over yours and you kiss him back just as instinctively. When you pull away, you’re both smiling.
He straightens, gentle fingers squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, already halfway gone, slipping back into the back of the counter.
You take a sip of coffee, warmth spreading through you, and turn back to your laptop. That’s when you hear the soft whispers from the table nearby. Girls giggling, voices hushed but not enough.
“I’m so jealous of them,” one says.
“They’re so cute,” another sighs.
You pretend not to hear it and smile to yourself. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary as something settles in your chest.
This. Writing romance in the afternoon light. Sitting in a café that smells like coffee and home. A man who refills your cup before you ask. A child who holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Stolen kisses. Laughter, routine, warmth.
Then you look out of the window and at the city bathed in sunlight, the blue sky with cotton candy-like clouds, a bicycler who pets the dog that sits inside the front basket as he waits for the traffic light to turn green, a young girl sitting on the bench with headphones on, completely immersed in the book she’s reading, an elderly couple who hold hands as they argue over the restaurant menu.
You smile to yourself as you look back at your laptop and start typing again.
Hyunjin was right.
Everything is romantic.
-
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🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ LOG 2 — UNCONTROLLED VARIABLES (chapter 2 of my spiderman!jisung collection/series)
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader, college spider-man au, established relationship
synopsis: han jisung cheated on you. or… that’s what it seems like. two weeks of silence has turned the elephant in the room into a full-blown crisis you can’t ignore. except the “elephant” becomes very literal when a robot the size of one tries to attack you. you meet spiderman for the first time, and suddenly you’re staring at the truth you were never supposed to find out.
warnings: ~6k words, angst, hurt/comfort, city destruction/violence, fight scene, injuries and bruises, mild blood, alcohol consumption, profanity, cheating accusations, insecure thoughts, discussion of sex/losing virginity (no explicit smut), super fluffy at the end
a/n: the way i got death threats after part one ended on that cliffhanger was so fair. but look it's finally here! thank you for loving the last chapter <3
previous: log 1 next: log 3
there is no scientific term for the hollow feeling in your chest.
you’ve checked. multiple times.
because it’s been… what, a week? two even?
you went from seeing han jisung every hour of the day—literally, embarrassingly often—to seeing him not at all.
no bubble tea dates. no mid-lecture meme. no jisung.
just dead. silence.
this silence made you realize you don’t even know if you’re broken up. you don’t even know if you should be broken up. you keep telling yourself you're being dramatic. that maybe he’s grieving the relationship too and maybe the silence means he’s giving you space like you asked.
but then the other voice whispers that he doesn’t give a shit because he’s screwing someone else right now.
and that voice wins more often than you want to admit.
because what else could it be? you replay the hickeys. the panic in his gorgeous brown eyes. the way he flinched when you asked simple questions.
you sit at your desk typing those thoughts in your sad little document. it started as a log. a methodical, objective analysis of anomalies in your boyfriend’s behavior.
now it looks like a whole ass diary.
you scroll through the entries.
entry 12: if infidelity is not the independent variable, then what external force caused such extreme behavioral deviation that night
entry 14: jisung’s expression before departure. interpretation unclear; could indicate guilt, fear, or undisclosed information
entry 16: crying was definitely deployed as a manipulation tactic
you stare at the glowing screen.
if someone saw this, they would think you were going fucking crazy.
maybe you are.
but he’s your boyfriend of three years, for goodness sake. three years of loving him, knowing his bubble tea order and the way he sleeps curled toward the wall and the stupid omo he lets out when he trips over flat surfaces.
three years of choosing him. and now you’re supposed to pretend his sudden disappearance doesn’t feel like someone carved a hole out of your chest? you’re allowed to spiral a little.
you shut the laptop. the click sounds too small for how heavy everything feels.
later that night, you found yourself squeezed into a booth at your favorite bar, half-drunk on soju and emotional instability.
“he cheated,” you declared, slamming your glass down hard enough that the ice rattled. “i’m telling you, he cheated on me.”
your friend, mina, blinked at you slowly. “baby, no offense, but that sounds fucking stupid.”
“it does not!” you snapped.
“it absolutely does,” she said.
her boyfriend, seojun, then leaned across the table, brows raised to his hairline.
“seriously y/n, are we talking about the same guy here?” he asked. “han jisung? peter fucking han? in what universe is that man cheating on anyone?”
mina nodded along, “are you even sure what you saw were hickeys? he said they were bruises. maybe they were bruises.”
you stared at her, offended by logic.
“bruises from what?” you demanded. “kissing a brick wall?!”
she shrugged. “i don’t know. maybe he fights underground or something.”
“underground?!” you repeated. “jisung? my jisung? the man who cried because he stepped on a snail one time?!”
you closed your eyes.
she reached over and squeezed your knee. “look. i don’t know what’s going on with him. but i know he wouldn’t fuck anyone else.”
your throat tightened. “he cheated.”
seojun took a swig of his drink and shook his head. “yeah, no. not unless someone held you at gunpoint. even then i think he’d cry too much to go through with it.”
you groaned and let your forehead fall onto the sticky bar table. “stop making him sound sweet. he’s a villain.”
“we know him too, y/n,” he groaned, tired of your nonsense, “han jisung’s a fucking nerd. a loyal nerd. a monogamous nerd. a—”
“a bitch,” you supplied miserably.
“yeah,” he agreed. “a bitch. but not a cheating bitch.”
you lifted your head, blinking at the neon lights. the music thumped through the floor, your pulse matching it beat for beat. maybe it was the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that you hadn’t slept properly in weeks. probably all three—but everything felt too empty without jisung next to you.
normally it was the four of you. you, mina, her boyfriend… and jisung.
them making fun of him for ordering fruity drinks. you stealing his fries. him insisting on walking on the outside of the sidewalk. all of them teasing him for worshipping the ground you walked on.
tonight it was just the three of you.
and the spot beside you in the booth—his spot—sat empty.
you tried not to stare at it. tried not to imagine him there, arm behind your shoulders, laughing at his own unfunny jokes.
you took another sip of your drink. it didn’t help.
then, a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision.
you glanced toward the window.
something red and blue streaked across the sky. a blur swinging past the streetlamp.
“was that—” mina started.
her boyfriend finished her though. “spiderman.”
your stomach dropped.
you remembered jisung’s voice:
if you ever see him nearby, get out of there.
your skin prickled.
you barely had time to process before there was a sudden loud explosion and the entire street shook.
the windows rattled so hard your glass tipped over. the lights flickered. people in the bar screamed. a car outside skidded sideways, tires shrieking as it slammed into a stop sign and sent sparks flying.
mina grabbed your arm as seojun yanked her up from the booth. you stumbled after them, your legs barely keeping up as the bar erupted into chaos. glass shattered somewhere behind you. people screamed. mina kept a death grip on your wrist while seojun cleared a path ahead—but the second the three of you hit the doorway, the crowd outside surged like a tidal wave.
“y/n!” mina shouted, reaching back for you.
a wall of bodies slammed between you, forcing you backward.
“hurry just get somewhere safe!” you yelled, trying to keep her from turning back, but your voice drowned beneath the noise.
seojun’s hand grabbed for her, pulling her forward. you saw mina’s face for a split second—wide eyes, terrified—before the crowd swallowed her.
the current of people shoved you hard, spinning you the wrong direction. you tried to fight it, tried to push back toward where they’d gone. someone's shoulder hit yours. someone else shoved past. your feet tripped over something on the ground.
you were pushed down a side street with no control over your own momentum.
this was the wrong direction.
the smoke was thicker here, rolling in waves that burned your throat. a low, inhuman roar echoed somewhere in the distance. the sound rattled the street like the pavement itself was flinching.
you backed up instinctively, chest tight.
you were completely alone. you could still hear the bar crowd in the distance, but here it was eerily empty except for the smoke curling through the streetlight haze. your breath hitched as something metal scraped across asphalt.
a low whir. heavy, mechanical footsteps.
you froze.
slowly, you turned your head. and standing behind you was a robot the size of an elephant.
its glowing eyes scanned you, locked on, and the entire machine crouched, gears screeching as one massive arm raised—
instinctively, you try to run away from it, knowing you would be too slow. but then a webline shot past your shoulder, stuck to the lamppost.
your body lifted straight off the ground in one violent pull. your back collided with a solid chest, an arm locked around your middle, and a web-line snapped above you. you screamed, air ripping out of your lungs as the world swung sideways, the pavement dropping away under your feet.
“shh, it’s okay, it’s okay!” a voice panted right beside your ear.
spider-man.
he held you with his arm as he swung through the smoke, dodging falling debris and sparks raining from the power lines.
he webbed a brick wall three times in rapid fire bursts and braced himself while lowering you into a narrow alley between dumpsters. you stumbled back a step, pressing your hand to the wall to keep from collapsing.
spider-man dropped down in front of you, boots skidding against the concrete, one hand coming up to steady you.
he cleared his throat, preparing to force a deeper voice. “are you hurt?” he asked.
his head snapped from you to the street, back to you, back to the street.
“thank you,” you choked out instead of answering his question.
he let out a shaky little laugh. “it’s nothing,” he said, again. “you’re not hurt?”
you shook your head quickly. “i’m fine.”
he nodded fast, relief practically flooding out of him. then—without a single conscious thought—he lifted one gloved hand and cupped the back of your head, leaning his mouth to your forehead.
you jerked back, startled.
he froze so hard his whole body went rigid.
“oh, sorry! sorry, i—uh” he sputtered, hands going up. “force of habit—i mean—not habit, obviously, haha,”
before you could respond, his head snapped toward the mouth of the alley. his posture changed instantly—spine straight, shoulders tense, whole body coiled like a loaded spring.
“stay behind me,” he breathed.
you squinted through the smoke.
“i don’t see—”
a metal shriek ripped through the air.
then the silhouette emerged and you screamed.
the robot’s massive claw scraped against the pavement, dragging sparks as it crawled into view. its mechanical eyes locked onto you with a click click click of shifting lenses.
spider-man let out the most exhausted, defeated groan you had ever heard from a superhero. or, well… anyone.
he slapped a hand over his mask-covered face.
“oh my god, dude,” he muttered, voice muffled and cracking, “can you chill for two seconds? i’m in the middle of something!”
the robot lunged forward.
spider-man yelped—high, unmanly—and shoved you back behind the dumpster.
“stay there!”
he leapt forward, firing a web that latched onto the robot’s faceplate. the robot swung its arm; spiderman ducked under it with a high squeak. he fired three more webs, circling the robot, the lines looping around its neck.
the robot tried to break free.
“oh shut up,” he snapped, tugging the web line so hard the robot jerked sideways. “i’m already having the worst month of my life!”
he yanked again, bracing his feet against the ground, voice pitched hilariously high now:
“and you. are. not. helping!”
the robot lurched violently, one arm swinging wide, and spider-man dodged—barely. its other arm shot out faster than he expected, catching spiderman across the ribs and slamming him into the opposite wall.
the impact shook the whole alley.
he hit the brick with a loud thud and dropped to a knee, one hand braced on the ground, the other clutching his side.
“shit—” he wheezed.
the robot’s eye-lights narrowed. it whirred, recalibrating. preparing another strike.
you couldn’t let him get hit again.
“hey!” you shouted before you could think.
it wasn’t smart, but it was the first thing your body did.
the robot’s head snapped toward you instantly.
spider-man’s did too.
“what are you doing!” he squeaked, voice cracking in disbelief.
you didn’t look at him. your eyes stayed fixed on the robot inching closer, its metal joints grinding, its core humming as it locked onto you in a perfect, horrifying line of sight.
“you leave him alone!” you said, stepping back, palms clammy and stupidly empty.
“no, y/n, stop, stop, stop, don’t be brave,”
you froze.
he said your name.
before either of you could process the slip, the robot’s head whirred toward you. the thing took one lumbering step in your direction.
spider-man pushed off the wall with a shaky grunt.
the robot raised its arm like it was about to hammer you straight into the asphalt.
that was all the opening spiderman needed. he yanked the webline already looped around its neck, planting his feet and snarling through clenched teeth at the robot.
with one final twist of his wrist, the web tightened. the robot’s head popped off with a loud metallic CLANG and bounced twice across the alley.
your hands were shaking so hard your fingers didn’t feel connected to your body. your heartbeat hammered against your ribs.
spider-man staggered upright, holding his ribs, then pointed at you with his free hand. “why would you—why would you set yourself up for death like that?!”
“how do you know my name?” you said immediately, ignoring his question.
he froze like you had just shot him.
“what?”
“you said my name.” you took a step closer. “you called me y/n.”
his shoulders rose an inch. he must’ve realized what he just said, because he slapped a gloved hand over his mouth and turned away.
the motion was so familiar it made your stomach drop straight to the floor.
your brain rifled through memories at lightning speed until it landed on one so vivid it almost punched the air out of your lungs. jisung in freshman year, accidentally saying “shit” in front of three professors, then slapping a hand over his own mouth and looking away.
“…jisung?” you whispered.
he went rigid.
even through the white lenses of the mask, you could feel the horror radiating off him.
you took a shaky step closer.
“jisung.”
then, in the fakest deep voice you’d ever heard, he blurted:
“i—i don’t know who that is. i…uh…i get guesses all the time. totally normal occurrence. people think i’m… uh… brad. from gym class. and beyonce once, which was weird, because clearly i’m a guy—”
his head whipped toward the street as another explosion rattled the ground, this one close enough that dust shook loose from the fire escape above.
spiderman stiffened like someone yanked a string in his back.
then, forcing his deep spider-man voice again: “the city needs me. bye, woman!”
you watched it unfold in the most unheroic, painfully familiar way.
spider-man tried to leap away and immediately misfired his web. it slapped onto a broken streetlamp, which was quite literally on fire. he muttered a horrified “shitshitshit,” yanking his hand back so fast he nearly yanked himself backward. he stumbled, tripped over a crate, corrected himself, and finally launched upward with a messy, lopsided swing.
you stared up at the empty alley ceiling.
silent.
processing.
your brain pulled the pieces together with horrifying clarity:
there was no universe where that was not han jisung in a spider-man suit.
none.
you swallowed hard, pulse thundering in your ears.
oh god.
jisung was spider-man.
you stood there, trembling, heart in your throat, as the truth slammed into you with the force of the last explosion. everything suddenly made sense. every inconsistency. every lie. every bruise. every disappearance.
you turned, sprinting out of the alley. your breath was uneven, your lungs burning, but you kept going.
jisung knew he blew it.
normally, he was quite calm when saving people. he made emts laugh even with blood dripping down his head under the suit. he swung through burning buildings like it was nothing more than a warm-up.
but tonight he completely lost his mind.
because you were there.
his girlfriend—maybe ex-girlfriend now, he wasn’t even sure—in the middle of chaos he swore on his life he’d never put you through. he saw you from a rooftop, from a distance and his stupid heart recognized you. he reacted before he could think and dove.
he’d kept his identity hidden for a full year. and he ruined all of it in one breath by calling you by your name. he swore into his mask for three blocks straight after that.
now he was swinging home, suit torn, body aching, the robot’s detached head probably still rolling down sixth street.
he angled his last swing toward his apartment.
he miscalculated the landing and slammed into the brick wall right beside his dorm window—shoulder first—letting out a strangled f bomb at the impact. the window rattled in its frame. he grabbed the sill, yanked it open, and practically threw himself inside with all the grace of a dying pigeon.
he landed on the carpet, palms planted on his knees, head hanging low as he wheezed through the mask.
he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his breathing.
and then. that feeling. that familiar, electric tingling that shot from the base of his spine up to the back of his skull, lighting his nerves like a fuse.
his spidey senses, he calls it.
but it doesn’t sense danger or threat like it normally does. the buzzing intensified because only one person in the entire universe made his senses react like this.
his breath caught.
y/n.
his head snapped up so fast the mask shifted on his cheek. he looked up and there you were. sitting on the edge of his bed. hands clasped in your lap. eyes red.
waiting for him.
and he felt his heart cave in.
he’d been caught and cornered in every possible way. and for the first time since he became spider-man, jisung had nowhere to escape.
“um, hi,” he said, voice embarrassingly high. he tried again, deeper this time, “i think i have the wrong—”
“cut the bullshit, jisung.”
the words hit him harder than the brick wall he bounced off ten seconds ago.
he went completely, utterly silent. his masked eyes widened.
he’d played this moment out in his head a thousand times.
you by his side while he explained everything carefully and logically like a good boyfriend and a responsible superhero.
he didn’t picture it to be like this.
not him crashing into a fucking wall and you sitting on his bed. he stood there frozen, every conversation he’d ever planned evaporating from his brain.
his voice came out small, so small you almost didn’t hear it. “…are you mad?”
my goodness. you were definitely talking to han jisung.
you stood up so fast his shoulders flinched.
“yes, i’m mad,” you said, breath shaking. “i’m fucking mad. but mostly—” your voice cracked “—i’m confused. and shocked. and none of this makes sense but all of it makes sense at the same time and i don’t even know how to feel because everything is just—”
you exhaled hard, dragging your hands through your hair.
“i just don’t understand.”
his head lowered. his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides.
“i…” he said, then stopped, throat closing around the words.
you waited. you waited like you actually believed he could explain this without falling apart.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thin and breaking. “i know. i know this isn’t… easy. and i didn’t want you to find out like this.
you buried your face in your hands out of exhaustion
“i’m just…” you swallowed. “i have a million questions and zero answers.” you stared at him, breath unsteady. “first of all, what the hell was that thing? is everything okay now?”
he didn’t even know where to start.
“it’s a long story,” he said, voice ragged. “but no one died tonight.” he swallowed. “except our bar. that’s… very dead.” he winced. “and maybe a streetlamp. and a bus stop. but no people. i made sure.”
you let out a shaky exhale, nodding. the tension in your chest loosened just a little.
“okay,” you whispered. “okay. that’s good.”
“y/n…” his voice crumpled. “i’m so sorry.”
shock still moved through you in slow, disbelieving waves.
your mind kept trying to catch up to what was happening, to stitch the pieces together into something that made sense.
spider-man. han jisung. the same person.
it sounded like a joke. like a plot twist in a movie that doesn't make sense.
this was the biggest revelation of your life, and you had no blueprint for how to hold it. you never—not in a thousand absurd guesses—would have imagined that jisung was spider-man.
“i’m not going to make you tell me everything tonight. i can’t even process half of this and you probably can’t either,” your throat tightened.
his breath stuttered behind the fabric. “i’m sorry,” he whispered again. he couldn’t stop apologizing.
the guilt in his voice alone could’ve cracked the floor beneath you.
for a moment, a cold thought threaded through you.
you wondered if you knew him at all. if the boy you knew was just a cover for the one who fought criminals in the dark.
because if he was spider-man, then what else didn’t you know? what else had he hidden behind jokes and that nervous laugh he used whenever he lied?
you knelt down slowly, leveling with him, your face inches from his.
and for the first time, you really saw the spider-man mask from inches away, the glossy red surface scuffed from impact, the black webbing lines tracing over fabric stretched tight across trembling breath, the white eye lenses reflecting you back at yourself.
“jisung,” you murmured, “take the mask off.”
he froze.
he hesitantly lifted one shaking hand to the edge of the mask.
once he took it off, you wouldn’t look at him the same way again. the thought made him stop, and he lowered it.
“please,” you added, softer. “i just… i need to see you. i need to know it’s really you.”
he hooked his fingers under the fabric again.
he peeled the mask upward slowly, until it cleared his mouth, his nose, his eyes and then the whole thing came off. his hair fell out in messy, damp curls. stuck to his forehead.
jisung had never looked more beautiful. eyes glassy. cheeks flushed. lips parted in a soft, shaky breath. a bruise blooming along his jaw.
you reached up and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead.
the spider-man you’d seen on tv, swinging between buildings, risking his life to save the city.
it had always been your dumbass boyfriend. your over-caffeinated, academically gifted, street-stupid loser of a boyfriend. the boy who held your hand until his palm got sweaty and then apologized for sweating.
spider-man had been han jisung this whole time.
and he looked so human like this. he wasn’t just a mystery, a headline, or a myth anymore.
looking at him now, eyes glassy and pleading, you saw it clearly.
the suit didn’t change him. he was still the same boy you fell for.
he was still yours. you still know him.
you cupped his face with both hands, and he leaned into it instantly like he’d been starving for contact. his thumbs curled around your wrists where you held his face. he stared at you like he was waiting for you to disappear.
“i love you,” he said, like he was worried you didn’t feel the same anymore.
in his head he had already watched you walk away a hundred times. he had imagined you flinching from him, imagined you looking at him like he was dangerous. he had feared these past few weeks you could never love him anymore. or that if you did, you loved the other version of him. the one who came home clean of wounds. the one who didn’t throw himself at moving cars.
“i love you too, jisung. i always will.”
his mouth trembled into a smallest smile and then he moved all at once. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him. his face buried against your shoulder, breath shaking with relief. you hugged him back just as tightly, fingers sliding into his tangled curls, holding his stupid, heroic, disastrous head to your chest like you could anchor him there and keep him safe.
“i love you,” he said again, quieter this time, right against your collarbone.
you closed your eyes.
“i love you too,” you murmured. “no matter who you are.”
“sungie, stop,”
you laughed, lifting your shoulder to fight as you tried to cut the stem off another strawberry.
“i’m literally gonna cut my fingers off if you keep doing that.”
sunlight leaked through the blinds in strips, warming your legs where you stood by the counter slicing fruit. the whole kitchen smelled faintly like coffee and the detergent the university used on the dish towels. it was peaceful. it would have been peaceful if your boyfriend wasn’t glued to your back.
“i won’t let you,” he mumbled into your neck.
his lips brushed your skin as he spoke, soft and lazy, like he’d been awake for all of four minutes. both arms tightened around your waist, chin tucked into the curve of your shoulder.
“jisung,” you whined, trying to adjust your stance around him. “stop breathing down my neck.”
“no,” he said immediately, the word muffled as he nuzzled in deeper. “i haven’t held you for a whole month. i need to make up for it.”
“a whole month,” you repeated with an eye roll. “it was three weeks.”
“it felt like a century,” he said, dragging out the last word dramatically before he pressed a small kiss to the back of your jaw. “do you know how sad it is to sleep without your shampoo smell within a ten-foot radius? i almost died.”
you felt him smile against your skin. you tried and failed to pretend that didn’t melt you into absolute mush.
a guy on jisung’s floor calmly walked into the communal kitchen. the rattling of the door and a polite “morning han” making both of you freeze.
“let go,” you hissed under your breath, elbowing him and begging him to act normal.
jisung pouted into your neck before reluctantly peeling himself off you. the guy grabbed his yogurt from the fridge, gave you two a suspicious side-eye, then shuffled out without a word.
the moment the door clicked shut, jisung was back behind you, peppering your shoulder with feathery light kisses.
you groaned. “you’re so annoying! i swear, if you don’t let me—”
then, in a flash, his hand shot forward and wrapped around your wrist
the knife hit the cutting board with a sharp clatter that echoed through the empty kitchen.
you froze.
“jisung, what are you doing?”
“you were about to cut yourself,” he said, wide-eyed, voice thin.
you blinked at the knife.
“…oh.”
“i told you i wouldn’t let it happen,” he said, with a smile that wobbled just a little at the edges. “i’ll have you know my spidey senses are trusty.”
and the kitchen suddenly went very, very quiet.
neither of you had touched on the topic since waking up this morning.
you still didn’t know how he was standing there so comfortably in a kitchen, wearing sweatpants, flirting with you like nothing seismic had happened. how he could slip so effortlessly back into being a normal guy.
“y/n.”
he let go of your wrist slowly, and you turned to face him fully.
he wasn’t smiling anymore. his mouth was parted, eyes flickering over your face.
“i owe you…” he stopped. “a huge explanation. and i don’t even know where to start.”
you held his gaze, the panic flickering behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed like he was waiting to be yelled at or walked away from. you exhaled slowly, letting the tension settle instead of spike.
“okay,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “then i’ll start for you.”
his brows lifted, surprised. maybe relieved. maybe terrified.
jisung nodded once.
“how long has this been going on?”
he opened his mouth. closed it. looked up at the ceiling, counting. looked down at the floor. counted again.
“…a bit over a year now.”
your eyebrows shot up. “a year?”
he winced. “i didn’t really count? i was kinda busy… almost dying? a lot?”
you stared at him.
“han jisung,” you said, voice flat, “you’ve been spiderman since last year?”
he made a choked noise. “will you shush it, baby? we’re in a public space, anyone can hear us.”
“sorry,” you whispered back in your gossip voice. “but what the fuck. how did this even happen?”
you saw the change the moment it hit him.
his shoulders dropped a little, his expression softened into a smile. he suddenly remembered who he was talking to. you weren’t going to mock him or panic or treat him like a monster. you never had.
he told you everything about his life, every embarrassing mistake and ridiculous story, and you never judged him. okay, you definitely judged him, but never cruelly.
and realizing that even this didn’t make you pull away, it wasn’t as scary to tell you anymore.
he dragged a hand down his face. “it was honestly the worst and best day ever.”
“that tells me nothing. explain.”
“okay. i can sort of remember the exact day. only because it was the day we, um. you know.” his hand circled vaguely in the air.
you stared. “you mean the day we lost our virginities to each other?”
he shut his eyes like he wished to disappear. “yes. that. i was walking back here afterward and there was this spider. a mean one. it was this big.” he held his fingers apart an inch. then two inches. then three. “maybe this big. it keeps getting bigger in my memory.”
“where was it? like in your dorm?”
“no. the convenience store dumpster.”
you pressed your palm to your forehead. “of course.”
“what no, i wasn’t digging in the dumpster,” he added quickly. “i was just walking out of the store and minding my business and this demon crawled up the side and jumped me. i didn’t even do anything to it.”
you blinked at him. “you got bitten by a spider while buying yourself a post-sex snack.”
“yes,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes. “i remember not telling you about the spider because—” he waved his hand, searching for the words, “—because it sounded stupid. the city doesn’t even have spiders like that. not naturally. that thing looked like it escaped from where felix is from.”
you blinked. “you hid it because it was… embarrassing?”
“yes! a dumpster spider! a radioactive-looking, glow-in-the-dark dumpster spider! you think i wanted to tell my girlfriend that’s how her boyfriend dies?”
he sighed and leaned back against the counter.
“anyway. i went to bed that night and woke up the next morning thinking i was dying. i could barely breathe. everything hurt. i felt nauseous, feverish, and just…so strong.” he looked at you helplessly. “i thought i was gonna snap the bed frame every time i moved.”
your heart squeezed. “i remember that. you were so sick. you didn’t come to class for a week.”
he gave you a guilty little nod.
“i thought—” you swallowed, cheeks warming, “—i thought it was because of… you know.”
his brows furrowed. “because of the sex?”
you nodded miserably. “yeah. i thought maybe you were uncomfortable afterward.”
jisung stared at you like you’d just confessed to arson.
“i don’t know!” you argued weakly. “you just disappeared after. you didn’t text me for two days straight!”
“that was because i couldn’t stand upright!”
“you could’ve said that!”
“baby, baby,” he said quickly, reaching for your hand to calm you down. “i know it sounds crazy,” he said softly. “and i know i should’ve told you. but i couldn’t. you need to hear me out.”
he let out a slow, shaky breath, leaning back against the counter like the memory itself weighed him down.
he swallowed.
“around a week after i got bitten, there was a break-in at a pharmacy. this guy had a knife and there were no cops nearby. i remember thinking, okay… what if i try?”
“so i stopped him and it was easy. but i didn’t want anyone to see me, so i grabbed a scarf and literally wrapped it around my face like a psychopath on the way there.” he let out a deadpan sigh. “it looked awful.”
despite everything, you snorted.
“but after that,” he continued, voice tightening, “i swore it was gonna be the only time. one—heroic—stupid adrenaline-filled mistake. i told myself that after i helped once, i’d be done.”
his eyes drifted down to the counter as if he was embarrassed by what came next.
“but… stuff kept happening. little things. muggings. accidents. people needing help. and i—” he let out a shallow breath “—i got attached. to the fact that i could do something. that i could stop someone from getting hurt even when it’s completely natural for bad things to happen.”
your heart squeezed painfully at the guilt in his face.
“and then the bigger problems started happening,” he whispered. “the stuff you see on the news nowadays. explosions. attacks. all of it.”
he hesitated.
“everyone says spider-man showed up to save the city because it started getting dangerous,” he murmured. “but sometimes… i think the city only started getting dangerous because i became spider-man.”
your breath caught.
he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping as if he was confessing a sin.
“what if all of this happened because of me, y/n?” he whispered. “what if i made everything worse?”
he swallowed hard.
“cause there’s someone out there,” he said quietly. “someone who knows i’m here to protect the city. and whoever they are… they’re not just watching. they’re sending things like last night to attack us.”
your chest tightened.
he shook his head slowly, voice cracking. “think about it. why now? why after i got powers? why after i started… intervening? saving people that would've been hurt otherwise?” his jaw clenched. “it’s like the more i help, the worse the city gets. like something out there wants to test how far i’ll go before i break.”
his fingers curled over the edge of the counter.
“i tried, y/n. i really did. i told myself i’d take a week off. just one. but the moment i hear a crash or sirens or people screaming in my head, my body just moves. i can’t ignore it. i can’t pretend i don’t know.”
he swallowed hard.
“but if anyone found out you knew? if anyone even suspected you mattered to me? that’d make you a target. the biggest one.”
his voice cracked.
“my goodness y/n, i’ve wanted to tell you,” he said, voice thick. “especially after that night you thought i…” his throat closed. he tried again. “cheated on you.”
your stomach tightened.
he pressed the heel of his hand to his brow.
“that night was a living hell,” he said quietly. “i was so tired. i’d gotten thrown through a bus stop, i’d been running around the city for hours, i just… i needed you. i needed to see you. and then you saw the bruises that didn’t heal in time.”
your throat tightened. he looked up at you then, eyes glassy and pained.
“i almost told you right then and there who i was,” he admitted. “i swear i almost did. because the second i saw your face, i knew exactly what you thought happened. and the idea of you believing i’d ever cheat on you?” his jaw clenched, voice breaking. “it made me sick. i couldn’t stand it.”
he lifted his eyes, glossy with guilt.
“jisung,” you said softly, stepping closer. he looked up like he was bracing himself for you to yell, or cry, or walk out.
you did none of those things.
“i’m not blaming you,” you said. “i’m not angry at you for trying to protect me.”
his breath hitched.
“but you have to trust me.”
“i do trust you.”
you shook your head. “no. you trust me to love you. you trust me to stand by you. but you don’t trust the world with me in it.”
he blinked.
“i get why,” you continued gently. “i really do. if i were you, i’d be terrified too. but i’m telling you right now, i can handle knowing this. i can carry this with you and it won’t put me in danger.”
his eyes went glassy again.
“i still see you as jisung,” you said, voice steady even though your heart was flying out of your chest
a tiny hum left him. embarrassed. soft.
“and i’m not gonna pretend things are the same after finding out who you are,” you added honestly. his shoulders slumped instantly. “they’re not. they never will be again.”
the devastation that flickered across his face.
“but,” you said, placing your hand on his cheek before that sadness could swallow him whole, “that doesn’t mean it’s worse. it just means it’s different. and i want to understand all of it—spiderman and jisung.”
he sucked in a breath like you’d just given him permission to exist.
“i don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.
“me neither.” you brushed your thumb under his eye. “we’ll figure it out as we go.”
he let out a trembling exhale, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
you leaned in first.
he melted when your lips touched his, like every string holding him together finally loosened. it wasn’t a frantic kiss. it was as soft as a kiss can be. his hand came up to your cheek, hesitant at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. your fingers slid into his curls, brushing back a few strands. he shivered.
when you pulled back just an inch, he kept his forehead resting against yours, eyes closed, breath unsteady. his eyes fluttered open at the tiny distance between you.
he rested against you, steadying himself on the warmth of your breath, the feel of your hands in his hair. and all he could think was how deeply he loved you, how endlessly.
“so…” you whispered.
he kissed you again, quick and light. “yes, baby?” he breathed against your lips.
“how come you’re scared of heights if you’re spider-man?”
he blinked. then smiled.
“i’m not.”
you pulled back a fraction. “what?”
“i’m not scared of heights,” he repeated, all smug like this was somehow adorable to him.
it clicked.
“you liar!” you said, scoffing as you shoved his shoulder. “you lied to me!”
he raised both hands in surrender, laughing through the apology. “i’m sorry! i had to be undercover!”
“you suck,” you said, crossing your arms even though your smile was betraying you completely.
he leaned back in, nudging his forehead against yours, eyes crinkling with the dumbest, proudest grin.
🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ LOG 1 — ANOMALOUS DATA POINTS (chapter 1 of my spiderman!jisung collection/series)
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader, college spider-man au, established relationship
synopsis: your boyfriend’s always been really fucking weird. but lately? he’s inconsistently weird. and the more you notice it, the harder it is to ignore. so you do the only logical thing a uni student in stem would do: you start logging.
warnings: ~4k words, fluff, mentions of porn, suggestive themes (mdni!), making out, very brief dry humping, profanity, mentions of cheating, kinda loser!hanjisung but he's trapped in a hot body, angst
a/n: i had to consult my friend whos in stem like five separate times to make sure the science i was writing wasn’t absolute clownery. clearly i’m not a stem girl. hope you enjoy! next chapter is already underway <3
next: log 2
you’ve known han jisung since high school.
which means you’ve spent approximately five years observing a loser who somehow manages to be both the love of your life and the human equivalent of dropping a beaker the moment the lab goes quiet.
honestly, if someone asked you to draw him from memory, you could. if someone asked you to write a dissertation on him, you’d win several awards for knowledge. if someone asked you why you love him—well, that answer is weirdly simple:
he’s perfect. not in the traditional never makes mistakes, future nobel prize winner kind of way, but perfect in the way you’ll always find yourself to be attracted to his flaws. perfect for you.
and honestly? your relationship with him has always been smooth. stable. no weird inconsistencies. just two academically overworked university students dating each other like normal, well-adjusted people.
okay, fine. jisung is not normal. or well-adjusted. but he’s consistently not normal. predictably not normal. that counts for something.
your professor clears her throat loudly at the front of the lecture hall.
“now,” she says, projecting her voice with that deadly combination of enthusiasm and exhaustion only university faculty possess, “let’s move on to our next topic: how to identify anomalous data points within an otherwise consistent pattern.”
your pen slips slightly in your hand.
anomalous data points.
huh.
you haven’t thought about “unusual” in a while.
“and remember,” the professor continues, “outliers often indicate that something in the system isn’t what it appears. they can be warning signs. or evidence of a larger pattern.”
you sit up a little straighter.
because sure, your relationship is smooth. predictable. no anomalies.
but there is… one thing.
well—many things. now that the professor mentions it.
you chew the end of your pen, staring at the slide, suddenly replaying the past few months with jisung in your head.
actually there’s a list. a growing list. a list that, if plotted on a graph, would look suspiciously like something was very, very wrong with the trendline known as han jisung.
your brain blanks for a second. how could you not think of an example? you swear there were things. little things you noticed and then forgot. things that pinged your intuition but never loudly enough for you to stop and call them out.
and now your brain has completely blanked. as if the second you try to pin down an example, it slips through your fingers.
you know something was off about him this past year. you just can’t remember the proof.
you tap your pen against your notebook.
okay. starting today, you’re keeping track. a proper record. if your boyfriend is hiding even one more questionable moment, you’re going to catch it from here on out.
at the front of the room, your professor turns back to the class, chalk in hand.
you met jisung after class at the little bubble tea shop near campus, the one with the barista who always added extra pearls when she saw the two of you because she thought you were “adorable.”
he was already waiting outside, backpack half-unzipped, hair slightly messy. he spotted you and his entire face lit up.
“y/n!” he called, waving so aggressively that his sleeve got caught on his backpack strap.
he spun halfway around trying to untangle it, nearly walked into a bike rack, then pretended nothing had happened.
you snorted before you could stop yourself, shaking your head as he finally freed himself from the strap.
he jogged the last couple steps toward you and immediately softened.
“how are you, baby?” he asked, leaning in to kiss the side of your head, warm and familiar.
you squeezed his hand. “i’m great. how was class?”
he grinned, eyes sparkling. “today, professor—wait, hold on, you smell really nice. is that new shampoo?”
“yeah. i ran out cause someone finished my other bottle last time he came over.”
“you said i could use it!” he stammered.
“you used like half of it,” you reminded him.
“i have lots of hair!”
you raised a brow. “jisung, that wasn’t even meant to be a hair-washing shower.”
jisung froze.
his ears went pink.
because the memory hit you both at the same time. jisung was in the steam, hair dripping, breath shallow, eyes blown wide as he blew your back—
thank god you had your own bathroom.
that would’ve been impossible anywhere else.
he slapped a hand over his face. “okay, okay, we don’t need to talk about that in public.”
you laughed, stepping up in the café line as he trailed after you, warm and flustered and trying very hard not to combust. he hovered close, chin nearly on your shoulder.
“so,” you said, amused, “chem class?”
“oh right, yes,” he said, snapping back to his original thought with a tiny gasp. “chem class. i had something important to say about that before i got distracted by—” he paused to inhale dramatically near your hair. “—this incredible shampoo situation.”
you rolled your eyes, smiling. “focus, jisung.”
“sorry,” he continued before clearing his throat, “professor han—no relation to me but i wish there was because he’s so cool—looked at my results and said my solution was ‘fascinatingly incorrect.’” he paused dramatically. “which is basically a compliment if you really think about it.”
you laughed under your breath. “he literally said you were wrong.”
without missing a beat, he lightly punched your arm with the hand that wasn’t holding yours.
“the greatest scientists make mistakes all the time, y/n. it’s all part of a great outcome”
you rolled your eyes. “sure.”
he pointed at you. “professor han would adore you, you know. he loves students who ask a ton of questions and bring their own lab coats.”
you groaned into your hands. “i wish we were in chem together.”
he gasped dramatically. “me too! we’d be unstoppable. or expelled.”
“but silly me decided i needed a ‘balanced schedule,’” you said, using air quotes, “and now i’m stuck with dr. park and her three-hour lectures on covalent bonds instead of being with my stupid boyfriend.”
jisung furrowed his brows as you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, wondering if that was an insult or affection. all of the above?
“next!” the barista called.
“hi,” he said brightly, already pulling out both your student ids. while jisung continued chatting with the barista. your gaze drifted up toward the small tv mounted high behind the register.
“—and once again, spider-man has saved another two civilians after a late-night collision in the downtown core…”
the footage cut to a shaky prerecorded interview clip from last night. spider-man was by the sidewalk as the microphone was held up to him. his voice was deeper than you expected.
“yeah, uh, i was just trying to mind my business,” he said, “but, you know, a car flew past me and i figured that meant i wasn’t allowed to go home yet.”
you laughed quietly.
you felt jisung tug your hand gently.
“what is it?” he said, finished with the order as the two of you stepped aside to wait.
“oh nothing,” you said, nodding toward the tv.
jisung led the way to a table. you heard, rather than fully saw, the chaotic sequence behind you: a chair leg scraping, his foot catching, and the unmistakable thump of him saving himself with a last-second. but your eyes never left the tv screen.
he managed to pull out your chair anyway, breathing a little unsteady, like he hoped you hadn’t noticed him almost eating shit. you were used to it by now.
you sat without looking away, your gaze glued to the footage of the superhero.
“you know,” you said, straw tapping absently against the side of your cup, “i just can’t believe we’ve never seen spiderman in the flesh. you’d think a guy who swings around the city would be easy to catch.”
his eyes flicked toward the tv.
“i feel like everyone has a spider-man story except us,” you added.
he didn’t answer right away. when he finally did, his voice was softer.
“yeah,” he said, staring intently at the screen. “but personally, i wouldn’t wanna see him.”
you blinked, pulled out of the tv trance. “why?”
he shrugged one shoulder, picking at the plastic of his cup. “i don’t know. he attracts danger. chaos. people getting hurt. he only shows up when something bad is happening. like, building-on-fire bad. so i’m good.”
you laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. “okay, dramatic.”
he squeezed your hand. “i’m serious. if you ever see him nearby, get out of there. run home. hide in a trash can. i don’t know—just don’t be around.”
“you know,” you added, teasing, “most people want to take selfies with him. ask for autographs.”
jisung scoffed. “most people don’t value their lives.”
“so you’re saying if spider-man walked in right now, you’d what? scream?”
“i’d exit the premises calmly,” he said, pointing at the door. “and i’d take you with me.”
you grinned, shaking your head. “you’re so fucking odd.”
“trust me when i say this,” he said softly, leaning closer, “let yourself be scared of him.”
suddenly, all your jokes were replaced by something that made your stomach dip.
before you could respond, the cashier called out your order.
jisung straightened instantly, the serious moment evaporating like it never existed. he bounced over to the counter with that familiar lightness in his step, humming under his breath as he collected your drinks. he thanked the cashier enthusiastically, nearly knocking over a stack of lids as he turned back toward you with both cups in hand and the brightest smile on his face.
“look at that,” he said, handing you yours. “i’m your hero. you don’t need to meet spider-man when you see me every day.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.
the library was unusually quiet in the afternoon, even by university standards. the private study room you booked had thick glass walls and perfect soundproofing. jisung sprawled across from you, laptop open. his knee bounced lightly under the table, his foot occasionally tapping yours.
you flipped through your notes with a sigh. “i swear chemistry makes no sense.”
“it does,” he said, eyes glued to his screen. “you’re just overthinking it. come here.”
he patted the chair beside him without looking up, like he expected you to obey the way someone calls a cat. you huffed, rolling your eyes, but you still got up and moved next to him.
as soon as you sat down, he angled his laptop toward you and pointed at a diagram.
“so here,” he said, tapping the screen, “this is the viscosity curve. if the fluid’s structure changes under stress, it becomes non-newtonian. which is why certain compounds can thicken or stretch depending on the force applied.”
you narrowed your eyes. “so… like slime.”
“not like slime,” he said immediately, offended.
you bit back a laugh.
“now think of it this way. if a substance has really strong intermolecular forces but super flexible bonding patterns, it’ll flow normally until it’s suddenly hit with pressure.” he paused. “then it behaves almost like a web. sticky when you don’t want it to be. stretchy when you don’t expect it. and—”
he stopped mid-sentence.
completely froze.
his eyes locked onto your arm.
“don’t move,” he whispered.
“what?”
then you felt a faint, crawling pressure along your forearm. you looked down.
a huge spider.
your breath caught in your throat.
your chair screeched violently against the floor as you jerked back, heart slamming against your ribs. you flicked the spider off with shaking fingers and slammed your notebook down so hard the thud echoed off the soundproof walls.
silence swallowed the room.
jisung didn’t move, he just stared at the crushed spider with a look you’d never seen before.
silence.
he wasn’t breathing right. his chest rose fast, shoulders tight, eyes still fixed on where the spider used to be.
he finally forced himself to blink, then tore his gaze away.
“um, it’s gone now. it’s dead.” you said softly.
he didn’t answer right away.
“jisung?” you tried again.
he cleared his throat, but his voice came out thin. “i’m gonna go use the bathroom. just for a sec. i’ll be back.”
you frowned. “pee later, sungie, i still need help with this—”
“just look at your notes for now,” he said quickly.
he stood too fast, bumped the table with his knee, apologized to the damn object, and headed for the door with a strange stiffness in his shoulders. and you watched him go, your pen hovering over your notebook.
you had never known jisung to be scared of spiders.
back in your first year of high school, during a field trip to the zoo, you remembered it clearly. the rest of your group had screamed when the handler brought out the tarantula, but jisung wore a stupid smile on his face.
you remembered him asking the poor handler ten questions in a row. you remembered him sticking out his hand so the tarantula could crawl on it while you hid behind your friend’s backpack.
he wasn’t scared then.
so why now?
you glanced toward the door again.
slowly, you turned to your laptop, opened a new document, and typed at the top:
anomalies - hjs
below it, you wrote your first entry.
sudden and intense fear response to spider
reaction does not match past behavior
you stared at the words for a long moment.
you exhaled slowly, then clicked the tab closed. the document winked out of sight. you shut your laptop entirely, pressing the lid down until it clicked. you pulled your notebook back toward you and flipped to the last page you were working on.
you tapped your pen twice against the margin, trying to focus.
the door clicked softly a few minutes later.
you looked up.
jisung stepped back inside, hair a little damp at the fringe. he gave you a small smile.
“hey,” he said, voice light. “sorry. took a bit.”
you smiled back, relieved to see him. “are you okay?”
he nodded quickly. “yeah. perfect. bathroom was… bathroom.”
definitely weird.
several days passed.
your list grew. one odd detail at a time.
and by the end of the first week, your document had an entire scrollable section.
entry 2:unusually tense around windows above the second floor (fear of heights???)
notes: went to the student center rooftop patio and claimed it was “too windy,” refused to go near the railing
entry 5:pretended (?) to struggle to open a jar he could definitely open
notes: watched him open the same brand of jar two months ago with one hand while texting someone; today he pretended to lose a bicep; 1 man, 1 jar
entry 8:hyper-aware of emergency sirens
notes: siren went off down the street and he ducked before the sound even reached us; reaction time suspiciously fast; claims he “thought it was a bird,” which is not how birds work
entry 11:fear of heights confirmed (allegedly…)
notes: claims he’s always been scared of heights; this is so not true; man once climbed a tree on jeju island in tenth grade to steal an orange and fell out of it laughing
you might wonder what happened between those entries.
the short answer? disappearances. just variation after variation of the same pattern. both disappearances without explanation and disappearances with a stupid a explanation.
entry 6, left you in the middle of a date because he “needed to check if his laundry was done,” even though it was nine in the morning and he hadn’t done laundry. entry 9, left a study session because he “sensed something in the air,” whatever that meant. entry 4, left after saying “be right back” and returned an hour later with no explanation at all.
it was weird. really weird.
but this wasn’t new. you were only now paying attention.
before the doc, you always shrugged it off. jisung was quirky. jisung forgot things. jisung wandered. jisung got distracted by anything with a heartbeat or a shiny surface. that was normal.
but now that you were writing it down and seeing it in neat black text on a glowing screen, the pattern looked clearer.
you stared at the last entry and wondered how many of these moments you had missed. how many other strange details had slipped through the cracks because you were too busy ogling him to notice anything else.
a knock sounded at your dorm door.
you froze for a second, blinking at the sound. you weren’t expecting anyone. you pushed your chair back and stood, crossing the room with slow, curious steps.
when you opened the door, jisung was standing there with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
and then he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him so fast you stumbled back a step. his face buried itself in your neck, warm breath brushing your skin as he exhaled like he’d needed this more than air.
“whoa hi,” you laughed, arms going around him automatically.
he held you like he always did after a rough day. his hands slid up your back, palms warm through your shirt, and he nuzzled into your shoulder.
such a loverboy. always had been.
and standing there in your doorway with him clinging to you like you were home, your list and all its strange little entries suddenly felt very far away.
“you okay?” you asked quietly, your voice dipping into his shoulder.
he shook his head, the motion brushing his forehead against your collarbone. his fingers tightened where they held you, bunching your shirt in his fist.
“i’m so tired,” he murmured, the words small and honest.
“do you wanna nap?” you murmured into his hair. “we can lie down for a bit.”
jisung let out a groan. a low, exhausted, grateful groan that vibrated against your skin.
“god… yes,” he muttered, voice muffled in the crook of your neck. “that sounds so good right now.”
he didn’t even try to hide how relieved he sounded. his entire body slumped a little, weight leaning into you like he was giving up the last of his energy just standing there.
you smiled and slid a hand down his back.
he finally pulled his face from your neck just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded and unfocused in the soft light.
“you’re the best,” he mumbled.
you nudged the door open and guided him inside, watching him drag his feet. he let go of you only long enough to toe off his shoes, then immediately gravitated back into your space. once he went into your room, you froze.
fuck. your laptop was still open.
still on the document.
you shot forward and slammed the screen shut.
jisung blinked. “what was that?”
“nothing,” you said quickly.
he squinted at you, suspicious but still sleepy. he moved toward the laptop.
you stepped into his path like a guard dog. “don’t.”
he tilted his head. “why not?”
“because,” you said, flailing for the first excuse that popped into your brain, “it’s… porn.”
he stopped. completely froze.
then his eyebrows lifted slowly, like someone pulling up a window blind.
“…porn?”
you nodded vigorously. “yes.”
a beat.
his lips twitched. “what kind?”
you choked. “jisung—”
he took another step toward the desk. “what were you doing before i came over?”
“nothing!”
jisung chuckled—the worst possible reaction for your sanity—and your face went hot instantly. he reached a hand toward your desk, fingers brushing the edge of your laptop.
you wanted to die. actually die. your only options were: 1. letting him read the sacred doc and having a meltdown, or 2. seducing your gorgeous, clingy, tired boyfriend who you’d happily kiss all day anyway.
yeah. option 2 was not exactly a burden.
using seduction as a distraction wasn’t even a sacrifice. you would happily climb this man like a tree at any hour of the day with zero hesitation.
so really, this was a win-win.
before he could even open a crack of the lid, you shoved him—hard enough that he stumbled backward onto your bed, bouncing once. you crawled onto the bed after him, slow and purposeful, and watched his cocky smile falter into something softer. his breath caught when your hand pressed against his chest, pushing him gently down into your pillows.
his breath hitched. “this is not a nap.”
“it’ll wake you up.” you teased with an innocent smile.
you swung one leg over him, sitting on his hips. his hands immediately found your waist like muscle memory.
this was definitely working.
his eyes were wide and hungry.
“oh… oh,” he said, voice dropping. “we’re doing this.”
“yes, jisung,” you said, leaning over him until your noses almost brushed. “i mean… you just found out i’ve been horny, so i assume you’re gonna follow through with it, right?”
his entire body reacted before his brain did as he nodded aggressively.
“oh yeah. for sure. absolutely. don’t even—don’t even ask twice,” he blurted, hand sliding instinctively to your hip. “you say the word and i’m here. i’m ready. always.”
you bit back a grin. “always?”
“always,” he repeated. “literally anytime. literally right now. literally—”
you cut him off by kissing him.
just a soft press of your lips to his, gently shutting him up. he melted instantly, his hands slipped lower, palms dragging down your sides until they cupped your ass like he’d been waiting to touch you there all week. his fingers squeezed and you let out the smallest breath of surprise against his mouth, which he took as a green light to keep going.
your hips rolled instinctively. you didn’t mean to but the contact felt too good to resist. jisung exhaled sharply into your mouth, the sound barely muffled by the heated kiss. you pulled back for a second just to breathe and he chased your lips like he couldn't stand the distance.
you leaned back just enough to grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off in one motion, tossing it to the side. jisung’s jaw slackened and his gaze dropped straight to your chest that was covered by a pink lace bra.
he sat up slightly on his elbows to get a better look, mouth parted, hair falling into his eyes. you could feel the heat radiating off him.
“you’re so pretty,” he whispered, thumb brushing over the lace like he’d never seen anything so perfect.
your cheeks went hot and for a second it looked like he was going to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.
you reached for the hem of his shirt.
he blinked, confused for exactly half a second before panic sparked behind his eyes.
“wait, wait, y/n”
“what?” you asked, already tugging the fabric upward, your fingers slipping under the cotton, knuckles brushing his stomach.
his shirt was already rising, lifting inch by inch over his ribs and chest, revealing warm skin and the faint rise and fall of his breathing. when he made the mistake of lifting his arms to help you, it was game over. the fabric came off, hit the floor, and you sat back to take in the view.
and then you saw.
there, smeared faintly across the line of his collarbone and trailing lower along the left side of his chest were purple-red blooms of something fresh.
hickeys.
you stilled instantly.
he knew you saw them.
he knew the moment your body pulled back just an inch too far, the moment your hand lifted off his skin like it had burned you.
“it’s not what it looks like,” he said quickly, voice sharp with panic. “please, listen, i—
“really?” you asked, voice steady, the way voices go when someone’s trying not to crack.
“i didn’t—i wasn’t—fuck, just listen, okay?” his hands came up like he wanted to touch you, but he stopped himself, palms hovering near your hips. “it’s not what you think. i swear on my fucking life. please believe me.”
“why do you have hickeys on you, han jisung?”
“…they’re bruises,” he said.
you stared at him.
where the fuck would jisung get bruises from?
he didn’t play sports. didn’t so much as jog unless someone was chasing him or offering free food at the finish line. and if he somehow did manage to bruise himself at the gym, he’d have sent you ten pictures complaining and begging for sympathy within the hour.
and even if—even if—you suspended every shred of disbelief and assumed it was gym-related... what kind of exercise leaves that fresh of a bruise?
you pulled back without saying a word, climbing off of him like your skin had gone cold. you grabbed your shirt from the floor and turned away, fast.
“wait, please”
your heart was racing, your fingers shaking as you pulled your shirt back on. you couldn’t stop the confusion, betrayal, fear, all of it crashing at once. and suddenly your little document felt more like a trail of breadcrumbs. and you were no longer sure if you wanted to know where it led.
“baby—” he started, his voice cracking on the word. “they’re bruises. i swear to you, that’s all they are. fuck, i thought they’d fade by the time i saw you. normally they would’ve faded.” he kept going, faster now.
your stomach turned.
you blinked.
“…normally?”
his eyes froze.
he realized too late what he’d said.
your voice came out like a whisper at first. “so this has been happening frequently?”
“it’s not like that. it’s not someone else. i’m not cheating on you.” he grabbed at his hair, pulling his fingers through it roughly. “fuck, i can’t explain it. i know how it looks but i’m telling you the truth.”
“what is it, then?” you asked, voice sharp and trembling all at once. “where the fuck are those bruises from, jisung?”
silence.
he didn’t answer.
his mouth twitched but nothing came out. he just looked at you, eyes wide and tearful, chest rising with shallow, panicked breaths.
you took one step back. another. toward the door.
“get out,” you said, low, dangerous. “get the fuck out of my dorm.”
“no,” he breathed, voice breaking. “no, baby, please. don’t do this. you know me, you know i would never do that to you.”
you hated that part of you still wanted to step forward. still wanted to wipe the tears from his face and kiss him until he stops crying. but the rest of you—every furious, aching part—was more powerful.
“i’ve already lost so much to this,” he whispered. “i can’t lose you.”
lost so much to what? the fuck does that even mean?
“you’re being so fucking confusing,” you spat, your own tears starting to well up. “you’re saying shit that makes zero sense, hiding behind this cryptic ‘i can’t tell you’ bullshit, and i’m supposed to what? pretend you’re not lying to my face while covered in hickeys from god knows who?”
he looked like he couldn’t breathe. like every word from you hit him square in the chest. your vision blurred.
your throat burned as your voice cracked. “just—what did i do wrong, jisung? what did i do that made you think you had to cheat on me.”
“baby, you didn’t do anything,” he said, fast, stumbling over the words. “you’re perfect. you’re so good to me. sometimes i don’t even know why you’re still with me. you’re smart and hot and you always smell really fucking nice and i’m such a fucking loser, y/n, how many times do i need to tell you i didn’t cheat on you, why the hell would i ever cheat on you?!”
your chest heaved, breaths coming out shaky and uneven. you wiped at your face, but the tears kept falling.
you believed him. because if there was one thing jisung had always been, it was loyal. so loyal he probably made people think you were some batshit crazy possessive girlfriend.
once, a girl at the gym asked him what machine he was using and he panicked so hard he pointed at every machine except the one he was actually on just so she wouldn’t think he was flirting.
which, honestly, probably made it worse because instead of looking loyal, he probably looked like he was trying to tease her on purpose. ugh, what an fucking idiot your boyfriend is.
so no—him sneaking around with someone else didn’t fit. not even close. not even in an alternate universe.
but even if your brain couldn’t possibly believe it, your heart was still drowning in every awful possibility your mind had created. every horrible scenario you imagined the moment you saw those hickeys.
you were too hurt and scared and angry to let logic settle in. too overwhelmed to let yourself trust anything.
you wrapped your arms around yourself, shoulders curling inward.
“just go, jisung. i need space.”
he froze. “no, no, don’t do this, please.”
“get out, jisung.”
“i didn’t cheat,” he whispered, shattered. “i didn’t. you have to believe me.”
he took a step toward you, desperate.
“out.”
he let out a breathy sob before he bent and picked up his hoodie with slow, trembling hands, pulled it on over the bruises that had started all of this.
this was it.
the exact nightmare he’d replayed in his head a thousand times. he’d known this would happen. if he stayed silent for too long, he’d lose you.
he grabbed the doorknob, fingers curled so tightly around the metal it bit into his skin. he opened the door.
and your voice hit his back like a final blow.
“don’t come back until you’re ready to tell me the truth.”
Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be. (13,2 k words)
Author's note: So guys, I watched this really sad movie and I was like "lemme make it into a fic" so you can experience the angst. Please enjoy this one too 🥹
The story doesn’t begin with the end. It begins with laughter, loud music, and the glow of cheap string lights at a college party. You remember squeezing through a crowd of strangers with a plastic cup in hand, rolling your eyes at the noise, ready to leave—until you stumbled into Han Jisung.
He wasn’t trying to be the life of the party. He was perched on the arm of a couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, doodling instead of drinking. His hair fell into his eyes when he looked up at you, startled, as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
“You draw at parties?” you asked, half amused, half curious.
“Only when they’re boring,” he replied, holding the page out like proof.
On it were a pair of cartoon characters—lopsided, messy, full of charm. A boy with wide eyes and messy hair, a girl rolling her eyes at him with affection. You laughed, because somehow, they already looked like the two of you.
“What’s their story?” you asked.
And just like that, the night stopped belonging to the party. You and Han sat in the corner, spinning backstories for his characters: the boy was a dreamer who always ran late, the girl the realist who kept him grounded. They fought about what to eat for dinner, shared umbrellas in the rain, argued over silly things, but never went to bed angry.
Han’s pen flew across the paper while you talked. By the time the night ended, he had already turned your words into panels, rough sketches capturing your laughter.
That was how it started—your story told through his ink.
-
From there, the two of you created these little moments:
Late-night study sessions that turned into takeout dinners on the dorm floor. You reading aloud half-serious reviews of albums while he filled the margins of his sketchbook with doodles of the two of you. His grin when you teased him for never finishing assignments until the last second, the way he stole fries from your plate like it was his birthright.
There are coffee dates where you’re buried under piles of notes for an interview, and he distracts you by drawing faces in the foam of your latte.
There are nights when he insists on cooking, only to set off the fire alarm, and you end up sitting on the kitchen floor with burnt noodles but laughter so big your stomach hurts.
There are quiet afternoons spent on park benches—your hand holding a book, his head resting against your shoulder. He doesn’t read a word, but he hums while you turn the pages, content just to exist there with you.
One night, you hunched over your laptop, typing furiously, while Han sprawls on the couch behind you with his sketchbook. Every so often, he leans over your shoulder to read what you’re writing—half-annoying, half-endearing—before you swat him away with a laugh.
“Don’t you have your own work to do?” you ask.
“Already doing it.” He shows you a page full of doodles of the two of you in ridiculous scenarios: you chasing him with a frying pan, him hiding under a desk.
Later, when you flip through the pages of his notebook, you see the real story taking shape.
You became his favorite character. He became yours.
-
A little after graduating college, he showed you something different. A comic, inked and bound in his careful handwriting.
You remember curling up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, flipping through page after page of the two characters you’d created together. They argued, they loved, they stumbled their way into adulthood, all with a tenderness that mirrored the two of you.
And then you turned the page.
There it was: the boy, down on one knee, ring in hand. The girl, wide-eyed and stunned.
Your heart caught. Your hands trembled.
“Keep reading,” Han whispered, nervous in a way you’d never seen him before.
You did and when you looked up from the page, he was mirroring the panel—kneeling in front of you with a real ring.
“Marry me?” he asked, soft, hopeful, eyes shining.
You laughed and cried all at once, and when you said yes, he sketched the moment into his memory with a grin that never faded.
From there, it was a thousand little pieces of happiness stitched together into a life:
Sunday mornings with tangled hair and pancakes that never came out quite right. Long walks where he held your hand in his pocket because yours was always cold. Your playlists and his doodles colliding into shared creations, silly and sincere all at once. Falling asleep with the TV still on, your legs tangled, his sketchbook on the coffee table.
A life built from ordinary things, the kind that don’t make headlines but feel infinite when you’re living them.
A happy life, once.
-
EIGHT YEARS LATER
The memories fade like sunlight through glass, and suddenly it’s the present—Han is driving the car, windows cracked open, the late morning air rushing in. Your favorite song comes on the radio, and before either of you can stop yourselves, you’re both singing at the top of your lungs.
“—and I don’t mind if we take our time!” Han belts out, voice off-key but unbothered, his hands drumming on the steering wheel like a makeshift drum kit.
You laugh so hard you almost forget the words, clutching your seatbelt with one hand and pointing at him with the other. “You’re so flat!”
“It’s called style,” he insists, turning the volume up even louder. “It’s called artistic freedom!”
You shake your head, but you join in anyway, the two of you shouting the chorus together so loudly the windows tremble. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed like you’re still the same couple who once stayed up until 3 a.m. harmonizing with each other on dorm room floors, your laughter echoing through thin walls.
The last note of the chorus fades, and you’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes in the cup holder. The caller ID flashes—work. You sigh, turning the volume down and answering.
“Hello? Yeah, this is she,” you say, your voice slipping into its professional register as you balance the phone between your ear and shoulder.
Beside you, Han makes a face, mouthing exaggerated words like he’s part of the call. His lips form silent blah, blah, blahs, his brows scrunched in mock seriousness. When that doesn’t break you, he starts mouthing along to the faint music still playing under your conversation, his head bobbing as if he’s performing for an invisible audience.
You angle your body away from him, fighting the smile tugging at your lips, but he only leans closer, rolling his eyes dramatically like you’re the most boring thing in the world. Finally, he goes for it—crosses his eyes, sticks out his tongue, and lip-syncs the bridge with full conviction.
Your hand shoots out automatically, swatting his arm and he yelps, clutching the spot as though you’ve mortally wounded him.
“Abuse! I’m a victim!” he cries, though no sound leaves his lips because you’re still mid-call. His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter anyway.
You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to snort into the receiver, finishing your sentence as quickly as you can. When you hang up, you turn to glare at him, but the sparkle in his eyes makes it impossible to be mad.
“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.
“And yet, you married this idiot,” he shoots back with a grin, as if the words don’t sting just a little now.
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as the car rolls to a stoplight. Your gaze drifts out the window and there, at the end of the block, a building catches your eye—sharp angles jutting out in odd directions, all glass and steel stacked like someone gave up halfway through playing Jenga.
“Who built such a thing?” you mutter, almost to yourself. “It looks like… like a spaceship crashed into an office block and they just left it that way.”
Han snorts, glancing at it only briefly before smirking at you. “That’s modern architecture, babe. Very high concept. It says, ‘I have money, but I’m confused about it.’”
You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s just stupid.”
“No, no,” Han insists, nodding seriously as he turns down your street. “See, those windows up top? That’s where the rich aliens live. And the bottom part? That’s their attempt at blending in with humans. Total giveaway, though.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop your smile. “You should really pitch that story to Netflix.”
“Already did,” he deadpans. “They said it was too realistic.”
You swat at his arm, and he yelps dramatically before both of you dissolve into laughter, the strange building shrinking behind you in the mirror. For a few seconds, it’s quiet except for the hum of the engine and then you slip the question in casually, almost too casually.
“So… how’s that job application going?”
Han’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just shrugs. “Still in process, I think. Haven’t heard back yet.”
You glance at him. He’s vague, evasive—like he always is when the subject makes him squirm. You bite your tongue, then pivot. “Well, at least there’s the project I gave you. The artwork for the company website? Deadline’s Friday by the way”
That gets his attention. He finally glances at you, eyes twinkling again. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.” He even throws in a mock salute, grinning like a kid.
“Not funny,” you warn, though your voice softens.
“Very funny,” he counters, tapping the steering wheel like it’s the rimshot of a drum. “You’re lucky I work well under pressure. It’ll be my best piece yet.”
“You say that every time.”
“And every time, it’s true.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms in spite of yourself and the car hums along as the conversation drifts back into something lighter.
“That café this morning wasn’t bad,” you say, leaning against the window. “Coffee was decent.”
“Decent?” Han throws you a look, scandalized. “That croissant was life-changing.”
“Life-changing? You said that about the one diner, remember? The one with the watery eggs.”
He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if betrayed. “Those eggs were charming in their own way. And don’t act like you didn’t steal half my toast.”
“That was because your toast was the only edible thing on the plate,” you shoot back, grinning.
He groans dramatically, shaking his head. “First you disrespect my artistic vocals, now my culinary adventures.”
You’re still laughing as the car turns into the driveway. The moment feels effortless, almost too easy, as though none of the cracks exist.
Han parks, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You pop your seatbelt off and open the door, stepping out into the fading light. He stays in the driver’s seat, engine still running.
“I need to borrow the car to run a few errands,” he says, putting his head out of the car window. “Won’t be long.”
You narrow your eyes, pointing at him with mock severity. “Be back before six. And showered.”
“Showered?” His brows shoot up. “Why?”
“Because Niamh and Josh invited us for dinner tonight, remember?”
He groans, sinking lower into his seat. “Right. The perfect couple.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Too late.” But then he sighs, sitting back up. “Fine, fine. Back before six. Clean and sparkling.”
“Good.”
You step away, shutting the door. He puts the car in reverse, and just before he pulls out, you lean down toward the window one last time.
“Back at six,” you remind him firmly.
He just nods, flashing a grin as he raises his hand in a lazy wave. “Bye, babe. Love you.”
“Love you,” you reflexively shout back.
And then he’s gone, taillights glowing as he disappears down the street, leaving you standing in the quiet driveway with a smile you don’t quite realize has slipped.
-
By the time six o’clock rolls around, Han does show up—hair damp from a quick shower, shirt only half tucked in like he got distracted midway. You give him a once-over and bite back a comment, choosing to be satisfied that he at least listened.
Dinner at Niamh and Josh’s is warm and buzzing with chatter. Their apartment smells like roasted chicken and fresh bread, candles flickering on the dining table. Niamh greets you at the door with a tight hug, her eyes sparkling.
“Finally! We thought you two got lost,” she teases, ushering you inside.
Josh claps Han on the back as he slips off his shoes. “Man, it’s been forever. Glad you made it.”
You all gather around the table, plates passed, glasses filled. It feels easy and familiar because the four of you have been friends since college — until the conversation drifts where it always does lately.
“So,” Niamh says, eyes bright as she glances at Josh, “we finally picked a venue for our wedding.”
Josh’s grin widens. “By the lake, just outside the city. You guys will love it—it’s perfect.”
You smile politely, nodding. “That sounds beautiful.”
“It is,” Niamh says, practically glowing. “We’re going to do the ceremony outdoors, under those big oak trees. And Josh’s cousin is handling the music—remember Daniel, Han? The guy who used to DJ at those college parties?”
Han chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Oh yeah. I remember him trying to scratch records while drunk. Brave choice for a wedding.”
Josh laughs, shaking his head. “He’s actually good now, I swear.”
The conversation spirals into details—flowers, seating charts, cake flavors. You nod along, chiming in when asked, but there’s a weight under your ribs. Watching them, it’s impossible not to feel the contrast. The way they lean into each other unconsciously, the ease of planning a future together. Meanwhile, you and Han are here—still laughing, still close—but with no future left to plan.
By the time dessert rolls around—Niamh’s homemade berry tart, still warm from the oven—the conversation drifts from wedding plans to nostalgia, old stories about college days, late-night parties, and the kinds of things you laugh about only with people who’ve known you for years.
It’s light, comfortable… until Niamh sets her fork down with a decisive little clink.
“So,” she begins, eyes darting between you and Han. “Can I ask you something?”
You glance up, tart halfway to your mouth. “Sure.”
She hesitates for half a beat, then blurts, “What are you two doing?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy. Josh clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably, but Niamh barrels on. “I mean, you guys have been separated for six months, you’re getting divorced yet you still act like—like nothing’s changed. You’re laughing, singing, inside jokes every two seconds… it’s confusing. Honestly, it drives me crazy.”
You exchange a quick glance with Han, then plaster on a practiced smile. “We’re fine,” you say, a little too brightly. “We’re just… really good friends.”
“Best friends,” Han adds, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Forever and ever. Right, babe?”
You swat his arm under the table, trying not to laugh. “Don’t call me that.”
But he does, stretching out the word just to annoy you: “Baaabe.”
Josh tries to chuckle, but it comes out thin. Niamh, however, doesn’t even try to hide her frustration.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says sharply. “You’re still so good together. You still are together, whether you admit it or not. And it just—it kills me that you’re not. You’re sitting here pretending like this is normal when it’s not. It’s not normal, it’s… it’s heartbreaking.”
Her voice wavers, and suddenly the table is too quiet, the weight of her words pressing down on all four of you.
You glance at Han, expecting him to say something, but he’s looking back at you with the same expression you feel etched across your own face: a mix of confusion and discomfort, like neither of you quite knows how you got here or how to answer the question that no one wants to ask out loud.
The silence stretches, and the taste of berry tart turns bitter on your tongue. You shift in your seat when Han suddenly clears his throat.
“Well…” he begins, eyes darting around the table. “At least if we ever get back together, we won’t need a wedding planner. Niamh’s got it covered.”
He lifts his fork like it’s a microphone, flashing a boyish grin. “And Josh, you can DJ. Full circle.”
Josh huffs out a laugh, though it sounds more like relief than amusement. Niamh, however, shoots him a glare sharp enough to slice through the tart.
“Han—” she warns, but he only holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” he insists, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Save money, recycle the old wedding playlist… boom, instant party.”
You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. He yelps dramatically, nearly dropping his fork. “Ow! See? Domestic abuse! Everyone saw it!”
Despite yourself, you snort, trying to smother the laugh bubbling up. The tension cracks, just a little. Even Josh smiles, shaking his head.
Niamh, though, doesn’t laugh. She looks down at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line and then suddenly, she gets up and leaves the dining table. The awkwardness doesn’t fully leave the room—it just lingers, quieter now, tucked between the four of you.
And once again, when you catch Han’s gaze across the table, all you can do is trade the same bewildered look.
-
The drive back is quieter than usual. You’ve taken the wheel, eyes fixed on the stretch of empty road ahead, the glow of passing streetlights slipping over the windshield in waves.
Han sits slouched in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically subdued, fiddling with his phone. Then, without warning, music fills the car—the opening chords of one of his favorite songs. You glance sideways, and he shoots you an innocent smile, already mouthing along.
Except he doesn’t actually sing. He butchers it. Purposefully. Loud, off-key, dragging every note so horribly you nearly choke on a laugh.
“Oh, my god. My ears!” you groan, tightening your grip on the steering wheel as he howls through the chorus like a dying cat.
“What?!” He clutches his chest, feigning offense. “You don’t understand true talent.”
“You sound like a drunk karaoke machine.”
He cranks the volume higher and leans closer, practically singing in your ear now. It’s so ridiculous you finally crack, laughing until your stomach hurts. The knot of tension from dinner loosens, replaced by that familiar, maddening warmth only he knows how to pull from you.
When the song ends, the laughter fades into a softer quiet and the hum of the tires against the asphalt fills the space between you.
“So,” Han says finally, his voice low but not heavy. “That thing Niamh said…”
You sigh, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “Yeah. That was… a lot.”
“Mm.” He leans his head against the window, watching the blur of streetlights. “But she’s wrong, you know. It’s not weird.”
You glance at him. “You don’t think so?”
“Nope.” He turns to look at you, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips. “We’re just us. Always have been. People don’t get it, but that’s fine. We get it.”
For a moment, you let yourself believe that. That it really is that simple. That the two of you can keep this balance forever, no matter how messy it looks from the outside. You don’t answer, but when he reaches over to nudge your arm playfully, you don’t pull away either.
“Okay, but… tell me the berry tart wasn’t the best part of the night,” he says.
You nod, smiling despite yourself. “The tart? Hands down.”
“Mm.” He closes his eyes dramatically, as though tasting it all over again. “Flaky crust, perfect berries, not too sweet, not too tart. A masterpiece.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Trust you to give a food review.”
“Hey, I take dessert very seriously.”
The conversation fizzles into a comfortable quiet after that, the hum of the car filling the silence as you pull into the driveway. Neither of you rush to fill it. By the time you kill the engine, the night feels heavy, the quiet stretching thin.
You both climb out of the car without a word, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. You turn, offering him a small smile as you murmur, “Goodnight.”
“’Night.”
You’re halfway up the steps when he calls after you. “Hey.”
You turn back and he’s still standing by the car, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. For once, the grin is gone, replaced with something more serious, more fragile.
“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet. “For… letting me stay out back. In the studio.”
You blink, then soften. “Hey, don’t thank me. You can stay as long as you want—it’s your studio anyway.”
Something in his face shifts, loosens, though he doesn’t quite smile.
“And…” you hesitate, then add, “it’s nice having you around.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Me too.”
The corner of your mouth lifts, small but sincere. “Goodnight.”
He nods, then turns toward the side path that leads to the guesthouse. You’re about to head inside when you hear him mumble, almost absently, “Goodnight. I love you.”
Without thinking, you toss the words back over your shoulder: “Love you too.”
It isn’t until the door clicks shut behind you that you realize the weight of what you’ve said—and the way it still slips out so easily.
-
Morning slides in soft and golden, the kind that makes the whole world feel washed clean. You slip into your sneakers, earbuds in, and hit the pavement before the neighborhood fully wakes. The run clears your head, the rhythmic thud of your steps syncing with the pulse of the music in your ears.
Back home, it’s the usual rhythm: shower, hair towel-dried as you crack eggs into a pan, sip coffee while scrolling through work emails. The kitchen hums with a quiet efficiency, your every move practiced, deliberate. You dress for work, crisp and neat, slipping into shoes with one hand while typing a quick reply to your boss with the other.
By the time you’re juggling your keys and bag, ready to head out the door, you feel steady. Composed. Exactly the way you’re supposed to be.
Stepping into the driveway, you spot movement out of the corner of your eye.
Han emerges from the studio out back, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. His hair sticks up in every direction, yesterday’s hoodie still clinging to his frame, drawstrings uneven. He rubs at his eyes, squinting against the morning light like a kid dragged out of bed for school.
When he notices you by the car, he lifts one hand in a lazy wave, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips.
“Morning, babe,” he croaks, voice still heavy with sleep.
You smile. The kind of small, unthinking smile that feels automatic around him. You lift your hand in return, a quick wave, before sliding into the driver’s seat. As the engine purrs to life, you catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror: standing there barefoot in the driveway, messy and blinking, watching you go.
And somehow, despite everything, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
-
Work greets you with the usual chaos: the hum of phones, the shuffle of papers, and the faint smell of burnt coffee drifting through the office. You drop your bag onto your chair and open your laptop, half-expecting the day to swallow you whole.
But Chris, the head editor of the magazine you’re working for, already perched across from your desk, raises an eyebrow as soon as you sit. “So,” he says, drawing out the word, “how was dinner last night?”
You pause mid-sip of coffee. “Oh, you don’t want to know.”
He leans forward, grinning. “That bad?”
You sigh, setting your mug down. “Let’s just say Niamh broke down halfway through dessert. She basically accused Han and me of still being together is weird. It got… awkward.”
Chris winces in sympathy, then tilts his head. “Well, to be fair, you two do seem like you’re not ready to let go of each other yet.”
You shoot him a look. “We’re fine. Han and I—we’re good. We know what we’re doing.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Chris shrugs, spinning a pen between his fingers. “I just don’t think there’s anything wrong with it either. Sometimes people don’t have to let go right away. Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
You study him, his calm tone gnawing at you. “…So what do you really think?”
Instead of answering, he smirks and swivels his laptop around, sliding it across your desk. A headline glares up at you: EXCLUSIVE: Our Coverage of Felix’s Record-Breaking Concert.
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Why on earth are we doing exclusive coverage of Felix’s concert? His lyrics are corny. And obnoxious. He rhymes ‘heart’ with ‘start’ in every other song.”
Chris chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. He’s huge right now. The fact that the magazine landed this coverage is a jackpot.”
You groan louder, pushing the laptop back toward him like the sight alone makes you nauseous. “Ugh. He’s huge because the ladies love his deep voice.”
Chris only shrugs, unfazed.
You rise from your chair, brushing off your skirt as if to physically rid yourself of Felix’s presence. You’re halfway to the door before you stop, remembering. “You never answered me. What do you really think about Han and me?”
Chris looks up from his screen, deadpan. “I think you need to start dating again.”
You groan, throwing your hands up. “Unbelievable.”
He just smirks, already back to typing.
As you walk away, his words stick like burrs. Start dating again. As if it’s that easy. As if you aren’t too busy, too buried in deadlines and responsibilities. You tell yourself it’s fine—you have plenty of more important things to do. And yet, the thought lingers, trailing you down the hall like an unwelcome shadow.
-
Han stabs at his scrambled eggs, the corner booth bathed in the late-morning glow. Across from him, Luke nurses a coffee like it’s his lifeline as he rambles about his latest idea.
“I’m telling you, man, the dispensary thing could work,” Luke says between sips. “Clean branding, cool space, good atmosphere. Not some sketchy corner shop. Like, a place people want to be in. Chill, welcoming.”
Luke stops talking as his eyes are fixed on the counter, where a girl in a sundress is waiting for her latte. “You should ask her out.”
Han blinks, thrown off. “What?”
“That girl.” Luke jerks his chin subtly toward her. “Cute, right? Get her number. Go on a date.”
Han doesn’t even look. He just shakes his head. “Nah. I think… it’s not over.”
Luke finally drags his attention back to him. “What’s not over?”
“Me and her,” Han says simply, as if it’s obvious. He shrugs, pushing his eggs around. “She’s just overwhelmed right now, confused. She’ll come around.”
Luke frowns. “Han, it’s been a while. You can’t keep hanging onto this fantasy. At some point you have to accept it’s done and move on.”
Han smirks without humor. “Says the guy who dates like he’s speedrunning Tinder.”
“Yeah, well.” Luke leans back, sipping his coffee. “Maybe you should call Isla again.”
That makes Han freeze. He shoots him a sharp look. “That was a one-time thing. And don’t ever mention it again. Especially not to her.”
Luke raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t. But does that mean you didn’t even like Isla?”
Han sighs, finally glancing at the girl at the counter, though his gaze slides past her. “She was cool. Just… she’s not her.”
Luke groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re hopeless. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to remind her you can still pull, you know? Make her sweat a little.”
Han snorts, but the sound lacks conviction. “Yeah, I guess.” He leans back, staring at the condensation sliding down his water glass, voice softening almost to himself. “I just… don’t want to start all over again.”
Luke doesn’t answer, just drums his fingers against his mug, the silence thick with everything he isn’t saying.
Han shifts in his seat, glancing once more toward the girl at the counter. She’s laughing at something the barista said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and for the first time, he actually looks. Really looks.
He imagines what it would be like to walk up, ask her name, maybe get her number. Start something new. Prove Luke right—that he can still pull, that he isn’t stuck. That he could move on, if he wanted to. But even as the thought forms, it feels heavy, wrong. Like shoes that don’t fit.
Han sighs, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Maybe,” he says finally, the word tasting uncertain on his tongue. “Maybe I’ll try.”
Luke grins, satisfied, but Han looks back down at his plate, untouched eggs gone cold. His chest aches with the truth he can’t quite shake: the only person he wants to start and end with is you.
-
The bell above the café door chimes softly as you step inside, scanning the room until you spot Niamh already seated by the window. She waves, tentative, as though she isn’t sure you’ll wave back.
You cross the room, set your bag down, and slide into the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The clink of cups, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the hum of chatter around you fill the silence between you like static.
Finally, Niamh exhales, fiddling with her napkin. She looks at you as if words are fighting to leave her mouth but she’s holding them hostage.
You sigh, exasperated. “Just say it, Niamh.”
Her eyes meet yours. “I just… need to say something. First off, I’m sorry. About dinner. I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”
You nod, letting the apology settle. “Okay.”
“But,” she presses on, “I still think it’s stupid. You and Han not being together. You’re best friends—that’s the hardest part to find. And you already have it.”
You let out a long exhale, the weight of the truth pressing on your chest. “I do love Han,” you admit, voice low. “But love isn’t enough. He’s not… a father material. He doesn’t even have a car. Heck! He doesn’t even own dress shoes. And if the father of my future children can’t hold a steady job…” You trail off, shaking your head. “I just can’t. But one thing I know for sure—Han will always be my best friend.”
Niamh studies you for a moment, then gives a small nod. “That’s what I had to say. I won’t bring it up again.”
Relieved, you flag down the waiter, ready to shift the mood. “So—should we order?”
But before the waiter even reaches your table, Niamh leans forward, lowering her voice. “It’s a huge mistake, you know. Letting him live in your guest house. You’re slowly breaking his heart by doing that.”
You stiffen, forcing a polite smile for the waiter as you order your meal. When he leaves, you meet Niamh’s gaze squarely. “Han is fine. We’re fine. The two of us—we’re fine.”
-
You pull into the driveway, mailbox tucked under one arm, flipping absently through the pile. Bills, junk flyers, glossy postcards, and a handful of envelopes with Han’s name scrawled across the front. You pause, staring at them a beat too long before deciding to carry them out back.
From the faint sounds leaking through the sliding door—soft strings and whimsical dialogue—you know instantly: a Ghibli movie. Han’s comfort food for his soul.
You push the door open and step into the chaos. Easels and canvases lean haphazardly against the wall, tubes of paint oozing color onto stained rags. Dirty laundry nests in the corner. You try to ignore it, setting the mail down on the nearest table.
And there he is—Han sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to the TV screen, fork in hand as he demolishes an entire cheesecake. No plate, no shame. Just him and dessert.
“Hey, you’re not working?” you carefully ask, arching a brow.
Without missing a beat, he recites a line from the movie, voice pitched like the character’s, as if that’s an answer.
“Han,” you press, stepping closer. “Did you finish the artwork for the website yet?”
He finally glances at you, fork dangling lazily in his hand. “Not yet. But you’re gonna like it, I promise.”
You cross your arms, trying not to sound like you’re nagging. “Deadline’s today. Can you finish it tonight?”
That finally makes him pause. He switches off the TV, shoves the half-eaten cheesecake aside, and sits up straighter. His tone shifts, softer. “Hey… do you have a second? I need to tell you something. It’s important.”
He pats the empty space beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, you sit. “If this is about the work you owe me—”
You look at him, expecting another excuse for the late artwork. Instead, he goes quiet, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee before he blurts, “I’m going on a date tonight.”
For a moment, everything inside you stills. The faint sugar smell from the cheesecake, the mess of canvases and clothes around you—it all blurs into background noise. A date. The word rattles inside your chest like something foreign.
It takes you a beat too long, but you finally nod. “That’s… great.” Your voice comes out steady, even though your stomach feels like it’s been tugged down a few notches.
Han squints at you, almost disbelieving. “It is?”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and force a small laugh. “Yeah. I don’t know why you had to psych yourself up with a Ghibli movie to tell me that, but… good for you.”
He chuckles, though it sounds strained. “It doesn’t bother you?”
The question hangs between you, sharp and testing. For a second, your honesty teeters dangerously close to the surface—you want to tell him that of course it bothers you, that you hate the idea of him smiling at someone else the way he smiles at you. But you pull yourself back, clamp down on the words. You promised yourself you’d be the adult in this, the one who handles it gracefully.
So you shake your head. “No. I think that’s great.”
Han’s shoulders relax, and he leans back against the pillows. “Luke set it up. Some girl he knows.”
You roll your eyes, trying to lighten the air. “Please tell me it’s not one of his stoner friends.”
That makes him laugh, real this time, his gummy smile breaking through. “No. Just… a date. That’s all.”
That earns a real chuckle out of him. “Relax. Just a normal girl. It’s just a date.”
“Good,” you say, trying to keep it light. “But it’s not like you’re out shopping for wife number two.”
He snorts, and for a moment, the air shifts easier between you. But something in your chest softens at the sight, even though it aches. You reach up before you can stop yourself, cupping his jaw with your hand, your thumb brushing the corner of his smile. “That’s a big move. I’m proud of you.”
His eyes flicker, caught off guard by the tenderness, but he smiles into it.
For a moment, you sit in that soft silence, the kind that feels too familiar, too dangerous. Then you clear your throat, pulling your hand back. “Okay, so… are we done with the talk?”
Han nods.
“it’s going to be great,” you mutter but it sounds more like you convincing yourself instead of him. You stand, heading toward the door, but glance back at him over your shoulder. “Tell me all about it when you get back.”
“Ew, no,” he groans, flopping dramatically onto the bed.
But as you walk back across the yard, the truth gnaws at your chest: you knew one of you would have to move on eventually. You just didn’t think it would be him. Or that it would be this soon.
And you still don’t know how to feel about it.
-
Han smooths down his shirt in the cracked mirror above his desk, tugging at the collar until it sits just right. The studio around him is still a mess—canvases leaning against the walls, laundry piling in the corner—but at least he looks presentable. Sort of.
He grabs his keys, then pauses at the back door. Through the glass, he spots you moving around the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. For a moment, he just watches. The shape of you in your work clothes, the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you scroll on your phone—it makes his chest ache with something unspoken.
When you finally glance up, he forces a smile and raises a hand in a wave. You wave back, easy, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t twist him up inside.
He mouths a silent “bye,” then steps out, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
The date is at a bar Luke insisted on—dim lights, too-loud music, sticky tables. Han slides into the booth across from her, a girl with glossy hair and a bright smile. She can’t be more than a few years out of school.
Almost immediately, she launches into stories about her job, her friends, the classes she hated in college. Her voice is cheerful, animated, bouncing from one detail to the next without pause. Han nods when it feels right, sips his drink, lets her words wash over him.
But his mind isn’t here. Not really.
It drifts back to earlier, to the way you smiled at him in the studio, the way your hand cupped his jaw, warm and sure, when you told him you were proud of him. And then, the way you said—so easily—that it didn’t bother you at all that he was going on a date. That you thought it was great.
Great.
The word stings every time it circles through his head.
He forces another polite smile as the girl keeps talking about herself, about her plans for the weekend, her favorite cocktail, the shoes she bought on sale. Han tries to listen, but all he can think is that this isn’t you. And no matter how many times he tells himself this is good, that it’s what moving on is supposed to look like, the truth sits heavy in his chest.
It doesn’t feel good at all.
-
Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your bed, laptop balanced against your thighs. The glow from the screen paints your room in cool blue light, the silence broken only by the tap of your keys. You try to focus—emails, drafts, schedules. Work. Something to anchor yourself.
The crunch of footsteps in the driveway, muffled laughter floating in through the thin walls. His laugh—bright, boyish, familiar—followed by a girl’s higher, softer tone.
The sounds shatter your focus but you don’t move, you keep your eyes glued to the half-written sentence on your screen, blinking hard as if staring at it long enough will make the sound outside fade away.
A door clicks, then shuts. More laughter. You grip the edge of your laptop a little too tightly, knuckles pale.
You tell yourself to ignore it because this is what you agreed to. This is what moving on looks like. He’s allowed this and you… you’re supposed to be happy for him.
So you inhale slowly, force your fingers back onto the keys, and type another line, but your mind doesn’t follow. It lingers outside, with him and the girl whose name you don’t know, wondering what she looks like, what she said to make him laugh like that.
You blink at your screen, realizing the words you just typed don’t make sense at all. With a groan, you backspace until the page is blank again, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking you.
In the end, you close the laptop, set it aside, and crawl under the covers. Eyes wide open in the dark, you press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to pretend you didn’t hear any of it.
-
The morning air still clings to your skin when you return from your run, a sheen of sweat coated your skin. As you stretch by the kitchen counter, your gaze slips toward the studio at the back of the house. The curtains are drawn tight, no sound leaking through the walls. No sign of him.
You shake it off, pour yourself a glass of water, and start breakfast. Still, while the toast is browning, your eyes drift back. Nothing.
Later, hunched over your laptop, typing replies to emails with a fork in hand, you catch yourself staring through the window once more, toward that silent space. It’s as if you expect movement—a shadow across the blinds, the muffled thump of music—but the quiet holds.
You huff a laugh at yourself, shaking your head. “Ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.
You need a distraction so you open a new tab and pull up Felix’s latest songs. Just out of curiosity and who knows you’d change your mind on the second listen?
The track begins with that infamous low, throaty voice he’s known for, dripping in drama. You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth.
“Bleurgh!” you groan, and hit pause immediately, groaning into your hands. Corny. So corny. The kind of faux-deep that makes your teeth ache.
You slam the laptop shut, deciding that you’d refuse to do the coverage than torture yourself any further. Instead, you head upstairs, shower, and pull on your work clothes, brushing the thought of both Felix and the quiet studio from your mind.
At least, you try.
-
Han’s halfway through a bowl of cereal when the studio door flies open. You stand there, flushed from the morning air, hair a little windswept, eyes alight with purpose.
“Come with me,” you announce.
Han blinks, spoon still in his mouth. “Uh—what?”
“Just come. You’re not doing anything, right?”
He looks around at the mess of sketchbooks and unfinished canvases. Nothing pressing. Nothing urgent. He shrugs, sets the bowl aside, and grabs his jacket. “Fine. But if this ends up being a pyramid scheme, I’m telling your mom.”
You roll your eyes and tug him out the door.
Minutes later, you’re dragging him through the aisles of a bookstore, straight to the newsstand. Han shoves his hands into his pockets, bemused. “You know, considering you literally work at a magazine, you could just, I don’t know—ask for a copy?”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes glinting. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”
Before he can answer, you grab a fresh issue off the shelf, tear through the plastic, and toss a quick smile at the staff giving you a glare. “I’ll pay for it,” you assure her, then flip through the pages, searching.
Han watches as your fingers pause, then spread the magazine open. His eyes catch on the artwork immediately—his artwork—printed in crisp color, taking up half a page. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You dragged me out here for this?”
You grin, smug. “Told you you wouldn’t regret it.” With that, you hand the magazine to him and wander down the aisle to browse the other racks.
Han stays where he is, staring at the page. His drawings, yes—but your words wrapped around them, alive with that way you have of writing about music like it can be held, touched, breathed in. Like it’s more than sound—it’s something human, something real.
His chest tightens as he reads, memory tugging him backward: nights when the two of you sat side by side, the glow of your laptop screen next to the scratch of his pencils. You tapping away at an article, him sketching until his fingers smudged gray, the quiet broken only by your absentminded humming or his half-baked commentary. The easy companionship of working in parallel, lost in your own worlds but still together.
He runs a thumb over the glossy paper, tracing the curve of a line he drew, then lingers on the words you chose to frame it. Pride swells, but so does something else—something warmer, heavier.
A light tap on his shoulder snaps him out of it. He immediately turns, startled, to find a familiar face smiling back at him. Isla.
“Han,” she says warmly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Oh—Hey, hi.” He blinks, caught off guard. “Wow, how are you doing?”
Isla sweetly smiles as she presses the book she’s holding to her chest. “I’m good. How about you?”
“I’m good, yeah,” Han scratches the back of his head, suddenly flustered. “So uh… what are you doing here?”
“Just looking for something new to read.” She lifts the book in her hand with a small shrug. “And you?”
Han hesitates, then turns the magazine around, showing her the page. “This.”
Her face lights up. “That’s your work?”
He nods, a little sheepish.
“You’re still working on your drawing series, then? It’s called The Bottlemen, am I right?” she asks, suddenly flustered.
The question surprises him almost as much as running into her. “You… remember that?”
“Of course,” she says easily. “You should keep going with it. It’s unique. Beautiful, really.”
Her words hang in the air a beat too long before she laughs nervously. “Sorry. That probably sounds corny.”
Han shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “No. I think—That’s very sweet of you.”
The compliment makes something twist in his chest, a pang of guilt. He hadn’t called her back after their date—not because it wasn’t good, but because it was easier to retreat into the comfort of you. Now, standing here, he feels the weight of it.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I had fun that night. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
Isla’s smile softens, kind and forgiving. “Me too. And it’s okay. I get it.”
Before Han can say more, your voice cuts through the aisle. “Are you just gonna stand there getting sentimental, or are you coming to pay for that?”
He flinches, snapping the magazine closed. Then you appear at the end of the row, curiosity sparking in your eyes as you take in the scene. You look at him before looking at Isla and back to him.
“Ah—this is Isla,” Han blurts, stepping slightly aside. “We, uh… we met a while back.”
To his surprise, Isla’s gaze shifts to you, recognition flickering. “Wait—you’re the one who writes those music reviews, right? I love the way you write. The way you describe sound—it’s incredible.”
You blink, startled, then smile warmly. “Thank you. That’s… really nice of you to say.”
Isla nods, shooting Han another quick smile before stepping back. “Well, I should get going. It was nice seeing you both. Bye.”
“Bye,” you echo, waving as she disappears around the corner.
The moment she’s gone, you turn to Han with raised brows. “Who was that?”
He shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “Well, I just introduced her to you.”
You huff a laugh, tilting your head. “I mean, yeah, but I need story.”
Han scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting to the “New Releases” table like it holds the answer. “She’s just… someone I met a while ago. That’s all.”
You nod easily, your grin quick and playful. “She’s pretty. Like a young me.”
Han chuckles under his breath, watching you walk off toward the register with the magazine tucked under your arm. He exhales slowly, the words he doesn’t say sitting heavy on his tongue, and follows after you.
From the end of the aisle, he pauses just long enough to see you plunk five copies of the same magazine onto the counter. The cashier raises a brow, and you beam proudly.
“I’m sharing it with my friends,” you announce, not caring who hears. “The music issue is excellent.”
The volume of your voice turns a couple of heads in the quiet bookstore, but you don’t seem to mind as long as you can freely promote your article. Han stays hidden half-behind a bookshelf, watching the way you chatter with the cashier, absolutely unbothered. His lips curve into a quiet chuckle he doesn’t even realize he’s holding back.
-
Han feels the bass still buzzing in his chest as the band wraps up, the noise of the crowd spilling into the night when he and Luke stumble out of the bar. The warm air hits them like a blanket, and they’re both lightheaded, laughing too loudly as they belt the chorus of some song completely off-key.
Luke throws an arm around Han’s shoulders, swaying with him like they’re college kids again. “After-party, bro!” Luke slurs, making exaggerated smoking gestures with his fingers. “C’mon, I got the good stuff.”
Han is about to nod, lips forming a half-drunk why not, when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He fumbles it out, sees your name lighting up the screen, and without a second thought presses accept.
“Hey,” his voice is still rough from singing, but his tone softens instantly.
“Where are you right now?” you ask.
“Just got out of the bar,” Han answers, weaving a little on his feet. “It was great—band killed it tonight.”
You pause a beat, then ask, “Are you busy?”
Han doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope, not busy.”
Luke smacks his chest with the back of his hand, mouthing a dramatic what the hell, man?! but Han ignores him, straining to hear your voice over the city noise.
“I, um… I bought this dresser,” you say. “And I can’t do it alone. I need you.”
Those last words slip into him like a match catching flame. “Yeah,” Han blurts out, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’m coming.”
He hangs up, tucks the phone back in his pocket, and turns to Luke, who’s staring at him in disbelief.
“Gotta head home,” Han explains, still stumbling as he starts walking away.
“What about the after-party?!” Luke protests, throwing his arms out.
“She’s alone,” Han says, his hands rising to make big, exaggerated quotation marks in the air, “and she needs me to ‘build’ a dresser.”
Luke squints at him, then bursts into laughter, pointing an accusing finger. “Ooh… someone getting some tonight. You’re getting some.”
Han grins, half-slurring his words, stumbling but walking with a strange confidence. “I told you, man. She only needs more time. I’ve got this.”
-
Han stumbles up your driveway, humming the last chorus of the song he and Luke were screaming at the bar. By the time he pushes open your front door, the tune has devolved into a full-blown off-key performance.
“I said ooooh, I’m blinded by the liiights—”
The sight that greets him makes him lose his place: you, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, an open bottle of wine half-empty beside you, surrounded by boards, screws, and crumpled instruction papers. The so-called dresser looks more like a collapsed tent than a piece of furniture.
You look up at him, cheeks flushed, lips in a dramatic pout. “This thing hates me. I swear it’d be easier to build the London Bridge.”
You pour more wine into your glass and lean against the couch. “Fuck Sweden, man!”
Han can’t help but laugh, his gummy smile breaking across his face. He kicks off his shoes and crouches down beside the wreckage, eyeing the mess of mismatched boards and lopsided screws.
“It’s just a dresser,” he says, waving your words away with drunken bravado. “I’ve got this.”
Your eyes narrow, though amusement curls at the edges. “Famous last words.”
Han grabs the instruction manual, flips it upside down, then right-side up again, pretending to study it with utter seriousness. His head is still buzzing from the bar, but the warmth of your wine-flushed face and the way you’re watching him makes his chest thrum harder than the alcohol ever could.
It doesn’t take long until Han experiences your struggle. He squints at the half-folded manual in his hands, the tiny diagrams swimming in front of his eyes. “Why do they even sell furniture that requires a college degree to assemble?” he mutters, tossing the booklet over his shoulder like it personally offended him.
From the couch, you burst out laughing, clutching your glass of wine as you watch him struggle with two identical boards that don’t seem to belong anywhere. “Because they want to test your patience. And clearly, you’re failing.”
“Failing?” Han scoffs, wobbling a little as he tries to line up two screws with the wrong holes. “No, no, no. I’m innovating. This dresser… is about to be the Tesla of furniture.”
You howl at that, nearly spilling your wine, and the sound makes Han grin even wider. He abandons the screws, grabs a random board, and props it up like a makeshift wing. “See? It doesn’t need drawers. It needs… imagination.”
Another glass of wine disappears into you, and Han starts humming again as he works, only now he’s building something entirely different—more abstract sculpture than dresser. “Look at this beauty,” he declares proudly, holding up what looks suspiciously like a crooked shelf balanced on uneven legs.
You’re laughing so hard you’ve curled onto your side on the couch, glass raised in mock toast. “To the world’s first anti-dresser.”
Han bows, dramatically, wiping fake sweat from his brow. He can feel the dizziness of the bar mixing with the cozy haze of wine, but more than that, he feels the warmth of this—your laughter, the easy glow of the lamp, the way it feels like nothing has changed and so he keeps going, determined to finish his masterpiece.
A long moment later, Han stretches his arms wide as if presenting a masterpiece at an exhibition. The "dresser" now stands in front of you both—a lopsided structure with extra panels sticking out, screws poking at odd angles, and a top piece that looks suspiciously like a head.
“It’s not a dresser,” Han declares proudly, wine glass raised in salute. “It’s a robot. My son.”
You nearly spit out your sip of wine, giggling as you scoot closer on the couch. “Your son looks like he’s been through war.”
Han gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “How dare you! He’s sensitive.”
You grin at him, cheeks warm from the wine. “What’s his name?”
Together, you sit there tossing out increasingly ridiculous suggestions—Mr. Wobbly, Sir Screwsalot, Captain Collapse—until finally, you say one that makes Han freeze.
“He’s from Sweden so he needs a Swedish name,” you suggest, bringing your wine glass close to your lips as you think hard. “How about Stellan Koontz-smith… Hanson?”
He repeats it softly before cooing, “Aww… I think that’s cute.”
You laugh, leaning toward him, and with a playful smile you reach out and gently poke his cheek. “No,” you counter, voice dropping just a little, “you’re much much cuter.”
Han blinks at you, suddenly very aware of the warmth of your finger against his skin, of how close you’re sitting. His chest tightens, though he doesn’t move—doesn’t even breathe.
Your eyes meet his, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. The world narrows down to your flushed cheeks, your lips parted like you’re on the verge of saying something—or maybe not saying anything at all.
Han doesn’t know who leans in first. All he knows is the soft press of your mouth against his, hesitant, testing, sweet. His pulse skips, and before he can stop himself, a chuckle tumbles out of him against your lips.
You laugh too, your forehead brushing his, both of you tasting of wine and nostalgia. For a moment, it feels like the kind of kiss two kids would share behind a school gym, shy and giddy.
Then your eyes lock again, breath mingling, and without thinking, you both lean in once more. The kiss this time is hungrier, needier, colliding with more urgency, as though months—years—of holding back are cracking open at once.
Han’s glass slips from his hand onto the rug as his fingers instinctively find your waist, pulling you closer. Your laughter melts into a hum against his mouth, and suddenly the makeshift robot isn’t the only thing in the room about to fall apart.
-
The kiss deepens, but this time it doesn’t stumble. It lingers. Your mouths fit together like they never stopped knowing how, and for the first time in a long time, Han lets himself stop pretending that this isn’t what he’s wanted.
You climb into his lap with a soft, surprised laugh, your wine glass abandoned on the coffee table. His hands slip under your blouse, palms splaying over your waist like he’s relearning you, tracing every familiar curve.
When you tug his sweater off, Han doesn’t resist. It lands somewhere on the floor, and he finds himself staring at you in the low light, chest rising and falling too fast. He should say something. He should stop this. Instead, his fingers hook in the hem of your shirt, pausing just long enough for your small nod before he pulls it over your head.
You sit there, bare from the waist up, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes hazy from wine and want. Han swallows hard. It’s not just desire—it’s reverence. It hits him all over again how much he’s missed this. Missed you.
“You’re staring,” you whisper, a shy smile tugging at your mouth.
“Yeah,” Han murmurs back, almost dazed. “I forgot how beautiful you are.”
Your smile falters into something softer. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek, and he leans into it like he’s starving. Then you lean down, kissing him slow, tender, deliberate.
The rest of your clothes come off piece by piece, each one tugged away with quiet urgency but also hesitation—as if both of you need to admire the other again, to remember. Han drags his fingers down your sides, memorizing skin he never really forgot, while you unbuckle his belt, pausing to look up at him, waiting. He nods, breathless, and you slide it free, exposing his cock that is already swollen, the tip glistening with precum.
By the time you’re both bare, neither of you are laughing anymore. The air feels heavy, weighted with years of love and loss and something that never quite burned out. You straddle him again, and Han’s hands grip your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.
“Are we really doing this?” he playfully asks but he can’t mask the trembling in his voice.
Instead of answering, you lean down, kissing him with a tenderness that breaks him open. Slow. Deep. Certain.
Han can’t stop kissing you either. Your lips, your jaw, your throat, on each swell of your breasts—everywhere he can reach. Each kiss grows hotter, deeper, until he’s no longer content with you hovering above him. With a sudden shift, he grips your waist and flips you onto your back, pressing you down into the couch cushions with his weight. You gasp, half surprised, half thrilled, your fingers instinctively curling into his hair.
Han hovers above you, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, trembling with restraint.
The way you nod, the way your thighs part just enough to pull him in closer—it wrecks him.
“Fuck,” Han groans, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring it. His hands slide down your sides, spreading your legs wider until he settles between them, his hips pressing against yours.
He rubs his length between your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and your soft moan nearly undoes him.
“Missed that sound,” he mutters against your skin before trailing kisses down your throat, his tongue teasing, his teeth nipping just enough to make you shiver.
When he finally pushing his cock into you, the both of you gasp, clutching each other as though to anchor yourselves. Han stills, pressing his face into your neck, overwhelmed by how right it feels, how easily your body still remembers his.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face. Searching for you permission. Instead of answering him with words, you pull him down for another kiss, desperate and deep.
That’s all the permission he needs.
Han starts moving slowly, rolling his hips with careful precision, making sure you feel every inch of him. Each thrust is unhurried but heavy, pulling quiet gasps and whimpers from your lips. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other roaming over your body, tracing curves like he’s memorizing you all over again.
Your back arches, pressing your chest against his, and he ducks down to take your nipple into his mouth, teasing with his tongue until you writhe beneath him. He grins against your skin, breathless.
“Still sensitive here,” he murmurs, voice rough, before trailing back up to kiss you again.
The pace builds, slow but sure, the kind of rhythm that makes every thrust linger. Your moans mix with his groans, filling the room with heat and history and something dangerously close to love.
“Look at me,” Han whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts deep and steady. When your eyes meet his, it feels like the years apart vanish. You’re his again, even if just for this moment.
Your climax builds slowly, winding tight, until you’re trembling beneath him, gasping his name like a prayer. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you look away, thrusting harder as he chases his own release.
When it finally hits, it’s overwhelming—your walls clenching around him, his groan muffled against your lips as he spills into you, holding you impossibly close as though afraid you’ll disappear the second it ends.
And afterward, when you collapse against his chest, sweaty and trembling, Han presses a kiss to your temple, his voice raw when he whispers against your hair:
“God, I missed you.”
-
You wake slowly, a heavy ache pressing behind your eyes, your body sore in ways that only remind you of last night. Before you can fully stir, you feel it—Han’s lips ghosting soft, lazy kisses along your chest, your collarbone, the curve of your neck. A quiet hum slips from him, like he’s content in this private little ritual.
Your lashes flutter open, vision hazy, and in a sleepy voice you murmur, “Hey, what are you doing?”
Han’s grin is playful, his lips brushing your skin again. “Trying not to wake you with my kisses.”
And just like that, it all comes rushing back—the wine, the laughter, the robot dresser, the way his body felt pressed against yours, inside you.
You scramble upright, clutching the blanket to your chest, realizing with a jolt that you’re both completely naked under it. The air feels too sharp, too real. You run a hand through your tangled hair, your heart racing with the weight of regret.
“That was a bad idea,” you mutter, the words heavy, sharp with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
Han doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer, burrowing against your side, his arm draped lazily across your waist. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder as though nothing’s wrong.
“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “This is nice.”
Then he tilts his face up to steal another kiss from your lips.
You push at his chest gently, breaking the contact, your voice low but firm. “Han, come on. We were drinking, the dresser and… you’re seeing other people.”
That finally makes him pause. He leans back just enough to study you, the playfulness fading. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to say something—some excuse, some denial. But then he exhales sharply, runs his hand roughly through his hair, and groans.
“Oh, yeah, I’m an idiot.”
Before you can respond, he’s pushing away, standing, fumbling for his clothes scattered on the floor. You stay curled under the blanket, clutching it tighter against your chest, your pulse hammering as you watch him yank on his jeans like every movement is fueled by frustration.
“I wasn’t clearly thinking,” you explain, your voice softer, desperate. “And if I was, I wouldn’t let that happen… and you know, I didn’t even think we were getting back together.”
The words hit him like a slap. His jaw tightens, and he doesn’t look at you as he pulls on his shirt, movements rough and clipped.
“You know, there’s an Ikea guy you can call,” he snaps, shoving his arms into his jacket. “He’ll help you build the dresser—and he’d probably fuck you too.”
“Han—” You reach out, your voice a plea, trying to calm the storm in his tone, but he’s already moving.
“Fucking. Fuck… fucking idiot!” He curses under his breath, grabs his jacket fully, and heads for the door without glancing back.
“Han, come on. Just wait—”
But it’s useless. The door shuts hard behind him, leaving you alone on the couch, clutching the blanket to shield yourself from the cold morning air and the sudden, aching emptiness he’s left behind.
-
Work feels like a blur. You sit at your desk with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the glowing screen, but nothing sticks. Every line of text you read shifts into fragments of last night—Han’s mouth on yours, his laugh as he tossed the instruction manual aside, the way he kissed your shoulder this morning, soft and gentle.
And then — the way he looked at you after. The sharp edge in his voice. The door slamming behind him.
You rub at your temple, trying to will it away, but the uneasiness clings stubbornly to your chest.
A knock at the side of your cubicle snaps you back. Chris stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His expression is light but laced with that older-brother kind of concern.
“Your flight’s in four hours,” he reminds you. “You should head home, pack, shower, whatever you need. Don’t cut it too close.”
You blink at him, your mouth opening like you might say something else—like you might unload everything swirling in your head right now. About Han. About the night you wish you could rewind and undo. But the clock is ticking, and there’s no space for long confessions.
So instead, you swallow the words and just nod. “Right. Thanks, Chris.”
He gives you a small smile, one that lingers like he knows you’re not okay, but he doesn’t press. “Safe flight,” he says simply, and disappears down the hall.
When you get home, the house feels too quiet. You set your bag down, tugging at the zipper of your suitcase, but something compels you to move—your feet carrying you straight out the back door.
You push the door open to Han’s studio, expecting to see the familiar chaos: sketchbooks piled on the table, pens scattered, the faint smell of coffee that always clung to the air.
Except that it’s empty. The walls are bare, the table cleared, every trace of him gone.
Your throat tightens as you grip the doorframe, staring at the hollow space where his life once spilled out in color and paper. He didn’t tell you. He just… left.
On the ride to the airport, you can’t stop yourself—you pull out your phone, tapping his contact. The call doesn’t even ring; it goes straight to voicemail. You press the phone closer to your ear anyway, your voice trembling with the weight of what you don’t know how to say.
“Hey, um… I’m on my way to the airport,” you start. “I wanted to talk to you. I don’t know what happened last night, but uh… I hope you’re okay.”
You hesitate, biting down on your lip, wishing you could take more time, find the right words. But the car rolls on, the city blurring outside your window.
“Please call me,” you add quietly, before hanging up.
Unease curls deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating, as you stare out at the skyline slipping away behind you. The farther you get, the worse it feels, like you’re leaving something unfinished—something fragile you can’t patch once it’s broken.
-
It’s been five days of moving from meeting to meeting, smiling, nodding, working—at least on the surface. But underneath, Han has been there the whole time, lingering in the corners of your mind.
You try calling him between appointments, thumbing his name on your phone screen as if the sheer repetition might finally make him pick up, but each time it’s the same—straight to voicemail.
By the time night falls, you’re back in your hotel room, shoes kicked off, hair undone, the silence pressing in too close. You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again.
You do and when voicemail picks up, you let out a small laugh, one that’s more hollow than amused. “Hey. It’s me again.” You pause, biting your lip. “I’m coming home tomorrow. I… I miss you. Call me, okay?”
You hang up, your thumb hovering over the screen as if you could undo it, but it’s done. The message is floating somewhere in the digital void now, waiting for him.
With a sigh, you set the phone aside and glance out at the skyline. Cars snake through the streets far below, people moving about their lives with no idea how your heart feels split open.
And your head—God, your head won’t stop replaying everything. The way you pushed him away that morning. The sharpness in his voice as he dressed. The anger in his eyes when he left. And your own words—careless, defensive—echoing back at you now, sounding so much worse than they did in the moment.
You bury your face in your hands, groaning softly. You should’ve handled it differently, shouldn’t have let the wine blur your judgment, should’ve told him the truth—that it scared you, not that it was a mistake.
But still, a stubborn part of you clings to hope. You and Han, you’ve always found a way back to each other. Through college, through fights, through every stumble and pause in between. You convince yourself this is no different. You’ll go home tomorrow. You’ll talk. You’ll fix it. You always do.
And yet, as you lie back against the stiff hotel pillows, staring up at the ceiling, the uneasiness lingers—like maybe this time, you’re not so sure.
-
The taxi pulls away, leaving you with your suitcase at your feet and the familiar sight of your house in front of you. You’re bone-tired from the trip, but the second your phone buzzes in your pocket, everything in you jolts awake. His name lights up the screen and your heart leaps to your throat as you swipe to answer. “Han?”
“Hey, heard you came home today,” his voice comes through, rough but steady.
For the first time in a week, the tension in your chest eases. A wave of relief washes over you so strong you almost laugh. “God, finally. Yeah—it’s me. I just got back. Literally just stepped out of the taxi.” You push your suitcase up the walkway with one hand, balancing the phone against your ear.
“Are you home now?” he asks. There’s something weighted in his tone, but you’re too caught up in the joy of hearing him to press it just yet.
“Yeah, just walking inside,” you say, juggling your keys, dragging your bag over the threshold. The house smells faintly of dust, the quiet pressing in around you. “I missed you, Han. I wanted to—”
He cuts in, not unkindly. “I need to talk to you.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t hesitate. “Good. Because I need to talk to you too. It’s been a week, and I… I have so much to share with you.” You drop your suitcase by the wall and sink onto the arm of the couch, clinging to the phone as if it’s tethering you to him.
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’m on the way to your house right now.”
The words land like sunlight breaking through. You close your eyes, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite everything. “Okay,” you whisper, then stronger, warmer, “I’ll be waiting.”
And as the call ends, you sit there for a long moment, staring at the phone in your hand, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and hope.
-
The groceries you ordered came around the same time Han steps into the house. You line up jars, tuck vegetables into drawers, fill the fridge like you’ve done a thousand times, talking the whole while about the events you covered on your trip—the bands, the late nights, the energy of it all.
Han leans against the kitchen island, quiet, letting you ramble. That’s his thing—always listening, always soaking in your words like they matter.
Until he interrupts, saying. “I really got something to tell you.”
You freeze, cereal box in hand, and glance at him. His face is too serious. Too still.
Setting the box down, you cross your arms and stand across from him with the kitchen island between you. The distance feels sharper than it should. “Okay. You have my full attention now.” You reach out across the counter, grab his hands, trying to soften the moment. “Wait. Are you gay? Please tell me you’re gay, cause that’d be funny.”
His lips twitch in a quick chuckle, but it fades fast. “Nah. Not gay.”
The heaviness returns to his features, his eyes dropping before lifting to yours again. “This is going to be hard to believe…”
You cut in without thinking. “That… you’re going on another date?”
But the answer that comes isn’t even on your list of possibilities.
“I’m having a baby.”
The laugh that spills out of you is sharp, nervous, meant to break the tension—but it falters, empties out of your chest the second you see he isn’t joking. “Huh?”
Han inhales air before he says it again. “I’m having a baby.”
The floor tilts beneath you. You grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself. “What—What do you mean?”
“I’m having a child.”
It’s like ice water pouring down your spine. Your voice cracks as you spit out the obvious question. “With uh… with another person?”
He nods. “Yes. With another person.”
You stumble back a step, heart hammering, vision narrowing around him. “Wait, what? What the fuck?!”
The words echo too loud in the kitchen. You can’t stop them, can’t stop the way your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. You push air out of your lungs, force yourself to think, to connect the dots. “With who?”
Han’s voice is careful, apologetic. “You actually met her the other day. At the bookstore.”
Your mind reels. The bookstore? Two weeks ago. Isla. The name slams into you like a blow.
“But that was two weeks ago,” you choke out, confusion and betrayal tangling together. “That’s not possible.”
“I—The truth is…” Han stammers, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but you. “I slept with her like three months ago.”
Three months. Your ears ring. All you can remember is the night he told you about the date—the one you thought was recent, harmless. Your stomach flips violently.
“Shit, I don’t know about that but—fuck, that’s not important right now.” Your hand presses to your forehead, trying to keep the pressure from caving you in. You suck in a sharp breath, force yourself to focus. “What do you need me to do?”
His brow furrows, genuine confusion on his face. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do anything.”
For a second, hope stirs—maybe he needs advice, support, maybe this is still fixable. But then his eyes meet yours, and his voice drops like a weight:
“I really want to make it work with her.”
Your chest caves in on itself as if all of the air disappears from your lungs. You blink, hard, but the sting behind your eyes rises anyway. The world is crumbling beneath your feet, and the one person who’s always caught you before is the one letting you fall this time.
You force the words out, barely above a whisper. “Excuse me for a second.”
And before he can see your face crack open, before he can watch the dam burst, you spin on your heel and walk away as fast as your legs will carry you.
The second you’re hidden from his sight, the sob breaks free. It tears through your throat, unstoppable. You press your fist to your mouth to muffle it, but the tears spill hot and fast, your chest heaving as the ache inside you turns unbearable.
Han’s voice still lingers in your ears—I really want to make it work with her—and it feels like every beat of your heart is breaking itself against those words.
You lean against the wall, pressing your hands to your eyes, trying to steady yourself, trying to find something—anything—to anchor you. But every memory you touch burns: the car rides, the quiet mornings, the laughter that used to fill this house like sunlight. And now, the silence feels cruel, as if the walls themselves are mocking you for believing things could ever be simple.
It hits you, sharper than before, that you don’t just love Han. You’ve built pieces of yourself around him—your routines, your memories, your sense of home. And now, in one breath, he’s carved a canyon between you, filling it with a future that doesn’t have you in it.
Tears blur your vision until you can’t see the outlines of the room. You swipe them away, angry at yourself for crying but unable to stop. You stay there until your body is too tired to keep trembling, until your breaths slow into shallow hiccups, until the wet patches on your sleeves dry against your skin.
Even when you finally stop crying and calm yourself down. Your chest still aches and the thought clings to you, bitter and small:
We were supposed to be forever.
And for the first time, you’re terrified that forever really is over.
-
✨ FOREVER: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨
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