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STEADY HANDS ౨ৎ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒

SYNOPSIS : Martin has finally convinced you to let him teach you how to skateboard, but you're pretty sure the actual lesson is just an excuse for him to stay close holding you the entire time, not that you're complaining though.

WC : 2.6k

CONTAINS : reader can't skateboard, tiny mentions of injury, kissing, Martin is very touchy

PLAYLIST : Attention - Malcolm Todd; Don't let me down - The Beatles; Beaches - Beabadoobee; When it’s time - Green Day; Transform - Daniel Caesar, Charlotte Day Wilson; Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd

You don’t know how you let Martin talk you into this. Even thinking about it now, you’re fairly certain he used some form of mind control, or at the very least exploited every weakness you have when it came to him.

You’d both been sprawled across your bed, his head heavy and warm in your lap as your fingers stroked gently through his hair while some show played unwatched on your laptop.

Then he’d looked up at you with those ridiculous, impossibly soft puppy eyes he knew you couldn’t resist.

“Please let me teach you how to skateboard.” He said softly, your hands pausing briefly in his hair.

“Martin, we’ve been over this,” you sigh, shaking your head slightly.

"Have we?" He blinked innocently.

"Multiple times." You resumed your stroking, hoping the motion would lull him back into silence. “I’ve got no balance, I’d just fall over the entire time.”

“Baby, pleeeaaase.” He draws the words out, pushing himself to sit up straight as your hands fall uselessly to your lap. “I’ll be there the whole time to catch you, I promise.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You really did. It was the sensible option. The smart option. The option that would keep you safe from splatting onto the floor like a pancake.

But then his head tilted slightly, just enough to catch the light differently, and his hair was adorably mussed from where you'd been touching it, and his bottom lip pushed out in the smallest, most devastating pout you'd ever seen.

“Fine.” You’d sighed as he jumped up, throwing his arms in the air immediately to celebrate.

Now here you stand in this random skate park not too far from your house, about to face certain death while Martin stood in front of you giving you the most encouraging pep talk of the century.

“Sometimes you just have to accept the fall, babe, better to embrace it than get more hurt trying to avoid it.” He gestures casually like he was sharing profound wisdom, but you were absolutely going to avoid any possible chance of faceplanting the floor.

“I thought you said you’d catch me.” You cross your arms as you eye him up, watching the exact moment his brain catches up with his mouth, his eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before he recovers.

“Of course I will,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, avoiding eye contact. “Just saying in case.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed.

"I'll hold you the whole time if I have to!" He throws his hands up defensively, that lopsided grin sliding back into place.

And boy did he keep his promise.

You wobbled slightly as you stepped onto the board, a little fearful of it shooting out under you, and his arms were immediately out, his hands gripping your upper arms to allow you to find your balance.

"Tin, this doesn't feel safe." Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, eyes fixed on the board as it tilts with every micro-adjustment your shaking legs make.

"I'm here. You'll be fine." He says it with such casual confidence that you almost believe him. After what feels like an eternity, your body finally stops trembling and the board stills beneath you. When you look up, Martin's watching you with a small, proud smile that makes your stomach flip.

"I'm going to let you go now."

"Wha—"

His hands vanish from your arms. You lurch immediately, arms pinwheeling as you fight for balance until you finally find balance again, the boy in front of you just watches, grinning.

"Martin." Your voice could cut glass. "I'm going to kill you."

His smile only widens. "Sure, sure. Now it's time to move."

He steps forward, and suddenly his hands are on your waist, gently guiding you sideways. The board rolls beneath you, just inches, and you gasp, fingers digging into his forearms like they’re the only thing keeping you from certain death— which, to be fair, they are.

"Move?" you squeak, your voice pitching higher than normal. "Martin, I can barely stand still on this death trap, and you want me to move?"

His laugh is warm and infuriatingly charming, one that you’d appreciate more if you weren’t currently fighting for your life. "That's kind of the point of skateboarding, baby. Standing still is just... standing." His thumbs trace small, reassuring circles against your hips before he gives you an encouraging squeeze. "Just a tiny push. I've got you."

You take a shaky breath, looking down at your feet positioned awkwardly on the board, then back up at his patient, smiling face. Those damn eyes again.

"Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you forever."

“I wouldn’t mind that.” He gives you a charming smile, your eyes rolling in response before he starts spitting instructions at you. “First, bend your knees slightly, but not too much, just a little… Yeah, like that." His hands guide you into the correct position before squeezing your waist again. "Now when you push, keep your weight centered over the board. Don't lean back or forward."

You look down at your feet once more, then at the hard, unnerving concrete below. "What if I fall?"

"Then I catch you." His voice is sincere now, his eyes watching your face for any sign that you truly didn’t want to do this. "I promise. I'll be right here."

You hold his gaze for a long moment, searching for any hint of the usual mischief, any sign that he's about to pull the rug out from under you again. But all you find is warmth.

"Okay," you whisper, surprised to find you actually mean it.

His smile could literally outshine the sun, but you’re too focused on not dying to pay attention to that. "Okay. Now when you're ready, just a little push. Nothing fancy."

You grip his forearms tight enough to probably leave bruises and bend your knees the way he showed you. The board wobbles beneath you and your heart stutters, but Martin's hands steady you immediately.

"I'm here," he murmurs. "I've got you. Take your time."

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you push.

The board rolls forward, moving beneath your feet like it's supposed to, and for one glorious second you're doing it, you're actually skateboarding. Then your weight shifts wrong, your arms fly out, and you're tipping sideways with a yelp.

But Martin's there.

His arms lock around you, hauling you against his chest as your feet leave the board entirely. It clatters away across the concrete as you both stumble, his back foot sliding out from under him, and suddenly you're falling together—

You land in a heap on the ground, him somehow twisted beneath you, his hair a mess and a breathless laugh already escaping his lungs.

"See?" He grins up at you, utterly unbothered by the fact that you're both sprawled on scratchy skate park concrete. "Caught you."

"You're literally underneath me right now."

"Caught you with my body." He winks, and you hate how much you want to kiss him.

Instead you smack his chest, which only makes him laugh harder. "You're an idiot."

"Love you too." He reaches up, running his hand through his hair, and the motion is so achingly familiar that something in your chest goes soft and warm. "You did it, though. You moved."

"I moved for like one second before falling."

"That's more than you could do ten minutes ago." His hands find your waist again, thumbs tracing gentle patterns. "Progress is progress."

You want to argue, but you're suddenly very aware of the position you're in: sprawled across your boyfriend in the middle of a skate park, his body warm beneath yours, his hands resting comfortably on your hips like they belong there.

Which, you suppose, they do.

"Are you okay?" you ask quietly. "I landed on you pretty hard."

"I'm fantastic." His voice has gone softer too, his eyes roaming your face like he's memorising it. "Best fall I've ever taken."

"You're so cheesy."

"You love it."

You do. You really, really do.

"Can we try again?" The question surprises you both, you can see it in the way his eyebrows shoot up. "I think I can do better."

His grin returns, wider than before. "That's my girl."

He helps you up, retrieves the board, and positions you carefully back on it. This time when you push, you make it three feet before wobbling. The time after that, you actually remember to bend your knees and stay centered, and you roll nearly halfway across the flat section before losing your balance.

Martin catches you every single time, without fail.

By the time the sun starts sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you've lost count of how many times you've fallen. Your palms are scraped, your knees ache, and there's a bruise forming on your hip that you don't even remember getting.

You're also pretty sure you've never had this much fun in your entire life.

"Again," you say, already pushing yourself off Martin's chest before he's fully caught you from the last attempt.

He blinks, amused. "You're not tired?"

"Not at all." You hold out your hand expectantly. "Board."

He retrieves it with a grin that's been permanently fixed on his face for the past hour, placing it carefully in front of you. "You know, most people would've given up by now."

"Most people don't have a very cute personal catcher."

His cheeks go pink, visible even in the fading light. "Oh. I'm cute now?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." But he's already positioning you on the board, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. "Okay, this time try to keep your shoulders square with the board. You've been twisting slightly when you push off."

You nod, absorbing the instruction with extreme focus, then you push off.

The board rolls smoothly beneath you, you now growing familiar with its movements as you bend your knees, centre your weight, and make sure your shoulders are square just as he said.

Then you hit a tiny pebble.

The board stops dead but you don't.

You pitch forward with a yelp, fully prepared to taste concrete, but Martin's immediately there, as always, catching you around the waist and spinning you both in a clumsy circle that dissipates the momentum.

When you stop, you're pressed flush against him, both of you breathing hard, his face inches from yours.

"That was—" you start.

"Amazing," he finishes, and kisses you.

It's quick and slightly off-center because he's grinning too wide to make it work properly, but it sends warmth flooding through your chest anyway. He pulls back, beaming, then sets you on your feet and takes off running to grab the board again before you can even process what happened.

"You can’t just do that!" you call after him while still frozen in place.

He turns, walking back towards you with the board tucked under his arm and a cheeky grin on his face. "Yes I can!"

The next attempt ends with you both on the ground again after he catches you and overcorrects, sending you tumbling in a heap. He kisses your forehead apologetically before helping you up.

The attempt after that, you make it almost the entire length of the flat section before your foot slips. He catches you, dips you dramatically, and kisses the surprised laugh right out of your mouth.

By attempt number... honestly, you've lost count... you're both giggling more than actually skating, and his kisses have become less rewards and more punctuation marks between each fall.

"You're using this as an excuse to make out with me," you accuse, wobbling slightly as he sets you back on the board.

His eyes go wide with feigned innocence. "I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Okay, maybe." He leans in, stealing another quick kiss. "Is it working?"

You pretend to consider it. "Ask me again after I make it all the way across without falling."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Bet."

"I'm not—Martin, wait, that's not a challenge—"

But he's already stepping back, arms spread wide, giving you space. "Show me what you've got, baby. All the way across. I believe in you."

You stare at the stretch of concrete ahead. It looks much longer now than it did before. Longer and harder and would absolutely hurt if you went hurling onto it.

"Promise you'll catch me?"

"Promise."

You take a breath, bend your knees, square your shoulders, and push.

The board rolls and you're not thinking about anything. Not the ground. Not falling. Not Martin watching. Just realising you’re actually doing this stupid thing you never thought you could do.

Halfway. Your legs are screaming but you keep them bent.

Three-quarters. The end is right there. You can see where the smooth concrete ends.

And then you're rolling to a stop and you're across. You actually made it across.

You look up and Martin's already running at you full speed. You don't even have time to brace before he crashes into you, lifting you off the board and spinning you around. You're both laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

"I did it!" You gasp against his shoulder, the words muffled by his hoodie.

"You did it!" He sets you down just enough to kiss you properly: both feet on the ground, his hands cradling your face. His lips are warm and soft and this one lasts longer than all the others combined, like he's trying to pour every bit of pride and happiness he's feeling directly into you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both grinning like absolute idiots.

"Told you you could do it." His thumb traces over your cheekbone, his hair a total disaster from the wind and his hand endlessly brushing through it. He looks ridiculous. You love him so much it actually hurts.

"Okay," you admit, still catching your breath. "You were right."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Say that again?"

"No."

"Please?" He bats his eyelashes, that stupid puppy look making a comeback. "Just once more. For me."

You shove at his chest but you're smiling too hard for it to be convincing. "Don't push it."

He laughs and pulls you back in, tucking your head under his chin, and you let yourself sag against him, every muscle in your body aching.

"You know what this means right?" His voice rumbles against your ear.

"What?"

"We're gonna have to do this again. Can't let you lose your new skills."

You groan. Loudly. "I just did it once, that’s enough."

"Once is all it takes. You're hooked now. Skatepark every weekend. Maybe we'll get you your own board. Matching ones—"

"Martin."

"—with like, custom grip tape. What's your favourite colour? Wait, don't tell me, I should know this—"

"Martin."

He finally stops, looking down at you with that insufferable grin. "Yeah?"

"I'm not getting matching skateboards."

"Yet."

"Ever."

He kisses your forehead. "We'll see."

You should argue. You really should. But the sun's going down and you’re exhausted and he's warm and you just did something you genuinely didn't think you could do and maybe the idea of doing it again doesn't sound terrible.

"Fine," you mutter against his chest. "But I'm picking the grip tape."

His victory cheer echoes across the empty skatepark, bouncing off the ramps and bowls, and you're pretty sure every bird within a mile radius just took flight in alarm.

You're also pretty sure you wouldn't have it any other way.

#cosmiho #martin

FADE INTO YOU — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: In dinosaur drawings and stealing your fries, Keonho has always shown that it would only ever be you.

W.C :: 4.3k

CONTAINS :: childhoodfriend!keonho, childhood friends to lovers, swimmer!keonho briefly mentioned, skinship, kissing, both being slightly oblivious, teenage love

PLAYLIST :: Fade into you - Mazzy Star; Every summertime - Niki; Daylight - Taylor Swift; Open arms - Sza; Lovely girl - Racing Mind; Lover is a day - Cuco

Keonho and you were two peas in a pod for as long as anyone could remember, having known each other since you were little kids being placed as seatmates on the first day of school.

You don't even recall the teacher's face anymore. Just the scratch of the chair legs on the floor, the smell of crayons and raincoats, and this boy next to you who immediately drew a tiny dinosaur on a piece of paper atop the corner of his desk and looked over at you like he was waiting for you to react. You drew a bigger dinosaur next to his. He grinned, all missing teeth and mischief, and that was that.

THE MAN WHO CAN'T BE MOVED — KIM JUHOON

SYNOPSIS :: Juhoon had left you heartbroken to chase his dreams, so why were you seeing posts of him sat at the very bus stop it had all began? Why did he look like he too was still haunted by the ghost of your love? And why, after years of trying to forget him, couldn’t you stop staring?

W.C :: 16.9k

CONTAINS :: idol!juhoon, angst with some fluff, small hometown, childhood lovers, longing/yearning, miscommunication, brief mentions of burns (coffee), swapping of timelines and povs a lot, break up, kissing, reader is a bad dancer, profanities, brief mentions of the members, parents make an appearance

PLAYLIST :: The man who can't be moved - The Script; Letter home - Childish Gambino; It had to be you - Frank Sinatra; Blessed - Daniel Caesar; This town - Niall Horan; Alexandra - reality club; Breakeven - The Script; Coming up roses - Harry Styles

The café had been hell.

The espresso machine broke twice, a customer yelled at you because their oat milk latte wasn't "oaty enough," and your manager disappeared into the back room for forty-five minutes to "take a call" that was definitely just him watching TikTok.

By the time you punched out, your feet were screaming, your hair smelled like stale coffee grounds, and you had a small burn on your thumb from a rogue steam wand.

But you were done. Finally done.

The walk back to your dorm was short: three blocks, past the convenience store with the flickering sign, past the elderly couple who walked their tiny dog every night at the exact same time and smiled sweetly at you. You let your mind go blank. It was easier that way.

#cosmiho #juhoon

EARTH ANGEL ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.

W.C : 5.0k

CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff

PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;

"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"

"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.

"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”

Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."

”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.

Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.

“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.

"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.

"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.

He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"

You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.

"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."

His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."

He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.

"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.

You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."

Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.

"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."

You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.

He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.

He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.

"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.

"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"

"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

"What?" you say.

"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."

"You're always looking."

"Hard not to."

You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.

The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.

He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows.

Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.

"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.

"I'm looking out the window."

"My face is not a window."

You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.

The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.

Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.

The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.

He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.

You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.

"What?" you ask.

He turns to look at you. "Nothing."

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."

He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.

"That's so corny."

"You love it."

Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.

Back to the Future.

You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.

Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.

"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.

"Mm."

"You're not watching."

"I'm watching you watch it."

You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.

"You're so weird," you say.

"You're just noticing?"

You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.

He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.

"Good?" you ask.

He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."

You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.

"You're staring," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.

"So?" he says.

You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

"Seonghyeon—"

He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.

You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.

His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.

He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi."

He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"

You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."

"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."

You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light.

You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you came."

You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.

The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.

‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’

You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.

You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.

"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.

"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."

You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."

‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’

You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.

Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.

"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.

You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.

"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.

"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."

You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.

“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.

“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.

His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”

“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”

He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on.

Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.

“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."

You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."

"I know."

"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."

"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You were so confident," you say.

He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."

The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.

You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.

His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.

"Mm?”

"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."

"I'm not feeling bad."

"You're pouting again."

You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."

"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."

You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.

"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.

"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."

The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.

"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.

You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

"Yeah?" you ask.

"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."

You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.

The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.

‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’

"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.

"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.

"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."

On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.

‘My darling dear, love you all the time’

You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.

"What?" you whisper.

He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.

“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”

Your heart stutters.

On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.

It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.

His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.

‘I'm just a fool,’

The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.

His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.

When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.

‘A fool in love with you’

"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."

You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.

You lean in and kiss him again.

This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.

The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.

On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.

Neither of you notice.

His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.

"Seonghyeon," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"

"The movie's over."

He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"

"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"

He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.

"No," he says finally.

You blink. "No?"

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."

"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."

"I know."

"My dad will kill you."

"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.

But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.

"Five more minutes," you say.

His smile widens. "Ten."

"Seven."

"Deal."

He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"Baby," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You’re my density."

You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.

"And you’re mine," you say.

And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.

Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.

Some things are worth being late for.

CAMP MATCHMAKER — EOM SEONGHYEON

SYNOPSIS :: Following your campers locking you and Seonghyeon in a closet together, you try to pretend he doesn't exist, but Seonghyeon and your two cabins of relentless matchmakers have other plans.

W.C :: 4.6k

CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, a spinoff of mr and mrs camp counselor, the campers are menaces, stubborn reader, crack, fluff, angst if you squint, the love bomb, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Tongue tied - grouplove; It’s not living (if it’s not with you) - the 1975; Slide away - Oasis; You are the right one - Sports

It had been exactly one day since the storage closet incident that saw you and Seonghyeon finally confess that there was something between you both.

When the two of you were freed from the makeshift prison you had attempted to give the campers a thorough talking to. Really, you had.

TAGLIST :: @cookeyy @hyunsphoria @chaoyvfan @kkeonhoz @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @enha4cortis @its-vante @lowkhyeon @en-dream @cortismysunshines @adoure @h4chi @chrmedbyjju @taelvvrzz @kienhawon @junpom @velosiq @wouldntyuliketoknowweatherboy @peerlesspine @exclusiverinaa @eoduuung @su-m3ri @luffyloving @kiramyeo

#cosmiho #seonghyeon

THE CITY OF LOVE — JAMES CHAO

SYNOPSIS :: To celebrate your one year anniversary James takes you on a trip to Paris, and underneath the glow of the Eiffel Tower you fall in love with him all over again.

W.C :: 4.5k

CONTAINS :: bf!james, non idol au, just pure fluff, established relationship, pet names, skinship, kissing, cliché, cheesy dialogue, pda

PLAYLIST :: Only you (and you alone) - The Platters; I waited for you - Chet Baker; Misty- Lesley Gore

The first thing you feel is warmth.

James's arm is draped across your waist like it belongs there—and after a year, you suppose it does. His hand rests flat against your stomach, fingers slightly curled, and every few seconds you feel the unconscious twitch of his grip, pulling you even closer even in sleep.

#cosmiho #james

MY LOVE WILL NEVER DIE ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS :: Your father finally caves and lets Seonghyeon sleep over, complete with a very long list of rules. There's just one problem: your boyfriend has never met a rule he couldn't, and wouldn’t, break.

W.C :: 5.1k

CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, established relationship, sleepover, overbearing/strict father, sneaking around/rule breaking, fluff, cliché, dancing, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: My love will never die - The Channels, Earl Lewis; Alone - Heart; Time (clock of the heart) - Culture Club; Open arms - Journey; Making love out of nothing at all - Air Supply; Alone with you - The Outfield

It had taken weeks of convincing for your father to finally agree to this.

Not because he didn’t know Seonghyeon. In fact, that actually was the problem.

Unfortunately, your father knew Seonghyeon very well.

TAN LINES — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: Your boyfriend swears he'll be fine without sunscreen despite your insistence, though he doesn't mind being proven wrong if it means you'll take care of him.

W.C :: 5.0k

CONTAINS :: athletic!keonho, fluff + crack, high school au, established relationship, cringe + cliché teen love, cheesy dialogue, sports day, sunburns, pet names, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd; The perfect pair - Beabadoobee; Puppy love - Paul Anka; No.1 party anthem - Arctic Monkeys

The school field was already buzzing with energy despite the early hour. Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green banners rippled in the warm morning breeze, and the sound of excited chatter mixed with the occasional shriek of laughter as students ran around with face paint, glitter, and makeshift foam fingers. The smell of freshly cut grass and the distant sizzle of the food stalls being set up hung in the air.

BABY COME BACK ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS :: After a stupid fight that was blown way out of proportion, Seonghyeon turns up at your window with a mixtape and a dream. (TAGLIST)

W.C :: 8.2k

CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, angst with comfort, argument, resolution, yearning seonghyeon, stubborn reader, established relationship, kissing, cliché’s

PLAYLIST :: Baby come back - Player; Out of touch - Daryl Hall & John Oates; Under the milky way - The Church; With or without you - U2; Listen to your heart - Roxette; Right here waiting - Richard Marx

You and Seonghyeon had fought. Badly.

It wasn't supposed to blow up like that, that was the worst part. If it had been something big that was worth the screaming, silence, and days of not speaking, maybe it would've made sense. But it wasn't big. It was small and stupid, the kind of thing that shouldn't have mattered, except it did, because it was never just about the one thing.

He'd forgotten. Again.

A study date. You had a biology test coming up, and he'd promised to help. You'd waited for him in the library for an hour, watching the door, watching the clock, watching the light shift from gold to grey. He never showed.

You found him at the arcade.

"I'm sorry," he said when he saw you. "It slipped my mind."

THE CHASER ౨ৎ 𝐀𝐇𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐎

SYNOPSIS : Keonho acts like that with everyone. That's what you tell yourself when he looks for you in the stands, when he walks you back after every game, when he asks if you're coming to his next match every single time. Everyone says it's not normal. But that's just Keonho being Keonho, right?

W.C : 8.2k

CONTAINS : chaser!Keonho, both reader and Keonho are gryffindor, reader is clueless and in denial, slow burn (kinda), kissing

PLAYLIST : I will - The beatles; Japanese denim - Daniel caesar; I love you - Fontaines d.c; Champaign coast - Blood orange; Juna - Clairo; Kingston - Faye Webster

The walk from the library to the Gryffindor common room made you almost wish you had requested to be Slytherin each day. Almost. You'd never admit that out loud. The rivalry ran so deep that you'd nearly been crucified when the confession slipped out to Mina on a random Wednesday night in third year. She'd stared at you for a full ten seconds before deciding you were joking. You'd let her believe it, nodding along as she launched into a passionate defense of Gryffindor superiority, and you'd never brought it up again.

Still. Life would be easier. Four fewer staircases. No moving stairs that seemed to have a personal vendetta against you, catching you so often that you’d started bracing for it, half-expecting the castle itself to work against you.

Your legs ache by the time you reach the third staircase, each step just slightly heavier than the last, the muscles in your thighs burning with a slow, persistent fatigue.

Your arms aren't doing much better.

The five books stacked unevenly against your chest dig into your forearms, their weight no longer manageable in the way it had seemed back in the library. At the time, it had felt reasonable, logical, even. You’d convinced the librarian with a promise you fully intended to keep, insisting you’d return them all before your last class tomorrow.

Now, with your fingers beginning to go numb and your grip slipping by the second, you’re reconsidering every decision that led you here.

The corridor ahead is quieter than usual.

Most students have already retreated to their common rooms, your footsteps making the only sound as they echo faintly against the stone, blending with the distant murmur of voices you can’t quite place. Torchlight flickers along the walls, stretching shadows that shift as you pass.

You adjust your grip on the books for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to redistribute the weight across your arms.

Five might have been a mistake.

The top one tilts dangerously, and you huff under your breath, pressing your chin down against the worn cover to keep it from sliding off completely. Your arms burn with the effort, muscles protesting as you tighten your hold.

“You’re going to drop those.”

The voice comes from your left, casual and entirely too familiar.

You glance sideways and there he is.

Keonho leans back against the stone wall like he’s been there long enough to get comfortable, one foot braced behind him, broom resting loosely at his side. He’s still in his practice gear: sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, a faint flush lingering across his cheeks from exertion.

You don’t stop walking, though your pace almost slows. “I’m not.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the wall, falling into step beside you with far too much ease. “Give it five seconds.”

“I’ve made it this far.”

“Barely.”

Before you can react and even think to protest he reaches over and lifts four of the five books straight out of your arms.

The sudden absence of weight is so abrupt it almost throws you off balance. Your arms feel strange, too light, your shoulders releasing tension you didn't even realise you'd been holding. You stumble half a step before catching yourself, blinking up at him.

"Keonho—"

"You're welcome."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"You didn't have to." He adjusts the stack in his own arms, settling them against his chest like he'd been carrying them all along. The broom hangs from the crook of his elbow, balanced with ease.

"I was fine." The protest comes out weaker than you intended, your arms still tingling from the sudden release of pressure.

"You were struggling."

"I was not—"

The single book left in your hands slips slightly as you gesture, forcing you to tighten your grip quickly to keep it from falling. He glances down at you, one eyebrow lifting in a way that manages to be both amused and deeply unimpressed.

"…sure."

You shoot him a look, your cheeks warming. "Say it and I'm taking them back."

"Go on, then."

You reach for them, and without even looking at you, he lifts the stack just slightly higher, completely out of your reach. His arm doesn't even strain. You're left with your hand outstretched, fingers brushing empty air, and he's watching you with a grin that's entirely too satisfied.

You let your hand drop. "You're actually the worst."

"I'm literally carrying your problems for you." His grin widens, and there's something almost warm beneath the teasing. "That feels pretty heroic, actually."

"These are not my problems. They're books."

"Five of them." He shifts the stack again, his forearm flexing with the movement, and you notice a completely normal amount. "That's a problem."

You huff, but don’t try again.

For a while, the two of you walk in relative quiet, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm despite yourself. His presence is warm at your side, steady in a way that feels annoyingly familiar, and you find yourself unconsciously matching your pace to his, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm.

“You’re out late,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, shifting the stack of books slightly in his arms like they weigh nothing at all.

“So are you.”

“Practice ran over.” He shrugs dismissively as if it’s not worth mentioning, but the evidence is still there: the slight dampness at his hairline, the way his shirt clings just a little, the fast smell of grass and sweat. “Coach thinks we’re slacking.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “You? Unlikely.”

“I know,” he replies, mock-serious. “Tragic, really. All that talent, wasted on discipline."

You roll your eyes, but you can feel the corner of your mouth threatening to lift. "Poor you."

There’s a pause that stretches just long enough to settle into something quieter.

You eventually reach the staircase that leads toward Gryffindor Tower, and without hesitation, he follows as you start up it.

The climb feels longer than usual, your legs still aching from earlier, but the weight in your arms is manageable now with only one book left to carry. You glance at the books he's holding, stacked neatly against his chest, his grip steady, then back up at his face.

Halfway up, you glance at him again. "You can give those back, you know."

"Mm." He doesn't look at you, but there's a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"That's crazy," he says lightly, his voice carrying a note of mock innocence. "It really sounded like one."

You narrow your eyes, though there's no real heat behind it. "Keonho."

"Relax." He finally looks at you, and there's something softer beneath the teasing now, something almost patient. "I'll give them back."

"When?"

"When you stop looking like you're about to collapse."

The words are light, but there's a weight beneath them that makes your chest tighten slightly. You look away first, focusing on the stairs ahead of you.

"I am not—"

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

The staircase shifts beneath you, a familiar lurch that you've long since stopped being surprised by, and you brace yourself against the railing out of habit. Keonho doesn't even seem to notice, his balance unshaken, the books in his arms barely shifting. Quidditch players have a fundamentally unfair relationship with gravity that you don’t resent at all, not even the slightest.

You hesitate for a moment, the protest dying on your lips, and your shoulders sag just slightly.

"—maybe a little."

He smiles then, eyes softening as he briefly scans your face, making something in your chest tighten.

The staircase settles into place with a final shudder, and he gestures for you to go ahead, falling into step behind you as you reach the top.

The portrait of the Fat Lady greets you at the end of the corridor, half-asleep in her frame. She blinks down at you both, clearly unimpressed by the interruption, her head resting against the painted branches of her orchard.

"Password?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

You shift the book in your arms and give it, and she yawns before swinging open with a soft creak.

Warmth spills out immediately: the low glow of the fire, the murmur of a few lingering conversations, the comfortable, lived-in quiet of the Gryffindor common room at night.

You step inside and Keonho follows.

He walks with you across the common room, past the couches and the fire and the few lingering glances from people who notice but don't comment. He's been doing this long enough that no one really questions it anymore: the two of you crossing the common room together, his arms full of your books, his presence so familiar it's become background noise.

You reach the foot of the staircase to the girls' dormitory and turn to him, expectant.

He stops, looking down at you, then at the books still stacked in his arms, like he's considering something. The firelight catches his face from the side, illuminating the lingering flush from practice, the faint crease between his brows that appears when he's thinking.

"…now?" He asks, and there's something almost reluctant in his voice.

"Yes, now."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I'd been handling it before you came."

"I know." He says it simply, without the usual teasing edge, and something in his expression shifts before he eventually hands them over.

The weight settles back into your arms all at once, heavier than you remember, and you can't quite stop the small wince that escapes as your shoulders adjust. The books press against your chest, your forearms straining, and for a moment you wonder how you managed to carry them this far on your own.

He notices immediately. Of course he does.

"Wow." He watches you adjust your grip, his head tilting slightly. "You really were dying."

"I was not dying." You shift the stack again, trying to find a comfortable angle. "I was managing."

"You were dying," he repeats, with the certainty of someone who has made up his mind.

You exhale, something that's almost a laugh but not quite. "Leave."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't thank you."

"You meant to."

You pause, just for a moment. "I absolutely did not."

He laughs quietly, softer now in the dim light and for a moment, he doesn’t speak, just brushing his hand gently through his hair whilst his eyes remain on you.

“You’re coming to my game tomorrow, right?”

There it is. The question lands the same way it always does: casual, almost careless, like it doesn’t matter either way. Like he hasn’t asked you the same thing before every single game for years.

You don’t hesitate. “Obviously.”

He studies you for half a second before something in his expression eases.

“Good,” he says.

You shift the books again, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your chest. "You'd be unbearable if I didn't."

"I'm unbearable anyway."

"True."

He grins, but it's softer than before, more real. "But you still show up."

You pause, just slightly. “…yeah.”

Something flickers in his expression at that, quick enough that you almost miss it. He recovers quickly, but there's a new quality to the silence that follows. A quietness that feels different than before.

"Don't be late," he says finally, stepping back smoothly toward the boys’ dorms. But his eyes stay on yours for a second longer than necessary, lingering in a way that makes your chest feel tight. "I'll be looking."

The words land somewhere beneath your ribs, warm and unexpected.

Then he turns, heading back across the common room, and you watch him go, just for a moment, before adjusting the books in your arms again and heading up to your dorm.

"Keonho did what?!"

Mina's voice shot up before you could stop her, sharp and bright in the quiet of the dormitory. The sound seemed to bounce off the stone walls, too loud in the small space, and you lunged forward from your desk, grabbing at her sleeve before she could get any louder.

"Be quiet!"

"I am being quiet," she hissed back immediately, though her voice was still pitched high enough that anyone passing in the corridor outside could probably hear every word. She didn't seem to notice, or care, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

"You're not." You glanced toward the door, half-expecting it to swing open, though the dormitory was empty aside from the two of you. The other beds were undisturbed, their hangings drawn back. For now, at least, you had privacy—though Mina's voice was doing its best to eliminate that advantage. "Just lower your voice."

Mina pressed her lips together, visibly restraining herself, but her eyes were still wide as she leaned forward on her bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, the hangings shifting slightly with the movement, and she planted her hands on either side of her knees like she needed to physically hold herself back from launching across the room.

"You're telling me," she said, slower now, enunciating each word like she needed to make sure she had this right, "that he carried your books halfway across Hogwarts right after practice?"

You shrugged, turning back toward your desk and trying for casual. The chair creaked slightly as you sat back down, and you busied your hands with arranging the books you'd just brought up, lining up their spines, anything to give your fingers something to do. "It wasn't halfway. Just… a few staircases to get here."

Mina stared at you.

"He came to the common room from the pitch?" Mina's voice had gone quieter now, but somehow sharper. "The route where there's a shortcut literally every player uses that doesn't require them walking up the five million staircases? He was just casually hanging around in the castle when he could just cut through somewhere else?"

You hesitated, your fingers pausing against the spine of the top book. The leather was worn smooth under your fingertips, cool and familiar. "Well. Yeah."

"And you think that's a coincidence."

"It is a coincidence."

She didn't say anything to that. Which, coming from Mina, was worse.

You shifted slightly in your chair, the wood creaking slightly again, suddenly very aware of how quiet she’d gone. When you glanced up, she was still looking at you.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said finally.

“I’m right.”

“You’re delusional.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair. “I’m realistic.”

“No,” she shot back immediately, sitting up straighter on her bed. “You’re actively choosing the least realistic explanation because it’s more convenient.”

“That’s not—”

“He waited for you.”

You blinked. “He didn’t—”

“You literally said he was just standing there,” she cut in, her voice faster now. “In a random hallway. After practice. For no reason.”

“He wasn’t waiting,” you insisted, even as your voice lost a bit of its certainty. “He was just… there.”

"Right." Mina nodded, but there was nothing agreeing in her expression. "Just standing around. In full practice gear. With his broom. In a corridor that is not on the way to anything useful."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The image formed itself in your mind despite yourself: Keonho leaning against the wall, his broom at his side, his hair still damp from practice. The way he'd looked up when you approached, like he'd been waiting for the sound of your footsteps. The way his expression had shifted when he saw you, something easing behind his eyes before he'd even spoken.

You pushed the thought away.

“…He could’ve been taking a break.”

“A break,” she repeated, her voice flat. “In a hallway.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of the pitch. Or the locker room. Or literally anywhere else.”

You frowned. “You’re making it sound weird.”

“It is weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you said, more firmly now. “He does stuff like that all the time.”

Mina’s expression shifted slightly at that, something sharper settling behind her eyes.

“…No,” she said slowly. “He does stuff like that with you all the time.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your books like that settled it. The movement was sharper than you intended, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that grated in the quiet. "That's not true."

"Really?" She pressed, and you could hear her shifting on the bed, leaning closer. "Because I don't remember him carrying anyone else's things. Or walking anyone else back to the common room after training. Or asking anyone else if they're coming to his games every single time."

You flipped a book open a little harder than necessary, the pages fluttering under your hands. The ink on the first page blurred slightly in the low light, the words refusing to settle into meaning. "He asks people."

"Name one."

You didn't answer. The silence stretched and you could feel her watching you, waiting.

"Exactly."

You frowned down at the page, not really reading it. “He’s just… like that.”

“Like what?”

“Friendly.”

Mina let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That is not just friendly.”

“It is,” you insisted. “He jokes with everyone. He flirts with everyone—”

“But he doesn’t look for everyone.”

That made you pause. Just for a second. You shook it off quickly, turning a page you hadn’t read. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really—”

"He asked if I was coming to the game," you cut in, the words spilling out before you could stop them, like they proved something you couldn't quite articulate.

Mina blinked, momentarily thrown. "Okay?"

"He always asks." You could hear yourself talking faster now, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Every game. It's not a big deal."

Mina tilted her head slightly, and the expression on her face had shifted. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

"Yes."

"And that doesn't sound strange to you?"

"No."

"It doesn't sound like he specifically wants you there?"

You hesitated again, quieter this time. “…He asks people.”

“He asks you.”

“He asks other people too.”

“Not like that.”

You exhaled sharply, the sound escaping before you could stop it, and closed the book with a soft thud. Your hands rested on the cover, feeling the worn leather beneath your palms, and you stared at it without really seeing it. "It's not like that."

Mina watched you for a moment, her expression softening just slightly, but not enough to drop it.

“…Okay,” she said finally, though her tone made it very clear she didn’t agree. She leaned back against her pillows, the hangings rustling with the movement, and you could see her deliberately settling in, making herself comfortable. "Then let's say it's not."

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion prickling at the back of your neck. "It's not."

"Sure." She said it easily, too easily, reaching for the edge of her blanket and pulling it over her lap. "Then you won't mind if you don't go tomorrow."

You blinked.

"That's not—" You sat up straighter, your hands coming off the book, your body moving before your brain had fully caught up. "I'm going."

"Why?"

"Because I always go."

"Exactly."

You frowned. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Mina didn’t respond right away. She just watched you, waiting.

"It doesn't," you repeated, and this time it came out like you were trying to convince yourself.

"Then don't go," she said again, and her voice was soft now, almost kind. The sharp edges were gone entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like sympathy.

You hesitated.

And for just a second you actually considered it.

The thought felt… wrong. Off. Like skipping something important you couldn’t quite name, something you'd been doing for so long it had become part of the rhythm of your life..

“…I’m going,” you said finally, and the words came out firmer than you expected.

Mina hummed, like she’d expected that.

“Right,” she said, settling back against her pillows. “Because it doesn’t mean anything.”

You didn’t answer.

You turned back to your books instead, eyes scanning the same line three times without processing a single word.

The stands were already filling by the time you and Mina get there.

The wind tugs at your scarf as you settle against the railing, your usual spot, the worn wood familiar under your palms. Below, the pitch stretches out, green and still, waiting.

Players are already in the air for warm-ups, red and gold cutting through the grey sky in sharp, practiced movements. Your eyes find the shapes automatically, scanning the formation the way you always do.

Without thinking, you look for him.

"You're doing it again."

Mina's voice comes from beside you, casual but knowing. You glance sideways, find her watching the pitch with an expression that says she's already figured out what you're going to say.

"Doing what?" you ask, though you know.

She doesn't look at you. "Looking for him."

"I'm not—" You stop, the denial thin even to your own ears. You exhale, turning back to the field. "I'm just watching."

"Sure."

You ignore that, your eyes already sweeping across the players again.

It takes you a second to pick him out from the motion: the familiar shape of his shoulders, the way he holds his broom just looser than the others. But when you do, it's immediate.

Keonho.

He catches a pass one-handed, barely slowing, his body curving as he sends it back across the field in a clean, effortless arc. He looks focused, loose, controlled. The way he moves makes it hard to look away.

You watch him for a second longer than necessary.

Then he looks up, and it’s direct, immediate even. His gaze lands on you like he already knew where you'd be, like he didn't need to search because he’s spent years knowing exactly where you sat watching him. For a second, everything else fades—the noise, the wind, the crowd pressing in on either side of you.

Then his mouth lifts at the corner, quick and almost private, and he shifts his broom to fly a little closer to your side of the stands before pulling back into formation.

Beside you, Mina makes a quiet sound.

"You saw that," she says.

You keep your eyes on the pitch. "He's just warming up."

"He didn't look at the rest of the stands."

"He probably did."

"I was looking at him." Her voice is flat. "He didn't."

The whistle blows before you can respond, and the game begins.

It starts fast. The Quaffle moves in sharp passes, players accelerating and diving, the crowd's noise swelling with every play. You track Keonho without meaning to—or maybe you do mean to, maybe you've been doing it for so long that you've stopped pretending otherwise.

He gets the Quaffle early. He could pass it, but instead he pushes forward, cutting between two players, his broom dipping low before pulling up sharply toward the goal. He releases clean, and the Quaffle sails through the center hoop.

The stands erupt.

You don't look at the scoreboard. You look at him.

And he's already looking at you.

Not at his teammates. Not at the celebrating crowd. At you, just for a second, before he turns away like nothing happened.

Your grip tightens on the railing.

"He does that every time," Mina says, quieter now.

"He just scored."

"And he looked at you."

You swallow. "He looks at the stands."

"No." She shakes her head slowly. "He looks at you."

The game pushes on. Slytherin fights back, the plays getting tighter, more aggressive. A Bludger cuts close to one of Keonho’s teammates, and the crowd gasps.

Then Keonho intercepts a pass he shouldn't have been able to reach. He stretches for it, his body tilting off-balance, and for a moment your heart stops. He recovers quickly, but your pulse doesn't settle. Your hands are locked on the railing, your shoulders tight.

He steadies, looks up, and finds you again.

Something tightens in your chest. Mina is quiet beside you.

"He's showing off," she murmurs.

You shake your head. "He's playing."

"No." Her voice is soft now. "He's making sure you're watching him play."

You don't respond. Because now that she's said it, you can't stop seeing it. Every pass is a little sharper. Every turn is a little cleaner. And every time, after something worth watching, he looks for you.

The final whistle blows, and you barely register it. The crowd is moving, voices rising, people already heading back toward the castle. But you stay where you are, your hands still on the railing, your eyes still on the pitch.

Below, players are landing one by one, boots hitting the ground, brooms tucked under arms as they regroup. Keonho touches down, pulls off his gloves, runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks up.

Like he's checking again.

Your chest feels unsteady, something shifting into place that you've been avoiding for a long time.

"You still think it doesn't mean anything?" Mina asks quietly.

You don't answer right away. Below, Keonho is standing apart from his teammates now, his head turned toward the stands. You can't see his face clearly from that far, but you don't need to.

He's looking. He's always looking.

Your fingers curl against the railing.

"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice quieter than you expected, and Mina just watches your eyes follow the boy.

The noise eventually thins out around you.

People leave the stands in clusters, their voices overlapping as they replay the game in loud, animated bursts. The energy that filled the air just minutes ago is shifting, dissolving into smaller conversations, the crowd spreading out across the grass as the match comes to its end.

You don't move right away, just continue to watch Keonho huddle with his teammates, bumping shoulders with each other.

"You just can’t help watching him, can you?" Mina says quietly beside you.

You exhale, pushing yourself back from the railing. "We should go before it gets crowded."

"That doesn’t answer my question"

"I know." The words come out a little too quickly, and you don't look at her as you start toward the stairs.

She doesn't argue. Just watches you for a second longer before falling into step beside you.

The walk down the stands is slower than usual, the wooden steps creaking underfoot as you weave through the lingering groups of students. You keep your eyes forward, deliberately not looking back toward the pitch, even though you can feel the pull of it. You've done this enough times. You don't need to think about it.

By the time your feet hit the grass, the crowd has thinned, the air down here different from the stands, closer to the lingering energy of the game. You slow slightly without meaning to, and Mina notices.

"I'm going to head back," she says, her voice casual in a way that isn't really casual at all.

You glance at her. "Already?"

"Yeah." She shrugs, adjusting her scarf against the wind. "I've seen enough."

There's a pause. Then, more pointed: "You'll be fine."

You frown slightly. "I'm always fine."

"Mhm." She gives you a look that you don't fully understand—or maybe don't want to—and then turns, heading toward the path back to the castle without another word.

You watch her go for a second, her figure growing smaller against the grey afternoon light, then turn back toward the pitch, not moving

You tell yourself you're just waiting for the crowd to clear. That's all. Students pass by you in small groups, voices fading in and out. Time stretches, just slightly, and your eyes drift almost against your will back to the field.

Players are still there. Talking, moving, breaking off. You spot him again, further out this time, near the edge of the pitch. His broom is slung over his shoulder, his posture looser now, like the game has finally left his system. He says something to one of his teammates, and they laugh. He looks normal. Like he always does.

Your chest tightens, just a little, and you look away, turning to the side.

This is stupid. You look stupid. You don't need to stand here. You don't need to—

"Hey."

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel it before you fully register it. You turn, and Keonho is right there, closer than you expected.

Up close you can see the faint flush still on his skin from the game, his hair is still slightly damp at the edges and the lingering breath he hasn't quite caught yet. His broom rests against his shoulder, and his eyes are on you with an intensity that makes the rest of the field seem to fade.

"You're still here," he says, his voice casual.

You blink once, then force your expression into something normal. "I was leaving."

"Mm." His gaze lingers on you for a second, like he's checking something. "Didn't look like it."

"I was about to."

"Right."

There's a pause, one that’s heavier than usual. He shifts his grip on the broom, then glances past you, as if just now noticing the space around you.

"Where's Mina?"

"She left."

He nods once, like that makes sense. "You stayed."

You hesitate, just barely. "I always do."

Something in his expression flickers at that. Quick and subtle, but you catch it. Like it matters more than it should.

"Yeah," he says, quieter now. "You do."

The pause that follows is different from the others. You've stood here with him after games a hundred times, fallen into this same rhythm of walking back together, and you've never thought twice about it. But now, with the crowd thinning and Mina gone and his eyes still on you, the familiarity feels like something else entirely.

You shift your weight, looking for solid ground. "You played well."

He huffs out a small breath, something between a laugh and a deflection. "I was alright."

"You nearly fell off your broom."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I recovered." There's a flicker of amusement in his voice, but it doesn't fully settle there. He's quiet for a moment before speaking again. "You saw that?"

The question is light, but there's something underneath it. Something that makes your stomach tighten.

"Everyone saw that," you say, and your voice comes out a little faster than you intended.

"Yeah." He watches you for a second longer, his expression unreadable. "Right."

You look away first, your gaze dropping to the grass, to the worn path leading back to the castle. Anything to break the weight of his attention.

"You don't have to walk me back," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know you're probably busy. Or whatever."

The moment they leave your mouth, you almost regret them. Because now it sounds like you expected him to. Like you've been standing here waiting for him to offer.

Silence.

You glance back up, and he's looking at you differently now. Not teasing, not casual. Just looking, his expression open in a way it rarely is.

"Do you not want me to?" he asks, and his voice is quieter than before.

The question catches you off guard. "What? No—I just meant—"

"That's not what I asked."

You falter. Because you don't actually know how to answer that. You've never had to. This has always been the rhythm: he walks you back, and you let him, and neither of you ever questions it.

"It doesn't matter," you say finally.

His gaze doesn't leave yours. "Right," he says after a second, but it doesn't sound like he agrees. He shifts his broom again, then jerks his head slightly toward the castle. "Come on."

You blink. "What?"

"I'm walking you back."

It's not a question. It never is.

You hesitate for half a second, then fall into step beside him anyway. Of course you do.

The walk back is quieter than it should be.

Your footsteps find the same rhythm it always has, your shoulders nearly brushing when the path narrows, the familiar ease of walking beside him settling into your limbs. He's still close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when the wind picks up, still moving with that loose, unhurried stride that makes everything look effortless.

But neither of you is talking. Not at first.

You glance at him once, briefly, out of the corner of your eye. He's looking ahead, one hand loosely gripping his broom, the other shoved deep into his pocket. His profile is sharp against the grey sky, his expression neutral in a way that feels practiced, deliberate. Like he's focusing very hard on something in the distance. Like he's making a point of not looking at you.

That's new.

You reach the first set of stairs, climbing side by side like you've done this a hundred times. A hundred walks back from the pitch, a hundred evenings where the game fades into the background and the castle rises up to meet you.

But it doesn't feel easy tonight. It feels like something is hovering just beneath the surface, something that's been there for a while, waiting for you to notice it.

Your thoughts keep circling back. To the game. To the way he looked at you. To the way Mina had said it like it was obvious, like you were the only one who couldn't see what was right in front of you.

You grip the railing slightly tighter as you climb, the cold metal pressing into your palm.

"You were playing differently today," you say, keeping your voice as casual as you can manage. The words come out lighter than you feel, and you hope he doesn't notice the way your fingers curl against the stone.

There's a small pause beside you. "Differently how?"

You shrug, like it doesn't matter. Like you haven't been turning it over in your head for the past hour. "I don't know. Just… more reckless."

"I always play like that."

"No, you don't."

He glances at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. "You've been keeping track?"

You hesitate, your eyes fixed on the stairs ahead, trying to not give away things just yet. "I've seen enough of your games."

"Yeah." His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. "You have."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten, but you push past the feeling, forcing your voice to stay steady. "You almost fell. That wasn't normal."

"I told you, I recovered."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

You open your mouth and stop. Because you don't actually know how to answer that. The words tangle on your tongue, caught between what you've always told yourself and something else. Something you're not sure you're ready to name.

You look away first. "Nothing."

He doesn't respond right away. You can feel his gaze on you now, even without looking, the weight of it settling against your skin. It's not heavy, exactly. Just present. Waiting.

"Right," he says eventually, but the word doesn't land the way it usually does. It sounds like he knows you're avoiding something. Like he's letting you, for now, but not because he believes you.

You reach the top of the stairs, stepping into the next corridor. The castle is quieter here, the noise from the pitch fading into something distant, muffled by stone walls and the soft echo of your footsteps.

"You always look for me."

The words come out before you can stop them, pulled from somewhere you didn't know they'd been hiding. The second they leave your mouth, you feel them land: heavy, irreversible, hanging in the air between you as something you can't take back.

Beside you, Keonho goes still. Not completely—his feet keep moving, his stride doesn't falter, but you can feel the shift. The way his attention narrows, sharpens, focuses entirely on you.

"What?" he says, and his voice is different now. Not teasing. Not light. Just waiting.

You swallow, forcing yourself not to backtrack. Not to hide behind the same excuses you've been using for years. "During the game."

He doesn't answer immediately. His hand has tightened slightly around his broom, you notice. A small thing, barely visible, but you see it.

You keep going, because stopping now would be worse. "You keep looking at the stands," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "At me."

Silence. The corridor seems smaller suddenly, the walls closer, the air thicker. You finally glance at him, and he's not looking ahead anymore. He's looking at you. Really looking, in a way that makes your breath catch. And for once he's not smiling. There's no joke waiting at the edge of his mouth, no easy deflection in his eyes.

"And?" he asks. The word is quiet. Careful. Like he's standing at the edge of something and waiting for you to decide whether to follow.

Your pulse picks up, a steady rhythm that you can feel in your throat. "I just—" you start, then falter. "Mina said—"

"Mina." His voice flattens slightly, and something flickers across his expression. Not quite annoyance, but close.

You hesitate. "She thinks that—"

"I don't care what Mina thinks."

That stops you. You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden edge in his voice, the way his jaw tightens just slightly as he says it.

His gaze doesn't waver. If anything, it holds you more firmly, more steadily, than anything he's ever done.

"What do you think?" he asks.

The question lands heavier than anything he's said before. It settles in your chest, warm and unsettling, and for a moment you don't know how to answer. Because the truth is you're not sure anymore. Not after today. Not after watching him look for you, again and again, like you were the only thing in the stands worth seeing.

"I think," you say slowly, the words coming out quieter than you intended, "that you're just like this with everyone."

There it is. The thing you've been telling yourself for years. The thing that's always made this easy. The thing that let you stand beside him, walk with him, let him carry your books and bring you food and look for you in the crowd, all without having to ask what any of it meant.

For a second, he just looks at you. His expression is unreadable, and you can't tell if he's waiting, or thinking, or something else entirely.

Then something shifts. It's small, barely a change in his posture, barely a flicker across his face, but you feel it.

"No," he says.

You frown slightly, the word catching you off guard. "No?"

"No." He says it more firmly this time, and there's no room for argument in his voice. No teasing. No deflection. Just simple, absolute certainty.

Your breath catches, just slightly. "You are," you say, but your voice sounds weaker now, the conviction draining out of it. "You joke with everyone. You—"

"Not like this."

He steps a little closer as he says it. Not enough to startle you, but enough that you notice. Enough that the space between you feels suddenly, unmistakably smaller. His broom shifts against his shoulder, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, the faint flush still lingering on his skin from the game, the way his eyes haven't left yours.

Your words stall in your throat. Because suddenly you're not entirely sure how to argue with that. Every excuse you've carried, every explanation you've wrapped around his presence like armour, feels thin now. Transparent.

"You don't—" you start, and your voice comes out quieter than you expected, almost fragile. "You don't get to just say that."

His head tilts slightly, a small movement that draws your gaze to the curve of his jaw, the shadow of his lashes. "Why not?"

"Because," you falter, searching for something solid to hold onto, something that will make this feel the way it always has. "Because you've never said anything like that before."

"I have."

You shake your head immediately, the denial automatic. "No, you haven't."

"I have." His voice is softer now, but no less certain. "You just didn't take it seriously."

The words land somewhere in your chest, heavier than you expected. You think about all the times he's asked if you're coming to his games. All the times he's waited. All the times he's shown up, exactly when you needed him, and you've told yourself it was nothing. That he was just like that. That it didn't mean anything.

"That's not fair," you say, but it comes out weaker than you want it to, the protest already crumbling.

He watches you for a second, and something flickers across his expression. Not frustration, not impatience, something softer, almost like understanding.

"I know," he says.

The honesty in it catches you off guard. You look at him properly then, seeing that for once he's not hiding behind anything. No teasing grin waiting to deflect. No half-joking tone to make it easier to brush off. Just him. Just Keonho, standing closer than he ever has, looking at you like he's been waiting for this moment for longer than either of you want to admit.

Your breath catches.

"Then why didn't you just say it?" you ask, and your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Because you kept doing this." His voice is low, steady.

You blink. "Doing what?"

"Pretending it didn't mean anything."

You look away instinctively, your gaze dropping to the stone floor, your fingers curling at your sides. "I wasn't pretending."

"You were."

"I just—" You stop, frustrated, because you don't know how to explain something you barely understand yourself. How do you tell him that you've spent years telling yourself that the way he looks at you doesn't mean anything, because the alternative meant wanting something you weren't sure you could have. "You're always like that."

"With you," he says immediately, the words coming faster now, like he's been holding them back.

You shake your head, the movement small but insistent. "With everyone."

"No."

There it is again. That certainty. It leaves no room to hide, no space for the comfortable denials you've wrapped around yourself like armour. Your chest feels tight, your thoughts catching on themselves, spinning in circles you can't seem to stop.

"Then why me?" The question slips out before you can stop it, quieter than everything else you've said. But heavier. So much heavier.

For a second, he doesn't answer, his lips just remain parted slightly like he’s processing what you said.

His gaze softens slightly, just enough that it throws you off balance. "Do you really not know?" He asks.

You don't respond. Because the truth is you're not sure if you don't know, or if you've just been avoiding it. Avoiding the way your chest tightens when he says your name. The way you look for him before you look for anything else. The way you've been coming to his games for years, sitting in the same spot, watching him, and telling yourself it was nothing, that you were nothing.

He exhales quietly, and then he steps closer. Not by much. Just enough that you can feel it. Enough that the air between you shifts, becomes something different.

Your breath catches again, sharper this time.

"Every game," he says, and his voice is lower now, steadier. "I look for you first."

Your heart stutters in your chest.

"You think I care that much about the score?" His eyes hold yours, steady and sure. "About anything else, as long as you're there?"

You don't know what to say to that. The words you've always relied on: the deflections, the jokes, the careful distance, have abandoned you entirely. So you don't say anything. You just look at him and let yourself finally see it. All of it. The way he's always there, always looking for you, in every crowd, in every room, in every moment you've ever shared.

Your chest tightens, something shifting into place in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Like a door you didn't know you'd been holding closed, finally opening.

"I thought," you start, your voice barely above a whisper, "I thought you were just—"

"Being myself?" he finishes.

You nod slightly, the movement small, almost ashamed.

"I am," he says after letting out a soft breath. Then, after a beat, quieter: "Just not with everyone."

Your heart is beating too fast now. Too loud. You can feel it in your throat, your chest, your fingertips. You don't even realise you've stepped closer until there's barely any space left between you; close enough to see the way his pulse moves in his throat, the faint crease between his brows, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second before finding your eyes again.

"I didn't know," you admit. The words feel small, inadequate for everything you're trying to say. But they're honest. More honest than you've let yourself be in years.

Something in his expression softens even more at that, if possible. The last of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he looks at you in a way that makes your chest ache.

"I know," he says, and for a second it falls silent between you both, the space between you smaller than it’s ever been.

Your gaze drops to his mouth without meaning to, then back up again. It's barely a glance, barely a movement. But he notices. Of course he notices.

His eyes flicker, something shifting behind them. Something that feels like a decision.

"Can I—" he starts, and his voice is rougher now, less steady than before.

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Because you already know what he's asking. You see it in the way he's looking at you, in the way his hand has moved slightly from his broom, in the way he's leaning in just enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

Your breath catches. And instead of overthinking it, deflecting, doing what you've always done, you don't.

You nod. It's small, barely there, but it's enough.

That's all he needs.

He closes the distance properly this time. One hand comes up, hesitant for half a second, before it settles lightly against your arm.

And then he kisses you.

It's not rushed or careless. It's slow, deliberate, like he’s been holding this moment in his mind for so long that now that it's here, he wants to feel every second of it. His lips are warm against yours, soft at first, almost tentative, as if he's learning the shape of you, memorising how you feel against him. There's a gentleness to it that makes your chest ache, a carefulness that feels at odds with the way he threw himself across the pitch just an hour ago, reckless and certain all at once.

His hand slides from your arm to your waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your robe, and you feel the warmth of his palm through the layers like a brand. His other hand comes up almost shyly, fingertips brushing against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. The touch is featherlight, hesitant in a way you've never seen him be, as though he's still not entirely sure this is real and he's holding out, waiting for you to pull away.

You don't.

For a moment, your mind goes completely blank. Everything else falls away and all you're aware of is him. The warmth of his hand at your waist, steadying you or holding himself steady, you're not sure which. The soft brush of his lips against yours, unhurried. The way his breath mingles with yours when he pauses for just a second, his forehead pressing against yours, his nose brushing your cheek, before he tilts his head and finds your mouth again.

Your hand finds his sleeve without thinking, your fingers curling into the fabric, holding on to something solid in a world that suddenly feels like it's shifted beneath your feet.

His thumb traces a slow arc against your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, and you lean into him without meaning to, your body moving closer, seeking more of the warmth he seems to give off like heat from a fire.

When he pulls back, it's not far. Just enough to look at you. To check. His hand hasn't left your waist; if anything, his grip has tightened slightly, afraid the space between you might grow if he lets go. His forehead is almost touching yours, his breath warm against your skin, and his eyes are searching yours for something you hope he finds.

Your breathing is uneven. Your thoughts even more so. The world feels softer somehow, quieter, like it's holding its breath.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Then a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, similar to the one you’ve always seen, just slightly easier now

"You still coming to my next game?" he asks.

You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, your heart still racing in your chest and your lips tingling from the feeling of him on them.

"Obviously," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected.

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, and he smiles gently, eyes scanning your face like he can't quite believe this is happening. Your chest tightens at that, but you return the smile, your heart beating rapidly as you feel his fingers slightly stroke your scalp.

"Good."

HEAD OVER HEELS ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

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

W.C : 6.2k

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

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

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

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

A pause, your friend mumbling something.

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

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

“Every. Single. Time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat. She was waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tap.

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

Tap. Tap.

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

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

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

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

“It's been six hours.”

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

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

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

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

“You.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where's the fun in that?”

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

“…Give me a second.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

You froze.

Waited.

Still nothing.

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

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

“Took you long enough,” he said.

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

“You look stressed.”

“I'm not stressed.”

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

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

He shrugged, easy. “You heard me.”

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

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

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

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

Seonghyeon looked offended. “Borrowed.”

“From Mrs. Park’s garden?”

“She wasn't using them.”

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

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

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

“These are uneven.”

“They're perfect.”

“This one's bent.”

“It's got character.”

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

“You picked these yourself.”

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

You lifted your chin. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

“Coming?” He called over his shoulder.

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

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

You followed, the flowers pressed against your chest.

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

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

“You're not allowed to drive that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

You turned to look at him. “What?”

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

“Oh, so you have limits.”

“Apparently.”

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

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

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

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

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t throw it away.’

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

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

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

“You say that about everything.”

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

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

You looked down at the flowers in your lap.

“…Okay,” you breathed. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They're already bent.”

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

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

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

“I am not bent.”

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

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

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

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“Somewhere good.”

“That's not an answer.”

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

“Debatable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seonghyeon.”

“Yeah?”

“What is this place?”

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

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

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

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

“That was so corny,” you said.

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

“It was terrible.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Put the flowers down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to come here.”

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

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

“Don't.”

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

“I do not.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

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

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

“You're so full of yourself.”

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

“Against my better judgment.”

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

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

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

“You're impossible.”

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

“Like what?”

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

“Both,” you said. “Usually both.”

“That's my girl.”

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

“You look good from this angle.”

“You look annoying from every angle.”

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

“You love me,” he said.

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm looking at it.”

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

“You're so annoying,” you said.

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

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

“Seonghyeon!”

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

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

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

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

“Liar.”

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

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

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

It was infuriating. It was so, so infuriating.

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

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

Except you didn't. You never had.

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

You'd never hated him. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're not even looking,” you said.

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

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

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

“For being too flirty.”

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

“Never.”

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

“No.”

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

“I would literally rather jump off this cliff.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here,” he said, tugging you sideways towards him whilst his other hand braced himself against the hood.

“I'm already here.”

“Closer.”

Seonghyeon pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you, and you went willingly, letting yourself be held. His chin rested on top of your head, and you could feel the rumble of his voice when he spoke, could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

“Look,” he said softly.

You turned your head, and faced the exact same view, except the lights seemed softer, the stars seemed closer, the whole valley seemed smaller and all you could focus on was his warmth wrapped around you.

“It's beautiful,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “But not as beautiful as you.”

“Again?” You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed, breath warm against your hair.

“I had to,” he said. “It was right there.”

“You’re such a flirt.” You say, shifting into a more comfortable position as he adjusts his arms to fit you properly, letting out a small sigh whilst his thumb traced a circle onto your sweater.

“You know the other mixtape I'm making you.” Seonghyeon ignored your comment, eyes just watching the horizon as the song continued to surround you both.

“The one that's been in progress for three months?”

“Almost three,” he corrected. “I figured out how to end it.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached behind him, grabbed the flowers, and tucked one of the cornflowers behind your ear, his eyes looking at you so intensely you felt you were going to melt. His fingers lingered, brushing against your cheek. “I'm gonna put this song on it.”

That’s when your ears finally acknowledged the song properly, listening to the lyrics.

‘Baby, you're all that I want, when you're lyin' here in my arms’

“This song?” you asked.

“This song.”

‘I'm findin' it hard to believe, we're in heaven’

Seonghyeon slid off the hood again, pulling you along with him into his arms, his hands finding your waist, yours finding his shoulders. He thought for a moment. “Remember how this song was playing at Mina's party? How you made me dance to it?”

You laughed. “I didn't make you do anything. You asked me.”

“I asked you because you were standing in the corner looking at me until I gave in.”

“I was not.”

“You were, ‘cause you know it’s my favourite song.” He kissed the top of your head quickly. “And you were wearing that blue dress. The one with the buttons.”

You went warm. “You remember what I was wearing?”

“I remember everything.”

Seonghyeon’s face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours, and there was something in his expression that made your chest ache in the best way.

‘Yeah, love is all that I need, and I found it there in your heart’

“Dance with me.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s my favourite song.”

At that he started swaying slowly, and you let him pull you into it. The city lights flickered below. The stars blinked between the faint clouds. His voice was low and warm against your ear as he lightly hummed along to it, and you could feel the vibration of it in your chest, in your bones.

‘It isn't too hard to see, we're in heaven, yeah’

You ran your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face to attempt to fix the mess you’d made. It fell right back, the way it always did. “You're such a romantic.”

“Don't tell anyone.” He leaned into your touch, just slightly, just enough that you noticed. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“What reputation? The one where you flick your girlfriend's forehead every chance you get?”

“That's called flirting.”

“That's called annoying.”

He grinned, continuing to sway with his hands on your waist, your arms now wrapping around his neck, hands toying with the hair on the nape of his neck. “Same thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the song continuing in the background but your attention remained focused on the boy in front of you. “Your secret's safe with me.”

He spun you once, slow, and pulled you back in, your back against his chest, his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, his voice now humming along, and you closed your eyes and let yourself be held.

“Seonghyeon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for stealing the flowers.”

He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Borrowing,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms, faced him. His face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

“Borrowing,” you agreed.

He kissed you again, and everything faded into the background. There was nothing but him, his mouth on yours, moving like he was trying to memorise the shape of them, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do with his time.

When you finally broke apart, it was slow, reluctant, like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes so impossibly soft, and there it was. That smile. The one that had gotten you into trouble from the very beginning.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, careful of the flower. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

“About how I'm gonna have to make that mixtape even longer now,” he said. “Because I’ll keep finding new songs that make me think of you.”

Your chest tightened. “What new songs?”

Seonghyeon shrugged, easy, but his eyes were warm. “Ones I haven't heard yet. Ones that I’m gonna hear and instantly think of you.” He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose. “You're gonna have to stick around for a while.”

“How long?”

“Dunno.” He pulled you closer, if even possible, and tightening his arms around you, his chin on top of your head. “Maybe forever.”

You pressed your face into his chest, felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and real.

“Forever's a long time,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “Guess that means you're stuck with me.”

The city hummed below. The stars wheeled overhead. Seonghyeon held you against him, humming along to the song that he didn’t realise was now your favourite, because it was his and it would always be his, because everything that belonged to him seemed to belong to you now. And you let yourself stay there, right where you belonged.

#cortis x reader #cortis #seonghyeon x reader #keonho x reader #martin x reader #juhoon x reader #james x reader

MR AND MRS CAMP COUNSELOR — EOM SEONGHYEON

SYNOPSIS :: Your campers see you and Seonghyeon beating around the bush and decide to take matters into their own hands.

W.C :: 6.4k

CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, the campers are matchmakers, confessions, crack, fluff

PLAYLIST :: Everybody talks - Neon Trees; Are you bored yet? - Wallows, Clairo; I’m yours - Jason Mraz; Can I call you tonight? - Dayglow

The sun shone brightly over camp that afternoon, scattering stars across the surface of the lake as the water shifted in slow, shimmering waves beneath the weight of the summer heat. Along the shore stood you and Seonghyeon, both decked out in full counselor regalia: whistles hanging from bright lanyards around your necks, clipboards tucked firmly beneath your arms, sunglasses perched on your faces like armor against both the glare and the chaos currently unfolding in the swimming area.

Or, more accurately, the chaos you were attempting to manage.

“Cabin Three,” you called out, pitch carrying across the water, “if I see one more person pretending to drown, swimming privileges are gone for the rest of the day!”

kiwijinnieyayy

I am very much obsessed with camp aus, so believe me when I say this was like reading Shakespeare for me.

#cosmiho #seonghyeon

🚨 Anyone who has reblogged any of cosmiho’s fics/works, please drop the link in the replies or just let us know as we are creating an archive of her previous works for people to be able to reread them in one place! any help would be appreciated.

The list of missing ones:

James: Paris fic

Juhoon: the man who can’t be moved

Martin: skateboarding fic

Seonghyeon: earth angel (80s fic), mr & mrs camp counselor + spinoff

keonho: fade into you, tan lines

THE BATTLE OF BRITPOP — JAMES CHAO

SYNOPSIS :: In which you met your boyfriend through failing to ragebait him about the battle of britpop

W.C :: 1.0k

CONTAINS :: bf!James, blurfan!James x oasisfan!reader, heacanons, kissing, skinship, ragebaiting

PLAYLIST :: Tender - Blur; Slide away - Oasis

bf!James who actually didn’t care that much when you first commented on his post of Blur lyrics in an attempt to ragebait him by saying Oasis was miles better, because sure he preferred Blur, but he also didn’t mind Oasis. he just replied with “okay 😭” and went on with his day.

bf!James who started getting amused when you kept replying anyway, acting personally offended over “mid blur propaganda” and insisting the whole battle of britpop should’ve ended with Oasis winning by default. he could tell you were trying way too hard to annoy him, especially when half your arguments made no sense, but he was one of the rare few who didn’t actually pick a side in the rivalry.

bf!James who finally took the bait when you said nobody under the age of forty willingly listened to “woohoo song #2.” he sent back three paragraphs defending Song 2 like his life depended on it.

bf!James who kept telling himself he was only replying because he was bored, but suddenly it was 2 a.m. and you were both ranking britpop albums in his comment section like music critics with personal grudges.

blushdarkberries

whenever brit pop rock bands (just any rock band) comes up on my feed u know im so up 😭 U KNOWWWWW U KNOW I AM 🤧🤧 the back and forth cute lil arguments and when he kisses her as reader yapped n yapped LORDDDD GIVE IT TO MEEEE

in my head im imagining a blur fan! james x rhcp fan! mari bc im doped up in copium kill me it’s so easy to 😔 n this exact same thing happened as well 😌🤷‍♀️🩷

#cosmiho #james

SHE LOOKS SO PERFECT — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: You’d think having spent months ‘dating’ that the two of you would’ve sorted out whatever issues underlined every argument you shared, but, truthfully, you both enjoyed the bickering far too much to want it to stop.

W.C :: 6.6k

CONTAINS :: skater!keonho x regina! reader, a spinoff of she’s kinda hot, can be read as a standalone (but highly recommend reading the first fic), angst + fluff, description of injury, mentions of death/killing (joking), bickering/arguing, kono’s friends are haters, use of dollars, cliché, skinship, pet names, the love bomb, kissing

PLAYLIST :: She looks so perfect - 5sos; My own worst enemy - Lit; Still into you - Paramore; Teenage dirtbag - Wheatus; Take me away - Christina Vidal Mitchell

You and Keonho had been… something for about three months now.

Three months of arguing over everything. The thermostat. The last slice of pizza. Whether or not a hot dog was a sandwich (he said yes, you said absolutely not, and you'd nearly broken up over it twice). You fought like cats and dogs, like fire and gasoline, like two people who had absolutely no business being in the same room.

But the thing that got you the most—the thing that made you want to scream, to pull your hair out, to shake him until his teeth rattled—was his complete and utter inability to plan.