🤍EL_4MARS🤍

🤍Martin's personal belonging🤍 Life so private no one knows im Martin's girlfriend. '09 liner✨️

[el4mars]

♡ EL_4MARS♡

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

hallo und willkommen auf meinem Blog! Hello and welcome to my blog!

My account is not that active in writing but really active in reading♡

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

♡&TEAM'S LIST♡

♡CORTIS LIST♡

♡ABOUT ME♡

♡MRZ DO & DON'T♡

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[eu4mi]

LAID TO REST IN A BED OF FLOWERS

➪ pairing : ot5 cortis ( separately ) x reader

➪ summary : very heavy trigger warning for suicide in all. after your suicide, your boyfriend can't seem to move on.

➪ other notes : this topic has always been very difficult for me to talk about esp due to my own trauma. my plan was to post this on may 1st in honor of it being mental health awareness month but i believe we should always commemorate mental health and the struggles and outcomes that come from it.

taglist : @iconicallyher @cherrystays @spqrkles @taeunniws @btsgangleader @aaassshhhaaa @yunjiiin @myuekii @nota10butadefinite8 @ivvees-blog @haru-reto @ririssacc @jesmightjumptmr @vanillakirstein @yatta-exe @dropitlowkey @coldpinguinsstuff @cortischronicles @staarflowerr @sweetbabysblog @bunniestial @twinklingsparkling @vilihente @ludmiig @blndesunoo @09zpzkeonnss @feljxx @prettygirlkiki @toasterlickerr @ratyrozz @wouldntyouliketoknowweatherboy @miasitta @fujiswn @hiitzstar @rikisfein @martinthisho @qeysss @amb4rluvs @meiisamotherbitch @lcvehyeon @unseenleylinesecret @rickyshensgirlfriend @kpopsmutty69 @anflowers11

[el4mars]

This made me miss my bestfriend who also took her own life. She's a year older than me(2008)

[meeoowchi]

@/meeoowchi 🐱

// ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ “hair wash day”

synopsis: your hair is just really soft okay?

[[martin edwards x gn! reader , fluff, reader is implied to be shorter than martin!!]]

ᝰ.ᐟ word count: 335

ᝰ.ᐟ koko’s words: “didn’t you bench martin-“ yes i did BUT i reached 800 flipping followers so i feel like i deserve to write for martin again ok….? also uhhhh this was written with curly haired reader in mind but its not specifically stated in the fic okay!!!! also look at me being consistent 👀👀

not proofread!’

———ˏˋ ★┆ 코르티스 ˎˊ˗ CORTIS TAGLIST - @lcvehyeon @yatta-exe @lovelyzh4nna @ilovegojosatoru13 @enhacolor @Cloudyyycore78 @chbq2 @sxqhan @bberryjju @atetheluck @mimi-channn @noeulchan @seanidas @2bamgyu @kp0pst4rr @taelvvrzz

“your hair is really soft after you wash it.” martin hummed. he rested his cheek against your head, his arm wrapped around your waist. your back was facing him as you scrolled through your phone.

you chuckled at his words, rolling your eyes. “i’d hope it’d be soft after i wash it?”

he let out a sarcastic “ha ha,” tangling your legs with his now.

you grumbled, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, “martin- you’re too tall to be doing that!”

he ignored your protests, wrapping both of his arms around you now, pressing you against his chest. “you’ll be okay, come onnn (name), lemme hold you?” he asked, giving you an exaggerated frown.

“i mean you’re already holding me, right?”

“oh, you’re right.” he giggled, burying his face into your shoulder now.

he stayed like that for a second, his breath fanning softly against your shoulder.

you felt him smile before he spoke again.

“you smell nice too,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled against your skin. you laughed at that.

“wow my hair is soft and i smell nice after a shower? you’re really observant.” you hummed, turning around and facing him.

his smile brightened when you faced him and his grip tightened. “i know right? boyfriend of the year.”

“i mean… debatable?”

he gasped dramatically at you, before breaking out into a boyish grin. he couldn’t keep up that act for long. he cupped your face, squishing it. “you’re so cute…” he giggled.

you pretending to push his hands off, smiling widely at him. “you’re very clingy today.”

“today?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“okay- every day.”

“better answer.” he said, completely satisfied. his fingers absentmindedly traced small paterns along your arm. “just missed you today, that’s all.”

your expression softened at that. “you saw me this morning?”

“yeah, and? that was hours ago.” he sighed, nudging his nose against your cheek. “tragic, right?”

“jesus, you’re so high maintenance.”

he let out a bark of laughter, squeezing you. “i am, aren’t i?”

[el4mars]

This is so beautiful!! Wish someday someone would be clingy like this to me✌️

[ramenoil]

intercontinental —eom seonghyeon

You and Cortis keep ending up in the same cities. You're in Europe? they’re there too. Asia? they’re there too. Same arenas, same cities, always just missing each other by timing. But the fans? Oh, they notice everything. It starts as jokes, threads, coincidences stacking a little too perfectly. Until one day, same arena, same time, you leave something behind and somehow it ends up with Cortis. When Seonghyeon casually flashes it on live? the fans don't just connect the dots—they decide this was never a coincidence to begin with.

Why can't you say that you want it too? I'm flyin' intercontinental with you!!

📞 idol!seonghyeon x popstar!reader, written+smau, profanity, angst, rumors, fluff, kys jokes, mental stress, burn out, ib by stateside, crack, corny jokes, sorta slowburn, yns artist profile is pinkpantheress

When you accidentally leave something backstage and when Seonghyeon picks it up, he doesn’t just keep it—he shows it off on live, calling it his ‘new & hot find.’ So what happens when fans finally figure out who it actually belongs to?

🎶 stateside by pinkpantheress

Status -> completed

🎤 series taglist closed.

iro's notes: based off of stateside becus YES IM STILL OBSSESED WITH THAT SONG

© ramenoil 2026

🎸 tracklist

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finished, as of 04/05/26

ptl: @amb4rluvs / @beatbymarzz / @sailuvsu / @lcvehyeon / @frizzyyo / @09zpzkeonns / @hyuneskkami

stl: @r0ckst4rjk / @coconhovr / @ykvdani

[el4mars]

I LOVVEE THIS Y'ALL!! It's worth waiting at around 2? Or 3 am✌️😎

[cosmiho]

SHE'S KINDA HOT — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: The sight of the queen bee with the school’s loser was peculiar to everyone who had been witness to your constant bickering, but they don’t see how he seems to be the only person you can truly be yourself with. (skater!keonho x regina!reader)

WC :: 13.4k

CONTAINS :: arguing, both of them are kinda mean (especially reader), profanities, reader is rich, Keonho is poor (is insulted for it), kissing, skinship, pet names, description of injury, use of dollars, some cringe/cliché dialogue, time skips (choppy)

PLAYLIST :: She's kinda hot - 5sos; sk8er boi - Avril Lavigne; Cupid's chokehold - Gym Class Heroes; Dirty little secret - The All-American Rejects; Cherry waves - Deftones; Colors - Halsey

Keonho was currently lying on his front in your bed, the pink fluffy blanket pulled up around him like he belonged there. His head rested on his crossed arms, dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes half-lidded as he tracked you pacing back and forth across the massive room. You were on the phone, your voice clipped and sharp.

"Well, if she said that to you, she obviously doesn't care how you feel." A pause. A flurry of muffled words from the other end. "No, don't cry. Crying is what she wants. You cry, she wins."

Keonho pressed his smile into his forearm. You were wearing his hoodie. The black one with the ripped sleeve. You'd stolen it three weeks ago and hadn't given it back.

He wasn't going to ask for it.

The sight of you wrapped in his clothes while he laid on your bed was peculiar to say the least. Especially to your entire school, who had spent months watching you argue in hallways and courtyards, never realising you were toeing the line between hatred and something neither of you had a name for yet.

The first time you'd really noticed him, he almost hit you with his skateboard.

It was the second week of junior year. The leaves were turning, and you were walking across the courtyard with Hana, mid-sentence about someone's ugly backpack—"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend four hundred dollars on a bag, at least make it look like four hundred dollars"—when a blur of motion came flying around the corner.

Shhk shhk shhk. Wheels on pavement. Then a body slammed into your side.

Not hard enough to knock you over. Hard enough to send your phone flying out of your hand and skidding across the concrete, face-down, the sickening crack of impact echoing off the fountain your family had donated.

"Shit—sorry—"

You stumbled, caught yourself on Hana's arm, and whipped around.

A boy you'd never seen before was already crouched down, scooping up your phone. His skateboard had rolled several feet away, still wobbling on its side. He was wearing the school uniform, but barely. The tie was missing and the top button of his shirt was undone. His dark hair was a mess under a gray beanie, and there was a small scrape on his palm where he'd caught himself.

He stood up and held out your phone.

The screen was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spreading from the top left corner, right through your home screen. Your perfect, carefully curated home screen.

"You broke my phone," you said. Your voice was flat and cold. 

He looked at the screen. Then at you. Most people would have started apologising immediately, groveled, turned red, stammered, promised to pay for it, even got down on their knees if that's what it took.

He just shrugged. "It's just a screen. You can get it fixed."

Just a screen.

As if you hadn't spent hours picking out the perfect case. As if the crack didn't ruin the entire aesthetic of the phone you'd only had for three weeks. As if he hadn't just barreled into you like a human wrecking ball and then had the audacity to act like it was nothing.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" you asked.

He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that wasn't quite recognition. More like mild curiosity. The kind you'd give a mildly interesting bug on the sidewalk.

"No," he said. "Should I?"

Hana snorted behind you. You could feel her phone already out, probably recording or texting the group chat. 

You snatched the phone from his hand, holding it up so he could see the full extent of the damage. "This is a thousand-dollar phone."

"It was a thousand dollars," he corrected. "Now it's a thousand-dollar phone with a cracked screen. Still works, probably."

"Probably."

"Did you check?"

"No, I was too busy being hit by a skateboard."

He didn't apologise and didn't even look sorry. He just walked over to his board, kicked it up into his hand with a smooth, annoyingly practiced motion, and slung it under his arm.

"You should watch where you're going," he said. "You walked straight into my path. I had the right of way."

"Right of way?" Your voice came out half an octave higher than usual. "This isn't a road. It's a courtyard. For walking. There's no such thing as right of way."

"There's always right of way. It's basic physics. Object in motion stays in motion. You were an object. I was in motion."

"You're not a physicist. You're a guy on a toy."

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It's not a toy."

"It's a board with wheels."

"It's transportation."

"It's a mere hobby."

"At least I have a hobby." His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. "What's yours? Judging people? Making lists? Seeing how many compliments you can fish for in one outfit?"

Your mouth dropped open. Actually dropped. Nobody talked to you like that. Nobody. Not the teachers, not your parents, not the other kids who whispered behind your back but smiled to your face. Nobody had the nerve.

"I don't fish for compliments," you said.

"Sure you don't." He nodded at your outfit: designer boots, perfectly pressed skirt, blazer that cost more than most people's rent. "You just dress like you're going to a brunch meeting with your publicist because it's comfortable."

"I like fashion."

"You like attention, that’s obvious."

Hana made a small, strangled sound that was either a laugh or a gasp. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think. Your face was hot, your hands were shaking, and this absolute nobody was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd already solved.

"My family donated that fountain," you said, pointing to the marble monstrosity in the center of the courtyard. "My name is on a plaque in the main hall. I could make one phone call and you'd never eat in this courtyard again."

He looked genuinely unimpressed. "Cool. Doesn't make you immune to the walkway."

And then he just walked away with his skateboard under his arm and his beanie pulled low. His shoulders were loose, like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't just committed social suicide in front of half the junior class.

You stood there, frozen, watching him disappear around the corner.

"Who the hell was that?" Hana whispered.

"I don't know." You were gripping your cracked phone so hard your knuckles went white. "But he just declared war."

The next day, you found him in the cafeteria.

He was sitting alone at the end of a table, eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich. The same gray beanie. The same frayed hoodie under his uniform blazer. His skateboard was propped against the table leg, and he was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room was stealing glances at him.

Or maybe he wasn't oblivious and he just didn't care.

That made you angrier than anything else.

You walked straight up to him, dropped your bag on the table with a loud thump, and planted both hands on the surface before leaning in, making sure he couldn't ignore you.

"You owe me three hundred dollars for the screen repair."

He looked up slowly, still chewing on his sandwich before he eventually swallowed. 

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You broke it."

"You dropped it." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. "I bumped you. You dropped it. That's on you. Physics."

"Don't start with the physics again."

"Why not? It's a solid argument. Cause and effect. Your hand let go of the phone. My skateboard didn't even touch you. I touched you. With my body. Which is flesh and blood, not a weapon."

He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open just to annoy you. You could tell but you didn’t say anything, too shell shocked from someone actually biting back.

"You've been thinking about me all night, haven't you?" He said, gesturing at you with the sandwich. "Couldn't sleep. Just lying there, replaying it, getting mad all over again."

Your face heated. Because he was right. You had been up half the night, tossing around, furious at the memory of his stupid face and his stupid skateboard and the way he'd looked at you like you were nothing. Like you were just another person, instead of the person.

"I don't think about you," you lied.

"Sure you don't." He picked up his sandwich again. "That's why you tracked me down in a cafeteria with like two hundred people in it. Because you don't think about me."

"I didn't track you down. I'm eating lunch."

"You don't eat in the cafeteria. Everyone knows that. You eat in the courtyard with your friends." He nodded toward the window. "The courtyard you apparently own. The one with the fountain. Your fountain. The one your family donated."

Your nails dug into the table. "How do you know where I eat?"

He shrugged. "I notice things."

Something about the way he said it so casually made your stomach flip. A tiny, traitorous flip that you refused to acknowledge.

"Three hundred dollars," you repeated.

"Zero dollars."

"Two hundred, then."

"Still zero."

"One hundred and fifty. Final offer."

He set down his sandwich and looked at you properly for the first time. His eyes were dark and warm, with little gold flecks you hadn't noticed before, not that you cared anyways.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Never."

He sighed theatrically and reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Worn soft, the edges frayed. He slid it across the table toward you.

"That's all I have. Take it or leave it."

You stared at the twenty. Then at him. Then back at the twenty.

"You're serious."

"I'm a skateboarder, not a trust fund kid. Sorry I don't have a fountain donation in my back pocket."

The jab hit exactly where he meant it to. You snatched the twenty off the table and stuffed it into your blazer pocket.

"This isn't over," you said.

"I know." He picked up his sandwich again. "See you tomorrow, fountain girl."

"It's Y/N."

"I know that too."

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make you want to throw something at his head.

You turned on your heel and walked away, Hana falling into step beside you, already asking a million questions you didn't have answers to.

After that, the arguments became routine.

Every day, you found a reason to cross paths with him. Every day, he had a lazy comeback that made your blood boil. Every day, you walked away angrier than before, promising yourself that tomorrow you'd ignore him completely.

And every day, you never did.

"You're obsessed with him," Hana said one afternoon, watching you scan the courtyard for the familiar gray beanie.

"I'm not obsessed, I'm just dedicated like I always am."

"No, this is something else."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been looking for him for ten minutes. We haven't even sat down yet."

"I'm not looking. I'm observing my environment."

Hana gave you a long, flat look. "Your environment is a courtyard full of people eating lunch. What exactly are you observing?"

You spotted him near the bike racks where he’d moved to eat lunch after your canteen run in, the same as every other day, lacing up his skate shoes, and your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up.

"Keonho!"

He looked up, and that small smile appeared. The one that made you want to scream.

"Fountain girl. Right on time."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay… princess." He said it under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. Your jaw dropped.

"Princess? Did you just call me princess?"

"You heard me." He didn't even look guilty. Just went back to tying his laces, all casual, like he hadn't just committed a felony against your entire brand. "You prefer 'your highness'? Because that feels like a mouthful. Lots of syllables. I might get tired halfway through."

"I prefer my name."

"Right. Y/N." He drew out the syllables like he was tasting them. "Y/N, who crossed the entire courtyard just to yell at me about a twenty-dollar bill I already gave you. A transaction which we both agreed was final."

"That twenty dollars didn't even cover the tax on the repair."

"Not my problem."

"Everything is your problem. You're the one who hit me with your skateboard."

"You walked into me."

"I was walking. On my feet. Like a normal person."

"So was I. On my skateboard. Which is a form of transportation, last time I checked. Legally recognised. Some cities have lanes."

"Skateboards don't belong in lanes. Skateboards don't belong anywhere near people."

"They belong everywhere. That's the beauty of it. I can go anywhere. No rules or restrictions. Just me and the board and the open road."

"You sound like some lame commercial."

"You sound like you've never had fun a day in your life."

The words landed. You felt them land. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again.

"I have plenty of fun."

"Name one fun thing you've done in the past month."

"I—that's—that's none of your business."

"That's what I thought." He stood up, grabbing his board. "No fun. Just school and social obligations and making sure everyone knows you're the most important person in the room."

"I don't have to make sure. Everyone already knows."

"Sure they do." He spun the board in his hand, a lazy, practiced motion. "That's why you're here. Talking to me. Because everyone already knows how important you are, and you're bored of it."

"I'm not bored."

"You're definitely bored. You're the most bored person I've ever met. You have everything, and you're still bored. That's kind of sad, actually."

Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking. How on earth could he read you so easily?

"You don't know anything about me," you said quietly.

"I know you're still standing here." He tilted his head, those dark eyes boring into yours. "I know you could have walked away five minutes ago. I know you didn't. I know you won't."

"Maybe I will."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But probably not."

He started walking, and you fell into step beside him without thinking. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I've been eating lunch by the bike racks for two months since you banished me from the canteen," he said. "You'd never been here once before that. Not once. Now suddenly you're here every day?"

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Maybe you wanted a change of someone."

You stopped walking. He stopped too, a few steps ahead, looking back at you with that insufferable half-smile.

"What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.

He turned to face you fully. The courtyard was mostly empty, everyone else already inside. It was just you and him and the sound of wind through the bike racks.

"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you're not as complicated as you think you are. You've got your perfect life and your perfect friends and your perfect little routines, and you're bored. And I'm the only thing in this school that doesn't bore you."

"That's not—"

"It means," he continued, like you hadn't spoken, "that you don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me."

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. "And what do you want to do with me?"

The question hung between you, heavier than you'd intended. His smile faded, just slightly, and for a second he looked almost... serious. Almost vulnerable.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out."

He turned and kept walking toward the side door of the science building.

"Hey, Keonho?" you called out.

He looked back.

"You still owe me a hundred and thirty dollars."

His laugh echoed across the empty courtyard. "Keep dreaming, fountain girl."

"Stop calling me that!"

"In your dreams!"

You grabbed a pebble from the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, grinning, and disappeared through the door.

You stood there for a long moment, alone in the cold, your left eyebrow doing something you couldn't control.

You don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me.

The worst part was, you were starting to think he was right.

Weeks continued like that. The arguments became the best part of your day.

It was strange, admitting it to yourself. You'd spent years building a life that was supposed to make you happy: the right friends, the right clothes, the right words at the right times. You were good at it. Everyone said so. You had everything anyone could want.

But nothing had ever made your heart race like stepping into the courtyard and spotting that gray beanie.

Some days you found him at the bike racks. Some days near the vending machines. Some days you'd round a corner and there he'd be, like he'd been waiting, like he knew you were coming before you did.

"You're late, princess,” he said one Tuesday, not looking up from his phone.

"I'm not late. Class ran over."

"Excuses."

"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

He looked up then, and that small smile was there. The one that made your stomach flip.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Obviously."

"So do I."

"Then we have a problem."

"We've always had a problem." He pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bike rack, arms crossed. "That's kind of our whole thing."

You hated how easily he said it. Our whole thing. Like there was an us to have a thing.

"There is no our," you said.

"Sure there isn't." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That's why you're here. Every day. Like clockwork."

"I'm here because the courtyard is crowded."

"The courtyard is always crowded. You've been eating there for two years. You never left before."

Your jaw tightened. "Maybe I wanted a change."

"Maybe you wanted me."

Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "That's—you're—no."

He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way you'd never seen before. It was annoyingly beautiful. His nose crinkled and his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked like a completely different person.

"Your face is so red right now," he said.

"It is not."

"It's the color of your bag."

You looked down at your pink designer handbag. You wanted to throw it at him.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

He seemed to be the only person able to leave you speechless

The turning point was February. Valentine's Day, actually, which made it worse.

You'd been crying in the greenhouse behind the science wing. Not because you were sad, exactly. Because your mother had called and she'd reminded you, in that sweet, sharp voice she used when she was disappointed, that your "little art hobby"— the one thing you actually cared about, that made you feel like a real person instead of a performance—was "lovely but impractical." That you should probably focus on something that would "actually matter" in college applications. That there were expectations.

You'd thought you were alone.

You hadn't been.

Keonho was sitting in the corner, behind a rack of potted ferns, eating a granola bar. He had his beanie pulled low and his knees drawn up. He'd clearly been there first. Maybe he'd been there for a while.

"Go away," you said, your voice thick.

He didn't move. "No."

"I said go away, Keonho."

"And I said no." He took another bite of his granola bar, chewing slowly. "You're not gonna throw things at me, are you? Because you have scary good aim and I'm not trying to catch a rock with my face."

You stared at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, too exhausted to even be properly angry. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care about anything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I care about stuff. I just don't care about the stuff you're supposed to care about."

Something about that, the simplicity of it, the way he said it like it was obvious, made something crack inside you.

You sat down on the dirty greenhouse floor. Right across from him. And you cried for real. Not pretty tears. The ugly ones that left your face blotchy and your nose running and every single wall you'd ever built crumbling into dust.

He didn't say anything. Didn't try to comfort you with empty words. He just handed you a crumpled napkin from his pocket and waited.

When you'd finally stopped, you looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I will end you."

"I know," he said. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I won't."

You sat there for a long time in silence. The greenhouse was warm and smelled like dirt and flowers, the ferns cast dancing shadows on the floor. Eventually you pushed yourself up, walking away without looking back.

After that, the hatred started to feel different.

Like a game neither of you were really playing anymore, but neither of you knew how to stop. The insults got softer. The fights got shorter. You found yourself seeking him out in crowds, just to see what he was doing, just to make sure he was still there.

"I think he likes you," Hana said one afternoon, and you laughed so hard you choked.

"He doesn't like me. He's messing with me."

"That’s the same thing sometimes."

It wasn't the same thing. It couldn't be. Because you didn't do boys like Keonho. You did boys with trust funds and family names and futures already planned out. Boys who understood the rules and played by them. Boys who would never dream of sitting on a dirty greenhouse floor or eating convenience store sandwiches or looking at you like they could see every single crack in your armour.

You didn't do boys who made you feel seen.

But maybe that was exactly the problem.

"Judging me again, princess?"

He was sat under the bleachers, back against the chain-link fence, knees drawn up with his skateboard across his lap. The afternoon light filtered through the metal slats, casting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. His beanie was crooked, his uniform shirt untucked, and he was looking up at you like you were exactly who he'd been waiting for.

You stood in front of him with your arms crossed, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "I'm not judging. I'm wondering how you haven't been expelled yet."

"Charming."

"I'm serious. You don't do the work. You don't follow the rules. You show up late every single day. What's the point of even being here?"

He set his skateboard aside and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up toward you. "Free wifi. Heated building. Sometimes they hand out granola bars in the front office."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be honest." He shrugged. "You should try it sometime."

"I'm always honest."

"No you're not." His voice was flat. Certain. "You've never had an honest conversation in your life. You just say whatever keeps you on top."

Your jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you fake-laugh when your friends make jokes that aren't funny, which is all the time. I know you wait until everyone's looking before you do anything nice. I know you've never apologised to anyone for anything, ever, because that would mean admitting you were wrong." He tilted his head. "Should I keep going?"

"You don't know me."

"I know you better than your friends do."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're insufferable." Your voice was rising now. You could feel the heat climbing up your neck, the tightness in your chest. "You think you're so smart. You think you've got everyone figured out. But you're just a guy with a skateboard and a chip on his shoulder who can't even afford—"

You stopped yourself. The words hung in the air, half-finished.

He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt off his pants. His face had gone very still.

"Can't even afford what?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. You were saying something. Don't stop now."

"Keonho—"

"Can't even afford what, Y/N?" He stepped closer. "New shoes? A car that isn't fifteen years old? Lunch that didn't come from a gas station? What was it? What were you about to say?"

You took a step back. Your heel caught on a rock. You stumbled, caught yourself, and hated him for making you stumble.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were. You always are. That's your whole thing." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walk around this school like everyone beneath you is a bug you might step on. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see the way you look at me?"

"How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm dirt." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. "Like I'm something you stepped in and can't scrape off your shoe. And you know what? Fine. I don't care. I've been looked at like that my whole life. By people richer than you. By people meaner than you. By people who actually had a reason."

"I have a reason."

"What reason? Because I bumped into you one time? Because I didn't fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness when your precious phone cracked?"

"You called me fountain girl."

"And you’ve called me poor."

You flinched. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.

"I didn't mean—"

"You’ve meant every word. That's what kills me. You're not even pretending to be sorry. You just stand there with your arms crossed and your perfect hair and your perfect shoes and you look at me like I'm the problem."

"You are the problem!"

"How? How am I the problem, Y/N? Because I don't bow down to you? Because I don't laugh at your jokes? Because I won't pretend you're something you're not?"

"Because you won't just leave me alone!"

The words tore out of you. Loud and raw, echoing off the metal bleachers above.

He stopped. Blinked.

"You heard me," you said, your voice shaking now. "You won't leave me alone. You're everywhere. The bike racks. The vending machines. The greenhouse. Every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid beanie and your stupid skateboard and your stupid eyes."

"So now I'm the problem because I exist?"

"Yes! No! I don't—" You pressed your hands to your face, breathed in, breathed out. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes you do. You're saying you can't stop thinking about me."

Your hands dropped. "That is not what I'm saying."

"That's exactly what you're saying. You're just too proud to admit it."

"I am not—"

"You are. You're standing under a set of bleachers with me instead of eating lunch with your friends. You're shouting at me instead of ignoring me like you ignore everyone else. You're here, Y/N. You've always been here. You just don't want to admit why."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"Then tell me yourself. What do you want?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples.

"Nothing," you said.

"Liar."

"I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop making me feel like—like—" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. You hated him for making it crack. "Like I'm not allowed to just dislike you. Like I have to have a reason. Like I have to justify it."

"You don't have to justify anything. You just have to admit it's not dislike."

"It is dislike."

"It's not." He stepped closer. "You don't seek out people you dislike. You avoid them. You destroy them. You don't show up to them every single day with your arms crossed and your face flushed like—"

"My face is not flushed."

"Your face is so flushed right now." He laughed. Not the mean laugh from before. Something almost... fond.

You stood there, frozen, your arms still crossed, your heart still pounding, your face definitely still flushed. He was too close. He'd been too close for months. Too close in the hallways, too close in the greenhouse, too close in every argument that had somehow become the best part of your day.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.

"Because—" You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Because I don't know what to do when I'm not here."

His expression shifted. The teasing faded. Something else took its place: something softer, something almost tender.

"Y/N—"

"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you care."

"Maybe I do."

"Well, stop. People don't care about me. They're afraid of me. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"Then you're stupid."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Or maybe I just see something everyone else is too scared to look at."

Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. You weren't going to cry. You weren't. You'd cried in front of him once and you'd sworn you'd never do it again.

"What do you see?" The words came out smaller than you wanted. Quieter.

He stepped close enough to the point that you could smell him: cold air and soap and something warm underneath.

"I see someone who's exhausted," he said. "Someone who's been performing for so long she forgot there was a person underneath. Someone who's smart and talented and so terrified of being ordinary that she'd rather be hated than ignored."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what I'm missing. Tell me what I'm saying wrong. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like to just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop performing. Stop pretending. Stop being the person everyone expects you to be." His voice dropped. "Tell me you've never looked at me and thought about being free."

Your breath caught.

"I've seen you," he continued, quieter now. "In the art room. When you think no one's watching. You make things; real things, messy things, things that aren't for anyone but you. That's who you are. That's who you could be all the time if you weren't so busy being who everyone else wants you to be."

"You don't know anything about my art."

"I know you're good at it. I know you care about it more than anything else in your life. I know you'd rather be in that room than anywhere else in the world."

"Stop."

"And I know," he said, stepping even closer, "that you feel more alive arguing with me than you do with anyone else."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're—because you can't just—because—" Your voice was rising again, cracking again, falling apart in your hands. "Because you don't get to stand there and see me like that. Because no one sees me like that. Because if you see me like that, then I have to be real, and I don't know how to be real, I only know how to be her—"

"Then stop being her."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." He grabbed your arms, not hard, just firm enough to stop you from pacing, from running, from falling apart completely. "You can. You just don't want to."

"I don't know how."

"Then let me help you."

"You can't help me. You're just a guy with a skateboard. You don't have a plan. You don't have a future. You don't have anything."

The words landed like stones. Heavy and unforgivable.

His hands dropped from your arms. His face went blank.

"Wow," he said quietly. "Okay."

"Keonho—"

"No, you're right. I don't have anything. I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a fountain with my name on it. I don't have a future planned out for me by people who care more about appearances than they care about me."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant." He stepped back. "It's what you always mean. You just said it out loud this time."

"I didn't—I was angry—"

"You're always angry. That's not an excuse."

"I know, I just—"

"You just what? You just wanted to hurt me? Congratulations. You did." He ran a hand over his beanie, hair poking out at the ends. "You always do. And I always let you. Because some part of me thought maybe underneath all the armour there was someone worth waiting for."

Your heart stopped.

"But maybe I was wrong," he said. "Maybe there's no one underneath at all. Maybe you're just the armour."

"That's not—"

"Then prove it." His voice cracked on the last word. "Prove me wrong. Show me there's someone in there. Just once. Just for a second. Please."

That broke something in you.

You didn't think. You just moved.

You grabbed the front of his stupid, frayed, too-big shirt,and yanked him down. The fabric bunched in your fists, pulling him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into your space as you twisted awkwardly. His hands shot out instinctively, bracing against the chain-link fence on either side of you, caging you in without meaning to.

And then your mouth was on his.

It wasn't gentle or soft. It was months of frustration and confusion and the unbearable weight of being seen finally cracking open. You kissed him like you were trying to win an argument. Like you were trying to prove a point. Like you were trying to shove every word you'd never said directly into his lungs and make him breathe them.

Your lips crashed against his, off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw before you corrected course. You didn't care. You couldn't care. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his collarbone, and you were pulling him closer even as you were kissing him harder.

His lips were warm and softer than you expected for a boy who spent his afternoons falling off skateboards. The contrast sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

For a single, suspended second, he was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His body went rigid against yours, his hands still pressed flat to the fence, his lips parted but unresponsive beneath yours. You could feel his breath: caught somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, trapped in his throat like he'd forgotten how to let it out.

Then something shifted.

His hands uncurled from the fence. His fingers found your waist, the touch light at first, almost questioning, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away.

You didn't.

You kissed him harder. 

His lips finallymoved against yours. Slowly at first, like he was waking up from a long sleep. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently: better, deeper. 

Your fingers loosened in his shirt, then tightened again, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, firm and solid. His heart was pounding—you could feel it, or maybe that was your own heart, maybe they'd synced up somewhere in the chaos of the kiss. You couldn't tell anymore.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you into him. The other hand came up to your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you deeper now, with more confidence, like he'd finally caught up to what was happening and was making up for lost time.

Your head was spinning. Your lungs were burning. You couldn't remember how to breathe through your nose, and you didn't care, because pulling away meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting what you'd just done.

So you didn't stop.

You kissed him until your lips were numb. You kissed him until his thumb was tracing patterns on your jaw and his other hand was pressed flat against your spine and the chain-link fence was digging into his knuckles and neither of you cared. You kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin, like you were trying to prove that you were more than armour, like you were trying to make him understand something you didn't have words for.

And then, finally, you pulled back.

Your hands uncurled from his shirt. The fabric was wrinkled now, permanently creased where your fists had been. You sideways, one step, then two, putting distance between you. Your heels sank into the dirt. Your chest was heaving. Your lips were swollen and wet and tingling.

You crossed your arms. Locked your knees. Lifted your chin.

And you looked at him with the most neutral expression you could muster.

"You talk too much."

Keonho was still standing before the fence. His hands were braced where you had left them, fingers curled around the chain-link like he needed it to stay upright. His beanie had slipped sideways, and a strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and his lips were parted, pinker than before, slightly swollen.

He looked like someone had reached into his chest, rearranged his organs, and forgotten to put them back in the right order.

"You—" His voice came out rough. Cracked. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again, turning to face you fully. "You just—"

"I just what?"

"You kissed me."

"Did I?" You tilted your head, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face. 

He blinked. Once, then twice. His hands dropped from the fence, and he ran one of them over his mouth, fingers pressing against his lower lip like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

"I'm—you can't just—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his beanie entirely. It fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "You can't just kiss someone and then act like—like that—"

"Like what?"

"Like you didn't just short-circuit my entire brain."

You shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. Like your whole world hadn't just flipped upside down, and your lips weren't still buzzing, and your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your ribcage.

"Maybe you should stop talking so much," you said. "I warned you."

"You didn't warn me about anything—"

"I've been warning you for months."

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

And then something shifted in his expression, the shock faded, the confusion cleared,  something else took its place.

"You think you're funny," he said slowly.

"I think I'm hilarious."

He was at a loss for words and you watched him struggle, try to reach for words that weren't there, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was trying to physically grasp a sentence and failing. His chest was still rising and falling too fast. His lips were still parted. His eyes kept darting from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he couldn't decide which one to focus on.

"You're staring," you said.

"I'm not staring. I'm... processing."

"Process faster. You're making it weird."

"I'm making it weird?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You just—you just kissed me. Out of nowhere. In the middle of an argument. While I was begging you to be real with me for one second. And now you're standing there like you didn't just—like you didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at his mouth, at the air itself. "Like you didn't just do that."

"What do you want me to do? Apologise?"

"I want you to acknowledge it!"

"I acknowledged it. I kissed you. You were there. You felt it."

"That's not—that's not acknowledging it, that's just doing it—"

"Same thing."

"It's really not!"

"It really is."

There was a beat of silence. He stared at you and you stared back. The afternoon light shifted, stripes of gold sliding across his face, catching the flush on his cheekbones.

The wind picked up, rattling the chain-link fence beside him. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. The world was still moving, still spinning, still completely unaware that yours had just cracked open and rearranged itself into something you didn't recognise.

Keonho bent down and picked up his beanie. He didn't put it back on. Just held it in his hands, twisting the fabric, avoiding your eyes.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

"You asked me to prove you wrong."

"That's not—" He let out a breath, slow and shaky. "That's not a reason."

"Sure it is."

"No, it's not. It's an impulse. It's a reaction. It's not a reason." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were different: softer, almost vulnerable, stripped of the emotionless facade he usually wore. "I've been asking you for months. Months. To just be honest with me for five seconds. And you finally do something real, and I just... I need to know why. It wasn’t just because you were trying to win an argument or to shut me up, you know that. Just tell me why."

Your throat tightened.

You could lie. You were good at lying. You'd been lying your whole life, to everyone, about everything. You could tell him it meant nothing, and you were just frustrated. You could tell him a hundred different things that would make this easier, simpler, less terrifying.

But he was looking at you like he could see every crack and he'd been waiting inside one of them for months just hoping you'd eventually climb down to meet him.

"Because I couldn't not," you said.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I couldn't not do it." Your voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "You were standing there, and you were saying all those things, and you were looking at me like… like you actually wanted to see me." You paused, swallowed, forced yourself to continue. "And I thought about walking away. I thought about saying something mean. I thought about every single thing I usually do to keep people at a distance. And then I thought—what if I just... didn't. For once. What if I just did what I actually wanted to do instead of what I was supposed to do."

"And what did you actually want to do?"

You met his eyes. Held his gaze. Let him see.

"I wanted to kiss you," you said. "I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I wasn’t keeping track."

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and enormous.

Keonho didn't move. Didn't speak. His hands had stopped twisting his beanie. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and unreadable.

"You're not joking," he said finally.

"No."

"You're not trying to mess with me."

"No."

"You actually—" He stopped, swallowed, then started again. "You actually want—"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being real. You know that. I’ve never known how to be anything other than what I’ve always been at this stupid school."

"And now?"

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. You curled them into fists, then uncurled them, then curled them again.

"Now I don't know what I am," you admitted. "But I know I'm still standing here with you and I'm not running away."

He took a step closer and his beanie dropped to the ground again, forgotten.

"You're really bad at this," he said softly.

"I know."

"The whole vulnerability thing. You're terrible at it."

"I know."

"It's kind of endearing, actually."

"Keonho."

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips were still slightly swollen from your mouth. "You kissed me."

"I'm aware."

"You said you've wanted to for weeks."

"I'm aware of that too."

"And now you're standing here, shaking, looking at me like you're about to either kiss me again or throw up."

"I’m not throwing up—"

"So kiss me again."

Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, certain. "You kissed me to prove a point. Now kiss me because you want to. No argument. Just you and me."

You looked at him and saw it all: the mess of his hair from his hand running through it too much, the frayed shirt collar, the dark eyes that had been seeing you for months when no one else bothered to look.

"You're annoying," you finally whispered.

"I know."

"You're insufferable."

"I know."

"You're—"

He kissed you to shut you up and it was nothing like the first kiss.

His fingers slid into your hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just there, a warm weight against your scalp. His other hand found your waist again, palm spanned the curve of your side like he was memorising the shape of it. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, and you could feel each individual fingertip through the thin material.

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

Where your mouth had been frantic and desperate against his, his was deliberate. Measured. His lips moved over yours slowly, like he was learning you from the start, like he was tracing the outline of something he'd been waiting to touch for months. He started at the center, pressing his mouth to the seam of your lips, then tilted his head and tried again from a different angle. And again. And again. Each kiss was a question. Each press of his lips was a sentence he didn't need words for.

Your hands, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, found their way to his chest. Not pushing him away, nor pulling him closer. Just resting there, palms flat against the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers. It was fast, much faster than his movements suggested. The contrast made something in your chest tighten.

He pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were still closed. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and you could feel his breath warm against your mouth.

You stayed like that for a moment, his thumb still tracing small circles on your waist and his fingers still tangled in your hair. The world under the bleachers had gone completely silent, like even the wind was holding its breath.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, his mouth was softer. He brushed his lips over yours once, feather-light, then again, then a third time, each touch gentler than the last. It was as though he was asking permission for something he'd already been given and he couldn't quite believe you were still there.

When he finally pulled back, after many more minutes, his eyes were open and he was watching you like you were something precious and breakable and he was terrified of dropping you.

His thumb came up to brush across your lower lip, where his had just been. The touch was so light it was almost not there.

"Say something," he whispered.

You couldn't. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in your throat, buried under the weight of everything you'd just felt.

So instead, you pulled him down by his shirt again. And you kissed him.

Slower and far more certain this time.

His mouth met yours halfway. His hand cradled the back of your head. His body pressed against yours from chest to hip, and you could feel the warmth of him through both your shirts, solid and real and there.

You kissed him until your lips were numb and your lungs were burning and you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

And that was the start of whatever was going on between the two of you.

Neither of you named it. Not that day under the bleachers, not in the weeks that followed, not even when you found yourself seeking him out between classes or staying late after school just to walk with him. There was no conversation about what you were, no labels, no promises. Just the quiet, unspoken understanding that something had shifted, and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The arguments didn't stop. If anything, they got worse.

Because you were still you: sharp-tongued and quick to deflect, armoured in expensive clothes and sharper smiles. And he was still him: infuriating and observant, unwilling to let you hide behind your walls now that he'd seen what was underneath. You'd crack open for him once and now he expected cracks all the time. Expected you to be soft. Expected you to be real.

And you couldn't. Not when the hallways were full of eyes and the courtyard was full of whispers and your whole life was a performance you'd been rehearsing since birth.

So you fought. Loudly and publicly. You called him a burnout to his face in front of the vending machines. He called you a robot in front of the bike racks. You told him he had no future ahead. He told you your designer bag cost more than his mom's rent and what did that say about you, really?

People stared. People whispered. People placed bets on when one of you would finally snap.

What they didn't see was what happened after.

The way you'd find him behind the gym twenty minutes later, breathless from running, your hands shaking as you grabbed his shirt. The way he'd already be waiting, like he knew you'd come, like he'd been counting on it. The way he'd pull you into the shadow of the building and kiss you like the argument had never happened—or like it had, and this was the only way to finish it.

"You're late," he'd murmur against your mouth.

"I hate you," you'd breathe back.

"Sure you do."

And then you'd kiss properly, desperate and hungry, your fingers twisting in his frayed collar, his hands pressing into your waist. You'd stay there until the bell rang, until the world demanded you return to your separate lives, until you could compose your face into something that didn't look like a girl who'd just been kissed within an inch of her sanity.

Then you'd walk back to class. Straighten your skirt. Lift your chin. And pretend nothing had happened.

People noticed, though. How could they not?

You'd always been careful; meticulous, even. You knew where every camera was, where every teacher stood during passing periods, which stairwells stayed empty and which bathrooms had broken locks. You'd spent years cultivating your image, protecting your reputation, making sure no one ever saw anything you didn't want them to see.

But Keonho made you sloppy.

It started small. A hallway glance that lasted a second too long. A pause by the bike racks when you should have kept walking. The way your eyes shone when they tracked him across the courtyard, following the gray beanie like a compass pointing north.

Hana noticed first, because Hana noticed everything.

"You keep looking at him weird," she said one day at lunch, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

"I'm not looking at him weird."

"Y/n, you literally look at him like he’s the answer to everything."

"I’m looking at him the same as I’ve always done."

Hana stared at you. You stared at your salad.

"You're seeing him, aren't you?" she said quietly. "Like, seeing him seeing him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Hana."

She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you. Last week. Behind the science building."

Your heart stopped and your face went cold. "You saw what?"

"Nothing. I didn't see anything. That's the point." She paused. "But I saw you go behind the science building. And I saw him go behind the science building. And then you both came out five minutes later looking like—" She gestured at your face. "Like that."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who just got kissed and is trying really hard to pretend she didn't."

You set down your fork very carefully.

"You didn't see anything," you said.

"I know."

"Because there's nothing to see."

"I know."

"And if you tell anyone—"

"I won't." Hana held up her hands. "I'm not an idiot. I'm just... surprised."

"At what?"

"That you picked him." She glanced across the courtyard, where Keonho was sitting alone by the bike racks, eating his usual gas station sandwich. "I mean, he's cute. In a scruffy way. But he's not exactly... you know."

"Not exactly what?"

"Your type."

You looked down at your salad. At your perfectly manicured nails. At the designer bag hanging off the back of your chair.

"Maybe I don't have a type," you said.

Hana didn't respond. She didn't have to. Her silence said everything.

After that, you tried to be more careful.

You stopped seeking him out between classes, started taking different routes to the vending machines, sat with your back to the bike racks so you wouldn't be tempted to look.

It lasted three days.

On the fourth day, you found yourself behind the art building at 3:15, your back against the brick wall, his body pressed against yours, his mouth locked on yours.

"We have to stop," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair.

"I know," he murmured against your lips.

"We're being stupid."

"The stupidest."

"Someone's going to see."

He pulled back just enough to look at you with slightly swollen lips.

"Then stop me," he said.

You didn't.

You kissed him instead. Harder than before. As though you were trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his hands felt on your waist.

And you were terrified of how much you didn't want to stop.

The first time anyone properly saw you alone together was behind the bleachers.

Someone's little brother was looking for a lost phone and he found you instead.

You were sitting with your back against the fence. Keonho was lying with his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers absently running through his hair. Neither of you was talking. Neither of you was fighting. You just... existed.

His hair was softer than you expected. His breathing had evened out until you weren't sure if he was awake or asleep. The late afternoon sun made everything gold and warm and stupidly cinematic.

You should have moved. The moment you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, you should have shoved him off and stood up and smoothed down your skirt and pretended this never happened. The old you would have sensed someone coming from a hundred yards away. The old you was always watching, always calculating, always performing.

But the old you hadn't spent the last hour with her fingers in Keonho's hair, watching the clouds drift past, feeling something in her chest unfurl like a flower she'd forgotten she'd planted.

You looked up. The kid was standing at the edge of the bleachers, frozen mid-step. His mouth was open. His phone was in his hand, must have found it, and you realised with a sinking feeling that he'd been taking pictures. Or filming. Or both.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he. For one long, suspended second, the three of you existed in perfect, terrible stillness: you with your hands still in Keonho's hair, Keonho still half-asleep and oblivious, the kid staring like he'd just witnessed a unicorn.

Then the kid turned and ran.

His footsteps echoed off the floor, fast and frantic, disappearing around the corner. 

Keonho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like someone running."

"It was nothing." You pulled your hand out of his hair and your fingers felt cold without him. "We should go."

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He looked at your face and something in his expression shifted.

"Someone saw us," he said. Not a question.

"Someone's little brother."

"Did he—"

"He had a phone."

Keonho was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back on his hands and tilted his face toward the sky.

"Well," he said. "That's that, then."

"What do you mean, that's that?"

"I mean people are going to talk. Your friends are going to freak out. The whole school's going to know by tomorrow morning." He looked at you sideways. "You okay with that?"

You should have said no. You should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. You should have spent the rest of the week damage-controlling, spin-doctoring, finding ways to convince everyone that what they'd seen wasn't what they thought.

Instead you said, "I don't know."

Keonho nodded and didn't push any further.

"Come on," he said, standing up and offering you his hand. "I'll walk you to your car."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, your fingers lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary.

"Your hair's a mess," you said.

"You're the one who did it."

"You shouldn't have fallen asleep on me."

"You shouldn't have been playing with my hair."

You took a good look at him: his crooked smile and his tired eyes and his stupid, beautiful, infuriating face.

“Your hair was too soft for me to stop," you said quietly.

His smile softened and he squeezed your hand once before letting go.

"Come on, fountain girl. Let's go cause some rumors."

The school lost its collective mind.

The photos spread like wildfire, your friends asked countless questions on if you were really dating him of all people.

Hana seemed to be the only one capable of at least showing a bit of support, in her own way of course.

"Okay, I don't understand it and I think you're making a mistake and I think you're going to get hurt." She reached to take your hand. "But you're my best friend. And if this is what you want then I'm not going to stand in your way."

"He's not—I don't—" You stopped. Took a breath. "I don't know what I want. I just know I'm tired of pretending I have it all figured out."

Hana squeezed your hand. "Then stop pretending."

You looked down at your joined hands and saw her perfectly manicured nails next to yours. 

"I don't know how," you admitted.

"Figure it out." She let go of your hand. Leaned back in her chair. "But do me a favor?"

"What?

"Next time you're going to make out with the skateboard boy behind the bleachers, maybe pick a spot without a line of sight to the school."

Your face went hot. "We weren't making out—"

"Your lips in those photos say otherwise."

"The photos weren’t taken after we—he was sleeping—"

"Sure he was."

“He was! His head was in my lap and he fell asleep and he I was just playing—”

“Uh huh.”

"Hana."

"Y/N." She smiled a real smile, the first one you'd seen from her all day. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But seriously. If you're going to be with him, be with him. Don't sneak around, or lie, or pretend he's something you're ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed of him."

"Then don't act like you are."

And from then on, you didn’t hide. You stopped crossing to the other side of the hallway when you saw him coming. Stopped pretending not to know where he ate lunch. Stopped taking the long way to class just to avoid being seen walking next to him.

Everyone now knew that you two were a thing of some sorts, and maybe it was better that they all knew. The secrecy had been exhausting. The sneaking around, the lying by omission, the constant fear of being caught; it had been eating at you, wearing you down, making you someone you didn't want to be.

Now there was nothing to hide.

You no longer had to explain why you’d stopped driving to school just to be able to walk with him, his skateboard rolling beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours and your shoulders bumping as you talked. Or the new scratches on your knees, the scuffs on your formerly pristine shoes, the tiny bruise on your palm from catching yourself when you fell from Keonho attempting to teach you to ride his skateboard.

"You're doing it wrong," he said one afternoon, watching you wobble across the parking lot after school.

"I'm doing it exactly the way you showed me."

"You're doing it exactly the way I told you not to."

"You told me to not lean back, so I'm leaning forward."

"Don't do that either." He ran his free hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grab your arm, steadying you before you could tip over. His fingers wrapped around your bicep firmly, keeping you upright. "Leaning forward is just as bad as leaning back. Actually, it's worse. When you lean forward, the board shoots out from under you and you land on your face."

"I'd rather land on my face than on my back because I’ll catch myself before I hit the ground."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"I've said stupider things."

"Name one."

"I told Mina her new haircut looked good."

He stared at you. "That's not stupid. That's just mean."

"It was stupid and mean. Her haircut was terrible."

He adjusted his grip on your arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Okay. Listen. Actually listen this time."

"I always listen."

"You listen to argue, not learn."

"I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do."

"Stop talking."

"Stop proving me right." He stepped around to face you, both hands on your arms now, looking down at you with that exasperated expression you'd grown weirdly fond of. "Keep your weight centered. Right over the board. Imagine there's a string pulling you up from the top of your head."

"That's the worst visualisation I've ever heard."

"It works."

"It works for you because you're weird."

"I'm not weird. I'm effective."

"You're weird and ineffective."

"I taught myself to skateboard when I was twelve. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"You taught yourself. That explains why you're such a bad teacher."

"I'm not a bad teacher. You're a bad student."

"I'm an excellent student. I get straight A's."

"In history. This isn't history. This is physics."

"It's a board with wheels, Keonho. It's not that deep."

"It's literally that deep. Center of gravity, momentum, weight distribution—"

"You're using big words to sound smart."

"I'm using big words because they're the right words."

"The right words are 'stand still and don't fall.'"

"The right words are 'engage your core and relax your shoulders.'"

"My core is engaged. My shoulders are relaxed."

"Your shoulders are up by your ears."

"No they aren’t."

"Princess, they're literally trying to escape through your neck right now."

You glanced down at your shoulders. They were, in fact, up by your ears. You forced them down. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely ecstatic that your shoulders are no longer trying to flee your body."

"You're so annoying."

"You're so tense."

"I'm not tense. I'm focused."

"You're so focused that you're forgetting to breathe."

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're holding your breath."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"You just turned purple."

"I did not turn purple."

"You turned a very lovely shade of lavender."

You exhaled. Hard. Right in his face.

He didn't flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No."

"Then take a real breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

"I know how to breathe."

"Then prove it."

You took a breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth straight onto his face again. He blinked.

"Did you just exhale onto me again?"

"Maybe."

He just sighed, already realising he was losing this battle, and let go of your arms, stepping back. "Okay. Try again. Keep your weight centered. Shoulders down. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop leaning."

"I'm not leaning."

"You're leaning."

"I'm standing perfectly upright."

"You're leaning so far forward you're practically bowing."

You wobbled as you adjusted but managed to catch yourself.

"Look," he said, smiling at you softly. "You're doing it."

"I'm doing it."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed with myself—"

Before you could even finish your gloating, your weight shifted. One moment you were upright, almost steady, almost balanced, almost doing it. The next, the board slipped out from underneath you like the ground had turned to ice. Your arms windmilled. Your center of gravity betrayed you completely. And then your knees hit the asphalt hard: a sharp, jarring impact that sent shockwaves up your thighs before Keonho could even properly react and grab you.

His hands reached for you a second too late, fingers closing on empty air where your arm had been.

You stayed there for a moment, on your hands and knees, breathing hard. The asphalt was rough and warm beneath your palms, little bits of gravel digging into your skin. Your knees throbbed. Your pride throbbed harder.

"Y/N." His voice was closer now. His hand landed on your back, warm and steady. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're not fine. You're on the ground."

"I'm resting."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm bleeding and resting. Multitasking."

"Y/N."

"Keonho."

He crouched down beside you, his face level with yours and his eyes wide, scanning your face, your knees, your hands. "You went down hard."

"I've gone down harder."

"That's not—" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the flex you think it is."

He reached for your arm, gently pulling you up from the ground. His hands were more careful than usual, and you let him guide you to your feet, wincing as your weight settled onto your scraped knees.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I can walk."

"You're limping."

"I'm not limping. I'm just… taking my time."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

He led you to the concrete steps outside the gymnasium, and you sat down heavily, stretching your legs out in front of you. The damage was worse than you thought: both knees scraped raw through what used to be your favorite pair of tights, thin lines of blood beading up through the torn fabric.

Keonho sat down next to you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. He pulled a crumpled gas station napkin from his pocket and held it out to you.

"That's not going to be enough," you said.

"It's all I have."

"Then get more."

"Where am I supposed to get more?"

"I don't know. The bathroom. The nurse's office."

He ignored you and dabbed at your knee with the napkin anyway, gentle and inefficient, the cheap paper sticking to your skin. You hissed through your teeth.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You should be. This is your fault."

"How is this my fault?"

"You're the one who put me on the board."

"You're the one who wanted to learn."

"I wanted to learn from a competent teacher."

"I am competent."

"You let me fall."

"You fell before I could catch you."

"You were literally right in front of me."

"You went down way too fast for me to react."

“Well maybe next time I’ll get an actual competent teacher to teach me how to skate.”

“Oh really? And would that competent teacher still be here tending to your wounds?” He looked at you and something in your chest tightened. You looked away, down at your scraped knees, at his hand still holding the crumpled napkin against your skin.

"You're bleeding too," you said.

He looked down at his own hand. There was a small scrape on his palm, must have happened when he reached for you and caught the asphalt instead.

"That's nothing," he said.

"It's bleeding."

"It's a scratch."

"It's bleeding and you're not even complaining."

"Why would I complain?"

"Because that's what people do when they're hurt. They complain."

"I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're bleeding."

"It's a scratch, Y/N."

"It's a bleeding scratch."

He stared at you. Then he started laughing, bright and surprised, his whole face lighting up.

"What?" you demanded.

"Nothing." He shook his head, still laughing. "You're just—you're sitting there with two knees that look like ground beef, telling me my paper cut is a medical emergency."

"It's not a paper cut. It's a gash."

"It's literally smaller than my fingernail."

"Size isn't everything."

"That's not—" He stopped, his smile wide whilst he rubbed his hand over his face. "You're looking way worse than me."

You wanted to be annoyed at the fact that he was still laughing, his shoulder shaking against yours. You wanted to push him away and tell him this wasn't funny, that your knees were ruined and your tights were ruined and your pride was in shambles on the asphalt.

But instead, you started laughing too.

It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere you'd forgotten existed. You laughed until your stomach hurt and your scraped knees throbbed and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You laughed because you'd just fallen off a skateboard in front of half the school and Keonho was sitting next to you with a napkin stuck to his palm, his eyes full of light, watching you finally, finally, be yourself.

When the laughter finally faded, you were both breathing hard. His shoulder was still pressed against yours. His hand had somehow found yours, fingers laced together, resting on the concrete step between you.

You eventually leaned your head against his shoulder. Just rested it there, your temple pressing into the worn fabric of his hoodie. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there with you in the warm afternoon sun while the rest of the world went on around you.

At some point he turned his head and his lips brushed against your hair so softly you almost missed it, but you felt it. You felt everything.

People walked past, some gawked at the sight of you, others turned and whispered amongst each other, but neither of you seemed to care.

That seemed to become a recurring thing. The stares and the whispers. People still took photos when they thought you weren't looking. The speculation never ended: were you dating? Were you enemies? Were you friends? Were you something in between that no one had a word for?

But you stopped noticing. Or maybe you just stopped caring.

They couldn't understand what was going on between you two. How you'd go from wanting to strangle each other to cuddling up just a second later. How you'd be screaming in each other's faces one moment and then sitting in comfortable silence the next, your head on his shoulder, his hand in yours. How you'd call him every name in the book and then defend him viciously when someone else tried to do the same.

It didn't make sense. Not to them. Not to your friends, who still looked at you like you'd grown a second head every time you walked past the bike racks without stopping to sneer. Not to his friends—the few he had that you had only learnt about recently—who raised their eyebrows every time you appeared and said nothing.

And, to be honest, neither of you understood it either.

But none of that mattered. 

Not when he'd sit there and let you ramble for hours about whatever new person who annoyed you had done. How a girl had worn the same dress as you to a party and actually looked good in it: "She had no right, Keonho. No right. I specifically told her I was wearing the green one with the flowers, and she showed up in the exact same dress like it was nothing." Or how Hana had started talking to her ex again, the one from the football team, the one who'd cheated on her at summer camp two years ago: "I don't understand it. I don't understand her. He literally lied to her face for a whole weekend and she's just going to pretend that didn't happen?"

He never interrupted. Never told you to calm down or change the subject or stop caring so much about things that didn't matter. He just listened with his eyes half-closed, his head tilted back, and his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. Sometimes he'd nod. Sometimes he'd make comments like "that's messed up" or "she sounds exhausting" or "you're right to be annoyed." Sometimes he’d just watch you, a look in his eyes that made you feel giddy.

Not when he laid on your bed, still watching you pace back and forth whilst on a call that felt never ending. 

He should have been paying attention and following the conversation, tracking the drama, even offering the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. But his eyelids were heavy, his body was warm, and the sound of your voice, even when it was sharp, annoyed, and mid-takedown, was somehow the most soothing thing he'd ever heard.

”Okay, call me later once she replies.” 

Keonho perked up as he heard you wrapping up the call, his chin lifting from his arm. His eyes tracked you still walking back and forth, back and forth, like you couldn't quite remember how to stop.

"You're gonna wear a hole in that ridiculously expensive rug," he commented, his voice thick with sleep.

You ignored him. Kept pacing. Kept muttering under your breath, something about ‘can't believe she said that’ and ‘who does she think she is’ and ‘wait until I get my hands on her’.

"Y/N."

Nothing.

"Y/N."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for like ten minutes. Think quicker.”

“I’d be able to if you shut up.”

He just blinked at you, slow and unbothered. “I’m not the one who’s been pacing around for an hour.”

”It was literally twenty minutes, and last I checked you were asleep.”

”That was before you left me all by myself.” He pouted, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide and faux-tragic, and you scrunched your face in disgust, though you'd never admit it secretly made your heart swell. The stupid, infuriating, adorable pout. The way his hair was all messed up from the pillow. The way the pink blanket was pulled up to his shoulders like a child who didn't want to get out of bed.

He mumbled something you were only just able to catch, his voice thick and sleepy: "Twenty minutes too long."

"I was on the phone."

"You were on the phone without me."

"You were asleep."

"So? You could have woken me up."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face before stepping forward. He twisted to lay on his side, the pink blanket pooling around his waist, and lifted the blanket up at your approach.

You climbed under the blanket with him, the sheets cool against your legs, the duvet soft beneath your head. His free arm enveloped you immediately, your face pressing into his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone, and your breath warm against his skin.

”You’re so clingy.” You grumbled.

"You love it."

"I hate it."

"You love hating it."

You elbowed him and he didn't even flinch, just tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I was in the middle of something," you said.

"You were in the middle of pacing."

"I was strategising."

"You were spiraling and I needed to stop it."

His hand found your hair. His fingers threaded through it, slow and steady, the way he knew you liked. His thumb brushed against your scalp, gentle circles that made your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm still thinking about it," you murmured.

"I know."

"I'm going to keep thinking about it."

"I know."

"I'm going to talk about it. A lot. For a long time."

"I know."

"And you're going to listen?"

"I'm going to try. No promises. I'm very tired."

"You're always tired."

"You're always thinking too much."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fire back something sharp and cutting that would wipe that sleepy smile off his face. But his hand was in your hair and his heartbeat was steady under your ear and the world outside your bedroom door had stopped mattering.

"She's going to reply later," you said. "And when she does—"

"You're going to do nothing."

"I'm going to do something."

"You're going to do nothing," he repeated. "Because it's late. And you're tired. And whatever she said, it'll still be there tomorrow."

"But—"

"Tomorrow," he said. "You can destroy her tomorrow. Right now, you're going to sleep."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did."

"And I'm not doing it."

"You're literally in my arms with your eyes closed."

"That doesn't matter." Despite your words, you snuggled into him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressing deeper into the hollow of his throat. He was warm, so, so warm, and his heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your palm, a rhythm your own heart had started to match without your permission.

You felt him press a kiss onto your hair, it seemed to be a thing he did subconsciously now.

"Mhm." He just about managed to say, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His arms were loosening around you, his grip going slack, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was drifting off, you could feel it in the way his breathing had slowed, in the way his hand had stopped moving in your hair, in the way his heartbeat had dropped to a deep, steady thrum.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him as you felt him settle.

His face was soft in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw had blurred, his lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair was a mess across his forehead and he looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the boy who argued with you in parking lots and more like the boy who pressed kisses to your hair when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You should have woken him up. Should have told him to go home, to sleep in his own bed, to stop taking up space in yours.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the line of his brow, the curve of his temple, the soft skin just above his cheekbone.

He didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just sighed in his sleep and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist even as he dreamed.

You smiled, just a little, placing a featherlight kiss onto his jaw.

"You're impossible," you whispered, so quietly that not even the fairy lights that hung above your bed could hear.

Then you settled back against his chest, closed your eyes, and let yourself drift.

Tomorrow, you'd argue. Tomorrow, you'd pace and mutter and plot revenge. Tomorrow, you'd be sharp and cutting and impossible in all the ways you knew how to be.

But tonight, you let him have the last word.

You could be nice to him sometimes.

[el4mars]

I feel like my heart is just gonna jump out off my chest and jump around in joy. I love it so much😘🫶✨️🎀💋

[vehaez]

ZOMBIES AIN’T THAT TUFF MAN!—CORTIS OT5

SYNOPSIS: you’re in a zombie apocalypse and somehow meeting five other guys your age is the worst choice you’ve ever made.

GENRE: post-apocalyptic/action/crack/mid-angst/found family and friendships (?)

WC: 15K+ (why do i keep writing a lot LMAO)

WARNINGS: graphic violence, medical trauma, childhood trauma, blood (TW!), body horror (description of wounds and zombies), swearing, strong language in general, physical and mental distress, mild paralysis, gun violence, death threats... (I promise it's not that bad...)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OMG YAYAYAYAYAAYAY finally!!!!!!! ive finished this!!! i hope u guys enjoy it smsmsms!!

Holy shit.

What an amazing time to run out of ammo! Right in front of this zombie that's trying to eat your face off in the middle of the night, like it was a usual thing to do!

"SHIT!" You shouted, aimlessly throwing your pistol at the dead or alive (?) walking figure that slowly approached you with uncontrolled hunger.

Yet it didn't dare falter. It just seemed offended at your weak attempt to get rid of it.

So, like any reasonable human being with a rational mind, you decided to make a run for it, turning around to flip the monster off, "If you wanna bite me, you can kiss my ass!"

It snarled in a horribly terrifying way, and you panicked; you didn't think those types of creatures understood you!

"I'm sorry! I didn't think you would understand!" Your legs took off as you jumped over fallen trees, sweat falling quickly from your forehead as you scrambled away from it.

Said 'it' was a zombie.

Although the zombie behind you was stupidly fast, you managed to outrun it by entering an abandoned building that had you crapping your pants from the way it screamed danger.

You felt the heat rush to your head at the sudden darkness. You were almost certain that you had finally got away from that human-flesh-biting creature, and that's where you slowed down for a moment to catch your breath.

How did the world turn into...whatever this apocalypse is?

You turned around to catch sight of any weird-looking monsters, but there weren't any, thankfully.

You reached for your pockets, searching for the flash you'd found in a random car earlier as you wandered among the broken glass on the floor—a small breeze passed by, making you shiver with the sudden cold.

Yet you didn't hear anything, which was weird.

Eerily weird, so weird that it made you turn on your flash and search around the abandoned building.

You inhaled slowly, your eyes turning to read every single undamaged label and sign. You tried catching your breath as you found yourself in front of a random store with a broken entrance.

LILIAS SUPERMARKET

"A supermarket?" You thought, raising an eyebrow at the concept of a supermarket being located in a random building.

Nevertheless, you entered, turning off your flash to protect yourself from the zombies.

The glass crunched under your shoes as soon as you entered, and you immediately froze.

"Too loud..." you murmured to yourself, biting your bottom lip to prevent any other sound from bubbling up from your throat.

Your heart stammered against your chest; louder than any glass you had stepped on, and for a moment, you stood extremely still, fearing that the same zombie from earlier would have followed you.

You waited, eyes wide and wary.

An instant later, you carefully stepped again on the shattered glass to make your way through the store.

Silence, then came a hungry snarl.

"Please buy my stomach, please!" You whispered to yourself, quickly shutting your eyes. You felt cold sweat on your forehead, a reaction to the sheer amount of stress and fear in your body.

The supermarket's smell didn't help calm you down, either; it smelled too stale, too sickening, like old cardboard and dust lying there, as if it had been untouched in days.

You wished that you were that same dust; it would've been so much better than surviving this damn apocalypse.

Some faint moonlight leaked through the broken windows, giving you at least a guide to seeing what was in front of you without tripping or falling.

You turned, trying to ignore the obvious grunts in the back, and searched the crooked shelves.

"Cans, bagged, plastic, anything..." You begged, creeping through the aisles, hands slightly raised like that somehow would protect you from any form of danger possible.

But then, everything was obviously looted.

Of course, they were; the remaining people here were trying to survive this sudden apocalypse.

It had been going on for days already, long enough that anything useful would already be used and wasted.

"Food...bandages..." you muttered quietly, desperate for any source of nutriments, "please tell me someone dropped a can of beans for God's sake!"

A can rolled by your foot, and your entire soul left your body.

You slowly tilted your head, wide eyes and a mouth agape.

The same zombie stood not even a meter away and stared at you with its dull eyes and blood-slicked teeth.

It was a staring contest at this point, the way you both stood in place breathing heavily as if you were debating whether to run or shout.

You chose the latter.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE!"

The zombie sprinted at you. And you didn't even have time to scream before crouching down.

BANG BANG BANG

A deafening bang cracked through the air. You watched as the zombie's head snapped impossibly sideways as the rifle clanked on the floor, its body collapsing with a huge thud on the shattered glass just right in front of you.

For a second, you didn't move. You stared at the blood flooding in horror, your chest heaving in panicked labour.

"Oh?"

Your head slowly tilted up as a tear escaped your eyes, staining your cheek as you gulped, then a beam of light clicked on in front of you, straight to your face.

The flashlight was too bright; it almost blinded you, forcing you to cover your eyes from the sudden exposure.

"Am I in heaven?" You asked someone in particular.

"You're still on earth." A boyish voice lazily said, "Not heaven, unfortunately."

You couldn't believe your ears, a human?

You opened your eyes, slightly squinting to look at the person (or people) addressing you.

Five figures stood next to each other in front of you, their silhouettes cut sharply against the light leaking through the flashlight. The tall blond one—whoa, he was so tall—held the latter with a weapon resting in his other hand like he had shot millions of zombies before.

Your mouth opened and closed.

"Are you angels? Devils? I don't want to go to Hell. I still have to buy that Blur album—"

"You almost died, and that's your last wish?" One of the guys squinted at you, his brows furrowing in confusion.

You shrugged weakly, making him sigh.

"For the second time, you're well and alive, woman!" The boy with the sagging pants (to be fair, all of them had saggy pants...) next to the blond spoke, shaking his head in disbelief, "Martin, you should've just let her die."

"Hell nah man," Martin (aka the name of the tall blond) replied, "gotta live for the thrill, you know?"

What the hell?

"You know, I can't even blame her," the one with the shortest hair added, making Martin roll his eyes.

"James, we saved an idiot." Saggy-pants guy said, "Another mouth to feed, bruh."

"Relax, Seonghyeon bro, she doesn't look like she eats a lot," another guy jumped in. He seemed the calmest of all of them. "She's small."

All of them hummed in agreement.

"Hate to cut off your arguments, but can we not talk about me in third person? I'd really appreciate that." You gestured to yourself as you stood up, "And saggy-pants, Sonhyon or whatever your name is, I'd eat double the amount of food you'd eat if I were given the opportunity!"

"My name is Seonghyeon, not Sonhyon!" The boys snickered at that.

"She clocked your shit." One of the guys laughed, to which Seonghyeon turned around in embarrassment and yelled, "Shut up, Keonho!"

James then jumped in and asked, "Are you bitten?"

Everyone froze, even you did.

All of them backed up, each reaching for their respective weapons as you widened your eyes, "Guys, why are you looking at me like that..."

You heard a gunshot reload, "WAIT!"

"Did it bite you, yes or no?" Martin asked calmly, already pointing his gun at you.

You shook your head at an impossibly fast pace, the flashlight still beaming on your face.

You looked at the five boys in front of you, each holding a weapon crazier than the other.

The one with the short dark hair, James? Held a fire extinguisher with the metal on the top bent at an awkward angle, weird.

Martin obviously had a gun, which is normal.

Sonhyon—you mean, Seonghyeon carried not one, not two, but three pans stuck to each other; he looked ready to swing. Okay, now what?

Juhoon, the calm one, had a pocket knife in his right hand and a screwdriver in his left, which is realistic, but not as handy.

And the best for last, Keonho. He carried fricking nunchucks with a paint bucket attached to the ends, huh?

You squinted at Keonho, "Are those... paint buckets attached to nunchucks?"

He spun the nunchucks once, the buckets slamming into the shelf next to him with a loud CLANG that made you flinch.

He shrugged, smirking at his weapon. "It's effective."

"You know what? Hell yeah, man..." You gave up trying with them.

"Answer the question." Seonghyeon said flatly, "Are you bitten?"

"...No?" You looked at your hands, checking for any bites. "I think I am safe."

James narrowed his eyes at that, "Keonho and Juhoon, search her."

The two of them immediately stepped forward, which made you back up into the shelf behind you, "Guys?" you laughed awkwardly, "HEY HEY HEY! DO BOUNDARIES NOT EXIST ANYMORE?"

"You search her neck, I'll check her arms," Keonho said, as he dropped his weapon. He and Juhoon approached you with careful steps.

"Look," Martin said, pointing the gun at you, "either you show us you're clean, or on my life you're getting shot this second."

You stared at him, no hints on his face seemed like he was joking in any way.

"Fine."

"Probably." Juhoon whispered, "Neck."

You lifted your hair from your shoulder. He leaned forward, flicking his flashlight at your neck.

"Clean, no bite."

"Show me your arms." Keonho then said, to which you lifted your bare arms at him. He inspected them like an eagle.

He nodded to Juhoon. "She's clean, guys."

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes, and James sighed.

“THANK YOU,” you said loudly. “Can we finally move past the ‘let’s execute the stranger’ phase?"

The tension in the room loosened slightly as you lowered your arms. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Alright, gentlemen, lower the kitchenware," Martin said, clicking the safety on his handgun and tucking it into his sagging waistband. The blinding flashlight finally dipped toward the floor, allowing your eyes to recover.

You blinked, wiping the stray tear away from your face. You eyed Keonho up and down in a judgmental way, to which he gasped in offence.

"Rude much." He scoffed as you moved, trying to retrieve your flashlight from the shattered glass on the floor.

"Wait," James squinted at you again, dropping the bent fire extinguisher on the floor, "Did you actually yell at the zombie to kiss your...ass? In the middle of a showdown?"

Your cheeks heated at that. You didn't expect anyone to hear what you said? "Spare me, man, it was a heat-of-the-moment decision!" You hissed, "And it somehow worked, I'm not bitten!"

Seonghyeon stepped forward, the three pants stuck together clinking on his shoulder like a wind chime. He g looked you up and down too, then turned to others, who shrugged, then to you again. "Look, Blur girl—"

"Y/N."

"Look, Y/N," He sighed, "I think we need you to stay on our team right now. It's dangerous out there; we can't afford to lose someone to these creatures. You've got spirit, an unhinged one at it. We need that."

"Wow, so I'm considered helpful now?" You spoke in a mocking tone, Juhoon snickered.

"More or less," Seonghyeon replied.

"You know what, I can't even argue with that." You shrugged, "If it means that I get protection from you, I'm honestly down."

"The rules are simple bro, don’t scream, don’t wander off, and if you see a zombie—”

"Don't insult it?" you suggested, throwing around a random answer that made everyone groan.

Especially James, he groaned loudly and rubbed his face, "Oh my God help us all."

"Okay, fine!" You threw up your hands in the air, "I'll gladly join your fun club—"

CLANG

Something had just crashed in the supermarket, and all six of you froze.

James and Keonho slowly reached down and picked up their weapons from the floor.

"Please tell me that was just an innocent rat." You shut your eyes as you gripped your flashlight tightly.

Another sound came crashing down.

"Two rats?" You laughed awkwardly as you stared at the figures of the boys in front of you.

Then low, wet grunts answered your questions.

Martin pulled back his gun, "Lights off," he ordered.

Then the supermarket fell into a silent halt.

Keonho turned to you and whispered as he leaned close to you, "Hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah?" You whispered back.

"How fast can you run?"

You groaned, "Define fast."

THUD

Empty cans rolled across the scattered glass, and Juhoon narrowed his eyes.

"Y/N, don't move." His voice came out sharp as he glanced at the rest of the boys.

Martin smirked; the shades on his head suddenly dropped to his face. And out of pure excitement, he announced. "It's killing-spree time."

And on cue, five zombies stumbled in front of you. Their heads were angled at an impossible rate, their clothes were torn, their bones stood out, their brains were visible, and their mouths were widely open.

"Definitely not rats!" You immediately panicked, running to stand behind Martin, who was the safest option you considered, and grabbed his back.

"Y/N! Get back!" He shouted, before aiming at one of the zombies, and handed you his flashlight.

"Bring it on." Seonghyeon scoffed as the creatures let out a guttural groan and suddenly sprinted toward your group.

"That's right, get here," Martin whispered before firing.

The gunshot echoed through the entire supermarket, making the first zombie collapse to the floor.

James whistled at the clean shot.

"Neat!" He shouted from the side, and Martin rotated his gun before blowing the smoke coming out.

"You know it, James, watch out—!" Martin pointed at the zombie behind him, and James turned around and blasted the second zombie in the face with the fire extinguisher. A huge cloud of foam exploded, making him groan.

"Not the hair man!" He angrily yelled.

The zombie staggered blindly, its neck almost broken off its body, and James took the opportunity to punch it off.

"Are you psychos? How can you just kill them with no hesitation!" you cried, and Martin looked down at you and patted your head.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Y/N."

CLANG

Suddenly, a third zombie fell on the scattered glass. Seonghyeon was beside him, resting his three-wielded pans on his shoulders as he let out a small phew!

"Now, why does that genuinely work?" You asked, and James shrugged.

You were surprised, but before you could say anything else, you noticed out of the corner of your eye a fourth monster trying to take Juhoon down.

"Juhoon, next to you!"

Juhoon calmly stabbed the zombie with his pocketknife through the face, sliding it down to its neck until it was half split open, bleeding.

It fell to the floor, too, and that creeped you out. "Yeah, I don't want to mess with him..."

Meanwhile, the last zombie came running to Keonho, and the latter grinned like it was the best day of his life.

"Finally!" He spun the nunchucks like they weighed nothing, and WHAM, the paint buckets burst open, painting everything it splattered on in a dark shade of blue.

On his shirt, on the aisles, including the boys, you and even on the zombie itself.

It staggered in confusion before getting hit by Keonho's nunchucks.

Silence filled the supermarket again, and everyone stood there breathing heavily, as if the killing spree had taken them hours.

It was only five minutes.

"Keonho. I'm Blue."

"So am I!”

"Me too."

"Same here."

"Why did you even pick a full paint bucket?" James groaned for the nth time today.

Keonho didn't say anything, but he did pout.

But then all of a sudden, the boys turned to look at you.

"...What?" You backed away from Martin as he put a hand on his hip.

"It's your turn to kill a zombie next time."

Seonghyeon pointed his pans at you.

Your jaw dropped, your eyes widened, and your hands went to your head, "My turn?! You're crazy if you think I'm gonna attempt anything remotely similar to what you guys did!"

“Well, too late you decided to join our…funclub,” Seonghyeon said, and you were already mentally exhausted.

“Do you guys even have a name?” You asked, but all they did was look at each other and shake their heads.

“Well, we were actually trying to figure out one to sound more…” Martin scratched his head, “Rad.”

You blinked. “I can tell that you guys definitely do colour outside the lines…”

Then an idea popped into James's mind, “Y/N! You’re a genius! Colour outside the lines!”

You raised an eyebrow, looking at Keonho, who was trying to brush the paint off his shirt, “Isn’t that too long though?”

“True.” Then Juhoon entered the conversation, tilting his head. “What if we shorten it by using the prime alphabet?” He suggested, to which you hummed in excitement.

“What if we take the C from ‘colour’, the O from ‘outside’, the T from ‘the’ and the L from ‘lines’? How does that sound?” Seonghyeon recommended.

Keonho rolled the words on his tongue. “COTL? It sounds too weird.”

“You guys give me high cortisol levels, God.” You said, massaging your temples to get the headache they created to go away.

“Cortis—huh?” Seonghyeon turned around, and Martin widened his eyes at the same time as James.

“CORTIS!” They both yelled, and that startled you. But you couldn’t even lie, the name sounded tough as hell.

“Why are you screaming? That would attract more zombies…”

Seonghyeon immediately slammed his pans on a random shelf, “Because that sounds too tough. We have a meaning too, which is crazy.”

Keonho pointed at you and suddenly grinned. “Cortis! Zombie slayers and monster hunters!”

James groaned again. “Please never say that again.”

“Yes, chef.”

Martin then clapped his hands to bring attention to himself. You rolled your eyes as you saw his wide smile and spread arms, ready to shout.

You closed your ears in advance, along with Juhoon.

“Ladies—Well, Lady and gentlemen, welcome to CORTIS!”

The shout echoed throughout the supermarket.

Keonho stared at him with wide, wide eyes before slapping his own forehead.

You stared at everyone like they were a joke, but again, you couldn’t help but smile.

They looked young after all, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they were your age.

The walk back to their hideout was the longest route you have ever taken in your life.

"Well then, Y/N! You get to have a limited exclusive offer from now until...you die?" Martin clapped his hands, and so did the others, which was really stupid. Were they just teenagers going with the flow?

"And that is?" You asked, not sure if you wanted the answer.

"You get to have a rusty iron pipe!" The blond cheerfully announced, adding a small whoo! at the end for more reaction, and you couldn't help but smile, letting out a small yay just to go with the vibe of it.

An instant after the celebration faded into something else, James took the opportunity to ask. "How old are you anyway?"

"Guess!"

"Twenty-six!" Keonho jumped immediately, making you gasp in horror.

"Excuse you? Do I look like I work?" To which he nodded, you made sure to smack his arm with the iron pipe.

"Let me guess...twenty?" Juhoon asked, and you shook your head, not even Juhoon, man!

"Guys, let's use our heads!" You started to get frustrated at that moment; no wonder they're teenagers (maybe...)

"Are you older than nineteen?" Seonghyeon questioned, and you pretended to be in deep thought, scratching your chin while you're at it.

"No..." You started, smirking at them, "Yes..." Now you were giggling, "Maybe...?"

"I bet she's sixty-eight and doesn't want to tell us." Martin scoffed, pushing your shoulder as you gasped in offence.

"Martin, I'm gonna rock your shit, and I don't care how tall you are!" You clutched your chest, returning the push with extra force. "If I were sixty-eight, I wouldn't be standing here with five idiots who have useless weapons!"

James snorted, "That's exactly what a sixty-eight-year-old granny would say!"

You flipped him off.

But Seonghyeon stopped you on your tracks, leaning forward to scan and inspect your face with careful attention. He squinted at you like a cat.

"If I guess correctly, what do I get?"

"A slap perchance." You replied, and everybody laughed.

"Okay...you're seventeen."

You froze, eyes widening as you groaned loudly.

"Ugh, out of everybody, bro! It had to be you guessing correctly..."

Seonghyeon straightened the same moment you groaned, a smug grin spreading across his face as if he’d just won the lottery. "I'm too goated."

Keonho leaned over your shoulder, grinning, "So you're Hyeon's and my age."

"Unfortunately, also, why do you sound surprised?"

"Because you look older, duh," Seonghyeon said, and you hit him with your iron pipe.

"Ouch! Are you sick?" He turned to look at you, to which you poked out your tongue to irritate him even further. "Y/N I'll feed you to zombies."

"I'd LOVE to see you try Songhon."

"For fuck's sake it's Seonghyeon!"

You gasped dramatically, "Wow, language, Seonghyeon! Aren't you supposed to be legal in a year?"

"Right? We're minors, man..." Keonho jumped in, wheezing as he took Seonghyeon's annoyed figure.

He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes as he mumbled, "Unbelievable."

Martin scoffed from the side, lazily playing with his glasses, "You guys are arguing about this, meanwhile I'm here being almost eighteen."

"Unc." You coughed, and Seonghyeon and Keoho snorted.

"Hey, man! You're not that far off!" He stared at you as you offended him (which you did), and flicked your forehead as soon as you stopped walking.

"Juhoon is already eighteen!"

You nodded in respect, giving him a thumbs up as he playfully bowed in courtesy.

James, who had been silent since earlier, finally spoke up as if he were ashamed, "Children..."

"Oh, shut up," Martin said. "You're not that old."

The first shrugged casually, walking at a slower pace to prove his point. "I'm twenty, man. I'm already getting white hair from your asses."

"Whatever, guys...are we getting any closer to your wonderful hideout?" You asked, yet everybody refused to answer. "It's a simple question, not a trivia quiz."

"We have like four more miles to go." Juhoon finally replied, and you widened your eyes, four?! What are you, a cheetah?

"Juhoon man, I love you and all, but there's no way I'm walking four miles. Who even does that?"

"People who want to survive a zombie apocalypse, Y/N," Juhoon replied, and you sighed, shoulders dropping in surrender.

"That's if we even get to survive in the next hour." Seonghyeon reminded, stretching his hands with his pans in the air. "We never know what might come."

You blinked at him as everyone went silent for an instant. It's true.

You can't guarantee that you'll survive at all.

You and the boys kept walking along the empty road, the sound of shoes scraping against asphalt echoing way too loudly in the silence. Abandoned cars were scattered everywhere, some with doors hanging open, others crashed against sidewalks like the drivers had just panicked and fled.

Martin stopped you from walking, putting a hand in front of you as his face darkened.

Everybody else understood what that meant.

On cue, Martin reached for his gun and pressed the reload shift.

He turned to look at you and at Seonghyeon and Keonho.

"Zombies. The crawling type. Be wary, you three." He said with a cold voice, which sent shivers down your spine. You gulped as you tightened your grip around your iron pipe.

"How many?"

"I'm not sure, but there are a lot." Juhoon suddenly announced, getting his pocketknife out, you swallowed loudly as you exhaled.

These weren't the type of zombies that walked impossibly slow or were controlled by their own hunger.

Those were the smart ones that crawled from under abandoned cars and buildings.

You had to keep your head up to not get caught off guard.

From beneath the cars, they started to emerge one by one. Martin whistled at the sight, smirking as he loaded his bullets into the gun he lazily held.

"You have to kill your first zombie here, Y/N." Keonho suddenly whispered; his voice wasn't teasing anymore. He stepped next to you as he prepared his empty nunchucks. "They aren't the easy type."

"Thank you for comforting me..."

But in the blink of an eye, a crawler lunged from under a white van, straight out snapping at Seonghyeon's boots.

The latter dodged, hitting it with his pans as he kicked out in front of him. It wouldn't calm down, so he had to stomp on its head with a great amount of force. "Watch the shoes, man..."

James was already moving with the screwdriver he borrowed from Juhoon, "Don't let them bite you! If they surround you, it's over!"

You felt a string of panic tighten at your hands, screaming as one of the crawlers gripped your ankle and opened its mouth to bite you. The fingers you felt were cold and slick with blood.

It made you shiver before hitting it with every amount of force in your body to its skull.

"Y/N!" Juhoon shouted, "DON'T LET IT BITE YOU!"

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

It felt...good.

It felt amazing to take a swing at those creatures.

Oh, how you've missed this.

The rusty iron pipe felt heavy, but your heart was heavier with pain.

You hit it repeatedly until your pipe dented at a 90° angle.

The cracks echoed louder than you expected. The zombie slumped instantly, turning into dead weight at the weight of your smashes.

You stood there, chest breathing heavily as you smirked.

The adrenaline rush felt amazing.

Yet the boys froze in place as they watched your face drip with the creature's blood. Even Seonghyeon and Juhoon got distracted for a moment before letting out a nervous laugh.

"Okay..." Keonho started first, "So are we just going to ignore that Y/N might be a potential serial killer?"

Martin's distraction didn't last too long before he started shooting again, his eyes wide as he looked from the pulped zombie to your face. "Way to go, Y/N!"

You didn't look at them immediately.

You were staring at the dented pipe, and at the blood you wiped with the back of your hand, all the pain in your heart finally found a way to exit.

The boys continued to kill the crawlers, and you searched for any makeshift weapons you could use.

Until you landed on a crowbar next to a van.

Seonghyeon looked at you for a second, raising an eyebrow before smirking.

"What a crazy girl." He whispered as his pans hit the skulls of the green, disgusting monsters.

You ran to the van, grabbed the crowbar and climbed into the vehicle.

You stood on the hood and started banging the crowbar on the window, trying to attract the crawlers.

Everything and everybody looked at you.

"Y/N, get down! You're going to get killed!" James shouted, slowly detaching himself from the zombie he had just choked.

You didn't pay his words any mind. You just inhaled deeply before shouting at the top of your lungs:

"DON'T BARK IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING BITE, YOU CRAWLERS!"

Keonho scoffed in shock. "Yeah, she's fucking insane."

The van groaned underneath the weight of your boots banging on it. You stood tall on it, the heavy steel crowbar in your hand felt like your first ticket to finally getting rid of these creatures that you despised.

Below you, the sea of rotten limbs and skulls stared at you. They began to pivot as they let go of the boys, spiralling to bite your chunks off at your cry.

Their disjointed necks all rushed to you, dull eyes fixating on your finger as you banged the steel on the van.

Your grin was what they despised more than the sound of the metal clanking.

Martin looked up at you, his mouth hanging open. "Y/N, the same goes for you, you idiot!"

"Martin, I don't think she cares, man. Just look at her provoking them!" Juhoon's voice was filled with terror and awe at the same time. He watched you fling your crowbar to the van every time a crawler came by your side, waiting for the right moment to launch.

The first one reached the bumper. Its finger-slicked nails were scraping against the metal as if it were trying to make you hit it. The sound of its scratching did set everybody's ears ringing.

You looked at it with disgust. Instead of giving it what it wanted, you leaned next to its face and grinned, whispering a small, "Fuck. You."

You swung the crowbar in a brutal arc that hit the zombie's head right on the jaw. Its head went flying the next second, landing right next to Keonho's feet.

"Oh, my God." He nervously kicked it away.

"That's it!" You yelled, "Come and get a taste of this steel!"

Seonghyeon, for the first time, let out a jagged laugh. "You heard the lady."

James glanced up at you, eyes narrowed in a mix of fright and awe, "Y/N, don't get too excited!"

"Less talking, more hitting, James!" You shot back as soon as you hit the other crawlers that grunted in hunger. You jumped from the hood of the van to its roof to get a better point of view of the situation.

Blood splattered everywhere; it was a massacre.

"Keonho!" You called the younger boy, "I'll keep these monsters distracted. Check if the fuel tank is intact and full!

Keonho nodded, dropping his nunchucks as he ran to the van, sliding under the chassis to verify. "It's leaking slowly, but it's enough! All clear Y/N!"

You looked at him as you thought. Your crowbar was dripping sluggishly with blood as you tried focusing on an idea.

You had to jump from the roof to get inside the car and drive over the crawlers.

"MARTIN, SEONGHYEON, JAMES, JUHOON AND KEONHO!" You cried out, sweat dropping from your forehead, "Move out of the way! I'm gonna drive over them!"

The boys stared in shock.

"Y/N, are you fucking nuts?!" James screeched, eyes wide as he kicked a crawler away, "Can you even drive?"

You looked down. The sea of green was closing in on you, their bodies piled up against their own comrades' dead ones.

The van tilted dangerously under their weight, which made you accidentally trip over one of the skulls.

All you saw was grey and green before your back slammed into the asphalt. The impact surely broke one or many of your bones. Your crowbar was still in your hand, but it echoed in your ears as you hit the ground.

"Y/N!"

The scream came sharply from five different bodies at once.

You didn't even have time to groan or be aware of what happened before a dozen crawlers suddenly pivoted to your direction with wet snarls and groans.

They were hungry.

Hungry for your body.

Then a sharp sensation climbed up your ankle, making you scream.

"Y/N?" Martin turned to look at you. And then his eyes landed on your ankle for a second before hurrying to the car.

But to your own may, they all scrambled over the van's bumper, leaving Keonho to hop inside the car.

"Get up, get up now!" Seonghyeon barked; he didn't wait for a response. He launched himself into you, his boots kicking any crawler in the chest in the way as he carried you over his shoulder.

"Don't just lie there and look pretty, the car's waiting for you!" Martin hissed, long gone his smirk, which was replaced by a jagged panic.

You sensed a crawler coming to Seonghyeon and you. Rolling to tilt a bit on his shoulder, you tightened your grip around your crowbar and smashed its jaw to pieces as you swung to the left, destabilising Seonghyeon.

"Y/N, fuck! Stop squirming, or we'll fall—"

And you guys in fact fell.

You pushed yourself off the ground, ignoring the pain in your shoulder and grabbing Seonghyeon's wrist as you scrambled toward the driver's side door of the van.

"Get in, guys! Hurry up!" Martin yelled in the driver's seat, slamming the door's metal with his hand to get you in.

Juhoon and James quickly climbed into the backseats with their blood-stained clothes and weapons.

"KEONHO! Get in the damn seat for God's sake!" Juhoon yelled.

Seonghyeon, Keonho and you arrived at the same time. The first ripping the door open with the adrenaline rushing in his body. The interior smelled like smoked cigarettes and old, used leather.

You jumped in the backseat with Seonghyeon and left Keonho in the passenger seat.

The van's engine roared to life as you piled in, the doors slamming shut as decaying hands tried to make their way into the car.

James punched the back of Martin's seat, his chest heaving from the amount of pressure he had been through as he yelled, "GO, MARTIN, DRIVE THAT CAR!"

Martin didn't need telling twice; his knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel, his shades still intact, slid on his face. "LET'S GET IT!"

"LESS TALKING, MORE DRIVING, MARTIN!" Seonghyeon snapped. He was pressed tight against you as you struggled to breathe. His shoulder hovered over your fractured one as he glared out at a crawler from the window. "Y/N'S SHOULDER IS FRACTURED!"

The van launched forward between the sea of green zombies; it lurched over many bumps that made the car jump every second. The vehicle tilted left, then right, then left again as Martin navigated through the roads for safety.

Keonho's eyes went wide as he watched the hood of the van fill up with crawlers that were still attached to it. "They're crawling up bro! Martin, can you even see the road?"

"I don't need to see the road, Keonho! I just need to move!" Martin shouted.

"Then move?" Juhoon replied, and Martin stepped on the gas immediately.

The van moved impossibly fast. "We're going 180 KM/H! If you're gonna do something, do it now!"

Martin announced, and Juhoon looked at James.

"Together?" He asked, smirking as he grabbed his pocketknife despite the sweat and fatigue.

"Together." James nodded as he grinned.

"If we're going down, we're going to do it in a badass way!" Juhoon yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos as he kicked the heavy door of the van open, just enough to wedge his slim figure into the gap. He didn't even flinch at the wind slapping his face or at the mere fact that the road was rushing inches from his shoes.

"Juhoon, I'll get the right side! Keep these monsters off the wheels and hood!" James commanded, and the younger didn't hesitate to jump on the hood in front of Martin.

"Juhoon, what the fuck?" Keonho and Martin said in a union.

James thrusted with his screwdriver the skulls of the crawlers and punched them away, he sent them away like a bunch of ragdolls to the moving asphalt.

"JAMES! BEHIND YOU!" Juhoon crouched and gripped the side of the hood's window, pointed his pocketknife in James direction, but the latter didn't pay it any mind. "ZHAO YUFAN!"

At that, James turned and smashed with his elbow the crawler trying to sneak up on him. "Is that all you got?!"

His face was splattered with dark red, a wild and adrenaline-fueled grin made its way to his features and God, he looked like a beast.

In the backseat, Seonghyeon tightened his arm around you. He shielded your fractured shoulder from the violent jumps Martin took with the van. He looked in front of him, then to his side and whispered in a nervous laugh, "Those idiots will die if Martin hits a pothole."

You tried smiling, but half your face felt paralysed.

Oh no.

That's not good.

Your head rang, and you couldn't hear clearly.

"Hyeon, who do you take me for?" Martin yelled over his shoulder, his hands shaking as he tried to swerve right, "Tell them to finish it off quickly, I'm going to have to turn sharply in three hundred meters!"

Keonho rolled down the window and shouted at Juhoon to get in.

He and James moved in sync as James pulled the door wide open and indicated for Juhoon to enter quickly.

With a final shove of the last crawler, Seonghyeon yelled a clear "THEY'RE DONE!" and James landed heavily on the latter along with Juhoon.

He slammed the door shut with a deafening bang, chest heaving as both of them were filled with blood only.

The silence that followed was heavy; it impregnated the air with its thickness as Keonho turned around to look at the elders and whistle.

"You are both more blood than clothes."

"Guys, brace yourselves now! We're sharply turning!' Martin warned, his voice was tight as he shut his eyes.

The van shrieked, tilting to the right so far that you were pinned entirely against Seonghyeon's chest.

Then, the vehicle came to a halt. The adrenaline that had been keeping you upright started to drain away into something...numb and cold.

You couldn't feel half your body at this point.

"Martin, pull over! Behind that warehouse." Keonho's voice trembled as he saw your figure.

As soon as the doors opened and everybody scrambled away, James carried your body as everybody called your name.

"Y/N?" Their voices sounded miles away; you saw ten faces at once as you felt your body being placed on wet grass.

"Crazy girl, look at me! Hey, don't black out on us now!" Seonghyeon's hands hovered around your face. He pulled back, then he noticed.

The right side of your face couldn't move; your eye was barely blinking while the other looked straight into his and the others.

"Shit...Seonghyeon, get the kit now!" James scrambled from the back, "She hit her head when she fell off the van, it's either that or her shoulder! She's probably going into shock!"

"We need to stabilise her neck, James." Juhoon suddenly said, "We need something rigid to put her on; this wet grass won't do her any good."

You could only hum as you weakly pulled your trembling hand to your shoulder. "Pop...it back..." Your voice trembled as your hand fell.

Keonho looked at you like you had asked to recover gold. But he hurriedly helped pick you up with James as you made your way into the warehouse.

It smelled like rusted iron, and it felt cold.

"The table! Clear it!" James commanded. Martin and Seonghyeon managed to push everything away from it and drop all of the unwanted items to the floor.

Juhoon carried the first aid kit with him and tried thinking of a way to pop your shoulder back into place without it hurting in the process.

James and Keonho laid you on the workbench. Martin took out his flashlight and held it high. It was sharp and too bright, as if you were in a clinic.

"Y/N, stay with me," Juhoon whispered, his voice breathy and trembling. "Follow Martin's light with your eyes only."

As the flashlight moved, he let out a breath he'd been holding for a long time now. "No internal brain damage, gladly, but the facial paralysis must be from a pinched nerve in her shoulder fracture. Or maybe the impact."

Seonghyeon stepped beside the table, face as pale as a ghost. "Look, Y/N, this is going to hurt like hell. Squeeze my hand or break it if you have to."

James loved to sit on the other side of the table, "I'll hold her nice and steady." His hands were on your torso a second later, fixed there so you wouldn't move.

Keonho held your head as Juhoon approached your shoulder with steady hands, ripping your shirt from there, his face inches away from yours as he inhaled deeply.

"On One." You breathed sharply, "Two..." You squeezed your eye shut. "Three..."

CRACK

Your world turned white for a second, a scream torn from your throat made their heart ache.

But the numbness in your face started to flare with a pins-and-needles sensation.

"It's back in! I've got it." Juhoon exhaled as he leaned his forehead against the edge of the workbench for a second of relief.

Keonho wiped the stray tear away from your face as he grinned widely, all the tension in his body left when he saw your second eye blink.

As for Seonghyeon, his hand was still glued to yours.

"There she is," he whispered, "The girl who tells zombies to kiss her ass is back."

The tension in the warehouse finally loosened after a while. Everybody sat next to the table you lay on and caught their breath as fatigue started kicking in.

"Y/N, what was that stunt you pulled earlier?" James scoffed, wiping the gory blood from his face with a rag he found. He watched as you tried laughing, and he couldn't help but genuinely smile at your antics. "Your aura was insane. It's as if you were aura farming!"

"I know, right?!" Martin jumped in excitedly, "I was lowkey jealous of her. Like, how can you just say all that and manage to kill loads of zombies just like that?"

Juhoon stood up, stretching his back until it popped, and he sighed in relief. "Miss 'don't bark if you can't fucking bite' has to rest for a while. Nothing has to stress her out in the next twelve hours."

Keonho turned around after changing his top into a hoodie and announced, "I'll keep watch." He looked at you, and you looked back tiredly.

Yet you smiled.

And his expression softened after the dark events that took place earlier.

Seonghyeon later came back with a bunch of cereal boxes and almost expired milk, triumphantly holding them like a prize. To which you weakly clapped your hands.

You tried sitting up, but James stopped you, quickly shaking his head. "You're supposed to rest. Don't move Y/N."

"Okay..." You mumbled softly, to which he smiled. "Unc."

Laughter exploded in the room as he tried to glare at you, but a grin climbed up his features instead.

All of them, except you, sat next to the table, putting their respectful meals in front of you.

"Dinner of victory." Seonghyeon joked, "To the girl who almost died and killed us with her!"

The five of them settled around you, eating and joking like the teenagers you are. Sometimes they feed you with them as they diss each other with insults.

Your favourite was when Martin was called a bigfoot with no hair.

And for the first time since the world had entered this apocalypse, it felt like you found your home.

Or something close to it.

You closed your eyes as fatigue started to kick in, a smile on your lips and a stray tear threatening to stain your cheek.

Your mind refused to rest behind the sudden darkness.

A door slammed in your face as you cried, your arms hurt like hell, and your ears were burning.

Why did you have to be an experience?

An object to be tested with?

Someone shouted your name, but you couldn’t even hear anything correctly; your ears were covered with blood dripping from them.

Your eyes darted across the fluorescent room as you saw the notebook that held your life together, yet destroyed you.

Inside it were a bunch of old papers, diagrams of cells, blood tests—yours—and other documents of health checks that indicated too many complex things you couldn’t understand.

There were many tubes filled with liquids whose names you didn’t even know.

Mumbles and whispers were heard behind the door, and you couldn’t help but cry even harder.

Your ears rang sharply.

Can you even hear?

Soon, three men with white lab coats and masks entered. They all had the same degrading look on their damn faces.

Your teary eyes glared at them as you backed off from their approaching figures.

One man’s gloved hands reached for your wrist, and you shouted, “MOM! HELP ME!”

Yet no one came to your aid; they all grabbed you.

Your wrists were too small for their big hands, your head was too full of ideas that a little child like you shouldn’t have known, and your eyes burned as someone covered your screaming mouth.

Then out of nowhere appeared your mom, a smile on her face and her hands behind her back. You knew what she was trying to do.

The smell of acids and blood filled the air heavily now.

You knew that you were going to be used as a test again.

“Y/N, darling…” she muttered, and you shook your head as the mad men tightened their hold on you. “This is the last one, I promise!”

Then, in her hands appeared a large syringe head filled with a blue liquid. Your eyes gnawed at the massive capacity it held.

Then she looked at you with a cold expression that said, “You’ll get shot with it either way.”

You always knew that even if you dared run, you would never escape what she started.

The syringe went into your body with a piercing scream.

You gasped too quickly, and the blanket over you flew, knocking out a few bottles on the table.

The sharp sound of the bottles rolling on the floor was the only thing that made you certain this was reality.

Your chest heaved as you felt a hollow pain in your shoulder, and breathing felt impossible as you coughed, choking on pure dusty air. For a second, you didn’t know if this was a dream or reality.

“Whoa whoa! Easy Y/N!” James's hand reached out to your shoulder. You flinched violently, nearly punching him, until you realised it was one of the boys.

He was looking at you with a weird, confused, and worried expression; a flicker of concern appeared on his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Keonho asked as he looked at you with furrowed eyebrows and tired eyes. He had just woken up—you woke him up—and that made you feel guilty, “You kept mumbling and turning in your sleep.”

“Something about a needle?” Seonghyeon said, leaning against your table, he was still covered in the blue paint and blood from the earlier events that looked eerily familiar. “And a mom too?”

The memories haunted your soul as you shut your eyes, and your steady hand wiped the cold sweat on your forehead. You lowered your head, then lifted to look at the boy’s faces with a shaky smile.

“Just a dream,” you swallowed as they didn’t laugh or smile. “Just a really, really bad one.”

They stayed silent.

Juhoon glanced at you, and Martin narrowed his eyes.

You felt yourself laugh at how hideous you felt; nothing felt as humiliating as this.

Under the silence, Martin looked at you like he wanted to ask you or say something. Still, before he could, Seonghyeon turned around and squinted his eyes at you.

"Hey," His gaze dropped to the bandages on your shoulder, "Is that supposed to look like that?"

You followed his eyes, and the sight made your stomach drop.

Right under the bandages, a faint blue spread beneath your skin; it was thin and barely there, but it reminded you.

It was the same colour.

As.

The.

Liquid.

Your.

Mom.

Injected.

Into you.

For a moment, you felt your heart beat at an impossible pace; nobody spoke, and you internally panicked.

Keonho and James leaned forward to inspect your shoulder, but you quickly pulled the blanket over it.

"It's just the paint Keonho sprayed on us." Your words rushed out rapidly.

"But Y/N, weren't you talking about a needle in your dream?" Juhoon calmly addressed, "And you were screaming."

You swallowed.

He made a huge point.

And from your right, James looked at you for the first time since you woke up directly, and Lord.

The first time you met him, he never looked this tense.

The room felt heavy with the tension lying on stakes; you felt every drag of their eyes on your body. Now that James had analysed your facial expressions, you were sure you were doomed.

His hands hovered in the air, away from your shoulder. His warmth radiated next to you.

"The paint was on your clothes, Y/N." He said softly, his voice dropped an octave. His playful banter and grin vanished, replaced by coldness and seriousness. "This blue liquid, or whatever this is... came from inside you."

You felt a drop of cold sweat roll down your spine as your shoulder suddenly throbbed. Keonho looked at you, rubbing his tired eyes. But he wasn't smiling; he looked like he was bracing for any outcome possible.

On the other hand, Seonghyeon stood up and faced you. His back straightening as he crossed his arms, "Do you have anything you've been hiding from us, Y/N?"

"No!" You choked out, though your voice cracked, and that let their suspicion sink even further. "I... I swear I don't!"

"You're a terrible liar," Juhoon said quietly, and everybody turned to look at him. He wasn't being mean, you could tell. But he was observing your fright. "Your pulse is unsteady, and you're terrified. It's as if you're guilty."

"Juhoon..." You whispered.

Then Martin's eyes widened, as if he remembered something insane.

"Fuck! Check her ankles, guys!" He worriedly said, voice stuttering as he instantly grabbed his gun. "I thought I was imagining shit, but I think she got bitten!"

The temperature in the room had reached a plummed tone. The sound of Martin reloading his gun was deafening as he shook; the sharp clack of it made everyone jump.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He slapped his forehead, "Why does it have to be you!"

"Martin, put the fucking gun down!" James barked, yet he didn't move to protect you. He stepped behind, letting his eyes dart at your covered feet.

The accusation hit you like a train, a bite from those zombies meant a death penalty, and it wasn't just a threat.

You were the threat.

Juhoon and James didn't reach for their weapons, but they moved to stand a little further away from you. Their demeanour was long gone; it had been replaced by a hidden fear that had accumulated from the series of events.

"If you're bitten, you should've turned hours ago. Why aren't you violently shaking or losing your mind?" Seonghyeon asked, moving closer to you as he knelt. His face was pale. "Show us your ankles, Y/N."

With trembling hands, you lifted the blanket they once placed on you, and lifted your legs.

There it was; Martin wasn't just imagining things then. On the side of your left ankle, the skin was disgustingly torn with four distinct punctures, wounds so deep your bone could be seen from where teeth had sunk.

Yet, it didn't look black or rotten.

Instead, it vibrated and gushed with a blue substance. It swirled around your wound as if it were weaving through your arteries like a glowing net.

"How?" Keonho chuckled nervously, "What the fuck?"

James let out a breathy sigh, half a sob, half a laugh, "Are you a supernatural being, Y/N? You're literally immune."

Juhoon didn't speak; he just lowered Martin's gun from your face. His eyes were wide, darting to the eerie liquid swerving around your ankle with terror.

"Yeah, no. Fuck that." The taller one shook his head in disbelief.

Keonho then looked at you, noticing how scared you were, but turned to the boys. "If she were to actually turn, she wouldn't be even this normal."

"Or it's a different stage, Keonho!" Martin snapped, "We don't know these creatures that well!"

Creatures, your stomach twisted at his words.

Seonghyeon exhaled as he threw his hands in the air out of pure disappointment, "We can't just pretend this never happened."

"I'm fine for the love of God!" You shouted, yet they didn't look at you. You noticed how his jaw ticked.

James stepped forward; he looked scary and looked at you like you were something dangerous.

"Let me see your ankle again." He asked.

"No, I told you I'm fine." You replied, pulling the blanket over you again.

His jaw tightened as he crossed his arms, "Y/N."

"I'm fine."

"Then show me if you're fine!" He snapped; his loud voice made you flinch.

You shook your head, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance and anger. Your eyes flickered with terror, yet you stayed firm.

"I said I'm fine, James. Stop acting like I'm gonna fucking bite you."

And that's when his patience broke.

He hurriedly grabbed your wrist before you could grip the blanket and move away.

"Let go!" You said sharply, but he didn't.

Instead, his fingers tightened around your arm in a bruising force, "People don't get bitten and just sit here chatting!" He yelled, "Pzople don't bleed blue shit and call it nothing."

"I'm not calling it nothing!"

"Then explain it." He pronounced each word as if they poured straight venom from his tongue.

"I can't, I wish I could!"

Then the warehouse stilled; you yanked your arms and tried to shove James off of you.

"James, God damn it! Let go!"

"Not until you stop lying about this!"

"Oh, for fucks sake! I'm not lying!" Your voice cracked louder than you meant to.

You angrily turned to look at Keonho, Seonghyeon and Juhoon, who were also holding their weapons.

Really?

Is that how you see me?

Then something inside of you bolted out of pure annoyance and anger. You shoved James off with every ounce of power you had in you, ignoring your throbbing shoulder.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" You shouted, "You'd think I'd hide something as crazy as this from you even though we met only a couple hours ago?!"

James stumbled backwards, but he caught himself as a jolt of frustration flickered in his eyes.

"It's because you are hiding something!'

"I'm not!"

"Then why are you panicking every time someone asks about that weird shit in your body?!"

Your chest heaved deeply, rising and falling quickly as he started to get on your nerves.

"I just woke up, with a throbbing shoulder after all the hero acting I took in the past hour, and everybody looks at me like I've committed genocide and that I am a fucking zombie!"

"BECAUSE YOU MIGHT BE ONE!"

His cry hit you like a slap to your face, silence crashing over the room as he breathed heavily.

"Wow." Your throat tightened, "You think I'd hurt you?"

James didn't answer, and that hurt more than any throbbing shoulder or wound.

You laughed bitterly at his facial expressions, "Wow. What a hero."

You clapped, "All of you deserve a fucking trophy for the act you put up."

"Y/N." Keonho tried speaking, but you stopped him.

"No, seriously, wow." You said, pushing yourself to stand despite the pain in your ankle, "After everything I've been through to protect all five of you? That's what you think of me?"

Everybody backed up and tightened their hold on their weapons.

"I don't want a zombie to lurk between us—"

"For the last time, I am not a zombie!"

"Then prove it!"

Something snapped inside of you at his words.

He wanted you to prove that you aren't a zombie?

Okay, fine!

He can fucking learn.

Actually, all of them can.

Before anyone could stop you, you took your right hand and sank your teeth deep into it.

Pain exploded from your arm as you groaned in agony.

"Y/N, what the hell!" Seonghyeon yelled, but you kept biting until you tore the flesh off.

Blue liquid dripped immediately from the puncture. It glew as it welled up to your hand, your teeth were painted blue now.

"Look!" You snapped, "Would blue shit drip from my body if I were a zombie?"

Your breathing felt ragged as you looked at each of the boys individually. "Tell me, would it? I got bitten hours ago. If I were turning, I'd be dead and gone already !"

And nobody argued with that, not even James.

Your eyes flicked to his, "The dream you've heard me mumbling about? That was my past. I used to get injected with liquids and shit like a test rat when I was a kid!"

Your yell echoed through the warehouse when nobody spoke. The liquid kept dripping from your hand sluggishly as it hit the concrete floor with a quiet but loud tap.

Keonho was the first to move, "Jesus..." he whispered, running his hands through his hair. "That's not an infection...it can't be."

Seonghyeon squinted his eyes as he dropped his pans to the floor with a loud clank, "That's not blood either." His voice was hushed as if he were afraid of lying.

"What are we looking at genuinely..." Martin finally spoke; his brain had stopped functioning as he threw his head back.

"Y/N, your hand." Juhoon suddenly said, his eyes studied the blue liquid on your hand, "The substance is stabilising your wound."

"What?" You blinked, what?

Juhoon pointed at your ankle, and everybody looked down, and so did you.

You gasped.

The punctured wounds that had exposed your bone minutes ago were gone; they had healed completely.

"No," your breath hitched, "No way."

James hadn't moved, not since you courageously bit your hand. His chest heaved, rising and falling heavily as his sharp eyes fixed on the liquid dripping from your mouth and your fingers.

Something in his expression cracked as his nose scrunched up.

"...Fuck." He muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face before dropping to his side again.

He approached you, and now you were the one backing away until your lower back hit the table you were once lying on.

"Can I see your hand?" He said awfully quietly, making you instinctively pull it back.

"Now you want to get close and ask permission?" You replied in an annoyed tone, "Thought I was a dangerous threat ten seconds ago."

The guilt on his face appeared quickly, his expression tightening.

"I was trying to keep everyone safe..."

"By accusing me? Oh, okay!"

"By being careful, I mean." At his words, you laughed bitterly.

"Martin almost shot me, dude! The other three had their weapons ready!" You said, your voice sounded hoarse and hurt.

James winced at that. Next to him, Martin shifted nervously.

"I— Well—" James stopped himself, looking away from you as he crossed his arms and tightened his jaw.

He then whispered, "I was wrong, all right?"

Keonho and Seonghyeon widened their eyes, looking at each other as they raised their eyebrow. That was the first time he had admitted he was wrong.

"You're not turning, that's a fact." He said, to which Juhoon nodded.

"If anything, it's the opposite," Seonghyeon added; the others hummed in agreement.

"What's your point?"

Then Keonho gasped, as if he had realised something, the sight of that annoyed you.

You frowned, spitting out a small "What?"

Keonho looked at you, pointing his finger at your hand, then at your ankle, then turning to look at Juhoon as if he had discovered a crazy conspiracy.

"Usually, zombies bite humans; they turn because their virus spreads through blood, right?"

Juhooned nodded, "Where are you going with this?"

"But what if hers...kills it?" Keonho dropped the bombshell in the warehouse.

Everyone turned to look at you now, "You're saying..." Martin's hands trembled as if he had finally got it.

"Her blood... neutralises the infection."

On cue, a quiet, stunned laugh came out of Seonghyeon. "Holy shit."

"You're not a zombie." James exhaled, his voice dropping an octave lower, "You're a fucking cure. A vaccine."

Great, now you’re a vaccine. A human vaccine dispenser.

At those words, James stopped looking at you, but he stared more at the liquid.

He was thinking deeply about something, an idea or a theory.

Or even an experiment.

And Juhoon seemed to catch on, stepping next to James as he spat out a harsh, “James, whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

But too late, in one swift movement, James reached to Juhoon’s belt and yanked the knife from its sheath.

Martin turned to the older, confused, “James, what are you trying to do?”

He didn’t reply.

All he did was sluggishly drag the knife across his upper bicep, the sharp blade drew a cry from the others and you.

“JAMES?” Keonho shouted, nervously looking for the first aid kit.

Seonghyeon’s SHIT! He was the loudest in the warehouse, “What the hell are you doing, man?”

Blood immediately poured down from the massive cut, and it smeared down his shirt and pants like a giant reminder of how bad an idea that was, then it dripped on the concrete ground.

James’s gaze didn’t falter; he didn’t look away from you.

“Prove it.” He ordered, and your mind short-circuited.

“What?”

“If Keonho’s right,” James stepped in front of you, mere inches away from your face, “then your blood should stop infection.”

“It’s not an infection!” You stated, pushing him away.

“Exactly, so prove that too.” His jaw tightened as he grabbed your bloody blue wrist.

Juhoon stepped in and tried to reason with James, but pulling him away didn’t help either.

“This is reckless, James! You can’t just introduce a foreign substance to your body without knowing the consequences.” He said sharply, but the eldest didn’t pay any attention to any of it.

“Didn’t you just bite your own hand to prove a point?”

You swallowed, opening your mouth then closing it. Because he was right, damn it. He had a point.

Martin looked between you and rubbed his face with concern, worn out. “This is so stupid, James! Let me just treat you—“

“No.” James put his bicep in front of you, right in front of your eyes, to see the crimson blood dripping.

“You’re mentally ill.” You whispered, and he tilted his head.

“Maybe.”

Behind him was Seonghyeon muttering under his breath curses.

“This is the most immature thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

“I suppose we find out one way or another…”Keonho continued.

And now, James was staring at you as if nothing else mattered anymore.

“Please Y/N. Do it.” His voice came out whispery and broken.

Your stomach wrenched violently at the tone of his words. He just wanted to save his friends.

“If there is anything weird, we have to observe it.” Seonghyeon groaned, getting closer to both of you to observe and analyse.

Now your bodies were inches apart.

Red blood started dripping on you, and blue started dripping on him.

“Y/N.” He repeated, softly now.

Then you lifted the wrist he was holding and placed it on his bicep.

For a moment, everything seemed normal. The blue and red hues mixed into a purple solution, and James hissed.

Juhoon squinted his eyes, and Martin leaned forward.

“Alright, James, you’re dead—“

“Agh!” James inhaled sharply, slowly twitching at the sudden sensation climbing up his veins.

The purple liquid spread across the open wound, and weaved through each vein in his body.

Keonho’s jaw dropped, “No fucking way.”

The bleeding stopped instantly, and James choked suddenly, making you pull your hand away from him.

But to everyone’s surprise, he pulled it back and pressed it even harder against him.

The torn skin began to pull itself together, the edges sealing like invisible threads were stitching it closed, and James coughed up purple.

James coughed up literal purple blood.

Within seconds, the liquid splattered on the floor and everyone froze.

“What?” Juhoon took a step back, “I don’t understand… that’s impossible.”

James bent over slightly, his hand bracing against the table behind you as the other wracked his throat.

Your stomach violently wrenched as you saw a purple streak leave his mouth.

“James…” you whispered, yet he didn’t reply.

But then Martin stepped toward him, grabbing his shoulders to steady him.

“Bro? Bro! BRO!” He called, “Don’t pass out, stay conscious, James.”

“What—“ He coughed again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “What? I’m fine.”

“That didn’t look fine at all!” Keonho snapped, panic escaping his lips, “You—Oh my God.”

“Guys!” You pointed to the floor where the substance dripped earlier, “Where did it go?”

It had evaporated.

“James, your bicep—“ Juhoon’s breath caught at the sight, “It’s healed.”

Seonghyeon comically moved to look, “What? Healed? Like completely healed, no scar, no nothing?”

Juhoon nodded, his eyes wide with disbelief as he covered his mouth. “It didn’t just heal…it rejected.”

“Rejected what? Did her blood do something weird to him?” Keonho asked, and Juhoon nodded.

“His body rejected something injected into her. When the virus enters the bloodstream, the immune system fights it.”

But then, he glanced at you, and so did the others, including James.

“But that wasn’t any normal rejection.” He whispered, looking at your ankle and then at his bicep. “Y/N’s blood attacked the zombie virus in his body.”

Martin let out a stunned laugh, “Oh my God. Tell me that you’re kidding.”

Seonghyeon grabbed his head, and Keonho gasped. James looked at Juhoon, then at you with a shocked face.

“Does that mean…”

“He wouldn't be able to turn even if he were bitten.”

The silence in the warehouse wasn’t just loud, it was deafening and eerie.

But the scary thing was how calm James seemed after all that.  His hand hovered on his throat, gaze on his bicep that he literally tore minutes ago.

It looked smooth and perfect, as if nothing had happened to it. He then looked at you, his eyes were dark and cold. But at the same time, terrified as he smirked at the discovery.

“You are insane,” James whispered. He looked at his body, then at the vapour, then at his own hands as if they didn’t belong to him. “When that ran through my veins, I felt…I felt like burning. Then it just stopped…”

“What stopped?” Martin’s voice sounded hushed and intrigued.

“The voices,” he replied, “You guys hear them, right?”

Everybody nodded their heads except you.

Well, you know why for sure.

“Every time we get near them, or even when it’s too quiet.” James started, looking at Juhoon as he agreed. “There’s this low hum. Like a frequency. It makes you angry, it makes you want to... fuck shit up. I thought it was just the stress. But the second her blood touched mine, it all disappeared.”

“You’re saying that those zombies send head signals that make you feral, so you can approach them, and have a higher chance of biting you?” Juhoon muttered, his head overheating from the amount of information gained in the last minute.

Keonho let out a jagged, hysterical laugh that lasted a while, leaning his nunchuks on the table. “So you're basically saying we’re literally the dumb and idiots one here and not those brainless creatures? What an amazing world we fucking live in.”

“It’s more like saying we’re being put in an experiment.” Martin countered, his gun was now tucked away in his sweats, though his hand remained close to it.

“Y/N, are you okay though?” Keonho asked, walking up to you and staring at the bite on your hand, the skin was already healed up. “Does it hurt? Do you need first aid?”

You looked at your hand, the phantom sensation of your own teeth still stinging. "It hurts," you admitted, your voice small. “But it’s fine. As long as you guys are alright.”

James finally looked you in the eye, forgetting everything that had happened in the last hour. The way his shoulders slumped and the look on his face were enough to show how guilty he felt.

“I was ready to kill you.” He admitted quietly, “You shouldn’t have done that for me.”

You looked at him, really looked. But you couldn’t bring yourself to glare at him, and with that, a soft, small smile appeared on your face.

“I know, James,” you replied, “You tried protecting your friends, no, your family even. I get from where you came from. As long as Cortis has you, I don’t think anyone will be left behind. Not even dumb-dumbs with guns and pans.”

“Hey!” Martin and Seonghyeon shouted in unison.

That made James snicker, and a weak smile appeared on his face. It was genuine. “Fair enough.”

A sudden, deafening ring passed by; its sharp, single-toned whistle made the boys go crazy.

But you and James stayed completely still; you didn't understand what was going on until you saw them.

Seonghyeon's balance tilted; the weight of that ring physically dragged him as he landed on the table next to you. "W-What the hell?"

Juhoon and Keonho clutched their ears; the sound was too piercing as they groaned in pain.

The latter looked at you as he saw your mouth moving, probably shouting his name, but your voice was buried under the shrieking noise.

Martin turned around to look at both of you and grunted, shouting, "How come you're not hearing this?"

You stared at each one of them in panic, so this was the noise they were hearing.

You saw the way Seonghyeon gripped the table; he looked like he was hyperventilating, and next to him was Juhoon losing his mind. His hands trembled as he bent over, trying to block the irritating sound.

"Keonho!Martin!" James cried out, and you turned to look at them, your eyes widening as you glanced at the way he almost ripped his hair out of his scalp as his teeth ground.

But Martin was the most abnormal one out of all of them; he wasn't trying to get rid of the noise, but he was getting angry. His hands reached for his gun once again, this time, trembling as they drifted to the open door behind them.

"Does that happen to you when something approaches you?" You cried out, grabbing James' arm.

"Zombies are near!" He shouted back, and you almost choked yourself.

"AGAIN?!"

"YES AGAIN!"

The warehouse was then filled with hungry groans. Outside were those creatures for the third time since you had met the boys.

"They're here again for fuck's sake!" James hissed, his face going pale as he looked at how feral Martin was at that moment. He had grabbed his gun with both hands and reloaded the bullets, pointing the weapon at the approaching figures. "It's like they're calling them!"

Martin had his thumb on the safety of his pistol, "shut up...", he growled, yet his voice was buried under the white noise frequencies getting louder, "shut up, shut up, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"James, we have to move asap!!" You shouted over the sound of the groans, "If they get near them, they'll die!"

James grabbed your hand, his grip wasn't just firm, it was literally crushing as he yelled back, "We can't carry all four of these guys! We have to fight these zombies!"

You looked at him like he had grown two heads, "Oh, okay, so you want us dead!"

"WE'RE IMMUNE YOU DUMBASS!" James had lost all his patience with you. "Tell Juhoon to grab the other three and to hold on to each other!"

"Yes, sir!" You saluted and turned to grab Juhoon.

"Juhoon, Juhoon! JUHOON!" You screamed, but he seemed like he was out of it, "JUHOON PLEASE!" You started shaking his shoulder, and there was a sign that he was actually listening to you.

"Huh..." He whispered, and you slapped his face.

"JUHOON! I'LL GIVE YOU MARTIN AND THE TWINS, STAY BEHIND THE TABLE OR SOMEWHERE SAFE!" You yelled at him, and to your own luck, he heard a bit of the phrase.

"Twins...Table, huh...?" He asked, and you completely lost your mind.

"YOU. MARTIN. TWINS. BEHIND TABLE. NOWWWW!" Okay, maybe you didn't have to exaggerate shouting the last word.

Your hand reached for Martin's clothes, dragging him back as he fell to the floor, his gun had fallen.

The concept of you dragging Martin across the concrete like a sack of potatoes while he groaned in pain and agony was honestly just a joke to James, who was searching the warehouse for any useful weapons.

"MOVE, MOVE!" You roared one last time, before giving him the shove he needed to start collecting his members like Pokémon balls,

Juhoon tried his best as he tried understanding what you wanted to tell him, "Twins... Martin...Behind the table." He muttered, swaying as he grabbed Seonghyeon's waistband of his saggy pants and dragged him behind the table.

Keonho eventually followed him, and Martin (with the help of your strength) got thrown to safety.

And the second you let go of him, you turned back to the entrance where James had been waiting for you. Two distinct weapons in his hand as he told you to hurry.

You ran to him, observing how he was already sweating like crazy. In his right hand was a sharpened, thick wood stick, and in the other...a new fire extinguisher?

"Finally!" James's voice cut through the gnarly noises approaching. He handed you the wood stick, and you adjusted your grip on it. "Ready to kick ass?"

"I was born ready! Even though I don't know where my crowbar is..." You sighed, but you attempted to adjust to the weight of the new weapon. 3I haven't had a shower in a long time, don't get blood on my hair, thank you!"

He sighed before rolling his eyes.

The first wave of zombies hurried to enter. This time, they were the strong type. A blur of greyish skin and wet snarls made their way through.

You looked at James, and he looked back.

And you both understood what that meant; it was showtime.

James crushed every single one with ease; he dismantled them using his fire extinguisher like a battering ram. He used every part of his body to fight, his free hand, his elbows, his legs, even his own head to head -bump the fricking zombies.

On the other side, every time a zombie tried to flank him, you were there, swinging your stick, turning their skills and crushing them with atrocious skill.

They were confused, you noticed.

"They don't understand what's going on, Y/N!" James yelled, ducking away from a sudden attack, "They don't know why we're moving extremely fast!"

"Yeah, no shit, man! We're goated just like that!"

Behind the table was the rest of Cortis, watching the massacre like an action film, through their ringing ears and blurry vision, they saw you and James dancing inside the sea of grey skin and blood.

"Is that...Y/N?" Keonho whispered, jaw tight as he squinted, "She's fighting with a stick this time."

Seonghyeon groaned as he watched, his head resting against the table, "She's a psycho. I told you guys to feed her to the zombies..."

Martin let out a jagged laugh even in his ained state, "That's our Y/N...get'em, girl."

"Are we ignoring...James?" Juhoon asked, still grabbing the boys tightly.

"He's unc, of course we are."

Sooner or later, you and James were drenched in blood. Standing on the skull of one of the zombies, James grimaced at the bitter taste of copper in his mouth.

As soon as you thought they were finished, a vibration hit the ground. You hurriedly turned to look at the mysterious figure approaching, and you didn't think that it would be this huge.

A massive, double the size of your average zombie, pushed through the warehouse doors with extreme force, its veins pulsing in time with the sound frequencies the boys heard.

"It must be this zombie on steroids that's making the noise," James said as he wiped his forehead and cheeks. "We have to take it down.

"Well, James! You're on your own!" You lifted your stick in the air, "There's no way I'm fighting this." You nervously laughed.

But to your own dismay, James turned to glare at you with his menacing, cold eyes, fire extinguisher raised at your direction.

"Y/N."

"There's actually a way to fight it! Let's go."

The zombie didn't play fair at all. You tried lunging forward with James behind your back for support. But it swung a fist the size of your face, catching you square right on your chest.

"Y/N!" James screamed, but the air was gone from your lungs as you flew backwards, rolling across the gritty concrete as your back finally slammed against a bunch of crates.

"Holy shit. That pervert!" You yelped as your body collided with the boxes.

Your vision blurred with stars for an instant, but as you scrambled to sit up with the blue liquid rushing like adrenaline in your veins, your hand brushed against something metallic and loaded.

Martin's gun, lying there like it was calling for your name.

You looked down, smiling in triumph as you grabbed it.

You had a plan that would only work if James distracted the creature.

"JAMESSSSSSSS!" You yelled out, dragging out the last syllable of his name.

Said James turned around in pure shock and disbelief on his face, "What? Can't you see I'M BUSY?!"

"DISTRACT THAT THING, I HAVE A PLAN!"

The older dragged a tired, bloodied hand on his face and straight looked at the zombie.

"HEY! ZOMBIE ON STEROIDS!" He roared, using his fire extinguisher to draw its focus. The zombie groaned loudly, making the boys behind the table shout in agony as their ears bled.

James quickly pulled the pin and sprinted to its legs, sliding across the splattered blood to kick it and make it fall. Then unleashed a white foam directly on its face as James splashed all of it.

"TAKE THAT!" The monster shrieked; the sound of it made Keonho pass out in Juhoon's arms.

"K-Keonho!" Seonghyeon tried yelling, but his voice came out cracked and weak.

The zombie tried flailing through the fog of white foam, trying to grab James and kill him.

But luckily, before it could do so, you found your footing and ran toward the chaos. As you got close, James sat up and grabbed your waist, lifting your body to land on the mountain of crushed zombies and jump.

You launched yourself in the air and kicked the zombie's face straight into oblivion.

You felt something crack in your leg, but you groaned it out, straight adrenaline driving you out of pure thriller to hit your target.

You landed in a low crouch, raising Martin's gun with both hands, and squinted through the blood that had dripped in your eye.

"Power off, asshole." You hissed, pulling the trigger with a loud BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Three successive shots to the monster's head with precision.

Its body stiffened, the purple veins that were bulging out earlier died out and faded into nothing. It collapsed with an enormous thud forward.

No ringing.

"What the fuck, Y/N?" James looked shocked, "What the actual fuck."

Behind the table, Juhoon let out a shaky breath, slowly letting go of Martin and the others. "It's gone. The noise is gone, guys."

Seonghyeon sat up, rubbing his face and looking at the chaos you and James had left behind. "Good lord..."

James didn't move for a second; he stayed on one knee, looking at the mountain of crushed zombies in front of them, then up at you. He smirked.

"You literally used me, jumped off me and shot it in the head three times." His voice was raspy, and his body was full of white foam and crimson blood.

"I told you," you breathed, finally blowing off the smoke from the gun and lowering it, "I don't like being yelled at." But then you felt your leg throb where you had kicked the zombie, the adrenaline started to wear down, and the pain came crashing down twice as hard.

But you ignored it, knowing that your blue blood will save it.

"Keonho?" Martin called, lightly tapping the younger's cheek, to which he finally started to stir. Blinking his eyes slowly as the noise had vanished.

"I'm...yeah," He started, "I'm fine. What happened?"

"Boy, did you miss what happened." Seonghyeon snorted as he stood up, kicking away his pans to the floor with the help of Martin. "You didn't get to watch James and Y/N being badass."

You smiled as you looked at the boys. You tried to turn around and get down, but your leg throbbed even more now.

"You're limping,' James noted as he got up, dusting away the remnants of zombies and foam. "Want me to carry you?"

"It's just the small price to pay for not telling you guys about myself. You replied, wincing as you tried crushing the dead creatures to step down, "I can handle it."

"Hey," said James, stepping closer and reaching for your arm to wrap it around his shoulders, "Cortis isn't Cortis without you, thank you."

"EW! Don't get all emotional on me now, James! It doesn't suit you!"

He snickered, "Let's get your ass somewhere calm."

Suddenly, Keonho bolted upright and grabbed Juhoon's shirt, "Don't tell me I missed Y/N's prime moment. Don't tell me she did the thing."

"She did the thing, Keonho," Juhoon sighed, though a smile cracked on his face, "She used Martin's gun too."

"She used what now?" Martin widened his eyes, and Juhoon didn't answer.

Later that time, everybody gathered around the centre of the warehouse, looking at you and James. With the deafening sound gone, and for the first time since yesterday, you looked safe.

"Hey, guys," Martin said, looking up from the floor, "I'm lowkey hungry. I think we should finally go to our hideout."

The ride home was more chaotic than any event that had happened in the past 24 hours.

"BRO? DON'T SKIP THAT SONG!" Seonghyeon yelled from the back, leaning forward to the dashboard to change the radio's frequencies.

"We've played your choice of songs literally three times. I think we deserve a chance too." Juhoon countered, making Seonghyeon mumble curses under his breath as you giggled, watching the chaos unfold in front of you.

"Do you guys want Fashion or Go to play?" Martin asked, turning the stirring wheel as he took a right.

"Whatever Y/N goes with, gotta give her the choice for what she did earlier!" Keonho said, and everybody hummed in agreement. Even Seonghyeon!

"Wow, I get to choose?" You pointed to yourself, "Personally, I'd go with fashion."

"Martin, play that beat!" James hollered in the front, making the twins and you laugh in unison, and for the first time, you felt that...it didn't matter whether you were in a zombie apocalypse or not.

You've found your family. A real one that took care of you.

But that string of thought broke with Martin's cracked voice, "MY TEE FIVE BUCKS MY JEANS TEN THOUSAND WON!"

"Shut up, Oh my God!" You hid your face in embarrassment as you kicked his seat from the back, "You sound so bad!"

"I CALL THAT? WHAT?" Keonho yelled, raising a fist in the air as he bopped his head to the repeated words.

"FASHION FASHION FASHION FASHION FASHION!" Juhoon sang, and you whipped your head to the source of the sound, Juhoon?!

"Oh my God, you guys aren't serious..."

"I CALL THAT? WHAT?" Keonho roared again, his voice cracking midway through, which only made Juhoon and Seonghyeon laugh harder.

"FASHION!" they all screamed in a disorganised, tone-deaf chorus that deafened your ears, let alone the zombie trauma from earlier.

In that chaos, you heard Martin inhaling deeply, turning to look at James next to him, then at the back before adjusting his shades. You knew what was coming.

"Martin, NO! DON'T START RAPPING THE NEXT PART!"

"Too late, Y/N! Here it comes!" And he let out the most hideous, low-rapping voice ever that made everyone cry with laughter.

When the van finally halted, you looked out of the window to see where they were located.

The energy from earlier didn't calm down at all, and you shoved your index fingers into your ears to have some peace.

"Alright! Quiet down, will you? We don't want to attract zombies anymore."

James commanded, he hopped out, sliding the door open as he offered you a hand with a formal bow. "My insane yet caring lady, welcome to our headquarters! Watch your step, Keonho decided to become Picasso before we left again."

"Stop being jealous of my paintings!" Keonho defended, stumbling out of the back, to which you giggled and offered your foot instead.

"My lady, I don't accept such behaviour."

"Fuck off then!"

"LMAO," Martin cackled as he shut the door and searched for their keys at the hideout, "I'd rather die than let Y/N tell me that."

Surprisingly, the hideout looked cozy. They had laid rugs over the undusted floor, a wall full of glued polaroids mostly filled with Martin's and Keonho's stupid mewing faces, and a stash of crates filled with what they had labelled loot.

"Whoa, that's really cool!" You said, turning left and right to look at the different abstracts in the room.

Another wall was spray painted with a bunch of graffiti, but what stole your attention was a single word in blue.

FAMILY=FRIENDS!

You smiled at that.

Juhoon disappeared for a second, then came back with an unopened bottle of cider, "Found this a while ago, saved it for something big."

"Wow," Seonghyeon dragged out, "You were hiding it from us all this time, I see how it is."

To your right, Martin and Keonho were already fighting over a SHIN ramyun packet, to your left was James already asleep on the black couch, and to your front were Seonghyeon and Juhoon arguing about the cider.

You sighed, making yourself around to each corner of the hideout as you discovered many things.

Pictures of them in high school, them hanging out together in a park, and many more that made you pout in awe.

"Y/N," Juhoon started, "You're the first person we've let in since the apocalypse started."

"Yeah," Seonghyeon agreed, "We didn't just save any idiot, we saved you. Our sister." He smiled fondly.

"And a bodyguard," Keonho added, letting go of Martin's collar to hug your arm. "Don't forget the bodyguard part, though, I really wanted to see you kick the zombie."

You felt like crying at that point, so your initial reaction was to tightly hug Keonho.

The moment you pulled him in, he froze for a split second. Not expecting the sudden burst of affection from you, before he melted into it, burying his face in your shoulder with an overjoyed laugh.

"Whoa! Okay, yeah! Group hug!" Martin cheered, not waiting for an invitation as he lunged forward, wrapping his long arms around both of you.

"Get off, Martin! This is my moment! Also, you smell like shit!" Keonho complained. On the other side, Seonghyeoned and Juhoon moved in, sandwiching you and Keonho with a chuckle.

Even James sighed and leaned in, resting his chin on top of Keonho's head.

For a moment, nobody tried saying anything. The sound of six heartbeats finally slowing down and calmly beating was enough.

Even if most of you were a mess filled with paint, dust and blood, it felt safe.

"Don't leave us, stay with us." Keonho squeezed you tighter.

"Yeah, you're the only one that appreciates my rapping skills," Martin added, drawing out an exasperated sigh from the five of you.

"She literally told you to shut up. I don't think she appreciates it." James replied, slapping Martin's back in warning.

"Exactly, she's the most honest one here. She has to stay." Seonghyeon added, and Juhoon nodded.

"I don't trust any of you except her brain here." Juhoon quietly announced, and everybody gasped in offence. A bunch of Wows and ouches were thrown in the air as you giggled.

"Alright, no more mushy moments!" Martin finally pulled back after what felt like an eternity, clearing his throat to regain his leadership authority. "Where do you wanna sleep, Y/N?"

"Anywhere?" You replied.

"Here," Juhoon said, handing you a fresh oversized hoodie that smelled like laundry detergent, which was a miracle considering the world's situation. "It's Seonghyeon's. I figured it would fit you since he's the fun-sized one here."

"FUN-SIZED?!" Seonghyeon protested from across the room, where he was trying to change.

"It's Y/N's now, boohoo!" James said, "Cry about it or something."

"Is there any shower...or water? Or anything to wipe this mess away?" You asked, glancing to catch sight of any of the things you mentioned.

"Well," Martin started, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at James, who was suddenly finding the wall next to him very interesting.

"Define shower," Keonho chimed in, leaning against the couch on the floor, "If you mean a porcelain bathtub with scented steam, then nah. But if you mean a pipe sticking out of a wall dripping with freezing water into a bucket, then yeah!"

You stared at them, deadpan in your tone. "You guys are joking, right?"

Nobody answered.

"Right?"

No answer whatsoever.

"I hate all of you."

Calling that a shower was the overstatement of the century; it felt like a waterfall was fighting your soul. The boys had handed you a bar of soap that felt like sandpaper and a handmade shampoo made from one of the nine-in-one cleaning products they found.

Martin and Keonho stood about five meters away with their backs turned to ensure you knew how to use the 'shower'.

"This water is so FREEZING, FUCK! OH MY GOD!" You screamed aggressively. The first splash made you flinch away from it.

Behind you were Martin and Keonho giggling their asses off, "Told you."

Then you snapped your fingers, "Music, please!"

Martin rolled his eyes as he kissed his teeth in annoyance. Keonho didn't even bother to hum anything out.

"I said music!"

They began to hum a song you knew before the apocalypse.

What You Want! That song was your favourite.

"Are you okay in there, Y/N?" Martin shouted over Keonho's emotional humming.

"I'm," you shivered as you stepped out, clattering your teeth so hard you could barely let out a word, "I'm going to kill you all, and I don't mind your blood staying on me!"

"See? She's fine!" Keonho chirped, leaning back on his heels. "You get worried for nothing, Tin."

"HURRY UP I WANNA SHOWER TOO!" James called out from across the room, "I DON'T WANT THIS SMELL IN MY HAIR!"

"James, shut up!" You hollered back, desperately trying to scrub the last of the zombies and paint grime off with that sand-textured soap.

When you pulled the curtain back, Martin and Keonho spun around at the sound of rings sliding across the broken rod.

You drowned in the hoodie as the sleeves hung past your wrists, and the hem reached your mid-thigh, making you look half your size. Your pants were baggy, and that completed the look.

"Whoa," Jeonho said for the millionth time that night, "You look human. And small."

"You're lucky I'm too tired to hit you." You snapped, though your smile faltered on your face.

"Your hair looks shiny, " I told you that nine-in-one works like magic!" Martin grinned, completely unfazed by the way you threatened Keonho a second ago.

James pushed past them, holding a towel and a fresh change of clothes. "Move it, move it! Go eat you, kids! There is a bunch of stuff out there."

"We're not kids!"

"Whatever," he smirked before disappearing behind the makeshift curtain. A second later, a strong yelp echoed through the hideout.

"SHIT, IT'S COLD!"

Juhoon had set up a small circle of cushions from the couch next to the camping stove where a pot simmered with something remotely close to soup. Or a stew.

Whatever that was, filled the air with canned food.

"Here, sit," He gestured to a spot between him and Seonghyeon. "Eat this, before some big-back here decides to have seconds."

"Unprovoked, by the way," Martin said, sitting in front of you. "I don't eat that much."

"How did you know it was you?" You said, and Juhoon burst out laughing at his shocked figure.

Seonghyeon, next to you, looked at you, really looked at the hoodie he once owned on your frame and let out an annoyed huff. "Don't stain it. I love that hoodie."

"Life goes on," You teased, taking the bowl Juhoon offered you.

And after what felt like an eternity of suffering, you've finally found the right time to say that you found your family.

A family of five boys that dissed each other endlessly and made fun of each other as much as they loved themselves.

And now you were a part of them.

This was your happily-ever-after afterall.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME! MY LEG CRAMPED!" James yelled from the shower.

Well, not that happy? But still, you were satisfied.

[jjwoned]

TO ALL ENGENES!

please do not scroll, this is a very important message that ALL ENGENES must do if we want heeseung back.

as most of you might know, heeseung has "decided" to leave the group to focus on his solo career. BUT, this is not true.

heeseung DID NOT decide to leave the group, he was forced to. he was apparently seen crying and "crashing out" in a hybe hallway which CLEARLY shows it was not his decision. to add on, just a few days ago he was speaking about the world tour coming up, and participating in activities and events LIKE NORMAL. it was be so weird just for him to leave like that.

ENGENE, we are a team. we can bring heeseung back. for example, MARK FROM NCT. he left the group exactly like this but came back due to the FANS PROTESTS. WE CAN DO THIS FOR HEESEUNG ASWELL! PLEASE DO THIS SO OUR HEE CAN COME BACK.

THIS IS NOT FAIR! OTHER ARTISTS LIKE: YEJI FROM ITZY, TWICE MEMBERS, TXT MEMBERS, BTS MEMBERS AND MANY MORE ARTISTS ARE ALLOWED TO PURSUE THEIR SOLO CAREER WHILE BEING IN A GROUP. BUT NOT HEESEUNG??

we all call for heeseung's return while ALLOWING HIM THE FREEDOM TO PURSUE HIS SOLO CAREER.

ENHYPEN WILL ALWAYS BE SEVEN!

SEVEN OR NOTHING!

please reblog to spread awareness!!

by @jjwoned 🤍

random tags to BOOST @wonsoire @ikeu05 @chrrific @nmurark05 @kittyhoon @miauumin @atashiboba @ningningiloveumarryme @jaysguitarstring @ki2rins @soona-huh @par4disee @mqytcha @jazz7gnab @gyuuchuuu @saturn-files @koiiq @teddybeartaetae @firstdivisiongirl @yufawnz @ohjjongstby @jcngwonz @wonirio @rikisloverrr @stars4kooo @iiunique @tokyomxnstr @zoe1love

[el4mars]

I finally have the courage to respost these post about hee ever since the announcement came crashing in and since then all i could ever think about was iland hee and i was clearly distracted from school because of it. Im done crying and i'll be reposting some of the post reguarding the concern right now. I love hee so much and i just couldn't help to be depressed first.

[lomlcortis]

ponytail - martin

little drabble bc his weverse post ended me

“your hair is getting so long,” you muse, carding your fingers through martin’s dirty blonde locks. head resting in your lap, your boyfriend is scrolling on his phone absentmindedly. you both had the day off and were enjoying the rare moment where you could just become one with the couch and melt into each other.

“you like it?” martin asked not looking away from his phone.

“mmh, i do” you continued your ministrations as your eyes trailed from his scalp to his forehead to his pretty eyelashes. the more you looked at him, the more you gripped his hair tightly. why was he so damn beautiful. so perfect.

martin whined slightly, though not in pain. you watched his cheeks flush and he quickly stuttered out, “ow, what was that for?” he turned his phone off and turned to face you, now lying on his back with his head in your lap. his band tshirt was riding up exposing a thin swathe of tan skin.

“mm, you liked it,” you whispered. you ran a hand through his hair again and softly scratched at his scalp. martin closed his eyes against the feeling and shifted his hips anxiously against the fabric of the couch.

your hands in his hair was too much, he quickly sat up and your hands fell. he grabbed your waist and pulled you on top of him before urgently forcing your hands back into his hair. “do it again,” he muttered against your jawline.

you obliged, grabbing fistfuls of hair as he kissed you roughly before you shifted in his lap and gathered his hair into a makeshift ponytail that you used to tilt his head back. your lips met his neck and martin groaned, so you pulled a bit tighter and he made a needy sound in his throat. he gripped your waist tighter relishing the feeling of you yanking his hair and maneuvering his head however you chose to gain access to his neck and jawline.

you dotted his skin with shy red marks but that quickly darkened the more you kissed him. “you should put your hair up in a ponytail or something. a bun? now that it’s grown out. it looks so good,” you mumbled against his neck.

“with what i’m planning on doing to you i’ll have to tie it back,” he breathed.

you raised an eyebrow at him and combed through his hair “oh yeah?” you used the grip in his hair to make him look at you. you looked down at him and he dug his fingers into the flesh of your hips. you swallowed, taking in the needy look in his doe eyes. “let me find a hair tie.”

[el4mars]

I need to kiss him irl

[kathaelipwse]

The Night Ends With You

Pairings: Kim Seungmin x f.reader (married, lawyers)

w/c: 4.1k words!!

Warnings: soft suggestiveness, domestic intimacy, husband!Seungmin being dangerously gentle, mentions of alcohol, fluff with light spice

Trope: domestic married life • soft!husband • comforting intimacy

Genre: romance · domestic · warm · night-time tenderness

Synopsis: After a draining law firm party, all you want is sleep--until Seungmin kneels in front of you, unstrapping your heels with a touch so soft it pulls every wall down. What begins as quiet comfort slips into warmth, kisses, shared whispers, and gentle devotion only he shows when the world finally goes quiet. by Seungmin anonnie

Author’s Note: this is the 7th fic of the event! minnie is a menace and also the kind of man who’ll love his partner with his whole heart HAHA. I adored writing this soft domestic version of him, hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed making him extra whipped <3

Taglist: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz @geni-627 @s1lverroses @nightmarenyxx @thequeenofdramaqueens

The moment your front door clicks shut behind you, silence folds over your body like a blanket you had been craving all night. The only sound left is the sharp, tired rhythm of your heels tapping against the marble floor, each step louder than your own heartbeat.

The night air clings to you in the form of leftover perfume, faint wine, and the exhaustion of smiling at the firm’s partners for far too many hours.

Your silk dress, once empowering in its deep, midnight sheen, now feels heavy on your shoulders, the fabric clinging to your skin as if it refuses to let the night end.

The straps dig faint lines into your collarbones, and your breath feels trapped beneath its fitted waistline.

You lift a hand to brush your hair out of your face, your fingers trembling in a way that tells you the exhaustion has finally sunk past your bones.

Behind you, the soft rustle of fabric and the low hum of breath announce his arrival.

Seungmin steps inside, letting the door fall shut with a muted click. He lifts his hand immediately to loosen the knot of his tie, releasing it from the stiff, pristine position it had held through the entire event.

The city lights spill through the large windows across the living room, cutting through the darkness and bathing him in a warm golden outline.

His profile sharpens in that light -- the clean jawline everyone at work fears, the unreadable eyes that win cases, the cool expression that makes interns shrink under his stare.

But right now, he is quiet. Watching you. And there's softness in that gaze he only ever reserves for you. His wife.

You exhale slowly, letting your purse drop onto the console table. Your legs ache beneath you, your calves tight from the hours spent standing, conversing, smiling, pretending you weren’t frustrated with the senior partner who cornered you for twenty minutes to talk about upcoming trial strategies.

Your head is still slightly fogged from the wine you nursed earlier in the night, the warmth of it sitting heavy behind your eyes.

The cases you’ve argued all week churn in your mind, even though you want nothing more than to forget them, just for a few hours.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Seungmin crosses the room toward you, footsteps slow, deliberate. There is no impatience, no irritation, none of the clipped tone he uses at the office.

Instead, he stops in front of you, tilting his head just a fraction as he takes in your posture -- the slump of your shoulders, the tightness in your jaw, the faint tremble in your fingers.

Then he murmurs, voice low, steady, familiar in a way that settles the noise in your chest.

"Sit."

It isn’t a command. It never is with him. It’s comfort dressed as habit, the same tone he uses when he pours you tea on long nights or wordlessly hands you a blanket when you're cold.

Your knees nearly buckle from relief as you sink onto the couch. The cushions cradle you, soft and warm, swallowing the tension you’ve been carrying since morning.

You lean back, closing your eyes for a moment as you breathe out, letting the room’s quiet seep into your bones.

When you open them again, Seungmin is already lowering himself to the floor.

Onto his knees.

The sight should startle you. Another man might find it demeaning or unnecessary, but Seungmin doesn’t hesitate. There is something reverent in the gesture, something intimate. Something entirely his.

He reaches forward, his fingers brushing the side of your ankle with delicate precision. You flinch slightly at the unexpected tenderness, and his eyes flick up to yours, checking, scanning, asking if you’re alright without saying a word.

His thumb strokes over your skin once -- soft, barely there -- before his hands lift your leg into his lap.

Your breath stutters.

His touch is warm against your skin, grounding. His fingers move to the buckle of your heel strap, and even that small action is careful, almost gentle in its pace.

He unhooks the strap, his thumb grazing over the marks the tight band has left behind. He removes the heel slowly, like he’s afraid you might wince.

Then, before you can tease him or thank him or breathe, he leans in and presses a kiss to the tender spot the strap had dug into.

A soft, feather-light kiss. A silent apology for how much pain the night has put you through.

You’re not sure if it's the warmth of his lips or the intimacy of the gesture, but your heart stumbles inside your chest.

"You're very dramatic for someone who argued two cases today," you murmur, the teasing tone slipping in even though your voice comes out breathier than you intend.

Seungmin shoots you a dry look, the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to show he’s amused. "You're very dramatic for someone who insisted on wearing heels that could kill a human being."

Your lips curve. "I looked good."

"You always look good," he replies, without even blinking.

Your breath catches before you can hide it.

He pretends not to notice, rolling his eyes as though he hasn't just made your stomach flip.

But the act doesn't hold -- not when his thumb moves over your ankle one more time, slow, affectionate, betraying everything he won’t say aloud.

He sets your first heel aside and lifts your other leg with the same tenderness, settling it over his lap.

The warmth of his touch seeps through your skin, melting every last thread of tension you’d brought home with you.

His fingers work the second strap loose, his movements unhurried. He could be tired. He could be annoyed. He could be ready to collapse into bed himself.

But he doesn’t rush a single second.

When he lifts the second heel away, he pauses again, leaning in to press another soft kiss to the faint red mark. You shiver under the gentleness.

"That tickles," you whisper, though the smile in your voice is unmistakable.

"No," he murmurs, looking up at you with an expression too soft for the man the courtroom knows. "It comforts."

You feel your heartbeat jump. Your breath tightens.

"Careful, Mr. Kim," you tease quietly. "Someone might think you're being sweet to your wife."

He scoffs under his breath, but the tiny upward tug at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

"Don't get used to it," he mutters, thumb brushing your skin again.

But you already know the truth.

He wants you to.

He wants you to get used to him ending your nights like this.

Soft. Gentle. Devoted in a way he’ll never admit out loud.

The moment the last heel slips off and hits the floor with a hollow thud, relief spills through your body so fast you can’t hold back the sound that escapes you.

A soft, breathy sigh, the kind that only comes after long suffering and sudden release. You melt into the cushions, your toes curling instinctively as the cool air brushes your bare skin.

Seungmin’s brows knit instantly.

"Hurts that much?" he asks, although he already knows.

You shrug, trying and failing to act unaffected. The truth is obvious in the way your muscles tremble, in the way your toes flex on their own, in the way your shoulders slump.

"I'll live," you mumble.

His eyes narrow slightly -- that familiar look of his, the one he gives you when he knows you're lying to save face.

He stands up from the floor with smooth ease and takes the seat beside you, sinking into the couch with a soft exhale.

Without giving you time to protest, he reaches for your ankles and lifts your legs onto his lap.

You jolt. "Seungm--"

"Don't," he says calmly, adjusting the weight of your legs across him. "Just relax."

You try to pull back out of instinct, but he holds you in place, not tight, just firm in a way that says he isn’t negotiating.

His palms come to rest over your calves, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress. He looks down at them as though memorizing every curve, every tension, every part of you that hurts.

Then his hands begin to move.

Slow. Careful. Intentional.

Lawyer hands that spend their days flipping through evidence files, holding courtroom clickers, or adjusting glasses now press into your muscles with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

His thumbs stroke upward along your calf, smoothing out the ache. His fingers curl around the back of your ankle, kneading the tightness there with just enough pressure to make your eyes slip shut.

A heavy warmth spreads through your body. It’s not just relief. It’s intimacy -- the quiet, lived-in kind that comes from sharing years, sharing space, sharing everything.

Being married to Seungmin has always been a study in contradictions. To the world, he is sharp edges and cold professionalism.

At home, with you, he is warm palms, rolled-up sleeves, and touches that feel like confessions.

He glances up at you when a small sound leaves your lips, something between a gasp and a helpless exhale.

"You're tense everywhere," he murmurs.

"Yeah, well..." Your voice trails off. Embarrassment creeps up your neck, hot enough to make your ears warm. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to."

You swallow. "It feels weird."

"Weird?" he echoes, a faint smirk appearing. "Because your husband is touching you?"

You shoot him a look, flustered. "No. I just-- no one has ever done this for me. Not like this. I feel... I don’t know." You fumble. "Embarrassed."

Seungmin scoffs quietly. "That's stupid."

"Seungmin," you protest, half laughing.

He shakes his head, amusement tugging at his lips as he continues to glide his hands up your legs.

Then, realizing you're still tense for reasons unrelated to muscle pain, he stops. Not abruptly -- just a pause, his fingers resting softly against your shin.

His gaze lifts to yours. Dark. Steady. Unreadable, except you can read him perfectly.

"You want me to stop?" he asks.

You hesitate.

He arches a brow. "Say it, then."

Your throat tightens. Saying it feels strangely vulnerable. Ridiculous, even. "I... yes. Maybe. Stop?"

He doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans down slightly, his thumb grazing just behind your knee, the subtle graze enough to make you suck in a breath.

He lowers his voice, dipping into that tone that always sends a shock through your stomach.

"If I keep touching you like this," he says softly, "the last thing you'll feel is embarrassed."

Heat floods your face so fast you nearly choke on air.

He lifts one eyebrow higher, clearly satisfied at the effect. "Still want me to stop?"

Your lips part uselessly. Your brain stutters. Your legs tense on instinct.

He presses his thumb into your calf in a slow, teasing circle.

"Thought so," he murmurs.

You glare at him without heat. He just telegraphs smugness with the smallest twitch of his mouth before returning to the massage.

His palms glide up and down the length of your calves, melting away the discomfort until the only thing left pulsing through your body is warmth.

Minutes pass like soft petals falling. His fingers shift lower, to the arch of your foot, pressing with gentle precision. You jolt, laughing under your breath at how sensitive the spot is.

"Tsk. Dramatic," he mutters.

"Says the man kneeling to kiss my ankles earlier."

His lips tug into that small, rare smile -- the one he pretends he doesn’t have.

"You're right," he says quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to your knee. "I must be insane."

Your breath catches again.

The mood shifts. Not abruptly. Not intensely. Just warm enough to thrum beneath your skin, to make the air grow thicker.

Seungmin settles back, and in the dim golden light of your apartment, he looks like something softer than anything he lets the world see.

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. A few strands of hair fall over his forehead.

The first few buttons of his dress shirt are undone, exposing the elegant line of his collarbone.

His breathing is slow, controlled, but his fingers... his fingers are tracing slow, absent patterns along your thigh now.

You realize he isn’t even aware he’s doing it.

The domesticity settles around you like a second skin. The warmth in the room is not from the heater but from him -- the way he sits turned slightly toward you, the way his touch lingers without dropping, the way he watches your reactions out of the corner of his eye.

"You work too hard," he says suddenly, breaking the silence.

"So do you," you counter.

"That's different."

"How?"

He looks up at you with steady eyes. "Because I know when to stop. You don't."

You laugh softly. "Says the man who stayed up till 4 a.m. prepping for a hearing last month."

"That was one time."

"That was three times."

His lips press into a thin line. "Stop keeping score."

You smirk. "What if I charge you by the hour for all this? Massage included."

He huffs out a short breath, almost a laugh. Then he leans forward and kisses your knee again, slower this time.

"That's cute," he murmurs. "Though if we're charging by the hour..." His hand slides slightly higher on your thigh, feather-light. "You'd owe me."

You swat at him, flustered. He catches your wrist effortlessly and places it on his shoulder.

"Come here," you say before your courage fades, curling a finger into the collar of his shirt.

He shifts closer immediately. His knee bumps yours. His breath brushes your cheek. His scent -- clean cologne, faint wine, and something warm that is uniquely him -- wraps around you.

"You looked good tonight," you whisper, tugging gently at his collar.

Seungmin’s eyes soften, and for a moment, something warm, almost shy, flickers behind them.

Then his thumb rises to brush your cheek, slow enough to make your heart slow with it.

"I only noticed you," he says simply.

The words settle inside your chest like a flame catching.

His thumb lingers, tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His other hand is still on your thigh, fingers idle, drawing lazy shapes that make your pulse thicken.

He leans in slightly, his forehead brushing yours, breathing quiet and even.

For a moment, nothing else exists except the warmth where he touches you, the softness he gives you, and the way your body instinctively gravitates toward his.

It feels like home.

Because with Seungmin, it always does.

The warmth of his hands still tingles on your legs when Seungmin shifts beside you.

His fingers pause on your thigh, pressing a final lazy pattern into your skin before he straightens and smooths down the soft wrinkles on his shirt.

He looks at you for a moment. Really looks.

Your flushed cheeks, your sleepy eyes, the delicate slump of your shoulders as exhaustion wants to pull you under.

"Come on," he murmurs, voice soft but sure. "Let's go to bed."

Not a hint of suggestion. Just tenderness wrapped in habit.

You start to push yourself up, but before you can rise even halfway, he steps between your knees and slips an arm beneath them.

The other slides behind your back.

"Seungmin--!"

Too late. You’re lifted clean off the couch, legs weightless, arms instinctively looping around his shoulders.

He holds you with a steady, easy strength, not even straining as he adjusts you slightly against his chest.

"I can walk," you whisper, though you're already curling into him.

"I know," he replies. "But you don't need to."

Something warm flickers in your chest.

As he carries you through the dim hallway, the soft hum of the AC fades into the background.

The golden glow of the streetlights filters through the tall windows, painting shifting lines across the walls as he walks.

Their warmth catches on the curve of his cheekbone, glints against his lashes, and makes the moment feel impossibly quiet. Soft. Yours.

When you reach the bedroom, he sets you down on the edge of the bed with careful hands, as though you’re made of something fragile.

Before he even straightens, he reaches for your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.

"Your makeup," he says quietly. "It's going to make your skin feel awful by morning."

You blink slowly, half touched, half embarrassed. "I can do it--"

He cuts you off with the gentlest sound. "Let me."

He moves around the room, opening drawers with practiced ease. He knows exactly where everything is because he’s the one who organized your skincare shelf last month, insisting your serums shouldn’t be mixed with his creams.

He returns with your makeup remover and cotton pads, standing in front of you like this is something he does every night.

He takes your chin between his fingers, holding your face with a firmness that makes you shiver. Not controlling. Just steady. Present.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs.

You do.

The first touch of the pad against your eyelid is feather-soft. Warm. His other hand cups your jaw, keeping you still as he wipes away the night’s fatigue, stroke by careful stroke.

His movements are slow, precise, as if removing your makeup is something sacred.

He switches pads, lifting your chin slightly so he can wipe under your jaw, the corners of your lips, the curves of your cheeks.

He handles you like something delicate. Like a ritual he’s memorizing.

Your breath stutters when he leans closer, brushing your hair back as he wipes the last bit of makeup from your temple. His voice drops.

"Beautiful without it too."

Your stomach flutters helplessly.

He sets the used pads aside, then touches your cheekbone with the back of his fingers. "Still with me?"

"Barely," you whisper.

He smiles, soft and small. Then he slides his arms under you again.

"Bath--" you start.

"Exactly what I’m taking you to."

And he lifts you again.

You cling to him automatically, feeling that familiar warmth soak into your skin.

He carries you into the bathroom, setting you gently on the counter, his hands lingering at your waist for a moment longer than necessary.

The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the soft vanity lights that give everything a sleepy golden glow.

He grabs your toothbrush and his, placing them beside each other by the sink.

He reaches for toothpaste, uncaps it, squeezes two neat ribbons onto both brushes.

"Open," he says, handing yours to you.

You roll your eyes but do as he says. Brushing beside him like this feels oddly intimate, your shoulders brushing occasionally, his hip nudging yours when you lean too close to the mirror.

You spit first, wiping your mouth. He finishes and cups water in his hands to rinse with a practiced grace that’s annoyingly attractive.

You dry your hands on a towel. He steps behind you. His reflection stands tall and warm in the mirror as he opens your cleanser and pumps some into his hand.

"Seungmin-- baby, I can wash my own face."

He simply tilts your chin up. "Let me take care of you."

You sigh, surrendering to him again.

His fingers spread the cleanser over your cheeks with slow, circular motions.

The lather is cool, and his touch is almost hypnotic. He massages gently along your jawline, down the bridge of your nose, across your forehead. Your breath weakens a little.

"You’re going to make me fall asleep right here," you mumble.

His lips brush your cheek. "I wouldn’t mind."

You swat him half-heartedly.

He rinses your face with warm water, using his hands to cup and pour, making sure not a drop gets into your eyes.

Then he pats your skin dry with a soft towel, pressing it to your cheeks, your chin, the corners of your mouth.

You feel cherished. Completely, utterly cherished.

When he finally steps back, you're glowing in a way no makeup could ever recreate.

"Skincare?" you ask, embarrassed by how hopeful you sound.

He smiles. "Together."

You grab your moisturizer while he grabs his. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two of you rub it over your faces, occasionally bumping elbows, sometimes leaning into each other with sleepy giggles.

When you're done, you look up at him. "You look soft."

He raises a brow. "You look softer."

You stick your tongue out at him. He flicks your forehead lightly.

"Let's get you in bed," he murmurs.

Back in the bedroom, he helps you undress as if it’s routine. The zipper of your dress slides slowly under his fingers. The fabric falls from your body in a whisper. You cross your arms instinctively.

He frowns softly. "Hey. Look at me."

You do.

His voice gentles. "You asked for my shirt, remember?"

You nod.

He picks up one of his softest tees and lifts it over your head, letting the fabric fall onto your skin.

When it’s down, you slip your arms through the sleeves, sighing at the comfort.

Then he notices your discomfort -- the subtle way your bra strap digs into your skin, the faint wince you try to hide.

"Take it off," he says softly.

"I-- Seungmin, I--"

He steps closer, placing a warm hand on your waist. "It’s uncomfortable. You never sleep in it."

"I know, but--"

His other hand comes up, brushing your cheek with a gentleness that nearly undoes you. "I'll be good," he whispers. "I won’t do anything. I just want you to sleep comfortably."

You hesitate.

He leans in, forehead touching yours.

"We're married," he reminds you, voice low. "I have seen you naked countless times. Let me help you."

Your breath shivers.

You nod.

His hands slip under the shirt, warm fingers ghosting along your spine until they reach the clasp. He moves slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind.

The bra unhooks with a soft snap, loosening instantly. He slides it off your arms without ever revealing anything, lowering the shirt back into place.

"Better?" he whispers.

You exhale. "Better."

His eyes soften.

He removes his own shirt, revealing his chest, the toned lines of his abdomen, the faint indentations leading downward. It’s familiar, but somehow still knocks the air out of you.

You smirk. "Yeah, you are certainly pretty."

He nearly chokes. "Pretty?"

"Very."

He shakes his head, ears turning faintly pink. "You’re impossible."

But he’s smiling.

You climb into bed, settling into the soft blankets. He joins you instantly, sliding behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as though it’s instinct.

His chest presses warmly to your back, his breath fanning over your neck.

"Clingy," you tease softly, leaning into him.

"Mmh," he hums into your skin. "Only for you."

His lips brush your shoulder. Then your neck. Slow. Gentle. Each touch warm enough to melt what’s left of your exhaustion.

His hand drifts over your stomach, tracing lazy shapes. Up. Down. Circling. Warming.

He murmurs against your skin, voice half gravel, half velvet. "You're beautiful."

"Seung--"

"Even when you're tired." A kiss to your shoulder.

"Even when your hair's a mess." Another kiss, higher.

"Even when your makeup is gone." A kiss just beneath your ear.

"Even half-asleep like this."

Your breath trembles.

"You always are."

You clutch his arm lightly, overwhelmed. He holds you tighter, your bodies pressed together in a cocoon of warmth.

"Sleep," he whispers. "I've got you."

And with his arms around you, his breath mingling with yours, his warmth sinking deep into your bones...

You finally do.

And for him, his night will always end with you.

The end!

A/N: I need a fucking man/woman like him. Anyways, sighs. To be added in the taglist send an ask! (those already in it kindly ignore!)

[bee-gremlin]

This is so cute, so soft, so domestic, everything I ever wanted I– *cries*

I’m gonna reread this every night before bed I swear *cries again* 😭💕

[thedensworld]

How Love Letter Works | LJh

Pairing: Producer-Idol Jihoon! x Producer Reader!

Genre: fluff, crush to lovers au!

Summary: Jihoon watched you grown, from a trainee to a co-producer. So, a love confession would be the last thing he expected.

Jihoon was the co-producer for your debut project. For six intense months, he observed you and the other trainees with a sharp, discerning eye. From the very beginning, he was certain you would make it into the debut line. It was like watching a reflection of his younger self — the grit, the passion, the unwavering determination. Every week during your progress presentations, he saw it more clearly. This one’s different, he thought. This one’s special.

You were destined to debut in Pledis’s new girl group. No one could convince him otherwise. He could already picture it — you shining on stage, a star in the making.

That’s why the news hit him so hard. It came when he was in the middle of a world tour, just a month before the official debut announcement. The call came from Soonyoung, his teammate, who shared his belief in you. Jihoon could still hear the disappointment in Soonyoung’s voice as he delivered the news.

"Y/n didn’t make it."

At first, Jihoon didn’t believe it. No, that’s impossible. He didn’t even think before calling Bumzu, the main producer for the project. His voice was sharp, urgent. "What happened?" he demanded. "She was supposed to debut. We all saw it."

On the other end of the line, Bumzu sighed. "We fought for her, Jihoon. We really did. But the executives had other plans."

Other plans? Jihoon’s chest tightened with frustration. His grip on the phone grew tense. "Then what was the point of all of this? What was the point of that project if the decision was already made?"

The room around him fell silent. His members stopped what they were doing, eyes wide with surprise. For the first time in a long time, they saw him lose his composure. Jihoon was known for being calm, collected, and focused. But this? This was something else.

The call ended, but the bitterness lingered. He told himself it would be the last time he ever saw potential like yours — raw, undeniable, and destined for greatness. It was a rare thing to witness, and losing it felt like a personal defeat.

Time moved on. Tours, albums, and schedules blurred together. Three years passed in what felt like a flash. Jihoon was still at the heart of the industry, a powerhouse behind the scenes and on stage.

But then, something unexpected happened.

One morning, during a production team meeting, the Team Leader stood at the front of the room, introducing a new producer. Jihoon barely glanced up at first, focused on his notes.

"Everyone, please welcome our newest producer, Ji Y/N."

The name struck him like a jolt of electricity. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. And there you were. Standing at the front of the room with the same fire in your eyes that he remembered from three years ago. But this time, you weren’t a trainee. You weren’t just potential. You were standing on equal ground.

His heart swelled with something between pride and awe. She made it after all, he thought. Not in the way anyone had expected, but perhaps in a way that was even better.

Because now, you were the one calling the shots.

You were the main producer for the very group that had debuted without you. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all Jihoon. Sometimes, as he watched you from across the studio, he wondered if there was any bitterness left in you. Did it still hurt? he wondered. You were supposed to be with them — on stage, in the spotlight. But here you were, behind the glass, calling the shots.

If there was resentment, you never showed it. You were focused, sharp, and commanding in every session, your presence undeniable. The idols who had once been your fellow trainees now hung on your every word, adjusting their notes and vocals the moment you gave feedback. You had become the kind of leader that even Jihoon had to respect.

It was during one of these sessions that Bumzu, ever playful, leaned back in his chair after listening to the final notes of your demo. His eyebrows lifted in exaggerated surprise.

"Is it even possible to create something like this?" he teased, shooting you a look of mock disbelief.

Jihoon glanced up from his notebook, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He clapped his hands slowly, his eyes glinting with pride and amusement.

Caught off guard, you burst into laughter, cheeks heating up. You tugged your hoodie over your face, as if that could somehow hide you from the praise. "Ah, stop it!" you groaned, voice muffled under the fabric.

But neither Bumzu nor Jihoon stopped. They kept clapping, grinning like they'd just witnessed something legendary.

"Don’t be shy now, Y/n," Bumzu called out, eyes crinkling with mischief. "A genius should never hide."

Jihoon leaned back, still watching you with that quiet, thoughtful gaze. You were no longer the trainee fighting for a spot on the debut line. You were a producer, a creator, and a force that couldn’t be ignored. If there was ever any bitterness in her, she turned it into something greater, he thought, his smirk softening into something warmer.

Pride was a strange feeling for him, but at that moment, he felt it all the same.

"I’ll leave the lyrics to Jihoon. I trust him," Bumzu said with a playful grin, tapping Jihoon on the shoulder before stretching his arms and heading for the door.

"Don’t let us down, genius," Bumzu added over his shoulder, his teasing tone echoing through the studio as the door clicked shut behind him.

You shifted in your seat, glancing at Jihoon with a hint of hesitation. "Sorry for bothering you with this," you said, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your hoodie. It wasn’t easy for you to ask for help, but for this project, you’d made an exception. Jihoon’s lyricism had always been something you admired, and you knew he could bring out the soul of the song in ways few others could.

Jihoon tilted his head, eyes crinkling in gentle amusement. "Don’t mention it," he said, his voice calm but sincere. "I’m happy I can help."

He reached for a stack of papers on the table, tapping them into a neat pile before holding them out to you. "Let’s start with this," he said, sliding the freshly revised lyrics toward you.

You leaned forward, eyes scanning the words with quiet intensity. Each line felt like it had weight, every phrase deliberate. There were subtle changes — words swapped for stronger imagery, rhythms that hit with more precision. You recognized his touch immediately.

"These are... really good," you admitted, glancing at him with a look of awe. "It feels like it hits harder now."

Jihoon shrugged, but you didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That’s the goal," he replied, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. His gaze shifted toward you, eyes steady but kind. "But if anything feels off, we can rework it. I want it to feel yours."

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard for a moment. You nodded, warmth blooming quietly in your chest. "Then let’s make it ours," you said with a small smile, lifting the paper as if it were something precious.

"But how did you even think of this?" you asked, eyes still fixed on the lyrics in front of you. Awe colored your voice as you traced the words with your fingertips. "I really like the theme — love letter. It’s so perfect."

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the table. "Flutter," he said simply, his gaze distant like he was replaying a memory. "When I heard the demo for the first time, it felt like that... like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

His words hung in the air for a moment, soft but powerful. It was the kind of thing that lingered in your mind, making you pause just to feel it a little longer.

But then, as if catching himself, Jihoon shook his head and waved his hand dismissively, brushing away the atmosphere he had just created — as if he wasn’t the one who had built it in the first place. "Anyway, it’s nothing deep," he said with a small, self-conscious chuckle.

You glanced at him, catching the faint smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t just a random idea — that much was obvious. There was something familiar in the way he spoke about it, like he was remembering something personal.

His gaze flickered briefly to the side, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the table. Flutter, he’d said. The same feeling that stirred in him every time he’d read the love letters he’d received years ago. Letters he could still recall, word for word.

You tilted your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. "It’s not nothing, you know," you said softly. "You can feel it in the lyrics. It’s real."

Jihoon glanced at you, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than usual. Then, with a faint shrug, he looked back at the paper. "If it feels real, then we’re on the right track," he muttered, but the small smile that stayed on his face told you that, maybe, he was feeling that same flutter all over again.

*

You heard it — fluttering. You weren’t sure what Jihoon was implying, but everything about it seemed to point to the theme: Love Letter.

Back at your home studio, you sat in your chair, the lyrics you’d revised with Jihoon resting in your hands. Your eyes traced each word, but your mind was somewhere else. You leaned back with a heavy sigh, letting the weight of everything settle over you. How did we get here? You and Jihoon — now equals. It felt surreal. Time had flown faster than you realized.

Memories crept in like old songs on replay. You remembered him during your trainee days — strict but attentive. He’d been one of the hardest people to impress, and somehow, that made you work even harder. You poured everything into every performance, every evaluation, every moment. Not just for yourself, but for him. To make him see you. To be seen by him.

That feeling... it should have disappeared once you stepped into this building as a producer. You were no longer a trainee chasing approval. You were his peer now. But somehow, it lingered. It always lingered.

Your hand drifted toward your desk, fingers brushing over a familiar object. A letter. The paper was worn, its edges soft from age, a faint coffee stain marking one corner. It had been with you for years — a quiet reminder of something you never quite let go of. You’d taken care of it like it was precious. Like your feelings for him. Feelings that never faded, no matter how much you told yourself they would.

Your fingers traced the edges of the letter, and your heart thudded louder in your chest. It had been like this since earlier — ever since Jihoon mentioned it.

"Flutter. Like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart, which was already unsteady around him, felt even more chaotic now. It had been this way for years. Back then, when you were just a trainee, it had been worse. You’d poured all those wild, uncontrollable feelings into letters. Handwritten confessions only meant for him.

How many had you written? How many had you left behind, hoping, wishing, praying he would notice? You always knew he would. He’s Jihoon, after all. He noticed everything.

He noticed when you were in pain during the monthly evaluations, his sharp gaze catching the smallest wince. He noticed when you had a cold during recording, quietly leaving a warm drink on the table near you. He even noticed when you cut your hair, commenting on it so casually like it was nothing, but it had stayed with you for weeks.

Of course, he’d notice a love letter.

And you’d been so careful. Leaving them just where you knew he would find them — near the practice room where he passed by, tucked on the edge of the table in the recording studio. He’d see them. He had to have seen them.

But did he read them?

Your eyes flickered back to the lyrics in your hand.

"Flutter. Like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

Your fingers tightened around the paper as your heart pounded harder. Did he read them?

And if he did... did he know they were from you?

You put the letter back in its place. He’ll never know.

He’d never know about any of it — not the words you’d carefully written, not the feelings you’d poured into every stroke of your pen, and certainly not about the last letter. The one you never sent.

You had been so sure. So sure. You thought you’d make it into the debut line. Everyone did. That’s why you prepared that final letter — the one that would reveal your identity, the one that would tell him everything. After the announcement, you planned to hand it to him yourself. No more hiding behind anonymous words. No more waiting.

But reality had other plans.

The news hit you like a storm you hadn’t seen coming. They didn’t debut you. They said you were too old to debut.

Too old.

The words echoed in your mind, hollow and cutting. You’d spent years giving everything to this dream, only for it to be reduced to two cold, dismissive words.

They didn’t stop there, though. No, they had another plan. They offered you a contract — not as an idol, but as a producer. The group’s producer. They mentioned how much they liked the song you’d composed during the project and said they wanted to release it as part of the group’s debut album.

But you were too angry to listen. Too hurt to consider it. You walked away.

For a while, you told yourself that walking away was your only option. You told yourself you had every right to be angry, that you’d been wronged. Unfair didn’t even begin to describe it. You’d fought so hard, only to be told that you weren’t enough. It was a wound too deep for logic to mend.

But wounds don’t stay open forever. Time has its way of softening even the sharpest edges.

Eventually, you realized something important — there was nothing you could do to change the past. No amount of anger or regret would make them call your name as part of that debut lineup.

When they reached out to you again, it wasn’t an apology, but it was an offer. A chance.

This time, you considered it. Not for them. Not for their approval. For you.

You accepted the role as the group’s producer.

And with it, you walked into that building again — older, wiser, and stronger than you’d ever been. No longer chasing someone else’s dream, but building your own.

*

Jihoon glanced away from the computer screen as the sound of the door opening caught his attention. His eyes softened at the sight of you walking in, balancing a plastic bag in one hand and a tray of coffees in the other. You’d texted him earlier, saying you’d bring something as a sign of gratitude for his help with the lyrics.

"You really didn’t have to do this," Jihoon said, getting up from his chair and settling on the couch across from you.

"I know," you replied with a grin, pulling out the contents of the bag. Cans of Coke, takeout food, snacks, and the coffees you’d promised. "But Bumzu oppa’s coming later, and I figured it’d be nice to have something for all of us."

Jihoon raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, watching as you neatly arranged everything on the table.

It was time to play the final demo — the one you’d be submitting to the production team. This was the moment that all the effort had been building up to. Jihoon and Bumzu had both contributed to it, so they were eager to give it one last listen.

"Should we play it?" Jihoon asked, looking over at you.

"Already sent it to you," you replied, tapping your phone with a small smile.

Jihoon pulled it up and hit play. The room filled with the melody you’d spent weeks perfecting. He listened intently, his eyes focused but his face honest, reacting naturally to every detail. His nose scrunched up whenever a particularly "cool" part played — a habit you’d noticed over time.

"It's your voice, huh?" he teased, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "It's gonna be tough to direct them to sing it like you."

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. "Well, they’ll just have to try their best, won’t they?"

When the song reached its bridge, Jihoon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He nodded along, eyes flickering with something close to pride. "Let me be honest with you," he said as he cracked open a can of Coke, "you’re really good at writing."

Your cheeks warmed as you popped a piece of food into your mouth, trying to downplay your smile. "Coming from an amazing lyricist like you, oppa, that means a lot. Thank you."

Jihoon shook his head, chuckling softly. "No, I’m serious. When you suggested that line — 'tearing all the tears as the ink, they won't be flowing when you’re with me' — I swear, I felt like I was sitting next to Kahlil Gibran."

Your eyes widened in shock, and you immediately waved him off, face flushing. "No way, don’t say that! You’re exaggerating!" you protested, but the laughter that escaped you betrayed how happy the compliment made you feel.

Just then, the door swung open, and Bumzu entered, already bopping his head to the rhythm of the demo still playing. He grinned as his eyes landed on the spread of food on the table.

"Are we having a feast or what?" he asked, rubbing his hands together as he walked in.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Jihoon warned, shaking his head as he took a sip of his Coke.

But Bumzu had other plans. His eyes lit up mischievously as he pulled out his phone. "I’m ordering alcohol!" he declared with far too much enthusiasm.

"You’re not serious," Jihoon sighed, already feeling the weight of the night ahead.

But judging by the grin on Bumzu's face, it was too late to stop him.

Jihoon glanced at you, a resigned smile tugging at his lips. "Looks like it’s gonna be a long day."

"Or a long night," you added with a playful grin, taking another sip of your coffee.

Jihoon sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the empty spot where Bumzu had been just a few minutes ago. That hyung… he thought, his frustration barely contained.

Bumzu had a well-known habit of disappearing whenever he got too drunk. He’d leave behind everything — his wallet, his coat, his phone, sometimes even his shoes — and vanish faster than anyone could react. By the time they noticed, it was too late to call him back. It was almost like a magic trick. But this time, he’d left more than his belongings. He’d left you.

Jihoon glanced over at the studio couch, where you lay sprawled out, humming a familiar tune. It took him a second to recognize it, but then it clicked — it was a song you’d sung during your trainee days. He remembered it vividly because he’d been one of the monitors back then. You’d poured so much heart into that performance, and he could still picture you on that small stage, eyes fierce with determination. Seeing you like this now, eyes hazy and limbs limp, made him feel strangely nostalgic.

“Y/n, you need to go home,” he said, keeping his tone gentle but firm as he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, searching for someone who might know your address. If he could get ahold of them, he’d call a cab and have them send you home.

“Don’t wanna,” you mumbled, turning your face into the cushions. Your voice was muffled, but the stubbornness was clear.

Jihoon exhaled a soft laugh. It was his first time seeing you drunk, and honestly, it wasn’t too different from how you acted when you were exhausted from practice. Stubborn, a little pouty, but somehow still cute. The only difference now was that you didn’t seem to recognize who was in front of you.

“I already ordered a cab,” he said patiently, crouching down to meet your eye level. “When it gets here, make sure you tell the driver your address, okay?”

You blinked at him, squinting as if trying to identify him through a fog. “Who… are you again?”

Jihoon sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. Here we go again.

“It’s me, Jihoon,” he said, reaching out to pull you into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s head down to the lobby. I’ll find someone to help me get you in the cab.”

You didn’t resist, though your body was like a ragdoll in his hands. Your legs wobbled like jelly, and he had to wrap his arm firmly around your waist to steady you. You leaned into him more than necessary, head resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You sound like Jihoon oppa…” you mumbled, voice slurred but still clear enough for him to catch.

Jihoon snorted. “That’s because I am Jihoon.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling back just far enough to look at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “No way! Jihoon oppa’s too busy to be here.” You squinted at him, face scrunched in deep suspicion. “He’s busy. All the time.”

Jihoon shook his head, thoroughly amused. “You know I’m standing right here, right?”

You ignored him completely, eyes distant as if you were lost in your own world. “He’s busy,” you continued softly, like you were talking to yourself. “He’s hardworking. I like him…”

Jihoon froze.

His grip on you stayed firm, but his feet stopped moving.

What did you just say?

He blinked, waiting to see if you’d repeat it.

You didn’t notice. You just kept talking, gaze unfocused, voice as light as a feather drifting in the air. “He’s emotionally intelligent too… His songs are beautiful. Just like his personality.” You sighed dreamily, leaning on him a little more as your eyes fluttered closed. “I like him.”

Jihoon’s heart did something strange — a sharp thud followed by an odd, weightless feeling in his chest.

Did you… just say you like me?

He stared at you, his brain struggling to keep up with what he’d just heard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn’t even know what to say.

Suddenly, the elevator doors at the end of the hallway slid open, revealing Soonyoung. His wide, curious eyes zeroed in on the sight of Jihoon half-holding, half-carrying you down the hall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Soonyoung said, stepping out with a dramatic point in Jihoon’s direction. “What is this? You got her drunk? You don’t even drink!”

“Please,” Jihoon muttered, already feeling the headache coming on.

“What happened to her?” Soonyoung asked, stepping closer, his expression twisting with mock suspicion. “Don’t tell me you two—”

“It was Bumzu hyung,” Jihoon cut in, glaring at him. “He disappeared like he always does. Left everything behind, including her.” He adjusted his grip on you, trying to keep you upright.

Soonyoung tilted his head, eyeing you both like he was still trying to piece it all together. Then he grinned, mischief practically radiating from him. “Well, well, well,” he teased, his grin only growing wider. “Need help, Romeo?”

Jihoon shot him a look that could freeze fire. “Don’t start.”

“Fine, fine,” Soonyoung said with a laugh, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’ll help you get her to the cab.”

With Soonyoung’s help, Jihoon managed to get you into the back seat of the cab. The driver asked for your address, but Jihoon glanced at you, still half-asleep, lips barely moving as you mumbled something incoherent.

“I’ll send it to him,” Jihoon said, already pulling out his phone to text the driver the address.

“You sure you don’t want a ride back, Jihoon-ah?” Soonyoung offered, leaning his arm on the open car door. “I can drop you off.”

“Nah,” Jihoon said, still glancing at you as the driver confirmed the address. “I need to walk.”

“Pfft, walk? You sound like an old man,” Soonyoung teased, slapping Jihoon’s back.

“Go home, bye,” Jihoon grumbled, waving him off.

Once the cab drove away, Jihoon stood still for a moment, letting the cool night air wash over him.

I like him.

Her words echoed in his mind, circling like a melody on repeat. He rubbed his hands together slowly, eyes on the sidewalk ahead of him.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and started walking, his breath coming out in small clouds in the cold air. No one else was around, and the only sound was the soft crunch of his sneakers on the pavement.

His heart thudded in his chest, steadier now but still louder than usual.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He walked slowly, taking his time. He needed the fresh air, sure. But more than that, he needed time to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop replaying your voice in his mind.

I like him.

*

The next morning, you sent Jihoon a text.

"Thank you for getting me home safely, oppa."

You didn’t remember much from that night, only flashes of you leaning on someone and the faint scent of his familiar cologne. Since you’d heard Bumzu vanished early as usual, it had to be Jihoon who took care of you. Still, knowing how busy he was, you didn’t expect a reply. Instead, you quickly busied yourself with work, pushing the lingering embarrassment aside.

A few days later, you were knee-deep in packing boxes. You were preparing to move to a new apartment, one closer to the company, which would make commuting easier. With help from a couple of friends, the packing went faster than expected. They chatted and teased you as you sorted through your things.

“Hey, what’s this?” one of your friends asked, reaching for a small, worn-out envelope sitting on the corner of your desk.

Your heart jumped in panic. You rushed over, snatching it before she could take a closer look. “Ah, it’s nothing,” you said quickly, slipping it into your bag.

“Suspicious~” she sang, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“It’s nothing important,” you insisted, shoving it deep into your bag.

Your phone buzzed on the table, drawing you out of your thoughts. It was a message from Jihoon.

"Any update on your latest song?"

You quickly typed a reply.

"Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll accept it soon. They’ve been slow lately."

The production team was notorious for taking their time, so you weren’t too worried. Besides, you were currently caught up in another project with a different artist, and following up with the production team wasn’t your priority.

Just as you were about to put your phone away, another text from Jihoon popped up.

"I want to discuss a song with you. Are you free now?"

You glanced at the mess of boxes around you and snapped a quick photo.

"I’m moving out!"

This time, Jihoon didn’t text back. He called.

Your eyes widened as you stared at the screen. He’s calling me? Jihoon rarely called, even when it was urgent. Curious, you picked up.

“Hello?” you answered.

“You’re moving? To where?” His voice was clear and steady, but there was an undertone of surprise.

You explained your new place, telling him it was just a short walk from the company. It was more convenient and would save you time commuting to work.

“That’s great,” Jihoon said, his tone sounding warmer than usual. “I live around that area too.”

“Really?” you asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, we’ll be neighbors,” he said with a chuckle.

For some reason, the thought of living close to him made you feel oddly self-conscious.

“By the way,” you added, feeling a bit braver now, “how did you know my address that night? I don’t remember giving it to you. I’m so sorry for the trouble!”

You cringed as you recalled the fuzzy details of that night. The idea of him seeing you in a drunken, messy state made you want to disappear. He doesn't even drink, and I was a whole disaster.

His soft laughter rumbled through the phone, and you felt your face heat up.

“I got it from HR,” he admitted, still chuckling. “I basically terrorized him until he gave it to me since you wouldn’t say a word.”

You gasped in shock, both at his method and at the mental image of Jihoon pestering HR. “You did what?!”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t break any rules… I think,” he teased, his voice laced with mischief. “I had to make sure you got home safely.”

Your chest warmed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you for that,” you said softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Jihoon replied, his voice quieter now, like he’d tilted his head against the phone.

After a brief pause, you brought up the song. “About the song you wanted to discuss, I can stop by your studio tonight if that works for you.”

“Not necessary,” Jihoon said firmly. “I should be the one going to your studio. I’m the one asking for help.”

A laugh escaped you. This guy and his principles…

“Alright,” you agreed. “I’ll be at the company around 8. I’ll text you when I’m there.”

“Got it,” he replied. “See you then.”

The call ended, but the lingering warmth from his voice stayed with you. You glanced at the boxes scattered around the room and then at your bag — the one with that letter hidden inside.

*

Jihoon wasn’t sure when it started. At first, it was subtle — small changes that no one, not even he, noticed. It might have been the day you casually explained your creative process to him.

“You do what?” he asked, his brows raised in mild disbelief.

“I create a mind map,” you explained as you scribbled on a large whiteboard, drawing lines to connect scattered concepts and ideas. “Then, I gather samples that match the vibe. It helps me stay focused when I start composing the beat.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with quiet fascination. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the logic behind it — it’s just that he’d never bother to do it. He’d always gone straight into producing, trusting his instincts to guide him. But the way you did it… it was methodical yet creative, disciplined yet free.

“There’s always a reason why you’re a genius,” you muttered, focused on sketching another connection on the board.

He blinked, surprised by your words, and then chuckled softly. “You mean because I’m lazy?”

You nodded, grinning at him from behind the whiteboard. “Exactly.”

For some reason, that moment stuck with him.

A week later, Seungkwan walked into Jihoon's studio with a cup of iced Americano for him — only to freeze in shock. Jihoon was standing at the whiteboard. Jihoon. At a whiteboard.

“What… is this?” Seungkwan asked, his eyes squinting like he was seeing an illusion.

“Mind mapping,” Jihoon replied casually, drawing another circle on the board and labeling it "Bridge Vibe — Sentimental, but not cheesy.”

Seungkwan gawked at him. “Who are you? And what have you done to Lee Jihoon?”

Jihoon just smirked and said nothing.

But that wasn’t all. Slowly but surely, the changes started piling up.

One day, Seungcheol walked past Jihoon’s studio and did a double-take. Jihoon was… eating dessert? A strawberry shortcake.

“Jihoon, you good?” Seungcheol asked, leaning on the doorframe, arms folded.

“Hmm?” Jihoon didn’t even glance up, scooping up another bite of cake while scrolling through his phone. “Yeah, why?”

“Dessert. You’re eating dessert.” Seungcheol’s voice was filled with suspicion, like he was trying to uncover a secret mission.

Jihoon raised a brow, slowly lifting his gaze from his phone. “And?”

“And you don’t eat dessert.”

“People change, hyung,” Jihoon muttered, stuffing another bite into his mouth.

“People change, but this much?” Seungcheol muttered to himself as he walked away, still glancing back every few steps like he’d just seen a cat bark.

The biggest shock, however, came when Jihoon suddenly registered for a shooting practice course. Yes, shooting. With a real gun.

Jeonghan was the first to hear about it. “You’re lying,” he deadpanned as he sipped his coffee in the practice room.

“Swear on my solo album,” Seungkwan replied, eyes wide with disbelief. “I’m serious. Jihoon-hyung signed up for it. I even saw the receipt.”

“Why?” Joshua asked, looking genuinely concerned.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Seungkwan exclaimed, waving his arms like a detective on a dramatic reveal. “Jihoon. With a gun. Do you know how dangerous that is for us? He already has that death glare.”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Jeonghan muttered, rubbing his temple. “The quiet ones are the scariest.”

When Jihoon casually walked into practice later, everyone’s eyes were on him. It wasn’t unusual for him to receive attention, but this time it was different. They were looking at him like he was a time bomb.

“What?” Jihoon asked, his eyes darting between them.

“Are you going through something?” Jeonghan asked cautiously, stepping forward like he was about to have a serious intervention.

“Do we need to talk, hyung?” Seungkwan chimed in, his voice filled with the kind of concern, reserve for someone about to shave their head or move to another country.

Jihoon gave them both a blank stare. “No.”

“Then why are you suddenly into guns?”

“Hobby.”

The room went silent.

“Since when do you pick up hobbies?” Seungkwan whispered dramatically.

Jihoon ignored them, walking straight to his spot in the practice room. He put down his bag and pulled out his phone. But as he scrolled, he caught himself smiling. He thought of you showing him how to gather "inspiration" from unusual places. "Do something new. It'll help you create." That’s what you’d told him once. He didn’t think much of it then, but somehow, it got to him.

The changes didn’t stop.

Some days, he’d leave his studio just to walk to a nearby cafe. Normally, he’d stay locked in his workspace for hours, only emerging to grab a quick meal. But these days, he’d grab a coffee, pick up your favorite dessert, and drop it off at your studio.

“Brought you this,” he’d say, setting it down on your desk like it was no big deal.

“Thanks, oppa!” you’d chirp, smiling brightly. He’d linger for a moment, watching you open it with childlike excitement. But before you could say anything else, he’d wave it off like it was no big deal. “Alright, I’m going back.”

It became a routine. Occasionally, he'd sit with you for a bit. Not as a co-producer, but as a friend. He’d watch as you flipped through manhwa on your tablet, eyes focused but relaxed.

“What’s that?” he asked once, tilting his head.

“A new series,” you replied, not even looking away. “You’d like it. It's about a musician who time-travels to fix his regrets.”

Jihoon raised a brow, interest piqued. “Sounds cheesy.”

“It’s not. The writer knows their stuff,” you said, eyes still glued to the screen.

He glanced at it once, intending to leave. But then he sat down. One episode turned into two. Before he knew it, you were both huddled on the couch, scrolling through each new chapter together.

“Next chapter’s locked,” you muttered, annoyed.

“Here,” Jihoon said, tapping his phone. “I’ll unlock it.”

You looked up, wide-eyed. “Oppa, did you just buy coins for a manhwa?”

He blinked, realization dawning on him. “...Yeah.”

The two of you stared at each other. Then, laughter. It echoed in the studio like bells, crisp and light.

“You’re not yourself lately, oppa.” you teased, nudging his side.

He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m not.”

Jihoon didn’t notice stares or whispered theories. He was too busy trying to figure out when he’d started picking up your habits. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somehow, those little details had wormed their way into his life. The desserts, the manhwa breaks, the habit of sketching ideas before starting a track — they’d all become part of his process.

But it wasn’t just that.

He liked the way your voice sounded when you explained your reasoning for a certain sample choice. He liked how you hummed unconsciously when you were in the zone. He liked that you talked to him as a person, not just as "Woozi"

He... liked you.

But that was a realization he wasn’t quite ready to face yet.

Weeks later, Jihoon found himself staring at you. You were in the recording booth, headphones on, singing one of his demos meant for another female artist. The glow of the studio lights softened your features, and your focused expression drew him in more than it should have. His music engineer called his name, snapping him out of his thoughts, but Jihoon's eyes lingered on you for a moment longer. You glanced up through the glass, catching his gaze, and he quickly looked away, hoping you hadn't noticed.

"Are you okay, oppa? You seem... distracted," your voice crackled through the intercom, gentle but curious.

Jihoon leaned forward, pressing the talk button, masking his flustered state with a calm tone. "I'm fine. Just a bit tired. How about trying that line once more, Y/n?"

You nodded, adjusting your headphones and taking a breath before singing again. Your voice flowed smoothly, each note perfectly placed, your delivery effortless but full of heart. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes locked on you as you sang. It was a flawless take, but his mind wasn’t on the technicalities anymore.

He used to feel nothing but pride when hearing your voice — pride in your technique, your breathing, the way you controlled every note with precision. You’d always had that spark, even as a trainee, and he'd seen it from the beginning. Every time he heard you sing, he'd felt it — pride. Just pride.

But now, there was something more.

His chest felt warmer than it should have. The rise and fall of your voice, the slight quiver at the end of a sustained note, the way your eyes stayed focused on the lyrics in front of you — it all felt personal. Intimate. Like you were singing to him, just him, even though it wasn’t even a love song.

His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. What is this feeling? It wasn’t pride, at least not the kind he was used to. This was something else entirely, something that crept in without permission. His heart felt oddly light, yet unsteady, like it was tiptoeing on a fragile edge.

He glanced at the music engineer, pretending to focus on the control board. But in reality, his mind was stuck on you — your voice, your presence, and that inexplicable warmth spreading in his chest.

Why do I feel like this?

The song ended. You glanced at him, your head tilted, waiting for feedback. He pressed the button again, his voice coming out steadier than he expected. "That was perfect. Let’s keep that take."

"Okay, oppa." You smiled, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

His heart did something strange. Something unfamiliar.

Fluttering?

No, that couldn’t be it. It shouldn’t be it. But as you removed your headphones, flashing him one last smile before stepping out of the booth, he knew it was too late to deny it.

He wasn't just proud of you anymore.

He was falling for you.

*

You found yourself in a whirlwind of confusion as your phone buzzed non-stop with notifications. At first, you thought it was some group chat chaos, but it didn't take long to realize it was something much bigger. Your social media follower count had shot up drastically, and it wasn’t slowing down. Annoyed but curious, you muted the notifications and scrolled through the mentions.

One message from a friend caught your eye. It was a link to a short clip from the HYBE Producing Camp Documentary — the event you attended a month ago. It had been a major industry event featuring global producers collaborating with HYBE's own producers and idol-composers. You’d thought nothing of it at the time, just another chance to grow and network. But apparently, that one clip of you had gone viral.

"The Pretty Producer of Sheice."

That was the title plastered across multiple posts and video edits. Clips of you talking, working on a beat, or simply smiling in the background had been cut and edited with captions praising your visuals and youthful look. Comments flooded in.

"She’s so pretty, why isn’t she in the group??"

"She looks younger than some of producers."

"Wait, she's a main producer? Are you kidding me? Goals."

You froze. It wasn’t exactly bad attention, but it felt... off. Too much. Too fast. You immediately put your account on private, heart racing as you reviewed your posts. Thankfully, it was all clean — just travel shots, song credits, and random hangouts with friends. Still, it felt like someone had opened a window into your private life without warning.

The teasing started the moment you walked into the studio.

"Ah, look who's here. The Pretty Producer of Sheice has arrived!" Bumzu announced with a grin as soon as you sat down.

You rolled your eyes, unpacking your laptop. "Don’t start, oppa."

"Oh, but why not? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime title. ‘The Pretty Producer of Sheice’ — it even sounds like a K-drama," he teased, leaning in with a playful smirk. "You should print it on your business card."

You tried to brush it off, but the more you ignored him, the worse it got. Bumzu was relentless when he sensed weakness.

"Honestly, if they’d just put you in the group, you’d have been the visual and the main vocal. What a waste, huh?"

That comment hit deeper than he probably intended. Your eyes lowered, fingers fiddling with the corner of your notepad. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I'm sorry… I didn’t debut," you muttered, your voice quieter than usual.

The shift in mood was immediate. Bumzu blinked, his teasing smile fading into surprise.

"Ah… I didn’t mean it like that," he said, his tone full of regret. "I crossed the line. I’m sorry."

You shook your head quickly, your chest tightening. "No, it’s not you. I should’ve worked harder back then."

Bumzu stared at you for a moment, his jaw tensing like he wanted to argue. He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s not on you. None of that was on you."

You didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say. The past was the past, and no amount of "what ifs" would change it. But guilt was a stubborn companion, one that didn’t leave just because someone told it to.

Bumzu glanced toward the door, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the conversation. He wasn’t good with serious moments like this, but he cared. You knew that much.

"I’m heading out for a sec," he muttered, walking toward the hall.

As he opened the door, he nearly bumped into Jihoon, who was holding a plastic bag in one hand and his phone in the other. His eyes darted between Bumzu and the room behind him.

"Oh, hyung? Wanna join us for lunch?" Jihoon raised the bag with a light smile, oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere.

Bumzu put a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder, stopping him. "Don’t go in there yet. Give it ten minutes."

Jihoon tilted his head, confused. "Why?"

"Just… trust me." Bumzu gave him a pat on the back before walking off.

Jihoon frowned, glancing toward the studio door, but he didn’t go in. Instead, he leaned against the wall, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly as he waited. Ten minutes never felt so long.

You pulled your hoodie over your head the moment Jihoon stepped into the studio. Quick and quiet, you shoved the crumpled tissues from the table to the farthest corner, like they could disappear if you just pushed hard enough. You coughed—loud and deliberate—rubbing your nose to sell the act before glancing at him.

"Hey, oppa," you greeted, forcing a casual smile.

Jihoon paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you. His gaze lingered on your face longer than usual, like he could see through every little move you’d made to hide yourself.

"You caught a cold?" he asked, stepping further in.

You nodded, still rubbing your nose. "Yeah, but don’t worry, it’s not contagious." You tried to sound convincing, but your voice cracked a little at the end.

Jihoon shrugged, pulling out the food he’d brought along. The faint aroma of warm soup and rice filled the room as he set it on the table. "Should’ve told me. I would’ve gotten you some porridge."

He glanced at you once more before unwrapping the utensils, eyes still cautious, still watchful. You knew that look. Jihoon wasn't the type to press you for answers, but he wasn't clueless either.

"What's up with you and Bumzu hyung?" he asked casually, opening the lid of his soup.

"Nothing serious. Just… song stuff," you mumbled, hoping that would be enough.

Jihoon paused, side-eyeing you as he stirred the soup with his spoon. "Hyung told me to wait outside for ten minutes."

Your eyes twitched, knowing exactly where this was going.

"And I waited," he continued flatly, tilting his head toward you. "So, what's wrong?"

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your hoodie sleeves. It was stupid, you thought. No reason to make a big deal out of it. But Jihoon was still staring at you like he had all day to wait.

"He joked about me debuting with Sheice," you finally admitted, eyes locked on the food in front of you. "It was just a joke, but it kind of… crossed the line, I guess."

Jihoon hummed, lips pursed in thought. "Yeah, I could see how that'd be awkward," he said, nodding slowly.

"It’s not like it really bothers me anymore," you said, more to convince yourself than him. "But sometimes I think… maybe he still feels guilty about it. I don’t want him to think he failed me or something. He did everything he could."

Jihoon set his spoon down and leaned back, his eyes on you again. They weren’t sharp this time, just steady. Calm.

"Do you think he still sees you that way?" Jihoon asked.

"I don’t know." You exhaled slowly, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling. "But sometimes, I feel like people still do. Like, they pity me because I didn’t debut. I don't want that." You glanced at him then, something raw in your eyes. "Do you feel sorry for me, oppa?"

Jihoon blinked once, twice, like it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard. He snorted, picking up his spoon again.

"Why would I pity you?" he said simply. "You’re an amazing composer. If anything, I should pity myself for having to compete with you."

That startled a laugh out of you, soft but real. "Compete? With me?"

"Yeah." He raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "Look at how fast you’ve grown. If we compare how long we’ve both been in the industry, you’re catching up to me too fast."

A grin tugged at your lips, warmth spreading through your chest. "Then, thank you, sunbae," you said with a playful bow, calling him the title of a senior in the industry.

Jihoon waved it off, shaking his head like it physically hurt him. "Don’t do that. Just eat before it gets cold."

You chuckled, grabbing a spoon and opening your own container. The steam hit your face, warm and comforting. You stirred it a little before taking a small sip, sighing at the familiar taste.

"By the way," Jihoon said suddenly, his voice casual but steady. "Debut or no debut, you would’ve been great either way."

You glanced up, caught off guard.

He met your gaze, eyes clear and sure. "You’re too good to be held back by something like that. You're already doing amazing things now."

His words sat in the air for a moment, slow and deliberate, like they were meant to be heard, remembered, and tucked away. Your face felt hot, and it wasn't from the steam rising from the soup.

"Thank you, oppa," you muttered, hiding behind another spoonful of rice.

Jihoon tilted his head, watching you for a second longer before returning to his food. "No need to thank me. Just the truth."

But you kept your head down, eating quietly as your heart thudded a little louder than it should have.

*

Your heart pounded harder with each second, panic settling deep in your chest. You couldn't find it — the letter. The letter that held years of feelings and the one thing you swore you'd never let anyone see.

Your hands tore through your bag for the third time, fingers digging into every pocket, but it wasn’t there. Your breathing quickened. Think. Think. Where did you last have it? Your mind replayed the past few days in flashes.

I put it in my bag, didn’t I?

Your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest. You stood, pacing back and forth in your small apartment before you made a decision. The company. It has to be there.

The moment you stepped into the quiet, dimly lit company building, you felt the weight of the silence pressing on you. It was nearly 3 a.m., the kind of hour where ghosts of mistakes haunted you the loudest. Every creak of your footsteps echoed down the halls as you retraced your daily route. Your eyes scanned the floors like you were searching for a dropped contact lens, desperate for any sign of the letter.

Where could it be?

Panic rose higher. If anyone finds it… You didn’t even want to finish the thought. It wasn’t just your name on that letter. It had his name too.

You stopped walking, closing your eyes for a second as you felt your heart clench. You knew exactly whose name was scrawled inside that letter. Lee Jihoon.

A confession letter. The one you wrote years ago as a trainee but never had the courage to give him. Somehow, instead of throwing it away like a normal, rational person, you kept it like it was some kind of sentimental treasure. A reminder of those fleeting moments when you believed in things like "what if."

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Okay. Think. Where did you take your bag?

Your eyes shot open.

His studio.

Your stomach twisted into a knot. The worst possible place for a lost love letter. If Jihoon found it... No, no, no. Your feet spun you around, and you half-ran, half-speed-walked straight to his studio. The hallway stretched longer than usual, each step filled with growing dread.

Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked.

When you finally arrived, you tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Locked. It meant you couldn’t search, but it also meant he might be the one to find it. You pressed your forehead against the cool metal of the door, closing your eyes as you mumbled, "Why did I have to keep that stupid letter?"

You stayed there for a moment, face buried in your hands. It was too much. If he read it, if he knew you’d been crushing on him for years, you’d never be able to face him again. Forget quitting the company—you'd have to leave the country.

You went home that night but didn’t sleep. Your mind was a constant loop of what ifs and he’s going to find it. You called in sick the next day, and the day after that too. You were too paralyzed with embarrassment to step foot into the company. You lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, hoping, praying that no one would text you with "OMG, did you write this?" or "You dropped something important, lol."

But there was silence. No texts from Jihoon. No invites for lunch. No coffee requests. No random desserts dropped off at your studio.

That’s not like him.

Your heart sank.

Was he avoiding you? Did he already find it?

You buried your face in a pillow, letting out a groan so loud it echoed in your small apartment. Why am I like this? You scolded yourself, biting your lip as you tried not to spiral further.

You should’ve burned it. The day they told you that you wouldn’t debut, you should’ve set it on fire and watched it turn to ash. But no, you kept it like a fool, like a keepsake of dreams that were never meant to be.

Tears of frustration pricked at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and let your mind drift to the past, to the day you met Lee Jihoon for the first time.

He wasn’t like the other producers. Everyone knew him as the genius behind Seventeen’s hits, but he didn’t carry himself like someone with that much success. He was humble. He'd visit the trainees during evaluations and offer advice, not just on vocals but on mental strength too. "Don’t be too hard on yourself. Progress isn’t always fast, but it’s still progress," he’d said once, looking right at you.

You remembered that moment too vividly. His eyes were sharp but kind, his tone firm but gentle. He never talked down to any of you, never made anyone feel small. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t owe anyone his time. But he did it anyway.

That’s when it started, you realized. That’s when I started falling for him.

You had tried to crush it—tried to leave it behind when you left the trainee life. But love, it seemed, was a stubborn thing. It stayed with you. It followed you into every recording session, every lunch break where he'd pop in with a "What are you eating today?" It lingered in every glance you stole at him when he got too caught up in work to notice anyone else was watching.

And now, after all that, he might know.

You let out another groan, curling into a ball on your bed. Please, please, please, don't let him find it. Don't let him know.

But as you lay there, face buried in the blanket, your phone buzzed. You ignored it at first, too emotionally exhausted to care. It buzzed again. You reached out, grabbed it, and squinted at the screen.

It was from Jihoon.

"You feeling better?"

Your heart stopped for a beat. Then, it kicked up double-time.

Is he asking just because I haven’t been in? you wondered. Or is this about the letter?

You stared at the message like it might explode. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, second-guessing every response you could possibly send. Should you pretend nothing was wrong? Should you ask him directly?

Finally, you typed back,

"Yeah, just needed a break. Thanks for checking in."

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen, waiting, dreading, hoping he wouldn’t bring it up. But seconds later, his reply popped up.

"Okay. Come eat with me tomorrow."

Your heart jumped. Does that mean he didn’t find it?

Or worse—did it mean he did find it and was waiting for you to confess?

You flopped back onto the bed, phone on your chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. No sleep for you tonight, that was for sure.

*

“I saw it.”

Jihoon’s words hit you like a bolt of lightning. You froze, your body stiffening as you sat on the couch. Your eyes darted to him, heart thudding so loud it echoed in your ears. He saw it?

“Y-You did?!” you blurted, sitting up so fast you nearly gave him a heart attack. His eyes widened in surprise at your sudden outburst. He hadn’t expected that kind of reaction from you.

Jihoon watched you with mild confusion as you rubbed your face aggressively, letting out a muffled groan that sounded oddly like a character from an anime. Your face was flushed, a deep red spreading across your cheeks, and you refused to meet his eyes.

"You okay? You look kinda… flustered," he asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyes scanning you like you might be running a fever.

You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly shouted, "I am!" Your hands shot into the air in a dramatic fist-pumping motion.

He blinked at you, entirely thrown off by your antics.

"When did you see it?" you asked in a rush, your voice laced with nerves.

"This morning," he replied casually, watching for your reaction.

You groaned like the world was crumbling around you, burying your face in your hands as you muttered something incoherent. Your words came out so fast and garbled that he could barely understand you. It was like you were speaking in fast-forward while trying to sink into the couch cushions to disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered, peeking out from behind your hands, only to bury yourself back in. "I have no courage to face you. I should've burned it. I should've burned it."

Jihoon blinked in confusion, tilting his head. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

You lifted your head, your eyes wide with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “Don’t act like you don’t know! You saw it! I sent you so many letters before! How could you tell me not to worry after you saw it?!”

“…Letters?” Jihoon leaned back, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. His head tilted as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

He was about to mention your viraled video from the producing camp month ago. He saw it this morning.

"Yes, the letters!" you said, your voice higher than usual. "The ones I used to leave near the bathroom! I sent them for you, Jihoon! For you!"

His eyes squinted as if his brain had finally caught up. Slowly, his eyes widened. "Wait. You were the one sending those letters?"

You didn’t answer, but the silence was all he needed. His gaze shifted to his desk, and then, like a lightbulb switching on, his expression changed. His eyes darted to the small box on his shelf—the one filled with old, unopened envelopes he’d kept for years.

“These?” he asked, walking to the desk and pulling out the box. He lifted it, glancing between you and the letters as realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Your eyes widened in horror, your breath caught in your throat. "You kept them?!"

He turned toward you, his lips twitching with something between shock and disbelief. “You mean… these letters were from you?” He opened the box, pulling out one of the older letters, his fingers carefully brushing over the familiar handwriting. He could almost hear your voice in his head now, realizing that the tone of the letters, the way certain phrases were written—it was you. It had always been you.

Jihoon looked back at you, his voice soft with wonder. “All this time… you were the one sending these?”

You buried your face in your hands, your whole body curling into the couch like a ball. Your ears burned red, and you muttered, “Yes, yes, it was me, okay? I’m sorry. I was young and stupid. I thought it was cute back then.” Your voice cracked with embarrassment. “I thought I could be bold through paper, but I couldn’t say a single thing to your face.”

Jihoon blinked, his gaze softening as he stared at you. Her? he thought to himself. All those letters he used to read when he was exhausted, those kind words that gave him strength when he was burnt out. The sender was you. You.

He placed the box on the table and picked up the envelope you'd pulled from under the couch earlier—the one that had started this whole mess, when you realized he wasn't talking about the letter then you had searched for it around his studio. His fingers moved to open it, his eyes darting to you for permission.

You saw his intent and bolted upright. "Wait, don't read that one!" You reached for it, but he quickly lifted it out of reach, his eyes narrowing playfully.

"Why not?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement now.

"Because!" you yelled, grabbing for it as he lifted it higher. "It's different from the others! Just give it back!"

"Different how?" he teased, still holding it above his head like he was holding candy away from a child. “More heartfelt? More honest?”

“Oppa!” you pleaded, standing on your toes, your hands gripping his arm in desperation.

But it was too late. He had already opened the envelope and pulled out the neatly folded letter. His eyes scanned the page, his playful smirk slowly disappearing with each line he read. His lips parted as his eyes moved slowly across the words, soaking in every single confession, every single feeling you'd buried in the ink.

I’ve liked you since the first day I saw you. I’ve tried to stop, I really did, but you kept being kind. You kept being you.

His heart pounded. His fingers tightened around the paper. His throat felt dry.

If you’re reading this, I’m either braver than I’ve ever been or the most cowardly I’ve ever felt. Because I never had the courage to tell you to your face. So this letter is my last attempt. I’m sorry it took me so long.

Jihoon swallowed the lump in his throat. His heart felt too big for his chest, like it might burst from the sheer weight of what he’d just read.

He looked at you. You stood there, eyes squeezed shut, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. You were biting your lip, your face still stained red with embarrassment.

"All this time…” he whispered, his eyes never leaving you. “You’ve liked me since then?"

You didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. You just stood there, eyes squeezed shut like a kid waiting for the storm to pass.

“Do you still like me now?” he asked softly, stepping toward you. His voice was so gentle it barely registered at first. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t mocking. It was… sincere.

Your eyes slowly opened, and you looked up at him, lips parting in surprise.

He took another step toward you, now close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. His eyes searched yours for an answer. “Do you still like me?”

You bit your lip, eyes darting to the side. You’d come this far—might as well jump off the cliff now.

“…Yes,” you whispered. Your eyes flickered back to him like you were bracing for rejection. “I still do.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Silence hung in the air, heavy but not uncomfortable. Jihoon’s gaze softened, his lips tugging into a small, thoughtful smile.

"You're such an idiot," he said with a small laugh, his eyes crinkling with warmth.

Your heart stopped. "Excuse me?!"

"I mean, you could’ve just told me," he said, taking another step forward, so close you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “You think I’m scary or something?”

“Back then, yes!” you blurted, cheeks heating up. “You are Woozi of Seventeen! You were the genius idol-producer. Who was I supposed to be?”

His eyes searched yours like he was seeing you for the first time. “You were you,” he said, his voice so soft it made your breath hitch. His gaze flickered to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. “And you’re still you.”

He lifted the letter slightly. "Do you want me to burn this?"

You nodded weakly, still not trusting yourself to speak.

"Too bad," he said, tucking it into his pocket.

"Hey—!"

"I’m keeping it," he said firmly, his eyes locking on yours. "I’m keeping all of them."

This time, it was Jihoon’s face that turned a little red. His gaze dropped, but his smile lingered.

“Call it my treasure.”

*

The recording studio buzzed with quiet excitement as the final track of Seventeen’s upcoming album played through the speakers. It was a masterpiece—a blend of styles and sounds that showcased every member’s unique color. But there was something else everyone noticed.

Your name.

There it was, listed as a contributor on almost every track. It wasn’t the first time you’d worked on Seventeen’s albums, but this was different. Your involvement was undeniable, and the members couldn’t resist poking fun at Jihoon for it.

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, his grin wide as ever. “Looks like you don’t need Bumzu hyung anymore, huh?” His voice was full of mischief, his eyes locked on Jihoon.

“I need him!” Jihoon shot back, sitting up straight, his eyes darting toward Bumzu as if to prove his point. “Don’t twist it, Mingyu.”

But it was too late. That one comment had already ignited a chain reaction.

“Yeah, right,” Seungkwan snorted from across the room, his legs kicked up on the armrest of the couch. “Hyung’s been acting brand new ever since she started showing up in the credits.” He made air quotes around she as if it wasn’t already clear who he meant.

“Next thing you know, Jihoon will start writing love songs,” Joshua teased, his smile too innocent to be trustworthy.

“Check the tracklist,” Jeonghan chimed in, scrolling on his phone with a knowing smirk. “He already did.”

The room erupted into laughter. Even Seokmin, who was trying to stay professional, ended up doubling over, clutching his stomach.

Jihoon’s ears turned red almost instantly, and he pressed his back against the couch, arms crossed, sinking as low as possible. “Y’all are so annoying.”

“Oh, we’re annoying?” Soonyoung cackled, standing up to point an accusatory finger at him. “You’ve been humming that one hook for weeks, and I thought it was just some random melody. But nope! Turns out it’s a love letter disguised as a chorus!”

“Shut up.” Jihoon threw a pillow at him, but Soonyoung dodged it with ease, his laughter only getting louder.

Mingyu, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned forward on the table, resting his chin in his hands like he was about to spill some tea. “I mean, it makes sense now. Y’know, after that news.”

Everyone knew exactly what that was.

It had been months since Soonyoung made his now-infamous declaration in their group chat. He sent a long written-text claimed it by TigerNews, complete with a dramatic “🔥BREAKING NEWS🔥” articles in their group chat.

Soonyoung had 'officially announced' the relationship with a fake headline that read, 'Seventeen’s Woozi and Rising Producer Y/N Confirm Relationship in Exclusive Interview with TigerNews' — complete with dramatic quotes and a grainy, zoomed-in photo of you two at the company cafe.

The chat had gone wild. Memes were shared. Jokes were made. No one was spared.

“Congratulations, Romeo and Juliet!”

Minghao had typed with so many heart emojis it made the whole chat lag.

“Don’t embarrass them, hyung.”

Seungkwan had written right after, only to follow up with,

“Actually, never mind. EMBARRASS THEM.”

Needless to say, the teasing had been relentless ever since.

“Honestly,” Jeonghan drawled, flipping his phone like it was nothing, “this whole time, I was suspicious. My detective work was getting exhausting.”

“Detective work?” Seokmin scoffed. “You were just being nosy.”

“And I was right,” Jeonghan fired back, tossing a gummy bear into his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Back in the present, Bumzu leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes locked on Jihoon. Unlike the others, his teasing had a sharper edge. "He actually does need me," Bumzu said with a grin so sly it could cut glass.

“See?” Jihoon pointed at him like Bumzu was his last lifeline. “Exactly!”

But Bumzu wasn’t done. “He needs me to make sure he keeps his hands to himself.”

The entire room went silent for half a second before absolute chaos broke loose. Seungkwan’s scream echoed like an airhorn. Mingyu banged on the table, his laughter so loud it could be heard in the hallway. Soonyoung was on the floor, rolling around like he’d just seen the funniest thing of his life.

“NOOOO—!” Jihoon’s face burned bright red, his hands flying up to cover his eyes. He sank so low into the couch it looked like he was trying to disappear into the cushions. "I'M LEAVING!" he declared, attempting to get up, but Mingyu shoved him back down.

“Stay right there, hyung.” Mingyu grinned like a cat that just cornered a mouse. “We’re not done.”

Jeonghan leaned in, his eyes practically glittering with mischief. “So tell me, Jihoon, how long have you been ‘needing’ Bumzu hyung's supervision?”

“SHUT. UP.” Jihoon threw his second pillow, but Jeonghan caught it with one hand like it was nothing.

“Ohoho, look at him!” Seokmin gasped, pointing like he’d seen a rare species in the wild. “Look at his face! Redder than a cherry!”

Bumzu leaned forward, his grin widening. “You know, if you just admitted it, they’d probably leave you alone.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Jihoon shot back, glaring at him with the intensity of a supernova.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bumzu laughed, tossing a piece of candy into his mouth. “But it’s still funny.”

For the next few minutes, the teasing didn’t let up. Everyone had something to say, whether it was about your name in the credits or Jihoon’s ‘secret’ love songs. They teased him about how much you were in his head, how his melodies were sounding “suspiciously romantic” lately, and how even his synth choices had more "color" than before.

Jihoon sat there, his face a permanent shade of red, trying not to combust. He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head up toward the ceiling, eyes closed like he was begging the universe to end his suffering.

"How am I supposed to survive this in the future?" he muttered to himself.

Bumzu clapped him on the shoulder, his grin far too wide. "Oh, buddy, this is just the beginning."

"Please stop," Jihoon groaned. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Nah,” Bumzu said, shaking his head. “I’m on her side now.”

The room burst into chaos once again, and Jihoon could only bury his face in his hands, wondering how he’d survive the next album.

The end.

[el4mars]

THIS IS A MUST TO READ Y'ALL!! I LOVE IT🫶🫶

[magpie1817]

HABADU DADDU CHEOL 🍒

[el4mars]

30 looks so good on him yall!

[magpie1817]

help me save me from this seokgyu 🙂‍↔️ … (or not)

[sngj08]

Beneath That Old Tree

synopsis: during the japanese occupation in the philippines, a japanese soldier fell for a filipina

themes & warnings: angst, historical fiction, war, forbidden love trope, poetic(?) and hidden meanings, good lit. and history practice

𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i did this for 3hrs than reviewing for exams so i hope you guys like this lol

Walking along the plaza with the sun blazing down on the pavement as I overheard raising voices by the gazebo. A crowd gathered as many of faces had their eyebrows furrowed frustration and heat. While at the center stood a stern officer as his voice cut sharply through the humid air.

“You guys have to follow the decency rules given to the country!” he scans the crowd.

Beside him was another officer. He kept a steady gaze at the same crowd with a tensed up posture as he writes on his small booklet in his hands.

"Napaka problema naman yung mga Hapon.[The Japanese is causing a commotion again]" my friend said annoyed as we both continued to watch the commotion from a far.

The commanding officer turned sharply as us, pointing a rigid finger toward a young man in the crowd. “Silence!”

The second officer looked up from his booklet as your gaze locked with his. His eyes glint under the heavy rays of the sun.

A sudden murmur swept through the crowd as the tension thickened. I took a hesitant step forward, almost as if drawn by an invisible thread.

The second officer caught my movement. For a heartbeat. His gaze softened, and gave the faintest nod.

But the moment shattered when the commanding officer barked, “Don't meddle into this commotion ladies! Step back.”

I withdrew quickly, heart pounding, yet unable to forget the warmth that flickered behind the other one’s eyes.

---

It was just past sundown when the world began to hush.

The streets of the town were cloaked in that blue hush of twilight, the kind that softened the harsh lines of the torn buildings like it made the world seems kind again. The curfew bell had long since tolled, sending families scurrying indoors behind shuttered windows and drawn curtains.

But I remained outside just a little longer, walking slowly along the side walk. I didn’t know what exactly I was waiting for—but my heart kept me there. It was beating hard, thudding against my ribs with each quiet step.

Then I saw him.

He appeared from the side alley like a shadow pulled from the soft, amber spill of the lamp—his uniform jacket slightly undone, the cap tucked under one arm. His steps were quick, nearly silent, but the gravel gave him away.

He saw me before I could fully look up to meet his eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked as his voice carried a sharpness, it was laced more with concern than reprimand. “It’s past curfew. It’s not safe out here.”

I blinked at him, as my fingers tightening slightly around the hem of my shawl.

“Oh… sorry,” I said in a hushed voice, almost like I'd startled yourself by being there.

I looked down for a moment, brushing my fingers together, as if the cold air had given me something to do.

His jaw clenched, and he glanced over his shoulder instinctively before stepping closer. “You shouldn’t risk. If anyone sees you—”

“They won’t,” I whispered, standing still despite the tension humming through the street. “They’re all asleep. Or pretending to be.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

He glanced over his shoulder warily, then back to me, voice softened. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be alone.”

I nodded, looking down but feeling the weight of his gaze still on me. The night was still, thick with unspoken tension and a strange, fragile hope brushed against the wind.

The silence between me stretched just long enough for the world to feel still—until a sharp voice pierced the quiet night.

“Sergeant! Where are you?”

He stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the direction of the commanding officer’s call, tension suddenly snapping back into his posture.

“I have to go,” he murmured reluctantly, stepping back a few paces. His gaze found mine one last time, serious and almost pleading.

“I want to talk… properly. Tomorrow. At the edge of the market, near the old banyan tree. When the sun hasn’t fully risen yet.”

I blinked, heart quickening despite the fear curling in my stomach.

“Will you come?” he asked quietly, voice low enough so only I could hear.

“Sergeant!"

I nodded before I even realized it, the promise in his eyes too compelling to refuse.

“Good,” he said, and with a final glance, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing alone beneath the pale light of a flickering kerosene lamp.

The weight of the night settled around you as you turned away, already counting the hours until dawn.

I slipped quietly through the narrow streets, careful not to be seen. The flicker of kerosene lamps cast long shadows on the walls as I hurried home, heart still pounding from the strange encounter.

Inside, the house was dark and still, but the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet betrayed your presence. I paused at the doorway, catching the worried faces of my parents in the dim hallway.

“Bakit kapa nasa labas! Alam mo naman may curfew![Why are you still out? You know about the curfew!]” my mother whispered, her voice thick with concern.

“Hindi naman sila nakita[They didn’t see me]” I replied softly, brushing past them before they could say more.

Upstairs, in the quiet refuge of my room, I closed the door gently behind me. The familiar scent of worn wood and faded perfume wrapped around me, but it did little to calm my restless thoughts.

I laid on the woven mat as the day’s heat still clinging to my skin, and stared at the ceiling.

His eyes—dark, conflicted, but gentle. The way he looked at me, like I were the only thing that mattered in a sea of chaos. The promise in his voice to meet again.

Endless thoughts and my mind raced, weaving stories and questions I couldn’t answer. Who was he, really? Why did his presence unsettle yet comfort me? And what danger hovered just beyond the edges of this fragile moment?

I clenched my fists, a mix of fear and longing swirling inside.

Tomorrow, at dawn. Near the banyan tree.

Should I go?

-----

The next morning, before the sun had stretched its light across the sky, I rose quietly. Wrapped in a shawl against the cool dawn, I made my way to the edge of the market where the old banyan tree stood—its thick roots twisting like ancient fingers into the earth.

I arrived early, heart fluttering with nerves and anticipation, eyes scanning the quiet street.

Then, from the shadows, he appeared... uniform still neat but the weight of the night visible in his tired eyes. He gave a small nod, relief and something unspoken passing between me as he stepped closer.

The day had not yet begun, but in that moment, time seemed to pause, holding space for the beginning of something neither of us fully understood.

He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “You came,” he said simply, a quiet statement filled with relief and something softer—gratitude, maybe.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” I admitted “But… I wanted to.”

He gave a small, almost shy smile. “This place feels safer. Away from prying eyes.”

I nodded, glancing up at the sprawling branches overhead, their leaves whispering softly in the morning breeze. The world was still waking up around us both, but here, beneath the banyan tree, it felt like our own secret space.

“I’m Riki,” he said after a pause, extending a hand.

I hesitated, then took it gently. “And I’m Yn.”

The name felt strange and new, yet somehow right.

Riki’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned against the tree trunk. “So, you’re a mysterious night wanderer. Do you always sneak out after curfew, or am I special?”

I smirked, folding my arms. “Maybe I just like testing the rules. Or maybe I was hoping to run into a certain grumpy officer.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Grumpy? I’m practically a ray of sunshine.”

“Sure, if sunshine came with a scowl and a clipboard,” I teased.

Riki’s smile widened. “Fair enough. But what really kept you out last night? Didn’t your parents ground you already?”

I rolled my eyes. “Parents? Please. They wouldn’t do anything if I turned into a ghost.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A ghost, huh? So should I be worried about haunted barracks now?”

I nudged him playfully. “Only if you start talking to yourself.”

He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Alright, I admit it—I’m curious about you, Yn. What’s your story?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe that’s a story for another night. But I promise, it’s worth the wait.”

Riki nodded slowly, eyes glinting with interest. “I think this is the start of something interesting.”

I purse my lip to hide your laugh, feeling the thrill of the unknown between us.

He leaned back against the rough bark, the morning light filtering through the leaves above. The quiet rustle of the banyan tree was the only sound as the two of you savored the moment.

“So,” Riki said, eyes sparkling with teasing intent, “if you were a ghost, what kind would you be? Mischievous? Scary? Or just… utterly charming?”

I smirked, nudging him lightly. “Definitely charming. But only for those who deserve it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like a rare ghost.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And what about you? What kind of ghost haunts these parts?”

He grinned. “The kind that’s bad at following orders but good at keeping secrets.”

I smile softened, and for a heartbeat, the weight of the world felt lighter.

Then, from the shadows of the path, a sharp voice called out. “Riki! Where are you?”

He glanced toward the voice, tension flickering in his eyes. “That’s the commander.”

I sighed softly, disappointment flickering through your chest.

He turned back to me, his smile bittersweet. “I have to go, but… I want to see you again. Tomorrow, same time, same place?”

I nodded quickly. “I’ll be here.”

He gave my hand a quick squeeze before slipping away toward the voice calling him back into duty.

As the footsteps faded, I stayed beneath the banyan tree, heart fluttering with hope and anticipation.

-----

After a few other mornings, the usual morning broke gently over the town, casting soft gold over the rooftops and trees. I moved quietly, slipping my shawl over my shoulders as my hand reached for the door latch—hoping to make it out unnoticed.

But my mother’s voice rang out from behind me, sharp as a slap. “Anong ginagawa mo? Saan ka na naman pupunta nang ganitong oras?[What are you doing? Where are you going at this time of day?]”

I froze. “I just… needed air,” I mumbled.

“Air? Habang gising pa ang mga sundalo sa labas? Hija, ayoko ng problema. Don’t think I don’t notice you disappearing these past mornings.[When the soldiers are outside? I don't want any problems]”

My father appeared in the doorway, folding his arms as his gaze swept over me with worry. “You need to be more careful, anak. You think people won’t talk? The neighbors already whisper.”

“I’ll just walk a little,” I said softly, avoiding their eyes. “I promise. No one will see.”

My mother sighed, eyes tight. “Bumalik ka agad. Don’t make us worry again.[Just go back her quickly]”

I gave a small nod, and the door creaked open behind me as I slipped out into the light of day.

By the time you reached the edge of the tree, the sun had just begun to melt the dew off the grass. The old tree came into view—tall and quiet, its shade offering a sense of hush against the hum of the world.

There, beneath its boughs, stood Riki.

His posture was tense, hands clasped behind his back, pacing ever so slightly.

When he saw me, his shoulders dropped in visible relief.

“You’re late,” he said quickly, voice low but thick with worry. “I thought—” he paused, swallowing, but the silence spoke for itself.

I approached slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “My mother caught me,” I admitted. “She said people have started to notice.”

Riki exhaled and looked away for a moment, jaw tight. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. It’s dangerous. But… when you didn’t show on time, I—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the emotion lingered between me like breath in the cold.

I stepped closer, voice softer.

“I still came, didn’t I?”

His eyes found mine again, filled with something wordless. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You did.”

A flicker of something passed through his features—relief, maybe, or the hint of a smile fighting the weight he carried. He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled something out—a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.

He hesitated, then gently offered it to me.

“For you,” he said, softer now. “I was going to give this the other day.”

I unfolded it carefully. Inside was a hair accessory—delicate and glinting in the light, carved with simple but elegant floral patterns. It looked like something meant for someone gentler than war would allow.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, turning it over in my hands. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he said firmly. “It remind me of you.”

The wind stirred around us, leaves whispering above, as if holding its breath for the quiet between us.

I was about to respond, to thank him properly, when a voice called from a distance.

“Riki!”

“I have to go,” he said. “But… meet me again tomorrow? Same time as always. Please.”

I nodded without hesitation. “I will.”

But before Riki could step away, the sharp sound of boots crunching through the gravel echoed behind him. We both turned—too late.

The commanding officer had rounded the bend from the path, flanked by two other soldiers. His eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately locked onto the space between us.

“Riki,” he barked, voice clipped with suspicion.

Riki straightened instinctively, slipping his cap under his arm as if nothing were out of place. “Sir, I was just—”

But his pause said too much.

The officer’s gaze slid to me—lingering. His lips curled, not quite a smile. “So this is why you’ve been lingering in strange places lately,”

Riki’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Instead, he gave me the slightest glance, one that spoke louder than any defense.

“Return to your post,” the officer ordered coldly. “Now.”

Riki hesitated just a second too long, until he gave a reply. “Yes, sir.”

As he fell in line with the others, he didn’t look back. But I could feel his worry lingering in the air, even after he disappeared into the line with the others.

I stood frozen for a moment, fingers curling tighter around the gift in my hand. A chill ran up my spine.

---

The days that followed were steeped in silence.

My mother no longer asked where I was going—because she already knew. The commanding officer had gone to our home, his words laced with concern but driven by power. He stood tall at our doorway, explaining in careful, deliberate Tagalog that I was seen "interacting inappropriately" with a Japanese officer. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't have to. His uniform spoke for him.

“She’s too young to understand the danger,” he had said coolly. “I suggest you keep her inside before she causes trouble for herself… or for you.”

Since then, the door had been bolted every morning. My mother barely spoke to me unless it was to scold me. My father, who once looked at me with warmth, now wore an unspoken fear in his eyes.

I tried once—just once—to reach the tree. I crept through the back, slipping between fences and under windows. But by the time I reached the edge of the field, Riki was already gone.

He didn’t come back.

Until one night, after curfew, I heard a soft tap against the back shutter.

I hesitated before opening it just enough—and there he was, cloaked in the shadows, worry etched into every angle of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know he’d report you. I never meant for this.”

His voice was quieter than usual, and more tender. “You shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, eyes darting back into the house.

“That’s why I came. You’re not safe… not here, not anymore.”

He reached for my hand.

“Come with me. Just for tonight.”

I stepped out quietly as the night air cool against my skin. In my hand, I held the delicate gift he had once given me, the hair ornament wrapped in silk and memory.

When Riki saw it, his expression softened into something almost fragile. His eyes, dark beneath the moonlight, shimmered with unspoken emotion.

He reached out gently, his fingertips brushing against mine as he took the ornament from my hand. With a small, tender smile, he stepped closer and tucked it into my hair, letting his fingers linger for a heartbeat longer.

“It suits you,” he murmured, voice low, as if he was afraid the moment might break.

And for a second, everything else—war, orders, danger—faded into silence. There was only me and him under the bright moonlight.

---

The walk was quiet, tense. His hand never left mine.

When we reached the officers' quarters tucked behind the old garrison, he guided me through the side entrance, into a small room that smelled faintly of paper, rain-soaked fabric, and cedar.

It wasn’t much—a cot, a basin, and a low table—but it was safe.

“Stay here,” he said gently, pressing a folded blanket into my hands. “Just until dawn. I have to report for duty, but I’ll be back before first light.”

I nodded slowly, heart pounding, unsure whether it was fear or something deeper.

Before he left, Riki paused at the doorway.

Then, he turned around, stepped back toward me—and wrapped his arms around me tightly, his warm embrace more like a shield than a goodbye.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered into my hair.

And then he was gone.

---

But he wasn’t the only one watching.

Not long after Riki left, I heard the low grumble of voices outside. I shrank back into the corner of the room, but the door was already being forced open.

Three soldiers stepped inside.

“She’s the one,” one of them sneered. “The girl he’s been sneaking around with.”

I tried to run, but one of them blocked my path.

“You shouldn’t have involved him,” he spat.

And then, without warning— The world exploded into searing pain.

A gunshot.

The floor met me harshly, and everything blurred. The shouts, the stomping of boots… and then—

“NO!”

Riki.

His voice tore through the room like a blade. He pushed past the others, eyes wide with horror as he dropped to his knees beside me.

“Riki…” I whispered. “I’m sorry—”

He gathered me into his arms, trembling. His uniform was soaked with my blood, but he didn’t care.

“Medic!” he roared, but no one moved.

The commanding officer stepped forward, unmoved, arms crossed. “This is what happens when you forget your duty.”

Riki stared up at him, hatred like fire in his eyes but he stayed quiet holding my cold body.

---

After that night, nothing was ever the same.

He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. The fire in his eyes dimmed, like a candle flickering low in an empty room.

They demoted him. Called him weak. Useless. Said he’d gone soft.

Stripped of his rank, they told him to leave the quarters. And he did—without protest, without a word. As if he knew there was nothing left worth holding on to.

Riki faded quietly.

A cough, at first. Then a fever that clung to him like a shadow. The other soldiers said it was pneumonia. Or exhaustion.

But deep inside, it was more than that.

It was grief. A soul hollowed by loss. A heart that had nowhere left to rest.

And just like that... he was gone.

But somewhere in the silence, the wind through the trees.

As if, even in death, he stayed beside her—like he promised he would, just once, beneath the shade of that old tree.

++𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i cried while writing this and i keep re-reading it even though i think its unhealthy

w.c: 3.33k

[el4mars]

Saglit lang naman, ohh🤧

[el4mars]

'BOUT ME

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

My name is Daniel, but that does not sound so girly because i was named after my grandfather after my grandfather blackmailed my parents. So here are the nicknames my family and friends call me, feel free to use them:

NICKNAMES:

•Niel

•Ella

•El

•Snoopy(my parents got it from Snoopy Von Peanuts)

•Dino(saur, my forgoten nickname, i was obsessed w/ dinosaurs back then✋️😭)

LANGUAGES AND NATIONALITY:

Im 🇵🇭(Filipino/from the Philippines)

•English

•Tagalog

•Ilocano(dialect)

Learning: Korean

Will learn: German(if i don't get to lazy)

HOBBIES:

•Roller Skate

•Draw/Sketch

•Paint/Oil pastel/Color Pencil

•Badminton

•Collecting

•Read

•Playing Electric or Acoustic Guitar

•Singing

OLD HOBBIES:

• Muay Thai was one of my hobbies back then but stopped after 2 years, so that doesn't really count.

• I also did Tabble Tennis, but after a year i stopped because of pandemic.

• I also love Learning Dances back then but idk what happened really.

BIRTHDAY:

•May, 11•

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[el4mars]

DO AND DON'T

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

MY DO:

• I write something for Fluff, Angst, Suggestive

• I write Suggestive contents such as kissing

• I write/can write non-health friendly scenes such as killings, possesive-obssessive things and more

• I might write something connected to Dark Moon, like the characters

•(more to come...)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

MY DON'T:

• I don't write 18+ contents, because it's kinda awkward when it's me whose writing those kind of scenes

• I don't do member × member, but will probs do love triangle or more in the near future, im not sure yet

•(more to come...)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ EL_4MARS ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[wijyuuruas]

mornings

the sunlight peeked through the small crevice of the curtains that were still shut from last night, illuminating the room in a warm glow of sunrise.

one tick. two ticks.

and soon enough a muffled groan was heard from one of the two present in the small but cozy bedroom.

the male opened his eyes first, slowly as he gathered his bearings after a few minutes to let himself feel more awake.

a moment after, his eyes trailed down to the girl who was comfortably snuggled against him, slow breaths escaping her lips as she slept.

his gaze softened, a small smile gracing his lips as one of his arms that was around her waist slowly and gently moved so as to not wake her up. guiding his own hand to her face, gently brushing her stray strands of hair from her face, lingering a moment longer to gently hold her cheek.

unfortunately, the moment couldnt last as long as he would've preferred, they had plans with their friends later in the afternoon after all.

gently rubbing her cheek, he let out a small hum before speaking up in a hush whisper, voice slightly raspy from having woken up only moments prior.

“mm, sweetheart, it's time to wake up.”

the girl in his arms scrunched her face slightly, stirring a little as she mumbled out a quiet "5...more minutes..." and buried her face further into his chest.

he let out a half-sigh, half-laugh as his fingers were gently carding through her hair. "c'mon sweetheart, we have plans in the afternoon with our later."

he tilted his head down, placing a light kiss on the crown of her head. "sweetheart, you dont wanna keep our friends waiting do you?"

the girl groaned, lifting her head off his chest slightly to sleepily glare up at her boyfriend. "only cause its you, maki." voice hoarse from having just, somewhat, woken up.

maki let out a small chuckle, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, his fingers idly playing with her strands of hair "well aren't you just the sweetest, getting up just cause it's me"

[el4mars]

Ohh to wake up like this and hear this same man call me sweetheart is just chefs kiss😘

(GOD! PLEASE LET ME HAVE MAKI!! I beg you😔)

[el4mars]

Member(?) × Fem!Reader "A day with the little one"

K

Fuma

Nicholas

EJ

Yuma

Jo

Voting ended onMay 10, 2025