i am still here, miss everyone here, just quiet for now. send requests for a fic! i have no ideas, and i want to please you all. "( – ⌓ – ) therefore, i’ll be on a semi hiatus.
keonho is an exceptional smartie. that's not a bad thing.
it's not a bad thing when his grades are superior to the other grades in all his classes. it's not a bad thing when he barely prepares for an exam or finals because his memory is literally superhuman.
and it's definitely not a bad thing when he can remember everything about you.
the brunette-haired male remembers exactly how you like your coffee and all the sweet add-ons you order with it, that soothe your sweet tooth. he knows that you always attempt to keep your room clean—only for it to be mussed with new clothes and laundry the next day. that there's a small beauty mark on your face that not many people acknowledge—which is totally stupid that they don't, he thinks.
he knows that when you don't talk for awhile and flash barely there smiles when you're out somewhere in public that your social battery is draining. or that when you do have all your energy, you become an entirely different person.
keonho loves you but he's too hesitant to tell you that. how can he when he's a nerd and you're you? the prettiest person he's ever encountered in his life. the one who welcomed him into your life with open arms and an addictive, honey-like smile. he's not a match for you, no way.
the black-haired male huffs defeatedly to himself as he stares at you from afar, waiting for you to end your conversation with the swarm of people surrounding you. you're so pretty and all you're doing is just talking to your friends.
keonho fiddles with his fingers as he leans against a wall, biting the inside of his cheek before pushing the black frames of his glasses up his nose-bridge.
he feels so out of place.
keonho’s fingers twitch when you finally laugh—that laugh, the one that sounds like wind chimes and sunshine.
he shouldn’t be staring this hard. it’s creepy. he knows it is.
but then you turn your head slightly, catching his gaze for just a second—and keonho freezes like a deer in headlights, glasses slipping down his nose before he frantically shoves them back up.
your smile softens at him—just a tiny bit—but it hits him like lightning anyway.
oh no.
“keon! come here!” you call him out, being his literal opposite when it comes to socializing.
keonho nearly trips over his own feet rushing toward you. his heart’s pounding like he just ran a marathon—even though all he did was walk ten steps.
“y—yeah?” he stammers, suddenly hyper-aware of how loud everyone around is. your friends are still chattering, laughing.
he keeps his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his uniform pockets—habit—and avoids looking directly at you for too long. if he does… well… then everyone will know.
you’re smiling that gentle smile again—the one that makes him feel like maybe (just maybe) someone as perfect as you could actually see him too.
you gently tug on the sleeve of keonho’s fabric of his shoulder. “keon… you okay? you look kind of red.”
one of your friends giggles. “he always does when you talk to him.”
another chimes in, “he’s down bad and we all see it.”
keonho wants to sink into the floor.
his face burns hotter—oh god they’re right—and now everyone is staring at him with amused eyes while he stands there like a malfunctioning robot, glasses fogging slightly from how hard he's breathing.
"i'm fine," he mumbles too quickly, voice cracking embarrassingly on the last syllable.
end me now.
⸝⸝ ⟡
it all waves off when you let him walk you home afterschool.
the moment you two step away from school grounds, keonho finally exhales—like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. your shoulder brushes against his as you walk side by side, and oh, that small contact sends sparks up his arm.
it’s quiet now. just the sound of footsteps on pavement and distant traffic humming in the background.
he doesn’t talk much at first—just walks close to you, hands still buried in pockets—but then he sneaks a glance over. your profile is so soft under the golden afternoon light.
he wants to hold your hand, and just goes for it. (because if he thinks about it too hard he’ll chicken out) keonho gently reaches for your hand, hesitates; then slowly laces his fingers through yours.
your hand fits perfectly in his.
small, soft, warm—perfect.
keonho’s pulse skyrockets. he didn’t plan this. he didn’t dare dream it would happen today.
but here you are; holding his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his thumb moves on its own—brushing over your knuckles once, twice—nervous and tender at the same time.
he swallows hard, staring straight ahead now because if he looks down at your joined hands—or worse, at you—he might short-circuit completely.
“that’s nice, really nice.” you comment.
you think it's nice.
not weird. not awkward. nice.
that one word echoes in his brain like a victory chime—like he just won the championship, the gold medal, everything.
his lips twitch into a tiny, helpless smile—the kind that lights up his whole face and makes him look ten years younger than usual.
he squeezes your hand gently, then lifts it slightly without letting go (because he can’t bear to) and presses the back of your hand to his cheek for just half a second—a soft kiss through fabric—before quickly pulling away like he did something scandalous.
“yeah, nice.” he muttered to himself.
⸝⸝ ⟡
the walk felt short—too short.
keonho doesn’t want to stop. he never wants this moment to end.
your house comes into view, the familiar porch light already glowing even though it’s still early evening. the flowerpots by the door are blooming with small pink flowers—something you probably planted yourself because you’re always doing sweet little things like that.
he slows his steps without meaning to, dragging his feet just a tiny bit.
his thumb keeps stroking your hand again and again… unconsciously wanting to keep you, he realizes too late—and immediately feels guilty for not wanting to let go when you’ll have to unlock your door soon anyway…
“we’re here,” you say softly, then turn to face up at him.
keonho’s throat goes dry.
you’re standing right in front of him now, eyes soft and searching—looking at him like that—and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. his heart is doing backflips. his palms are sweating. the hand not holding yours curls into a tight fist inside his hoodie pocket.
he should say something normal. anything. ‘see you tomorrow’ or ‘text me later’… but words fail him completely because all he can think about is how close your face is, how pretty your freckles look up this near.
and presses a feather-light curl kiss to your round cheek.
he kissed you.
he kissed you.
not on the mouth—no, he wasn’t that brave—but still… it was a kiss. an actual real-life kiss, however small and innocent it was.
his face erupts into flames. he pulls back instantly like he got shocked, eyes wide behind his glasses as they dart from your cheek to your expression—searching for any sign of disgust or surprise or an ‘ew’
you’re just standing there… blinking slowly… cheeks now turning pink too and then—a tiny smile blooms on your lips again.
that same honey-sweet smile that’s haunted him since day one. “very nice, too.” you giggled.
keonho’s entire body goes numb.
this is not a drill. this is real life and it’s happening to him, keonho, the nerd who overthinks everything and writes love poems in his notebook that he’ll never show anyone.
the corner of his mouth curls up too. a shy, dazed smile that makes him look younger than ever, softer, completely smitten beyond repair. “yeah.. hah.” he half chuckled, leaning onto the rail now to attempt to not go feeble.
as martin walks through the pit lane, he sends a smile toward the swarm of fans held behind the railing. screams of support and awe erupt from the fans and fill up the atmosphere. hands from the crowd stick out with phones and pens in their grasp.
it's a bit overwhelming, especially because this is all happening right before his race, but martin attempts to interact with as many people as he can. he's the sweetest to everyone he sees, acknowledging each person down the line.
—an angel in a ferrari formula one race suit. that's what martin is.
and when he's near the end of the walkway, he notices how you're standing in an empty section with guards separating you from his other fans.
the blond giggles when you pretend to be a fan, asking for his autograph and holding out a sharpie and a polaroid of you two. martin ruffles your hair as he glances at the photo, smiling to the point his eyes become little crescents.
"you're so cute, baby." he says before taking the sharpie from your grasp. using his teeth, he pulls the cap off of the marker and effortlessly sweeps the pen over the vacant spot of the polaroid.
once martin’s done, he puts the cap back onto the sharpie again before handing you that and the now signed polaroid.
"one more." he murmurs, gloved hands cupping the sides of your face. "just for you."
martin plants his soft lips on yours, kissing you sweetly for a few moments. he only remembers where he is when there's a tap on his back, his manager telling them they have to prepare for the race.
"i'll see you later." the tall, blond boy smiles at you, waving goodbye as he trails behind his manager.
a couple hours later, martin enters a secluded part of the pit that's reserved for him and the team.
he's won first place again, of course.
the blond male sighs as he sits down in a chair, taking off the cap, balaclava, and helmet from his head. slivered locks stick to his skin from sweat, dampening his forehead and neck. but of course, martin doesn't look horrible. sweaty and out of breath, he still looks very handsome.
you come pass the security to go find him, with a towel in water. making him tilt his head up and open his mouth for water—he likes being hand fed, anyways. “you were so good out there,” you praise him. “won for me.” you giggle and he laughs along kissing your forehead.
“…first i need to get out of this,” he gestures to his suit, then martin stands up—still sweaty—and peels off that race suit right there in front of you. a simple black athletic shorts and a white tank top clinging to every muscle on him because god, is this man sculpted or what?
“so annoying.” you humor
martin flashes you a tired but warm smile, that dimple appearing on his right cheek—always so cute when it shows up. he pads over to where you're sitting and drops onto the couch beside you with a soft thump. his body sinks into the cushions, completely melting from exhaustion.
he leans sideways and rests his head against your shoulder. warm breath fans across your neck as he sighs deeply—the kind of sigh that carries all the weight of everything he's been through today.
his eyes are already half-lidded, heavy with fatigue. “ya’ and i’m tired.”
martin shifts slightly, his arm sliding around your waist as he pulls you closer. despite being bone-tired, the moment you're within reach, he nuzzles into the curve of your neck—kissing soft pecks there like little drowsy butterflies.
after a few quiet seconds of this sweet gesture—just him loving on you quietly—the blond mumbles something against your skin, “missed you so much today.” his voice is rougher than usual from yelling over engine noises during races.
"i was so nervous before the race," martin admits, his voice still rough but softening as he speaks. "the track was wet in some parts and the conditions were tricky."
he shifts again, turning to fully face you now. one hand lifts to gently brush a strand of your hair behind your ear.
"but i kept thinking about you standing there today with that photo… it made me smile even when i was focused." a small, fond grin spreads across his lips.
“aw yeah? you had a picture, you slyly took it?” you suspiciously look at him.
"mhm," whe nod, reaching into his earlier worn coat pocket.
he unfolds it slightly to show him the photo—a sweet candid of you two from earlier that day before he had to leave for prep. in the picture, martin is mid-laugh with his eyes crinkled shut, one arm around your shoulders while he signs something for another fan.
he stares at it quietly for a second… then his expression softens impossibly more.
“this is so cute,” martin breathes out, gently taking the photo between his fingers like it’s something precious.
martin gently folds the polaroid back and tucks it carefully into his race suit pocket, right over his heart. “keeping this forever,” he says softly, voice warm with sincerity.
✶
that following morning, it was planned to be more active.
the sun was shining brightly over seoul, casting golden light across the bustling streets. the group of formula one drivers—martin included—were dressed casually for a day out after their intense race weekend.
martin walked hand-in-hand with you, his other teammates chatting and laughing ahead. there was a fair occuring too.
they were heading toward hongdae first—a trendy district filled with cafes, boutiques and street food stalls. "what do you wanna do first?" martin asked softly beside your ear as he squeezed your fingers gently
“i… don’t know.” you hummed.
martin's teammates split up as soon as they reached hongdae—some heading into record stores, others toward a tattoo parlor.
after some looking and thinking martin spotted something—a small stall selling handmade leather bracelets with tiny charms dangling from them. his eyes lit up slightly at that discovery.
maybe you guys can handcraft bracelets for each other.
martin's face brightened as he led you toward the bracelet stall, his steps quickening with excitement. the artisan behind the counter—a middle-aged woman with warm eyes—smiled at them when they approached.
“ah! would you both like to make one?” she was already pushing a small wooden bench forward for customers to sit.
martin nodded eagerly and pulled out his wallet without hesitation. "yes, please two," he said before turning back to you with an adorable hopeful look on his face
“what charm should we get?”
“let’s see.” martin studied the charms laid out on a velvet tray—tiny silver racing cars, little hearts, cats, stars.
his eyes immediately zeroed in on the car charm first (of course), but then flicked to a delicate silver keychain with an f for ferrari.
"hm..." he murmured thoughtfully before glancing at you again.
the artisan watched them fondly while preparing two blank leather bracelets. “perfect, love.” you cheesed.
martin's fingers deftly threaded the ferrari charm onto his bracelet, letting it dangle perfectly. he took a moment to admire how sleek and cool it looked against the dark leather.
when the artisan handed you your blank bracelet, martin leaned over slightly—his shoulder brushing yours—to watch what charm you would choose. but you wanted to do something cute for him, as always.
“i’ll make a bracelet out of the car charm, yeah?” you suggested.
martin watched with quiet fascination as you carefully selected a small silver car charm—one sleek and modern-looking. then, to his surprise, you also picked up a tiny heart-shaped charm.
his breath hitched slightly when he realized what you were planning. the artisan smiled knowingly as she handed over delicate tools for customizing the bracelets.
you spent the time handcrafting it, martin held his breath as you finished the bracelet—perfectly sized to match his wrist, with a sleek silver car charm and a delicate heart dangling beside it.
when you lifted it toward him, the morning light caught on the charms, making them glimmer softly.
his eyes shimmered too—not from sunlight this time.
he waited quietly for you to put it on him—the gesture somehow more intimate than any kiss they’d shared today. the moment the bracelet clicked into place around his wrist, martin stared at it—completely mesmerized.
he turned his hand slightly, watching how the light danced across both charms—the sleek car and that tiny heart symbolizing you loving him.
then suddenly, he grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you deeply. no hesitation. no softness this time—just pure overwhelming emotion poured into a passionate kiss right there in public. people walking by might’ve glanced but neither of you cared.
✶
on friday, the ferrari team had a press event—high-profile photographers and fashion editors from car magazines and luxury brands swarmed the pit area.
martin stood among his teammates for official photos, dressed sharply in sleek black tactical gear with ferrari’s logo stitched on the sleeve. but today? something was different.
every time he lifted his arms for dynamic poses—the flashbulbs going off—his handcrafted bracelet caught light perfectly. journalists noticed immediately. cameras zoomed in on that small detail: the silver car charm beside a heart. it stood out.
questions came.
‘whose bracelet is that?’
‘did martin edwards make it himself?’
martin caught your eye from across the room, a soft smile tugging at his lips—just for you. one of the photographers noticed how he kept glancing in your direction and called out, "who's that? your alleged girlfriend?"
journalists were instantly intrigued by this personal detail about ferrari’s rising star—the usually private driver who rarely showed affection publicly.
without hesitation, martin lifted his wrist slightly to show off the bracelet clearly… then nodded proudly.
the press event quickly shifted focus—reporters now waving notebooks and microphones toward you both. a producer from a major sports magazine approached, holding out a sleek camera.
"may we get one photo of you two together? With the bracelet?" she asked eagerly, her eyes darting between martin's wrist and your face.
Another journalist from vogue korea piped up. "Yes! It would be so romantic—the champion driver wearing something handmade by his girlfriend." because, the media just loves to know everyone’s business at every chance they get.
martin slipped his hand into yours as you stepped beside him, the press instantly going wild. flashbulbs popped rapidly—click click click—capturing every second.
he didn’t hesitate. with a gentle but confident motion, martin lifted your joined hands and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek right where cameras could perfectly frame it.
the gesture was sweet yet effortlessly cool—the kind of romantic moment fans loved. journalists whispered excitedly.
"so pure"
"they’re so in love"
martin turned slightly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders to pull you closer against his side. the photographers scrambled for better angles—kneeling, climbing on chairs.
he looked down at you with that warm smile—the one only you ever saw—before dipping his head and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
this time, the press collectively awwed.
the ferrari team manager in the background just sighed but smiled too—knowing this moment would be everywhere by morning.
hai mootie ure acc is so aestheticness pls teach me ur ways😳 nd i lab the hyeon nd prince work 😳😳
HII 🥹 i get inspiration from many coer blogs and the layouts and all, and find a color coordination for the pictures. but your blog is a chefs kiss. i love your new work, im already attracted to you thank you. you’re gonna be so famous
the performing arts club where all of the campus losers are found in after school hours. they're the laughing stock of the whole school—theater kids, nerds, just losers in general.
so, for james yufan—the quarterback of the school's football team—to join the glee club is completely unheard of.. like, ever. even though he's going to join, it's not like he's doing it willingly—no, he lost a bet with his teammates and the punishment was to enroll in the club for however long their coach decides.
as the football player nears the choir classroom, he lets out a deep sigh when the sounds of singing and chatter grow even louder with every step he takes to the classroom door.
the honey-brown haired boy enters the classroom, his lips pursed in a tight-lipped smile. he notices how everyone is looking at him with puzzled yet defensive stares because why on earth would the school's quarterback be here?
james locks eyes with you—the school's annoying overachiever—while you're belting in quite an obnoxious yet talented way. he can feel a wave of humiliation crashing over him while he walks up to the glee club's director, letting out a resentful sigh.
"..hi, uh, i was interested in joining this club."
yeah, right.
the director blinks at him—once, twice—like she’s trying to make sure he’s not some sort of mirage conjured by fluorescent lighting and desperation. “you’re… serious?” she asks carefully, voice lilting with disbelief wrapped in cautious optimism.
james exhales through his nose, shoulders stiff beneath his letterman jacket. “do i look like i’m joking?”
then, from somewhere in the room, a poorly concealed snort.
your voice doesn’t stop—not even for a second. you’re still singing, unwavering, crystalline and loud in a way that feels almost intentional now. like you’re proving something. like you’re challenging him.
his jaw tightens.
“alright—” the director says, clapping her hands together as if sealing his fate. “everyone, this is james yufan. he’ll be joining us starting today.”
a chorus of murmurs ripples through the room—skeptical, amused, vaguely hostile. james shifts his weight, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. he’s taken worse scrutiny under stadium lights, but this—this feels different. sharper. more personal.
because here, he’s not admired.
he’s out of place, from a bunch of nerds.
“why don’t you say more about yourself?” the director prompts.
james drags a hand through his brown hair, already regretting every decision that led him here. “i play football.” then, with less conviction, “...and i guess i’m in this now.”
a stifled laugh escaped from a girls mouth.
you.
he looks over, irritation flickering behind his eyes, only to find you watching him openly now, arms crossed, expression edged with something between curiosity and judgment. your earlier singing has stopped, but the echo of it lingers in the room, like it refuses to let him forget.
“riveting,” you mutter, just loud enough.
his lips press into a thin line. “hm? got something to say?”
“just thinking,” you tilt your head slightly, gaze sweeping over him like you’re assessing a performance that’s already disappointing, “this is either going to be a disaster… or really entertaining.”
a few people laugh. traitors.
james scoffs, glaring now. so sassy. “trust me, i’m not planning to stay any longer than i have to.”
“no.. no, we know,” you reply easily, uncowed. “you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“i would.”
“then leave.”
it’s immediate—the way the room stills, the way something sharp settles between you both.
james’ eyes narrow. “can’t.”
“why not?” you pursed your rosy lips a bit, he looks embarrassed.
he hesitates. just for a second.
“…long story.”
you hum, unconvinced, but let it drop—for now. “well, if you’re stuck here,” you gesture vaguely around the room, “you might as well try not to embarrass yourself.”
his brows lift. “i don’t embarrass myself.”
“everyone does,” you say, almost pleasantly. “especially here.”
the director claps again before he can fire back. “alright! let’s get started. james, you can sit in for now—observe, get a feel for things.”
observe. great.
he drops into an empty chair near the back, slouching slightly, arms still crossed like armor. his gaze drifts—over mismatched sheet music, over animated conversations, over the chaotic, unpolished energy that fills the room.
and then, inevitably, back to you.
you’re already mid-discussion with someone, gesturing emphatically, completely unbothered by his presence now. like he’s already faded into the background.
it irritates him more than it should.
rehearsal starts again soon after—piano keys ringing out, voices layering in uneven harmony that somehow… works. james watches, initially detached, counting down the minutes in his head.
you start singing again, showing off as the leader you are.
and it’s. annoying, yeah. loud, a little too much, like you’re trying to outshine everyone else in the room.
..it’s also good. your chill, he thinks.
technically precise, emotionally charged in a way that makes the air feel heavier, like it’s pressing against his chest. your voice cuts through everything else, commanding attention whether he wants to give it or not.
his fingers tap absently against his arm.
he hates that he notices.
hates it even more when he doesn’t look away.
by the time the harmony ends, he realizes something unsettling—this might not be as easy to endure as he thought.
it might not be entirely unbearable.
rehearsal should end there. it usually does—messy applause, chatter, chairs scraping against tile—but something lingers tonight. maybe it’s the way the last note still hums faintly in the air, or the way no one moves right away, like they’re waiting for something else to happen.
you’re already looking at him.
not in that sharp, critical way from before, but something quieter now. more measured. like you’re trying to figure him out instead of dismissing him entirely.
it makes his chest feel… strange. he doesn like that.
“wha?” he mutters, pushing himself up from the chair.
you don’t answer immediately. you just tilt your head, studying him in that unnervingly thorough way of yours before stepping closer—close enough that he catches the faint scent of something soft and clean, like laundry dried in sunlight.
“you were listening, soo intently.” you say finally.
he pouts lightly. “i was stuck.”
“no,” you shake your head, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips, “you were listening. there’s a difference, apparently. one that he doesn’t bother arguing against—because, annoyingly, you’re not wrong.
“so what if i was?” he shrugs, though his voice is quieter now, less defensive. “doesn’t mean i liked it.”
“you didn’t not like it either.”
your eyes catch the light—bright, a little smug, but not unkind. it throws him off more than your earlier attitude ever did.
“you always talk this much?” he asks. “kind of annoying.”
“that’s mean, you seem worthy of attention.”
“…and i am?”
you step a fraction closer, shrugging.“i haven’t decided yet.”
it’s subtle—the shift. the way the space between you narrows, the way the noise of the room fades into something distant and irrelevant. people are still moving around, packing up, laughing—but it all feels muffled, like you’re both standing in the center of something quieter.
he needs water.
“well,” he exhales, forcing a smirk, “don’t take too long. i won’t be here forever.”
“right,” you murmur, softer now. “the guy who doesn’t want to be here.”
he expects the usual bite in your tone, the teasing edge—but it’s missing. replaced with something… else. among the outcasts here, maybe you admire him.
and for some reason, that bothers him more.
“i don’t,” he says, but it comes out less certain than before.
“then prove it.”
his brows knit. “what?”
“audition,” you say simply. “right now.”
“i don’t sing.”
“everyone sings in glee club.”
“not me.” he lastly retorts, then swallows it up.
“you can,” you say, voice quieter now, almost coaxing. “you just don’t want to.” your gaze drops, briefly, to his lips—just for a second—but he notices. of course he does.
the room feels warmer.
“why do you care?” he asks, low.
“…because,” you start, then stop, like you’re searching for a reason that doesn’t give too much away. “because i think you’d surprise people. like you do on the field.”
“i don’t need to impress anyone here.”
“not them.”
your eyes lift to meet his again. “me, i am the head of here too.”
james exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the floor before flicking back up to your pretty, dumb face. “…fine,” he mutters.
your lips part slightly. “fine?”
“don’t make a big deal out of it,” he adds quickly, already regretting this. “i’m just—trying it. once. just for you, yn.”
you don’t smile right away. but something soft blooms in your expression—something warmer, almost disarming. you had a crush on him for a while.
“okay,” you say gently. “just once.”
the director perks up instantly when she hears, scrambling to the piano with barely concealed excitement. the room settles again, attention shifting, curiosity buzzing.
james steps forward, heart thudding harder than it ever does before a game.
this is stupid.
this is so stupid.
but he glances at you for approval and reassurance all at once. and you’re watching him like he’s already done something worth noticing.
it steadies him. just enough.
“whenever you’re ready,” the director prompts.
he inhales. the first note is rough—hesitant, unfamiliar on his tongue. and when he tries again; it’s better and real.
his voice is lower than expected, a little textured, like it hasn’t been used this way before. it doesn’t soar like yours—but it grounds the song, gives it something solid to lean on.
something that makes people stop whispering.
⟡
but staying for full five months of the duration of the glee club, wasn’t the plan for james.
it was supposed to be a joke—something temporary, something he could endure with clenched teeth and a half-hearted attitude until his coach decided he’d suffered enough. he wanted to play along with it. but time, apparently, has a way of softening edges you didn’t realize were sharp to begin with.
and james changes, he’s not the stereotype of a brooding jock that thinks everything is nerdy. just because he didn’t like it.
not all at once. not in some dramatic, obvious way that people can point at and say there—that’s when it happened. it’s quieter than that. slower. something that settles into him without permission.
it starts with staying a little longer after rehearsals.
then with learning harmonies without being asked.
then with noticing when you’re not there before he even realizes he’s looking for you.
by the third week, he stops sitting in the back. by the second month, he knows everyone’s names. by the third, he’s laughing—actually laughing—at things that would’ve made him roll his eyes before.
and by the fifth—he’s not counting down the days anymore. or the time to get out of here.
he feels accepted and not rejected. his mother loved the idea of him finding new interests anyway.. instead of football, football.. football. there’s no hesitation now. no reluctant sigh as his hand presses against the door. he just… comes in, like he belongs there, like the space has shaped itself around him.
and the two you… have gotten pretty close; outside the club and inside.
today is game day, and his nerves are going.
the stadium lights are too bright, spilling over everything in sharp white beams that make the night feel unreal, like something staged just for moments like this. the crowd is loud—restless, alive—and it hums beneath your skin as you sit in the stands, fingers curled around the edge of your seat, trying not to look for him.
of course you do.
and there he is—james—helmet tucked under his arm, honey-brown hair damp, jersey clinging slightly as he moves across the field like he belongs to it. he always has. but now you see more than that. you see the quiet parts too. the way his voice lowers just for you. the way his eyes soften when they find yours. it makes something in your chest ache in a way you don’t try to fix.
“glee club, to the field!” to present them and to stir school spirit in here.
the call snaps everything into motion, and suddenly you’re being pulled along with the others, heart quickening—not from nerves, but anticipation. the team lingers nearby as you all step into formation, and it happens instantly—james looks up, like he felt you before he saw you.
his gaze locks onto yours without hesitation.
you try not to smile, you fail to suppress that pretty smile.
the music starts, bright and full, something meant to stir the crowd, to make them clap along. you fall into it easily, voice steady, practiced—but your focus drifts.
it’s like you can feel his stare.
even as you sing, even as the performance carries forward, his attention doesn’t waver. it feels familiar. like the choir room. like late afternoons where the world narrowed down to just the two of you
the final note rises, holds, and falls away—and before the applause fully lands, james is already moving. toward you. someone calls after him, confused, but he doesn’t stop. not this time. not anymore.
you barely get a second to breathe before he’s in front of you, close enough that the noise cancels. “you were good,” he says, like it matters more than anything else happening here.
you let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “you’ve seen me before.”
“not like that,” he replies, voice softer now, steadier in a way that makes your chest tighten. “not when i’m out here… and you’re there.”
you glance past him, the field still alive with motion. “your game—”
“don’t care,” he cuts in, immediate, certain. “not right now.”
your breath falters.
there’s something in the way he’s looking at you—like he’s already crossed a line in his head, like he’s done waiting for the right moment because this is the moment. and to the reason why his nerves are going.
“james…” you start, but it doesn’t come out the way you expect.
he just shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t need words anymore. his hand finds yours—warm, steady, familiar—and then he leans in to your lips.
it isn’t hesitant. it isn’t careful.
it’s bold.
like the noise, the lights, the crowd don’t matter anymore. like he doesn’t care who sees. and his parents and yours in the stands. (gonna have a big talk).
your breath catches, but you don’t move back—you never do with him—and the kiss is soft but soo sure, something that’s been building for months finally settling into something real. and he pulls away.
the world rushes back in all at once—the cheers, the stunned reactions, the shift of something no longer hidden. james exhales, resting his forehead briefly against yours, like he needs just one more second before everything else comes crashing back.
“…was that too much?,” he murmurs, kind of self conscious from all the stares and reality.
you smile, small and a little dazed, but certain “…no.”
you feel a rush of embarrassment through you, from how exposed you both look. but it diminishes when you look up at him.
when he’s look at you like that, like you’re so endearing to him. which you are.
who wakes up before you just to open the curtains and let the sunlight spill across the bed like it’s part of a scene he planned. he leans over you, brushing your hair back, murmuring something about how hawaii suits you too well. he’s half teasing, half completely serious.
who insists on being the one to put sunscreen on you. takes his time with it, hands warm against your heated skin, pretending it’s just practical when it’s really just an excuse to linger. “gotta make sure you don’t burn,” he says, even though he’s the one getting distracted.
who gets quietly clingy at the beach. always just within reach—hand brushing yours, fingers hooking into your sleeve, pulling you back when you wander too far. if you tease him about it, he just hums and says, “i like knowing where you are.”
who takes candid photos of you without telling you, especially when you’re not paying attention. later, he shows them to you like it’s nothing, but there’s something soft in his voice when he says, “this one’s my favorite.”
EOM SEONGHYEON
who plans out the entire trip without making it obvious. the best food spots, the quietest beaches, the exact time the sunset hits just right. he’ll casually suggest things like it’s spontaneous, but everything is thought through with you in mind.
who walks slightly behind you on the sand, watching more than speaking. not in a distant way—just attentive. if you trip, he’s already there. if you look too long at something, he notices. nothing about you goes unseen.
who sits beside you during sunset, close but not overwhelming, shoulder just barely touching yours. he doesn’t say much—just points out small things, like the color of the sky or the sound of the waves, like he’s quietly sharing the moment instead of filling it.
who wordlessly hands you things before you even ask—water, a towel, your bag—like he’s always one step ahead, quietly making sure you’re comfortable without needing recognition for it.
MARTIN EDWARDS
who pretends he’s not that into the whole “vacation romance” vibe but ends up being the softest about it. he’ll hand you a drink without asking, adjust your hat when it slips, small things that feel natural but thoughtful.
who laughs at you when you get excited over something small, but it’s never mean. more like he likes seeing you like that. he’ll shake his head, smiling a little, and follow along anyway.
who ends up sitting with you late at night, both of you a little tired, just listening to the ocean. he’ll say something simple like, “this is nice,” and it feels like more than it sounds.
who lets his guard down more than usual here—leaning closer, resting his arm behind you, staying just a little longer in quiet moments like he doesn’t feel the need to pull away.
KIM JUHOON
who turns everything into something playful. splashing water at you, dragging you into the ocean, laughing when you protest. he’s bright, a little chaotic, but always watching to make sure you’re actually having fun too.
who insists on taking pictures of you constantly. not even staged ones—just random moments. you looking at the waves, fixing your hair, laughing at something. “wait, don’t move,” he says, even though you already have.
who gets quieter when it’s just the two of you. walking back from the beach, fingers brushing yours before finally lacing together. he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just keeps holding on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
who buys you something small from a random shop—nothing expensive, just something that reminded him of you. he shrugs it off like it’s no big deal, but he watches your reaction a little too closely.
ZHAO JAMES
who looks a little out of place at first, like he’s not sure what to do with all the openness—the ocean, the sky, you right there next to him without the usual chaos. but he warms up slowly, staying close, matching your pace.
who lets you take the lead most of the time. following you into shops, along the shoreline, into conversations. every now and then he’ll glance at you like he’s making sure he’s doing things right, like this matters more than he knows how to say.
who ends up sitting beside you in the sand, knees pulled in slightly, watching the waves come and go. he says something small, almost to himself—“i think i like this more than i thought i would.” and when you look at him, he smiles, a little shy, but real.
who, without really thinking about it, reaches for your hand at some point—and doesn’t let go. it’s quiet, almost absentminded, but when you notice, his grip tightens just a little.
omg new ur juhoon story is saurrr cuteeeee i love it so badddd and the aesthetic is tea you got that on my top ten blogs mhm mhmmmm u remind me of chamomile tea…is that werid…? anyway i hope u have a great night or day🤗
no no it’s not weird!!!! i love and appreciate aks like this and i just woke up too, honestly my day is made 😇 have a super graat day and have some tea today too!! thankyou thankyou🩷🩷
juhoons’ youtube videos are the kind that feel like unearthed treasure in the recommended page—rich in quality, but not exposed to many.
he enjoys filming fun little vlogs about his whereabouts, capturing the essence of the simple and cozy life he lives for his loyal viewers to watch. they hold many different purposes—to be someone's background noise while they're doing something else, to give juhoon a reason to carry his vlogging camera everywhere, to record little snippets of memories he might not remember in the future.
recently, juhoons’ fans have noticed the mysterious appearances of another person accompanying him in his videos. however—despite the comments—juhoon has never once answered their questions.
the appearances continue, although they're very minuscule. a quick reveal of a hand. a small laugh behind the camera. a clip of juhoon carrying double the shopping bags fit for one person. but, not once is there a glimpse of a face to put on the person juhoon is obviously with in every video of his.
he's very detailed with his editing, removing chunks of footage where his mystery guest (friend? partner?) can be seen. even down to the reflection in his glasses or in cafe windows, there's not a single giveaway as to who is standing out of view of the camera.
besides, it's fun for juhoon to keep it this way. to keep you a little secret from his viewers. they'd probably freak out if they realized you're the person juhoon gatekeeps to himself. you're quite popular online, and maybe even describing your reputation as 'quite' is an understatement.
‘haha, thank god i'm careful,’ juhoon thinks while he angles his camera to record a clip of your cafe orders side-by-side. danish and hazelnut, vanilla coffees.
noticing your slight timid behavior as you attempt to sway to the side out of eyeshot, the black-haired male lets out a soft chuckle and directs the camera so your whole face is being captured.
"say hi to the camera, baby. don't worry, i'll edit this out later."
his voice is smooth and encouraging, causing you to look straight into the lens. a shy smile curves your lips. you wave meekly, the action adorable in juhoon's eyes.
"there you go..." juhoon praises, smiling himself when he captures your reaction.
you go back to swaying to the side again, and juhoon laughs softly at the sight. it's hard for him to believe that you have over eight thousand followers on a single platform when you're so shy like this every time the camera comes out.
"you'd think someone with so many supporters wouldn't panic at a tiny vlog camera," he murmurs teasingly.
you nudge his arm. "it's different."
"how?"
"because you are filming."
juhoon puffs his cheeks out at that but only smiles to himself before flipping the camera back toward the drinks again, capturing a soft aesthetic clip of the foam swirling in your latte and the light spilling through the café windows. it's the kind of quiet, comforting footage his viewers adore.
the moment passes, and soon the camera clicks off as you leave the café together. juhoon carries both drinks, the pastries, and the tote bag with his camera in it—ignoring your half-hearted attempts to take one of them.
"juhoon, i can carry something."
"i know."
yet he doesn't hand anything over.
instead he simply nods toward the door for you to push it open, following right behind you. it's such a small gesture, but it's something he does all the time without thinking—quietly taking care of things before you even realize you needed help.
the walk back to your apartment is slow and comfortable. juhoon occasionally pulls the camera back out to capture the sidewalk, the sunlight, your shadow walking just ahead of him—but never high enough to show your face.
when you finally get home, the familiar warmth of your shared apartment settles around the both of you. shoes by the door, the faint scent of a candle you left burning earlier, soft evening light spilling through the windows.
you drift toward the couch while juhoon heads to the kitchen counter.
"drink this while it's still warm," he says, placing your coffee down.
you appear beside him and take it with both hands. "thank you."
he watches you take a sip, eyes softening slightly.
"better?"
you nod.
juhoon smiles before pulling the pastry bag open. he tears one in half and slides the bigger piece onto a plate in front of you.
"eat."
you blink at him. "...bossy."
"correct."
you still take the plate.
he leans against the counter while sipping his own drink, watching you nibble slowly.
"you barely ate earlier," he points out.
"i did."
"half a sandwich." he chuckles.
"it counts."
"not really."
you half glare but keep eating anyway.
a comfortable quiet fills the apartment, the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. juhoon eventually reaches out, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
"messy," he murmurs.
your ears warm slightly.
after a moment he grabs the camera again, scrolling through the footage from earlier. the café clip pops up quickly—and there you are again, leaning shyly into frame for those few seconds before disappearing.
juhoon smiles to himself, he loves editing.
later that night, long after you've curled up on the couch beside him, he sits at his desk editing the vlog together. trimming clips, adjusting color tones, layering soft background music beneath the quiet sounds of the place and city streets.
he pauses on the moment where you waved at the camera.
for once… he doesn't cut it out.
it's only a few seconds. your shy, cute smile, your small wave, the way you duck out of frame immediately after. nothing dramatic.
just you.
he uploads the video sometime past midnight.
and by morning—the media explodes.
the comments begin pouring in faster than he can read them.
“woah— whose that, poyoyi?”
“ay, she looks madly familiar.”
“juhoon? since when were you hiding someone this pretty??”
some viewers pause the video frame by frame, posting screenshots. the realization spreads quickly, especially among people who follow you online.
hold on… that's literally y/n instagram handle, right?
juhoon is dating her!
this man was gate keeping a whole model..
others are less shocked and more amused.
‘the way she waved shyly… she's so cute omg’
juhoon scrolls through the comments quietly while sitting at the kitchen table the next morning. the sunlight spills softly across the counter, and the apartment is still calm.
behind him, you shuffle into the kitchen wearing one of his hoodies.
your hair is slightly messy from sleep.
"what are you looking at?" you mumble.
juhoon glances back at you, then turns the laptop screen slightly. "...comments about you.”
your eyes widen immediately when you see his screen.
"juhoon."
he hums.
"why do they know who i am?"
he tries—and fails—to hide a small grin. "...i might've left something in."
your mouth drops open slightly.
"juhoon!"
he laughs softly as you lightly smack his head.
but when you glance back at the screen again, your expression slowly softens.
most of the comments aren't invasive.
amused.
oddly supportive.
she's gorgeous.
juhoon you lucky man.
they're actually adorable together.
you look back at him. "...they're being sweet."
"mm," he says casually.
you narrow your eyes slightly. "...did you do this on purpose?"
juhoon only smiles, reaching over to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"maybe."
your cheeks warm.
he pulls you a little closer by the sleeve of his hoodie. the comment notifications continue popping up on the laptop screen behind you.
millions of viewers finally learning the identity of the mysterious person who had been appearing in juhoon's quiet little vlogs all along.
and him?
he simply rests his chin on the top of your head, smiling softly.
because keeping you a secret had been fun.
but on the contrary—sharing you with the world doesn't feel so bad either.
delicate notes of apple steam from one of keonhos’ hand-painted ceramic mugs, fresh chamomile tea swirling inside.
in the corner of the room, keonhos’ vinyl record player hums one of your favorite tracks, its soft melody crackling gently. it just so happens that the song is one of his favorites too.
it's a beautiful day outside—the warm sun had finally welcomed itself through the clouds after a long morning of rain. the window is cracked open just enough to let in the distant hum of the city and the earthy smell of petrichor.
keonho dips his paintbrush into the watercolor palette, gently gliding the soft bristles along the canvas in front of him. his tender gaze flickers towards you resting so comfortably on his linen sheets, so beautifully.
painting you has become his favorite pastime. ever since he met you, he just couldn't prevent the urge to embody the essence of your beauty through his art.
such a pretty thing you are.
he keeps going though, the soft crackle of vinyl fills the room like a gentle whisper, mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves outside the open window.
sunlight spills across the wooden floorboards in honeyed stripes, catching the rim of the ceramic mug resting beside keonho’s easel. thin curls of steam drift lazily upward, carrying the faint sweetness of chamomile and apple.
he barely notices it anymore.
keonho tilts his head slightly, studying the way the sunlight pools along the curve of your cheek. the linen sheets beneath you are slightly rumpled, soft and tanned against your skin, and the quiet rise and fall of your breathing gives the room a kind of slow rhythm that even the record player cannot quite replicate.
he drags the brush across the canvas again, light strokes of diluted gold and rose bleeding softly into one another.
no matter how many times he paints you, he never quite gets it right.
not because he lacks skill—anyone who has seen his work would argue the opposite—but because you are frustratingly impossible to capture. every shift in expression, every fleeting flicker of emotion across your face feels like a new portrait waiting to exist.
the version of you resting there now is peaceful.
the first time he painted you had been almost accidental.
you had fallen asleep on that same bed after a long afternoon of talking—realy talking—the kind that stretches for hours without either of you noticing the time passing. keonho had been sitting at his desk then, absentmindedly sketching shapes on scrap paper, when he glanced up and saw you curled into his sheets.
the quietness of that moment had stunned him.
he had grabbed a pencil before he could think twice.
since then, it had become routine.
sometimes charcoal, sometimes ink, sometimes watercolor like today. different mediums, different canvases, but always the same subject.
keonho rinses the brush in a jar of cloudy water, tapping it gently against the rim. the sound is small, but it makes you stir slightly on the bed.
your fingers twitch against the fabric.
his waits with expected dark brown eyes.
for a moment he considers stopping—letting you sleep without interruption—but the urge to keep painting pulls at him again. he switches to a smaller brush, dipping it carefully into a shade of muted terracotta.
“you’re staring again.” your voice is quiet, slightly thick with sleep, but unmistakably amused.
he blushes.
slowly, you push yourself up on your elbows, squinting toward him through the haze of sunlight. strands of hair fall across your face, and you brush them aside lazily.
“i thought artists were supposed to be subtle about their observation.” what you added was a bit cheeky.
keonho exhales a soft laugh, setting the brush down for a moment.
“i am subtle,” he replies, though the fondness in his voice betrays him instantly.
you glance toward the canvas resting on his easel.
your eyes widen more in delight.
“is that another one of me?”
“maybe.”
“..keonho.”
he shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you make it very difficult not to.”
you slide off the bed, bare feet padding softly across the sun-warmed floorboards. when you reach his side, you lean slightly to look at the painting.
on the canvas, the loose watercolor strokes form the beginnings of your silhouette—sunlight tangled in soft hues, delicate shadows framing the outline of your face.
it’s unfinished.
but unmistakably you.
for a moment, you say nothing, admiring.
keonho watches your expression carefully, suddenly nervous in a way he never quite admits aloud.
then you laughed like you were laughing out bubbles. “you’ve—you’ve painted me more times than you’ve painted landscapes.”
“that’s not true.” he pouts a little.
“it is.” countered you.
“landscapes don’t sit in my bed and steal my tea.” you glance toward the mug beside him and faux innocence. “that an invitation?”
keonho sighs dramatically, pushing the mug toward you. “hmph..”
you take a sip, humming softly at the warmth.
letting silence fill.
and keonho, watching the way the light catches in your eyes as you stand beside him, realizes something quietly inevitable.
he will probably spend the rest of his life painting you. and somehow—it will still never be enough, nor perfect.”
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