SUMMARY: Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Jungwon is desperate to get your lips on his.
WARNINGS:f!reader, whipped!jungwon, hella kissing, crack, fluffy fluff, why is he such a lewser lmfao give that man a kiss pls! jay lowk a hypocrite but Whatevs
WC: 3.3k - MASTERLIST
A/N: this idea came to me in a dream and i just couldn't pass it up. i was gigglin n kicking my feet n shi while typing this no joke
---
Jay firmly believes that the people you choose to surround yourself with say everything about who you really are— it’s a conviction that sticks with him every time he meets someone new.
He’s spent his entire life crafting the perfect friend group, making sure each person in it was someone he could trust, that they wouldn’t be the type to do stupid things. But right now, smack dab in the middle of campus, he’s starting to think that he might have made a grave mistake, because what the hell else would explain him standing here, watching his best friend Yang Jungwon set up a kissing booth?
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
The younger boy doesn’t react to the older’s hostile tone. “Bro, just trust me on this,” he assures, shovelling through his backpack, “I’m cooking up a storm.”
Honestly, it’s quite the sight to see. A folding table dragged out from their shared apartment, covered in a (hopefully clean) bedsheet, and leaned against the front, a cardboard sign, propped up with two rolls of duct tape stacked on top of each other. Not to mention their empty jar of protein powder has finally been put to good use, now serving as the donation jar, decorated in hearts and everything. Are those fairy lights he sees draped across the top? What are they even plugged in to? Oh nah, he’s really going all out.
To complete it, Jungwon uses the sharpie he just fished from his bag to write KISS FOR A CAUSE in big bubble letters along the cardboard, looking proud of himself.
Jay can’t help but wonder what had gotten into his friend. Did Jake put him up to this? It seems like a Jake thing to do.
“What’s...,” his voice lifts as he begins asking, “what’s the point of this?”
“Are you blind?” Jungwon scoffs, gesturing to his creation. “It clearly says Kiss For A Cause.”
“Yeah, but what’s the cause? Is it a charity event?”
If he had gotten an answer within two seconds, he couldn’t have gotten suspicious; he swears. Jay isn’t the kind of person to automatically jump to conclusions. However, as the silence between them hangs for way longer than that, he can’t help but give in to his urge to pry.
“Does this have something to do with… she-who-shall-not-be-named?”
Sputtering, Jungwon’s arms start flailing around and a fiery red blooms up his neck, settling at the tips of his ears. “Pffft! What would make you think that?!”
“Who do you take me for?” He continues, clueless to the fact that he’s just digging a bigger hole for himself with each new word that comes out of his mouth. “A down bad loser?”
“Do you want me to answer that truthfully?”
“Screw you, man.”
“Hey!” Jay gasps, desperately holding back a laugh. “Look man, I’m not here to judge you—“
“Me when I lie,” mutters his friend.
“Okay— wait,” he tries again. “I understand the lengths that one must go to bag their crush, but this is…” he eyes the makeshift booth, “too much.”
Out of all of his friends, Jungwon is the last to come to mind when he thinks of pulling something like this. Despite being younger, he’s always had a more mature outlook on life, and usually, that maturity was reflected in his actions.
“Dude, you’re literally risking getting mono just to get a chance with—” The feeling of a warm, clammy hand covering his mouth cuts him off.
“Do not say her name.” Jungwon threatens in a hushed whisper as he pushes his hand against Jay’s mouth even harder. It smells faintly of sharpie and tape. Gross.
“Get your hand off mmmmph-!” Glancing from one side to the other, he relents, lowering his hand and shaking it off, disgust lacing his features.
“Ew,” he gags, repulsed. “Why is your breath so warm?”
Jay rolls his eyes. “Human biology, stupid. What about your sweaty ass hands, huh? I’m gonna get pimples because of you.”
“You already have pimples,” Jungwon huffs, moving to sit behind his makeshift booth, shooting a quick look at his watch, and making a shooing motion with his other hand. “Anyways, I’m going to be starting soon; you best be on your way.”
“But you didn’t deny it when I asked if it was about you-know-who.”
“Fine!” Jungwon bursts, abruptly standing on his feet. “And if it is? How else is she going to notice how kissable my lips are?
Jay was shocked before, dumbfounded even; now he’s just… stupefied, that Harry Potter ass spell, emotion thingy. He means this in the most bro way possible, but Jungwon does not need to be worrying about whether or not you’d think his lips are kissable. Practically every girl he knows would jump at the chance to lock lips with him, which is exactly why he cannot, for the life of him, wrap his head around this insane reach of an idea.
“Just tell her you like her, bro.”
“I've tried!" Jungwon throws his hands into the air, voice climbing an octave. "Notes, compliments, walking her to class... I've done all of it, and she just doesn't get the hint."
He pauses, gaze drifting off toward nothing in particular. "But maybe when our lips finally touch, she'll realize just how in love with me she really is." He sighs dreamily, his fingers drifting up on their own, tracing slowly along his bottom lip.
"That's insane,” the older boy comments, nose wrinkling. “Also, do you even understand how many other girls are gonna have to kiss you first before she even shows up?"
"I don't care." Jungwon shrugs, picking his sharpie back up and twirling it between his fingers. "I'll give them a peck, or I'll swerve at the last second and catch their cheek instead. Either way, my lips stay mostly reserved for her."
"Mostly reserved." Jay echoes, staring at him. "Do you hear yourself right now?"
"Loud and clear." He drops back into his seat. "Now stop hovering and go tell people it's a dollar a kiss."
–
DAY ONE:
Okay, so maybe Jungwon should have thought this through. Within twenty minutes of Jay leaving, all he’s received was weird looks and the campus security guard approaching him, all up on his ass about ‘not having a permit’. Since when did you need a permit to spread some love? Damn.
Second of all, why is no one donating? The sign says kiss for a cause. Is no one a good samaritan anymore?
After two hours, someone finally comes up to him. She introduces herself as a first-year, talking fast about how this is going to be her first kiss ever and how she can't believe it's happening at a random table on a random Tuesday. Jungwon should probably find that sweet, or endearing, but with the way she keeps staring at his mouth without blinking, he's getting the heebie jeebies. Still, a customer is a customer, so he plants his elbows on the table, puckers up, and leans in.
She kisses him for far too long and with way too much enthusiasm, her mouth covering more of his face than just his lips, until there's spit on his chin, his cheek, even near his nose. He pulls back the second it feels acceptable to, as in, after ten seconds, and forces a smile onto his face. He had no idea it was possible to be so slobbery in such a short period of time.
He can’t even use his sweater sleeve to wipe off the remnants of her germs and the wetness on his face because, as she’s walking away, the girl keeps turning around and staring at him. Most likely just gained his first stalker.
A girl a few feet away, who had clearly watched the whole thing happen, walks up next with an expression caught between amusement and pity. She drops a dollar in the jar, leans in and gives him the briefest peck imaginable, so brief that even after she's left, he keeps replaying it in his head, genuinely unsure if their lips even touched.
So, the first two customers were rough, but hey, it should only get better from here, he reassures himself. Once you’ve hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere else to go but up!
—
Well, whoever thought of that quote is a big fat liar. There is further than rock bottom, Jungwon thinks as he nurses a now bruised lip. Some emo goth chick must have decided that he would be her victim of the day, clamping her teeth down so hard on his lower lip that he yelped into her mouth and tasted copper. What’s worse, she didn’t even apologize! All she did after was swipe her thumb along the wound, smearing the blood. He’s also 99% sure he saw Sunghoon filming him from the corner of his eye while that was going down, too.
Talk about dehumanizing.
By hour four, Jungwon has stopped counting customers and started counting regrets instead. He drops his forehead flat onto the table beside the donation jar and stays there, refusing to lift his head even as people— potential customers— pass by. This was a mistake, plain and simple. He's probably going to end up on the university's social media accounts by tomorrow, and from then on everyone will know him as the lame kissing booth guy who only scraped together fifteen dollars.
Fifteen dollars isn't even enough to buy a decent Chipotle bowl with guac. Who eats Chipotle with no guac?!
And where the hell are you? Are you sick? He’s no stalker, but he does know that you take this path between classes. Suddenly, a horrific thought takes over his mind. What if you did pass by, but were so icked out that you ran away? Oh god, he groans. That’s definitely what happened. There go his chances with you.
Perhaps the gods were looking out for him though, because out of nowhere, he hears birds chirping. Then, as he lifts his head, he feels the warmth of the sun on his face and sees the clouds above him part right on cue. A cluster of flowers nearby, ones he's fairly certain weren't blooming five minutes ago, unfurl all at once.
What could— wait.
In all of his years on earth, Jungwon has never believed in the supernatural. But there, in all your glory, stands you, an angel.
Relief floods his entire nervous system, and before he can control himself, he jumps out of his seat, calling your name. At the sound of it, your head turns, and you make eye contact. Upon seeing him, your mouth stretches wide into a smile, one he thinks is absolutely gorgeous. Only, to his absolute horror, he watches as you take in his current predicament, and your expression goes from joy to confusion, to something he can only describe as WTF. "Jungwon?" You blink, taking a slow step closer. "Why are you doing a kissing booth?"
“Oh, you know,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Just tryna do some good, help those in need. The whole shabang.”
“Thats…,” You trail off, eyes scanning him up and down as you try to find the right words. He really hopes you can’t see the sweat beginning to build up at his hairline. “...Cool.”
Chuckling, he nods along, shoving his hands into his pant pockets. “Yeah, nothing like doing my part, ya feel?”
“So how much money have you made so far?”
As much as he does not want you to know how many people he’s kissed— after all, he wouldn't want you to get jealous— he also can’t hide the state of his lips, swollen, puffy and also a little splotchy. “... Fifteen bucks.”
“Wow!” You exclaim, lifting your hands, “Not bad!”
Jungwon rubs the back of his neck, flustered, and mumbles something under his breath, too quiet to actually reach you.
"What was that?" You inch forward a bit. "Didn't catch it."
"I said." He clears his throat, rushing the words out. "Would you want to donate? To the cause, I mean."
"Oh!" Your face lights up immediately. "Sure!"
Setting your bag on the ground, you drop to your knees, searching through it for your wallet. His heart inflates at the action of you so eagerly wanting to offer him money just for a smooch. Also, why is the sight of you kneeling in front of him kinda… ahem.
He's about to say some corny line about how, for you, it’ll be free, when you stand back up and hand him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. If he was smitten for you before, then he’s absolutely gone for you now.
"You want twenty kisses?" He's already wiping his (still, and even more so now) sweaty hands on his pants. "I can absolutely make tha–"
"No, no, no!" Both your hands shoot up before he can finish, waving frantically. "I just want to make a difference!"
Like a balloon deflating, Jungwon’s heart sinks and shrinks down into a flat puddle of nothing. “Ah,” he swallows. “Got it."
His lips are pursed in a tight line as he folds the bill, slipping it into the donation jar. “Thank you for your help,” he says dully, monotone.
“No problem!” You give him one last soft smile and a small thumbs up. “Good luck!”
—
DAY TWO:
“So, did your plan work?”
“If it had worked, would I be doing this shit again?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”Jay snickers as he once again finds his friend setting up the kissing booth. Of course, he figured nothing happened based on the dejected way Jungwon returned to the apartment, but he didn’t expect him to try again.
“There has to be another way,” he says, crossing his arms.
Jungwon doesn't even look up from the sign he's re-taping to the table leg. "Such as?"
“Like I said yesterday, just be straight up with her.” The only response Jay gets is a fat middle finger.
—
His prediction was right. Jungwon landed on the campus Instagram page last night, and today, not only are there more people, there's an actual crowd surrounding him. He can spot most of his friends scattered through it, not in line, thank god, but just there for what he assumes passes as moral support. For extra precautions, but he even went to the security office and secured a permit, so now if he gets questioned again, he’ll have something to shove in their faces.
He rolls his shoulders back and steels himself, working his jaw side to side. This morning, in a moment of what he now recognizes as peak desperation, he'd sat on the edge of his bed and watched a ten-minute lip workout video on YouTube uploaded in 2011, following along with exercises to prepare himself for the onslaught ahead. He'd felt ridiculous doing it, and if Jay or Jake had walked in on him… it would have been more embarrassing than getting caught cranking one out.
“Alright, open for business!”
The moment the words leave his mouth, the line surges forward all at once, girls elbowing past each other to close the gap. "Ladies, ladies!" He throws both hands up, leaning back slightly as the table wobbles under the pressure of someone's hip bumping into it. "One at a time, please!"
This is going to be a long day.
It had gotten to a point where his friends, who had shown up purely to spectate, found themselves dragged into service as 'bodyguards', forming a loose human barrier with linked arms and a lot of pleading to keep the line from collapsing entirely.
Eventually, even that wasn't enough. Jungwon, red-faced and gasping between customers, finally called out for backup, and Jake stepped up first, volunteering to put his lips to good use. Riki followed not long after, then Sunoo, and even Sunghoon offered himself up to be pimped out.
An actual rotating schedule formed, fifteen minutes per person, and before he knew it, the measly fifteen dollars he had accumulated the day before ballooned to over five hundred, the crumpled bills and loose change spilling from out of the donation jar.
Even the kisses themselves had calmed down considerably too, most girls opting for quick, harmless pecks on the cheek. Every so often, someone would try to sneak in a little more tongue than expected, but by that point, all of them had simply accepted it as part of the job. Plus, Jungwon got good at making sure his mouth stayed as closed as possible throughout the whole ordeal.
Still, there was no you.
He didn't see you at all during the seven hours he manned the booth. You could very well have come by when he was on one of his breaks and kissed another one of the boys, but he’s too scared to ask them for confirmation. Rather, he silently takes down everything while Jake stands off to the side, currently talking to a few girls who stayed back, and Riki slumps on the chair, playing on his phone. Sunoo dipped when the event ended, citing needing to take some ginger turmeric shots to cleanse his mouth; although Jungwon’s pretty sure that’s not what they're made for.
Regardless, he’s exhausted. And as he puts the last of the booth in his enormous IKEA bag, he hears his name and turns to find you approaching, grinning. "I heard today was a huge success!"
"Yeah, it was." He swings the bag over his shoulder, glancing back to give his two friends a quick wave goodbye. "Want to walk back with me?"
"Totally. Here, lemme take this from you." You reach for the folded table, tucking it under one arm to alleviate how much weight he has to carry. Grateful, he whispers a thank you.
The two of you walk together in silence for a few moments before you speak up, "I'm honestly impressed.”
"Me too! The outcome today was unprecedented."
"Are you going to do it again tomorrow?"
"Uh,” he hesitates. "Honestly, I'm not sure yet."
"Well." You glance sideways at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth. "I'm sure you're feeling pretty gassed up right now, no? Did you see how many girls wanted to kiss you today?"
His grin falters just slightly, his gaze meeting yours. "Yeah, but the one girl I actually wanted to kiss me hasn't done it yet."
Unbeknownst to him, you stop walking the moment his eyes flit back forward, feet rooted to the pavement, and it actually takes him a few steps before he notices you're no longer beside him. Pivoting in his spot, he finds you standing there, eyes wide and staring.
"...Are you talking about me?"
"Yup." He replies confidently, popping the p. Your face goes warm, and you duck your head as you hurry to catch back up with him, falling into step beside him with a shy smile that remains for the rest of the walk. When you both make it outside his apartment, he lets the bag fall from his grasp, and you set the table down beside it, both of you straightening up at the same time to face each other.
"I only paid for twenty bucks worth of kisses,” you murmur.
He takes a step closer. "That," his voice is low, his breath fanning over your lips, "I can work with."
Then, he’s closing what little distance was left between you, kissing you slowly and deeply, his fingers curling into where your shirt falls on your hips. It's a long while before either of you finally pulls back, both gasping softly for air. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling as he refills his lungs.
"One," he breathes out, and you don’t have any time to respond, because he dives back in for number two.
—
DAY THREE:
Technically, there is no day three. That is, not for Jungwon, at least.
He's otherwise occupied, having found himself one particularly loyal customer, so loyal that he's granted her a permanent discount on all future kisses, free of charge, indefinitely. Some might call that poor business, but he considers it the best deal he's ever made.
In his absence and after the events of the day before, the rest of the boys have arrived at the same realization: this is, in fact, an excellent gig, mostly on account of the money. So there they are, lined up behind the folding table, waiting for the last of them, Jay, to officially let the kissing commence.
---
a/n: i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!!
synopsis : living next door to lee heeseung has always been a nightmare loud, cocky, and impossible to ignore until one reckless night at a party leaves you waking up in his bed and running before it can mean anything you try to forget it ever happened, until two lines change everything, and suddenly the one person you can't stand is the one you can't escape.
pairing : basketball captain heeseung x neighbourf!reader
trope : accidental pregnancy + forced proximity
word count : 29.9k words
warnings : tw / oral, penetrative sex, fingering, creampie, shower sex, sex during pregnancy, toxic family dynamics and emotional abuse from heeseung’s parents ,harassment and career threats, public slut shaming and campus gossip ( including being called a whore and accused of baby trapping ), pregnancy symptoms, mild power imbalance, jealousy, emotional guilt, anxiety, panic, crying, guilt, self-doubt, fear of the future, and emotional breakdowns
🗯️JO's NOTES < 🐼 3 ! : bye.
unknown : stay away from Heeseung or else your career and his especially are doomed. i will make sure of it.
You stared at the message, blood running cold.Your hand instinctively moved to rest on your belly.The threat hung in the air like a shadow, shattering the fragile warmth you had felt just moments ago.You stared at the glowing screen for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the words pressing down on your chest until it became hard to breathe. Your hand trembled as you lowered the phone, pressing your back harder against the door. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty, the silence amplifying every racing thought in your head. Your pulse hammered in your ears, loud and frantic, while fresh tears stung your eyes.
You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t let yourself get any closer. From your point of view, keeping your distance was the best , the only thing you could do. If you stayed near him, your feelings would only grow stronger, and that would only put him at greater risk. You couldn’t let your heart get in the way of his future. You couldn’t let your love become the reason his career and everything he had worked so hard for got destroyed. Bambi deserved a father with a bright future, not one whose dreams were ruined because of you.
You hugged your knees tighter to your chest, phone still clutched in your hand, the decision settling over you like a heavy, painful blanket. It hurt, it hurt more than you expected. But it was the right thing, the safe thing and the only way to protect him.Just then, another notification popped up.
heeseung : thank you so much for standing up for me tonight , tomorrow we go out somewhere ?
Your thumb hovered over the screen. The message was simple, sweet, and full of the quiet care you had come to expect from him. Your heart ached fiercely. You wanted to reply, you wanted to tell him yes, that you’d see him in the morning, that you’d face the day together like you had been doing. You wanted to hear his voice, feel his hand in yours, let him make you breakfast and hold you when the world felt too heavy.
But you didn't, you ignored the message.You turned your phone face down on the floor and hugged your knees closer, fresh tears silently sliding down your cheeks. If you didn’t draw a line right now, your feelings might get out of hand. And that would only hurt him and his career even more.You sat there in the dark for a long time, tears flowing freely now, one hand still protectively over your belly. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty. The love you had just realized was now tangled with guilt, fear, and a painful resolve.
You didn’t know what the future held but you knew one thing for certain ,you didn’t want to hurt him, especially not his career.The realization that you were in love with Heeseung and that you wanted a family with him suddenly felt both precious and terrifyingly vulnerable.You stayed on the cold floor until your legs went numb, the weight of your decision pressing down on you like a stone. You stayed on the cold floor for what felt like hours, knees hugged tightly to your chest, tears drying on your cheeks. The weight of the threatening message, the realization of your feelings, and the painful decision you had just made pressed down on you until your body felt too heavy to move.
Eventually, you forced yourself up. Your legs were numb, your eyes swollen. You moved through your nightly routine on autopilot washing your face with cold water, brushing your teeth, changing into an oversized tshirt. Every motion felt mechanical, like you were watching yourself from outside your body. When you finally crawled into bed, you pulled the covers over your head and curled up on your side, one hand resting protectively over your belly.
The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside. You closed your eyes, willing sleep to come. It took a long time, but exhaustion eventually won. You drifted off with Heeseung’s face in your mind his gentle smile, the way he had held you earlier, the way he had kissed your forehead like you mattered.
The next morning, you woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. Your body felt heavy, your eyes still puffy from the night before. The decision to keep your distance sat like a stone in your chest, but you knew it was the right thing. You reached for your phone on the nightstand and opened your messages to Heeseung. Your fingers hovered for a moment before you typed
you : hey, I’m going to my parents’ place for the weekend since we have holidays now
you : i’ll be back on monday morning, sorry that I can’t go out with you.
You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the send button. It felt cold and distant but it was necessary. You couldn’t let your feelings get out of hand, you couldn't risk hurting him — or his career. you hit send and then you turned your phone face down, got out of bed, and started getting ready for the trip to your parents’ house. The weekend away felt like a necessary escape, a chance to breathe, to think, to put some space between you and the complicated feelings that were growing too fast.
But even as you packed your bag, a small, quiet part of you already missed him.The decision sat heavy in your chest like a stone, but you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.You moved quickly, almost frantically, through your apartment. You pulled out a small suitcase and started packing as fast as you could clothes for the weekend, your laptop for capstone work, toiletries, and a few comfort items. Every motion felt mechanical, like you were trying to outrun the feelings that threatened to overwhelm you. The threatening message still burned in your mind, but you pushed it down, focusing instead on the practical steps in front of you.
Once your bag was packed, you grabbed your keys and left the apartment without looking back. The hallway felt too quiet, too empty. You didn’t glance at Heeseung’s door as you passed it fuck you couldn’t. On the way to the bus stop, you pulled out your phone and called your parents. The line connected after a couple of rings, and your mom’s cheerful voice filled your ear. “Sweetheart! Is everything okay?”
You forced a smile into your voice. “Hi mom im coming home for thanksgiving break. The university has a short break, so I thought I’d surprise you guys and spend the long weekend with you.”Your mom gasped happily. “Oh! That’s wonderful! We’ll prepare your favorite room and make all your favorite dishes. Is Heeseung coming with you? We’d love to see him again and celebrate Thanksgiving together as a family.”You swallowed hard, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. “No, he’s busy with basketball practice. He couldn’t make it this time.”
Your dad’s voice joined in the background, sounding a little disappointed. “Ah, that’s too bad we really liked him. But we’re so happy you’re coming home, honey. We’ll see you soon!”They sounded a little sad about Heeseung not joining, but their excitement to see you won out. You ended the call with a promise to text when you reached the bus station, then quickly messaged Yunjin and Soobin to let them know you’d be away until monday morning.
you : hey guys, im heading to my parents’ town for the weekend since there’s a short break i’ll be back on monday morning and take care!
you : also happy early thanksgiving !
Yunjin replied almost immediately with a string of heart emojis and a promise to catch up when you returned. Soobin sent a simple, caring message wishing you a safe trip.You reached the bus stop just in time for the earliest bus to your hometown. You climbed aboard, found a window seat near the back, and settled in with your bag on your lap. The bus pulled away from the stop, the familiar streets of campus slowly fading behind you.As the scenery changed to highways and open fields, your mind wandered back to Heeseung.
You thought about him and Bambi. About the quiet mornings when he brought you breakfast. About the way he held you when you cried. About the gentle way he spoke to your belly, calling the baby by the nickname you both loved. About how safe you felt in his arms. About how much you wanted to build a real family with him but nothing could be done now.His career was important. He had worked so hard to get where he was — the captain of the team, the one with real NBA potential. According to whoever sent that message, you looked like a threat. You couldn’t be the reason his dreams crumbled. You couldn’t be the reason his future was ruined.
You hugged your bag tighter to your chest, staring out the window as the bus rumbled along the highway. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. This was the right thing this was the only thing you could do to protect him.The bus continued its journey, carrying you away from him, away from the complicated feelings that had grown too strong, too fast.You leaned your head against the window, watching the world blur past, heart heavy with love and sacrifice.
The bus finally pulled into your hometown station by early afternoon. The familiar sight of the small, quiet terminal and the surrounding streets brought a strange mix of comfort and nostalgia. You stepped off the bus with your bag, scanning the area, and spotted your dad waiting near the entrance.The moment he saw you, his face lit up with the warmest smile. He rushed forward and pulled you into a big, tight hug, holding you like he hadn’t seen you in years.“My girl,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You look beautiful come here, let me see you properly.”
He pulled back slightly, then gently placed both hands on your shoulders before lowering them to rest lightly on your belly. His eyes softened with pure joy as he leaned down a little. “Hey there, little Bambi,” he whispered to your belly, his voice full of wonder. “How is my little grandbaby doing today? Grandpa can’t wait to meet you.” You felt tears prick your eyes at the tenderness in his voice. Your dad straightened up and hugged you again, kissing the top of your head.
“Let’s get you home, your mom has been cooking up a storm since you called.”You climbed into his car, the familiar smell of leather and faint bakery scent ( from years of him driving to and from work ) wrapping around you like a hug. As he started the engine and pulled out of the station, your dad began chatting happily. “The bakery has been so busy lately,” he said, smiling. “Thanksgiving orders are pouring in and we're fully booked for the next few days. Oh, and guess what? Sangwon started working with us three months ago.”You turned to him, shocked. “Sangwon? When did he come back from pastry school?”
Your dad chuckled. “About three months ago he finished his program early and wanted to come back home. He’s been a huge help at the bakery and the customers love his new recipes. He’s really grown into a fine young man.”Sangwon your first love, your first and only boyfriend. The two of you had dated in high school a sweet, normal relationship filled with study dates, walks home, and innocent kisses. The breakup had been mutual and gentle. The distance during university had simply made things too hard, so you both decided to part ways before starting separate schools.
You had stayed friends, occasionally checking in on each other’s lives through social media, but it had been years since you last saw him in person.
Hearing his name now felt surreal. A wave of nostalgia washed over you, but it was soft, not painful. You wondered how he was doing, how life had treated him since then. Your dad continued chatting warmly about the bakery, your mom’s excitement to see you, and how they had prepared your old room with fresh sheets and your favorite snacks. You listened, smiling softly, letting his voice fill the car and ease some of the heaviness you had carried from the city.
But in the back of your mind, Heeseung’s face kept appearing his gentle smile, the way he had held you last night, the way he had kissed your forehead before leaving.You pushed the thoughts down this weekend was for your parents for some distance and for some clarity. Even if your heart was still back in the city with him, Heeseung woke up slowly around 10 a.m., the sunlight filtering through the curtains of his bedroom. For a moment, the events of the previous day felt distant the loss at the game, the painful dinner with his parents, the comforting way you had hugged him and kissed him before he went to sleep alone then reality settled in.
He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, and reached for his phone on the nightstand. He had planned to take you out today to a quiet movie or a walk, just the two of you, something normal after the chaos of yesterday. He had been looking forward to it. But when he opened his messages, there was no new reply from you.He frowned slightly, you must have been exhausted and fallen asleep, he thought. The day had been long and emotional for both of you. He scrolled up to check the conversation again, hoping he had missed something. There it was your message from last night.
you : hey, im going to my parents’ place for the thanksgiving break since there’s a short break. i’ll be back on Monday morning. sorry that I can’t go out with you
The words felt… off too polite, too distant. Nothing like the way you had been opening up to him lately the soft smiles, the way you leaned into his touch, the quiet conversations in the dark. This message sounded careful and guarded like you were putting space between you both again. Heeseung stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Did something happen yesterday? The thought gnawed at him. The dinner with his parents had been rough. His father’s words had cut deep, and he had seen how you had stood up for him. Maybe it had been too much, maybe you were pulling away because of that or maybe… you were just tired.
He didn’t want to pry he couldn’t. You two weren’t actually dating. This was all supposed to be for show for the baby, for appearances. He was the one who had developed real feelings. He was the one who lay awake at night thinking about you and Bambi, imagining a future that felt real. He couldn’t push you he wouldn’t.So he typed a simple, careful reply.
heeseung : did you reach safely?
He sent it and set the phone down, running a hand through his messy hair. The apartment felt too quiet without you. He got up, made himself a quick breakfast, and tried to focus on the day ahead. But his mind kept drifting back to you wondering if you were okay, if the trip was a good escape for you, if you were thinking about him at all. He told himself it was fine if you needed space. You needed time with your family.
But the quiet ache in his chest told him it wasn’t fine he missed you already.Thanksgiving Day started quietly for Heeseung.He woke up early, the apartment feeling too empty without the soft sound of your breathing or the faint scent of your shampoo on the pillow next to him. He spent the first half of the day trying to keep busy. He went to the gym for a long, intense workout pushing himself harder than usual, lifting heavier weights, running longer on the treadmill. The physical exertion helped quiet the restless thoughts in his head.
After showering, he settled on the couch with one of the parenting books he had ordered. He read about the second trimester, about how the baby was developing, about ways to support a partner through mood swings and fatigue. Every page made him think of you how you had been feeling lately, how your belly was starting to show more, how you tried to hide your exhaustion behind a brave smile. He highlighted passages and made mental notes of things he wanted to ask you about or prepare for.
Later, he cleaned his apartment thoroughly, wiping down surfaces, organizing the kitchen, folding the blanket you had used the last time you fell asleep on his couch. The small tasks kept his hands busy, but his mind kept drifting back to you. He wondered if you had reached your parents’ house safely, if you were resting, if you were thinking about him at all.By late evening, he still hadn’t heard from you.He checked his phone again as he got ready to head out for Thanksgiving dinner with his teammates. No new messages. The silence felt heavier than he expected.
Fuck I miss you so much
The thought hit him as he stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He wanted to take you along with him tonight. He wanted to show you off to everyone to walk into the restaurant with your hand in his, to introduce you as his girlfriend ( even if it was still fake to you ), to let his teammates see the girl who had changed everything for him. He imagined how proud he would feel, how complete the night would feel with you by his side. Instead, he would be going alone. Most of his teammates would be there with their girlfriends. Jake had mentioned bringing his girl. Jay was bringing someone too.
The thought of sitting there, watching everyone else paired up while he sat by himself, made the loneliness feel sharper. He grabbed his keys and headed out, the cool evening air doing little to ease the ache in his chest. The restaurant was lively when he arrived. Laughter, clinking glasses, the smell of roasted turkey and warm pies filled the air. His teammates greeted him warmly, clapping him on the back and teasing him about the game. But the moment he sat down at the long table, the emptiness beside him felt glaringly obvious.
He smiled and laughed at the right times, joining in the conversation about the season and holiday plans. But his mind kept drifting back to you wondering if you were having a good time with your parents, if you had eaten something gentle on your stomach, if you were thinking about him even a little. He missed you more than he had expected to. He missed the way you leaned into him when you were tired. He missed the soft way you said his name when you were half asleep. He missed the quiet moments where you let him talk to Bambi, your hand resting over his on your belly.
He took a sip of water, forcing another smile as his teammates joked around him. The loneliness sat heavy in his chest, but he pushed it down. He had chosen this to be there for you, even if it meant sitting through a holiday dinner feeling like something was missing. He pulled out his phone under the table and checked it one more time, still no reply from you.He put the phone away and tried to focus on the conversation, but his thoughts kept circling back to the same quiet hope
Come back soon.
Come back to me.
Heeseung sat at the long dinner table with his teammates, the restaurant buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the rich smell of roasted turkey and warm pies. The Thanksgiving dinner was lively, exactly the kind of celebration the team usually loved after a tough season. But tonight, Heeseung felt detached from it all. Ten minutes into the main course, Beomgyu walked up to him with that signature mischievous grin, slinging an arm around his shoulders.“Yo, captain,” Beomgyu teased loudly enough for the whole table to hear. “You look like a loser in love sitting here all by yourself. Where’s your girl?
The table erupted in laughter. Jake, Jay, and a few others joined in with playful jabs. Heeseung forced a small smile, trying to play along, but the words landed heavier than they should have. Jake, who knew the full truth along with Coach, Jay, and Beomgyu, shot him a sympathetic look but didn’t say anything. Heeseung shrugged, keeping his tone light. “She’s at her parents’ place for Thanksgiving family stuff couldn’t make it.” Beomgyu raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “Is she avoiding the team dinner because she knows how chaotic we are?” The teasing continued, but Heeseung’s mind wasn’t fully there.
He laughed at the right moments, contributed a few comments about the lost game and holiday plans, but the loneliness from earlier still sat heavy in his chest. Most of his teammates had come with their girlfriends. The empty seat beside him felt glaringly obvious. He pulled out his phone under the table and started scrolling through Instagram to distract himself. Stories popped up one after another. Then he saw it ,you had reposted a story.
It was a picture of you smiling brightly next to a guy — tall, good looking, holding a freshly baked pie. The two of you looked comfortable together, arms casually close, the background clearly a warm home setting. Heeseung stared at the photo something sharp twisted in his chest. Jealousy? No, it couldn’t be, it was just a picture. You were allowed to have friends. You were allowed to spend time with people from your past. You had the time to repost that, but not to reply to his message?
He told himself it was nothing. You two were just faking it anyway. But to him, it had started to feel real. The way you had hugged him two nights ago, the peck on his cheek, the way you had defended him in front of his father — it had started to feel real from your side too or maybe he was just being delusional. The thought stung more than he wanted to admit.He slipped his phone back into his pocket, the food on his plate suddenly tasting like nothing. The laughter around the table felt distant. “I’m tired,” he told Coach a few minutes later, standing up. “I’m gonna head out enjoy the rest of the night, guys.”
Coach gave him a knowing look but didn’t push. “Get some rest, Lee, see you at practice.” Heeseung drove straight to the basketball court instead of going home. The arena was empty and dark, but he had a key. He turned on the lights in the practice gym, the familiar smell of polished wood and sweat hitting him as he stepped inside. He changed into practice clothes he kept in his bag and started doing drills dribbling, shooting, defensive slides, anything to clear his head. The ball echoed loudly in the empty gym, each bounce and swish a small release of the frustration and jealousy he didn’t want to name.
Every shot he took, he thought of you every time he caught the ball, he remembered the way you had looked at him after the game, the way you had hugged him, the way you had stood up for him in front of his father.He kept playing until his muscles burned and his mind felt a little quieter.But even then, the image of you smiling next to that guy lingered.
He didn’t know what this was between you two anymore. But he knew one thing for certain he missed you and he didn’t know how much longer he could pretend he didn’t.
Heeseung sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at the dark screen. The apartment felt too quiet after the team dinner. The loneliness from earlier had only grown heavier on the drive home. He had tried to distract himself with a quick shower and some stretches, but nothing worked. He opened his messages and typed a simple text to you.
heeseung : happy thanksgiving looks like you’re busy with family hope you’re having a good time
heeseumg : take care of yourself and bambi
He stared at the message for a long moment before sending it. No reply came. He waited a few minutes, refreshing the chat, but the screen stayed silent.He sighed, setting the phone on the nightstand.You’re probably busy with your parents, he told himself. It’s fine she needs time with her family.But the silence stung more than he wanted to admit. He missed the little replies you usually sent even the short ones that made his day feel a little brighter. He missed the way you had started opening up to him, the quiet conversations, the way you let him hold you.
He changed into comfortable clothes and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room felt too empty without you. No soft breathing beside him. No warm body curled against his chest. No gentle hand resting on his stomach while you slept. He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. She’s not mine, he reminded himself this is all fake she’s doing this for the baby not for me.But the lie felt thinner every day. He turned on his side, pulling the blanket higher, and tried to sleep.
The last thing he thought about before drifting off was you smiling in that Instagram story, looking happy and carefree with someone else. And how much he wished he had been the one standing next to you instead.You were sitting on the edge of your old bed in your parents’ house when your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with Heeseung’s message.
heeseung : happy thanksgiving looks like you’re busy with family hope you’re having a good time
heeseung : take care of yourself and bambi
Reading his words made something twist painfully in your chest. Guilt flooded through you, heavy and sharp. You could almost hear his voice saying it soft, caring, the same tone he used when he brought you food or held you through a bad night. You felt like the worst person in the world for ignoring him earlier, for pulling away when he had been nothing but good to you. But you had no choice , you typed back quickly, keeping it short and neutral.
you : happy thanksgiving to you too, good night
you : yes, I was hanging out with my family
You hit send and immediately turned your phone face down on the nightstand. You couldn’t let yourself think about him right now. Not when you were trying so hard to keep your distance. You had spent the day helping out at your parents’ bakery. The place was busy with Thanksgiving orders, the warm smell of fresh bread, pies, and cookies filling the air. You had tied on an apron and worked alongside your mom and dad packing orders, decorating cakes, and chatting with regular customers. It felt good to be useful, to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of the bakery. Your mom kept fussing over you the whole time, reminding you to sit down, to drink water, to take care of yourself and the baby.
“You’re growing a little person in there,” she had said, gently patting your belly. “Don’t overdo it, sweetheart we’re so happy you’re home.” You had smiled and nodded, letting her worry over you. It was comforting in its own way.
You had also run into Sangwon earlier that day.He was working behind the counter at your parents’ bakery, focused and efficient as he helped customers with their orders. When he looked up and saw you standing there, his eyes widened in genuine surprise, then lit up with that familiar, warm smile you remembered so clearly from high school. The same smile that used to make your teenage heart flutter.
“Wow,” he said, stepping around the counter to pull you into a quick, friendly hug. “It’s really you you look different in a good way.”The two of you had talked for a while during a quiet moment between customers. You had found a small table in the back corner of the bakery, away from prying ears. You told him everything the pregnancy, that Heeseung was the father, and that the two of you were in a pretend relationship for now, mostly for the sake of the baby and to keep things stable.
Sangwon had been really shocked. His eyes went wide, and he leaned back in his chair, processing the news in silence for a few seconds. He asked a few careful, gentle questions how you were feeling, how far along you were, if you were okay emotionally.
Then he promised to keep it all to himself. “You know I won’t say anything to your parents,” he had said seriously, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “But… are you okay? Do you need anything? Money, a place to stay, someone to talk to anything at all.” You had hesitated before answering his next question.“Do you like him?” Sangwon had asked gently, his voice full of understanding. You had paused for a long moment, the truth sitting heavy on your tongue.
“I love him,” you had admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But it just wouldn’t work out we’re from two different worlds his career, his family expectations, the pressure he’s under… it’s too complicated. I can’t drag him down with me.”Sangwon had looked at you with deep understanding, then pulled you into a gentle, comforting hug right there in the back of the bakery. “Whatever happens, you can come to me,” he had said softly. “I’m always here, never hesitate to call me day or night.”
You had smiled, grateful beyond words. It felt good to have someone who had your back, someone who didn’t judge, someone who remembered the girl you used to be before everything became so complicated.
Now, back in your old room, you lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, your parents already asleep after a long day at the bakery. The realization that you were in love with Heeseung still sat heavy in your chest, warm and terrifying at the same time. You wanted him. You wanted the quiet mornings, the late night talks, the way he held you like you were something precious. You wanted to build a real family with him and Bambi.
But the threatening message from earlier made your decision feel even more necessary. You closed your eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but Heeseung’s face kept appearing in your mind his gentle smile, the way he held you when you cried, the way he spoke to Bambi like the baby was already the most important thing in the world. You turned onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest, and whispered to the quiet room “I’m sorry…” But you knew you had to stay away — for him for Bambi for both of you.
The weekend went by quickly you spent most of your time with your family, helping out at the bakery whenever you could. The familiar rhythm of packing orders, decorating cakes, and chatting with regular customers felt grounding. Your mom fussed over you constantly making sure you ate small, frequent meals, reminding you to rest, and gently patting your belly while whispering sweet words to Bambi. Your dad was over the moon, constantly talking about future plans for the baby and how excited he was to be a grandfather. The warmth of their love helped ease some of the heaviness you had carried from the city.
You also spent time with Sangwon. The two of you talked a lot during quiet moments at the bakery or while walking home in the evenings. It was easy and nostalgic reminiscing about high school, laughing about old memories, and catching up on life since then. He was supportive without being pushy, and his presence felt like a safe, familiar anchor.But throughout the weekend, you barely texted Heeseung. He had messaged you several times asking how you were doing, how your parents were, if you were resting enough, if the nausea was better.
Each message was caring, thoughtful, and full of the quiet concern you had come to expect from him. You replied briefly, keeping your answers short and neutral. You told yourself it was for the best. Keeping distance was the only way to protect him. On Monday morning, your dad didn’t want you to travel back by bus. He insisted Sangwon drop you back to your apartment. “It’s safer this way,” he said. “And it would have been better if Heeseung was here to pick you up, but I understand he’s busy with practice.” You forced a small smile. “He is busy it’s fine, Dad.”
The drive back with Sangwon was pleasant. The two of you chatted casually about old times funny high school memories, how life had changed since then, and light updates about mutual friends. It was fun talking to him. The conversation flowed easily, and you didn’t realize how fast the time had passed until the car halted right in front of your apartment building. Sangwon helped you carry your bags and all the stuff your parents had sent homemade snacks, some clothes, and a few things for the baby they had already started buying. He carried everything up to your door without complaint.
When you reached your apartment door, Heeseung’s door suddenly opened. He stepped out, looking like he had just come back from somewhere. His eyes landed on you first, then on Sangwon standing beside you with your bags. Something passed through his eyes in a quick flash you couldn’t quite figure out surprise? hurt? jealousy? It was gone too fast to read.“You’re back,” he said quietly, his voice neutral but his gaze lingering on you. You nodded, suddenly feeling awkward with Sangwon still standing there. “Yeah… just got back.”
Sangwon gave a polite nod to Heeseung, then turned to you with a warm smile. “Take care, call me if you need anything, okay?” You thanked him and watched him leave. When you turned back, Heeseung was still standing in his doorway, watching you. The air between you felt heavy and didn't know what to say. You stood in the hallway for a moment, the silence after Sangwon left feeling heavier than it should have. Heeseung was still standing in his doorway, watching you with that unreadable expression. The air between you felt thick, charged with everything that had happened over the weekend and everything that remained unsaid.
You shifted your bag on your shoulder and tried to sound casual. “Do you… want to come inside?” you asked, gesturing toward your apartment door.Heeseung shook his head slowly, his voice gentle but firm. “No, you must be tired from all the traveling. You need to rest.” He paused, eyes flicking to your face as if checking for any sign of exhaustion. “Do you have any classes today?” he asked. You shook your head. “No, the one I had in the evening is cancelled.”
Heeseung nodded once, a small, almost curt movement. He didn’t say anything else no “how was your weekend,” no “I missed you,” no offer to bring you dinner or check on you later. He simply turned and walked back into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality.You stood there for a few seconds longer, staring at his closed door. The hallway felt colder now emptier.
You turned and walked into your own apartment, locking the door behind you. You set your bags down and leaned against the door, letting out a long, slow breath. Yes, you thought, closing your eyes. This is how it should be. This is how it should have been from the beginning. Keeping distance was the right thing, the safe thing. The only way to protect him from the threat, from his father’s expectations, from the complications your feelings would bring. You couldn’t let yourself get any closer. You couldn’t let your heart get in the way of his future.
You unpacked your bags slowly, folding clothes and putting away the snacks and gifts your parents had sent. Every motion felt mechanical, like you were trying to outrun the ache in your chest. The apartment felt too quiet without his presence no soft knocks on the door, no warm food waiting on the table, no gentle voice asking how you were feeling. You sat on the edge of your bed, hand resting on your belly, and whispered to the quiet room. “This is better for him and Bambi.”
But even as you said the words, a small, stubborn part of you ached for the way things had been just a few days ago the easy conversations, the forehead kisses, the way he made you feel safe. You pushed the thoughts down, telling yourself again and again that this was the right choice. You had to keep your distance.
The following weeks blurred into a painful routine of deliberate distance you ignored Heeseung. Every morning, when he knocked softly on your door with breakfast, you pretended you were already gone or too busy to answer. You left earlier than usual for campus, taking the side stairs to avoid the hallway. When he texted asking how you were feeling or if you needed anything, you replied with short, polite messages — “I’m fine,” “Thank you,” “No need.” You stopped letting him come inside. You stopped the late night talks. You stopped the quiet moments where you used to watch him cook or let him hold you, it hurt.
Every time you saw his name on your phone, your heart clenched. Every time you heard his door open or close, you pressed your back against your own door and reminded yourself why you were doing this. The threatening message still lingered in your mind like a shadow. You couldn’t risk his career. You couldn’t risk Bambi’s future. Keeping distance was the only way.Soobin and Yunjin noticed something was wrong.
They caught the way you went quiet whenever Heeseung’s name came up. They saw how you avoided the usual routes where you might run into him. They noticed how tired and distant you seemed. But they didn’t dare ask. They simply stayed close Soobin walking you to classes, Yunjin sending funny memes to cheer you up, both of them offering silent support without pushing.
Heeseung still tried.
He kept showing up.
Some mornings he left breakfast containers outside your door with little notes “Eat something for Bambi.”He texted every day asking how you were feeling, if the nausea was better, if you needed anything. When you gave short replies, he still followed up the next day. He waited in the hallway sometimes, hoping to catch you, but you always slipped away before he could say more than a few words. One evening, he knocked on your door with dinner. You opened it just a crack, thanked him politely, and took the container without letting him inside. The hurt in his eyes was impossible to miss, but he didn’t push. He simply nodded and said, “Take care of yourself.”
It broke your heart a little more every time. During this one month, your parents sent Sangwon every single week to bring food they had made for you. Homemade meals, snacks, and little notes from your mom reminding you to rest. Sangwon would drop them off with a warm smile, sometimes staying for a short chat. He never pushed, never asked too many questions. He was just there, a safe, familiar presence.
Every time Sangwon came, Heeseung’s door would open. He would step out, see the two of you in the hallway, and go dead silent. His expression would tighten, something unreadable flashing in his eyes, before he quietly went back inside without a word you noticed it every time.And every time, it made the ache in your chest worse.
You were ignoring him to protect him. But it felt like you were hurting him anyway. You sat alone in your apartment many nights, hand on your belly, whispering to Bambi about how sorry you were, how you were doing this for both of them, how you wished things could be different.But you kept your distance because you loved him too much to let anything happen to him. It was a random Wednesday afternoon. ( like it was a random tuesday march 10 )
You were walking down the familiar hallway toward your next class, bag slung over your shoulder, mind lost in thoughts about your capstone project and the gentle flutter you had started feeling in your belly lately. The campus was busy as usual, students rushing between classes, but something felt off the moment you turned the corner and people were staring. Not the usual quick glances, these were prolonged, deliberate stares. Groups of students huddled together, whispering as you passed. Some gave you disgusted looks, others smirked or shook their heads. A few pulled out their phones, clearly taking photos or sending messages. The air felt thick with judgment, and your steps slowed as unease crept up your spine.
You kept your head down, pulling your hood a little lower, trying to ignore the growing discomfort. It’s nothing, you told yourself. Just rumors from the game or something but then it happened. One of the girls standing with a group near the lockers suddenly shouted loud enough for the entire hallway to hear
“Whore!” You stopped dead in your tracks, heart slamming against your ribcage. “What?” you whispered, turning toward her in disbelief. She crossed her arms, smirking with clear malice. “Aren’t you such a slut for baby trapping Heeseung? Everyone knows it you got pregnant on purpose to trap the basketball captain pathetic.”
The words hit like a slap. Your face burned with humiliation as more whispers erupted around you. The hallway seemed to close in, the stares growing sharper, more vicious. Your hand instinctively moved to your belly, protecting the small swell that was starting to show. Before you could even process what to say, Yunjin came running from the other end of the hallway, pushing through the crowd. “Get away from her!” Yunjin snapped at the girl, grabbing your arm and pulling you away. “Come on.”
She dragged you down the hallway and into the nearest empty classroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The room was quiet, the noise from the hallway muffled. Yunjin turned to you, her face flushed with anger and worry. “Are you okay?” she asked, searching your face. You nodded shakily, but your legs felt weak. You leaned against a desk, trying to steady yourself. Yunjin pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly before turning the screen toward you. “Look at this itt’s been circulating all morning.”
It was a post on the anonymous campus page
@decelisconfessions : The only reason Heeseung is with the girl from the arts major is because she baby trapped him. She got pregnant on purpose to lock down the basketball captain disgusting he deserves better.
The post had hundreds of likes and comments already, many agreeing with the accusation, calling you names, speculating about your motives.Your heart dropped. The room spun for a second. You felt sick not from pregnancy, but from the sheer cruelty of it all. The rumors had been bad before, but this was vicious, personally designed to hurt.Yunjin put her phone away and pulled you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “People are idiots, you know that’s not true heeseung knows that’s not true ee know that’s not true.”
You hugged her back, tears stinging your eyes. The weight of the secret, the distance you had been trying to keep, the love you were trying so hard not to feel it all crashed down on you at once.You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending everything was fine.You didn’t know what to do. The words on Yunjin’s phone screen blurred as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop crying. The accusation“baby trapped him” felt like a knife twisting in your chest. Who would do this to you? Who would spread such a vicious, cruel rumor? Why? What had you ever done to deserve this kind of hatred?
Your shoulders shook with silent sobs as you stood in the empty classroom, the world outside the door feeling too loud, too cruel. Yunjin immediately pulled you into her arms, holding you tightly as you cried against her shoulder. “Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered, rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles. “It’s okay those people are idiots. They don’t know anything they’re just jealous or bored or whatever. This isn’t true you know that i know that and moreover Heeseung knows that too.”
You clung to her, the tears coming harder. The weight of the past few weeks the hormones, the secrecy, the distance you had forced between you and Heeseung, the love you were trying so hard not to feel all of it crashed down on you at once. You felt small exposed and terrified.Yunjin held you until the worst of the sobs eased, then gently pulled back and wiped your tears with her thumbs. “Do you want to go home?” she asked softly. “Skip the rest of the classes today? It’s okay if you do.” You nodded, unable to speak. The thought of walking through the hallways again, facing more stares and whispers, made your stomach churn.
Yunjin nodded understandingly. “Okay, I’ll call Soobin. He can bring his car and pick us up at the side entrance so we can avoid the main crowd.” She quickly dialed Soobin while you tried to steady your breathing. Your hand stayed on your belly, gently rubbing small circles. I shouldn’t stress myself out too much, you thought, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. It isn’t good for Bambi. I have to stay calm for you, little one. Soobin arrived quickly. He didn’t ask questions when he saw your tear streaked face he just gave you a gentle, concerned look and helped guide you out through a quieter side exit. You kept your head down the entire way, hood pulled low, trying to make yourself as small as possible so no one would notice you.
The walk to the car felt endless, every distant whisper or glance making you flinch. Once you were safely in the backseat with Yunjin beside you, Soobin started the car and drove away from campus. The silence in the car was broken only by your occasional sniffles.Yunjin rubbed your arm gently. “Hey… it’s going to be okay those rumors are bullshit people love drama, but it’ll die down. You’re strong, you've got us and you’ve got Heeseung.” Soobin glanced at you in the rearview mirror, his voice soft and reassuring. “Yeah and if anyone says anything to your face, tell me. I’ve got your back.”
They spent the entire car ride trying to cheer you up. Yunjin told funny stories about her latest disastrous date attempt trying to move on sunghoon. Soobin played some of your favorite calm music and cracked a few light jokes about how the three of you should start a secret society to fight campus gossip. Their efforts were sweet, and you managed a few watery smiles, but the ache in your chest didn’t fully go away.When Soobin pulled up in front of your apartment building, Yunjin helped you out of the car and walked you to your door. “Call us if you need anything,” she said, hugging you tightly. “Even if it’s just to cry we’re here.”Soobin gave you a gentle hug too. “Rest up we love you.”
You nodded, thanking them both before stepping inside. The apartment felt too quiet too empty. You locked the door, leaned against it, and let the tears come again. You couldn’t stop thinking about the rumor. About how it could hurt Heeseung’s reputation. About how it could affect Bambi one day. About how you had to keep your distance to protect him even if it broke your heart a little more every day.
You curled up on the couch, hand on your belly, whispering softly to Bambi. “I’m sorry, little one. I’m trying to do the right thing for you and your dad.” The tears kept coming, but you held on to the small comfort that at least you weren’t completely alone.
Only ten minutes had passed since you had curled up on the couch, tears still flowing freely as you hugged a pillow to your chest. The weight of the rumor, the stares, the whispers, and the overwhelming fear of what it could do to Heeseung and Bambi felt crushing. Your phone lay silent on the coffee table, the ignored message from Heeseung still open on the screen. You didn’t have the strength to reply. You didn’t have the strength to face anyone right now.
The doorbell rang and your heart jumped you thought it was Heeseung. He must have heard about the rumor somehow, or maybe he had come to check on you after his practice. You didn’t want to face him right now — not with your eyes swollen from crying, not with the guilt of ignoring him weighing on you, not when you were still trying so hard to keep your distance to protect him.
But the doorbell rang again, soft but persistent.You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to stand up. Your legs felt heavy as you walked to the door. You opened it slowly, expecting to see Heeseung’s concerned face.
It wasn’t him it was Sangwon.He stood there with a small bag in his hand, likely another care package from your parents. His expression was relaxed at first, the familiar warm smile starting to form on his face. But the moment he saw you eyes red and swollen, cheeks streaked with tears, shoulders hunched his smile vanished completely.You broke down the second you saw him.
The tears you had been trying to hold back came rushing out again. A sob tore from your throat as you covered your mouth with one hand, the other gripping the doorframe for support. Your body shook with the force of the crying, the exhaustion of the day, the fear, the guilt, and the overwhelming love you were trying so hard to suppress all crashing down at once.
Sangwon’s eyes widened in alarm. He stepped forward immediately, startled and deeply worried.“Hey, hey — what happened?” he asked, voice full of concern. “Are you okay? Did something happen at campus? Talk to me.”You couldn’t answer right away. The sobs kept coming, your legs feeling weak. Sangwon didn’t hesitate he gently guided you inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. He led you to the couch, making you sit down carefully, and sat beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
“Take your time,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m here just breathe whatever it is, you can tell me.” You cried harder, leaning into his side as the words finally started spilling out between sobs the rumor on the campus page, the girl shouting “whore” in the hallway, the stares, the whispers, the fear that it would ruin Heeseung’s career and reputation. You told him how you had stood up for Heeseung in front of his father, how you were trying so hard to keep your distance to protect him, how much you loved him but couldn’t let yourself get closer.
Sangwon listened without interrupting, his arm around your shoulders, rubbing gentle circles on your back. He stayed quiet and steady, letting you cry it all out, his presence calm and comforting in the middle of your storm. Sangwon stayed with you on the couch, his arm around your shoulders as you cried out everything that had been weighing on you. He didn’t rush you. He just listened, rubbing gentle circles on your back, his presence steady and comforting in the middle of your storm. When your sobs finally quieted into soft sniffles, you pulled back slightly and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. Sangwon looked at you with deep concern, his voice gentle but firm.
“Is there anything else?” he asked. “You look like you’re carrying even more.”You hesitated, then nodded. The threatening message had been burning in your mind since last night. You took a shaky breath and told him everything the anonymous text, the warning to stay away from Heeseung, the threat to both your careers.Sangwon’s expression darkened. He sat up straighter, his hand still on your shoulder.
“Did you discuss this with Heeseung?” he asked.You shook your head, eyes downcast. “No.”Sangwon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Why not? Heeseung should be the first person to know all of this he’s the father of your baby. He’s been there for you every step of the way you can’t keep carrying this alone.”
You looked down at your hands, voice small. “I don’t want to ruin his future. If I tell him, he’ll worry, he’ll get involved. And if whoever sent that message finds out… it could hurt his career even more. I can’t do that to him.” Sangwon stared at you for a moment, then gently flicked your forehead. “You’re dumb,” he said, but there was no real bite in his voice, only fond exasperation. “If he didn’t care about you, you would be alone here. Even though you’ve been ignoring him, he still shows up, he still brings you food and he still checks on you that he wants this baby. Do you think some anonymous threat is going to stop him? I think you’re too blind to see that that man is in love with you.”You shook your head quickly, cheeks burning. “No it’s not like that this is all fake it’s just for the baby he’s just being responsible.”
Sangwon gave you a long, knowing look, but he didn’t push further on that point. Instead, he squeezed your shoulder. “I want you to call him up and tell him that you wanna talk to him. This is much needed, he deserves to know. But right now go to sleep, you need that rest. You’ve been through enough today.”
You nodded, too exhausted to argue. Sangwon helped you to your bed, tucking the blanket around you like an older brother ( ex boyfriend turned older brother 🥰). He dimmed the lights and quietly started cleaning up your apartment picking up the scattered snacks from earlier, washing the few dishes in the sink, folding the blanket on the couch.You watched him for a moment, grateful beyond words, before your eyes grew heavy. As you drifted off, the last thing you thought about was Heeseung and how much you wished you could tell him everything.
The entire day had been a blur of motion and focus for Heeseung.He had woken up early, the apartment feeling too quiet without you. The first thing he did was prepare breakfast mild porridge with ginger and some fresh fruit slices, exactly the kind of thing that wouldn’t upset your stomach. He packed it carefully, wrote a short note “Eat something and have a good day”, and quietly left it outside your door before heading to practice. He didn’t knock, he didn't want to wake you if you were still resting. After that, he was completely immersed in basketball.
He arrived at the coaching center and didn’t even glance at his phone. Practice was intense drills, strategy sessions, weight training, and full court scrimmages. He pushed himself harder than usual, channeling every ounce of frustration from the previous night’s loss and the painful dinner with his parents into every sprint, every shot, every defensive slide. Coach noticed his intensity and gave him approving nods, but Heeseung barely registered it. His mind was focused, sharp, and deliberately empty of everything else.
The only breaks he took were for water and quick stretches. He didn’t check his messages. He didn’t think about the unanswered text he had sent you last night. He didn’t let himself wonder why you had suddenly pulled away again. By the time evening practice ended, he was exhausted but satisfied. The team headed to the locker room, the air filled with the usual post practice chatter jokes about the game, plans for the weekend, complaints about sore muscles. Heeseung was changing his shirt when Jay walked over, phone in hand, his expression unusually serious. “Hey, man,” Jay said, lowering his voice. “You should check the university confession page there’s something posted about you and her.”
Heeseung’s stomach dropped. He took the phone from Jay and opened the page. The post was right at the top, already with hundreds of likes and comments.
@decelisconfessions : The only reason Heeseung is with the girl from the arts major is because she baby trapped him. She got pregnant on purpose to lock down the basketball captain disgusting he deserves better.
Heeseung’s blood boiled his grip tightened on the phone, knuckles turning white. The words felt like a personal attack not just on you, but on everything the two of you had been trying to build. The casual cruelty, the assumption that you would do something so manipulative, the way it painted you as some scheming villain it made his jaw clench so hard it hurt.
What do these people think? he thought, anger surging through him. What do they actually think of themselves? Spreading lies like this, ruining someone’s reputation for clicks and gossip? They don’t know anything about her. They don’t know how hard she’s trying, how scared she is, how much she’s already giving up to protect this baby. He handed the phone back to Jay without a word, his mind racing. He wanted to find whoever posted it. He wanted to shut it down. He wanted to protect you from this.But right now, all he could do was breathe through the anger and try to stay calm.
The locker room fell into a stunned silence as the post spread through the team’s phones.Heeseung’s blood was still boiling, his grip on the edge of the bench so tight his knuckles turned white. The words on the screen, the casual cruelty, the baseless accusation that you had “baby trapped” him made his jaw clench so hard it ached. He wanted to find whoever posted it. He wanted to shut it down. He wanted to protect you from this vicious gossip that was clearly spreading like wildfire across campus.Before he could say anything, the door to the locker room burst open.
Coach rushed in, phone in hand, his face a mixture of concern and anger. The rest of the team looked up, the atmosphere shifting from casual post-practice chatter to tense worry.
“I just saw the post,” Coach said, voice low but urgent. “It’s been up for almost 8 hours. The whole campus is talking about it. Heeseung — are you okay? Is she okay?”The guys gathered closer, their expressions shifting from shock to genuine concern. Jake stepped forward first. “Man, this is messed up,” Jake said, voice serious. “If you need anything, if she needs anything we’ve got your back.”Jay nodded. “Yeah this isn’t right people are assholes.”Beomgyu looked furious. “Who the hell posts something like this? We need to find out who runs that page.”Heeseung ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I’m going to find out,” he said. He turned to Jake. “Can you try to find the admin of the page? Anything you can dig up.”
Jake nodded immediately. “On it.”Heeseung didn’t wait for more. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.“I need to check on her,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s not answering my messages, and her calls are going straight to voicemail.”The team called out words of support as he left, but Heeseung barely heard them. His mind was racing. The rumor had been out for almost 8 hours. You must have seen it. You must be hurting. And the fact that you weren’t answering him only made the worry twist sharper in his chest. He drove straight to your apartment building, heart pounding the entire way. The streets blurred past as he pushed the speed limit, his mind replaying every moment of the past few weeks the way you had stood up for him in front of his father, the way you had hugged him after the game, the way you had slowly started opening up to him.
He parked quickly and took the stairs two at a time. When he reached your door, he knocked firmly.No answer he knocked again, louder still nothing. He pulled out his phone and tried calling you straight to voicemail. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.He stood there for a moment, worry and frustration mixing with a deep, protective anger. He didn’t know who was behind the post, but he knew one thing for certain he wasn’t going to let this hurt you. Not if he could help it he knocked one more time, calling your name softly through the door.
“Baby… it’s me please open the door if you’re in there.”The silence on the other side only made his chest ache more.Heeseung stood outside your door, heart pounding, worry and frustration mixing in his chest. He had knocked again, called your name softly, and tried your phone one more time. Straight to voicemail.The silence on the other side was deafening.
Just as he was about to knock again, the door finally opened. But it wasn’t you it was another guy — tall, good looking, carrying a small bag. The same guy from the Instagram story you had reposted. The one holding a pie, smiling comfortably next to you. Heeseung’s heart hurt it was a sharp, unexpected twist in his chest. You had relied on another man instead of him. He didn’t even know who this guy was or what his relationship with you was. All he knew was that this same person had been visiting you every single week for the past month, bringing things from your parents. And now he was here, in your apartment, when you weren’t answering Heeseung’s calls.
The jealousy was instant and ugly. He tried to push it down, but it burned.Sangwon looked at him for a second, then offered a polite, slightly awkward nod.
“I think I’ll leave now,” Sangwon said quietly. “I was waiting for you to come back.”Heeseung just nodded, jaw tight, unable to form words. Sangwon grabbed his stuff, gave a small wave, and left down the hallway.Heeseung stepped inside your apartment, closing the door behind him. The place was dimly lit, quiet except for the faint sound of your breathing from the bedroom. He walked in slowly, his eyes adjusting to the low light.You were curled up on the bed, eyes red and swollen from crying, looking small and exhausted. The sight broke something in him. He crossed the room in a few quick steps and knelt beside the bed, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice soft. “I’m here.”You looked up at him, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. Heeseung’s heart twisted again. He climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his arms without another word, holding you close as you cried against his chest.He didn’t ask what happened. He just held you, one hand stroking your back, the other resting protectively over your belly.“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got both of you.”
He stayed like that for a long time, letting you cry it all out, his own worry and jealousy fading into the background. Right now, the only thing that mattered was you.You stayed curled against Heeseung’s chest for a long time, the sobs slowly easing into quiet sniffles. His arms were steady around you, one hand gently stroking your back, the other resting protectively over your belly. The warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly grounded you.
When you finally felt calm enough to speak, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Your voice was hoarse and shaky. “People are talking shit about me,” you whispered. “On that confession page they’re saying I baby trapped you. Some girl shouted ‘whore’ at me in the hallway today. Called me a slut for trapping you. Everyone was staring… whispering…”Heeseung’s expression darkened, but his touch remained gentle. He brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“That isn’t true,” he said firmly, voice low and steady. “You know it. I know that those people don’t know anything about us they don’t know how hard you’ve been trying, how scared you’ve been, or how much you’ve already given up to protect this baby. They’re just bored and cruel. Their words don’t define you. They don’t define us.”He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, holding it there for a long moment. You took a shaky breath and continued.
“There’s more,” you whispered. “The day we came back from your parents’ place… an anonymous number threatened me. They said to stay away from you or they’d ruin both our careers. I… I got scared I didn’t want to ruin your future. That’s why I started avoiding you. I thought if I kept my distance, it would protect you.”
Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly. He searched your face, then let out a slow, pained breath. “It was probably my dad,” he said quietly, voice tight with frustration. “He’s been like this my whole life always comparing me to Heedo, always putting pressure on me. I should have told you how bad it was. You should have told me about the message. We’re supposed to face this together.” You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks again. “I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I was scared I didn't want to ruin your career you mean a lot to me, Heeseung, more than I ever thought you would.” Heeseung’s eyes filled with tears. He pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, thick with emotion. “Don’t ever hide anything from me again,” he whispered. “Not the hard things not the scary things. Not the messages that make you cry. I don’t care how busy I am, or how important the tryouts feel, or how much pressure my dad puts on me. You come first always.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. His own eyes were shining.
“I want to be the first person you come to when something hurts, when you’re scared, when you need something, anything. Even if it’s just to sit in silence and let me hold you. I don’t want you carrying things alone just because you’re trying to protect me. That’s not how this works, we're a team now you and me and Bambi.” His forehead rested against yours as he continued, voice softer but no less certain. “I know I’ve been focused on the NBA stuff. I know I’ve been distant sometimes because of it. But that stops now. If my dad sends another message, if anyone tries to make you feel small or unwanted, you tell me immediately. I will handle it i will protect you. I will never let anyone make you feel like you have to choose between my dreams and your peace.”
He kissed your forehead, lingering there, then pressed another soft kiss to each of your damp eyelids.“Promise me,” he murmured. “Promise you’ll come to me first. No more keeping things inside because you’re afraid of what it might cost me. You’re not a burden, baby you’re the reason any of this matters. You’re the home I want to come back to every single time.” His arms tightened around you again, one hand sliding down to rest protectively over your belly.
He thought to himself it is now or never fuck it “I have to tell you this,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you ever since the first day you walked into this building and banged on my door calling me an entitled asshole. I loved how you never backed down, how you called me out, how you were so real with me. I fell for you long before the baby. I fell for you when you were still miss morals, yelling at me through the wall. I love you. I love Bambi. I want this — us ,to be real. I don’t care how complicated it is i want to build a life with you. I want to be the one who’s there for you every single day i love you.”
His voice cracked on the last words, tears slipping down his cheeks as he held you like you were the most precious thing in his world. You felt your own tears fall faster. You pulled back just enough to look at him, then leaned in and kissed him soft at first, then deeper, pouring everything you had been holding back into it.When you pulled away, your voice was shaky but sure. “I love you too,” you whispered. “I’ve been trying so hard not to admit it, but I do, I love you, Heeseung.” He smiled through his tears and pulled you back into his arms, holding you like he never wanted to let go.
Heeseung’s confession hung in the air between you, raw and honest. His eyes were glassy with tears, but the smile on his face was real soft, vulnerable, full of love. You didn’t have words left, you just leaned in and kissed him.
The kiss started slow and tender, lips brushing gently, tasting the salt of tears that still clung to both of you then it deepened. Heeseung cupped your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he tilted your head and kissed you like he had been starving for this exact moment for months. His tongue traced the soft curve of your lower lip, teasing, asking. You opened for him without hesitation, and the kiss turned hungry desperate in the best way. Your tongues met in a slow, deliberate slide, wet and warm, exploring each other with a thoroughness that made heat pool low in your belly.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, gripping the soft strands at the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. He groaned into your mouth, the low, rough sound vibrating straight through your chest. His hands left your face and slid down, roaming over your back with firm, open palms. Fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, finding bare skin. The first touch of his warm hands against your lower back made you shiver. He stroked upward, slow and deliberate, mapping the line of your spine, the soft curves of your waist, the sensitive skin just beneath your shoulder blades.
You pressed closer, shifting until you were straddling his lap fully. The solid heat of his thighs beneath you, the unmistakable hardness growing against the softest part of you, sent a fresh wave of need through your body. He pulled you down against him, rolling his hips once just enough for you to feel how much he wanted you and another deep groan spilled from his throat into the kiss.
The kiss broke only for quick, shared breaths before you found each other again. His lips were swollen, wet, insistent. He sucked gently on your lower lip, then your upper, then kissed you deeper still, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that felt almost indecent. One of his hands slipped higher under your shirt, palm gliding over the side of your ribcage until his fingers brushed the soft underside of your breast. He didn’t rush he just held you there, thumb stroking back and forth in a feather light tease that made your breath catch. The other hand stayed on your thigh, fingers spreading wide, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulled you even tighter against the hard line of his cock.
You rocked against him without thinking, a soft, needy sound escaping into his mouth. He answered by kissing you harder open mouthed, messy, full of heat while both hands moved with purpose. One stayed under your shirt, now fully cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra until it tightened into a sensitive peak. The other hand slid higher up your thigh, fingertips tracing the edge of your underwear, not quite slipping underneath yet, just teasing the sensitive skin there in slow, maddening strokes.
You kissed for what felt like forever slow, then deeper, then almost frantic his tongue stroked yours. Your teeth grazed his lower lip. His hands never stopped moving, squeezing, stroking, mapping every inch of bare skin he could reach. The air between you grew warmer, heavier. Your fingers tightened in his hair, his hips rolled up against you again, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every hard inch of him through the layers of clothing.
When Heeseung finally pulled back just enough to look at you, both of you were breathing hard. His eyes were dark with desire, pupils blown wide, but underneath the heat there was something softer, almost worshipful. His hands remained on you one still under your shirt, palm curved possessively over your breast, the other resting high on your thigh, fingers still tracing lazy, intimate patterns against your skin.He didn’t speak he only watched you, lips parted and shining, as if the sight of you flushed and breathless in his lap was something he needed to memorize before he kissed you again.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “God, I love you so much. I’ve been losing my mind over you for months. Every time you smiled at me, every time you let me hold you, every time you trusted me with Bambi… I fell harder. I’m such a loser for you i can’t even pretend anymore.” He laid you down gently on the bed, hovering over you. His hands were reverent as he slowly undressed you, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. When you were bare beneath him, he took his time, lips trailing down your neck, across your collarbone, and over your swollen, sensitive breasts.
He sucked gently on one nipple, then the other, making you whimper and arch into him.bHis hand slid between your thighs. You were already wet, aching. He teased your folds with his fingers, circling your clit slowly before sliding two fingers inside you. He pumped them deep and steady, curling them just right against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. His thumb rubbed your clit in perfect rhythm, and you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand.
“So good,” he murmured against your breast, voice wrecked. “So wet for me I love you like this I love you so much it hurts.” You moaned loudly, fingers digging into his shoulders as he worked you closer and closer. The pleasure built slowly, deliciously, until you came with a soft cry, clenching around his fingers.
Heeseung kissed you through it, then gently withdrew his hand. He stripped off his own clothes and settled between your legs in missionary. He entered you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. You both moaned at the feeling. He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in. “I love you,” he whispered as he started moving slow, deep thrusts that made you feel every inch of him. “I love you I love you so much.”
You wrapped your legs around him, hands on his back, matching his rhythm. The pace was sensual, loving, every stroke deliberate. He kissed you the entire time, whispering sweet, adoring words between thrusts how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how happy he was to have you and Bambi.
After a while, the need to feel even closer overwhelmed you. You gently pushed at Heeseung’s shoulder, and he understood immediately, rolling onto his back without breaking the kiss. You followed, straddling his hips, your hands braced on his chest as you slowly sank down onto him. The new angle made you both moan deeply. He filled you completely, thick and warm, stretching you in the most delicious way. You paused for a moment, adjusting, breathing each other in as your bodies connected fully. Heeseung’s hands found your hips, fingers digging in just enough to ground you, his eyes dark and full of awe as he looked up at you.
You started moving slow, rolling hips that dragged him in and out of you with exquisite friction. Every downward motion made you whimper softly, the angle hitting that perfect spot deep inside. Heeseung’s breath hitched with every roll, his hands guiding your movements, thumbs stroking the skin just above your hips. When you placed your right leg on his chest, bending it so your foot rested near his shoulder, he took it gently in both hands. He kissed your calf tenderly, lips brushing the sensitive skin, then moved to your ankle, pressing open mouthed kisses there as you continued riding him. The contrast between the sweet, reverent kisses on your leg and the way his cock filled you so perfectly made your head spin.
“Look at you,” he groaned, voice wrecked and full of wonder. “Riding me so perfectly you’re so beautiful like this. I’m such a loser for you I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me I love you I love you so much it hurts.” ( my man is pussy drunk ) His words, combined with the deep, rolling thrusts and the way he kissed your leg like it was something sacred, pushed you over the edge again. You came hard, trembling on top of him, walls clenching rhythmically around his cock as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your moans filled the room, raw and unrestrained. Heeseung followed right after, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside you, hips jerking up to meet yours. He held you down on him, pulsing inside you, his hands gripping your hips like he never wanted to let go.
Afterward, he gently pulled you down onto his chest, arms wrapping around you tightly. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips soft, lingering kisses that spoke more than words ever could. You both stayed like that, naked and tangled together, hearts beating in sync, his hand resting protectively over your belly where Bambi was growing. The room was quiet except for your slowing breaths. Heeseung held you like you were the most precious thing in his world, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as you drifted in the warm afterglow.
The next morning, you woke up slowly to the soft clinking of utensils and the faint, comforting smell of something warm cooking in the kitchen. Sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. You were still naked under the blanket, the memory of last night’s intimacy lingering in the pleasant ache of your body and the warmth in your chest. Heeseung wasn’t in bed beside you. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, and smiled faintly when you heard him humming quietly in the kitchen.
You slipped on one of his oversized shirts that had been left on the chair and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
Heeseung stood at the stove, wearing only sweatpants, his back to you as he stirred something in a pot. The sight of his broad shoulders, the way his muscles moved as he cooked, the domestic ease of it all made your heart flutter. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his bare back in a back hug. Heeseung startled for a second, then relaxed into your embrace with a soft chuckle. “Good morning,” he murmured, turning his head slightly to kiss the top of your head. “Did you sleep well?”You nodded against his back, tightening your arms around him. “Better than I have in a while what are you making?”
“ porridge with ginger and some fruit on the side,” he said, continuing to stir. “And ginger tea thought it would be gentle on your stomach.” You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder blade. “You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to,” he replied simply, turning off the stove and turning around in your arms so he could face you. He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you gently on the lips, then on your forehead. “Morning looks good on you.” You blushed, burying your face in his chest. The two of you stayed like that for a while you wrapped around him, his arms holding you close, the quiet morning sunlight warming the kitchen.
Heeseung eventually pulled back just enough to serve breakfast. You sat at the small table together, eating slowly. He asked how you were feeling, if the nausea was better, and you asked about his practice schedule. The conversation was easy, domestic, and full of small, sweet moments, him reaching over to brush a strand of hair from your face, you feeding him a piece of fruit from your bowl, both of you laughing when he accidentally got a bit of porridge on his chin.
After breakfast, you both got ready for campus. Heeseung helped you choose a comfortable outfit, making sure it was loose enough for your growing belly. Before leaving, he pulled you into another hug, kissing your forehead.
“Ready to go?” he asked.You nodded, taking his hand as you stepped out together.You walked to campus hand in hand, the morning sun shining down on you. A few people stared, but you didn’t care. For the first time in a while, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be. The walk to campus hand in hand with Heeseung felt both surreal and strangely right.Everyone in the campus looked shocked. As you both walked through the main gates, heads turned. Students who had been whispering about the rumors just yesterday now stared openly, eyes wide with surprise. Some pointed discreetly. Others pulled out their phones.
The sight of Heeseung the basketball captain, campus royalty walking hand in hand with you, his arm occasionally brushing protectively over your small, rounded belly, was clearly not what anyone had expected. The news had spread fast. The confession page rumor had painted you as a manipulator. But seeing you two openly together, Heeseung looking at you with soft, obvious adoration, and the visible sign of your pregnancy under your loose sweater it shattered that narrative in real time. People whispered, but the tone had shifted.
Some looked curious, some looked surprised, a few even smiled.Heeseung didn’t seem to care about any of it. He walked with quiet confidence, his fingers intertwined with yours, occasionally squeezing gently as if to remind you he was right there. When you reached the building for your first class, he stopped and turned to you. He cupped your face with both hands and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips right there in the middle of the busy pathway. “I’ll see you after class,” he murmured against your lips. “Text me if you need anything take care of yourself and Bambi.”You nodded, cheeks warm, heart fluttering. “You too.”He gave you one last soft smile, then walked away toward his own building, glancing back once with that same adoring look.
You stood there for a second, still a little dazed, before Yunjin and Soobin appeared beside you, both grinning like idiots. Yunjin squealed and linked her arm with yours. “Oh my god, that was so cute! He just kissed you in front of everyone! Heeseung Mr. Cool Captain is out here openly simping for you. I’m living for this.” Soobin chuckled, shaking his head. “He looked like he was ready to fight anyone who looked at you wrong. Madly in love is an understatement how does it feel to have the whole campus talking about you two in a good way now?” You blushed harder, trying to hide your smile as you walked with them toward class.
“It feels… weird,” you admitted. “But nice I think.”Yunjin bumped your shoulder playfully. “Weirdly nice is the best kind he’s whipped and you’re glowing pregnancy looks good on you, babe.” Soobin nodded in agreement.You laughed softly, the teasing from your friends helping ease some of the nervousness. As you walked into the classroom, you couldn’t help but glance back toward where Heeseung had gone, a small, private smile on your face.The campus was still staring but for the first time, it didn’t feel like judgment.It felt like the beginning of something real.
The rest of your classes went by surprisingly smoothly. Nobody dared say anything to your face. The stares were still there, but they were quieter now more curious than cruel. The rumor had spread, but the sight of Heeseung openly kissing you goodbye in the morning seemed to have shifted the narrative. People whispered, but no one shouted insults no one followed you. You kept your head high, hand occasionally resting on your belly under your hoodie, and focused on your lectures. Yunjin and Soobin stayed close, offering silent support and the occasional funny comment to keep your spirits up.
By the time the final class ended, you felt tired but lighter. The campus still felt watchful, but it no longer felt hostile.
In the evening, you met Heeseung in the parking lot like you had agreed. The moment he saw you walking toward him, his face lit up with that soft, genuine smile that made your heart skip. He didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled you into a big, warm bear hug, wrapping his arms around you tightly and lifting you slightly off the ground. You laughed softly into his shoulder, hugging him back just as hard.
“I missed you today,” he murmured against your hair. “How were your classes?” “They were okay,” you replied, still in his arms. “No one said anything mean. Just staring it was… manageable.”Heeseung pulled back enough to look at you, his hands resting on your waist. “Good if anyone bothers you, tell me. I mean it.”
You nodded, smiling up at him. He looked so happy just to see you eyes bright, shoulders relaxed. It made the earlier anxiety feel smaller.Heeseung brushed a strand of hair from your face. “I was thinking do you want to go on a date? A real one there’s a restaurant not too far from here. Good food” You felt a flutter in your chest a real date with Heeseung after everything. You smiled. “I’d like that.” His face lit up even more. “Great let’s go home first and get ready i’ll drive.”
You both walked back to the apartment hand in hand. Once inside, you changed into a comfortable but cute outfit a flowy dress that hid your bump nicely and made you feel pretty. Heeseung changed into a simple button up shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly handsome. He waited patiently while you did your hair and a bit of makeup, complimenting you every time you caught his eye in the mirror.“You look beautiful,” he said softly when you were ready. “Ready to go?”You nodded, taking his hand as you left the apartment together.
The car ride to the restaurant was peaceful. Heeseung played soft music and asked about your day in more detail what you learned in class, how Bambi had been moving, if you were feeling any new symptoms. You asked him about practice and how he was feeling after the loss. The conversation flowed easily, comfortable and warm, like you had been doing this for months.
The restaurant was quiet and cozy, with soft lighting and gentle background music. You and Heeseung sat at a corner table, the atmosphere intimate and warm. He had chosen a place with light, pregnancy-friendly options, and the waiter had been attentive without being intrusive. As you both ate, the conversation flowed naturally. You talked about your classes, how Bambi had been moving more lately, and how your parents had been sending care packages. Heeseung listened with that soft, focused look he always gave you, occasionally reaching across the table to hold your hand.
Toward the end of the meal, Heeseung set his fork down and looked at you with a small, excited smile.
“I have some news,” he said, voice low but full of quiet pride. “During my next match, an NBA scout is coming. My coach told me today. It’s a big one someone from a team that’s been watching me for a while.” Your eyes widened, a genuine smile spreading across your face. “Really? That’s amazing, Heeseung! You’ve been working so hard for this.” He nodded, looking a little shy but happy. “Yeah it’s a huge opportunity I’m nervous, but… excited. I want to show them what I can do.” You squeezed his hand across the table. “You’re going to do great i know it. I’ll be there cheering for you with Bambi.”
Heeseung’s smile widened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Having you there means everything. I’ll play better knowing you’re watching.” There was a comfortable pause as you both finished the last bites of your meal. Then Heeseung’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of cute, boyish jealousy creeping into his voice. “So… who is that guy who has been coming over to your place for the past month?” he asked, trying ( and failing ) to sound casual. “The one with the pie in your instagram story”
You blinked, then couldn’t help but smile at how adorably obvious his jealousy was. “He’s an old friend from high school,” you explained gently. “My first boyfriend, actually we broke up mutually before university because of the distance. He’s been helping at my parents’ bakery and dropped off some food they made for me. That’s all.” Heeseung nodded, but his ears turned a little pink. “Ah okay just… curious.”
You teased him lightly. “Were you jealous?” He looked away, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe a little I saw the story and I don’t know. I didn’t like seeing you smiling with someone else even if it’s fake between us, it felt… real to me.”Your heart melted at his honesty. You squeezed his hand again.“It’s real to me too,” you admitted softly.
Heeseung’s eyes lit up, and he leaned across the table to kiss your knuckles. The rest of the dinner was filled with light conversation about the upcoming game, what he was preparing, and how you could support him. The mood was warm and hopeful, the earlier tension from the campus rumors feeling far away.
After dinner, Heeseung drove you back to the apartment. You both walked into his apartment hand in hand. It felt familiar now the clean, minimalist space with the faint scent of his cologne. Heeseung closed the door behind you and pulled you into a gentle hug, kissing the top of your head.“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll get you something to change into.”
He handed you one of his oversized shirts. You changed in the bathroom and came out to find him already in sweatpants, turning down the bed. He smiled when he saw you in his shirt, eyes warm and adoring. “You look good in my clothes,” he murmured, pulling you into bed with him. You both slipped under the covers, naked except for the shirt you wore. Heeseung immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling your back against his chest in a spooning position. One hand rested protectively over your belly, the other stroked your arm.The room was dark and quiet, only the faint city lights filtering through the curtains. You felt safe warm and loved.
Heeseung pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck.“Goodnight, baby,” he whispered. “Sleep well i’ve got you and Bambi.”You smiled in the dark, intertwining your fingers with his over your belly.“Goodnight,” you whispered back. You fell asleep like that safe in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, the steady beat of his heart lulling you into peaceful rest.
The next morning, you woke up to the soft sound of Heeseung humming in the kitchen. The smell of gentle breakfast filled the apartment. You smiled, stretching slowly, feeling the warmth of the night before still lingering in your body and heart.
You got up, wearing his shirt, and walked to the kitchen. Heeseung turned when he heard you, his face lighting up with that soft smile. “Morning,” he said, pulling you into a hug and kissing your forehead. “Sleep well?” You nodded, hugging him back. The two of you spent a sweet, slow morning together eating breakfast at the small table, talking about nothing and everything, stealing soft kisses between bites. Heeseung’s hand never strayed far from your belly, a quiet, protective gesture that made your heart feel full.
When it was time to head to campus, he took your hand as you left the apartment together, walking side by side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The walk to campus hand in hand with Heeseung felt both surreal and strangely right.The morning air was crisp, the sun shining gently as you both made your way through the familiar paths. Heeseung’s fingers were intertwined with yours, his thumb occasionally stroking the back of your hand in a soothing rhythm. You felt the small, rounded curve of your belly brushing against the fabric of your loose sweater with every step a constant, gentle reminder of Bambi growing inside you.
You glanced up at him, heart full. After the sweet night spent in his apartment, the warmth of his arms still lingered on your skin. You took a deep breath and decided to share the news that had been on your mind since the last checkup. “I have an appointment today with the doctor,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “Today they’ll be able to tell us the baby’s gender. Maybe if you want, we can have a small gender reveal? Just something simple with our parents, or even just the two of us.” Heeseung stopped walking abruptly. He turned to you, eyes wide with pure, unfiltered excitement. Then, right there in the middle of the campus pathway, he literally jumped a little, a small, boyish hop of joy that made you laugh out loud.
“What do you mean ‘if you want’?” he exclaimed, grinning so wide it lit up his entire face. “We need to hold a huge gender reveal celebration! Balloons, cake, a big sign the works! I want everyone to know. I want to celebrate our baby properly.” You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. His happiness was infectious, and for a moment, all the worries about rumors, his family, and the future faded into the background.
Heeseung pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in the middle of the pathway, not caring who saw. He rested his forehead against yours, voice soft but full of wonder.“And I want a daughter who just looks like you,” he whispered, eyes shining. “With your pretty brown eyes, your smile, your laugh. A little girl who’s as strong and kind as her mom. Though a mini me would be cute too. As long as they have even a little bit of you in them, I’ll be the happiest dad in the world.”
Your heart melted. You felt tears prick your eyes as you hugged him back, burying your face in his chest.“You’re going to be an amazing dad,” you whispered. Heeseung kissed the top of your head, holding you for a long moment before pulling back with a bright, excited grin.
“Let’s do this,” he said. “After the appointment, we’ll plan the gender reveal. Big or small — whatever you want but I’m definitely celebrating our baby.” You nodded, smiling up at him as you continued walking hand in hand toward campus. The stares from other students didn’t bother you as much today. Not when Heeseung was looking at you like you were his whole world. The future still felt a little scary, but with him by your side, it also felt full of hope.
It had been a week since you entered your fifth month and three weeks of pregnancy. Your bump was now clearly visible a soft, rounded curve that made your clothes fit differently and drew more curious glances on campus. You had started wearing looser tops and dresses to accommodate it, and every time you caught your reflection, a mix of wonder and nervousness filled you. Bambi was growing, and the reality of it all felt more real with each passing day.
You and Heeseung were now openly together. The rumors had slowly died down, replaced by a mix of surprise and tentative acceptance. People still whispered, but the public affection the way Heeseung walked you to class, held your hand, and kissed your forehead in front of everyone had shifted the narrative. He was proud and protective and you were slowly letting yourself believe it was real.
Today, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, feet propped up as Yunjin took full control of planning the gender reveal party. Yunjin had declared herself the official planner the moment you told her the gender reveal was happening. She had taken over everything — decorations, venue, guest list, even the cake. She had told you in no uncertain terms that you were to take full rest and not worry about anything. “This mama needs her beauty sleep,” she had said dramatically, pointing at you with a pen. “You just sit there, look pretty, and let me handle the rest doctor’s orders well, my orders same thing.”
You laughed softly, rubbing your belly. “You’re really going all out, aren’t you?”“Obviously,” Yunjin grinned, scribbling notes on her planner. “This is Bambi’s big day we’re doing it right pink and blue everything. Balloons, confetti It’s going to be perfect.” She looked up from her notes, tapping her pen against her chin. “Okay, so who do you want at the gender reveal? I need the final list.”
You had already thought about it. “My parents and heeseungs parents , obviously. Soobin and you, Heeseung’s teammates — Jake, Jay, Beomgyu and Sangwon.” Yunjin nodded, writing everything down. “Got it I’ll handle the invitations you just relax.” Later that evening, you called your parents. Your mom answered on the first ring, her voice bright and excited.
“Sweetheart! How are you feeling? How’s my grandbaby?”You smiled, rubbing your belly. “We’re doing good. The bump is getting bigger I wanted to let you know we’re planning a gender reveal party soon. I’d love for you and Dad to come.” Your mom gasped happily. “Of course we’ll come! We wouldn’t miss it for the world. And do you think you and Heeseung could visit for Christmas? Stay for a day or two? We’d love to have you both here.” You glanced at Heeseung, who was sitting beside you on the couch, listening quietly. He nodded with a small smile.“Yeah,” you said. “We’d love that.”
Your dad’s voice joined in the background, sounding emotional. “Tell Heeseung we’re looking forward to seeing him too. Take care of yourself, okay?”You ended the call with a warm feeling in your chest. Your parents’ support had always been unwavering, and it meant the world. Yunjin continued planning with relentless enthusiasm, texting you updates and ideas late into the night. You let her take the lead, grateful for her energy while you rested more.The gender reveal was coming and for the first time, you felt excited instead of scared.
The messages had started again. Even though you had blocked the first number, they kept coming from different ones. You had tried blocking each new number, but they always found a way. At first, you had been terrified every time your phone buzzed. Now, you were just tired. You sat on the couch in your apartment, legs tucked under you, hand resting on your growing belly. Bambi was moving more these days gentle flutters that made you smile despite everything. You opened your phone and looked at the latest thread from an unknown number.
unknown : you think blocking me will stop this? Stay away from Heeseung
unknown : i know where you live. I know your schedule don’t test me
unknown : if you don’t leave him, I’ll make sure both your careers are over the baby too
unknown : you’re ruining his life leave before it’s too late
You stared at the screen for a long moment, then locked the phone and set it face down on the coffee table. The threats had lost some of their power over the weeks. They still scared you, but Heeseung’s constant reassurance had slowly built a shield around your heart. He had told you again and again that nothing would happen. That he would protect you and Bambi. That whoever was behind the messages was just trying to scare you. He had even talked to his coach and a few trusted friends about keeping an eye out, and he had started walking you to and from classes more often.
You were happy ,truly happy with the choice you had made. The fear was still there, but it was quieter now. You had Heeseung. You had Bambi. You had a little family that felt more real every day. You rubbed your belly gently, smiling as you felt a small kick. “You’re going to be so loved,” you whispered. “Your dad and I… we’re going to figure this out i promise.” Heeseung walked in from the kitchen, carrying a plate of fresh fruit he had cut for you. He saw your phone on the table and the tired look on your face. “Another one?” he asked softly, setting the plate down and sitting beside you, you nodded. “Different number again.”
He pulled you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. “I’ve got you nothing is going to happen to you or Bambi i won’t let it we’re in this together.” You leaned into him, breathing in his familiar scent. “I know I’m okay and I’m happy, Heeseung really happy with you with Bambi with us.” He smiled against your hair, his hand resting on your belly. “Our little family is perfect,” he whispered. “All that’s left is waiting for Bambi to arrive and I can’t wait.” You closed your eyes, letting his words wrap around you like a warm blanket. The threats were still out there but so was your little family and for the first time, you truly believed everything was going to be okay.
The next day, Heeseung drove to his parents’ house alone. He had decided to invite his mother personally for the gender reveal party. He wanted to do it face to face, hoping to keep the conversation civil and away from his father’s influence. The drive was quiet, his mind drifting between excitement for the reveal and the lingering tension from the last visit. When he arrived, his mom greeted him at the door with her usual warm smile, pulling him into a tight hug.
“My son,” she said happily. “Come in i made your favorite tea.” Heeseung followed her inside, the familiar scent of the house bringing back a mix of memories some good, some painful. They sat in the living room, and his mom asked about you immediately.
“How is she? How’s the baby? Are there any problems? Is she resting enough?” Heeseung smiled softly, the mention of you and Bambi instantly warming his chest.“We’ve never been better,” he said honestly. “She’s doing well the bump is growing, and Bambi is active. She’s strong and we’re both excited for the gender reveal.” His mom’s eyes lit up with genuine joy. “I’m so happy for you both. I can’t wait to meet my grandbaby.”
They talked for a while about the party plans, about how you were feeling, about Heeseung’s basketball schedule. The conversation was light and comfortable, the kind of talk he wished he could have more often with his family. Then his mom stood up. “Can you go to my room and get me my reading glasses? They’re on the dressing table.” Heeseung nodded and headed to the master bedroom. The room was neat and elegant, as always. He walked to the dressing table and spotted the glasses immediately. As he reached for them, a spare phone lying on the table lit up with a notification. The number on the screen looked oddly familiar ,it was your number. The message preview read
you : i don’t know who you are and why you hate me so much and why you want me away from Heeseung stop it
Heeseung’s hand shook as he picked up the phone. His heart pounded in his chest. He unlocked it with the passcode he knew his mom used for everything and opened the messaging app the thread was long. Dozens of messages from different numbers ( let’s forget common sense here you guys ) all sent to you. Threats, warnings, cruel words telling you to stay away from him. The same anonymous number that had been harassing you for weeks it was his mom.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. His own mother had been the one sending those messages. The one threatening your career, his career, the safety of you and Bambi.
His hands trembled as he scrolled through the messages. The words were vicious, calculated to scare you into leaving him. His mom had done this. The woman who had welcomed you with open arms, who had cried happy tears at the news of the baby she had been behind it all. Heeseung stood there in the middle of the room, phone in hand, the weight of the betrayal crashing down on him. He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the screen, before he heard his mom’s voice calling from the living room.
“Heeseung? Did you find them?”He took a deep, shaky breath, slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked back out.The conversation continued as if nothing had happened, but inside, Heeseung’s world had shifted.His own mother had tried to tear you away from him.
And he had no idea what to do with that. Heeseung sat across from his mother in the living room, the spare phone burning a hole in his pocket. His mom acted like nothing was happening smiling warmly, asking about your health, about the baby, about how the two of you were managing. She poured him tea, chatted about the weather, and even asked if you had any cravings she could help with.He couldn’t hold it in anymore.“Mom,” he said, voice low but sharp. “Did you ever contact her?”
Eunae blinked, setting her teacup down. “Contact who, dear?” “You know who the woman I’m with the mother of my child.” She laughed lightly, waving her hand. “How can I? I don’t even have her number. Why would I contact her?” Heeseung pulled the spare phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them. The screen lit up with the thread of messages the threats, the warnings, the cruel words.His mom’s face paled.
Heeseung’s voice shook with anger. “This is you, these are your messages, you threatened her, you told her to stay away from me or you’d ruin both our careers why?”Eunae stared at the phone, then back at him. Her expression shifted from shock to defensiveness. “She isn’t good for you, Heeseung,” she said, voice steady but cold. “She isn’t from the same league, she's just a normal girl and a child now is just a distraction you have a future in the league. Your brother Heedo never let anything like this happen. He stayed focused and succeeded. You’re throwing everything away for her and that baby.”
Heeseung’s hands clenched into fists. “She is good for me she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She stood up for me in front of Dad when you both stayed silent, she’s carrying my child ,our child. And you tried to scare her away you threatened her how could you do that?” Eunae’s eyes hardened. “I did it for you for your future a baby now will ruin your career. She will ruin your career you need to focus on basketball, on the league. Not on playing house with some girl who got pregnant to trap you.”
Heeseung stood up, voice rising. “She didn’t trap me I love her and i want this baby. I want this family if you can’t accept her and Bambi, then I don’t want to be a part of this fucking family you all are dead to me.”The words hung in the air. At that moment, the front door opened. Heedo walked in, back from wherever he had been. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene Heeseung standing, face flushed with anger, their mom looking shocked. Heedo looked at Heeseung, then at their mom
“He’s right,” Heedo said quietly. “If you can’t accept them, then you don’t deserve to be part of their lives.”Heeseung was taken back. His older brother, the golden child, the one their father always compared him to, had never spoken up for him before. Never defended him, never said anything against their parents.Heedo looked at Heeseung with a small, rare nod of respect. Heeseung swallowed hard, then turned back to his mom. “Never fucking contact me again,” he said, voice breaking. “Or her or my child.”
He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. The drive back was a blur. His hands shook on the wheel, tears blurring his vision. But underneath the anger and hurt was a strange sense of freedom.
He had chosen you.
He had chosen Bambi.
And it felt like the right choice.
You were sitting on the couch, still trying to process everything that had happened, when you heard a soft knock on your door. Your heart jumped when you thought it might be Heeseung. You hadn’t expected him so soon, but the moment you opened the door and saw him standing there, something in you broke.
Heeseung looked devastated his eyes were red and glassy, shoulders slumped, hair messy like he had run his hands through it too many times. The moment he saw you, his face crumpled. He stepped inside without a word and broke into tears, pulling you into his arms as sobs shook his body.
You held him tightly, stunned. Heeseung the strong, steady Heeseung who had been your rock through everything was crying in your arms like his world was falling apart.“I’m sorry,” he choked out between sobs.“I’m so sorry.” You rubbed his back, heart aching. “Shh, it’s okay you’re here i’ve got you.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, tears streaming down his face. His voice cracked as he spoke. “The anonymous person was my mom.”The words hit you like a slap. You froze, eyes widening in shock. “What?”
Heeseung nodded, crying harder now, his shoulders shaking. “Out of everyone… it was her, she was the one sending those messages. Threatening you telling you to stay away from me she used a spare phone. I found it when I went to their house today. She denied it at first, but I saw everything, all of it.”
You were completely shaken. His mom the woman who had welcomed you with open arms, who had cried happy tears at the news of the baby, who had been so kind and warm had been the one behind the cruel messages? The one who had terrified you for weeks? You didn’t know how to react your mind spun. You had thought she liked you. You had thought she was happy for you and Heeseung and Bambi.
Heeseung buried his face in your neck, crying harder. “She said you weren’t good enough, that you were a distraction and that the baby would ruin my career. She compared me to Heedo again and said I was throwing everything away. I told her if she couldn’t accept you and Bambi, then I don’t want to be part of this family anymore.”
You held him tighter, your own eyes filling with tears. You rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles, trying to be the steady one for once. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect this she was so nice to me. I thought I thought she was happy for us.” Heeseung shook his head against your shoulder. “I didn’t either. I thought she was on our side. I thought I don’t know what I thought anymore.” You pulled back gently and cupped his face with both hands, wiping his tears with your thumbs. “Hey… look at me we’re okay we’re together bambi is okay. That’s what matters right now, we don't need their approval we have each other.”
Heeseung nodded, eyes still wet, but he leaned into your touch. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you and Bambi so much. I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.” You kissed his forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips — soft, reassuring kisses. “I love you too, we're going to be okay all three of us.” You held him for a long time, letting him cry it out, stroking his hair, whispering comforting words. The betrayal hurt especially coming from his mom but having Heeseung here, choosing you and Bambi over everything else, made the pain feel a little more bearable you were in this together and that was enough.
The silence in your apartment felt heavier than it ever had.Heeseung sat on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders were still shaking slightly from the tears he had shed earlier. You sat beside him, one hand gently rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles, the other resting protectively over your belly. Bambi had been kicking more today, as if sensing the storm around you. Neither of you had spoken for several minutes. Finally, Heeseung lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, voice hoarse.
“I can’t believe it was her,” he whispered. “My own mom. She welcomed you. She cried when she heard about the baby. And behind our backs she was threatening you trying to scare you away from me .”You swallowed hard, your own throat tight. The woman who had hugged you so warmly, who had asked about your health and the baby with what seemed like genuine care she had been the one sending those cruel messages. The realization still felt surreal.“I didn’t expect it either,” you said softly. “She seemed so nice I thought… I thought she was happy for us.”
Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s what makes it worse. She played the perfect mother in law. And all this time, she was the one trying to tear us apart. Because I’m not Heedo because I’m not ‘perfect’ enough because having a baby with you is apparently ‘ruining my future.’” You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him. He leaned into you immediately, resting his head on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone,” he murmured. “The messages, the fear you were protecting me, and I had no idea. I should have known something was wrong when you started pulling away.”
You kissed the top of his head. “I didn’t want to add more stress. You already have so much on your plate basketball, your dad, everything. I thought if I stayed away, it would keep you safe.” Heeseung pulled back to look at you, eyes still wet but full of fierce determination. “You don’t have to protect me by disappearing,” he said. “We protect each other, that's what this is supposed to be us ,a team for Bambi.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks again. “I know im sorry I was scared I still am but I don’t want to run anymore.”Heeseung cupped your face with both hands, thumbs wiping your tears away. “We’re going to figure this out together I love you I love Bambi and I’m not letting my family or anyone take that away from us.”
The two of you stayed like that for a long time, holding each other in the quiet of your apartment. The betrayal still stung, but being together made it feel a little less overwhelming. Later that evening, Heeseung made you both tea and sat with you on the couch. You talked for hours about what to do next, whether to confront his mom again, whether to tell his dad, how to move forward with the gender reveal party. Heeseung was hurt, but he was also resolute.
“I don’t want to cut them off completely,” he said quietly. “But I won’t let them treat you or Bambi like this. If they can’t accept us, then they don’t get to be part of our lives.” You leaned your head on his shoulder. “We’ll do whatever feels right as long as we’re together.”
He kissed your forehead, hand resting on your belly. “Together always.” The revelation had shaken both of you. But it had also brought you closer. The love you had both been afraid to fully admit was now out in the open, stronger because of the storm you were facing. You fell asleep that night in his arms, his hand protectively over your belly, whispering promises to Bambi about the family you were building — no matter what anyone else tried to do. The road ahead was still uncertain but you felt ready to walk it together.
The next two weeks passed in a surprisingly peaceful rhythm. Life had settled into a gentle, busy routine that felt almost normal. Heeseung had gotten really busy with practice. The NBA scout was coming to his next big match, and he was pushing himself harder than ever. He left early in the mornings and came back late in the evenings, but he always made time for you. He would text you during breaks, send photos of his meals to show he was eating properly, and still managed to drop off breakfast or dinner whenever he could.
You were equally occupied with your capstone project. With the third trimester approaching, you had decided to take a break from university after this semester to focus on the pregnancy and the baby. The pressure was on to finish strong, so you spent long hours at the library or at home, working on your art curation proposal. Heeseung would often find you hunched over your laptop when he came over, and he would gently pull you away for breaks making you tea, rubbing your feet, or simply holding you while you rested your head on his chest. In between all the busyness, you both started apartment hunting.
It was exciting and a little overwhelming. You looked at several places together, small but cozy apartments closer to both campus and the basketball facilities. After a few viewings, you found one that felt right: a two-bedroom unit with a bright living room, a small balcony, and enough space for a nursery corner. The rent was reasonable, and the location was perfect. You both signed the lease the same day, smiling at each other like it was the beginning of something real.
During Christmas, you and Heeseung visited your parents’ house for a couple of days.The trip was warm and joyful. Your parents were over the moon to have both of you there. Your mom had prepared a feast all your favorite dishes and pregnancy-safe versions of everything. Your dad kept pulling Heeseung aside to talk about baby names and future plans, treating him like a son already. Heeseung fit in seamlessly, helping your dad with small tasks around the house and charming your mom with his thoughtfulness.
One evening, the four of you sat around the Christmas tree, exchanging small gifts. Heeseung had gotten your parents thoughtful presents, and they had prepared something special for both of you baby clothes and a beautiful journal for you to write letters to Bambi. The night ended with Heeseung falling asleep with his head on your shoulder while your dad told old family stories. You felt safe loved like you were already building the family you had dreamed of.
The visit was exactly what you both needed a break from the campus rumors, a reminder that there were people who supported you unconditionally.Back in the city, the gender reveal party planning was also in full swing. The gender reveal party planning was also in full swing. Yunjin had taken complete charge, sending you daily updates and mood boards. She had booked a small venue, ordered decorations in soft pinks and blues, and was handling the guest list with military precision. You and Heeseung helped where you could, choosing the cake flavor, deciding on simple games, and finalizing the guest list. Your parents were coming, and close friends from both sides were excited.
Through all of it, Heeseung was incredibly attentive. He made sure you rested, reminded you to eat, and massaged your feet when they swelled. Some nights he would fall asleep with his head on your belly, talking softly to Bambi about the future. Other nights, when the hormones made you needy, he would make love to you slowly and sweetly, whispering how much he loved you and how beautiful you looked carrying his child you were happy.
The distance you had tried to keep had dissolved completely. The love you felt for him was no longer something you fought against it was something you embraced. Heeseung felt the same. He told you every day, in small ways and big ones. One evening, after a long day, you were both lying on the couch. Heeseung had his hand on your belly, feeling Bambi’s kicks. “I can’t wait to meet them,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to start this life with you for real.” You smiled, turning to kiss him softly. “Me too.” The two weeks had been peaceful, productive, and full of quiet joy.
The morning of the gender reveal party, the air in your apartment felt charged with nervous excitement.You stood in the bathroom, slowly undressing for a shower. Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled off your shirt, revealing your six month pregnant belly and swollen, tender breasts. Today was the day the day you would finally find out if Bambi was a boy or a girl. The day your friends and family would celebrate with you. The day everything felt incredibly real.Heeseung leaned against the doorway, watching you with soft, adoring eyes.
“Are you nervous?” he asked gently, his voice low and warm. You turned to him, a small, shy smile on your face. “A little happy, nervous I just… I can’t believe we’re really doing this finding out who Bambi is.”
Heeseung stepped closer, his gaze tracing your body with reverence, the curve of your belly, the fullness of your breasts, the way your skin glowed from pregnancy. He looked almost reverent, like he still couldn’t believe you were his. “Can I join you in the shower?” he asked, his voice dropping to that husky tone that always made your knees weak. His eyes had that unmistakable puppy dog look soft, pleading, full of love and desire.
You couldn’t say no you nodded, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah come here.” Heeseung stripped quickly. The moment he pulled his pants and boxers down, his cock sprang free, already hard and heavy, slapping against his stomach with a soft sound. The sight made heat pool between your legs instantly.
You raised an eyebrow, teasing him even as your cheeks warmed. “Are you sure you only want to shower?” Heeseung let out a low, embarrassed laugh, stepping into the shower with you. The water started running, warm streams cascading over both of you.
“I swear I’m trying my best,” he groaned, pulling you against him. His hands slid over your wet skin, one cupping your swollen breast, the other resting on your belly. “But mama seeing you like this, carrying our baby, these beautiful swollen breasts I can barely control myself.” You smiled, turning in his arms to face him. Water ran down your bodies as you kissed him deeply, tongues sliding together in a slow, sensual dance. Heeseung groaned into your mouth, his hard cock pressing against your belly. He was gentle but desperate, hands roaming your curves with adoration.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, sucking softly at your pulse point. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you like this heavy with my baby so full and sensitive ”You whimpered as he cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples. They were darker and heavier now, and every touch sent sparks straight to your core. Heeseung leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently while his hand kneaded the other. You moaned, fingers threading through his wet hair, hips pressing against him.
He eventually dropped to his knees in front of you, water cascading over his shoulders. He kissed your belly reverently, whispering to Bambi before spreading your legs and burying his face between them. His tongue was slow and thorough, licking and sucking your swollen clit while two fingers slid inside you, curling perfectly. You cried out, one hand braced on the wall, the other in his hair, as he brought you to the edge with expert precision. When you came, it was with a broken moan, legs shaking as pleasure washed over you.
Heeseung stood up slowly, water cascading down his toned body as he captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. His tongue swept into your mouth, letting you taste the sweet tang of your own release mixed with the heat of him. You whimpered into the kiss, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you.“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmured, voice husky and low. “I could eat you out for hours, baby. But I need to feel you now.”
He turned you around with gentle but firm hands, pressing your front against the cool, slick tile wall. The contrast between the chilled surface on your breasts and the hot spray of water on your back made you gasp. Heeseung’s chest molded to your back, his hard length nudging insistently against your ass. One hand splayed protectively over your rounded belly, cradling it tenderly, while the other slid down between your legs, fingers circling your sensitive clit with expert precision.“You ready for me, love?” he whispered hotly against your ear, nipping at the lobe. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want you,” you breathed, arching back into him. “Please, Heeseung fill me up.” With a low, satisfied growl, he entered you in one smooth, deliberate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The angle was devastating, deep, intimate, every inch of him stretching and claiming you perfectly. You cried out, forehead pressing against the tile as the water made everything impossibly slick and heated. “Fuck yes,” he groaned, staying still for a moment to let you adjust, his breath ragged against your neck. “You’re so tight, so warm around me like you were made for me. I love you… I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
He began to move slow, sensual rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The hand on your belly held you steady, protective of the life growing there, while his fingers between your legs never stopped their teasing rhythm on your clit. Steam filled the shower, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with the rush of water. “Heeseung fuck right there,” you moaned, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust. “Feels so good don’t stop.”
“I won’t, baby never,” he promised, lips trailing wet kisses along your shoulder and neck. “You’re perfect like this carrying our little one so strong, so beautiful I’m so excited to meet Bambi. Boy or girl, I already love them more than anything just like I love their mama.” Your heart swelled at his words, the emotion blending with the building pleasure. He picked up the pace just slightly, thrusts still deep and controlled, grinding against you with every stroke. The hand on your belly rubbed soothing circles, while his other worked your clit faster, drawing desperate sounds from your throat.
“Say it again,” you gasped, clenching around him. “Tell me you love me.” “I love you,” he growled, voice breaking with pleasure. “I love you more than yesterday, and I’ll love you even more tomorrow you and Bambi you’re my everything come for me, sweetheart let me feel you.” The coil inside you snapped hard. You came with a sharp cry of his name, walls pulsing tightly around his cock, vision blurring from the intensity. Heeseung followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan that echoed off the tiles. “Fuck—yes, just like that taking all of me,” he panted, spilling hot and thick inside you, hips stuttering as he rode out his release. He held you close through every pulse, arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go.
For a long moment, you both stayed like that, breathing hard under the warm spray. Heeseung kissed your neck softly, whispering, “My beautiful mama you did so well.” He pulled out carefully, turning you to face him. His hands were gentle as he cleaned you both with soapy hands, massaging your shoulders, your belly, your thighs with reverent touches. “Does that feel okay? Not too sore?” he asked, eyes full of concern and love. You smiled, cupping his face. “Perfect I love you, Heeseung.”
He kissed you softly, lingering under the water until it started to cool. Shutting it off, he wrapped you in a huge, fluffy towel, then scooped you up effortlessly into his arms. You laughed lightly, nuzzling into his chest as he carried you to the bedroom.Laying you down on the bed, he climbed in beside you, pulling the covers over both of you. He immediately pressed kisses to your belly, murmuring against your skin, “Hey, little Bambi daddy loves you so much already. Can’t wait to find out if you’re our princess or our little prince today at the reveal but either way, you’re going to be so loved.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, watching him with soft eyes. “You’re going to be the best dad.” He looked up at you, eyes shining. “Only because I have the best partner come here.” He pulled you into his arms, holding you close, one hand still resting on your belly. “The gender reveal’s going to be amazing but right now? This is everything I need just us three.” The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing, the world outside forgotten. Everything felt warm, safe, and utterly perfect.
As soon as you both came down from the high, you dressed slowly, still glowing from the intimacy. You chose a soft white dress that flowed beautifully over your 6 month pregnant bump, the fabric hugging your curves gently and showing off the roundness of your belly. You left your hair in loose waves, adding a touch of natural makeup that made you feel pretty and confident. Heeseung wore a simple white shirt and white pants, looking effortlessly handsome and matching you perfectly.
When you stepped out of the bedroom, Heeseung’s eyes lit up. He walked over and gently placed both hands on your belly, leaning down to kiss it softly.“You look absolutely stunning,” he murmured, voice full of awe. “Our little family is going to have the best day today.” You smiled, heart full, and took his hand as you both left the apartment. The drive to the venue was peaceful. Heeseung held your hand the entire way, occasionally rubbing his thumb over your knuckles or glancing at you with that soft, adoring look that always made your stomach flutter. When you arrived, the venue took your breath away.
It was magical.
The outdoor garden space Yunjin had chosen was decorated beautifully with strings of soft fairy lights, arches covered in white and blush flowers, and delicate deer themed decorations everywhere in honor of Bambi. There were tables with pastel blue and pink accents, a beautiful reveal box in the center, and a small stage for the announcement. Balloons in soft colors floated gently, and the whole place felt warm, intimate, and full of love. The moment you stepped inside, Yunjin spotted you and came running. She pulled you into a tight hug, careful of your bump.
“Oh my god, you look so beautiful!” she squealed, pulling back to admire your dress. “That bump is perfect and Heeseung you two match so well. This is going to be the best gender reveal ever.”You hugged her back tightly, laughing softly. “Thank you for doing all of this it’s perfect really.”
Heeseung smiled beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You outdid yourself, Yunjin thank you.”Guests started pouring in slowly. Your parents arrived first, your mom tearing up the moment she saw you. She hugged you carefully, then hugged Heeseung like he was already family.“You both look so happy,” she said, eyes shining. “We’re so excited to meet our grandbaby today.” Your dad pulled you into a warm hug, then patted Heeseung on the back. “Take care of my girl, son.”
Close friends and Heeseung’s teammates filled the space Jake, Jay, Beomgyu, and others congratulating you with wide smiles and teasing Heeseung about how whipped he looked. Soobin and Yunjin stayed close, making sure you were comfortable. Soobin brought you a chair when you looked tired, and Yunjin kept checking if you needed water or snacks.
Then Heedo and his fiancée arrived. Heeseung’s older brother walked in with a calm, confident stride, his fiancée beside him looking elegant and kind. The moment Heeseung saw them, his entire face lit up with genuine happiness. He hadn’t expected them especially after the tension with his parents and the surprise showed in his eyes. “Heedo,” Heeseung said, voice warm as he stepped forward to hug his brother. “You came.” Heedo hugged him back, clapping him on the back. “Of course I did ,couldn’t miss this. Congratulations, little brother, you're going to be a dad.”
His fiancée smiled warmly at you, stepping forward to give you a gentle hug. “You look absolutely radiant we’re so happy for both of you.” Heeseung’s happiness was palpable. He stayed close to you, arm around your waist, but you could see how much it meant to him that his brother had shown up. For the first time in a long time, there was no comparison, no pressure just family showing up for him.
The atmosphere was joyful and full of love. Everyone congratulated you and Heeseung, commenting on how cute your bump was and how excited they were to find out if Bambi was a boy or a girl. Heeseung stayed by your side the entire time, hand on your lower back or gently on your belly, looking at you like you were the center of his world.As the party continued, you felt a deep sense of peace.
The gender reveal was about to begin.And no matter what the result was, you knew you had everything you needed Heeseung, Bambi, and the people who loved you.The moment finally arrived. Yunjin stood in the center of the beautifully decorated garden, holding a microphone with a bright, excited smile on her face. The guests had gathered around in a semi circle, the fairy lights twinkling overhead and the soft pastel decorations creating a magical atmosphere. The air was filled with anticipation and joy.
“Alright everyone!” Yunjin called out, her voice bright and clear. “It’s time for the main event! Can we please gather around the couple? Heeseung and our beautiful mama to be are about to find out if they’re having a baby boy or a baby girl!” The crowd moved closer, phones ready to capture the moment. Your parents stood near the front, your mom already tearing up with excitement. Heedo and his fiancée were smiling warmly beside them. Soobin and the rest of your friends formed a supportive circle, while Heeseung’s teammates cheered loudly, clapping and whistling.
Yunjin gestured dramatically as two staff members wheeled out a beautiful, two-tiered cake. It was white with delicate gold accents and small deer figurines on top a perfect tribute to Bambi. The cake sat on a special stand with a hidden compartment inside.Yunjin handed both of you a small silver spoon. “Okay, lovebirds,” she said with a grin. “You’re going to dig into the cake together on my count. If it’s blue inside, it’s a boy and if it’s pink, it’s a girl ready?” You looked at Heeseung, heart pounding with happy nerves. He smiled at you, eyes full of love, and took your hand.“Ready,” he said softly.
Yunjin raised the microphone. “Alright… 3… 2… 1… Dig in!”
You and Heeseung leaned forward together, spoons sinking into the soft cake. The moment the spoons broke through the white frosting, bright pink filling spilled out vibrant, beautiful pink. The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps of delight. Pink poppers went off all around you, showering the air with pink confetti and ribbons. The entire venue lit up with pink lights as everyone celebrated. You and Heeseung were having a baby girl.
The moment you saw the pink, tears filled your eyes. Heeseung’s reaction was immediate, he dropped his spoon and pulled you into his arms, hugging you tightly as happy tears streamed down his face.“We’re having a girl,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “A baby girl our daughter.”He held you close, one hand on your back and the other gently on your belly, crying softly against your shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice breaking. “Thank you for giving me this for giving us her. I love you so much, I love both of you.”
You hugged him back just as tightly, tears falling freely down your cheeks. The joy was overwhelming pure, unfiltered happiness. The guests cheered louder, clapping and whistling as pink confetti continued to rain down. Yunjin was crying happy tears too, jumping up and down. “A girl! Bambi is a girl!” Your parents rushed forward, hugging both of you. Your mom was sobbing with joy, your dad wiping his eyes as he patted Heeseung on the back. Heeseung didn’t let go of you for a long time. He kept whispering against your hair, “Our daughter, we're having a daughter. I can’t believe it ,I’m the luckiest man alive.”
In that moment, surrounded by love, pink confetti, and the people who mattered most, everything felt perfect. Your little family was growing and it was going to be beautiful.The car ride back to your new apartment was quiet but full of warmth.
The gender reveal party had been magical pink confetti still clung to your hair and clothes, and the joy of knowing you were having a baby girl lingered in the air like a sweet aftertaste. Heeseung drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently on your thigh, thumb stroking small circles. Every now and then, he would glance at you with that soft, adoring smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest.When you finally stepped into your new apartment, the feeling was surreal.
The space was still mostly unfurnished, but it already felt like home. The living room had a comfortable couch, a few boxes waiting to be unpacked, and a small corner where you had already started imagining the nursery. The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night breeze. The moment the door closed behind you, Heeseung stopped in the middle of the room, looking around with tears in his eyes.
“We’re going to have a daughter,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “A little miss morals, a mini version.” You turned to him, smiling through your own happy tears. “Yeah we are.” Heeseung’s eyes filled with fresh tears. He looked so overwhelmed, happy, grateful, a little disbelieving like he still couldn’t quite believe this was his life now. “Can I hug you?” he asked softly, almost shyly, as if he was afraid to ask for too much. You laughed gently, stepping closer. “Why are you even asking me? Of course you can.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up in a tight, warm hug. His face buried in your neck, and you felt his shoulders shake as he started crying again soft, happy tears that soaked into your shoulder.
“I’m so lucky I found you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You are my lucky charm, miss morals. From the first day you banged on my door and called me an entitled asshole I never stood a chance. You changed everything and you gave me a reason to be better. You gave me Bambi you gave me this — us. I love you so much I love our daughter so much I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”You held him tighter, one hand rubbing his back while the other rested on the back of his head. Tears slipped down your own cheeks as you listened to him pour his heart out.
“You’re going to be the best dad,” you whispered. “I know it and I’m so happy it’s with you.” Heeseung pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red but shining with love. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs wiping your tears away. “I’m going to give her the world,” he said, voice thick. “And you too everything you both deserve I promise.” He leaned in and kissed you slow, deep, full of all the love and gratitude he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, hands sliding down to rest on your belly.
“Hey, little one,” he whispered to your bump, voice soft and full of wonder. “It’s Daddy we found out today that you’re a girl. My little miss morals I can’t wait to meet you. I’m going to love you so much your mom and I we’re going to be the best team for you.” You smiled through your tears, placing your hand over his on your belly. The moment felt sacred to the three of you, in your new home, starting this new chapter together. Heeseung kissed your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For choosing me, for choosing us.”
You hugged him again, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The future was still full of unknowns, the scout, his family, the challenges of parenthood but in that moment, wrapped in his arms in your new apartment, everything felt exactly right you were home.
The arena was packed, the air thick with tension and the roar of the crowd. You sat in the stands with Yunjin beside you, your hand resting protectively on your rounded belly. At sevenmonths pregnant, the bump was impossible to hide now, and every time the crowd cheered, you felt a mix of excitement and anxiety twist in your stomach. Today was one of the most important matches of Heeseung’s life a crucial game that could determine whether his team made it to the finals, and with the NBA scout in the audience, the pressure was sky- high.
Yunjin nudged your shoulder, grinning. “You look even more nervous than Heeseung out there. Girl, breathe you’re going to give yourself and Bambi a heart attack.” You let out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t ease the knot in your chest. “How can I be calm? This is huge for him. The scout is watching yhe team is neck and neck with the opponents if they lose this…” You trailed off, eyes fixed on the court. Heeseung was in the middle of it all, sweat dripping from his hair, face focused and determined. The score was tied, and the clock showed only 30 seconds left. The entire arena was on edge, the noise deafening.
Yunjin rubbed your arm gently. “Hey, he’s got this he’s been playing like a beast all season. And even if they don’t win, he’s still going to be okay, you’re here for him, that's what matters.” You nodded, but your heart was racing. Your free hand stayed on your belly, feeling Bambi’s gentle kicks as if the baby could sense your nerves. The final seconds ticked down agonizingly slow.
The opponents had the ball. A quick pass, a shot missed. Heeseung grabbed the rebound, his movements sharp and fast. The crowd erupted. He dribbled down the court, eyes scanning for an opening. With only 5 seconds left on the clock, he drove toward the basket, leaped, and released the ball in a perfect arc.
Time seemed to slow
The ball sailed through the air
It swished cleanly through the net
The buzzer sounded
The arena exploded
Your team had won by one point
You jumped to your feet, tears of relief and joy spilling down your cheeks. Yunjin screamed beside you, hugging you tightly. The crowd was chanting Heeseung’s name as he was swarmed by his teammates on the court. He looked up toward the stands, eyes searching until they found you. Even from a distance, you saw the pure joy and relief on his face.He pointed at you, mouthing “For you” before his teammates pulled him into a group hug. You cried harder, hand on your belly, whispering to Bambi, “Your dad did it, little one he really did it.”
The celebration on the court was chaotic and beautiful. Heeseung eventually broke away from his teammates and jogged over to the sidelines, looking up at you with the brightest smile you had ever seen. Security let you down to the court edge, and the moment you reached him, he pulled you into his arms, lifting you slightly off the ground despite your bump. “We did it,” he whispered against your hair, voice thick with emotion. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You hugged him back tightly, laughing through your tears. “You were incredible I’m so proud of you.”
He kissed your forehead, then your lips, right there in front of everyone. The crowd cheered louder at the sight heeseung didn’t care. He held you close, one hand on your belly, the other on your back. “Bambi’s dad just won the matcg ,” he said with a watery laugh. “And maybe just maybe the NBA is next.” You smiled up at him, heart full. “Whatever happens, we’ve got this all three of us.” The scout was somewhere in the stands, but in that moment, none of that mattered. Heeseung had won the game, and you had won each other.The future felt brighter than ever.
The team had to stay back for a post game meeting with the coach and the scout, so you, Yunjin, and Soobin decided to grab dinner together. The three of you went to a quiet, cozy restaurant near campus the kind with warm lighting and comfortable booths. Yunjin ordered all your favorite pregnancy safe dishes, making sure nothing was too spicy or heavy. Soobin kept the conversation light, cracking jokes about the game and how Heeseung had looked like a superhero in the final seconds. You tried to laugh along, but your mind kept drifting back to the court, to Heeseung, and to the scout who had been watching him so closely.
After dinner, they dropped you off at your apartment. Yunjin hugged you tightly before you got out of the car. “Text us when Heeseung gets back, okay?” she said. “And try not to stress too much. He played amazingly today.” Soobin gave you a gentle smile from the driver’s seat. “You’ve got this both of you rest up.”You nodded, thanking them, and waved as the car drove off. The moment you stepped inside your apartment, the silence hit you no messages no calls. Your phone screen was empty except for a few notifications from friends congratulating you on the win.
You paced the living room, hand resting on your belly, anxiety gnawing at you. What was the scout going to say? Would Heeseung even get a chance at tryouts, or would he get selected straight away? You would be happy, so happy even if it was just tryouts. He had worked so hard he deserved this.
An hour passed then another thirty minutes. You sat on the couch, knees bouncing, checking your phone every few seconds. The silence was deafening. You imagined the worst, the scout saying Heeseung wasn’t ready, that the loss had hurt his chances, that the pregnancy rumors had reached him. Your heart ached thinking about how devastated Heeseung would be.The apartment door finally opened.You jumped up and ran to the front door, heart pounding.
There stood Heeseung his face looked downcast, shoulders slightly slumped, hair still messy from the game. Your heart dropped. You thought the news was bad. You stepped forward without thinking and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. “It’s okay,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You did great today you played your heart out I’m so proud of you. Whatever the scout said, it doesn’t change that we’ll figure it out together.”
Heeseung stood still for a second, then his arms came around you, holding you close. You felt him exhale shakily against your hair. Then he whispered into your ear, voice breaking with joy “I’m selected.” You pulled back, eyes wide. “What?” Heeseung’s face broke into the brightest, most beautiful smile you had ever seen. Tears glistened in his eyes as he laughed a happy, disbelieving laugh and carefully picked you up, twirling you slowly and gently, mindful of your belly.
“I’m selected,” he repeated, voice thick with emotion. “The scout loved my performance. He said I have real potential, he thinks I have a real shot.” You laughed through happy tears, wrapping your arms around his neck as he held you. “Heeseung I’m so proud of you , you did it you really did it.” He set you down carefully, but kept his arms around you, forehead resting against yours. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he whispered. “You being there today, cheering for me, believing in me, it gave me strength. I love you, I love you and Bambi so much.” You kissed him, soft and full of joy, tears mixing with your smiles.
The joy in the apartment was palpable, filling every corner of the living room like sunlight breaking through clouds after a long storm. You pulled back from the hug just enough to look up at Heeseung, your hands still pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid, excited thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His eyes were shining with happy tears that refused to fall, his smile wide and unrestrained, the kind of pure, boyish grin that made your own heart skip.
The news that he had been selected for the NBA felt like a dream you had both whispered about late at night but never fully dared to believe would arrive so soon. Months of grueling practices, early mornings, and late night strategy sessions had finally paid off. “Oh my god,” you said, laughing through your own tears of happiness as you cupped his face. “We should celebrate this properly, should we throw a party? Invite everyone—Yunjin, Soobin, your teammates, your coach, my parents. We could order a ton of food and just let it all out!”
Heeseung chuckled warmly, the sound deep and rich, as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He shook his head, still smiling that dazzling smile, his thumbs gently brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion as he cupped your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so your eyes met. “I want to celebrate with you first, baby just us. Let’s go somewhere really nice tomorrow night, a quiet, upscale restaurant with a view, dress pretty for me, please? I want to spoil you a little.”
You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze, a shy smile tugging at your lips as butterflies fluttered in your chest alongside the gentle kicks from Bambi. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’d like that alot.” Heeseung leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, his lips warm and reverent against your skin. “Good,I’ll make the reservation right now so it’s perfect.” He pulled out his phone briefly, tapping away with one hand while the other stayed firmly on your waist, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.
You both eventually settled back down on the couch, the excitement still buzzing warmly between you like electricity. Heeseung kept one arm wrapped around your shoulders and the other hand resting on your rounded belly, gently rubbing small, soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt. Every so often, he’d pause when he felt a little kick or movement, his eyes lighting up with awe. “Feel that?” he murmured, pressing his palm a bit firmer. “She’s celebrating too our little Bambi is already so strong, just like her mom.”
After a comfortable, contented silence stretched between you broken only by the soft hum of the city outside the window he asked, voice low and thoughtful, “Is there anything left to add in Bambi’s room? Any extra furniture or decor we should get before she arrives? I was thinking maybe that soft cloud shaped night light we saw online, or those blackout curtains with the little stars”
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder and breathing in the familiar scent of him clean soap mixed with the faint trace of his cologne. Shaking your head, you replied, “We have spent more than enough already, the room is beautiful as it is she is going to love it. You shouldn’t spoil her too much, Heeseung. She’ll have you wrapped around her tiny finger the second she’s born.”
Heeseung grinned, his eyes sparkling with that signature mischief you loved so much. “I can’t guarantee that,” he teased, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your bump. “What if she wants the softest blankets, the cutest little outfits in every color, and all the storybooks she could ever dream of? I want her to grow up knowing she’s loved beyond measure, safe and cherished just like her mom makes me feel every single day.”
You laughed softly, the sound light and full of affection, before leaning further into him. Heeseung pulled you closer without hesitation, his strong arms enveloping you as he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It was full of all the love, gratitude, and overwhelming joy he couldn’t quite put into words the taste of salt from happy tears, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, his fingers threading gently through your hair. The kiss lingered, turning tender and unhurried, as if the rest of the world had faded away.
You both stayed like that for a long while, wrapped up in each other on the couch. His hand never left your belly, and you traced lazy patterns on his chest, talking quietly about the future: the tryouts, what it might mean for your little family, the names you’d already picked out as backups, and silly dreams about teaching Bambi basketball one day.
Eventually, the exhaustion of the emotional day caught up with you. Your eyelids grew heavy, and Heeseung noticed immediately. “Time for bed, love,” he whispered, helping you up with careful hands. He guided you to the bedroom, tucking you in gently under the soft sheets, fluffing the pillows just the way you liked them. He changed quickly into comfortable sleep clothes before climbing in beside you, pulling you into his arms once more. One hand rested protectively over your belly, his thumb brushing back and forth in that soothing rhythm, while the other stroked your back.
“Sleep well,” he whispered against your hair, pressing a final kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow night is going to be a good one. Just you and me, celebrating how far we’ve come. I love you both.” You closed your eyes, safe and warm in his embrace, the steady beat of his heart lulling you. A content smile played on your lips as you drifted off to sleep, dreaming of emerald dresses, city lights, and the bright future ahead.
The next morning, you woke up slowly to the soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains of your new apartment. Golden streaks painted the walls, and the faint scent of last night’s lingering cologne still clung to the pillows. Your hand automatically reached across the bed for Heeseung, fingers seeking the familiar warmth of his body, but the space beside you was empty and already cool to the touch. You sat up carefully, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your hand, a small frown forming as the realization settled in.
That was unusual.
Heeseung almost never left without waking you without at least a warm kiss pressed to your forehead, a soft murmur of “I’ll be back soon, love,” or the gentle brush of his fingers over your belly. The apartment felt too quiet without the sound of him moving around the kitchen, the low hum of him talking nonsense to Bambi through your skin, or the quiet clink of mugs as he prepared your morning tea. A faint ache of absence bloomed in your chest.
You pushed the blanket aside and carefully swung your legs over the edge of the bed, one hand resting protectively on your rounded seven month bump. The weight of it had become familiar now, a constant, grounding presence. As you walked into the living room, the hardwood cool under your bare feet, you noticed a small white note left on the kitchen counter, weighted down by a glass of water and a plate with a carefully prepared light breakfast two slices of lightly toasted bread, a small portion of sliced fruit ( strawberries and banana, your current favorites ), and a cup of warm ginger tea still faintly steaming. Typical of him. Always thinking of what your stomach could handle these days.
You picked up the note his handwriting was neat and precise, but the message was strangely short.
I’ll come pick you up at 7, get dressed and be ready <3 — Heeseung
That was it. No “I love you.” No “Have a good day, baby.” No explanation about where he had gone so early, or why he had slipped out before the sun had fully risen. You stared at the paper for a long moment, a small knot of nervousness forming low in your chest, just beneath the gentle flutters of Bambi shifting. Heeseung was being weird.
Last night he had been emotional after the selection news soft, overflowing with love, holding you like he never wanted to let go. This morning he had vanished without a word and left nothing but a brief, almost formal instruction. Something about it felt intentional like he was carefully planning something and didn’t want you asking questions that might ruin the surprise.
You sat down at the small dining table and slowly ate the breakfast he had left for you, trying to push down the restless feeling in your stomach. Part of it was the usual pregnancy nerves hormones making everything feel sharper. Part of it was the lingering excitement from yesterday the scout’s call, the selection, the dream that suddenly felt real enough to touch. And part of it was simply Heeseung’s unexplained absence, the quiet that felt too heavy. Throughout the day, the nervous energy only grew.
You tried to keep yourself busy. You organized a few things in the apartment folding the soft blankets that had arrived for Bambi’s room, rearranging the growing stack of tiny onesies and socks your parents had already started sending. You worked a little more on the final sections of your capstone, typing out paragraphs only to reread them three times because your mind kept drifting. Every so often you caught yourself staring at the clock, the quiet of the apartment pressing in.
What was he planning? Why did he leave so early?
Why did the message feel so different from the way he usually spoke to you?
By afternoon, you found yourself checking the time more often than usual.
5:30
6:00
6:30
You stood in front of the full length mirror in your bedroom, carefully choosing an outfit. He had said “get dressed and be ready,” and the way the words had been written so deliberately that made you want to look nice for him. You chose a soft, elegant white maternity dress that flowed gently over your curves. The fabric was light and breathable, the neckline modest yet flattering, the skirt draping beautifully around your seven month bump without clinging too tightly. It made you feel pretty, almost bridal in its simplicity. You left your hair in loose waves that framed your face, added a touch of makeup soft pink on your lips, a little mascara and slipped on comfortable white flats.
By 6:50, you were ready and sitting on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on your belly, the other holding your phone. No new messages from him. No calls. The nervousness sat heavier in your chest now, a quiet tightness that made your breathing a little shallower.
What if something is wrong?
What if the scout called him back and the news had changed?
What if he’s pulling away again the way he used to when things felt too good to be true?
You shook the thoughts away and took a slow, deliberate breath, rubbing small circles over your belly where Bambi gave a soft answering kick. “It’s okay, Bambi,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Daddy’s just being weird today, we'll figure it out together.” At exactly 7:00, there was a soft knock on the door.Your heart jumped hard against your ribs.
You stood up carefully, smoothed the white fabric of your dress over your bump, and walked to the door. When you opened it, Heeseung stood there in a dark, perfectly tailored suit, looking impossibly handsome and a little nervous himself. The soft porch light caught the sharp lines of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes. Those eyes softened the moment they landed on you taking in the white dress, the way it framed your growing belly, the slight uncertainty on your face.
For a second, neither of you spoke.The evening air was cool against your skin. Somewhere down the street a car door closed. The quiet stretched, charged.Then he offered you his hand, palm open, a small, almost shy smile curving his lips.“Ready?” he asked quietly, voice low and warm. You nodded, still unsure what was going on, but you placed your hand in his anyway. His fingers closed around yours, steady and familiar, grounding you instantly. Whatever he had planned you were about to find out.
The restaurant Heeseung had chosen was elegant in a quiet, understated way that felt deliberate rather than showy. Soft golden lighting spilled across crisp white tablecloths, catching the edges of crystal glasses and the gentle curve of silverware. The low murmur of other conversations blended with the distant notes of a piano playing somewhere near the back of the room something classical and unhurried, the kind of music that settled into the background without demanding attention. A single candle flickered between the two of you, its flame steady, casting a warm, shifting glow across the small table and the space between your hands.
Heeseung pulled out your chair with careful hands and waited until you were fully settled before taking his own seat across from you. Throughout the dinner he kept looking at you not the quick glances of someone checking in, but long, quiet looks that lingered. His eyes were soft, full of that particular kind of overwhelming love that always made something tighten in your chest, as if your heart had momentarily forgotten how to beat properly. Every time you caught him staring, a small, almost shy smile would tug at the corner of his lips before he looked down at his plate again, as though the intensity of his own feelings had caught him off guard.
But he was also fidgeting.
His fingers kept tapping lightly against the side of his water glass in an uneven rhythm. He adjusted the cuff of his dark suit jacket more than once, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing. At one point he reached across the table and took your hand, holding it for several long seconds, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a tenderness that felt almost reverent then he let go again, as if the contact itself had become too much to hold onto all at once.
You tilted your head, watching him carefully over the soft candlelight.“Is something wrong?” you asked, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond your table. Heeseung looked up, momentarily startled, then shook his head with a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite erase the nervous energy still humming around him. “No,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong i just… like looking at you that’s all.”
He tried to shrug it off, but the restless edge never fully left him. Still, the conversation between you stayed warm and easy. You talked about the quiet of the apartment that morning without him, about the way Bambi had been especially active after lunch, rolling and stretching in small, determined movements that made the fabric of your white dress shift. He asked how your back felt after the long day, whether the ginger tea he’d left had settled your stomach. At one point his voice softened further as he looked at you over the rim of his glass.
“We’ve come a long way,” he said quietly. “From everything that used to feel uncertain to this to you to her.” His gaze dropped briefly to your belly before returning to your face. “I don’t think I ever really believed we’d get here this soon.” You smiled, the words settling warmly beneath your ribs. “Yes,” you answered. “We did and we’re still going further.”
The rest of the dinner passed in a gentle haze of soft conversation, shared smiles, and the quiet pleasure of simply being near each other. When the check was paid, Heeseung stood and offered you his hand. His palm was slightly warmer than usual against yours as he guided you back through the restaurant and out to the car waiting under the soft streetlights.
The drive home was quiet in the best way. He kept one hand steady on the steering wheel and the other loosely holding yours across the center console, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles. Every so often he would glance sideways at you, that same soft, almost nervous expression still present on his face as if something important was waiting just ahead and he was trying not to let it show too early. The city lights slid past the windows in long, blurred streaks of gold and white. Outside, the night felt calm. Inside the car, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken.
When you finally reached the apartment building and stepped out of the elevator onto your floor, Heeseung walked slightly ahead of you. He unlocked the door with careful fingers, then turned and gently took your hand again, his grip light but certain. “Close your eyes for a second,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper you did.
He guided you carefully inside, one hand at the small of your back to steady you, the other still holding yours. The soft click of the door closing behind you sealed the quiet of the hallway away. For a moment there was only the sound of your breathing and the faint, sweet scent of flowers already beginning to fill the air. When he whispered, “Okay you can open them,” you slowly lifted your lids. The apartment had been transformed.
Fairy lights were strung carefully across the ceiling and along the walls in soft, deliberate lines, casting a gentle glow that made everything look warmer, softer, almost dreamlike. Flower petals soft white mixed with the palest pink were scattered across the floor in a gentle path that began right at the entrance and curved forward, inviting. The air smelled faintly of fresh blooms and something warmer underneath, familiar and comforting, like the scent of home itself made sharper by the care that had gone into arranging it.
Your breath caught in your throat. Heeseung didn’t say anything at first. He simply took your hand more firmly and began leading you along the trail of petals. They guided you through the living room, past the couch where you had fallen asleep in his arms the night before, and down the short hallway until they stopped right in front of Bambi’s nursery door.He opened it slowly.
Inside, the nursery glowed with the same soft fairy lights, their warm light reflecting off the pale walls and the carefully arranged furniture. More petals were scattered across the wooden floor in a loose circle near the center of the room. A few small candles safely placed on the low shelves, away from anything that could catch flickered gently, their flames steady and calm. The room looked even more beautiful than usual quiet, peaceful, full of quiet promise. Everything about it felt intentional, as if the space itself had been holding its breath for this moment.
Heeseung led you to the middle of the room, where the petals were thickest. Then, still holding your hand, he slowly lowered himself onto one knee.
Heeseung stayed on one knee in the middle of the softly lit nursery, his hand still holding yours as if it were the only solid thing keeping him steady. The fairy lights cast a gentle, golden glow over his face, catching the faint sheen of moisture already gathering in his eyes. For a long moment he simply looked up at you really looked taking in every detail as though he needed to memorize the exact shape of this second before he spoke. His chest rose and fell with a careful breath. The quiet of the room pressed in around you both, broken only by the soft crackle of the candles and the distant city hum beyond the windows.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little unsteady, rough at the edges with emotion he no longer tried to hide.
“I love you,” he said, the words coming out like a confession he had been carrying for years. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone more than basketball more than any dream I used to chase alone. I want to spend the rest of my life with you— not just the good days, not just the easy ones. I want every morning when your hair is messy and you’re half asleep. I want every hard day when you’re tired and scared and need someone to hold you up. I want every quiet night when the world feels too loud and the only thing that settles it is the sound of your breathing next to mine. I want to be the person you lean on without thinking twice. The one who holds you when things feel too heavy. The one who never, ever lets you face anything alone.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes already glistening. A single tear slipped free and traced a slow path down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away.
“When I first met you, you were just miss morals to me. The girl next door who kept yelling at me to turn the music down. The one who rolled her eyes every time I opened my mouth and looked at me like I was the last person on earth she wanted to share a hallway with. I thought you hated me and maybe part of you did. I was loud and careless and full of myself, and you saw straight through it. But somewhere along the way you became everything. You became the first thought when I wake up and the last one before I sleep. You became the person I want to come home to, the person whose laugh I want to hear when everything else feels wrong. You became the love of my life — the only one I want to build a future with.”
His thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, trembling slightly. Another tear followed the first.
“Today it reminds me of the first time I asked you to marry me. Right after we found out you were pregnant. I was scared and hopeful and so sure that marrying you was the right thing to do because I already loved you more than I knew how to say. And you turned me down. You said marriage needed more than just a baby. You said it needed love and trust and knowing each other all the way through. You were right I didn’t understand it then the way I do now. I thought love was enough if it was loud and certain. But you taught me that real love is quieter. It’s choosing someone every single day, even when it’s hard. It’s growing together instead of just holding on.”
He let out a soft, shaky breath, the sound almost a sob. More tears fell freely now, catching the fairy lights like tiny stars on his skin.
“I promise you I’ll take care of Bambi. I’ll strive every single day to be a better father and a better husband — not perfect, just better. I want her to grow up seeing how much I love her mother. I want her to know that she was wanted from the very first moment, that she was chosen, that she has two parents who will fight for her and for each other no matter what comes. I want our family to be real not because we have to stay, but because we choose each other over and over again. I want her to see what it looks like when someone loves another person so completely that even the hard days feel like home.”
He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small velvet ring box. His fingers trembled as he opened it, revealing a simple, elegant ring that caught the soft light of the fairy lights and held it. The band was delicate, the stone modest but clear, chosen with care rather than extravagance.He looked up at you, tears fully in his eyes now, voice barely holding together. “Will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life learning how to love you better every day?”
Your own tears had already started falling, warm and steady against your cheeks. Your free hand covered your mouth as a soft, watery laugh escaped you half joy, half the overwhelming weight of everything you had survived together. For a second you couldn’t speak. The fear, the growth, the nights you almost walked away, the mornings you chose to stay all of it settled in your chest at once, heavy and bright. Then you nodded, voice breaking into a whisper that still managed to fill the room.
“YESSSSS Yes, I will.” ( FUCKKK YEAHHH, bawling as im editing this )
Heeseung’s face broke into the most beautiful, relieved smile you had ever seen wide and open and shining through the tears. He carefully took your hand and slid the ring onto your finger, his touch gentle and reverent, as if he were afraid the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly. The metal settled against your skin, cool at first, then warming with your pulse. The moment it was in place, he rose to his feet and pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply soft at first, tasting of salt and joy, then fuller, pouring every unsaid promise into the press of his mouth against yours. His hands cradled your face, then slid down to rest over your belly, holding both of you as if the three of you had always belonged in this exact space.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you still crying and smiling, breath mingling in the quiet.
In the soft glow of the fairy lights, with white and pink petals scattered like quiet confessions across the nursery floor and the steady, living presence of your daughter moving gently between you, the years that had once felt uncertain suddenly folded into something whole. All the almosts and the nearlys and the nights you both almost gave up became the foundation of this one perfect yes. You could feel it in the way his arms held you — not as if he was afraid you might leave, but as if he finally understood that you never would. And in that small, glowing room, with the future already breathing softly against your heart, it felt less like the start of a marriage and more like the quiet, inevitable homecoming of two people who had been walking toward each other the entire time.
Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⇢ wc: approx. 10k
⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭
⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗
⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
“What thing?”
“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”
“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door.
“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”
“They look like abstract art.”
She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”
Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
“I had it first.”
“I had it first first.”
“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.
“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. “Correct.”
“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”
“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”
“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.
“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”
You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”
“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”
“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.
“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,” and driven off slowly.
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent.
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.
So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”
“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”
“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”
“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”
“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”
“I have a long memory.”
“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”
“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
“Don't,” you say.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”
“Every day's a battle, but yes.”
“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”
“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.
“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.
“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“
“He's like that with—”
“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”
You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”
“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”
“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”
“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”
“Well, he’s never actually said that!”
“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”
You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.
“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”
“She's added a supervillain.”
“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”
“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”
“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.
“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.
“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”
“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“
“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”
“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”
“I'm always nice to you.”
“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”
“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”
“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”
“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”
“That's generally how field trips work, yes.”
“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight.
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.
It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.
“I'm listening.”
“What'd I just say?”
“Something about a ring.“
“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“
“What look?”
“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”
You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“
“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”
“Please.”
“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”
Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”
“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.
“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”
“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“
“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”
“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”
“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
“Hey,” you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”
“They loved it. You're good with them.”
“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.
“Seungcheol—”
“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.
“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”
So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“So why haven't you done it yet.”
“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“
“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.
It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”
“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”
“You basically said that.”
“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.”
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”
“That's not a compliment.”
“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”
Your nose scrunches. “I might.”
“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.”
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”
“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”
“I'm not going to tell you everything.“
“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it.
“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
“Don't gloat.”
“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”
“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
AN: 🩵💗💛 - imagine loki's looks are like 'the dark world' era!! eeeeeek i loved writing this so so much!! enjoy!!
“I still don’t understand how you convinced Odin to release you.” You called over your shoulder. “Your attack on Earth was but a month ago.”
“I assume my mother had something to do with it. Odin himself seemed rather set on allowing me to rot.”
“I’m sure he loves you…” You muttered under your breath so his ravens would not catch you. “In his own demented way.”
Loki laughed, really laughed for the first time since his return. “He has allowed me to be released under the condition that I could not leave the castle grounds.”
“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the woods around you. “And just what would you call this?”
“The Royal Wood, which is an extension of the grounds,” Loki smirked. “I would never break my vow to my father.”
You scoffed, your hands resting on your hips. “Do not lie to me, Loki Odinson. If you recall, we have a vow of our own.”
“How could I forget?” You were children when you made him swear to never trick you. He had held strong, for the most part. “You are possibly the only person I would never lie to. Well…” He leaned against a tree, leaning his head back to take in the summer sun. “You and my mother.”
“If you say so.” You hated when he did this, when he made you feel special. It was horrible, the worst trick of all, mainly because he had no idea what he was doing to you. “I have to bring your mother these ingredients.”
“Allow me to accompany you.”
Your cheeks felt hot, and you shook your head, flustered yet again by his chivalrous behavior. “That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” He took the basket out of your arms, beckoning you to follow after him. “My mother would have my head if she saw a lady carrying such a load, let alone her favorite lady.”
“Loki.” You scolded, reaching out to take the basket back. “I am not a lady.”
“This again.” He sighed. “You are quite stubborn.”
“You’re one to talk.” You laughed, cowering under the judgmental looks of the nobility you passed.
“Must you deny me this one kind act?”
“It is not proper-”
“You must be the only servant who complains when someone helps you.”
“I take pride in my work, Loki.”
“An admirable quality.” The guards in front of his mother’s suite bowed their heads, opening the doors. “Still, you are stubborn.”
“Loki-” You scowled, curtsying before the queen. “Your Majesty, the ingredients you requested.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Frigga was the very picture of elegance. Not only was she elegant, but she was also kind to everyone regardless of rank. You had no issue carrying out trivial tasks for the queen, because the queen never treated you as lesser than; she treated you as she would treat her own sons. “Did you have any trouble?”
“Not at all, my lady.”
“Mother.” Loki approached the golden-haired woman, kissing her cheek. “Tell your lady she must not bow when she greets you.”
“Loki!” You gasped, turning to Frigga like you had been the one to say it. “My lady, I would never-”
“Must you tease the girl so?” Frigga chastised her son.
“I am so sorry, my lady.”
“Do not apologize, my son is a prankster, as we all know.” She smiled warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind Loki’s ear. “Among many other admirable qualities.”
Loki grew shy under his mother’s affection, brushing off her compliments. “We must be going.”
“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow.
“You wished to visit the library, yes?”
“I never-” You tilted your head. “Have you developed mind-reading powers as well?”
He shrugged, kissing his mother’s cheek once more before extending his hand. “Shall we?”
You smacked his hand away, walking out of the queen’s room with Loki trailing behind you. “If you can read minds now, please refrain from reading mine.” He laughed, and you smacked his arm. “I mean it, Loki.”
“I cannot read minds. Remember that we have been friends for quite some time now. I know you perhaps better than I know myself.”
“Well, no wonder. You are such a mystery.” You teased. “The rakish, brooding prince. I am surprised some lady has not taken you into her clutches.”
“You think me rakish?” He raised an eyebrow, holding the library door open.
“One observes things.” You shrugged, gliding over to the fiction section, grabbing the first book that caught your eye. “It is not a bad trait, I assure you.”
“If you say so.” He looked rather disappointed, plopping into his favorite leather chair.
“You are also kind, considerate, even. Loyal to a fault.” Your hand found his, squeezing it. “You are many things, but most of all, you are a wonderful friend.”
“Friend.” He huffed, face scrunched like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Are we not friends?” You sat back, hand pulling away from his. Oh, how you wished you could stay like that forever, his forever-cold hand intertwined with yours.
“Yes, we are.” He almost sounded disappointed. You decided not to dwell on it, immersing yourself in the novel. Loki simply stared, admiring your beauty, the way your eyes scanned the page, the way you smiled to yourself, the way your eyebrows furrowed.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve.” He murmured.
Your eyes did not leave the page. “Oh?”
“It is quite-” He stopped himself. “It is quite humorous.”
“If it is so amusing, then by all means, keep staring.” You teased. You were used to this, the staring, the intense gaze Loki held. He loved to watch people, to observe those around him. At first, you had found it quite overwhelming, especially when you looked up to find him already staring at you. His eyes were beautiful, dangerous as they pulled you in. You shook your head, fighting against your imagination.
“My prince.” You looked up, fighting the urge to groan as the nuisance that was the Lady Ness approached. “I thought I would find you here.”
Loki looked entirely unenthused, but still entertained the woman. “Hello, my lady.”
The Lady Ness was the eldest daughter of one of Odin’s closest advisors. She was what Asgardians considered to be the perfect beauty, with blonde hair bordering on white, and beautiful pale blue eyes. She was tall, the very picture of royalty.
Which is what she desperately wanted to be. She had followed the two princes around since you were children, treating them as if they were idols, gods even.
They were, but still. It became tiresome.
She had her sights set on Thor for eons, but after she learned of his undying love for the Lady Jane, she gave up, switching her sights to Loki.
There was nothing the younger prince hated more than being the second choice.
There was nothing you hated more than the Lady Ness suddenly finding interest in a man you’d loved since age five. You did not attempt to acknowledge the woman, simply looking back down at your book. It was hard to focus, though, with her constant chattering.
“Will I see you at the Summer Solstice Ball, my prince?”
Loki’s gaze fell back to you before responding. “You will indeed.”
“How wonderful. I do love dancing.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you enjoy dancing, my prince?”
“With the right lady.” He nodded. “I do.”
“Shall I reserve a place for you on my card?” Your hold on the book tightened. “It would be an immense honor.” A scoff fell from your lips, and your eyes widened. You had meant for that to be in your head.
Loki smiled. “I’m afraid I-”
“Is something the matter?” The Lady Ness interrupted, staring at you. “Have I done something to amuse you?”
You looked up, shaking your head. “No, my lady.”
“Now you remember your manners.” The Lady Ness raised an eyebrow. You simply stared back, your face blank. “When I entered the room, you did not curtsy. Are you manners selective?”
You shut your book, standing up. “You seem rather concerned with my manners. How observant you must be.” The lady proudly nodded. “Allow me to explain, I bow to royalty.” You gestured to Loki before gesturing to her. “Not some common lady with an aptitude for mistreating servants.”
“Why I-” She gasped, stumbling over her words. You made a point to be over the top in your curtsy to the prince, before promptly walking out of the room.
You angrily picked bunches of moss from the forest floor, ripping it from the ground as if it had wronged you.
The Lady Ness annoyed you to no end, with her flirting and her flowy gowns and her touching Loki's arm. It was as if she did it on purpose, as if she amplified her flirting when you were there, like she was trying to tell you he was hers, that you could never have him.
You already knew that, no thanks to her. It was something that kept you up into the late hours of the night, the ‘what-ifs’ haunting you even in sleep.
If you were of some higher standing, you would have smacked her long ago. Unfortunately, you could only verbally attack her.
“Are you quite well?” Loki’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “You did not stop when I called after you yesterday.”
“I cannot stand her.” You complained. “She-she is without a doubt-”
He looked rather amused at your ranting, hands clasped behind his back, his ever-familiar smirk gracing his lips. “I am sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry?” You laughed bitterly. “I’m sure she will mellow with age.”
“Mellow with age?” He raised an eyebrow.
You nodded, going back to your gathering. “Odin must be rather pleased with this match.”
“Match?” It seemed as if Loki was stuck on repeat, parroting you with confusion etched in his tone.
“Between you and Lady Ness.” You grumbled, brushing the dirt off your skirt as you stood. “I’m certain he has arranged for her to be your lady wife.”
“I’m sorry?”
You walked further into the wood, Loki following after you. “She will be a great wife, I’m sure. She seems intelligent enough and could bring you company. Your children-” Your voice broke, and you felt your cheeks grow hot. “They will be menaces, but what child isn’t? I’m sure they will grow out of it, as she will grow out of her rather annoying attributes.” You pulled out your knife, cutting off a section of tree bark, your mind clouded with rage. “She will bring you happiness. I’m excited for you, truly-” You hissed, the knife falling out of your hand as you stared at the stream of blood that ran down your palm. “Ow.”
Loki raced over, taking your hand in his as he observed the wound. “You were being careless.”
“I was not.” Your eyes welled, the pain finally taking hold. “It is just a cut.”
“You are practically crying.” He frowned. “You must be careful.”
“I-” He waved his hand over your injury, the pain subsiding, the cut healing itself. You watched in fascination, the wound glowing green for a mere moment before dissapearing entirely. “How did you-”
“Growing up with Thor meant I had to be prepared for anything.” He smiled, his fingers gently tracing over the once bloody finger. “Does it hurt?”
You shook your head, voice quiet. “It’s like it never even existed.”
“Good.” He looked up, his breath shaky when he met your gaze. “You frightened me.”
“You worry too much.” You hadn’t meant to, truly, but your eyes fell to his lips, heart racing. “I’m sorry.”
His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you close. You gasped, glaring as a smirk grew on the prince’s lips. “Whatever for, my lady?”
“I didn’t mean to-” You swallowed. “I did not mean to insult the Lady-”
“Please, do not speak her name any longer.” He groaned. “She is as tiresome as she is wealthy.”
“She is to be your lady wife, is she not?” You murmured, his hand that had once cradled your injured hand now holding your cheek. “She is quite the match.”
He laughed. “I’m sure she will make some unlucky man rather miserable.”
“Loki-”
“If I have any say-” He whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips momentarily. “I will marry for love, not because my father made some strategic alliance. She is not for me, I assure you.”
“You-” Loki now had your back against the tree, practically pinning you in position. His forehead lay against yours, your breath entwined with his. “You have some other lucky lady in mind?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Oh?” The reality of the situation hit you like Mjolnir hit its enemies. Hard and true, you accepted that you might just kiss the man you’d loved since before you could remember. “Do I know her?”
He nodded once more, his lips so close they brushed against yours as he spoke. “I believe so-”
“Brother!” Your eyes widened, and you pushed Loki away, cheeks hot as you forced yourself to look as inconspicuous as possible. Thor’s voice rang through the wood. “Brother, where are you?”
“I-” Loki stuttered, hand reaching out to hold you once more. “Just wait one moment-”
“Ah!” Thor’s golden hair came into view, the god haphazardly destroying the forest floor. “My lady, it is wonderful to see you!”
You curtsied, your heart and mind still racing from the moment before. “My prince. I was just leaving.” You couldn’t meet Loki’s eyes, simply nodding. “Loki.”
You raced toward the castle, forgetting your basket full of ingredients.
Loki would bring them to his mother later.
“Have I interrupted something?” Thor’s voice held a certain sort of mischeif that made Loki feel uneasy. “It seems as if I caught the pair of you in a rather intimate moment.”
“I-” Loki could not find the words, something that pleased Thor greatly.
“The great trickster is speechless?” He grinned, patting his little brother on the back. “Oh, Loki, why did you not say something?”
“Like you said. You interrupted.” He was practically glowering, glaring at his brother like it was his life’s purpose. “I-I had almost-”
“Do you want my advice, brother?” Loki continued to glare at him, fighting the urge to stab the golden-haired imbecile in the gut. “You must do something. Be brave, show her you care.”
“I was doing that!” Loki yelled. “You have the worst timing in the world-”
“Calm down, brother.” Thor laughed. “When I first met the Lady Jane-” Oh gods, Loki thought as he rolled his eyes. Once Thor began to talk about Jane, he tended to never stop. “She was rather intimidating, smart, and beautiful. But after I showed her my interest, my-”
Loki walked away, fists clenched tightly as Thor continued, following after him.
You hadn’t seen Loki in days.
You had gone to Frigga’s chambers after the incident, to apologize for leaving the ingredients behind, when you saw Loki just outside her door, the basket in hand.
After that, you’d gone out of your way to avoid him.
It was childish, you knew that, but you couldn’t look at him without transforming into a blabbering mess. You purposely did your chores outside of the castle grounds so he could not follow you or surprise you.
Your room was deep in the ground, chilly from its lack of sunlight and candles. You hadn’t minded before, but now that you were in your self-prescribed isolation, you couldn’t help but wish you had a prettier view.
Just when you thought you’d forgotten, that you’d gotten over your momentary lapse in judgment, it all came rushing back. His hand cradling your cheeks, his lips brushing against yours, his fingertips digging into your hip. A chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head as if that would rid you of the scandalous thoughts.
He was simply being kind, caring for you as you had cared for him.
A handmaiden walked into your room unannounced, gently placing a large box on your simple vanity. You jumped when you saw her. “I did not see you.”
The handmaiden, one of Frigga’s, no doubt, smiled kindly. “I gathered. I was tasked with ensuring you received this package, and was told you must wear it to the Summer Solstice Ball.”
“Wear it?” You tilted your head, rising from your bed to inspect the gift. “Is it a gown?”
“It is indeed, my lady.”
So this had been Loki’s doing.
“You must not call me that.” You smiled. “I am no lady.”
The handmaiden shrugged, glancing over your shoulder curiously as you pulled apart the forest green ribbon that held together the wrappings. “It seems to me that you shall be soon.”
“What-” You choked, shaking your head vehemently. “I- that is-”
“I will take my leave.” She bowed quickly, shutting the door behind her. You cursed the god of Mischief, vowing that when you were done ignoring him, you would scold him for his antics. The wrappings fell away, your eyes welling as you stared at the gown.
After all these years, all this time, he never forgot a single thing you told him, and this gown was proof. It was exactly what you’d described to him two thousand years ago.
You’d been young then, much more naive than now. You and Loki were lounging in the gardens, watching the nobility walk by in their dreamy attire. You sighed, staring down at your robes in embarrassment. “Could you conjure me something?”
“I can try.” Loki nodded, placing his book down beside him. “What is it you wish for?”
“A nicer dress.” You were jealous of their beauty, your simple frock nothing compared to their silky pastel gowns.
“I-” He frowned. “I am sorry. My powers are not-”
You shook your head. “Forget I said anything.”
He nodded, watching you with interest. “What would it look like, your dream gown?”
It would look like this. The gown that he’d sent you, which now hung delicately in your closet, two thousand years later.
You could hear the roar of the partygoers from the end of the hall, your nerves growing more and more the closer you got. You thanked the gods that this was not the kind of ball where attendees were announced, as you would surely faint from the judgmental eyes that fell on you.
The ballroom glowed bright golden, the light the candles provided reflecting off the pure gold walls. Your jaw hung loose, taking in the decorations, the people, the fashion. Your eyes fell to the bottom of the stairs, cheeks growing hot when you met Loki’s gaze.
He was standing by the Lady Ness, who looked livid that you had torn his attention from her.
You couldn’t find it in you to care, not when he was looking at you like that. His smile was bright, and he looked devilishly handsome in his forest green attire, walking up the steps.
You took a deep breath, meeting him in the middle. “My prince.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke plainly, as if it were fact. Technically, it was.
“I-”
“Do not try and deny it.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
You gladly complied with his request, cheeks growing hot, from the attention or Loki’s gaze, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both. “You remembered.” You looked over, finding satisfaction in the way your words had caused Loki to turn red. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
He shrugged like what he’d done wasn’t the most romantic thing you’d ever experienced. “Only the best for-”
“My prince.” You clenched your fist when Lady Ness’s grating voice met your ears, turning toward the enemy. “I lost you for a moment.”
Loki laughed. “Yes, you did.” His hand tightened, pulling you closer to his side as if to signal he was occupied. You had felt it was rather obvious, but Lady Ness had a history of feigning ignorance to blatantly obvious rejections.
“Shall we dance?” Lady Ness’s steely blue eyes darted toward you, as if she were trying to scare you off. You were not deterred by her weak attempt at intimidation, your hand still comfortably held in Loki’s. “You did promise me.”
He tilted his head. “Did I?”
You laughed, your hand falling to your side. “It is but one dance.” The Lady Ness let out a gasp that neither of you acknowledged. “I’m quite parched anyhow.”
He nodded. “As you wish.”
The Lady Ness looked entirely displeased at his actions, especially over the phrase ‘as you wish,’ which had been directed toward you, and not her request. You made your way to the drinks, taking a flute of champagne as you found your place in the corner of the room. Leaning against the column, you glared as Lady Ness cackled, downing the flute in one go.
Loki had not planned for this to happen.
He had planned for you to receive the dress, to escort you down the steps. He had also planned to confess his undying love for you, but Lady Ness once again interrupted.
She had the most inconvenient timing.
He led her to the middle of the dance floor, putting as much distance as possible. The Lady Ness kept laughing, which he found odd, as he had not said a single thing since the dance had begun. He kept looking around the edge of the room, searching for your familiar frame.
Ah.
You looked radiant. Positively glowing. He’d always loved you in that color. If he was being honest with himself, he loved you in every color. He frowned, watching as you chewed your nails, something you had the habit of doing when you were anxious.
“My prince?” The Lady Ness called out as he walked away from her in the middle of the dance floor, stalking toward you, the crowd parting as he walked.
“Dance with me.”
You jumped, clutching your heart. “Gods, Loki, you scared me.” You guiltily looked at your fingers before meeting his gaze. “I-”
He waved his hand, all the rips you’d made in your delicate skin gone in an instant. “Dance with me.”
“Loki.” You looked over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sobbing lady he’d left in the middle of the floor. “Have you gone mad?”
“Possibly.”
“You cannot just leave her in the middle of the floor.” You leaned closer, whispering so the many eavesdropping ears around you could not hear. “Even if she is quite annoying.”
“I am the prince. I can do as I wish.”
You rolled your eyes at his comment. “You-” It seemed he took your lack of rejection as a yes, holding your hand firmly in his as he pulled you to the middle of the dance floor, the light waltz playing in the background. “You are the most indignant, prideful, scheming man I have ever known.”
He smiled, a squeak leaving your lips when he pulled you much closer than a waltz called for. “Tell me what else I am.”
“You-” You gulped, growing nervous under his ever attentive eye. “You are-”
“It seems you are at a loss for words.” He whispered in your ear, a chill running down your spine from the proximity of it all. “Is that a recent development, my lady?”
“You are arrogant.” You hissed.
He grinned. “I am.”
“You are marvelous.”
“I am.” His reaction was delayed, caught off guard by your sudden compliment.
“It seems you are at a loss for words.” You parroted his words from just a moment ago. “Is that a recent development, my prince?”
“You are a wonder.” He held your gaze so beautifully that any innocent bystander would assume you were both deeply in love. “You look divine, a goddess in your own right.”
“Loki.” You felt as if you could melt, the music slowing to a stop before you could respond. The crowd around you clapped wildly, obviously invested in the show you two had put on.
Loki bowed, his brother catching his gaze. Thor was practically jumping, mouthing the words he had said days before.
Be brave.
It was so unfortunate when his brother was right. You stood upright, following Loki’s gaze to see Thor grinning like a buffoon. “What is he-”
Loki’s hands grabbed your face, pulling your lips to his. Your eyes widened at the action, weak from his touch. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, a hand falling to your hips, squeezing.
You gasped, your knees weakening. “Loki-”
“Is all that you can say my name?” He whispered, his forehead once again lying against yours.
“You are a-” He leaned down, kissing your lips once more.
“I love you…” His breath was heavy, pupils blown as he stared at you. “Most ardently.”
A tear fell down your cheek, and you grinned. “Most ardently?”
He nodded, voice wavering. “I assume you love me as well?”
“I do.” You kissed the corner of his mouth softly, so softly he had barely felt it. “With my whole being."
synapse: after falling from the shattered bifrost, a wounded loki awakens in the home of an ordinary midgardian whose simple act of kindness begins to challenge everything he believes about trust, honesty, and humanity
a/n: saw my man in the doomsday trailer and had to write for him
. . .
By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.
The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.
It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.
Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.
Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.
Tonight had been unusually quiet.
Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.
Now the diner belonged entirely to her.
She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.
Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.
Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.
Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.
The significance of—
She deleted it.
The historical importance of—
Delete.
“This is stupid,” she muttered.
Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.
The cursor blinked mockingly at her.
Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.
“Disgusting.”
She drank it again anyway.
A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.
At first, she assumed it was thunder.
The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.
Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.
The significance of Norse mythology—
A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.
She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.
The windows rattled in their frames.
Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.
Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.
“What the hell?”
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.
Only silence.
The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.
Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.
Maybe a transformer had blown.
Except the diner still had power.
Maybe someone had crashed nearby.
That possibility forced her feet into motion.
She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.
He had claimed it was for protection.
Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.
Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.
She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.
Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.
No Service.
“Of course.”
She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.
Nothing.
The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.
Y/N considered remaining inside.
Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.
Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.
She swore softly and unlocked the door.
Hot desert air rushed inside.
Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.
“Hello?”
No answer.
She looked toward the highway.
The road was empty.
There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.
Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.
A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.
Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.
Y/N stared at it.
“Nope.”
She took one step backward.
Then she heard it.
A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.
It might have been a groan.
The bat lowered slightly in her hands.
“Hello?”
Still no response.
Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.
Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.
At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.
Y/N stopped.
It was a person.
A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.
His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.
Not clothing, exactly.
Armor.
Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.
For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.
Then she saw the blood.
It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.
The bat slipped lower.
“Oh, shit.”
Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.
“Hey.”
She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.
His skin was cold.
Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.
Panic shot through her.
Then she felt it.
A pulse.
Slow, but present.
Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Okay. You’re alive.”
The stranger did not respond.
She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.
That was good.
Breathing meant not dead.
She could work with not dead.
Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.
The call immediately failed.
She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.
“Come on. Come on.”
No service.
She tried closer to the diner.
Nothing.
Near the edge of the highway.
Still nothing.
Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.
The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.
She could drive there and call for help.
She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.
“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.
The unconscious man offered no explanation.
Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She could not lift him.
Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.
Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.
She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.
An idea began to form.
It was not a good idea.
In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.
But it was technically an idea.
Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.
Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.
She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.
“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.
Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.
The stranger had not moved.
She placed the board beside him and crouched.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He remained unconscious.
“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”
Nothing.
Y/N nodded.
“Great. Glad we agree.”
She rolled him carefully onto his back.
His face turned toward her.
Y/N paused.
Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—
Well.
He was unfairly attractive.
His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.
Y/N stared for one second too long.
Then she caught herself.
“Not relevant.”
His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.
It looked real.
Heavy, too.
That explained part of the problem.
Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.
His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.
“Oh, come on.”
She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.
The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.
The second ended when the board rolled away from her.
On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.
His shoulders landed across the deck.
The rest of him did not.
Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.
“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”
The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.
She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.
It was not dignified.
It was not medically advisable.
It was, however, progress.
Y/N stepped back and examined her work.
His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.
She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.
“There.”
He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.
Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.
The wheels sank immediately into the sand.
She stopped.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.
She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.
“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”
She dragged the board around the rock and continued.
. . .
Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her living room was small.
A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.
It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.
It would have to do.
Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.
Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.
“There.”
He looked uncomfortable.
His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.
Y/N frowned.
The armor had to come off.
She hesitated.
Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong.
Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.
She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.
“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”
The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.
Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.
The metal was colder than it should have been.
She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.
Y/N swallowed.
“Okay.”
She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.
There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.
Y/N looked at his face.
His breathing remained steady.
“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”
She pointed at him.
“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”
She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.
That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.
Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.
“Great.”
She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Of course.”
Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.
She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.
His skin remained unnaturally cold.
She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
No fever.
The opposite, if anything.
Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.
At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.
Y/N froze.
His eyes did not open.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She finished the wound near his temple more gently.
Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.
The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.
Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.
The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.
Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.
The material resisted an ordinary needle.
She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.
“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.
The stranger did not respond.
She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.
It took nearly two hours.
By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.
Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.
The stranger had not moved.
The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.
Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.
“There. Modesty.”
She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.
She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.
She did not think she could sleep.
Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.
Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.
Tea was calming.
Tea was harmless.
Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.
Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.
What was she going to do when he woke?
Ask his name.
Ask what happened.
Ask whether there was anyone she could call.
Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.
The kettle began to whistle.
She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.
She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.
A rustle of fabric.
Then silence.
Y/N went still.
The baseball bat was in the other room.
Excellent planning.
She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.
A floorboard creaked.
Then another.
Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.
Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway.
She looked up.
Her breath caught.
The stranger was awake.
He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.
His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.
They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.
He looked disoriented.
Not frightened.
Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.
He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.
Y/N lowered the knife slightly.
“Hi.”
His gaze dropped to the blade.
Then returned to her face.
“Where am I?”
His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.
“My apartment.”
His expression hardened. “What realm?”
Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That was not my question.”
She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”
A slight shift passed over his features.
“Midgard.”
He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.
Y/N studied him more carefully.
He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.
He took one step forward.
The movement drew her attention downward.
Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.
“Oh my God.”
The stranger stopped. “What?”
“You’re naked.”
Silence.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.
Completely fixed.
She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.
“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”
The stranger looked down at himself.
There was a pause.
Not embarrassment.
Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”
Y/N glanced at him by accident.
Her gaze dropped.
She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.
“Could you please cover yourself?”
“Why?”
The question sounded genuine.
Y/N looked toward the ceiling.
“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”
“I am aware.”
“You weren’t until I said something.”
His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“With what?”
“Determining where I have been taken.”
“No one took you anywhere.”
His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”
“I found you outside my job.”
He watched her in silence.
“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”
She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”
“My clothes?”
“The armor or whatever.”
His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.
“You removed them.”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”
“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”
“To clean your injuries.”
His expression became unreadable.
Y/N finally looked at his face.
Only his face.
“I covered you with a blanket.”
“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”
“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”
One of his eyebrows lifted.
The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”
Y/N stared at him.
“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
More the distant memory of one.
It vanished before she could be certain.
“Where is the latrine?”
“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”
He turned.
Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.
She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.
“And take the blanket with you!”
He paused in the doorway.
“What blanket?”
“The one on the floor in the living room.”
“I have no need of it.”
“I do.”
He looked over his shoulder at her.
For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.
Something knowing entered his expression.
“You are embarrassed.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”
“So you claim.”
“I saved your life.”
“That remains to be determined.”
She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.
“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”
His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.
“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”
Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.
His hand rose.
The towel stopped in midair.
Y/N froze.
It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.
The kitchen fell silent.
Her grip tightened around the knife.
The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
Then he looked at her.
Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.
“You would be wise to lower the blade.”
Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”
“A minor feat.”
“That is not minor.”
“To you, perhaps.”
He stepped toward her.
Y/N raised the knife again.
He stopped.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.
His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.
Then to the repaired cut along his side.
“You treated these.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing what I am.”
“I still don’t know what you are.”
His expression hardened faintly at the wording.
Y/N noticed.
“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.
It covered almost nothing.
Y/N stared at it.
“That is a hand towel.”
“You demanded I cover myself.”
“Not with something the size of a napkin.”
His patience visibly thinned.
“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”
“Then go get the blanket.”
His eyes flashed.
Y/N pointed down the hallway.
“Or your clothes.”
There was a tense pause.
Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.
Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.
Her knees felt weak.
She pressed both palms against the counter.
He had caught a towel without touching it.
He had called Earth Midgard.
He had asked which realm he was in.
Y/N looked toward the hallway.
The bathroom door opened.
Then silence.
A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.
“What have you done to my garments?”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“I cleaned them.”
“You stitched them.”
“They were ripped.”
“With Midgardian thread.”
“It was that or dental floss.”
Another silence.
Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”
“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”
The bathroom door opened again.
He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.
Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.
His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.
The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.
“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“You repaired it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He continued watching her.
There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.
Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.
“I made tea.”
His eyes shifted toward it.
“You prepared it for me.”
“In case you woke up.”
“You did not know whether I would.”
“No.”
“And yet you prepared it.”
Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”
His expression became distant.
For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.
He looked tired.
Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.
Then the mask returned.
“What is your name?”
“Y/N.”
He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.
She waited.
“And you are?”
His chin lifted.
The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.
“I am Loki of Asgard.”
Y/N stared at him.
He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.
“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.
Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.
Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.
“Oh.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”
“You doubt me.”
“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”
“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.
Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”
Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.
Then he approached.
He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.
His skin remained cold.
Y/N tried not to react.
Loki noticed anyway.
His gaze dropped to their hands.
Then rose slowly to her face.
She withdrew first.
“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”
“I do not fall.”
Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”
His expression went still.
The remark landed harder than she intended.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You know nothing of what occurred.”
His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.
“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”
He looked away.
For several moments, he said nothing.
The silence felt heavier than anger.
Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.
Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.
Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.
She did not ask.
Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.
“It might need more of that.”
Loki glanced down.
His grip on the mug gradually loosened.
“You are a peculiar creature.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You should be afraid of me.”
“I am a little.”
His gaze returned to hers.
The honesty appeared to surprise him.
Y/N folded her arms.
“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”
A faint breath escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
“Your sewing is appalling.”
“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”
He examined the repaired seam once more.
“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”
Y/N lifted her own mug.
“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.
She was.
But only a little.
He raised the mug to his lips.
The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.
Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.
There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.
For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.
. . .
By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.
Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.
They did not.
The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.
He had also asked seventeen questions.
Y/N had counted.
Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.
Several had concerned her.
Those had been harder to answer.
She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.
Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.
He still looked exhausted.
Y/N suspected she looked worse.
She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.
“I’m going to bed.”
The chair shifted behind her.
“Now?”
Y/N looked over her shoulder.
“Yes, now.”
His brows drew together faintly.
“You intend to sleep.”
“That’s usually what going to bed means.”
“In my presence.”
She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”
“That was not my concern.”
Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”
Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know.”
“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”
“Potentially.”
“I possess abilities you do not understand.”
“Definitely.”
“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”
Y/N leaned back against the counter.
“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”
“That does not explain your lack of caution.”
“It explains most of it.”
Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.
Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”
“You speak as though I am a guest.”
“You’re not exactly paying rent.”
His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”
“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”
“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”
Y/N considered that.
“Fair.”
She pushed away from the counter.
“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”
Loki went completely still.
Y/N walked past him toward the living room.
“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”
His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”
“Mostly.”
“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”
“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”
“This is absurd.”
“I’ve been told.”
She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.
Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.
Y/N pretended not to see.
“I have more questions,” he said.
“I figured.”
“And matters I wish to discuss.”
She looked at him.
There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.
Y/N yawned.
“You seem like a talker.”
His expression tightened.
“I do not talk excessively.”
“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”
“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”
“He delivers coupons.”
“A convenient explanation.”
Y/N smiled tiredly.
“My point stands.”
Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.
“You dismiss me.”
“I’m postponing you.”
“You assume I will remain until you wake.”
She stopped.
The apartment fell quiet around them.
The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.
Y/N looked at him for a moment.
There it was again.
That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.
That everyone eventually left.
Or perhaps that he always did first.
She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”
“My circumstances may change.”
“Then they change.”
“And if I am gone?”
“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”
His eyes searched her face.
“You would not pursue me.”
“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”
“That would not prevent some.”
“I also have homework.”
Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.
Y/N took another step toward the hallway.
He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”
“Answered what?”
“Whether I may continue my questions.”
“When I’m awake.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You expect me to wait.”
“I believe in you.”
The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.
Loki stared at her.
The guarded amusement vanished from his face.
“What did you say?”
“I said I believe in you.”
“You cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You have known me for only hours.”
“True.”
“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”
“Also true.”
“Then upon what do you base such belief?”
Y/N blinked at him.
“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”
Silence.
Loki’s face changed with the realization.
Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”
He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”
“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”
“You made it sound—”
“More meaningful?”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”
“I thought no such thing.”
His answer came too quickly.
Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.
“Sure.”
Loki’s jaw tightened.
She pointed at the couch.
“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”
She turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N.”
She glanced back.
Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.
He seemed poised to ask another question.
Instead, he said, “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Will you sleep?”
Y/N glanced at the clock again.
“Hopefully until noon.”
His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.
“You’ll survive.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”
“I do not.”
“You will.”
Y/N continued toward her room.
At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.
“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”
Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”
“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”
“It made a sound without warning.”
“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”
She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”
“What?”
“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You presume restraint on my part—“
“Good night.”
Y/N closed the door before he could answer.
She did not lock it.
Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.
A lock would not have stopped him.
They both knew that.
But she had not even tried.
From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.
Loki listened.
No hurried breathing.
No attempt to escape through the window.
No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.
She had simply gone to sleep.
He looked toward the front door.
He could not leave.
Not yet.
That was the only reason he remained.
Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.
The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.
On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.
For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.
Loki read it twice.
Then a third time.
A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.
“You believe in me,” he murmured.
From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.
Loki’s smile disappeared.
He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.
He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.
Loki lasted thirty minutes.
For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.
For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.
A stack of textbooks.
Several pens.
A half-empty package of gum.
The note she had left beside the tablets.
He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.
Crude.
Irreverent.
Strangely considerate.
Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.
Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.
He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.
The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.
Again.
Up.
Down.
Catch.
The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.
Then it became insulting.
Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.
He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.
He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.
She had said noon.
He looked toward the clock.
Barely half an hour had passed.
Absurd.
Loki tossed the ball again.
Perhaps she was not asleep.
The thought arrived quietly.
He caught the ball.
Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.
She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.
No one behaved so carelessly without reason.
She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.
Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.
The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.
That did not mean the same was true here.
He glanced toward the narrow hallway.
The apartment remained silent.
Too silent.
Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.
She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.
The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.
He placed the ball on the table.
Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.
He crossed the living room without sound.
The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.
No lock.
That, too, could have been deliberate.
An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.
Or a test.
Loki rested his hand against the handle.
He listened.
Nothing.
No whispering.
No movement across the floor.
Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.
He turned the handle slowly.
The door opened without a creak.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.
A small lamp remained on.
Y/N was asleep.
Truly asleep.
She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.
There was no phone in her hand.
No weapon nearby.
No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.
She had told him she was going to sleep.
Then she had done exactly that.
Loki remained in the doorway.
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.
She had been truthful from the moment he woke.
Painfully so.
She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.
She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.
She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.
She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.
Because she did not want bad karma.
Because she did not wish to be an asshole.
Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.
Nearly.
He stepped farther into the room.
Y/N did not stir.
She had no idea he stood there.
No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.
The thought brought no satisfaction.
Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.
There was nothing regal about her.
Nothing practiced.
No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.
She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.
Beautiful.
The word entered his mind without permission.
Loki’s expression tightened.
He looked away from her face.
That was foolish.
She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.
And yet—
He looked back.
There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.
More than that, in the honesty of it.
She had no mask.
No performance.
She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.
Only a man who needed help.
Loki disliked how much that pleased him.
Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.
He went still.
Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.
She did not wake.
Loki released a breath through his nose.
He should leave her to rest.
Not because she had asked.
Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.
He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.
That was all.
Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.
Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.
He paused.
The words were indistinct.
Then, more clearly—
“No stove.”
Loki stared at her.
She remained asleep.
His eyes narrowed.
Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.
A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.
He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.
Then he returned to the living room.
The red ball still rested on the table.
Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.
This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.
Enhypen reaction - When you steal their clothes ☁️
Enhypen bf insta stories - pt 1 ☁️
Enhypen bf insta stories - pt 2 ☁️
Enhypen reaction - when you call them your current boyfriend ☁️
𝐻𝑒𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓊𝓃𝑔:
Since we were 18 ☁️💔
synopsis: After moving to a new neighborhood and transferring schools, you found yourself drawn to Lee Heeseung. What started as a simple infatuation slowly deepened into something more-feelings that lingered long after graduation, leaving you uncertain if they ever truly faded.
genre: non idol au, fluff, angst, unrequited love, she fell first he fell harder.
𝒥𝒶𝓎:
coming soon..
𝒥𝒶𝓀𝑒:
Your rosy eyes ☁️💔
Pairing: mafia member Jake! X reader
synopsis: A forgotten ID at a midnight convenience store run felt like a careless mistake —until it brought Rebekah right to his front door. Struck dumb by the beautiful stranger holding his lost card, Jake manages to scramble together enough courage to ask her out. What starts as a simple, late-night café meetup to say thank you quickly turns into something much more. But as the coffee drains and the conversation deepens, Jake is left with one burning question: was it just a thank-you... or was it the perfect first date?
genre: fluff, angst, love at first sight, mafia au
𝒮𝓊𝓃𝑔𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓃:
Hoping this gets to you ☁️💔
synopsis: Sunghoon was the younger of two sons in the Park family—the most powerful royals in all of Decilis. And you? You were just the maid, a background figure in their grand tale, a side character meant to be seen but never noticed. The same maid who slipped him anonymous letters, unaware that he wasn't nearly as oblivious as the world believed him to be.
Pairings: Prince!sunghoon × Maid!reader
genre: Royalty au, fluff, and a little angst if you squint, forbidden romance.
Companion ☁️💔
synopsis: Sunghoon had finally found a sense of peace and contentment in the chaos of his life, balanced between his devotion to his girlfriend, Hana, and his loyalty to his six brothers in the mafia. But when a bitter rivalry reaches a violent breaking point, the enemy targets Hana to use as leverage against him. Driven by youth, arrogance, and an unwavering confidence in his own lethality, Sunghoon rushes to her rescue-only to arrive moments too late.
genre: heavy angst, fluff, mafia au, non idol au
only you - coming soon
𝒮𝓊𝓃𝑜𝑜:
Coming soon...
𝒥𝓊𝓃𝑔𝓌𝑜𝓃:
You broke me first 💔☁️
Synopsis: Jungwon is too oblivious to see that his female best friend wants him all to herself, leaving you to deal with the canceled dates and distance. Exhausted by his blind loyalty to her, you finally call it quits. Now that you've moved on, the truth has finally registered, and he's at your doorstep on his knees, begging to be let back in.
Genre: angst, fluff, distant relationship, one shot
Love me like you do ☁️
synopsis: For as long as you could remember, you were never the first choice for the people you loved most. You grew used to the quiet ache of being an afterthought, always left waiting in the background. But everything shifted when you got to college and met your classmate, Jungwon. With him, things were different. He put you first-consistently and without hesitation. Even at a party, when a chaotic game of dare forced him to choose between you and someone else, he didn't blink. He chose you, proving that to him, you were never a runner-up.
Genre: fluff, love at first sight, pure love
Fall in love ☁️🔻💔
synopsis: more than heartbreak, falling in love is the scariest feeling you could ever have, especially if it's with Jungwon.
genre: fluff, angst, falling in love, college au, love at first sight
Yours - coming soon
𝓃𝒾-𝓀𝒾:
Why am I always the one to get hurt? 💔☁️
synopsis: people would say your relationship with your family was like any other normal asian household but of course, no one knows the extent of how bad living really was for you-until ni-ki came across something he shouldn't have.
Genre: angst, flutt, non idol: au
ttm - talk to me 💔
synopsis: You never expected to be surrounded by selfish, overly obsessed people-the kind who seem friendly at first but are quick to destroy everything the moment things don't go their way. When it finally happened, you realized just how deeply you longed for someone you could truly talk to.
Genre: 15+, non idol au!, angst, angst, and angst, friends to lovers, forced proximity, fluff if you squint, happy ending, late confessions
Love can be friendship ☁️
synopsis: You often wondered why you could never fall in love-until you realized that what you had with Riki went beyond anything romantic. Your friendship with him was deeper, stronger, more enduring. He was your love.
genre: fluff fluff fluff
somewhere only we know 💔
synopsis: You and Riki had everything-each other's laughter, secrets, and quiet comfort. You were home to one another, best friends who made even the darkest days feel a little brighter. Everyone believed you'd grow old together, that your love was the kind meant to last a lifetime. But sometimes, love isn't enough... and one of you couldn't bear the weight of the world any longer.
genre: literally nothing but angst and some happy moments
back to friends 💔☁️
synopsis: You did everything with riki-traveled together, took classes side by side, shared the same bed —yet somehow, you were still nothing more than friends. No matter how much it looked like something else to everyone watching, that was all you were allowed to be.
genre: fluff, angst, friends to eventual lovers (next part)
pt 2:
The heart wants what it wants ☁️💔🔻
synopsis: you figured after Riki got a girlfriend you could easily get over your feelings for him that you've always ultimately denied, turns out, forgetting about your first love is harder than you think.
genre: angst, flutt, friends to lovers, suggestive
Treat you better ☁️💔
synopsis: For months, Ni-ki stood on the sidelines, watching you wither away in a toxic relationship with Jungwon. He always knew you deserved a love that didn't make you feel like an afterthought. Now that you're finally free, Ni-ki is stepping out of the shadows. He's determined to show you exactly how you deserve to be loved, and just maybe, the guy who always put you first will finally get his own happy ending.
genre: fluff, angst, unrequited love (at first), ni-ki is a yearner
Ruined ☁️🔻
pairings: mafia leader riki! x reader
synopsis: Riki wasn't the type to fall in love. He knew better-it was a distraction, a danger, a straight line to his own ruin. But never say never. after he came across his enemies daughter, he knew he was completely undone.
Genre: dark romance, mafia au, fluff, suggestive
carbon copy ☁️🔻
synopsis: When you first met Riki, you were struck by how much of a sweetheart he was—always looking out for his peers and eagerly volunteering at school events. It wasn't until you saw someone who looked exactly like him arguing with another student that you realized he had a twin brother—his mirror image in appearance, but the complete opposite in personality.
genre: fluff, love triangle, twin brothers, suggestive
Scars 💔
synopsis: You shared everything with Riki; he was your partner in crime, after all. But beneath the shared secrets and unspoken understanding, your scars remained the one thing he didn't know about.
genre: angst
Scars (pt 2) 💔☁️
synopsis: You shared everything with Riki; he was your partner in crime, after all. But beneath the shared secrets and unspoken understanding, your scars remained the one thing he didn't know about.
genre: fluff
Our complicated love story 💔☁️
Pairings: bodyguard Riki! x rich reader!
synopsis: Riki was only supposed to be a bodyguard. His job was to keep you sate —not to make your heart race every time he stepped into the room. He was meant to protect you, not make you want to tear down every boundary just to feel him close again.
genre: angst, fluff, forbidden romance
angel 🔻☁️
pairings: sub Riki! x dom reader!
synopsis: Riki has always had a thing for older women-convinced that maturity and dominance are a package deal. Little does he know, age is just a number when it comes to who holds the power. Ready to break his favorite theory, you step up to the challenge to show him exactly how dominant a younger girl can be.
genre: fluff, suggestive
Siren Sounds 💔
synopsis: Everyone told you to walk away from Riki, to finally put an end to the misery. But they didn’t understand the thrill. The highs were too high, the lows too addictive, and you weren't ready to pull away yet. For better or worse, the toxicity was your love language.
"I can't live without you, what is my existence without you?"
Includes ─── angst, fluff, suggestive scenes, asshole sunghoon, player!sunghoon x reader, frat parties, bet, playing with feelings, yearner hoon, college au, non idol au, kissing, making out, drinking.
now playing ── tum hi ho
Sunghoon loved playing games, and hearts were his favorite toy. As the campus hearthrob, he was notorious for breaking hearts and effortlessly moving on without a second thought. But then he met you, what started as a cruel bet to break your heart completely backfired, leaving him desperate to be with you.
"Come on, Byeol, give that assignment a break—let’s go party!" Liya’s voice echoed from the bathroom over the steady hiss of the hairspray.
"Pass," you called back, your fingers still moving rhythmically across the keyboard. "I can think of a hundred better ways to spend my Friday than squeezed into a sweaty room while half the campus swaps spit."
"You are absolutely no fun," Liya said, emerging from the bathroom with a triumphant smirk. "Besides, word on campus is that Jay’s showing up tonight."
You hesitated for a split second—damning yourself for how easily his name got to you—before shaking your head back toward your assignment. "Still not worth it. Even for him."
"Aish, come on!" She darted out of the bathroom and grabbed your hands, tugging until she successfully hauled you off your seat. Before you could protest, she was already rummaging through her closet, hangers clicking wildly against each other.
"You are coming with me," Liya insisted, tossing a cropped top over her shoulder, "and you are looking hot."
You threw your head back and let out a long, dramatic groan, but deep down, you knew you had already lost this battle.
"Fine, fine," you surrendered, throwing your hands up in defeat.
You stood there like a mannequin, letting her parade dress after dress over your head until she finally settled on a sleek, stark-white dress—one that felt like it barely covered the bare minimum.
"Liya, don't you think this is a bit too immodest?" you asked, nervously tugging at the hem in a desperate attempt to gain an extra inch of fabric. "I can literally just grab something from my own closet."
"Oh, come on, Byeol," Liya scoffed, rolling her eyes with a grin as she grabbed her purse. "We're going to a frat party. Dressing like this isn't just an option—it’s a need."
The second you crossed the threshold into the frat house, the deafening music and thumping bass seemed to fade into background noise. Heads turned instantly. Conversations died in mid-sentence. Practically every set of eyes in the room locked onto you as if a bombshell had just stepped into the Love Island villa.
You shifted uncomfortably under the sudden weight of all that attention, but Liya just leaned in close, her elbow nudging yours with smug satisfaction.
"See?" she whispered triumphantly over the music. "I told you. You look hot."
Meanwhile, from the far corner of the living room, Sunghoon watched the front door like a hawk. A girl hung off his arm, laughing at something he hadn't listened to, but all of his focus had just been ripped away by the girl who had just walked in—wearing a stunning white dress. His favorite color.
A strange, sudden heat prickled under his skin.
"Yo, Jake," Sunghoon murmured, nudging his friend without taking his eyes off you. "Who is that?"
Jake looked over, letting out a sharp whistle. "That? That’s Byeol. She’s in our history lecture—the quiet girl who aced the exam everyone else tanked."
"Byeol," Sunghoon murmured under his breath, testing the name out like it belonged to a completely different world.
Jay chimed in immediately, nudging him. "Leave her alone, man. She's super sweet—don't go playing your usual games with her."
"Actually..." Jake cut in, a sharp glint in his eye. "Why don't we make a little bet?"
Sunghoon finally glanced away from your glowing outline in the crowd, eyebrow raising slightly. "A bet?"
Jake nodded eagerly. "Yes, Mr. Heartthrob. A bet."
"Come at me," Sunghoon challenged, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
Jake’s grin widened, sharp and dangerous. "Since you claim you can get literally any girl you want... try her," he said, subtly gesturing through the crowd toward you. "Date her for three months. Make her fall completely down bad for you, and then break her heart into pieces. Should be easy for you, right?"
Sunghoon’s smirk widened, a dangerous glint flashing in his dark eyes as he held Jake's gaze. The idea was almost laughably simple to him.
"Deal," he said softly, clinking his glass against Jake's before turning his attention right back to you across the room.
The sticky heat of the room was already making you regret letting Liya drag you out, but standing near the counter brought a brief lull from the wall-to-wall crowd. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, silently pleading with the universe that Jay might magically wander over.
Instead, a glass swept into your field of vision.
"You look like you're regretting every choice that brought you through that front door," a smooth, low voice purred beside you.
You turned your head, instantly freezing.
Standing right beside you, casually leaning an elbow against the sticky countertop, was Sunghoon. Up close, his sharp features and effortless confidence were almost disarming—and the dark, intensely focused look in his eyes felt like a heavy weight pressing into the room. In his hand, he held out a brightly colored drink filled with ice and fresh fruit garnish.
"Here," he offered, a small, charming smirk lingering on his lips. "It's clean—just mocktail punch. Thought you looked like you could use something cold."
You looked from the glass up to his face, a sudden flutter starting in your stomach that had nothing to do with Jay. "Thanks," you murmured, carefully taking the glass from his fingers, trying not to notice how his touch sent a faint jolt straight up your arm. "Sunghoon, right?"
"So you do know who I am," he drawled, his smirk widening into something impossibly dangerous. He took a slow sip from his own drink, his eyes scanning your face, taking in every trace of your hesitation. "I was starting to think you were the only person on this campus who didn't."
"Kinda hard not to when you're the leader of the frat," you said, letting out a dry, quiet laugh as you took a small sip of the mocktail. It was cold and surprisingly good.
Sunghoon tilted his head, his dark eyes sparkling with quiet amusement as he watched you over the rim of his glass. He didn't step back; if anything, he leaned a fraction of an inch closer, effectively cutting off the rest of the noisy, chaotic party around you.
"Is that all I am to you, then? A title?" he mused, his voice dripping with an effortless, practiced charm. His gaze dropped briefly to the neckline of your white dress before snapping back to your eyes, far too sharp and far too deliberate. "And here I thought my glowing academic reputation in history class would precede me."
You almost choked on your drink. "Academic reputation? You mean the midterm you slept through?"
A slow, boyish grin broke across his face—the kind of smile that had probably gotten him out of every bad decision he’d ever made.
"Ouch. So you have been paying attention to me, Byeol."
You smile, taking a small sip of your drink. "You sit literally two seats down from me and Liya, Sunghoon," you say, looking at him like he’s the most forgetful person on campus. "I usually wear glasses and keep my hair up, so I guess I look a bit different tonight."
Sunghoon’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. His dark eyes trace the curve of your face, taking in your bare shoulders, your soft expression, and the way the short white dress fits you like a second skin.
A quiet, dangerous shift happens behind his eyes. He takes a slow step closer, his tall frame looming over you just enough to block out the flashing party lights and the wall-to-wall crowd.
"Glasses or not..." he murmurs, his low voice cutting right through the pounding bass of the music. He leans in slightly, his sharp jawline mere inches from your ear as his eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Trust me, Byeol. You're definitely not easy to miss."
"Last time I checked you called me by the wrong name once to ask me to help you with the transition questions"
Sunghoon lets out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head as a light flush touches his cheekbones—a rare crack in his usually flawless composure. He swirling the ice in his glass, looking down at you through his dark lashes.
"Okay, fair point. I deserved that," he admits, a wry smile softening the sharp edge of his face. He takes a half-step back, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. "In my defense, 'Bora' and 'Byeol' both mean something pretty, so at least I was in the right ballpark."
His grin turns smooth again as he leans against the counter, his gaze locking onto yours with undivided attention.
"Besides, I was desperate. History is clearly not my strong suit—unlike someone who managed to get the top mark on the last quiz." He tilts his head, his tone dropping into something dangerously intimate. "So, how about a second chance? Let me make it up to you. Fresh start, no wrong names, no asking for homework help. Just me, actually trying to get to know you."
"Bora means purple and Byeol means stars," you reply, raising an eyebrow at him over the rim of your glass with a dry, knowing look.
Sunghoon’s grin widens, a soft, breathy chuckle escaping his lips. He doesn't look flustered at all—if anything, your pushback seems to amuse him even more.
"Purple and stars," he repeats slowly, the words sounding quiet and deliberate over the heavy bass echoing from the speakers. "I don't know, Byeol... sounds pretty close to me."
He shifts his weight, leaning one forearm on the counter behind him so he's angled completely toward you. His dark eyes trace your face with a lazy, focused intensity that feels almost dizzying.
"Though I have to say..." he lowers his voice, tilting his head as a playful smirk catches the corner of his lips, "stars suit you a lot better. Especially tonight."
"Thanks, my mom chose it"
Sunghoon freezes for a split second before another low, genuine laugh spills from his lips. He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down at you with a mixture of disbelief and growing fascination.
"Your mom?" he echoes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "So I should be sending her a thank-you note for giving you such a fitting name?"
He leans a little closer, his tone turning teasingly conspiratorial.
"You're remarkably tough on me, Byeol. Most people in this room are usually begging for my attention, and here you are, shooting down my best lines with facts about your name and your mom."
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, dangerous intensity that melts the casual banter away.
"I kind of like it."
"And if you want to get to know me... I'm not that interesting"
"Not that interesting?" Sunghoon echoes, resting his chin on his palm as he studies you, a slow, intoxicating smile creeping up his face. "Byeol, you’ve shot down three of my best lines, called out my terrible history grade, and given me an etymology lesson—all within five minutes. You’re easily the most interesting person in this room."
He pushes off the counter, taking one slow, deliberate step into your space. The faint scent of expensive cologne and crisp air follows him, completely drowning out the stale smell of beer surrounding the rest of the kitchen.
"Let me be the judge of that," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, rich and velvety against the pounding music. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before rising back to meet your eyes. "Give me twenty minutes. If you still think you're uninteresting by the end of it—or if I prove to be too boring—I'll let you walk away and never bother you in history class again."
He extends a hand toward you, palm up, a silent, deadly inviting challenge.
"Deal?"
The moment your fingers slide into his palm, Sunghoon’s fingers instantly close around yours—warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle. A triumphant spark flashes in his dark eyes, the smirk on his lips turning into something deeply satisfaction-filled as he seals the trap.
"Smart choice," he murmurs, his voice a smooth purr.
Without letting go of your hand, he threads his fingers through yours and begins leading you through the dense, pulsing crowd. People naturally move out of his way—a mix of awe and habit—and you catch a glimpse of Jake across the room, watching the two of you with a raised cup and a knowing, competitive grin. Sunghoon doesn't even bother looking back at him; his focus is entirely locked on you as he steers you away from the chaotic main hall.
He pulls open a set of heavy glass doors leading out to the quiet, dimly lit back patio. The muffled thud of the bass fades into the cool night air, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the faint glow of string lights hanging above the lounge chairs.
Sunghoon finally stops near the railing, turning around to face you. He lets your hand slide slowly out of his grip, though his eyes never break contact with yours.
"Phase one," he says, leaning back against the wooden porch rail and crossing his arms, looking down at you with an intriguing, quiet intensity. "Getting you somewhere we can actually hear each other speak. So, 'uninteresting' Byeol... where do we start?"
The night had bled into the quiet, early hours of the morning without either of you really noticing. What was supposed to be a fleeting twenty-minute challenge had turned into hours of low-key conversation away from the chaotic noise of the house.
Sunghoon had leaned back against the patio lounge chair, surprisingly relaxed. Gone was the sharp, practiced charm he usually wore like armor inside the frat house; instead, he had listened—really listened—as you talked about your favorite artists, your stress over midterms, and the small, mundane details of your life. Every time you tried to brush off your thoughts as uninteresting, he’d ask another question, leaning in with a focused, quiet intensity that made it feel like you were the only two people on campus.
In return, he'd let a few cracks show in his own pristine image, joking about how much he actually hated taking history and complaining about Jake's terrible taste in music.
By the time the crowd inside finally began to thin out, the chill of the night air was setting in.
Sunghoon shifted, sliding his jacket off his shoulders and casually drape it over yours. The heavy fabric was still warm, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne.
"See?" he murmured, a soft, almost gentle smile curving his lips as he looked at you under the warm glow of the patio lights. "Told you twenty minutes wasn't going to be enough. And you're still trying to convince me you're not interesting."
He stood up, offering you his hand once more to help you off the lounge chair.
"Come on. It's late, and I'm walking you back to your dorm before Liya files a missing person report."
"Right yeah" You let him pull you up, the warmth of his jacket wrapped tightly around your shoulders as you both started the quiet walk back toward your dorm. The campus was eerily still, illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlights, a stark contrast to the thumping party you'd just left behind.
Sunghoon kept his hands casually shoved into his pockets, matching his long stride to your smaller steps. Every now and then, his shoulder would lightly brush against yours, keeping a steady, comforting presence at your side.
"You know," he started, breaking the peaceful silence with that smooth, low tone of his, "I usually don't spend entire parties hiding out on patios." He glanced sideways down at you, a soft, teasing smirk catching the corner of his lips. "You're bad news for my social reputation, Byeol."
"Oh, poor Sunghoon," you scoffed softly, shaking your head. "How will the frat leader ever recover?"
He chuckled, the sound low and warm in the crisp night air. "I'll manage. But only if you promise not to ignore me in history class on Monday."
As you reached the entrance of your dorm building, he stopped at the bottom of the steps, turning to face you fully. The ambient light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, but his eyes were surprisingly soft as he looked at you.
"Thanks for staying," he murmured, his gaze searching yours for a beat too long before he offered a slow, genuine smile. "I'll see you around... star girl."
When it came time for history class, Sunghoon noticed you first, giving you a wave as he gestured you and liya to sit in the empty seats by him and Jake.
Liya nudges your arm a little too hard with her elbow, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of Sunghoon waving you over—with Jake sitting right beside him, grinning like he already knows something you don't.
"Okay, since when do you sit with the frat nobility?" Liya whispers under her breath, trailing half a step behind you as you both head down the sloped stairs of the lecture hall. "And why is he looking at you like that?"
Sunghoon doesn't miss a beat as you approach. He shifts his bag off the empty desk next to his, tapping the wooden surface with a smooth, welcoming smirk.
"Saved you a spot," he says, his voice carrying that same low, easy warmth from the patio, completely unbothered by the quiet chatter of the classroom around you. He leans back slightly, resting his chin in his hand as his eyes lock onto yours. "Morning, star girl. I see you actually showed up—I was starting to think you were going to dodge me."
Beside him, Jake leans over, throwing a casual arm over the back of his chair and shooting a quick glance between Sunghoon and you, a subtle, knowing spark in his eyes.
"Hey, Byeol," Jake chips in, his tone light and playful, though there's an underlying edge of amusement. "Sunghoon here's been checking the door every thirty seconds. Thought he was going to have to do his history reading by himself."
Sunghoon smoothly rolls his eyes, kicking the leg of Jake's chair just enough to shut him up, before turning his full attention back to you. "Ignore him. Sit down before the professor starts rambling."
Liya gives you a frantic, silent "what the hell" face before taking the seat next to Jake, who immediately turns on his charm to keep her occupied.
You slide into the wooden seat right beside Sunghoon. As you pull your notebook out of your bag, you catch the faint trace of his cologne again, instantly bringing back the blur of late-night patio conversations and the warmth of his jacket.
Sunghoon leans in close, resting his forearm on the joint desk between you. His voice drops into a quiet murmur meant only for your ears, slipping beneath the noise of the rest of the lecture hall settling down.
"You look nice today," he says smoothly, his dark eyes trailing over your face with a lazy, deliberate gaze before settling back on your eyes. He taps his pen rhythmically against his notebook. "Though you look a little tired. Don't tell me I kept you up too late."
Before you can answer, the professor clears his throat loudly at the podium, clicking to the first slide of the morning lecture.
Sunghoon doesn't move a bit away from you. Instead, he tears off a small corner of his notebook paper, scribbles something down in clean, sharp handwriting, and slides it onto your desk.
Free after class? Let me buy you a coffee to make up for stealing your sleep.
You smile at the note before giving a little nod to him.
A tiny, satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Sunghoon’s lips as he sees your nod. He snatches the scrap of paper back, crumpling it into his palm with a swift motion before leaning back in his chair, suddenly looking far more interested in the lecture than a guy who hates history has any right to be.
For the next fifty minutes, he plays the part of the attentive student—mostly. Every few minutes, his eyes drift away from the professor's dull slides back to your page. When the professor drones on about a dry economic treaty, Sunghoon leans his shoulder closer to yours, nudging your arm softly.
"Translate?" he whispers out of the corner of his mouth, tapping your neat notes with his pen. "In plain English, please."
When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of class, the lecture hall immediately erupts into the chaotic sound of shuffling papers, zipping backpacks, and chatter.
Sunghoon doesn't rush. He casually slings his bag over one shoulder, standing up and towering over your desk as he waits for you to pack up. Beside him, Jake slings an arm around a thoroughly flustered Liya's shoulders, throwing a wink over his shoulder toward Sunghoon.
"We're heading to the dining hall," Jake announces loudly, casting a quick, sharp look at Sunghoon that carries a subtle, unspoken good luck on the mission before turning back to Liya. "Come on, Liya, I'll buy you a bagel."
As the two of them wander off ahead into the crowded hallway, Sunghoon turns back to you, stepping closer so you don't get swept up in the rush of exiting students. He offers a hand to help you lift your heavy bag, his dark eyes sparkling with that same intoxicating, calculated charm.
"Lead the way, star girl," he says softly, a devious little smirk playing on his lips. "Which coffee shop has the best chance of getting me on your good side?"
"I like the one by the west side of campus, the food is really good" you say
"West side campus cafe it is," Sunghoon says, his lips curving into a slow, approving smile. He smoothly takes your bag off your shoulder before you can object, throwing it over his free arm like it weighs nothing at all. "And you're ordering whatever you want. Food, coffee, pastry—it's all on me."
As the two of you step out of the humid lecture hall into the crisp campus air, he falls into step beside you, keeping a close, protective distance as students hurry past. The sun catches the sharp angle of his jaw, making him look effortlessly put together while everyone else looks half-asleep from morning classes.
"So, west side," he starts, glancing down at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Does that mean you're going to judge my coffee order, or are you actually going to give me some recommendations? Because if their food is as good as you say, I might make you order for both of us."
"Have you never been to the west side of campus before?" You ask, doubting him
Sunghoon lets out a soft, low laugh, shaking his head as a light flush creeps up his neck—though his charming smirk doesn't fade for a second.
"Okay, caught red-handed," he admits, holding his hands up in mock surrender while still casually holding your bag in one arm. "Usually my day starts and ends on the south side between the frat house and the gym. The west side is practically uncharted territory for me."
He steps a little closer, leaning down slightly so his voice drops into a teasing, conspiratorial murmur just above the rustle of the surrounding trees.
"So, yeah... I'm completely at your mercy. You're going to have to make sure I don't embarrass myself—or order something terrible."
He offers you a playful, challenge-filled look, his dark eyes sparkling. "Lead the way"
...
You spent more and more time with sunghoon, catching feelings for him more and more as the days turned into weeks, until he of course asked you to be his girlfriend.
Those weeks felt like a whirlwind you never wanted to end.
What started as coffee runs on the west side of campus quickly turned into late-night study sessions in the quietest corners of the library, late evening walks, and Sunghoon showing up outside your lectures just to hand you your favorite drink. He was attentive, sweet, and somehow always knew how to make you laugh when midterms were crushing you. Step by step, every defense you had built up against the polished frat leader completely crumbled.
You had fallen for him—hard.
And then came the night he asked you.
He had brought you back to the quiet patio where it all started, away from the party noise inside. The warm string lights cast soft shadows across his face as he held both of your hands in his, looking down at you with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"I don't think I've thought about anyone else since that night in the kitchen," he had murmured, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. "I don't want to just be the guy walking you to your dorm, Byeol. I want to be yours. Officially. Be my girlfriend?"
When you said yes, the look of pure, triumphant joy on his face felt so undeniably real that any lingering doubts vanished into thin air.
Now, three weeks into being his girlfriend, you're sitting on the comfortable sofa in his room at the frat house, wearing one of his oversized hoodies. The room is quiet, the low hum of the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. Sunghoon is downstairs grabbing drinks for the two of you, leaving his laptop open on the desk.
A quiet chime echoes through the room as a notification pops up on his screen. You don't mean to look, but the name on the preview instantly catches your eye: Jake.
The message preview sits right on the screen:
Bro, time's running out on the 3-month mark. When are you dropping the hammer on Byeol? The guys are asking about the pot.
You brush the thought aside, convincing yourself it must have just been some dumb joke or a miscommunication about when he was going to ask you out. Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the open textbook on your lap, highlighting a passage as if you hadn't seen a thing.
A few moments later, the door clicks open. Sunghoon steps into the room carrying two iced coffees, a bright, genuine-looking smile spreading across his face the second his eyes land on you.
"Sorry that took so long, Jay was rambling downstairs," he says smoothly, walking over to hand you your cup. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his touch completely at odds with the chilling words sitting on his laptop screen just feet away.
He casually strolls over to his desk, grabbing his laptop and snapping the lid shut without even glancing at the screen. He sets it on the bedside table before sliding onto the couch next to you, pulling you back against his chest so your head rests right against his shoulder.
"Where were we?" he whispers against your hair, wrapping his arms around your waist, completely comfortable and seemingly without a care in the world. "Did you actually get any studying done while I was gone, or were you just missing me?"
"I got some studying done, Jake texted you earlier"
Sunghoon’s body goes imperceptibly still for a split second, the easy rhythm of his breathing catching in his chest before he smoothly recovers. His grip around your waist doesn't loosen, but the casual aura in the room suddenly feels a fraction tighter.
"Did he?" Sunghoon asks, his tone light, almost dismissive, though his chin rests just a bit heavier against your head. He reaches over, his fingers loosely playing with the hem of his oversized hoodie on your arm. "Probably just nagging me about fraternity stuff or tonight's plan. I swear he thinks I'm his full-time secretary."
He chuckles softly, but he doesn't make a move toward the laptop on the bedside table. Instead, he shifts slightly, tilting his head down so he can catch your eye, a smooth, warm smile playing on his lips.
"Don't worry about Jake," he murmurs, his dark eyes searching your face with effortless, quiet intensity. "My attention is right here. Anything interesting in that textbook of yours, or do you need a distraction?"
"It's just readings of stuff I've already learned"
"Then reading it again is a total waste of time," Sunghoon says with a light, persuasive laugh.
He gently slides the textbook out of your hands and sets it down on the coffee table, replacing it by lacing his fingers through yours. He pulls you just a little closer into his side, resting his chin on your shoulder while his thumb gently traces circles on the back of your hand.
"Since you're already a step ahead of your classes," he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek, "that means I get your full, undivided attention for the rest of the afternoon."
He leans in, pressing a slow, tender kiss to the side of your neck, his smile warm against your skin. "No textbooks, no Jake... just us."
You smack his shoulder a little "you're such a freak"
Sunghoon lets out an easy, low laugh, catching your hand before you can pull it back and pulling it to his lips to press a playful kiss to your knuckles.
"Hey, I prefer the term 'enthusiastic boyfriend,'" he teases, his dark eyes sparkling with that familiar, charming warmth. He pulls you tight against his chest, wrapping both arms around you so you're completely trapped against him, buried in the warmth of his oversized hoodie.
"Besides," he murmurs softly, resting his forehead against yours with a soft smirk, "you love it."
He adjusts his grip, comfortably settling back into the couch cushions with you. Everything about the moment feels perfect—his familiar scent, the relaxed rhythm of his breathing, the soft afternoon light spilling into the room—completely burying the memory of that unread message on the desk just a few feet away.
"Unfortunately I do love it" you joke
Sunghoon’s smile widens, victorious and soft all at once. He lets out a quiet sigh of contentment, pressing his forehead against yours for a second longer before leaning back just enough to look at you properly.
"Good," he murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. "Because I don't plan on giving you a reason to feel any differently."
He shifts so you're tucked comfortably under his arm, your head resting right over his heart. The steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek is intoxicating, washing away any lingering thoughts of schoolwork—or anything else.
He reaches for his phone on the table with his free hand, absently tapping the screen before turning his gaze back down to you. "So, since you're officially done being a star student for the day... dinner? I can order us whatever you want"
"I'm craving some noodles"
"Noodles it is," Sunghoon agrees instantly, a soft laugh vibrating through his chest right where your head is resting.
He taps away on his phone, scrolling through a few delivery apps with one hand while keeping his other arm wrapped snugly around your waist. "Spicy ramen, pad thai, or are we talking proper hand-pulled noodles? Name your craving, boss, and I'll make it happen."
"Spicy ramen"
He leans his head back against the couch cushions, looking down at you with a gentle, completely relaxed expression. The cozy quiet of his room wraps around you both, making it shockingly easy to forget the rest of the world—and the quiet chime of his laptop—even existed.
"Spicy ramen, coming right up," Sunghoon says, his thumb quickly tapping the screen to finalize the order.
He tosses the phone onto the coffee table and wraps both arms back around you, pulling you in just a little tighter. "Extra spicy, soft-boiled egg, and extra pork belly. Did I get that right, or do I need to edit the order before they start cooking?"
He rests his chin on the top of your head, letting out a soft, contented sigh. "We've got about twenty minutes until it gets here. That means you're stuck sitting here with me until the food arrives."
"You always let me choose"
Sunghoon tilts his head down, a warm, subtle smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes meet yours.
"Well, yeah," he says, his tone softening into something dangerously sweet. "Because seeing you happy is pretty much my favorite part of the day. Plus, if I pick, we'll end up eating basic frat-guy food every single night, and I'm pretty sure you'd break up with me."
He gently nudges your shoulder with his, his arm tightening around your waist just enough to pull you a little closer.
"Besides, you've got good taste—I mean, you picked me, didn't you?" He winks, a cocky, effortless charm washing over him before he softens again, pressing a quick, tender kiss to your temple. "I like taking care of you, Byeol. Get used to it."
──𝄞𝄢──
Sunghoon’s gaze darkens, a slow, intoxicating heat settling between the two of you as his weight presses you down into the mattress.
It’s almost dizzying how quickly everything changed. Just an hour ago, you were sitting side-by-side on the floor, laughing over steam rising from cheap plastic takeout bowls. Now, you’re trapped beneath him, his chest heavy against yours, the scent of his cologne filling your senses until you can barely think straight.
"Look at you," Sunghoon whispers, his voice dropping into a raspy, hushed purr right against your ear. His fingers thread slowly into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the sensitive curve of your neck. "You look so completely overwhelmed."
His lips brush against your skin, feather-light and agonizingly slow, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.
"I bet if someone asked you how we ended up like this right now, you couldn't even give them a straight answer," he murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your collarbone. He shifts his weight, sliding a knee between yours as his hands trace a fiery path down your sides, gripping your hips with a quiet, possessive intensity.
He pulls back just a fraction, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels almost predatory—yet so tender it makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
"You just let me pull you right into my lap, didn't you?" His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing down gently until it parts. "So innocent... completely at my mercy, and you don't even care."
The words hang heavy in the dim room, thick with a tension that makes the air feel almost too dense to breathe. Sunghoon doesn't give you time to answer—not that you could find your voice even if you tried.
Instead, his mouth finds yours again, deep and unhurried, tasting like heat and sweet lingering spice. The kiss is possessive, completely consuming, until your hands instinctively find their way to his shoulders, clinging to him as if he's the only solid thing anchoring you to reality.
He lets out a low, satisfied hum against your lips, the sound vibrating right through your chest. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you flush against him until there isn't a single breath of space left between your bodies.
"Sunghoon..." you manage to whisper against his mouth when he finally draws back a fraction of an inch, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
He chuckles softly, a low, dark sound that echoes right in your ear as his lips trace down your jaw, dropping heavy, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin under your ear.
"Yeah?" he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, the searing warmth of his palms making your breath catch in your throat. His dark eyes flicker up to yours, heavy-lidded and burning with an intensity that leaves you completely breathless. "Tell me what you want, Byeol. Because right now, I'm not sure I can stop myself."
"I want you, Sunghoon"
Those four words seem to snap the last remaining thread of his control.
A sharp, ragged breath escapes his lips, and before you can process the sudden shift, Sunghoon's mouth crashes back over yours with a fierce, burning passion. The slow, lingering gentleness from before vanishes, replaced by a deep, breathless desperation that leaves your head spinning.
His fingers tangle tightly into your hair, holding you right where he wants you as his other hand slides up your waist, pulling you so close that every quick beat of his heart thuds against your own. The heat radiating off him is almost overwhelming, swallowing you whole in the dim, golden light of the room.
"You have no idea what you do to me," Sunghoon groans against your lips, his voice thick and impossibly rough.
He trails feverish kisses from your mouth down to your jaw, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to the sweet spot right beneath your ear that makes a involuntary gasp catch in your throat. He hovers over you, dark eyes practically glowing with possessive heat as his thumb traces the flush rising on your cheek.
"Say it again," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, his body pressing heavier, closer, demanding every bit of your surrender. "Say it so I know I'm not dreaming."
"I want you," you whisper again, the words slipping out barely above a breath, but in the quiet room, they hit like a spark to gasoline.
Sunghoon’s dark eyes darken even further, a heavy, triumphant breath shuddering out of him. "That's my girl," he growls softly against your lips, the words a intoxicating mixture of praise and promise.
He doesn't wait another second. His mouth takes yours in a kiss so deep, so completely consuming, that the rest of the world—the frat house, the noise downstairs, the passage of time—completely vanishes. His hands are everywhere, scorching hot as they trace the curve of your waist, lifting the edge of your top, his touch sending shivers shooting straight down your spine.
Every gentle shift of his weight, every frantic, breathless press of his body against yours pulls you deeper into the haze. He’s completely intoxicated by you, whispering sweet, desperate sweet-nothings between feverish kisses against your lips, your cheek, the pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.
Underneath the heat and the blinding thrill of the moment, he holds you like you're something priceless, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his heart hammers violently against your chest—a steady, chaotic rhythm that feels entirely yours.
The night bleeds into a blurred haze of quiet sighs, tangled sheets, and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing against his chest.
Hours later, the room is bathed in the cool, deep blue of late night. The chaos of earlier has settled into a lingering, heavy warmth. Sunghoon lies on his side, one strong arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away the second he loosens his grip. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his slow, rhythmic breaths fanning through your hair.
His fingers trail lazy, comforting circles over the bare skin of your lower back, absentminded and incredibly tender.
"You asleep?" he murmurs, his voice a low, raspy rumble that vibrates directly through you in the quiet room.
He shifts slightly, leaning over to brush a soft kiss against your forehead, his eyes dark and liquid in the dim light as he looks down at you. The sharp, guarded edge he usually carries around the rest of the frat house is completely gone, leaving behind something so raw and vulnerable it almost makes your chest ache.
"I don't think I've ever felt like this before, Byeol," he whispers into the silence, his thumb gently caressing your hip. "I mean it."
The words seem to float in the cool night air, sweet and intimate, but as Sunghoon watches your tired eyes flutter shut, a cold, heavy knot tightens in the pit of his stomach.
I mean it.
Did he? He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against your temple, but the soothing rhythm of your breathing does nothing to quiet the sudden, deafening noise in his head.
Three months. A pot of money sitting on Jake’s dresser. A stupid, reckless frat house wager that was supposed to be easy, meaningless, and entirely under his control.
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his arm involuntarily pulling you a fraction closer against him. The searing memory of Jake’s text message flashes behind his eyelids, mockingly reminding him of the ticking clock, of the bet he was supposed to win. Except every time he kisses you, every time you whisper his name with that completely unguarded, terrifying trust, the lines blur a little more.
He isn't acting anymore. And that terrifies him more than losing the money ever could.
His thumb stutters in its lazy circles on your hip before settling still. Looking down at your peaceful face in the blue twilight, a sickening realization settles over him: the lie was supposed to break your heart, but he's the one who's completely unraveling.
The quiet afternoon in the house felt almost peaceful until you walked down the hall toward Sunghoon’s room. The door was cracked open just an inch, a sliver of golden light spilling onto the hardwood floor, along with the muffled sound of voices inside.
"—you're running out of time, man," Jake’s voice drifted out, casual and laced with an annoying, playful taunt. "The three months are almost up. Are you actually gonna pull this off, or am I keeping the money?"
You froze, your hand hovering inches from the door handle. Your chest tightened, a strange, sudden coldness spreading through your veins.
A heavy silence followed inside the room before Sunghoon’s low, familiar voice responded. He sounded tense, entirely unlike the gentle, vulnerable guy who had held you so tightly in the dark just nights ago.
"Shut up, Jake," Sunghoon muttered sharply, the sound of papers rustling or a chair scraping against the floor cutting through the air. "It's not about that anymore."
"Oh, come on," Jake chuckled, completely unbothered by Sunghoon's tone. "Don't tell me you're catching real feelings over a stupid frat wager. You’re the one who agreed to the bet in the first place, Sunghoon. Don't back out now when the pot's this big."
Every word felt like a physical strike to your chest. A bet. A wager. Three months.
The memory of Sunghoon’s whispered promises, the intense way his eyes held yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist—all of it shattered in a single, brutal second, leaving you standing frozen in the dimly lit hallway, barely able to breathe.
You could hear sunghoons voice as he continued "besides I basically already won the bet, she's head over heels for me"
The words cut through you like a blade, cold and merciless.
Inside the room, Jake lets out a dark, whistle of a laugh. "There's the Sunghoon I know. Guess I'm out five hundred bucks, then."
"Yeah," Sunghoon’s voice comes again, but this time it lacks any real bite—flat, almost hollow, as if he’s forcing the words past a tight throat. "Yeah. You are."
Outside the door, the world feels like it's spinning off its axis. Every touch, every whispered 'you have no idea what you do to me,' every soft, feverish kiss in the dark replays in your mind, suddenly warped and ugly. It wasn't love. It wasn't even genuine affection. It was a game. A calculated, three-month performance designed to make you fall, just so he could line his pockets and brag to his friends.
Your breath hitches, a small, sharp sound breaking the silence of the hallway.
Inside, the light chatter instantly dies.
"Did you hear that?" Jake murmurs, his tone instantly shifting to cautious.
The floorboards creak inside as someone steps toward the door. The handle jiggles, and before you can force your frozen feet to move, the door swings open.
Sunghoon stands in the doorway, his confident mask slipping the exact second his eyes land on you. His tall frame instantly goes rigid. The smug, indifferent air he had moments ago completely vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sickening pale drain on his face as he looks at your eyes, reading the exact moment your heart broke.
"Byeol..." he whispers, his voice cracking, all the smugness completely gone. "How long have you been standing there?"
You don't say a word. You can't. The air feels too thick to pull into your lungs, and your throat is locked tight under the agonizing weight of the truth.
Behind Sunghoon, Jake's eyes widen in sheer horror. Realizing the colossal storm he just helped blow open, Jake quietly edges past Sunghoon, muttering a hasty, "I'm... I'm just gonna go," before scrambling down the hallway, leaving the two of you in a suffocating silence.
Sunghoon doesn't even watch him leave. His dark eyes are glued to yours, wide with a panic you’ve never seen in him before. The effortless, cool facade he always wore—the one he just used to brag about you seconds ago—is completely gone, replaced by a desperate, pale shock.
He takes a quick, eager step toward you, reaching out a hand. "Byeol, please. It’s—it’s not what it sounded like, I swear to God—"
"Is it true?"
Your voice is barely a whisper, hollow and trembling, but it freezes him in his tracks. His hand hovers in the empty space between you, trembling slightly before he slowly lets it fall to his side.
"Byeol..." he chokes out, his throat working hard as he swallows. He looks like he’s physically sick, the blood completely drained from his face. "It started out as something stupid, okay? It was just... a dumb joke with the guys months ago. But it isn't like that anymore. You know it isn't. Everything lately, everything between us—that was real. I swear it was real."
"A dumb joke," you repeat, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your lips as tears finally blur your vision. The memory of his hands on your waist, his whispered promises in the dark, his thumb brushing your cheek—it all feels like poison now. "I was just a five-hundred-dollar bet to you."
"No! No, you're not!" Sunghoon closes the distance between you in two fast strides, his hands coming up to gently, desperately frame your face, but you immediately flinch away from his touch. The rejection hits him like a physical blow, his expression crumbling. "Please, don't pull away from me. I know I fucked up, I know I'm a complete bastard, but I love you. I fell in love with you, Byeol."
"I know what you heard," he suffocates on the words, his chest heaving as his voice fractures into something raw and desperate. "I know what I did. I was a sick bastard who thought I could play with you... but it's killing me. It's fucking killing me, okay?"
He drops his head, his fingers tangling wildly into his own hair as he drops to his knees right in front of you, the rain soaking straight through his jacket.
"Hate me. Slap me. Ruin my life—I'll let you do whatever you want to me, I swear to God I will. Just don't look at me like I'm nothing. Please... just tell me what to do to make you stay."
"You lied to me, you took advantage of me, for what? What did you gain?" You say, not even being able to look at him with how much he'd hurt you.
His breath hitches, the harsh sound slicing through the heavy silence between you. Every word out of your mouth hits him like a physical blow, but it’s the fact that you can’t even bear to look at him that truly destroys him. The utter disgust in your voice is a million times worse than if you’d screamed.
He takes a frantic step forward, his hands twitching at his sides, desperate to reach out and pull you back, but too terrified that touching you will make you run.
"Nothing," he chokes out, his voice a broken, hollow rasp. "I gained nothing. I lost everything the second I let them convince me you were just another game."
A harsh, bitter sob rips from his throat, completely stripping away whatever pride he had left. He closes the distance until he’s right in front of you, dropping his head into his hands as his shoulders shake violently.
"Look at me. Please... just look at me so you can see how dead I am without you," he begs, his voice cracking into sheer agony. "I was a coward. I was terrified of how easily you made me fall, so I pretended it was a joke. But it wasn't. It never was. I'm sick with it, I'm dying inside, and I don't care about the bet, I don't care about my friends, I don't care about anything in this damn world except getting you back."
He drops to his knees right on the cold pavement, reaching out with trembling fingers to gently, hesitantly touch the hem of your coat—like a sinner pleading at an altar.
"Ruin me," he whispers, dark eyes shiny with unshed tears as he finally looks up at you, completely unraveled. "Take everything I have. Make me pay for every single tear you shed. Just... don't make me live a day where you look past me like I don't exist."
"Right now I don't even know who you are sunghoon" with that you walk away.
──𝄞𝄢──
Two weeks pass in a excruciating, heavy silence.
The break hangs over the frat house like a dark cloud. Sunghoon is a complete ghost of his former self—he doesn't go out, he barely speaks to Jake or any of the guys, and the confident, smirk-wearing guy everyone used to know has completely vanished. The $500 pot was publicly called off, though Sunghoon made sure everyone knew he was the one who blew it, taking the full brunt of the blame without offering a single excuse.
Every day, your phone sits quietly on your desk. Sunghoon hasn't pushed your boundaries—he’s kept his promise to give you space—but he sends a single, simple text every morning at 8:00 AM
I’m so sorry, Byeol. I'm right here whenever you're ready to talk.
For you, the time away is a tangled mess of anger, grief, and a lingering, frustrating ache. Every time you try to convince yourself to completely cut him off, your mind wanders back to the vulnerable look in his eyes in the dark, the way his heart hammered against yours, and the sheer desperation in his voice when he begged you not to walk away.
You know the bet was real at the beginning. But as you sit staring at your phone, the ultimate question keeps repeating in your mind Is the person he became with you worth forgiving the person he was when it started?
The front door of the frat house feels heavier than usual as you push it open. The usual chaotic bass and chatter downstairs seem oddly muted today.
When you walk up the familiar stairs and reach Sunghoon’s room, the door is slightly ajar. Stepping quietly inside, you find him sitting on the edge of his bed, his head resting in his hands. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a bit messy, wearing an oversized hoodie as if he hasn't stepped out of this room in days.
The quiet click of the door closing makes him snap his head up.
The moment his eyes land on you, Sunghoon freezes. A sudden, overwhelming rush of emotion washes across his face—shock, disbelief, and a raw, trembling hope that makes his breath hitch in his throat.
He stands up immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, but he doesn't dare step closer. He just stands there, looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
"Byeol..." his voice is low, scratchy, and thick with emotion. He swallows hard, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. "You're... you're here."
You take a slow breath, meeting his gaze directly. "I made up my mind, Sunghoon."
His entire body goes rigid, his dark eyes searching yours desperately, bracing himself for whatever sentence you're about to pass.
"I'm still furious about how this started," you say softly, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. "And it's going to take time for me to fully trust you again. But... I know what was real between us. I'm giving us another chance."
For a second, the words don't seem to register. Then, the tension holding him together completely snaps.
A choked, breathless sound escapes him, and in three long strides, Sunghoon closes the distance between you. He stops just inches away, his hands trembling as he gently, reverently reaches out to cup your cheeks, his thumb brushing over your skin as if making sure you're actually real.
"Thank you," he whispers, his forehead coming down to rest softly against yours. Tears glisten in his dark eyes as a shaky, relieved laugh breaks through his lips. "I swear to you, Byeol... I will spend every single day making this up to you. I won't ever let you regret this."
Six months pass, and the house—once a reminder of broken trust—has become the background to a completely transformed Sunghoon.
He didn't just apologize; he changed. The bet and the cold, smooth persona he used to hide behind are completely gone. In their place is someone who loves you openly, fiercely, and without an ounce of hesitation.
It’s in the small, quiet moments that he proved it to you. Like how he dropped out of the stupid house antics without a second thought, or how he instinctively reaches for your hand whenever you walk into a room together, proudly showing anyone who looks that you're the only person who matters to him. It’s in the way he listens—really listens—to every tiny detail of your day, remembering things you mentioned weeks ago just to surprise you with them later.
Tonight, the autumn air is crisp as the two of you sit on the back porch of the house, wrapped under a heavy blanket away from the party inside. Sunghoon sits behind you, his long legs wrapped around yours, pulling you flush against his chest just like he used to, but without a single shadow of doubt hanging over you.
He presses his lips softly against the curve of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin before resting his chin on your shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs softly, his arms tightening affectionately around your waist.
"Just... how different things are now," you say, turning your head slightly to look at him.
Sunghoon’s dark eyes soften, filled with an unbearable amount of devotion. He leans in, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before stopping at your lips.
"I promised you I'd spend every day earning this," he whispers, his voice thick with sincerity as his fingers interlock with yours, holding on tight. "I'm never stopping, Byeol. You're my whole world."
in which a sports journalist falls in love with south korea’s star defender
synopsis: when you meet sunghoon park — south korea’s calm, elite centre-back and vice-captain — during the world cup, professional interviews slowly turn into late-night conversations, gentle support, and stolen moments of connection.
as south korea pushes toward glory, so does hiding your growing feelings. through support, laughter, and quiet closeness, you discover something special that stays with you long after the final whistle.
pairing: footballer!sunghoon x reporter!reader
wc: 12.9k
warnings: none! it's mainly fluff with a tiny bit of angst at the end (good ending!!)
cw: slow-burn, mild emotional distress (sports related), talks about being under pressure, disappointments, insecurities, expectations. one kiss, strong language
a/n: SPAIN WON THE WORLD CUP!!!! i'm the happiest person on earth rn :(( i can't believe this fic started because of a silly idea i had rewatching iker casillas and sara carbonero’s 2010 world cup video for the nth time... ugh, i love my team. also, i just had to MAKE sunghoon's trading card because all the others were ai so i took care of it with my poor photo editing skills,,,,, 😁 (you know i had to take the opportunity to make him a player of my favorite team lmao)
the world cup buzzes like electricity in the air, thick and alive under atlanta’s stadium lights. the atmosphere wraps around everything, from the distant hum of distant chants to the sharp scent of fresh turf and street food vendors weaving through the crowds outside. south korea’s national team has arrived with quiet determination this time, not just as participants but as a team who trained for months in secrecy, refining a defense that feels impenetrable. their preparation whispers through insider reports and subtle leaks, hinting at new formations and unbreakable partnerships in the backline.
you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.
you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.
sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.
you know him, everybody does.
starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.
off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.
the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.
the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.
sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.
south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.
the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.
half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.
second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.
his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.
final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.
the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.
the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.
when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.
“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”
he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”
you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”
“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.
then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”
sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.
“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”
you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.
when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.
you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.
back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.
jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.
you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.
sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.
“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.
you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”
he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.
“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”
“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.
you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.
“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”
you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”
he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”
“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”
he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.
time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.
“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”
“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”
he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.
you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.
-------
the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.
sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.
back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.
the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.
post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.
the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.
“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.
that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.
“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.
conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.
“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.
“always,” you laugh.
you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.
by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.
the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.
“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.
“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”
the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.
the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.
”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”
that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.
your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.
late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.
he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.
group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.
-------
round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.
sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.
post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.
“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.
he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.
“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.
that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.
he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.
you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”
he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”
the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.
when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.
texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.
his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”
you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.
from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.
there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.
hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.
you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.
-------
quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.
sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.
the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.
later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.
“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.
he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”
after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.
you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.
at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.
he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”
you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”
he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.
-------
the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.
you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.
one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.
“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”
he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”
you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”
he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”
gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”
you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”
he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”
your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”
he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”
neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.
“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”
he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”
you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”
the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.
-------
semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.
the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.
second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.
2-1. south korea reaches the final.
the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.
mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.
he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”
the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.
he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.
you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”
for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.
“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”
he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.
-------
the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.
a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.
tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.
one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”
you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”
he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”
the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.
another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.
“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”
you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”
no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.
the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.
-------
the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.
media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”
the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.
the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.
around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.
“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”
he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”
his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.
“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”
he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”
you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”
a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”
the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.
“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”
he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”
you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.
later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”
you reply quickly. “see you there.”
when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.
“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”
you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”
he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”
the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.
“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.
he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”
you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”
he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.
“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”
the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.
“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”
the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.
“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”
“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”
you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.
“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”
“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”
that night the texts continue.
he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”
you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”
“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.
you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”
he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”
the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”
“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”
the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.
-------
the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.
the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”
you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”
his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”
as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.
-------
the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.
south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.
the match is a chess game from the start.
both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.
the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.
0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.
second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.
“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.
the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.
you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.
in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.
0-1. south korea is losing.
the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.
sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”
the final whistle confirms it.
defeat. 0-1.
the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.
sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.
he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.
the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.
medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.
the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.
media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.
when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.
“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.
he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.
as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.
you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”
the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”
he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.
he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.
-------
hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.
sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.
“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.
“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”
silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.
“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”
your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.
“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”
he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.
“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”
sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.
“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”
the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.
he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”
you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.
the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.
“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”
you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”
the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.
but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.
the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.
PLOT! After leaving Gotham and moving to Metropolis, you finally got a job at the Daily Planet. Only problem? Theres one guy who's always late yet always gets the scoop. And boy, do you hate him. Alternatively: A list of the things you hate about your coworker, Park Sunghoon.
CONTENT! Sunghoon/Fem!Reader, Superman!Sunghoon, Gotham!Reader, slight rivals to lovers but its one sided, everybody works at the Daily Planet, you hate love sunghoon and he's obsessed with you, SMUT MDNI IM NOT KIDDING, p in v, oral (fem Receiving), slight overstim if u squint
AUTHORS NOTE! ok fun fact this is my old superman fic that i archived and i reworked it into being sunghoon so if it looks familiar i didnt copy bc its legit my work... also im keeping the fact that theyre in metropolis, but im changing sunghoon from being from bumblefuck midwest america to south jeolla to fit the country-esque vibe. PLEASE let me know if there are any errors i wrote this over a year ago and simply just changed names and places pls help a girl out.
Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom.
You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Park Sunghoon.
He’s late.
Every. Damn. Day.
You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.
You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”
Sunghoon wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels.
“Yeah,” He huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”
There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it.
You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Chaewon. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Chaewon laughs it off. Riki yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Jake calls him “Jeolla” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his hometown and somehow his incompetence.
But you?
You are not charmed.
You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.
Again!
“You’ve been late every day this week, Park,” You mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”
He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” He says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask.
Almost.
Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”
He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.
And most of all?
You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.
2 ── You hate his "aw shucks" act.
If Park Sunghoon’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it.
Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Heeseung from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.
People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him.
You do not.
Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Jeolla” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.
You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.
So when he chuckles nervously after Chaewon slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:
“Oh, give me a break!”
Sunghoon turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”
You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”
His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”
He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”
You scoff. “Of course he did,” You mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”
“I’m from Jeolla, not Nebraska,” He says, like that explains everything.
You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Jeolla. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”
Sunghoon shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” He offers gently.
You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”
He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.
He is harmless.
And that somehow makes it worse.
Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Sunghoon? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Sunghoon is very good at it.
You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.
And that makes you want to scream.
3 ── You hate how he somehow always gets the exclusive.
There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman
But somehow, Park Sunghoon just gets them.
Every. Fucking. Time.
He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Riki’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.
It’s infuriating.
You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Chaewon couldn’t get close. And she's Chaewon!
But the next morning?
There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Park Sunghoon.
You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.
“He said that?” You asked Sunghoon across the bullpen.
Sunghoon blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”
Sunghoon smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”
You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.
A few times?
Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Park Sunghoon.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Riki still passes them over in favor of Sunghoon’s Superman exclusives.
You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.
Sunghoon just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”
Trusts him.
Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.
You stare across the bullpen now, watching Sunghoon quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.
You hate it.
You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up.
No one sees Sunghoon talking to Superman.
And yet Sunghoon knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.
You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Park Sunghoon is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.
And you don’t believe in luck.
4 ── You hate that he doesn't talk shit.
Newsrooms run on gossip.
That’s just a fact.
You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.
Except Sunghoon.
Sunghoon doesn’t talk shit.
At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.
Chaewon stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Sunghoon, ready.
Nothing.
He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”
You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”
Sunghoon smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”
You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed. “Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”
He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.
It keeps happening.
Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Sunghoon to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.
When Jungwon blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Sunghoon hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jungwon a coffee the next morning with no explanation.
You don’t get it.
You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.
Sunghoon? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.
It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite.
You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.
Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.
He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?
Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.
When Riki has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Riki to breathe.
When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.
You hate how it makes your chest tighten.
You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.
You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.
You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.
You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.
You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.
You shake yourself.
No.
This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.
It’s not.
You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.
5 ── You hate how he remembers everything you say.
You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.
You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.
Park Sunghoon doesn’t see it that way.
You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolis comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.
The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”
You blinked at him
“You remembered that?” You asked, caught off guard.
Sunghoon shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”
You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.
Because the pattern kept happening.
You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”
You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”
You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that no one’s used the word since.
He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.
You don’t know how to feel about that.
Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.
You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Sunghoon? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.
And maybe that’s what bothers you most.
Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.
Not really.
Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Sunghoon listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of you in his head, one brushstroke at a time.
And you despise it.
You hate that it makes you feel seen.
You hate that it makes you feel real.
You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.
You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped I Heart Korea mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.
You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.
You remember way too much.
So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.
6 ── You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.
There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.
Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.
But that’s not how Sunghoon looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.
Just you.
And it drives you batshit crazy.
Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.
It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.
But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.
And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.
7 ── You hate how nervous he makes you feel.
You’re not nervous around people.
You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.
But Sunghoon makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.
Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Sunghoon stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose.
And lately… you’ve been messing things up.
You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.
You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.
You called him Sunghoon and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.
When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.
You like him.
God, you like him.
You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.
You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.
You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.
Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.
8 ── You hate that he's Superman.
You almost died today.
Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.
You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.
But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.
It didn’t.
It was coming right for you.
And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.
He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—
Him.
Superman.
He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”
You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.
He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.
He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.
That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.
You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?
It rattled you.
And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.
The way he looked at you.
Like he knew you. Like he saw you.
And then your fingers stopped moving.
Because you’d seen that look before.
Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar.
Sunghoon had looked at you like that.
You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.
You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jungwon had taken at Chaewon’s birthday last month. Sunghoon, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.
Your heart sank.
No.
You looked again.
You zoomed in.
And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see.
Park Sunghoon is Superman.
You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.
Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.
You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Sunghoon. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Sunghoon. Now you’re not sure where Sunghoon ends and Superman begins.
And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.
9 ── You hate how he touches you.
You told yourself it was for the story.
That inviting Sunghoon over to your apartment—late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual—was a journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”
But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.
Sunghoon knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.
He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”
“An article,” You said, breezy. “About Superman.”
And God, you said his name like a test.
Sunghoon blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.
You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there—not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew—knew—it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.
You kept waiting for him to lie.
He didn’t.
So you forced his hand.
You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”
Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.
He didn’t deny it.
He didn’t laugh it off.
He just looked at you.
And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.
“You’ve known?” He asked quietly.
“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”
He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something—or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.
“I never meant to lie,” He said. “Not to you.”
“But you did,” You replied. “Every day.”
And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.
Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you—really saw you—even before you ever knew who he was.
And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own—gentle, grounding, warm.
You hated it.
You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.
“You’re mad,” He said.
“I should be.”
He swallowed. “Are you?”
You looked at him—really looked—and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.
Park Sunghoon. Superman. Both. All.
And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.
You stood.
He stood too.
You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.
But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours—when he hesitated, like he needed your permission—and when you didn’t stop him—
His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.
You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.
You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him—and not just the cape. Not just the secret.
Him.
Sunghoon.
You pulled him closer.
And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.
You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable.
But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.
Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” He breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.
Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.
No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.
You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”
You cut him off with your mouth.
And that’s all it takes.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.
You push him toward the bedroom.
He lets you.
You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your hips down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.
You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.
When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”
His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.
“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate you.”
“God,” He breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”
“I hate you, Sunghoon.”
And then his hands are everywhere.
He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.
“Tell me where you want me,” He rasps.
You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”
His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.
His mouth is on you in seconds.
Hot. Wet. Perfect.
You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.
“Fuck—Sunghoon—”
He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”
He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you. The thought makes you whine. It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.
He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.
“You’re close,” He whispers against you. “I can feel it.”
“I’m going to kill you,” You pant.
“I’ll die happy.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.
You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” You manage.
He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”
And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.
And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.
You blink. “Jesus Christ.”
He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”
You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.
“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”
“You dreamed about this?”
He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”
You’re still trembling from the first wave when Sunghoon pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.
You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.
“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.
His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin.
You shiver, heart pounding as he works your shirt off you, fingertips trailing across your ribs once more. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. You’re still sensitive from the last orgasm he coaxed out of you, be he’s not done. Not even close.
His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.
He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.
You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you maneuver the both of you until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.
Sunghoon’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.
You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”
His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.
He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.
“Please, don’t stop,” He begs, voice breathy and broken.
Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.
He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.
Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry.
You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.
10 ── You hate that you love him.
You told yourself it wasn’t possible.
Not with Park Sunghoon—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.
And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.
You hate him.
You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.
You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.
He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.
You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”
He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” He says. “Superman’s on vacation.”
Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”
He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”
You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”
He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”
He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.
“We should get breakfast,” He says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”
You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”
He scowls in mock horror. “No real human hates cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”
He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”
A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.
But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.
You clear your throat. “But seriously—I still hate you.” You lie.
He stills beside you. A small smile covers his face.Heartbeat thunders under his palm. “You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”
Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”
He nods. “In five seconds.”
You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Sunghoon. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.
In that moment, all the hate evaporates.
“We’re a mess,” You laugh softly, looking away.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”
He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.
And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.
in which: niki comes over every weekend to pick up your daughter, however he can no longer handle the distance you put between the two of you.
a/n: i think this is the longest fic ive ever wrote lmao and i’m kinda nervous to post it. it definitely isn’t perfect but i really like it so i hope you do too! every like & reblog is greatly appreciated, it helps more than you know <3
warnings: not proofread! , lowercase intended , pet names: baby / princess / love / baby girl (used on reader & their daughter) , niki is yearninggg , desperate ki , angst if you squint , fluff? - please lmk if i missed anything worth adding!
the knock on your apartment door comes at exactly ten o’clock - just how it usually does.
you swing open the door with your 2 year old daughter, Aria, balanced on your hip, her tiny hands wrapped around a stuffed, green duck that’s missing one wing.
“daddy!” she squeals and kicks her legs, trying to slide down your hip.
Riki’s expression softens instantly.
there’s something unfair about it, actually. how easy he smiles at her - how familiar he looks standing in your doorway dressed in that black hoodie and grey sweatpants. like he belongs there.
but he doesn’t. not anymore.
he reaches for her automatically, lifting her up and squeezing her tightly. “hey, princess.”
you watch him pull Aria against his chest as her little arms wrap around his neck.
and then he looks at you.
then there it is - that awkward pause, the one that happens every weekend.
“hi.” he says quietly.
“hi.”
neither of you move - neither of you say anything else. because what is there to say, honestly?
“have a good weekend”
“see you on sunday”
“i miss you”
the last one never makes it past either or your lips.
“okay, princess. shoes on.” Riki says, after clearing his throat, as he places her gently on the ground in front of you. you kneel and help her put on her trainers, fastening the velcro with shakier hands than you’d ever admit. you hate how he still affects you.
“there we go,” you smile at her before standing.
the silence settles again - it always does.
you watch as your daughter turns to pick up her bag, the hoodie you’re wearing slipping off one shoulder. his hoodie. at least, it used to be.
Riki tries not to stare. he really does. when your miniature self holds up her backpack to him and he doesn’t take it, you look up at him. he’s staring at you.
at his hoodie you’re wearing. at the necklace he gave you a few months before you told him you were pregnant. at your nails which were now a different colour from when he saw you last weekend.
“daddy!” Aria exclaims, her bag becoming too heavy for her little arms.
he looks down instantly, shaking his head, and picks her up. “sorry, love.”
“she ate breakfast already,” you say quietly. “there’s some snacks in her bag.”
he nods simply. “okay.”
you nod.
neither of you say goodbye when he turns towards the open door. because somehow, after all this time of being apart, saying it out loud feels too permanent.
your daughter saves you both.
“bye, mommy!”
you laugh, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. “i’ll see you on sunday, okay? have fun.”
then she turns to him. “let’s go, daddy!”
he should leave. but instead, his eyes lift to yours once more.
you’re smiling. tired. soft. pretty.
the same smile he used to wake up beside. the same smile he hasn’t stopped missing.
his throat becomes tight as he peels his eyes off your face and turns to leave one last time. Aria waves at you as he carries her down the hallway towards the elevator.
you stand at the door until they’ve disappeared around the corner. and only then do you exhale the breath that felt like you’d been holding since he knocked on the door.
—
the walk to his sleek, black mercedes feels much longer than it actually is. he can’t help his mind racing with thoughts of you. the way you smiled at your daughter so lovingly. the way your face completely changed when you caught him looking at you for a moment too long.
he shakes his head and sets the tiny human into her car seat before bucking the seatbelt. he checks it twice before shutting the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
he should drive away. he turns the key, the engine purring to life beneath him, but he doesn’t pull away from the curb. he almost gets back out of the car before Aria speaks softly from the backseat.
“daddy?”
he blinks, his fingers loosening from the steering wheel. his knuckles are white.
“are we going?” she asks and he turns to look at her over his shoulder.
“yeah,” he smiles lovingly before shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb.
the drive is quiet. Aria tells him about the picture you helped her draw yesterday and how she wants pancakes for lunch.
he answers when he’s supposed to, but all he can think about is you. standing in the doorway wearing his hoodie, the sleeves pulled tightly over your hands, looking at him like he’s still someone you want to know.
“daddy!” Aria exclaims.
“hm?” he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“you forgot,”
“forgot what, baby?”
she frowns like it’s obvious. “to say goodbye to mommy.”
his fingers tighten on the steering wheel again. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
for a long moment, the only sounds in the car are the low hum of the engine and the blow of the air conditioning. then he swallows.
“i don’t think…” his voice comes out more unsure than expected. “i don’t think i’m very good at saying goodbye to mommy.”
Aria tilts her head to the side. “why?”
he laughs because how is he supposed to explain this to a two year old?
how is he supposed to tell her that every time he stands in the doorway, some part of him expects you to let him walk back inside. that every time you smile at him, he remembers what it felt like to come home to you.
he blinks hard and lets out a small breath through his nose. “i just miss her sometimes, princess.”
“i miss you too, daddy.” she says softly.
he swallows hard. he almost stops breathing. he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Aria looking out of the window, her little legs swinging slightly beneath her car seat like she hasn’t just shattered his heart.
he exhales shakily. “you do?”
she nods. “yeah. when i’m at mommy’s house.”
silence fills the car and his fingers grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. because he misses her when she’s gone. every week he counts down the days until he gets to see her again.
because somewhere between missing his daughter and missing you, he’s started to hate sundays.
—
at some point during the drive back to Riki’s house, he thinks Aria had fallen asleep in the backseat. she was silent, clutching her stuffed duck to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her there.
“you okay, baby?” Riki speaks softly from the driver’s seat. his daughter nods.
minutes later, he pulls up in the driveway and puts the car in park. he rounds the car and unbuckles Aria’s seatbelt before helping her out and grabbing her backpack.
once inside, he immediately begins taking off her trainers before heading to the kitchen to make the pancakes she asked for.
he watches her run into the living room and drop onto the rug before pulling a colouring book out of her backpack. then he blinks and she’s beside him.
“can i help?” she smiles, already struggling to drag over a stool from the counter.
he laughs and helps her up onto the stool.
he’s always careful with her. always making sure she washes her hands after using the bathroom. always making sure her laces are tied and that she’s wearing a jacket or a coat before going outside.
and he loves her just as much as he loves you.
that evening, Riki lets Aria help make the pancakes, laughing when she makes a mess all over the counter, before they settle onto the couch together to eat. he shakes his head when she asks silly questions. “daddy, do you like dinosaurs?” and he reads her three bedtime stories before she finally lays down and falls asleep.
once she’s finally asleep, he sits on the edge of her bed and watches her for a while. because in five days, he’ll miss this. again.
when you told him you were pregnant, he almost jumped for joy. he’s always thought about it - the three of you cuddling up on the couch together watching a movie and eating snacks, wearing matching pyjamas, and taking walks through the park with his hand on your lower back while your child jumps beside him.
except, this is everything he didn’t want.
—
“daddy, look! it’s a dinosaur!” Aria exclaims from the living room.
Riki walks towards her and stares down at the green blob on the paper. it’s definitely not a dinosaur but he nods anyway. “it sure is.”
“and this is you!” Aria beams, holding up the drawing proudly.
he squints at the tiny stick figure beside the green blob. “wow. don’t i look handsome.”
his daughter giggles. “no, daddy. you look silly!”
he presses his hand to his chest as if he’s physically hurt. “me? silly? i’m offended.”
her laughter fills the kitchen; its bright, loud, the kind of laugh that makes him laugh too.
actually, he hasn’t laughed that hard in months.
she’s sitting on the rug with a box of crayons scattered around her while the waffles she didn’t eat for breakfast go cold on the coffee table.
“daddy?”
“hm?”
“pink.”
he looks down as Aria holds out a pink crayon. “what about pink, baby?”
“you need pink.”
“for what?”
she points at the paper. “sit.”
Riki laughs. “you’re bossy.”
Aria grins. “sit.”
he sits.
she immediately begins scribbling and he doesn’t even ask what she’s drawing. he just watches her tiny hand move across the page.
at some point, she sticks her tongue out in concentration and his heart does that thing it always does. the thing where it feels too full.
he thinks maybe you’re his favourite part. not the cartoons, not the park, not even the pancakes. just this.
her talking nonsense, her colouring. being here.
being his.
“daddy?”
“yeah, princess?”
she looks up. “i like weekends.”
Riki smiles. “me too.”
she giggles and turns back to her masterpiece.
and suddenly, his chest aches. because weekends end; they always do. he glances at his phone.
sunday. already. too fast.
he swallows hard and looks down at his daughter, specifically where she has green crayon on her cheek. he doesn’t tell her, though.
instead, he just reaches over and gently tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. she doesn’t look up - she just keeps colouring.
as if he’ll still be here tomorrow. as if he doesn’t spend every week counting down the days until he gets to see her again.
he blinks once and then stands. “come on, baby.”
she finally looks up. “hm?”
“let’s get you ready.”
she pouts. “already?”
his heart drops to his ass. “yeah.”
she looks down at her picture and then back up at him.
“i stay longer?” she tilts her head.
silence. god, he wishes more than anything she could stay longer. he crouches beside her and cups her cheek with his palm.
“mommy’s waiting for you.”
she thinks about that. blinks. and then asks softly: “can you come too?”
Riki forgets how to breathe - because she’s two - she doesn’t understand why daddy has one house and mommy has another. why weekends happen, why sundays happen.
Aria just knows she likes being with both of you.
he swallows hard. “not today, princess.”
she nods slowly like she’s disappointed but she’s accepting it before reaching for her daddy. “carry.”
Riki immediately lifts her up and she buries her face into his shoulder while one tiny hand fists the fabric of his hoodie. he holds her a little tighter knowing that tomorrow, this house will be quiet again.
his chest tightens. Aria is getting bigger and both Riki and you know she is. her words are becoming clearer, her clothes keep getting too small, and she keeps asking questions he doesn’t quite know how to answer.
but right now, she’s still small enough to fit perfectly in his arms. so he holds her tightly like she’ll disappear if he lets go just a little.
“you ready to go see mommy?” he asks quietly while carding his fingers through her locs.
Aria nods against his shoulder. there’s none of the excitement she’d had when she arrived at his house on friday. she’s tired… and so is he.
Riki grabs her stuffed duck from the couch before stuffing it into her backpack.
he turns around to scan the living room for anything he might forget. but all he sees is one of her socks peeking out from under the couch, a tiny cup with cartoon animals on it, and her crayons still scattered on the rug.
little reminders that she’s been here - little reminders that in a few minutes, she won’t be.
his chest feels unbearably tight.
every weekend. every weekend he gets this; two days of cartoons and little giggles and tiny arms around his neck.
and then it’s over in the blink of an eye.
he shakes his head before flicking off the light and heading for the door.
the evening air is cool when he steps outside. his fighter is tucked securely against his chest as he makes his way to his car. she yawns, long and dramatic, before her body goes even heavier in his arms.
a small laugh escapes Riki’s throat. “you tired, baby girl?”
she nods once. small.
“you had a busy weekend, huh?”
another nod.
Riki smiles and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Aria’s head.
by the time he reaches his car, he thinks she’s already asleep in his arms. he unlocks the door with a beep of his keys and swings open the back door before lowering his tiny human into her car seat.
she makes a small noise of protest as he peels her away from his chest. her sleepy eyes blink open just enough to find him.
“there we go.” Riki mumbles as he buckles her seatbelt.
she doesn’t say anything, just watches him with heavy eyes. then, quietly: “daddy?”
he looks up. “yeah?”
“i had fun.”
he stills. it’s such a simple sentence, four little words, but somehow they hit in right in the chest. then he smiles back at her. softer this time.
“me too, baby.”
Aria smiles once more before her eyes slowly drift shut. Riki doesn’t move; he stays crouched beside the open car door for a moment, watching her breathing softly.
the he slowly stands and closes the door.
he walks round to the driver’s side and slid into the seat before resting his hands on the steering wheel. for a few seconds, he doesn’t start the car - he just sits there. listening to the quiet because he already misses her… and she’s still right behind him.
eventually, he starts the engine. the soft hum of the car fills the silence as he glances in the rear-view mirror.
Aria is still sleeping, her head tilted awkwardly to one side. her curls are messy from her exciting day with daddy, and there's still a faint mark on her cheek from the green crayon.
he almost smiles. almost.
his heart aches instead.
the drive to your apartment isn't long; Riki's done it enough times to know every turn, every shortcut, every set of traffic lights.
he also remembers driving this same route two years ago with you in the passenger seat. you were exhausted after a long night with the baby, your head resting against the window while he drove aimlessly to get Aria to sleep.
you'd looked so tired, so perfect, when you looked at him and smiled. "you're a good dad, you know."
the memory hits him unexpectedly and he swallows hard.
the light ahead turns red, forcing him to stop, before the car falls silent again. he glances in the mirror at Aria's sleeping form, a tiny frown has appeared on her face.
a few more minutes pass before familiar buildings begin appearing outside the window.
no matter how normal this arrangement has become, no matter how many months have passed, his throat always tightens as soon as he turns onto your street. because you're here and you'll open the door in a few minutes and he'll see you and pretend everything is normal... and then he'll have to leave again.
he pulls up outside your apartment and turns off the engine.
silence.
the curtains are drawn. the hallway light is on.
home. not his - not anymore.
he exhales slowly and unbuckles his seatbelt before rounding the car to the back door. she’s completely out and he smiles despite himself.
“hey, sleepyhead.” he murmurs.
nothing.
he carefully unbuckles her seatbelt and slides his arms beneath her warm, sleeping body. Aria stirs slightly before immediately tucking herself against his chest.
like she belongs there.
he kicks the door shut gently with his foot before walking towards your apartment. each step feels strangely heavy, and by the time he reaches the elevator, his breaths are coming a little too fast.
the elevator doors ding and slide open as he places a kiss to the top of Aria’s head.
by the time he reaches your door, his hands are shaky. he shifts her in his arms and raises an arm to knock.
then he waits.
—
the door doesn’t open straight away. Riki stands there silently - your daughter pressed against his chest, her little hand fisting his hoodie.
the dim light casts a soft glow over the two of them in the hallway, and for a moment, all he can hear is her slow breathing and the tv from one of the neighbouring apartments.
then he hears the footsteps and his heart does a stupid jolt when the lock clicks.
the door opens. and there you are.
your hair is messy, like you’d tied it up but given up halfway through. you’re wearing an oversized jumper and a pair of shorts - looking comfortable, tired, like you’d been curled up on the sofa waiting for them to get back.
looking like home.
neither of you say anything first. then your eyes drop to your daughter curled up in his arms. the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile at the sight - her sleeping silently on his chest.
then your eyes lift to his and something changes… it’s so brief he almost thinks he imagined it.
but your smile softens even more. because his hand is rubbing softly up and down her back, because he’s holding her carefully…
because he looks exactly like he did two years ago when you used to take turns getting up to warm a bottle for a crying baby.
“she fell asleep?” you ask quietly, your voice barely a whisper.
Riki blinks. “yeah,” his own voice softens more than he’d intended. “about ten minutes before we got here.”
you smile again, glancing down at your daughter. “looks like she had fun.”
neither of you notice how close you’ve gotten - or maybe you have but neither of you say anything.
for a few seconds, everything feels strangely normal.
“oh… come in.” you smile awkwardly as you step to the side to let Riki inside.
he steps inside and immediately heads to Aria’s bedroom.
you follow close behind him, watching the way he moves down the hallways of your apartment. like he’s done it a thousand times before. he has. like he still lives here. he doesn’t.
you stand in the doorway and watch as he leans over her bed and gently places her down under the duvet before slipping off her shoes.
you watch how he’s so careful with her, like one wrong move will break her. like she’s the most precious thing in the world. but to him, she is. and to you, she’s your everything.
he pulls her blanket up to her chin and strokes her cheek twice before quietly stepping back, careful not to wake her.
the apartment falls silent as you softly pull Aria’s bedroom door shut. when you turn around, Riki is standing there, hands tucked into his pockets. waiting.
neither of you speak at first. you both just stand there, looking at each other as if you both know this feels wrong. as if you both know this isn’t how it was supposed to be. as though you both know, deep down, it doesn’t have to stay this way.
“two days with her doesn’t feel enough anymore.” Riki speaks, finally turning your attention to something other than the weight on your chest.
“if you want more time with Aria, we can talk about it.”
he shakes his head before you can finish. “it’s not just that…”
your brows knit together. “then what is it?”
“i know i don’t deserve to ask this after everything that happened,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if there was even the smallest chance that we could try again, i’d take it.”
you sigh and cross your arms over your chest. “Riki, you know we can’t-“
“but we can, y/n!” he steps closer, his eyes search yours frantically. desperate for a sign you haven’t given up. not yet.
“you know we can. if you’d just let me-“
“Riki-“
“no, listen, y/n.” he says firmly and you close your mouth instantly.
he runs a hand over his face before taking the remaining step to fully close the distance between you. his hands land on yours and he threads his fingers through yours. “every sunday, i bring her here, tuck her into bed, and then leave.”
a humourless laugh escapes his throat. “it never gets any easier.”
you blink up at him, speechless.
“you know we’re both standing here acting like this is normal. it isn’t! not one bit.” his hands squeeze yours like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll turn and walk away. “we could be better and i know you know that. please give me another chance. for Aria.”
that last part shattered you.
for Aria.
those two words echoed in your mind, pounding on every wall you’d spent months building around your heart.
the thing is, you do know this could be different. you just refuse to be hurt again. you refuse to feel stupid like last time. you can’t ever let yourself become that vulnerable. not again.
“please, baby, give me another chance. i want us to be the family Aria deserves. i don’t want her growing up wondering why we stopped trying.” he whispers.
tears sting your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. “do you think i haven’t imagined it? every single day?” you whisper.
“then why are we still standing here like idiots pretending we don’t still love each other?” his voice shakes and you almost break down right there.
“because you don’t know what you’re asking, Riki.”
“i do.” his brows pull together.
you shake your head. “no, you don’t. if we try again and it falls apart… Aria doesn’t just lose the idea of us, she loses us all over again.”
Riki’s shoulders fall and his expression softens. “i know,” he says quietly. “i know that’s what you’re afraid of.”
his thumbs are tracing small circles on the backs of your hands now. “but i’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened, y/n, i’m asking you to let me earn it.”
the silence settles once again as you stare at the floor, refusing to look at him. because you know if you do, you’ll crumble.
every part of you wanted to believe him. to pull him into a hug and believe this time it’ll be different.
and… that’s exactly what happens.
you look up at him, eyes searching his face for any sign that means he’s lying. any hint that means whatever he’s saying will end up as another broken promise.
you don’t find one.
instead, you see the same boy you fell in love with. the same boy that held your hand during labour. the same boy that kissed your forehead and cooked dinner when you were stressed about work.
only now, he’s standing in front of you practically begging you to take him back. asking you to let him own up to his own mistakes.
you let out a shaky breath.
“okay…”
Riki’s eyes light up. “okay?”
you nod as tears stream down your cheeks before you can stop them. “one more chance.”
for a long moment, he just stares as you. almost like he’s convinced he heard you wrong.
“really?”
a small smile finds it’s way onto your lips.
“we’re not doing this just because of Aria,” you nod. “we’re doing it because i still love you. even after everything. i never stopped, Riki.”
his eyes glisten and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
Somehow, in the middle of your semester break, you ended up with a new roommate. Your landlord rented out the second room in your flat without telling you, and now you’re living with Sunghoon. At first, your paths barely cross, you’re buried in work, and he’s always at the rink. But slowly, he slips into your routine in ways you never expected. And in one faithful night, everything shifts. Suddenly, living together isn't awkward anymore. You start looking forward to him coming home. Maybe, just maybe, home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person.
💿 SOUNDTRACK 〢🖇 SERIES MASTERLIST 〢⛸️ MORE coming soon
wc pt 1 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 28,007
ᵎ!ᵎ WARNINGS ──── GRAPHIC CONTENT! Swearing, partying, consumption of alcohol, hospital visits, EATING DISORDER, mentions of date-rape drugs, being drugged, mentions of the police, vomiting !! Please refrain from reading this fic if themes like dieting, bulimia, and anorexia could be triggering for you. Please take care of yourself, lots of love <<3
# TAGS ──── SLOW-BURN Figure skater!Sunghoon, Architecture student!Y/N, college sports, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
all feedback and reblogs are welcome ⭑.ᐟ
Hallucinating. You had to be hallucinating.
Maybe Jaemin was right. Maybe the sleep loss was catching up with you. You were starting to hallucinate.
You were pretty sure that there was a hot guy flipping through the first pages of one of your fashion magazines.
In your living room. Surrounded by moving boxes.
You cleared your throat. “Hi?”
The guy looked up and smiled at you.
Oh god.
“Hi, I’m Sunghoon.” Sunghoon set the magazine down on your sofa table. “I’m your new roommate. I don’t know if Mister Kang told you that I am moving in today instead of on the first. I had a more or less spontaneous change of plans.”
No.
No, Mr Kang did not.
You opened your mouth before closing it, willing your face into a small, tight smile.
“Hi,” your voice was pitched a notch too high, and you cringed. “I am Y/N. Are you sure you are in the right apartment? I mean, considering you probably got the keys from Mr Kang, yes, but he didn’t tell me anything about a roommate? I know Apartment 4B is a free room?”
Sunghoon scrunched his eyebrows. “This is Apartment 4D, right? I definitely signed a contract for the smaller room in Apartment 4D.”
“Oh,” you just said and blinked at him.
The smaller room in your apartment had been rented out for as long as you lived here. Not by you, but by some mystery girl that seemed to have no interest in living in this apartment. Mister Kang didn’t care if the other girl came or not, as long as the rent was paid on time, and told you you were free to use the room until she did indeed show up.
So that is what you did.
You transformed the small room into your studio.
And you knew for a fact that the desk and the floor were a cluttered mess at the moment.
Heat shot up your neck at the realisation.
“I–uhm–I didn't know you were moving in at all. I’ve been using the room as my studio. Just give me like an hour, and I’ll move all of my stuff into my room,” you sighed, already feeling a headache coming. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at your words, then glanced toward the hallway leading to his supposed new room. "You’ve been using it as a studio?"
You nodded, running a hand through your hair. "Yeah. I mean, it’s been empty since I moved in. Not technically empty? Someone rented it out, but she never came, and Mr Kang said I could use the room if my supposed roommate didn’t want it. So I just… took over? I’ll be really fast, so you can start putting all your stuff in there."
Sunghoon’s lips quirked up in amusement, arms crossing over his broad chest. "So, I’m kicking you out of your studio?"
"Technically, yes. But it’s not your fault. Mr Kang just kind of forgot to tell me you were coming? At all? So I didn’t know I had to clean it out."
He nodded, glancing back toward the hallway before looking at you again. "Well, if you need help moving your stuff, I don’t mind."
You shook your head, taking off your jacket, unceremoniously dropping it onto the sofa. "No, it’s fine. It’s mostly styrofoam, pens and sketches. It's fine."
Sunghoon shrugged. "Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind."
He moved toward the sofa, lifting a box and putting it onto the floor before flopping down on the green fabric. “Are you a design student?”
“Oh. No. I study architecture.” You shook your head and made your way through the maze of boxes and furniture in your living room towards the hallway that separated your room and now apparently Sunghoon's room.
“Oh, that's cool. I am in PE,” he grinned at you.
You just nodded again, not in the mood to talk with anyone right now, even less with the mysterious girl, well, boy, you now had to live together with. "Ah. That's nice. Just… make yourself at home while I clean, I guess?"
Sunghoon grinned. "Will do, roommate."
The word made you wince.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
You stood in the doorway of your studio, well, Sunghoon’s room, mentally preparing yourself for the hour of cleaning ahead. The small space was overflowing with architectural sketches, blueprint rolls, rulers, model pieces, and textbooks.
This was… embarrassing.
You usually were a really organised person, but with work and your deadline coming up, you just didn’t have the time and energy to clean up behind you. The last few weeks had been horrible; you were chasing one deadline after another, had worked endlessly on your projects and studied at the same time. Sleep was a luxury and cleaning was the last thing on your mind. The only thing you religiously did every day was cook.
With a tired nod, you started moving, piling all of the cut-up styrofoam and paper into a trash bin, carrying unused styrofoam into your room and getting a broom from the kitchen.
After around half an hour, Sunghoon slightly knocked on the doorframe to his room, startling you from where you were sorting through your sketches and designs.
“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” he asked, walking into the room, doing his best not to step on anything.
You swallowed, ignoring the crawling feeling under your skin while he looked around with a curious look on his face.
“No, it's fine,” you mumbled, tiredly smiling at him. “I usually am a really clean person. It’s just…exam season.”
Your head was aching, a slow pressure building behind your eyes, and you were hungry. You just wanted to eat something and roll up in your bed, but you weren’t about to make Sunghoon help you clean his room when it should have been clean from the get-go.
He let out a soft chuckle. “Mhm. No worries. If it’s just your space that you use for creative chaos, I don’t have any problem with that.”
You pressed your lips onto each other and gave him a small nod before turning back to the stacks of paper on the bed. Most of them were half-finished sketches and drafts you never bothered to throw away, in case you needed them again. It would not be the first time.
Sunghoon’s voice startled you. "What's this?” He gestured to a half-finished architectural model on his desk, a sleek modernist building carefully cut out of foam board and assembled with tiny, precise details. You spent countless hours on it, just for your professor to ask if you could start over since he didn’t think it was the best you could do.
You hesitated before replying. “It was supposed to be my final project. For my design class.”
Sunghoon bent down slightly, inspecting it.
“This is insane,” he murmured, his fingers hovering near the structure but not touching it. “It looks like something you’d see in an actual firm.”
You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you just gave a small nod. You watched him inspect the model for a second longer before he reached for a stack of your books.
“W-What are you doing?” Your hands stopped mid-motion, the papers in them unrolling slightly again.
“Helping,” he said simply, not looking up. “You’re going to take forever if you do this alone. I’ll just put them into your room, okay?”
“O…kay,” you mumbled, focusing back on your sketches.
An hour and a half later, the room was clean. Well, mostly clean. Your things were now safely in your room, and Sunghoon’s moving boxes were neatly stacked in the corner, ready to be unpacked.
After you gave Sunghoon a tour of the kitchen and went over the house rules, you found yourself standing awkwardly in the living room when you were done.
"Uhm… do you, uh, need anything else?"
Sunghoon looked up from where he was stacking his books on the shelf. "Nope. I think I got it."
"Okay, um, good. Well, uhm, goodnight then."
His lips curled slightly, amused at your awkwardness. "Goodnight, Y/N."
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
When you woke up and made your way to the kitchen at 6:30 am the next day, you felt like you had just risen from the dead. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were half-closed, and your body was running purely on muscle memory as you wandered towards the kitchen.
There was light spilling into the hallway from the kitchen, and for a second you wondered if you forgot to turn it off yesterday or if you were just hallucinating again. But when you rubbed your eyes and looked up, you realised something far worse than hallucination was happening.
There was a half-naked man in your kitchen.
Sunghoon stood by the counter, one hand resting on the counter, the other rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his bare upper body was exposed to the warm air in the kitchen.
He turned, his eyes heavy with sleep, and blinked at you, standing frozen in the doorway.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, he yawned again. "Morning."
"Uh", you cleared your throat, snapping your gaze away from his body. Ogling at your admittedly stupidly attractive new roommate was very inappropriate. "Morning."
Your voice sounded way too high-pitched.
Sunghoon didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he just poured himself a cup of coffee, completely unbothered.
You walked to the fridge, pretending not to care that he was standing next to it and grabbed one of your containers with porridge inside.
By the time you turned back around, Sunghoon had disappeared into the hallway. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, now wearing a T-shirt.
"Do you have any plans today?" he asked, casually leaning against the counter as he took a sip of his coffee.
You glanced at him, still feeling a bit weird to have seen him half-naked after knowing him for not even twenty-four hours. "Uh… yeah. I have work today."
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. "You work during the break?"
"Yes?" You frowned. "I mean, my scholarship covers a lot, but I still have to pay for food, transportation, materials, and extra costs. It adds up."
Sunghoon hummed, nodding. "What do you do?"
"I work as an intern at an architecture studio," you grabbed a spoon and honey, setting them on the counter. "I mostly organise files, scan documents, and do small tasks for the senior architects. I also make coffee and refill the printer paper, which is apparently the most important job in the entire office."
Sunghoon let out a small chuckle at that. "Sounds fun."
You shrugged. "It pays. Do you have plans for today?"
He leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking toward your food as you peeled off the lid of your porridge and took a small spoonful. "The only thing I’ll be doing today is train. Probably up until I get thrown out again."
You blinked at him. "Training?"
"Yeah." He took another sip of coffee. "The season ended, but I’m still training. I’m working to qualify for the Olympics."
You froze mid-bite.
"The…Olympics?"
"Yeah."
Your spoon slowly lowered. "You’re an athlete?"
Sunghoon nodded and took another sip of his coffee. “Yeah. I’m a figure skater.”
“Oh,” you just answered, not knowing what else to say.
Both of you went silent for a long moment until he cleared his throat again. “I’ll probably come home pretty late. Do you mind me showering here or should I shower at the rink? I don’t want to, like, wake you up or something.”
You hummed and shook your head. “No, that’s all right. I sleep well even if there is noise around me.”
“Okay,” he nodded again.
“Are you really training for the Olympics?” You asked after a bit of silence.
"Hopefully," Sunghoon shrugged. "If I qualify."
For a moment, you just stared at him and tried to imagine him in one of those pretty dresses the figure skaters wore. Then, you shook your head, trying to get rid of the thought. "That’s really impressive."
Sunghoon just shrugged, like it was no big deal.
You took another bite of your porridge, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. You never did anything that made you special. Or something impressive.
Your roommate took another sip of his coffee, watching you. "You always eat that little? I feel like if that was the only thing I ate for breakfast, I’d starve all day."
You swallowed, a bit caught off guard. "I meal-prep my portions."
He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Are you on a diet? Or just because it’s convenient?"
You hesitated for a second, the porridge suddenly heavy in your stomach, and just gave a tight smile. "It’s convenient."
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The apartment was dark when Sunghoon came home.
It wasn’t unusual for him to come home to an empty apartment. In the last week that he had been living here, he had barely seen you around.
You were usually out of the house when he rolled himself out of bed, and aside from a few short greetings in the kitchen, when both of you were at home, you barely talked.
He figured you were just shy or maybe just didn’t like talking to people in general.
Not that he had a problem with that.
He himself wasn’t much of a talker either, and he really enjoyed the fact that you weren’t as noisy or nosy as his previous roommate.
Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his arms over his head, sighing as he made his way into the living room.
He poured himself a glass of water, hoping it would help him cool down a bit. Even though it was almost ten p.m., it was still unbearably hot outside, and the apartment wasn’t nearly as cold as he wished it to be. You rarely turned on the AC when you weren’t home. Sunghoon didn’t mind that; he was at the rink most of the time anyway, but today he felt like he was melting.
The remote for the AC was on top of the fridge, and it came to life with a small humming sound after he turned it on. His eyes flickered over the pictures and postcards that were held up by colourful magnets on the fridge doors. Most of them seemed to be from the same place, all of them portraying the beach.
Before he could stop himself, he had reached forward and carefully picked one of them up. He knew he shouldn’t be doing that, but he was curious. He really didn’t know much about you, even though you were living together. For all he knew, you could be a serial killer who would strangle him to death while he was asleep.
The thought made him chuckle.
You were more than a head smaller than him and didn’t look strong enough to do that; you were rather petite.
Sunghoon turned the postcard around.
Hi Bug! Busan is as beautiful as ever. I wish you were here. I hope you're doing well in Seoul. Take care. See you soon.- Love and miss you, Donghyuck :)
Oh.
He didn’t realise you had a boyfriend.
Not that it would make him think differently of you, but he thought you would have mentioned it to him at least once.
Donghyuck definitely sounded like a boyfriend's name.
Your hometown was close to Busan after all. Maybe he went to Busan to study, and you went to Seoul, and the two of you were sending postcards back and forth?
Sunghoon had asked around if someone might know you, and surprisingly, Jay recognised you after he had shown him your profile picture.
He knew your brother, or well, a very close friend of your brother, Jeno, who had dated one of Jay’s friends for a while. Jay had told Sunghoon that the three of you came from a small town near Busan, but couldn’t tell him more about you; he hadn’t met you in person and had only seen pictures.
Sunghoon shook his head and took another sip of water.
He should really get to know you a bit. He really didn’t want to stumble into you and your boyfriend without warning.
When he was just about to go to the bathroom to get ready for bed, the front door opened. Sunghoon’s fight-or-flight response immediately set in, but when he saw your figure walking into the hallway, he relaxed again.
You seemed exhausted; your shoulders dropped, and your head hung low as you let your bag fall onto the floor, kicking off your shoes. You rubbed at your temple and took a deep, audible breath before lifting your gaze to meet his. The dim kitchen light cast soft shadows over your face, emphasising the dark circles beneath your eyes.
“Hi,” he said, sounding surprised. “Were you at work until now?”
“Yeah, we were short-staffed in the cinema today,” you mumbled, walking past him to grab a glass from the cabinet.
“The cinema?” Sunghoon repeated. “I thought you worked at the architecture studio?”
"I do," you sighed, filling your glass with water just like he did a couple of minutes before. "This is my second job."
His eyebrows rose. "You have two jobs?"
You let out a small huff of laughter, but it was completely devoid of amusement. "Sadly, yeah."
Sunghoon blinked. “That sounds like a lot.”
You just nodded. “It is. But I get to stay in Seoul, and have at least a bit of money to spend on myself. So it’s worth it.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The sunlight was drifting in through the sheer curtains in the living room, heating up the bare skin of your legs. You didn’t mind the sun or the heat; you preferred it over the artificial cold coming from the ACs that were everywhere. Now that you barely had time for anything but working and studying, even during the summer break, you were almost desperate to catch a bit of sunlight.
You were curled onto the sofa, reading a book from your to-be-read pile that accumulated during the semester, when Sunghoon shuffled into the living room, still half asleep. His hair was standing up in every direction, and he had red streaks on his face that came from sleeping on wrinkly fabric. He let himself fall next to you on the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes again, grumbling sleepily. “Good morning, Y/N.”
"Good morning, Sunghoon," you said softly, turning your attention back to your book. You had noticed over the course of the last week that Sunghoon wasn’t a morning person. He was always grumpy in the morning, but still polite and nice to you.
For a long moment he just sat there, his eyes closed. The slow and soft breathing that came from Sunghoon made you think he had fallen asleep again, so you almost flinched when he suddenly spoke up. "Got any plans today?"
"Not really," you murmured, tucking your feet under yourself to make some more space for him.
Sunghoon opened one eye. “You don’t have work today?”
"The studio is closed on weekends, and since I usually work on weekdays in the cinema, I have weekends off. "
"Mm," he grunted. "At least two days of the week, you don’t have to run out the door at seven.”
You let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. It’s nice to sleep in."
The conversation faded into silence, and you shifted your focus back onto your book.
Just as you were finishing your chapter, his voice suddenly broke the silence in the living room again.
“Do you not like the AC?”
You looked up and blinked at him. "The AC?"
He hummed. “Yeah, you rarely turn it on.”
“Oh,” you shrugged. “I like to open the windows in the morning. I like it warm, so I only turn it on when it gets unbearably warm. We can switch it on if you’d like to?”
Sunghoon shook his head. "No, it’s fine. I was just wondering. Would you like me to open mine as well?”
You hesitated.
On the first day, you had thought about asking him if he could open his window, so there would be better airflow, but decided against it.
“You don’t have to. I don’t want to overstep."
He exhaled a soft laugh. "Don’t worry. I'll just open it myself. Then you can’t overstep anything."
You smiled faintly. "Thank you."
For a while, there was nothing but the occasional rustling of your pages and the sound of cars in the distance.
Then Sunghoon spoke again.
He didn’t seem like a person who talked a lot.
But apparently, he had the desire to talk to you sometimes.
He would come to your room or the kitchen when you were there and strike up conversations.
It was nice.
Sunghoon was nice.
You googled him and asked Jaemin about Sunghoon when you were working the Wednesday shift in the cinema together. Wednesday was always slow, not that you minded; it gave you plenty of time to talk to Jaemin.
According to him, Sunghoon was really nice.
"Do you miss home?"
The question caught you off guard. You looked at him again, only to find that he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling.
You hesitated before answering. "Sometimes. Tongyeong has a certain charm to itself."
Sunghoon nodded slowly. „It must be weird to move from such a small town to Seoul. I grew up in Suwon, but I think I spend more time in Seoul than anywhere else. My childhood and teenage years took place in ice rinks in Seoul.“
You thought for a second.
It was weird.
The house you grew up in was always loud. Either your brothers or the guests downstairs in the restaurant were constantly talking or making noises, and suddenly you were in this apartment, all alone, and it was silent.
You never realised how much you would miss your brothers until they weren’t just across the hall.
„Yeah. It’s weird,” you hummed. It’s so quiet and loud here at the same time. At home, you rarely hear this many cars passing by, but my family is quite loud, so living alone is very quiet,“ you put in a bookmark so you wouldn't lose your page.
You assumed Sunghoon was in the mood to talk right now.
„Really? Do you have siblings?“ He tilted his head slightly. His hair flopped down.
You hummed and nodded. “Three brothers. All older. Seven years, four years and two years. What about you?“
„I have one sister. Five years younger than me. And a dog,“ he chuckled.
„Oh, that’s nice. I always wanted a pet. But my parents wouldn’t allow it. They were busy enough with 4 kids and a restaurant.“
"Your parents have a restaurant?" Sunghoon asked.
"Yeah," you nodded
"Do you help out?" He sat up, turning fully to you, his arm coming to rest on the backrest of the sofa.
"Not really," you admitted. "My parents always told me to focus on my studies and made my brothers help them. I would help if they let me. I usually cleaned out the flat, though. I like the area I live in to be really clean, and growing up, my brothers weren’t the cleanest.“
Sunghoon hummed. „Yeah, I’ve noticed. I think that’s pretty nice. That you are such a clean person, I mean. I love my old roommate, but he left his shit everywhere and should be sued for noise complaints. That guy never shuts up.“
„Oh, that sounds annoying,“ you chuckled. You could see how that would annoy Sunghoon.
“It’s all right,” he hummed and lifted himself from the sofa. “Do you want some breakfast? I was thinking about going for a run and getting something from the Creek. My friend’s girlfriend works there, and I can get us free stuff?”
“I, uhm. I already ate. But thank you so much for offering,” you smiled at him.
“Sure, always.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as he stepped back into the apartment. By the time he finished his run and stepped into the small cafe across the campus, the sun had started blazing.
He peeled his shoes and socks off and had to stop himself from just ripping his drenched shirt off his body. Sure, you had seen him half naked once, but that was an accident, and he wasn’t keen on repeating it, so he sighed and moved towards the bathroom after dropping off the bag of baked goods in the kitchen.
Sunghoon had expected you to have gone back to your room, but when his gaze flickered toward the living room, he noticed the top of your head peeking over the sofa backrest.
“Y/N?” He stepped closer to the sofa.
You were asleep.
Your legs were slightly bent, and your arms were in awkward positions, one sprawled across your face, blocking your eyes from the light coming in through the living room windows, the other one resting loosely over your stomach. The book you had been reading was lying on the floor next to you, seemingly having slipped from your hand when you fell asleep.
Sunghoon reached down to pick it up, placing it onto the sofa table, before quietly wandering towards the bathroom to wash off the sweat still running down his back.
He made his way back to the kitchen twenty minutes later and cursed the architect who designed your flat for deciding on building an open-style kitchen. It was actually what sold him on the place, but now, with only a kitchen pass-through separating the two spaces, it also meant that if he used the coffee machine, it would definitely wake you up. He signed and grabbed the orange juice jug in the fridge instead.
As he poured himself a glass, his eyes landed on the vase near the window. The tulips inside were starting to wilt, slowly letting their heads hang down. A few petals had fallen onto the windowsill.
Without thinking, he got up, grabbed the vase and changed the water. Maybe that would keep them alive for a bit longer.
Sunghoon took another sip, glancing at your figure again.
He was thinking about waking you up, so you could go to your bed and get proper rest, but before he could move, you stirred.
At first, it was just a sleepy shift, a small stretch of your legs. But then, your eyelids fluttered, and with a deep breath, you slowly pushed yourself up, blinking blearily at the room.
“Hi.”
Your gaze flickered to him, still half-asleep.
“Hi,” you murmured back, your voice soft.
He hesitated for a second before nodding toward the counter. “I got you a salt bread.”
Your brows furrowed slightly, then you followed his gaze to the extra plate. You stared at it for a moment before looking back at him. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he said simply. “I got them for free, so I thought I’d just bring you one too.”
You hummed again before flopping back onto the sofa, stretching your arms above your head with a sleepy little sigh. Sunghoon watched you for a second, trying not to make it obvious that he was watching. You looked tired, even though you had just slept.
When you finally pushed yourself up from the couch, he glanced back down at his juice as if he had been doing that the whole time. He heard your soft footsteps on the floor and then watched you pad over to the kitchen again, yawning as you sank onto the stool across from him. Your hair was a little messy, one side pressed flatter than the other, and you still looked half asleep when you picked up the pastry and stared at it for a moment before tearing off a small piece.
“Thanks, Sunghoon,” you said quietly. “I really like these.”
He only hummed and leaned back slightly, watching as you took a bite.
“Me too. But I can’t really eat bread during the season,” he said. “So I have to stuff myself with anything gluten now, before I won’t be able to.”
You looked up at him, brows drawing together a little. “Why?”
He gave a small shrug. “I get stomach aches sometimes, and bloating is honestly the worst before practice. I really do not need to feel like I’ve swallowed a rock when I’m trying to jump on ice.”
You blinked once, then nodded slowly like you were processing that. “So it’s like a diet thing?”
He shook his head. “Not really. It’s just my stomach being dramatic.”
That seemed to ease something in your face, and you lowered your eyes back to the pastry in your hands. He watched you break off another piece, smaller this time.
“I kind of get that,” you said after a moment.
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “My stomach is pretty sensitive, I guess. I kind of have to eat small portions more often; otherwise it gets upset.”
That made him look at you properly. “Really?”
You nodded, almost like you were apologising for it. “And gluten makes it worse sometimes. Not always, but enough that I usually just try not to have too much of it at once.”
“Hm,” he hummed, because he didn’t really know what else to say. That sounded annoying, honestly. “That sounds miserable.”
“It’s not that bad,” you said quickly, then seemed to catch how fast you had said it and softened a little. “I mean. It’s annoying, but I’ve had it for a while.”
He nodded once. That made sense enough.
“Do you meal prep because of that?” he asked.
You looked down at the pastry again. “Mostly. It’s easier that way. If I have small portions ready, I don’t have to think about it.”
“Fair,” he said. “I meal prep during the season as well.”
That got your attention. You looked up again, a little surprised. “Really?”
He gave you a look. “Of course. I have to eat a lot, but cooking every day is a pain.”
Your mouth curved slightly at that. “You hate cooking?”
“I don’t hate it,” he said, though that was being generous. “I just don’t want to do it after training. I need a lot of protein and carbohydrates every day, so meal prep is the only way I stay sane.”
You nodded slowly, like you were filing that away. “That makes sense.”
“It’s annoying that I have to eat the same thing three days in a row,” he added. “But it works.”
A small laugh slipped out of you, soft and warm, and he glanced up before he could stop himself. “I actually like cooking,” you said.
He blinked once. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, more certain this time. “It’s kind of one of the few things I don’t mind doing. I like making food for people. I like not eating alone.”
Sunghoon grinned at you. “That’s convenient.”
You frowned a little. “How is that convenient?”
He shrugged. “Because if you ever feel like cooking for me, I would definitely not stop you.”
That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and a little disbelieving. “You would want me to cook for you?”
“I might even sit still and not get in your way while you’re in the kitchen,” he said seriously.
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but he could tell you were amused. “Wow. Generous.”
“I know,” he said, completely deadpan.
You took another bite of the pastry.
“How often do you train?” you asked after a moment.
“Every day.”
Your brows lifted. “Every day?”
“Usually once,” he said. “Sometimes twice if Coach is being annoying.”
“That’s intense.”
“It’s normal for me,” he said, because it was. “But I burn a lot of calories, so I have to eat enough to stay at my weight.”
You tilted your head slightly, looking at him with that same thoughtful expression you always got when you were actually trying to understand something. “You really have to eat that much?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
That made you smile faintly. “You make it sound like a chore.”
“It kind of is,” he admitted. “I’d rather skate and then disappear into bed, but apparently my body disagrees.”
You laughed softly. “Oh no, poor you.”
“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “if you ever feel like cooking, you can definitely make me something. I can’t promise I’ll be useful, but I can at least wash the dishes.”
Your eyes flicked to him. “That might actually be a good deal. I hate doing the dishes.”
“It is a good deal,” he said. “I’m very fair.”
The apartment was quiet for a moment, the sound of birds outside filtering in through the open windows.
“Sure,” you hummed and took another bite.
Sunghoon leaned onto his arms. “So what do you do on your day off?”
You shrugged. “Laundry. Grocery shopping. Paint sometimes, but most of the time I just sleep.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re really making the most of your free time.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t have much free time, so I have to use it well.”
Sunghoon thought about that for a second. It made sense. He understood what it was like to have every second of your day planned out, to always have something you were supposed to be doing.
His eyes wandered towards the framed canvas hanging against one of the kitchen walls. He had always thought it might have come with the apartment, just like the furniture in his room, but when he took a closer look, there was a stamp with your initials on it.
“Did you paint that one?” He asked, nodding towards it.
Your gaze flickered to the painting, and you pursed your lips, nodding slowly. “Oh, uh, yeah,” you mumbled. “Last summer break. It’s oil, so it took an eternity to dry. But, uh, the sun helped.”
He tilted his head back toward the painting. “Oh wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s so cool. Are the other ones yours, too?”
“Uh. Yeah,” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and nodded again. “I was feeling…really inspired last year. And my brother got me oil paints for my birthday so I just painted. But we can take them off the walls if you don’t like them? I don’t mind, and you live here too, so you should also feel comfortable and if–”
“Y/N,” Sunghoon chuckled, interrupting your rambling, and your gaze flickered up to his face before you pulled your lower lip between your teeth. “It’s fine. I like them. It makes the apartment feel a bit homier. You’re really talented.”
“I–,” you nodded again, and Sunghoon had to suppress a laugh. You suddenly seemed so flustered.
“I never really had the chance to paint with oils before since they’re super expensive. But, uh, money well spent, I guess?”
He looked back at the paintings again, his gaze lingering for a moment. It was really well done. “They are really well done. You should think about selling them, Y/N. Not many people are able to do this.”
You quickly looked away, avoiding his gaze. And then, you laughed. A weird, nervous little laugh, your cheeks flushing a bit.
“Oh, no, I mean–it’s just practice, really,” you blurted out, waving a hand in the air. “It’s not like–it’s not, like, some crazy talent or anything. It’s just… You do it enough, and it sort of, um, happens?”
“Still,” he said, amused now, “it’s really cool.”
You made a weird, stiff nod, then immediately picked up your water and took the smallest possible sip.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
You stepped into your apartment, shivering slightly at the cool air pressing against your skin.
Sunghoon must have turned on the AC again.
It was almost unbearably hot outside, the pavement heating up during the day and not cooling down even in the dark of the night, but inside, it was much colder.
You never really liked using the AC too much; the temperature drop always left you uncomfortable.
Unfortunately, Sunghoon didn’t seem to mind the cold.
You placed your shoes neatly next to his by the door and stepped further into the cool apartment. The sound of the television playing in the background hummed through the air. Sunghoon was sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes focused on the screen.
You hesitated for a second, not really sure what to say, if you should say anything at all. You didn’t want to disturb Sunghoon and make him miss something in his show, but before you could decide, Sunghoon reached for the remote and lowered the volume.
His head turned toward you. “Hey.”
You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Hi.”
He sat up slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest. “How was work?”
You sighed and shrugged, making your way into the kitchen. “It was fine. Busier than usual.”
You and Sunghoon had somehow become something like friends during the last two weeks; it was nice having him around, filling the silence whenever it became unbearable, but also staying quiet when the world was a bit too loud.
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you hummed and nodded before pulling the freezer open and shuffling through the bags of frozen food. “It’s usually not that packed during summer shifts, but today was weirdly busy.”
You found the familiar container of kolddugi muchim that you couldn’t stop thinking about all day, pulling it out underneath a bag of frozen broccoli Sunghoon had bought the day before. “At least Jaemin was there. It was fun with him.”
Sunghoon hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze flicking back to the screen for a moment. “Who’s Jaemin?”
You hesitated slightly before standing up from the crouching position you were in. “My friend and coworker, I guess. He works the counter with me.”
Sunghoon nodded slowly. “You work with him a lot?”
The question made you frown a bit. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just wondering. I’m just trying to keep on track with all of the names and people you tell me about.”
You nodded slowly before turning back to the counter to start defrosting your food. Your favourite pot was still in the dishwasher; it hadn’t been run today. There weren’t any new dishes in the sink either.
You hesitated for a second.
“Have you eaten today?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder.
Sunghoon looked at you, almost like he was caught off guard by the question. “Uh… no. I was too lazy to cook after I came from the gym, so I just had a protein shake.”
You frowned slightly.
A protein shake was not a meal, especially not if he had been training today.
You shifted your weight, debating for a second before clearing your throat. “Do you… Want some? I’m making kolddugi muchim and rice.”
His eyes lit up a little, his usual neutral expression shifting. “Oh, for sure. That sounds way better than another shake.”
With a nod, you turned back to the counter. “Okay.”
Sunghoon stood up, stretching slightly. “Need help with anything?”
“Um,” you thought for a second, going through the list of things you might need. “Could you go to the GS25 down the street and get some mu kimchi? Only if it’s no trouble. I can go too.”
He waved you off, already grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. “Nah, I got it. I’ll be back in a sec.”
The apartment fell silent again as the door shut behind him.
You stood still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint dialogue from the drama still playing on TV. Then, shaking off the quiet, you turned back to the stove.
The scent of simmering garlic and gochugaru filled the air, thick and warm. It clung to the fabric of your clothes and seeped into the walls of the small kitchen.
You closed your eyes for a second.
It smelled like home.
Like summer afternoons in the restaurant, your mother’s voice drifting in from the kitchen. The sharp tang of kimchi mingling with the sweetness of caramelised fish sauce. The distant sound of seagulls outside, the heavy heat of the South pressing against the window screens.
You exhaled, opening your eyes again.
It had been a while since you were home.
You wanted to go home during the summer break, leave Seoul and all its stress behind for a couple of weeks, but then you were offered your internship and couldn’t go it.
Swallowing the sudden ache, you focused on stirring the sauce, watching the deep red paste thicken over the heat.
Cooking had always been something comforting, something familiar.
You never saw yourself working in the restaurant after you finished high school, but you missed living by the sea, close to your family.
Donghyuck had moved to Seoul a year after you did, and you were glad. He came to visit you a lot, claiming that he needed a break from seeing his roommate’s face from time to time, only to end up bringing Jeno along. He had been Donghyuck's best friend for so long, Jeno was basically your older brother as well, so it was a given that you cooked for him as well.
The sound of the door being unlocked ripped you from your thoughts, and your head snapped up to watch Sunghoon step back inside the apartment, a small plastic bag in his hand. “Got it.”
“That was fast.”
He shrugged, placing the bag on the counter. “I have long legs.”
You glanced inside, pulling out the package of mu kimchi. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, leaning against the counter. “If you’re cooking for me, it’s the least I can do, Y/N.”
His eyes flicked to the stove. “It smells really good.”
“It’s my mom’s. She gives me containers of this stuff every time I visit home. Sometimes I have to eat kolddugi muchim for days after I’ve been home because it won’t fit into the freezer,” you chuckled.
“Oh, I wouldn’t complain about eating kolddugi muchim for days. If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll gladly help you eat some of the kolddugi muchim you can’t fit into the freezer.” Sunghoon grinned and reached up to grab two sets of plates and bowls from the cabinet.
You just nodded and smiled at him while dropping the still slightly frozen baby octopus into your mom’s premade sauce. The sizzling of the pan was the only sound for a few moments.
“I’ll go and turn off the TV. I’ll be right back,” Sunghoon said and disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later, the music box he placed in the kitchen made a sound, and Sunghoon’s playlist hummed through the speakers, while you finished cooking.
Somehow, the two of you had picked designated seats at the kitchen table across from each other, so whenever the two of you had eaten together, there was no question who would be sitting where.
You watched Sunghoon pile some of the baby octopus onto his plate. “It may be a bit spicy. I kinda put a lot of sauce in there.
He just shrugged. “That’s okay, I don’t mind the spice.”
“Okay,” you nodded, scooping some rice onto your spoon, trying to not obviously stare at him while he tried the food.
His brows lifted slightly, and he gave a small nod. “This is good.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “Really?”
He hummed. “Yeah. This is nice.”
A strange sense of relief settled in your chest. You took a small bite yourself, humming in delight when it did taste good. Not as good as if your mom made it freshly, but it was still good.
You would have to call your mom later to thank her for cooking for you.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon stood outside your door, listening to the faint sound of music coming from inside.
He knocked once, then again when you didn’t answer right away.
When he had opened up the fridge this morning, both your shelve and his shelve were almost empty. He knew you would be going grocery shopping today as well, so he figured he could just ask if you wanted to go together.
A few moments later, the door opened just enough for him to see you standing there, paint smudged on one sleeve.
“Hey,” he said, glancing past you into your room. “You busy?”
You turned slightly, following his gaze back to the canvas on your desk. “Um. Just painting.”
He took that in for a second. It looked like another food painting, if the bowl that was already finished was any indicator. The room itself was a little messy in the way yours always was when you were working, brushes, paper and tubes of paint spread out over your desk.
“Right,” he said, then leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “I was gonna go grocery shopping for the week. Do you want to come with me?”
You looked at him like you were actually considering it, which made him wait instead of filling the silence.
“Yeah,” you said, glancing back into your room before your shoulders shifted and you gave a small nod. “Okay. Give me like twenty minutes to get ready?”
“Yeah, sure,” he hummed. “Take your time.”
You disappeared back into your room, and Sunghoon wandered over to the living room. He dropped onto the sofa and pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through his TikTok while the apartment stayed quiet around him. Every now and then he glanced toward your room, half expecting to hear you rushing around, but there was only the soft thud of you closing your closet door and then nothing.
When you finally came out, he looked up almost automatically.
For a second he just stared.
Your hair was braided back neatly, the way it usually was, and you were wearing a white dress that fell loosely around you, soft and flowy.
Sunghoon blinked once and sat up a little straighter. “You always braid your hair.”
You glanced at him, your lips pursed. “Yeah?”
He pushed himself off the sofa and tucked his phone into his pocket. “No, I mean. Always always. I don’t think I’ve seen it open more than like once.”
You shrugged lightly, already reaching for your keys. “I just prefer it that way.”
He hummed as he followed you to the door, though he couldn’t stop looking at the braid. It was neat, simple. “Doesn’t it get annoying to braid every day?”
You shook your head. “Not really.”
Sunghoon let out a small breath through his nose, stepping out into the hallway after you. “I think you should leave it open; it’s pretty.”
You just hummed, keeping your face turned away from him. He knew there were certain things you didn’t like talking about, shutting down conversations before they could even begin, and apparently your hair was one of them. Sunghoon shook his head as the two of you started down the stairs together.
It was hot outside, the kind of heat that clung to your skin the second you stepped out of the building, and Sunghoon immediately regretted not waiting until later in the evening.
“It is so stupidly hot,” he muttered, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Why does Seoul have to feel like the inside of an oven in summer?”
You glanced at him, then back ahead. “It’s not that bad.”
He turned to look at you, offended. “What do you mean, not that bad?”
You gave the faintest shrug. “It’s warm.”
“Warm?” he repeated. “This is not warm. This is hostile.”
That got the smallest hint of a smile out of you, and he caught it just long enough to feel mildly satisfied with himself.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The grocery store wasn’t far, but by the time you got there, Sunghoon’s t-shirt was drenched. You walked beside him without complaining once, hands relaxed at your sides, braid resting between your shoulder blades.
The doors to the store opened, and when the two of you stepped inside, Sunghoon sighed in relief, the cold from the AC washing over his body as he got a cart for the two of you. He steered the two of you deeper into the supermarket, one hand resting loosely on the handle while the other occasionally reached out to grab something from the shelves without really stopping.
You stayed beside him, quiet in the way you usually were when you were thinking, eyes moving over the rows of products without lingering anywhere for too long.
“Wait,” you said, stopping the cart when you passed the oatmeal section. “I think mine are almost done.”
Sunghoon hummed and followed you inside the aisle.
“I was thinking of getting these for the week,” you said, squatting down and grabbing a flashy box.
He hummed, reaching for it, reading the front of the package when you handed it to him.
It was a white oat, fruits and nuts mix.
“Which one do you usually buy?”
You shrugged. “Just the plain one.”
He made a face when he turned the box around in his hands. “You should get the protein one.”
You looked up at him. “Why?”
“Because it has more energy,” he said, pointing at the nutrition table on the back with a fingertip. “And better ingredients. See?”
He held the package out a little so you could look at it, before grabbing the one brand Wonyoung always raved about. “You said you’ve been feeling tired all the time; maybe you need some more protein. That helped a friend of mine, and she really likes that one.”
You reached forward, and your fingers closed around the cardboard before you turned it around once, then twice, before nodding and tossing it into the cart.
The two of you continued down the aisle, casually stacking more things into the cart. He kept filling his own side with random food. Rice, vegetables, eggs, protein drinks, a few snacks.
Your side looked different, a lot more specific. You spent a lot more time deciding between products, pondering the different choices, checking the list on your phone, checking the boxes whenever you added something to the cart.
He glanced at your list at some point and then at you. “Do you shop the same stuff every week?”
You looked up from your phone. “Most of the time, yeah.”
“That sounds boring.”
You gave a small shrug. “It’s not bad. There are a lot of things I can cook with that.”
“You mean loads of things you can drown in gochujang?”
You didn’t answer that, just moved to the next shelf and reached for another bar of dark chocolate. Sunghoon watched you for a second before stepping closer and taking one of the protein bars from the shelf.
“You should get these too,” he said, holding it out. “They’re good.”
You took it from him and turned it over in your hand, scanning the front before flipping it around to the back. You read the label for a second longer this time.
He watched you drop it towards your side of the cart before you put the dark chocolate back into the shelf.
The second you stepped into the frozen aisle, you started shivering, wrapping your arms around your body, while you followed him, so Sunghoon just grabbed a few packs of chicken breast off the shelf and dropped them into the cart one after another.
You glanced down at the pile of them, then back at him. “What are you gonna eat that with?”
He looked over his shoulder. “No idea.”
You blinked. “You just eat it plain?”
He gave you a look like that was a stupid question. “Most of the time, yeah.”
That made you hum softly to yourself, more thoughtful than amused, and you reached into the freezer case beside you before he could say anything else. A bag of frozen broccoli went into the cart, then another pack of vegetables, then some carrots.
Sunghoon looked down at what you were adding. “What are you doing?”
You shrugged. “I’m keeping my end of the deal, and I won’t let you eat plain chicken.”
He laughed at that, short and warm, and shook his head a little. “You wanna cook for me?”
You glanced at him, already reaching for another bag. “Well, yes. You’re the one paying. I’ll be the one cooking for the both of us. It’s convenient if we don’t get the kitchen dirty multiple times a day.”
That made him laugh again, a little louder this time, and he nodded once. “Fair.”
After a beat, you reached into the freezer again and added another pack of mixed vegetables to his side of the cart. He looked down at it, then at you.
“You’re spoiling me,” he said.
You hummed. “You’re paying.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re enabling my laziness by cooking for me. How am I supposed to learn how to cook?”
“If you only want to cook, feel free. I won’t be stopping you.”
“I never said I don’t want to cook.”
“You did imply it.”
He gave you a long look, then broke into another grin and nodded once. “Okay, maybe I did.”
You were already looking away again, focused on the shelf in front of you, but the corner of his mouth stayed tilted up as he kept pushing the cart.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
You left the grocery store with more bags than Sunghoon had expected. He had ended up carrying most of them, insisting you took the smaller bags, ignoring how you complained about him thinking you were weak. Considering you asked him to open bottles sometimes, he was sure you would have handed him the heavy bags anyway.
The heat outside hit Sunghoon like a wall. He hated it: the warmth, the sweat and the clammy feeling all over his body that came with it. Sunghoon exhaled through his nose, shifting the bags higher in his grip.
“God, it’s still disgusting out here,” he muttered.
You only hummed, apparently unaffected in a way that made him feel slightly betrayed by his own body. The two of you were chatting, talking about nothing and everything while walking back to your apartment complex, before you went quiet for a moment.
“Can we stop by the flower shop?”
He turned his head. “The one you always talk about?”
You nodded. “If it’s okay.”
He shrugged, though the bags in his hands made the movement awkward. “Yeah, sure.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The bell over the door chimed when the two of you stepped inside.
It smelled like water, leaves, and something soft he couldn’t quite place. Flowers lined the narrow room in neat clusters, some already wrapped and waiting near the counter, others still standing in buckets along the floor and tables.
The woman behind the counter looked up immediately and smiled when she saw you. “Y/N,” she said warmly, “what a lovely surprise.”
You brightened a little, your face easing in a way Sunghoon had never seen before. It was pretty.
“Hi.”
She came around the counter, hands wiping briefly against her apron before she reached for one of the buckets near the front. “You haven’t been here in a while. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”
“Work has been a bit much,” you admitted, shifting the bag in your arms.
The woman made a sympathetic noise and then glanced toward Sunghoon, her eyebrows raised, as she looked back towards you. "And who is this?”
You turned slightly. “Oh, this is Sunghoon. He’s my roommate.”
Sunghoon gave her a polite little bow, suddenly feeling nervous about making a bad impression. You and the lady seemed close. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”
Her expression softened instantly, as if the bow had been the correct answer to some invisible test. “Roommate,” she repeated, then looked at you again with a knowing sort of smile. “So you do have company at home now.”
You blinked at her, and Sunghoon noticed the red creeping up your neck. “Ajumma.”
She ignored that completely and waved a hand at the flowers. “Come, come. Let me show you what I have today.”
You followed her deeper into the shop, Sunghoon trailing after you a little awkwardly with the grocery bags still in hand. The woman moved around the buckets, looking for something specific, before lifting out flowers one by one and holding them toward you.
“These are lovely today,” she said, showing you a handful of blooms with pale petals that were slightly open already. “Not the freshest ones, but the shape is still very nice.”
Sunghoon frowned a little as he watched you take them in your hands and turn them gently from side to side. He wasn’t sure why, but he had expected you to reach for the brightest, newest ones. Instead, your attention seemed to settle on the flowers that looked a little less perfect, the ones with petals that had started to curl at the edges or lean slightly to one side.
"Why not buy fresh ones today, my child?" She asked, handing you another battered-looking one. "I got some beautiful tulips just this morning."
You looked up at that, then smiled a little sheepishly. “I think they’re also pretty.”
The woman shook her head fondly. “You and your strange taste."
You adjusted the flowers in your hands and gave a small shrug. “I like the ones that no one else would pick; you would throw them out anyway. And even if they just live for a day in my kitchen, at least they got some love, Ajumma. I'm sure someone will buy the tulips.”
The woman’s expression softened at that, and for a moment she just looked at you with more love and care in her eyes than a stranger should have for their customer. Then she let out a quiet hum and started wrapping the stems in paper.
You smiled, small and pleased, and Sunghoon had the strange feeling that he was seeing a piece of you that didn’t usually show itself anywhere else. Not at the apartment, not at the store, not when you were quietly making tea or sitting beside him on the sofa.
The woman finished tying the bouquet and pressed it into your hands with the kind of care that felt almost maternal. “There. These suit you better than the tulips would anyway.”
You looked down at the flowers, then up at her with a soft smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said immediately, as if the thanks were unnecessary. “And don’t wait so long before coming again. Your face looks tired.”
“Ajumma,” you said again, but this time it was gentler.
She only waved you off. “Go home, eat properly, and come back soon."
“I will,” you promised.
Then the two of you stepped back outside, the flowers held carefully against your chest while Sunghoon adjusted the grocery bags again. You glanced down at the bouquet, then up at him, and there was a small smile pulling at your mouth.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon had just finished mixing his protein shake when he heard keys jingle and the front door swing open.
He frowned, setting the shaker bottle down. You weren’t supposed to be home yet. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. Had your class ended early?
Still, he greeted you out of habit. “Hey, Y/N–”
But the person standing in the doorway was definitely not you.
Sunghoon froze. The guy in the doorway froze, too.
For a long second, they just stared at each other, equally confused.
Sunghoon slowly lowered his shaker bottle. Who the hell–
“Uh…” the guy started, blinking a few times like he was trying to process the situation. Then, he pointed at Sunghoon. “You’re not Y/N.”
“No,” Sunghoon said flatly. “I’m not.”
The guy frowned, his head tilting slightly. “Then… who are you?”
Sunghoon crossed his arms. “I live here. Who are you?”
The guy’s face shifted as realisation dawned on him. His confusion melted into something amused.
“Oh,” he said, dragging out the word. Then, he grinned and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I’m Donghyuck. Nice to meet you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Wait.
Donghyuck, as in your boyfriend Donghyuck?
Sunghoon’s gaze flicked toward the fridge before he could stop himself. The slightly curled postcard from Busan hung beside a few photos he had found himself staring at more than once in the past month. Donghyuck was in a lot of them. Always close to you, arms slung around your shoulders, laughing together.
Sunghoon quickly cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you, Donghyuck. I’m Sunghoon.”
Donghyuck hummed, already toeing off his sneakers. “Is Y/N still at class?” He dropped his bag by the door and strolled toward the kitchen.
Sunghoon, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, hesitated before answering. “Uh… yeah? She usually gets home around 4:30. Sometimes a bit earlier.”
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached into a cabinet, pulled out a glass, and filled it with water.
“How long have the two of you been together?”
Sunghoon nearly choked on air.
“What?” He spun around so fast that he nearly knocked over his protein shake.
Donghyuck just shrugged, sipping his water like this was a completely normal conversation. “Y/N didn’t tell me she was seeing someone. Or, well… seeing someone seriously enough to let him move in with her.”
Sunghoon’s brain stalled. What. The. Hell.
“I hope it’s been at least half a year and you didn’t just sweet-talk her into letting you move in after, like, two months.” Donghyuck narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Why–why would I be Y/N’s boyfriend?” Sunghoon blurted.
Isn’t Donghyuck the boyfriend?! What was happening?
The other gave him a look. “Dude,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You literally just said you live here.”
“Yeah, because I’m her roommate,” Sunghoon said, still trying to process this conversation. “I pay rent and shit to be here.”
Donghyuck blinked. “Wait. You’re her roommate?”
“Yes.” Sunghoon gestured vaguely at the apartment. “What else would I be?”
Donghyuck tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged. “I dunno, her boyfriend?”
Sunghoon let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples. “Dude, I thought you were her boyfriend.”
Donghyuck burst out laughing.
“Me?” He pointed at himself, looking genuinely amused. “Oh, nah.” He shook his head, still grinning. “I’m her brother.”
Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Brother.
Oh. Okay.
Now that he really looked, Donghyuck did have similar features to you.
Your brother just grinned, clearly entertained by the situation. “Damn, you really thought we were dating? Siblings dating seems pretty weird, doesn’t it, Sunghoon?”
Sunghoon groaned, leaning against the counter. “I didn’t–”
Donghyuck cackled.
Before Sunghoon could come up with something to say, the front door suddenly swung open again.
“Oh my god,” your voice rang through the apartment, full of surprise and excitement. “Hyuck?!”
Sunghoon turned his head just in time to see you practically launch yourself at your brother. Donghyuck barely had time to put down his glass before you crashed into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming! I thought you were still at home!” You grinned up at him, eyes shining.
Donghyuck ruffled your hair like it. “I wanted to surprise you. Taeyong packed you a snack box from home. Mom and Johnny’s Mom added some stuff too. You know, since you can’t come home.”
Your face lit up. “No way.”
Donghyuck smirked. “Way.”
Sunghoon, still leaning against the counter, just watched as you glowed with excitement.
But before he could fully process how different you looked right now, so happy, so genuinely overjoyed, Donghyuck turned to you with an easy grin.
“So…” He dragged out the word, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”
Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”
Donghyuck jerked his thumb toward Sunghoon. “You didn’t tell me you were dating your roommate.”
You were silent for a beat.
Then, your entire face went red.
Sunghoon could feel the heat radiating off you from where he stood.
“What?” you repeated, blinking rapidly.
Donghyuck just smirked, clearly enjoying this. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” He gestured toward Sunghoon, who was just standing there like an idiot.
Your eyes darted towards him like you were expecting him to say something, but Sunghoon’s brain was still buffering.
Because all he could think about was how genuinely happy you had looked when you saw Donghyuck.
So expressive. So open.
The way your face had lit up, the way your voice had lifted into something bright and completely unfiltered. It was cute. And, selfishly, Sunghoon wondered why.
Why did you always hold back a little around him? The small, bashful smiles, the careful responses. Was he that intimidating? He was trying so hard to get to know you, to be a good roommate who would turn into a friend.
“We’re not dating.” Sunghoon finally managed, his voice a little more rushed than intended. “I’m just her roommate.”
You exhaled, pressing your hands to your very red cheeks. “Yes. He’s my roommate.”
Donghyuck raised a brow, clearly not convinced.
“Right,” he said slowly, crossing his arms. “So you just let random guys move in with you now?”
“I didn’t–it’s not–,” You groaned. “It’s a long story.”
Sunghoon, for some reason, felt the need to defend himself. “It’s not weird, okay? We barely even knew each other when I moved in. You don’t have to worry about us dating or anything.”
Donghyuck snorted. “That makes it sound so much worse.”
Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it.
You groaned again, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Mr Kang is renting the second room to Sunghoon.”
“No way. Your studio?” Donghyuck asked and looked at Sunghoon as if he had personally had the intention to steal your studio from you.
“Yeah. It’s all right, though. I always knew he could rent it out to someone who will show up,” you leaned against the counter next to Donghyuck.
Donghyuck was still looking at Sunghoon, but his facial expression had changed from accusation to something that looked like interest.
“Anyway,” he said, focusing back on you, “Do you wanna open the package? I am praying that Johnny put in some of those dope cookies from the bakery under his office. If he did, I am claiming one-half.”
At that, your face brightened again, and Sunghoon caught himself watching the shift in your expression again.
The way your eyes widened, the slight bounce in your stance, the way you leaned in just a little closer to Donghyuck.
Your brother unzipped the bag and pulled out a medium-sized cardboard box, setting it on the counter with a slight thud.
Your hands were already on the tape, peeling it open. “You had four weeks to eat the cookies from ppangjib. You get one. Or maybe two."
Donghyuck grinned. “Deal.”
Sunghoon, though still a little confused by the whole situation, couldn’t help but glance into the box as you pulled back the flaps. Inside were neatly packed bags of homemade snacks, a few small wrapped gifts, and a handwritten letter sitting on top.
You immediately grabbed the letter, unfolding it with the kind of excitement that was usually reserved for kids on Christmas morning.
While you skimmed it, Donghyuck reached into the box and pulled out a small bag of yakgwa, grinning. “Oh, sick. Mom made you some yakgwa.”
“No way.” You grabbed the bag from him, grinning just as wide.
Sunghoon glanced at the clock hanging above the kitchen door.
Shit.
He had to get to training.
With a sigh, he grabbed his shaker bottle and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“I gotta head out.”
You looked up from the letter. "Oh, right! You have training tonight.”
He nodded, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to eat something later, or will you eat somewhere else?” Your eyes were sparkling when you looked at him, and Sunghoon had to suddenly swallow dryly before being able to answer.
“I’ll eat with the others, thank you, Y/N." He nodded at your brother. “Nice to meet you, Donghyuck. Have a nice evening, you two.”
Donghyuck, already chewing on a piece of yakgwa, gave him a lazy salute. “Have fun, man.”
Sunghoon huffed a small laugh before turning toward the door.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The bus stop was already fuller than you had hoped for.
You slowed when you got close, eyes briefly flicking over the small crowd waiting in the rain. Uni had already been enough on its own, and the thought of standing around in the wet for the next ten minutes did not exactly improve your mood.
With a sigh, you lined up behind a girl who was fully immersed in her phone, not looking up even when the line moved forward slightly.
“Y/N?”
You turned and found Sunghoon a few steps away, looking just as exhausted as you felt.
“Oh,” you said, a little flatly before you could stop yourself. “Hi.”
He gave you a small smile and stepped closer, shielding you from the rain by holding his umbrella over your head. For a second, neither of you said anything.
It was not exactly awkward in a bad way.
Just quiet.
Sunghoon glanced at you once before looking back at the road. “You got work later?”
You nodded, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah.”
He hummed. “Do you want me to cook then?”
That made you look at him. “You can if you want to?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I’ve wanted to try out a dish Wonyoung recommended. She’s been hyping it up for weeks now.”
“Wonyoung?” You asked, trying not to sound too curious. Sunghoon often talked about one of his girl space friends, but this was the first time he had mentioned a name.
“She’s one of the skaters I train with, and she’s pretty strict about her diet and eating healthy. She’s also the one that recommended the oatmeal I made you buy,” Sunghoon hummed and gave you a small smile. “Yours is empty, right? I’m gonna go grocery shopping before cooking. I could buy you some before you run out?”
“Oh,” you blinked once, a little caught off guard by how normal that sounded now. Apparently that was just what you were doing these days. Just cooking and buying groceries together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah,” you said after a second, and then, a little quieter, “Thanks.”
He only nodded, like it was no big deal.
When the bus finally came, the two of you ended up standing through most of the ride, holding onto the railings and swaying slightly whenever the bus turned.
By the time your stop came up, you were both more than ready to get off.
The walk back to the apartment was quiet at first, Sunghoon holding his umbrella above both your heads, trying his best to keep you dry.
After a while, you glanced over at him. “How was your day?”
Sunghoon let out a small, humourless breath through his nose before answering. “Shit, honestly.”
You looked at him a little more closely. “Really?”
He nodded once, jaw tightening slightly. “This whole week’s been shit.”
You frowned. “Why?”
He looked ahead again and shrugged. “Coach is on my ass. Everything feels off. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back on track for nationals at this point.”
His voice was flatter than usual, but there was frustration under it, thick enough that you could hear it anyway. He sounded genuinely upset, not just annoyed in the dramatic way he sometimes was when he complained about training.
You hesitated for a second, then said, “I’m sure you’ve been doing well.”
That got a quiet laugh out of him, though it did not sound amused. He shook his head slightly and looked over at you. “You haven’t seen me skate.”
You blinked, then shrugged one shoulder. “I know how much you train.”
He gave you a look at that, something tired and a little resigned in it. “Training a lot doesn’t mean I’m doing well.”
You frowned a little, looking down at the pavement as you walked. “Still. You’re probably doing better than you think.”
Sunghoon huffed again, but there was less edge to it now. “You know,” he said casually, “you should come to one of my competitions sometime.”
Your eyes flicked up to him. “Your competitions?”
“Yeah.” He nodded slightly. “There you could see me skate properly and then think about if I really am doing better than I think.”
You gave him a little smile. “I’ll think about it. I am sure you’re amazing on the ice, dear roommate.”
That made him smile, too.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The cold had come quickly this year, creeping into your apartment and into your room.
You had spent your day at uni freezing and had been looking forward to just curling up on the sofa or your bed until you fell asleep. Sunghoon had picked up training for his competition, so it was almost rare that you got to see him during the evenings, but today he had been at home when you opened the front door.
He was studying at the kitchen table, his hair held up by one of his hair bands and a thick pair of glasses on his nose.
“Hi,” you greeted him, peeling your boots off your feet with your fingers stiff from the cold.
“Hello, Y/N,” he gave you a tired look, glancing up from his iPad.
“Don’t you have training today?” Your coat was wet from the rain, so you spread it over one of the kitchen chairs to dry before dropping your bag on top of it.
Sunghoon sighed and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “They are doing some checks with the building, and we aren’t allowed inside, so no.”
“Oh,” you hummed, moving into the kitchen to heat up some water. “You don’t sound happy about that?”
He huffed and shrugged. “I wanted to train today. I still feel like shit about not being able to land my combo when I was able to before the summer break. I was off the ice for like two weeks, and it’s just gone.”
“Because of the break?”
"Yeah." Sunghoon nodded and watched as you got out your favourite mug. “That happens sometimes and is super annoying. If you lose a jump, you usually need double the time to relearn it again.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to get it again?”
Sunghoon shrugged again and let his head fall against the wall with a soft thud. “Yeah, it will just take time.”
You hummed and watched the kettle rattle as it brought the water for your tea to a boil.
"Y/N", he lifted his head, “a few of my friends want to come over and check out the apartment. Is that fine with you? I know you’ve got work tomorrow, but I promise we’ll keep it down when you want to head to bed.”
You smiled, the question barely making you think. “Oh, that's not a problem, Sunghoon. You live here, too. It’s not like I’m going to stop you from having friends over.”
He relaxed at your response, the tension in his posture easing as he gave a small, appreciative nod. “Thanks,” he said, looking genuinely relieved. “I’ll let them know we’ll keep it low-key.”
You nodded, offering a small smile. “No worries. You do you.” Then, as an afterthought, you added, “Just don’t be too loud around midnight. I haven’t really had parties here, so I don’t know if our neighbours are cool with noise or not?”
He chuckled again. “Yeah, I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. “You can come hang out later. If you want to. We’re gonna order pizza. I know you don’t do lactose or gluten, but if you want a piece just…you know join us?”
You nodded in acknowledgement, giving him a small wave. “Ah. Uhm. Thanks. But I think I’m good. I’ll go to sleep soon anyway.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
You did, in fact, not go to sleep soon.
It was almost eleven, and you were still reading, curled up in your duvet, a low light illuminating the room slightly. Your stomach had started growling a while back, and the more you tried to ignore it, the more urgent your hunger got.
With a long and annoyed sigh, you kicked the duvet off and begrudgingly put your book away before you stood up from your bed.
You hesitated for a moment when you reached your door.
Sunghoon and his friends were in the living room, playing something on the switch Sunghoon had brought with him when he moved in, so you would have to pass by them if you wanted to get to the kitchen.
You were wearing a pair of loose joggers and one of your brother's hoodies that he forgot at your apartment that you never bothered to return, so you were definitely not dressed for guests, let alone Sunghoon’s friends. But your stomach growled again, making you push the handle down and step into the hallway.
The laughter grew louder the closer you got to the living room. As soon as you entered, four pairs of eyes turned to look at you.
“Oh, hey!” one of them greeted you, giving you a smile, while his car came to a stop. “You must be Y/N.”
“Oh, uh–hi,” you said, your voice coming out slightly too high.
Sunghoon grinned at you. “This is Jay, Heeseung, and Jake,” he said, nodding toward each of them. “Guys, this is Y/N.”
Heeseung leaned back against the couch, abandoning his character as well. “Dude, your apartment is so nice,” he said. “Did you decorate it by yourself?”
You blinked. “Uh–what?”
“The apartment,” he repeated, still smiling. “It looks really good.”
“Oh! Um–yeah, I did?” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, shifting awkwardly. “I mean, I just… put some things together. I like interior stuff, so…”
“Man, Sunghoon lucked out,” Jay said, shaking his head. “My first roommate had, like, one folding chair and a mattress on the floor.”
“Hey!?” Heeseung said and turned to Jay, “I was your first roommate?”
“Yeah. And we have been living in our dorm for 3 years now. The only reason why we have a decent apartment now is that your mom insisted on helping decorate it,” Jay deadpanned. “And the main piece of decoration in your room is your keyboard shrine.”
Jake and Sunghoon snorted while Heeseung tried to defend himself: ”I asked her for help because you wouldn’t stop complaining, you stupid piece of shit.”
“See, I am really happy to have Y/N as my roommate. She has rugs and decorations. And a normal amount of keyboards.” Sunghoon grinned at you. “She is even painting the paintings to fit the vibe of our apartment.”
Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide with betrayal. He just grinned.
“Did you paint all of them?” Jay asked, nodding toward the kitchen.
You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. Mostly last summer.”
“Damn,” Jake said, shaking his head. “That’s sick. I can barely draw a stick figure.”
You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Thank you.”
Before you could recover, Sunghoon gestured toward the pizza box. “Are you hungry? We ordered way too much.”
“Oh–no, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I was just going to warm up something from the fridge.”
He just raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I swear this is so much, and we are all supposed to watch over our diets. You’d be doing a good thing by eating a slice or two,” Jake said before stealing a gummy bear from Jay.
“Maybe just one slice?” You mumbled.
Jake’s smile widened. “Sure, take as many as you want.”
He slid a plate toward you, and you shuffled over, still feeling painfully awkward. You perched on the arm of the couch next to Sunghoon, back stiff.
Your roommate glanced up at you, giving you a smile. “Have you finished your book?”
You hummed and took the plate Jake offered you, shaking your head. “Thank you, Jake. Almost? I need like three or four chapters. I’ll definitely finish it today.”
“So you’re going to read your vampire book?” Sunghoon teased. He had read the back of it and had been making fun of you ever since.
“No,” you took a bite and swallowed before continuing, watching the TV as they started another round of Mario Kart. “I’ll be waiting until Halloween. I have the morning shift, so I’ll have the whole evening to finish it.”
“Are you not gonna party on Halloween?” Heeseung asked, not taking his eyes from the TV.
You frowned, shrugging. “Not really? I’ve not been invited to any parties? And aside from that, I’m not really someone who goes to parties.”
“You’re just using that as an excuse to stay in bed to read your vampire steamy book, or what did you call it?” Sunghoon teased again, nudging your thigh with his shoulder. “I never thought you’d be one of those girls, Y/N.”
You felt heat rushing up your neck, your cheeks flushing, but before you could defend yourself, Jay already came to your aid.
ne,” he glanced at Sunghoon and regretted it mere seconds after, driving off the road. “Fuck.”
“I’m not even doing anything,” your roommate grinned.
Your stomach dropped at the words.
It was stupid, really.
He had only been teasing.
You knew that, but somehow it felt weird.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the plate, and forced a small laugh through your nose before you looked back at the TV.
It was suddenly too loud in the room, too warm, too bright.
You could feel your pulse in your throat, fast and annoying, and every second that passed made you more aware of yourself.
Sunghoon shifted beside you.
He must have noticed the change in your mood, because when you glanced at him for half a second, he was already looking at you.
Not teasing, just watching.
His expression softened the moment he saw your face.
You looked away instantly.
No. No, it was fine. It was nothing.
He didn’t say anything right away, but the apology in his eyes was obvious enough that it made your chest tighten worse. He probably realised he had pushed too far.
It was all right. Nothing had happened; he didn’t mean it in a bad way.
You took another bite of pizza just so you would have something to do with your mouth, but it didn’t help. Not even a little. Your stomach felt weirdly hollow and too full at the same time, and you kept your face angled toward the TV while your entire body screamed at you to get up and leave before you embarrassed yourself any further.
Heeseung glanced between you and Sunghoon, clearly catching something in the air. For a second, the room went a little quieter, the game noises continuing in the background.
Then Heeseung spoke.
“Actually,” he said, a little more carefully now, “do you maybe want to give partying one more try?”
You looked over at him, caught off guard.
His expression was gentle, not pushy. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “I mean, instead of spending Halloween alone reading by yourself.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again.
“There’s gonna be a big Halloween party hosted by the swimmers,” Jake said from the floor, spinning his controller between his fingers. “You could come. If you don’t want to go alone, you can bring a friend too. Just tell the guards we invited you; they’ll know.”
You blinked at that. “A friend?”
He nodded. “Sure. If that makes it less weird.”
“Or safer,” Jay added, not looking at you but clearly trying to help in the least aggressive way possible. “Whatever works.”
You glanced down at your plate, your fingers suddenly very aware around the rim. The room was still buzzing with the game, but your pulse had not slowed.
You forced your shoulders to stay loose.
“I don’t know,” you said, and tried very hard for the words to sound normal. “I’m just… not really into parties.”
Jake nodded immediately, as he understood. “That’s fair.”
“But,” Heeseung said, still soft, “you don’t have to be into parties to come to one once.”
You hesitated.
“I haven’t been to one in forever,” you admitted, which was worse than saying no because now it sounded like a confession.
Jake’s face brightened a little, not in a mocking way, more like he had heard a challenge he wanted to win. “Then it’s definitely time.”
“No pressure,” Heeseung added quickly when you didn’t answer right away. “Seriously. But if you want to try it, we’ll look out for you.”
Jake leaned back and grinned at you. “Think about it, yeah?”
You nodded once.
Heeseung smiled, gentler than before. “And seriously, you can bring a friend if you want. No pressure.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Except that it was pressure, and you couldn't stop thinking about it.
So the next day, Jaemin immediately noticed that something was off the second you clocked in. “Okay, spill.”
You frowned, wrapping your apron around your waist. “What?”
“You look weird. A bit constipated. What are you thinking so deeply about?
You hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s nothing.”
Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”
You exhaled, already knowing you weren’t going to get away with it. “Sunghoon’s friends came over last night.”
His eyebrows shot up. “The hockey players?”
You blinked, surprised. “How did you know?”
At the same time, you weren’t really surprised. Jaemin had a way of knowing everything and everyone. He was the definition of a social butterfly.
“Just a gut feeling", he grinned. “Tell me more.”
You sighed, opening the door towards the main room of the cinema. “It wasn’t a big deal. They just came over to see the apartment and hang out with Sunghoon. I ran into them when I went to the kitchen.”
“And?” Jaemin prompted, eyes gleaming with interest.
“And… they were nice,” you admitted. “They complimented the apartment and–” you hesitated, then added reluctantly, “my paintings.”
Jaemin gasped dramatically. “The beautiful paintings that are all over your apartment that everyone compliments? No way!”
You rolled your eyes. “Jaemin.”
“What? Am I lying?” he shrugged, grinning at you.
You groaned, covering your face. “Can you leave me alone?”
Jaemin cackled. “No.”
You shot him a glare. “I hate you.”
“You don’t. In fact, you love me enough to schedule your shift so they’d clash with mine and we have even more time to hang out," he said, waving a hand. “So what happened afterwards? Just meeting them wouldn’t make you this thoughtful.”
You hesitated for a moment before saying, “They… invited me to their Halloween party.”
Jaemin froze.
His expression went from shocked to utterly gobsmacked in less than a second. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Wait, like, the swimmers' Halloween party?”
“I think?”
He gawked at you. “You think? Y/N, do you even realise how exclusive those are?” He leaned in. “You have to know people to get in or be important enough to be invited.”
You shifted uncomfortably. “I guess… I know people now?”
Jaemin smacked your arm lightly. “Oh my god, this is huge.”
“It’s really not. They even offered that I could bring a friend.”
“Oh, my god.” He placed a hand over his heart. “You have to take me with you.”
You groaned. “Jaemin–”
“Please.” His eyes widened. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We’d be insane not to go.”
You chewed on your lip. “I don’t know… I feel like I’d just be awkward.”
Jaemin softened slightly. “You might. But you might also have fun.”
You sighed.
“If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll leave with you,” he promised. “I swear.”
You hesitated before finally mumbling, “I’ll think about it.”
Jaemin beamed. “That’s all I needed to hear. We’re going,” he said, gripping your wrist.
You groaned. “Jaemin.”
“Please.” His eyes widened dramatically. “Do you even understand what this means? This is like–like being invited to the Met Gala of frat parties.”
You gave him a look. “You are so dramatic.”
“Am I?” He scoffed. “Y/N, do you realise how hard it is to get into one of these? And you got invited. You!” He clutched his chest like he was about to faint.
You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Jaemin’s jaw dropped. “Not that big of a deal? Y/N, if I had even breathed in the direction of these parties before, I would’ve been escorted out.”
You bit your lip, hesitating. If not even Jaemin had been invited to one of these parties, they probably were a big thing. Johnny was always talking about how he enjoyed going to parties. You loved hearing his and Taeyong's stories every time they came home.
They did romanticise uni life a bit in your opinion.
Or maybe you were just doing something wrong.
Maybe you could try going to that party.
Jaemin's face softened slightly. “Look,” he said, “I get it. Big parties aren’t your thing. And, yeah, it might be overwhelming at first. But, Y/N, you deserve to have fun.”
“I do have fun,” you muttered.
Jaemin gave you a knowing look. “Working, studying, and just being in your apartment alone all the time doesn’t count.”
You sighed.
“If you don’t like it, we’ll leave,” he promised. “I swear. I won’t ditch you. But at least try.”
You hesitated, staring at the counter, before finally mumbling, “…Fine. I’ll think about it.”
Jaemin grinned as he had already won. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Pushing open the door to your apartment felt like trying to push an elephant out of the way. Your arms were heavy, your brain was pulsing against your skull, and your eyes threatened to fall closed any second now. Somehow your shift at the cinema had been horrible today; it had been loud and hot and entirely overwhelming, so the only thing you wanted to do was to sleep.
But today was Halloween, and you had promised Jaemin and Sunghoon you would go to that stupid party.
Part of you, a very loud and insistent part of you, wanted to just cancel, tell them that you were too exhausted to go, that you were having a migraine, but another part wanted to go, almost desperately.
You knew they were right, Johnny, Taeyong, Jaemin, hell, even Sunghoon and his friends. You should try going out more, living life, meeting people, and experiencing things you would usually avoid; it was part of growing up, of living.
But it was hard. You hated crowds, you hated parties, and you hated being perceived, and that Halloween party would definitely get you to be perceived, especially with your stupid costume.
Somehow Sunghoon and Jaemin, who had almost immediately started forming a coalition against you as soon as you introduced them, convinced you to dress up as one of the puppets from Squid Game.
With a sigh, you peeled off your shoes and made a beeline straight to your room, shutting the door quietly behind you. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you let out a long sigh and closed your eyes, hoping you would feel better after a nap.
About two hours later, you reluctantly pulled yourself out of bed. Your head was still heavy, a constant throb beneath your temples.
You could feel your nerves creeping up as you walked out of your room, rubbing your eyes.
“Hey, Sunghoon.”
Your roommate was standing in the bathroom, the door open, as he styled his hair in the mirror.
He flinched at your voice, and his eyes flickered to your figure standing in the doorway. “Hi, Y/N. Are you good? You look tired.”
You hummed, leaning against the wooden frame. “My head is pounding. I think I have a migraine coming.”
Sunghon frowned, turning around to look at you properly. “Do you want to eat? Maybe it will get better if you get some food into your system."
“I’ve eaten,” you said, pursing your lips and shrugging. “Jaemin and I ate bibimbap during our lunch break, so my stomach is still pretty full, but I think I’ll take an ibuprofen. Sometimes it helps with the migraines.”
“It has been a while since you had your last one," Sunghoon stated, pushing away from the sink, moving towards and past you into the hallway. “Do you think you’ll be able to go to the party? If you’re not feeling well, you should stay home, Y/N.”
“No, it’s fine. Maybe I'll just leave earlier?”
"Sure, that’s no worries." He moved towards his room before coming back, holding up white face paint. You smiled, though it was still a little tight around the edges. Sunghoon caught your glance and, after a moment of silence, his expression softened into something more reassuring.
“Come on, it’s going to be okay, yeah? We’ll get there, and we’ll just hang out. You’ll be alright, I promise.”
You gave a reluctant nod, grateful for his words. You stretched out, trying to shake off the drowsiness, and took a deep breath. "Okay."
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The moment you stepped into the house, the overwhelming mix of loud music, sweaty bodies, and flashing lights hit you all at once. The air smelled like alcohol, something vaguely fruity, and whatever cologne the guy who just stumbled past you had drenched himself in.
You were already regretting this.
You had been holding it together on the walk over, but now that you were actually inside, the migraine that had been sitting at the edge of your skull all evening seemed to sharpen all at once. The lights flashing across the room made your eyes sting, and the noise in your ears felt like it was pressing in from every direction.
Sunghoon was right beside you, guiding you deeper into the house with a hand hovering near your back so you didn’t lose him in the crowd. You kept your arms close to your body and did your best not to brush against anyone.
Before you could fully orient yourself, a voice cut through the music.
“Y/N!”
You barely had time to turn before Jake came crashing into you, arms thrown around your middle in a hug that was far too enthusiastic for your current state. You froze immediately.
Everything in you tensed.
Your arms stayed awkwardly at your sides while he rocked you a little, laughing into your shoulder.
“Oh my God,” he slurred happily. “I knew you’d come! I told Sunghoon you were gonna come!”
You stared past him, looking for Sunghoon without even meaning to.
He was standing a few steps away, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with a grin that was way too amused. You glared at him in silent betrayal.
He only smiled wider.
Hesitantly, you lifted one hand and gave Jake a few awkward pats on the back. He seemed delighted by that and finally let go.
Jay appeared a second later. He didn’t tackle you, thankfully. He just gave you a quick half-hug.
“Glad you came,” he said, easy and warm.
You managed a small nod.
“Uh. Yeah,” you said faintly. “Thanks.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon was leaning against the sofa, half-listening to Jay argue with Jake about their next beer pong shot. His own cup sat untouched beside him.
He was pacing himself, knowing he had practice tomorrow.
His coach was already on him for falling last week, so he didn’t want to even try his luck and skate hungover. The music thumped through the house, bass vibrating beneath his feet, and the heat of too many bodies in a small space was starting to get to him.
If he was completely honest, parties weren’t his thing either. Sure, he’d come along if he got invited, and it was fun most of the time, but he wasn’t as crazy as his friends. He didn’t understand how the hockey players were doing all of this after every game; his coach would kill him if he knew Sunghoon was drinking.
Sunghoon glanced over the table, watching you and Jaemin talk to a small group of baseball players.
He knew some of them from other parties or sports events but never really got around to getting to know any of them closely.
He watched as one of them, a little taller than the rest, leaned in slightly while talking to you.
Sunghoon wasn’t sure why, but something about it made his jaw tighten as he saw you taking a slight step back, your smile reverting back to the small, reserved ones you always had when you were uncomfortable or felt especially shy.
He hadn’t seen that in quite a while now, but it hadn’t left your face all evening.
The way you moved and glanced around made it clear that you weren’t too happy with the situation, and Sunghoon felt guilty. He knew he should have convinced you to stay at home when he saw you step out of your room, your face pale and your hair flattened from your nap. He knew you wouldn’t like being here, and he was sure the sound and the stuffy air inside the house weren’t helping your migraine get any better.
Sunghoon exhaled sharply, setting his cup down on the beerping table with a soft thud. He didn’t know if he was overthinking things, but he did promise you to help you out if you needed an out. So he slowly started making his way toward you. Sunghoon had barely taken a step toward you when a firm hand landed on his shoulder.
“Park,” a familiar voice drawled.
He turned to see Hyunjin, one of the more senior skaters. Despite the loud music and chaotic energy of the party, Hyunjin looked as relaxed as ever, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.
“Haven’t seen you drink much,” Hyunjin noted, tilting his own half-empty cup toward Sunghoon. “You’re really out here being responsible?”
Sunghoon snorted. “Some of us have practice tomorrow.”
Hyunjin laughed, shaking his head. “Well, some were clever enough to tell Coach that they wouldn’t come tomorrow so they can drink.”
Sunghoon hummed in agreement, but his attention was already elsewhere. You seemed to suddenly have let loose, your shoulders sagging as you giggled, you giggled, at something the baseball player said. In the one and a half months that he had been living together with you, he never saw you giggle; laugh, sure, but giggle, never.
He shifted his weight, keeping one ear on whatever Hyunjin was saying while his eyes flickered back to you.
Hyunjin snapped his fingers in front of Sunghoon’s face. “Hello? Are you even listening?”
Sunghoon blinked, forcing himself to focus. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “You good?”
Sunghoon‘s eyes flickered back to you. „Yeah,“ he started, moving, patting Hyunjin's shoulder. „You know what, I’ll be back in a second.“
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The music thudded in your chest, vibrating through your bones. Your head was pounding, your vision blurry, and there was a weird, giddy sensation bubbling up in you.
You tried to concentrate on his words, but the pounding in your head was intensifying, and you couldn’t grasp a clear thought; everything felt mulled over. It wasn’t unusual for you to get a migraine, especially with the noise and lights in a place like this, but this was different. It felt like your mouth was moving without you even thinking about it when you were answering whatever question Injang just asked.
“So, Y/N, do you have any plans for tomorrow? You know there’s an after-Halloween party for those who couldn’t come today,” he grinned at you, leaning in slightly, his voice a little too loud to make it easy to follow.
You could feel his eyes on you, more intent than necessary. “Um. I have to–I have to study? I can’t party.”
“Oh really? Jaemin mentioned you’re into architecture? It’s probably really hard. Especially for a pretty girl like you, right?" He said, his grin widening.
You nodded, and the room tilted for a second.
You blinked hard.
That wasn’t normal. Your migraines were awful, but they didn’t usually make your body feel this heavy.
“I–I don’t know, maybe?” you replied, your voice trailing off.
„Oh, but I‘m sure you‘re doing a good job, sweetheart.“
Somewhere in the back of your brain, you registered the condescending tone he was using, that he was making fun of you, but somehow your thoughts felt detached from everything else.
They were slow, fuzzy, and your vision started to swim a little as you tried your best to stay nice and polite and look at Injang while he was talking to you.
Maybe you should have eaten more or drunk more water.
“Hey, Y/N, you’re okay? You seemed a little drunk." he was suddenly standing closer to you, the heat radiating from his body making your body feel even more uncomfortable.
You blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the haze in your brain, but instead, the dizziness swirled, and the world started spinning around you.
“I... I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to reassure him, though you weren’t even sure you believed it. Your words were slurred, and your eyelids felt heavy as you tried to shake your head.
You couldn’t understand what was happening; the only thing you had been drinking all day was water. Why did you feel drunk all of a sudden?
Injang kept leaning in, his hand brushing a few strands that came loose from the ponytail you had tied your hair in behind your ear, his smirk growing wider. You tried to focus on him, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the pressure in your skull and the odd sense of lightness in your limbs.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Don’t you want to drink some more of your water? I’m sure it will help," he asked again, leaning even closer, and you could feel his breath on your face. His voice sounded like it was echoing from far away.
“I... yeah,” your hands almost automatically guided your cup to your mouth; maybe he was right, and water would help. “I’m just–I’m just a little tired, y’know? I think–I think I should go to my roommate?”
You glanced towards where you knew Sunghoon was standing, not seeing anything besides the stobling lights flickering over your blurry vision. Your legs felt unsteady, as though they weren’t entirely yours, when you tried to push past the baseball player.
You could hardly keep your balance, and the noise became so much louder, as if it were vibrating inside your skull. You placed a hand on the wall for support, just trying to stay on your feet.
The room was spinning, and you tried to focus, to remember where the kitchen was, where you were, but it felt like you had to move through molasses.
Injang's hands were on you again, and this time it wasn’t just a touch. He was almost painfully gripping your waist, pulling you back. You tried to tug away, but your body wasn’t listening.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out, alright? Just let me get you outside; I’m sure some fresh air would help.” Injang’s voice was thick now, too close for comfort.
His touch sent panic through you.
You couldn’t go outside with him; you shouldn’t. Everything felt wrong.
You knew you needed to get away from him, but every part of you felt so heavy, and your movements weren’t your own.
You were trapped in this slow, sluggish fog.
"Seriously, Y/N, you're so cute," he continued, stepping even closer until you could feel the heat of his body at your back. "I’m just worried about you. You sure you’re not feeling anything... weird?"
You flinched, trying to pull away, but he kept his grip, his fingers brushing down to your waist in a way that made you feel exposed and uncomfortable. “Come on baby, don't be shy. It's just a party. We’re just having fun, right?”
You tried again to shake him off, to get awy, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate.
Noise drung through he fog, it semed like someone was fighting, but you weren’t sure. They were muffled and you couldn’t understand what they were saying.
The next thing you knew, there was a quick movement and Injang’s hand left your waist.
Without his additional support, your knees buckled underneath your weight and the world tilted, before everything went black.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The second you collapsed, it was like time stopped.
Sunghoon watched how Injang let go of your body, trying to defend himself, saying something about wanting to get you some water. He watched the way you swayed and, finally, how your knees seemed to give up underneath your weight.
He barely managed to catch you in time, feeling the weight of your body press into him as you fell limp in his arms. His heart slammed in his chest.
"Y/N?" He shook you gently, then a bit harder when you didn’t respond.
You felt like a rag doll, no resistance in your body as he went down to the floor, still trying to shake you awake. “Y/N, what’s going on? Wake up!”
Jaemin was suddenly kneeling next to him, helping him hold you up, keeping your head straight.
“Oh my god," he gasped, his breath coming in short, shaky bursts.
His eyes flickered between Sunghoon and you.
"What happened to her? What's wrong with her?" Jaemin’s voice was panicked. His gaze darted between your pale face and Sunghoon’s frantic movements.
Sunghoon's mind raced as he tried to figure out what could have happened. “She had–”, he combed his hair back in a frantic movement with one hand. "She said she’s having a migraine. She took some painkillers. Has she been drinking?” Sunghoon's eyes flickered towards Jaemin's face, still holding your body in his arms. “Has she been drinking, Jaemin?”
Jaemin shook his head, the panic in his face evident. “She didn’t. She only had water. There was nothing–we didn’t even do shots or anything. I–what's happening, Sunghoon? Has she been spiked? That has to be what's happened, right? She’s been spiked.”
Sunghoon looked around the room, eyes searching for the guy who had been sticking so damn close to you earlier. His hands were shaking as he tried to make sense of the situation.
“Call 911,” Sunghoon mumbled before repeating it louder. “Call 911!”
“Jay’s on it, Sunghoon,” Jake’s voice came from behind him. He hadn’t even realised that Jay and Jake had followed him and were now standing behind him, his sole focus on you. “They said help is on the way.”
Sunghoon barely heard him.
All he could focus on was how limp you felt in his arms, how wrong it was that your body had gone so still so fast. He shifted you more carefully against him, his heart slamming so hard it made everything else feel distant and blurry. “Y/N,” he said again, lower this time, as he could somehow pull you back with his voice alone. “Come on. Wake up.”
You didn’t move.
“Where is that guy?” Sunghoon’s head snapped up. He couldn’t let that guy go; it had to have been him. You had nursed one cup of water Sunghoon had personally given you, and that guy had been dancing around you all evening. It had to have been him.
“Jake, Jake, get that guy.” Sunghoon carefully moved your body, cradling you against his chest as he slowly stood up. “He can’t leave, do whatever is necessary. You’re a hockey player, you know how to throw punches.”
His friend looked between him and wherever the guy from just now had escaped towards. “I can’t just–”
“Yes, you can,” Sunghoon cut in, sharper now, eyes wild. “Do whatever you need to do to keep him there. He does not get to walk out.”
Jake opened his mouth again, then shut it when he saw the look on Sunghoon’s face. “Sunghoon–”
“Don’t,” Sunghoon said, more to keep himself from losing it than to silence Jake. “We have to keep him here until the police get him.”
He looked up at Jake again, anger and fear mixing into something almost unbearable. “Don’t let him go,” he repeated, voice rough. “If he moves, stop him.”
Jake’s expression tightened. “Let’s get Y/N out of here first. We’ll deal with Injang later, Sunghoon.”
“No. Get him now.”
That came out harsher than Sunghoon meant it to, but he didn’t know what to do if he escaped. His skin felt too hot, his pulse too fast, his hands shaking where they held you.
Jake stepped closer, one hand raised in a placating gesture. “Sunghoon, listen to me. Let’s get Y/N outside, let’s wait outside for the ambulance to come. We have enough witnesses to get Injang in trouble, okay?”
“What if he gets rid of the evidence?” Sunghoon shot back, eyes darting over the room again, searching for the guy who had been too close, too hands-on, too wrong. “He doesn’t get to do this and walk away as if nothing happened.”
“Sunghoon,” Jaemin said carefully, trying to get his attention, “we need to focus on Y/N right now.”
“I am focused on her.”
“No, you’re not! You’re focused on beating Injang senseless. Get her out of here.”
Sunghoon swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe once, then twice, but it did almost nothing. His chest was too tight, his hands were still shaking.
Then Jay appeared at the edge of the room, pushing through the crowd. “Ambulance is here,” he said quickly.
For a second, Sunghoon didn’t move.
Then his head snapped up. “Police?”
“On their way,” Jay said, voice clipped. “Let’s get Y/N outside.”
That finally broke through some of the haze. Sunghoon looked down at you again, still cradling you tightly, and his expression changed from furious to wrecked in the space of a breath. “Okay,” he said, though it sounded more like he was telling himself than anyone else. “Okay.”
He tightened his hold on you just a little and bent his head closer. “You’re okay,” he said, though it sounded like a promise he was trying to make true by force. “Help’s here. Just stay with me.”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon sat in the back of the taxi, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. His mind was racing while his pulse was hammering in his ears as the city lights blurred past the window. His body moved on autopilot when the taxi finally pulled up in front of the hospital. He couldn't get the image of you collapsing out of his head, the way you crumpled to the floor, lifeless in his arms.
He insisted on coming to the hospital but wanted Jaemin to be with you in the ambulance, just in case you woke up.
The chances were low, but he didn’t want you to be with him.
You barely knew each other.
You did, technically, he would say; you’ve grown to be something like friends, but he was sure Jaemin was the better, the safer choice for you.
He barely remembered paying the driver before rushing inside, the sterile scent of antiseptic and bright fluorescent lights making his head pound.
The waiting area was quiet except for the distant beeping of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses.
It didn't take much of an effort to find Jaemin.
He was curled up in one of the plastic chairs, elbows resting on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, and when he looked up at Sunghoon, his eyes were bloodshot.
Sunghoon hesitated before stepping closer. "Any news?"
Jaemin shook his head, wiping at his face with his sleeve. His voice was hoarse. "She's stable, but she's not awake. They said they would send some of her blood to get checked for drugs." His breath hitched slightly. "But it’s gonna take a while until they get the results."
Sunghoon felt his stomach twist. Before he could say anything else, the doors to the waiting room swung open, and Donghyuck rushed in, wearing a vampire costume, his hair swept by the wind and the blood that belonged to the costume smeared across his lower face.
His face was full of panic, darting from Jaemin to Sunghoon and back. "Where is she?"
Jaemin gestured toward the hallway leading to the ICU. "They're doing tests."
“Is she going to be okay? What did they say, Jaemin? Will she be okay?” Your brother shook Jaemin’s shoulders frantically.
Jaemin nodded, wrapping his hands around your brother’s arms. “She’ll be okay, Hyuck.”
A sob escaped your brother's lips, and he wrapped his arms around Jaemin, deflating against him, as a sob wracked through his body.
Sunghoon had to avert his gaze for a second.
He had never felt so helpless as when he was holding your lifeless body at that party, handing you over to the paramedic, watching you get loaded into the ambulance.
He knew he probably should stay composed, stay focused, but he felt panic run through his veins, his heart still thumping loudly in his chest.
"I don't know what happened, Donghyuck,” Jaemin's voice was shaking as he was pressing Donghyuck against his chest. “She was fine. We were just hanging out, talking to some of the baseball guys I know, and then she… she just collapsed. She was just drinking water. She didn’t drink any–any alcohol."
Donghyuck shook his head, pushing himself away from your friend, wiping a tear from his eye. "It's okay, Jaemin, it's not your fault that this happened."
A nurse approached them, and the attention of all three of the men snapped towards her. "Mr Lee?"
"Yes," Donghyuck straightened up immediately.
“The doctors had a few additional questions regarding Y/N,” she said gently. “Have you spent the day with her? Would you know her condition before she fainted?”
Donghyuck blinked at her, still breathing hard from crying, before he shook his head. "I didn't see her today."
The nurse glanced at Sunghoon and Jaemin. "What about either of you?"
“She’s had a migraine since this morning," Sunghoon cleared his throat. “She took painkillers earlier.”
The nurse’s gaze flicked toward him. “Do you know which painkillers?”
Sunghoon shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
The nurse hummed and made a note. “Did she eat anything with them? Any food or drink?”
“I don’t think so,” he frowned, trying to remember. "I don't think she ate dinner. She said she wasn't hungry because of the headache."
“Did she eat anything besides that?” The woman looked between the two of them
Jaemin straightened from his chair, rubbing at one of his eyes before answering. “Yeah. We had lunch at work, and she had snacks later too.”
“What did the two of you eat?” The woman looked at Jaemin expectantly. “Are you feeling unwell as well?”
“No? No, no, I’m okay, maybe a bit tipsy but like nothing besides that.” He went through his hair, bunching the pink strands together. “We ate bibimbap and mandu for lunch at like three pm.”
"Did she drink any alcohol?"
"No." Sunghoon’s answer came instantly, almost interrupting the nurse. "She only drank water."
"Any recreational drugs? Prescription medication besides the migraine tablets?"
"No."
The nurse looked between them all for a moment, then her eyes settled on Donghyuck again. “Mr Lee, would you like to come in and see her?”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Darkness.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Heavy, suffocating darkness clung to you like a thick fog, making it impossible to think, impossible to move.
Then came the sound. Distant at first, like you were hearing everything from underwater. A rhythmic beeping. The faint hum of voices. Rubber soles moving across the floor.
You tried to move, but your body refused to cooperate. Your fingers twitched slightly against the sheets, and a noise escaped your lips.
The footsteps stopped.
“Y/N?”
You forced your eyes open. Harsh white light flooded your vision, sending a sharp pain through your skull. You squeezed them shut again with a faint whimper.
“That’s okay,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “Take your time. You’re safe.”
Something shifted beside you, followed by the quiet click of a switch. The light behind your eyelids softened.
You tried again.
This time, you managed to keep your eyes open, although everything remained blurred around the edges. A woman in dark blue scrubs stood beside the bed, one hand resting near the monitor to your left.
“Can you hear me?”
You gave the smallest nod, blinking at her.
“Good. My name is Mina. I’m one of the nurses looking after you.” She leaned slightly closer. “Can you tell me your name?”
Your lips felt dry and strangely numb when you answered. “Y/N L/N.”
“And do you know where you are?”
Your gaze drifted around the space. You noticed a pale curtain surrounding the bed you were lying on, thin wires disappearing beneath the blanket covering you, tape against the inside of your arm, holding an IV line in place.
“Hospital,” you whispered.
“That’s right.” The nurse gave you a reassuring smile before reaching for the blood-pressure cuff around your arm. “Do you know what day it is?”
You stared at her, swallowing dryly when you realised you didn’t. You didn’t know what day it was.
The question should have been easy, but your thoughts scattered the moment you reached for an answer. You remembered getting dressed. Sunghoon standing in the bathroom with white paint smeared across his face. The heat inside the party. Flashing lights.
After that, there was only a blank stretch of nothing.
Your answer came out as a whisper, as your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.” Her voice remained gentle. “Do you remember what happened tonight?”
You swallowed, your throat aching with the movement. “I went to a party.”
“Anything after that?”
You closed your eyes for a second, trying to push through the fog.
You remembered music, someone talking to you, the room tilting beneath your feet.
Then nothing.
“No.”
The nurse checked the monitor, then shone a small light briefly across each of your pupils.
“Are you in pain?”
“My head.” Your voice barely carried over the insistent beeping. “It hurts.”
“On a scale from zero to ten?”
You closed your eyes for a second, trying to gauge how painful the throbbing was, ignoring the feeling of panic flaring up in your chest. “Seven. Maybe. I get these migraines sometimes.”
“And do you feel nauseous?”
“A little.”
She nodded and made a note on the chart beside the bed.
“You were brought in after losing consciousness at a party. Your friends called an ambulance. Your vital signs are stable now, but you were very difficult to wake when you arrived, so we’ve been monitoring you closely.”
Your fingers tightened weakly around the blanket. “Why?”
“We’re still waiting for some of the laboratory results,” she explained, smiling gently at you. “The doctors are concerned that you may have been given something without your knowledge. One of them will speak with you now that you’re awake.”
Your stomach tightened.
Before you could ask anything else, the curtain shifted, and a doctor stepped inside. He introduced himself, then repeated several of the nurse’s questions. Your name. Where you were. What you remembered. Whether you had consumed alcohol or taken any medication.
“I took ibuprofen,” you murmured. “For a migraine.”
“Anything else?”
You shook your head carefully.
“Did you drink alcohol tonight?”
You blinked, trying your best to remember anything from the day before. “I…I don’t remember.”
The doctor nodded, his expression serious but not alarmed.
“Your initial blood work is reassuring. Your blood sugar and electrolyte levels are stable, and there are no immediate signs of a serious injury. We’re still waiting for the toxicology results, so I can’t tell you exactly what caused the loss of consciousness yet.”
You stared at him, trying to follow every word despite the fog pressing against your thoughts.
“Was I drugged?”
“It’s a possibility,” he said carefully. “Your symptoms and the account provided by your friends are concerning for that, but we need the laboratory results before we can be more certain.”
Your stomach twisted violently.
You’ve gotten drugged.
You went to that stupid party, and someone had mixed something into your water.
You blinked at the doctor, your brain feeling weirdly blank all of a sudden.
You’ve gotten drugged.
“Your brother is waiting outside,” the nurse added softly. “Would you like us to bring him in?”
Donghyuck.
The thought of him sitting somewhere beyond the curtain made something inside you loosen and tighten at the same time.
You nodded.
The nurse disappeared through the curtain. A few moments later, hurried footsteps approached, slowing only when Donghyuck stepped into view.
He was wearing part of a vampire costume. His dark shirt was wrinkled, and the fake blood around his mouth had smeared across one cheek. His eyes were swollen and red.
The sight of him made your chest ache.
“Hey,” he breathed.
He crossed the space between you in two steps and reached for your hand, holding it carefully between both of his.
“Hey, Bug.”
You stared at him.
“What happened?”
His expression crumpled for half a second before he forced it back under control.
“You collapsed at the party.” His thumbs moved nervously over your knuckles. “Jaemin came with you in the ambulance. They think someone put something in your drink.”
Your stomach twisted.
“My water?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The room felt strangely distant again. The monitor continued beeping beside you, steady and indifferent.
Someone had put something in your water.
You pulled in a shallow breath.
“Where’s Jaemin?”
“He’s outside.” Donghyuck glanced toward the curtain. “Sunghoon too. They’ve both been here the whole time.”
“Can they come in?”
Donghyuck studied your face for a moment.
“Are you sure?”
You nodded.
He squeezed your hand before stepping out to speak with the nurse. A few minutes passed before the curtain opened again.
Jaemin entered first.
His eyes were red-rimmed, and the moment he saw you awake, his hand flew to his mouth. He crossed the room quickly but stopped beside the bed as though he was afraid to touch you without permission.
“Oh, my God.”
You gave him a weak smile.
“Hi.”
His face twisted, and tears filled his eyes almost immediately.
Behind him, Sunghoon stepped through the opening in the curtain.
Most of his costume was gone, but traces of dark makeup remained around his eyes. His hair was dishevelled, and his face looked drained of everything except exhaustion.
He stayed near the end of the bed rather than approaching.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
You looked at him, searching through the missing pieces of the night.
“You caught me.”
It came out more like a question than a statement.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.
“Yeah,” his voice was rough. “You scared the hell out of us.”
The words were quiet, almost restrained, but something in his expression made your chest tighten.
The nurse returned before anyone could say more.
“I need to check her blood pressure again,” she said gently. “You can stay for a few minutes, but she needs rest, and the doctor will want to reassess her once the remaining results are available.”
Donghyuck immediately shifted aside. Jaemin wiped quickly at his face. Sunghoon remained where he was, one hand resting against the metal rail at the end of the bed.
The cuff tightened around your arm.
You stared at the ceiling while the machine hummed, trying to understand how the night had gone from flashing lights and music to a hospital bed surrounded by three frightened faces.
No matter how hard you tried, the space between those two moments remained completely empty.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
The hospital staff checked in on you frequently, making sure you were eating and drinking, and that the drug was fully leaving your system.
Your body still felt sluggish, like moving through water, and your head pounded in a dull, persistent ache.
By the time the evening rolled around, you were discharged with strict instructions to rest, stay hydrated, and come back if anything felt off.
Donghyuck refused to let you go home alone, ignoring the fact that you wouldn’t be, that Sunghoon would be there with you and insisted on coming to your apartment.
So Donghyuck, Sunghoon, and you settled into the couch in your living room, the TV casting a soft glow across the dimly lit living room. There was nothing particular you wanted to do or watch, everything feeling a bit over- and understimulating at the same time, but you knew your brother was worried.
So you just let him pull you onto the sofa, opening Netflix and starting the first show that was on your recently watched list.
You were looking at the TV, seeing the pictures, hearing the sounds, the music, the monologues, but you could barely focus on following the story.
Your whole body still felt off, heavy, sluggish.
Every movement required double the effort.
It felt like there was a fog over everything, making it impossible to think too hard or even process what had happened.
So you just sat there, curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in one of the throw blankets.
They had given you medication against the nausea, so you could eat at least a bit. Your stomach felt upset nonetheless, no matter how much you drank or shifted your position, so at one point you had just given up, slumping into the sofa, willing yourself to stay awake for at least the first episode of whatever you were watching.
Donghyuck was chattering away, commenting on everything that was happening, even roping in Sunghoon into muttering a few comments here and there.
At one point, your brother turned to you, seemingly wanting to see if you agreed with what he had just said. “Right, Y/N?”
You blinked slowly, shifting your eyes to focus on his face instead of the TV. “Huh?”
Donghyuck’s teasing expression faltered slightly, and his eyes softened. “Never mind,” he said gently. “Are you tired?”
You nodded, barely holding back a yawn.
Donghyuck reached for the remote, lowering the volume. “You should sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
You were about to agree, but when you tried to move, your entire body protested. Even sitting up felt like too much effort. “Mhm, I’ll go after this episode.”
Donghyuck hummed in agreement and turned back to the TV.
Somewhere in the middle of the episode, your body gave in to exhaustion.
You woke up in the middle of the night. It took you a moment to realise you were curled into Donghyuck’s side, your head resting against his chest. His arm was draped over you protectively, his slow, steady breathing the only sound in the quiet room. You adjusted slightly and closed your eyes again.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
The apartment was quiet.
Sunghoon stood in the kitchen, rolling his shoulders back as he stared at the half-chopped apple sitting on the cutting board in front of him. His eyes kept flicking toward the living room, where you were curled up on the couch, asleep.
Again.
Donghyuck had left a few hours ago, only after making you swear you would be okay. He assured you and Sunghoon that he would be back in seconds if he was needed.
Now, it was just the two of you.
Sunghoon knew that you wouldn’t be on top of your game less than a day after being drugged, but his heart clenched every time he walked past your sleeping figure on the sofa.
You had dragged yourself from your room into the living room, claiming your room was too cold to be in, wrapping yourself in multiple layers of blankets before passing out not long after.
Donghyuck had insisted you ate lunch while he was there, wanting to see you eat at least a bit, seeming satisfied after you ate a whole bowl of rice and some soup before you took painkillers and suppressants against the nausea.
Sunghoon had called his mom after he had woken up today, having the desire to speak to someone who was truly adult about the whole situation. She had offered to come to Seoul, taking care of the two of you for a few days, or at least until you were feeling a bit better, when she learned that your mother couldn’t. He had declined her offer, but gratefully accepted her recipes for an upset stomach. Starting with serving you some vegetables that were easily digestible.
So he neatly arranged a banana, a few pieces of cucumber, carrots and some graham crackers before setting the plate down on the coffee table. Maybe you felt like eating a bit when you woke up, and the meds had kicked in.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
You jerked awake, shooting upright so quickly that the sudden movement sent a sharp pulse through your head.
For a few seconds, you didn’t know where you were.
The apartment was silent around you, the curtains pulled almost completely shut. Thin lines of sunlight filtered in around the edges of the fabric, cutting pale strips across the living room floor. The television had been turned off at some point, and the only sound came from the low hum of the air conditioner and your own uneven breathing.
You were sweating.
Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your back, and damp strands of hair stuck to your forehead and the side of your neck. At the same time, your skin felt cold beneath the blankets wrapped around you, a strange chill sitting deep inside your body despite the heat trapped underneath the fabric.
You slowly started peeling the blankets away.
Even that felt like too much effort.
Your arms were heavy, your fingers clumsy as they caught in the folds, and it took you much longer than it should have to free your legs. By the time the last blanket slipped onto the floor, your heart was beating too quickly for someone who had done nothing but sit up.
For a long moment, you stayed there.
Your feet rested against the cool floor while you leaned forward, elbows braced against your knees. You took one breath, then another, trying to orient yourself.
Your body felt wrong.
Heavy and hollow at the same time.
Your head still hurt, though the sharp migraine from the day before had softened into a dull, persistent pressure behind your eyes. Your muscles ached like you had been running for hours, and every part of you seemed to lag a second behind your thoughts.
Then your stomach growled.
The sound was loud in the quiet apartment, followed by an uncomfortable twist that made you place a hand against your middle.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had eaten properly.
You swallowed, but there was barely any moisture in your mouth. The movement scraped against the back of your throat and made you wince.
Water.
You needed water. Maybe something small to eat as well. Rice. Toast. Something plain enough that your stomach wouldn’t protest.
You placed both hands against the sofa and pushed yourself upright.
The world tilted immediately.
You tightened your grip on the backrest, your fingers digging into the fabric as the living room shifted sideways. Black spots flickered briefly at the edges of your vision. You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing slowly until the floor seemed to settle beneath you again.
When you opened them, the room was still.
Mostly.
You waited another few seconds before carefully letting go of the sofa.
Your legs felt unsteady, but they held.
The distance between the living room and the kitchen had never seemed particularly far before, but now every step required concentration. You moved slowly, one hand occasionally brushing against the wall or the edge of the furniture, as though your own apartment had become unfamiliar overnight.
A small Post-it note was stuck to the refrigerator door.
You stopped in front of it.
Sunghoon’s handwriting covered most of the yellow paper, neat but slightly tilted to one side.
I cut up some fruit and vegetables for you. It’s in the blue box you always use. My mom said you should get well soon.
A tiny smiley face had been drawn beneath the message.
You stared at it for longer than necessary.
Somehow you were weirdly touched and embarrassed at the same time that Sunghoon had told his mom, probably asked her what to do and then had taken the time to cut up fruit for you.
With a quiet huff, you pulled the refrigerator door open.
The light struck your eyes immediately.
Pain shot through your skull, sharp enough to make you recoil. You let the door fall closed again and raised one hand to cover your face, blinking rapidly against the burning behind your eyes.
For a moment, you stood there with your palm pressed against the counter.
The dizziness returned, softer this time but still enough to make your stomach shift unpleasantly.
Maybe food could wait.
Maybe you should drink something first.
The pounding in your head might be dehydration. The dry mouth definitely was. If you drank some water and sat down again, you might feel normal enough to eat the fruit afterwards.
A half-full bottle of water stood on the counter.
You reached for it, rubbing the heel of your free hand against one eye before twisting the cap open. Your fingers felt weaker than usual, and the thin plastic crumpled slightly beneath your grip.
You brought the bottle to your mouth and took three large swallows.
The water was lukewarm, but you didn’t care. It felt good against your throat, washing away some of the dryness.
For approximately two seconds.
Then it didn’t sit right.
Your stomach tightened so suddenly that you froze with the bottle still near your lips.
A hard, unpleasant twist pulled through your middle. Not quite pain. Something worse. Something shifting and unstable, as if the water had disturbed whatever fragile balance your stomach had managed to find while you were asleep.
You stopped breathing.
For a second, you simply stood there, staring at the cabinet in front of you.
Maybe it would pass.
You had drunk too quickly. That was all. Your stomach had been empty, and you had swallowed too much water at once. It would settle if you stayed still.
You lowered the bottle carefully.
Your mouth filled with saliva.
Your stomach rolled again, sharper this time.
No.
Your hand flew to your middle while the other placed the bottle onto the counter so quickly that it tipped onto its side. Water sloshed against the plastic, but you barely noticed.
No, that was not good.
You turned instinctively toward the sink, bending forward slightly as another wave passed through you.
Please, no.
The thought came before anything else.
You pressed your palm harder against your stomach, as though enough pressure might hold everything in place. Your breathing became shallow and careful. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slowly. Calmly.
It was nausea.
Just nausea.
You had been drugged. You had barely eaten. You had drunk too quickly.
There were a dozen reasonable explanations for why you felt sick.
This was different.
It had to be different.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Your throat tightened every time you swallowed. The nausea rose and fell in unpredictable waves, and panic followed it immediately, hot and violent beneath your ribs.
You could not throw up.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt.
You didn’t want to.
You couldn’t allow yourself to.
The thought sounded irrational even inside your own head. People threw up when they were sick. It happened. It meant nothing. Your body was trying to protect itself after everything it had been through.
But your body did not seem to understand that this was supposed to be different.
It remembered.
The pressure beneath your ribs.
The saliva gathering beneath your tongue.
The instinctive way your body folded forward before you even decided to move.
You knew every step that would come next.
That knowledge terrified you more than the nausea itself.
You inhaled through your nose.
One.
Exhaled slowly.
Two.
Again.
In.
Out.
It would pass.
It had to pass.
You stayed perfectly still, one hand braced against the counter and the other pressed over your stomach.
Gradually, the pressure eased.
Only slightly, but enough that you could take a fuller breath.
You opened your eyes.
The kitchen came back into focus around you. The closed refrigerator. The tipped bottle. Sunghoon’s note fluttering faintly beneath the air from the vent.
You were okay.
You were getting through it.
Maybe if you stood there for another minute, the nausea would disappear completely. Then you could go back to the sofa. You could lie down, pull the blankets over yourself and pretend none of this had happened.
You lifted your head. The movement itself was small but still enough to set the next wave of nausea into motion.
Your stomach clenched so violently that your knees almost gave out beneath you. You covered your mouth, a broken sound catching in your throat as you stumbled away from the counter.
No.
No, no, no.
You barely made it into the bathroom.
Your shoulder collided with the doorframe on the way inside, but you barely registered the dull pain. One hand caught the edge of the sink while the other remained clamped over your mouth.
The cold porcelain pulled you back into reality for half a second.
Then your stomach twisted again.
You dropped to your knees in front of the toilet.
The position was too familiar.
That was the first clear thought that cut through the panic.
Your knees against the cold floor.
One hand gripping the toilet seat.
Your head bowed as your body prepared itself, completely ignoring every desperate command you gave it.
You stared down into the empty bowl.
Your breathing came too quickly now, shallow and uneven, and every inhale seemed to catch halfway into your lungs.
You were sick.
That was all.
You had been drugged. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was irritated. This was not something you had chosen.
This had nothing to do with before.
But the tiles beneath your knees felt the same.
The pressure behind your ribs felt the same.
The helpless, ugly awareness of what your body was about to do felt exactly the same.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the toilet.
“No,” you whispered.
The word disappeared into the quiet bathroom.
Your mouth filled with saliva again.
You swallowed forcefully, fighting against the reflex, but that only made the nausea rise higher.
“No. Please.”
You pressed one hand against your stomach, trying to force your breathing back into something manageable.
A small, broken sound escaped your lips, and you bent forward further.
The worst part was that you knew what came afterwards.
The relief.
That brief emptiness. The sudden quiet after your body had stopped fighting itself.
You hated that your mind remembered it.
You hated that some distant, buried part of you anticipated it.
The bathroom door opened behind you.
“Y/N?”
Sunghoon’s voice was sharp, immediately awake despite the sleep still roughening its edges.
You froze.
Shame hit you so quickly that it almost drowned out the nausea.
He couldn’t see you like this.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to look at him.
“Go.”
The word came out hoarse and weak.
There was a brief silence.
“What happened?” His footsteps moved closer.
“No.” You shook your head, though the motion immediately made the room tilt again. “Go away.”
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
You heard him cross the bathroom in two quick steps before he crouched beside you. His presence seemed to take up the entire small space, warm and solid against the cold air.
“Hey, hey.” His hand hovered uncertainly near your back. “Are you going to be sick?”
You flinched away from him.
Your hand left the toilet long enough to press weakly against his chest. You tried to push him back, but there was barely any strength behind the movement.
“Go,” you rasped again. “Go away, Sunghoon. I’m fine.”
The lie sounded pathetic even to you.
His brows drew together.
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.”
You pushed at him once more, but he barely moved.
Everything about the situation became unbearable at once. His closeness. His worry. The fact that he was looking at you, taking in the sweat on your face and the tears already gathering in your eyes.
You were good.
You weren’t doing this anymore.
You hadn’t done this in years.
Sunghoon had to leave.
But before either of you could say anything else, another contraction pulled through your stomach.
You doubled over, both hands returning to the toilet seat as your throat tightened around a sob.
The nausea rose hard and fast, forcing your body forward.
Sunghoon’s hand landed carefully between your shoulder blades.
You tried to shrug him off.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.” Your voice cracked at the end.
You hated this.
You hated how familiar the cold floor felt beneath your knees.
You hated that your body knew exactly what position to take, how to brace itself, how to wait for the inevitable.
Worse, you hated the small, traitorous thought moving beneath the panic.
If you threw up, you would feel better.
You knew that.
Throwing up always helped.
The nausea would disappear. The pressure would ease. The terrible fullness in your chest and stomach would finally be gone.
The thought was almost reassuring.
That realisation made terror flood through you all over again.
“Sunghoon,” you whispered.
You did not know whether you were asking him to stay or begging him to leave.
“I know,” he said quickly. His voice was tense. “I know. Just breathe, okay? Don’t fight it too hard.”
A miserable sound escaped you, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
He went still.
“No, I mean…” He shook his head rapidly, realising too late that he had said the wrong thing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a few laborious breaths, trying to get yourself under control, fighting your body even more.
“Do you want water?” he asked, panic creeping more openly into his voice. “Or your medication? Maybe the pills they gave you can still help.”
You shook your head.
The movement made your stomach lurch again.
You folded forward, one hand flying to your mouth as a choked, helpless noise tore out of you.
Sunghoon cursed under his breath.
“Okay. Okay.” His breathing was too quick now. “Don’t move. I’ll call the hospital.”
That sentence broke through the fog immediately. “No!”
Sunghoon had already started to stand, but he stopped halfway and looked down at you. “No?”
“Don’t call them.” Your voice shook so much, you weren’t sure he understood what you said.
“Y/N, you were discharged less than a day ago.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying on the bathroom floor.”
“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, moving away from him.
He stared at you for half a second, disbelief and fear moving across his face.
Then he crouched beside you again.
“You’re not fine,” his voice was quiet.
His hand reached toward your face, hesitating before carefully brushing the loose strands of hair away from your damp forehead.
“Let me call them. I can explain what’s happening and ask if this is normal. We don’t even have to go back unless they tell us to.”
Your chest tightened further.
The thought of the hospital made the humiliation burn hotter.
Doctors asking questions.
Someone writing down your weight again, discussing your body, telling you that this wasn’t healthy.
Donghyuck finding out.
Everyone watching.
Everyone knowing that you could not even be trusted to recover normally.
“If I could just…” You swallowed hard, another wave building beneath your ribs. “If I could just get it out, it would stop.”
The words left your mouth before you could catch them.
Sunghoon’s expression changed, only slightly, a small crease forming between his brows.
“What?”
Your entire body went cold.
You turned your face away from him.
“Nothing,” tears spilt down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Sunghoon’s hand stilled against your back. “For what?”
You shook your head.
For making him sit here.
For making him see you like this.
For knowing exactly what would make the nausea stop.
For the horrible, quiet relief that had already started forming in your mind before your body had even done anything.
“You shouldn’t have to…” Your voice broke. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“Don’t,” the word came out louder than he intended, but you flinched nonetheless.
His face changed immediately.
“Sorry.” He softened his voice, moving his hand more carefully over your back. “Don’t apologise. Okay? You don’t have to apologise to me.”
You stared down at the tile.
“You just got out of the hospital,” he continued. “You’re sick. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong with being sick.”
But there was.
He didn’t understand.
You weren’t doing this anymore.
A sob pushed its way out of your throat.
You covered your mouth, but it was too late.
You weren’t the girl who knelt on bathroom floors anymore.
You weren’t the girl who waited until everyone was asleep.
You weren’t the girl who planned how long to run the tap so nobody would hear.
You felt weak, embarrassed, dirty, wrong.
Sunghoon kept one hand between your shoulder blades while the other hovered uncertainly near your arm. He clearly did not know whether touching you was helping or making everything worse.
“Oh, Y/N.”
The pity you thought you heard in his voice made your throat close.
You hated it.
You hated the idea of him feeling sorry for you. You wanted to tell him to stop looking at you like that, but the nausea rose again before you could speak.
Sunghoon saw the change in your face.
“Shit.”
You turned toward the toilet. One hand caught the sink while your stomach contracted hard enough to make your entire body jerk forward.
Sunghoon’s hand returned to your back immediately.
The sound that escaped you was horrified and miserable, followed by the violent tightening of your stomach as what little remained inside it came up.
Your eyes burned.
Your throat burned.
Your fingers slipped against the cold porcelain, and Sunghoon moved closer, supporting your shoulder when you shook too hard to keep yourself steady.
“It’s okay,” he muttered, the words sounding more like something he was telling himself than something he expected you to believe. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
You hated that he was there.
You were grateful that he was there.
Both feelings existed so violently beside each other that you could barely separate them.
Your body contracted again.
Then again.
Each time, the pressure eased slightly.
And there it was.
Relief.
Small at first.
Then unmistakable.
The nausea retreated. The painful fullness beneath your ribs loosened. Your breathing became easier between the sobs catching in your throat.
You noticed it immediately.
That was the worst part.
The nausea had terrified you.
The relief terrified you more.
Your body remembered this.
Some part of you still recognised the emptiness afterwards as something clean and quiet.
You hated yourself for feeling it.
When it was over, you remained bent above the toilet for several seconds, trembling hard enough that your teeth almost knocked together.
Sunghoon’s hand moved slowly across your back.
You sat back on your heels.
A sob escaped you before you could stop it.
Sunghoon reached forward and flushed the toilet quickly.
“I’ll get you water,” he said. “Stay here. Don’t stand up.”
Before you could answer, he was gone.
You heard his footsteps hurry through the hallway, followed by the sound of drawers and cabinets opening in the kitchen.
The second he disappeared, you pushed yourself upright.
Your knees protested, and the room tilted again, but you grabbed the edge of the washing machine and forced yourself to stand.
Your mouth tasted awful.
Acid burned at the back of your throat. The bitter taste clung to your tongue, and you could still smell it in the small bathroom.
You needed it gone.
Immediately.
Your hand reached for your toothbrush before you had consciously decided to move.
You knew you were supposed to rinse first.
Some distant, reasonable part of your mind remembered being told that brushing immediately was bad for your teeth.
You did not care.
The taste made your skin crawl.
It made everything too real.
You squeezed toothpaste onto the brush with shaking fingers and started scrubbing.
The sharp mint burned against your tongue.
You brushed harder; the repetitive movement quieted something inside your head. Back and forth. Across the front. Along the sides. The taste of mint replacing the acid. The foam gathering in the sink.
For a second, it almost felt meditative.
Automatic.
Familiar.
That thought made your hand falter.
You spat into the sink and rinsed your mouth.
It wasn’t enough.
You could still feel it at the back of your throat, could still taste something sour beneath the mint.
You cleaned the toothbrush, squeezed more toothpaste onto it and started again.
Harder this time.
Your gums hurt, but you kept brushing.
You needed every trace of it gone.
After a minute or maybe more, you rinsed your mouth again, and cleaned the toothbrush more carefully than necessary before placing it back into its holder.
When you finally lifted your head, your reflection stared back at you.
You looked awful.
Your face was pale, almost grey beneath the bathroom light. Your hair had fallen loose around your shoulders, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and forehead. Your eyes were swollen and red from crying, your mouth trembling faintly even though the vomiting had stopped.
Your cheeks looked hollow.
You stared at them.
At least your face looked smaller.
The thought arrived before you could stop it.
Disgust rose through you so quickly that you almost gagged again.
What was wrong with you?
You had just been drugged.
You had spent the night in a hospital.
You had collapsed in front of a room full of people and woken up with no memory of how you had gotten there.
And this was what your brain chose to notice.
The shape of your face.
The emptiness in your stomach.
You gripped the edge of the sink.
Your stomach felt hollow now.
Not simply hungry.
Truly empty.
The sensation sat beneath your ribs, strange and familiar, making you aware of every angle of your body. The slight pull of your shirt against your waist. The bones beneath your hands. The absence of anything heavy inside you.
It had been years since you had felt like this.
Years since empty had meant more than hunger.
Years since you had treated that hollow ache like proof that you had done something right.
You stared at your reflection for too long.
Your hand remained braced against the sink, the other hanging uselessly beside you.
The girl in the mirror looked just as shocked as you felt.
Sunghoon shifted behind you. You had almost forgotten that he was there, but he was watching you quietly, holding a glass of water and a bucket in his hands.
You looked up and met his gaze through the mirror.
He wasn’t looking at you with disgust.
That almost made it worse.
His expression was soft and worried, his brows drawn together as he took in your shaking hands and tear-streaked face.
Heat spread across your face despite the cold sitting beneath your skin.
He placed the bucket carefully beside the sink, then he held the glass of water toward you.
“Rinse with this,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to drink it yet.”
You took it because refusing would require looking at him.
Your fingers brushed his, and you pulled your hand away too quickly, making some of the water spill over the rim.
“Sorry,” the word escaped you almost automatically.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened. “Stop apologising.”
You stared into the glass.
He stood there for another second before clearing his throat.
“Do you want to sleep in my room?”
You looked up at him through the mirror. “What?”
His expression changed slightly, as though he immediately regretted the way he had phrased it.
“Not like…” He scratched the back of his neck, looking away for the first time. “I just mean so I can hear you if you need anything. If you get sick again.”
Your stomach dropped for a completely different reason.
Humiliation crashed through you so quickly that your eyes stung all over again.
To him, it was probably practical.
He was worried because you had been in the hospital. He wanted to make sure you did not faint or choke or need help while he was asleep.
But all you heard was that you could not be trusted alone.
That you looked bad enough to need watching.
That he had seen something in you that made him believe you were not safe in your own room.
You swallowed hard.
“I’m fine.”
The words came out thin and unconvincing.
Sunghoon looked at you. You could tell he did not believe you. He did not challenge you immediately, though.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “But if you’re not, you can say so.”
You nodded because you did not trust yourself to speak, before you drowned the glass and placed it back on the counter with shaky hands.
Sunghoon watched you for a moment, then he stepped a little closer, still far away that he couldn’t touch you.
“You don’t have to go back to your room,” he said quietly. “That’s all I meant.”
You folded the towel over the metal rail, smoothing it twice even though it was already straight.
“I know,” your voice was quiet, almost fragile as you answered.
Sunghoon glanced down at the bucket beside the sink before looking back at you.
“I can put this next to the bed,” he said. “Just in case.”
You nodded again.
He reached for it, then hesitated.
“Do you want me to call Donghyuck?”
“No.”
Your answer came so quickly, Sunghoon raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“No,” you repeated, softer this time. “Please don’t tell him.”
Something shifted in his expression, but he did not ask why. “Okay.”
He picked up the bucket and stepped into the hallway.
You stayed in front of the mirror for another second before you turned off the bathroom light and followed him outside.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔
Sunghoon’s room was darker than yours.
The curtains were pulled almost completely shut, only a thin strip of light slipping through where the fabric did not quite meet in the middle. His desk was cluttered with notebooks, tape, charger cables and one of his training jackets thrown carelessly over the back of the chair. A faint trace of his cologne still clung to the room, mixed with laundry detergent and the colder air from the AC.
You stood near the doorway for a second, suddenly feeling awkward.
It was strange, being in here.
You had helped him move into the room months ago. You had brought him coffee while he studied at his desk, stood in the doorway while talking to him, and occasionally walked in to steal one of his chargers after knocking. But you had never been inside his bed.
Sunghoon placed the bucket on the floor beside the nightstand and moved one of the pillows closer to the wall.
“You can take that side,” he said, gesturing toward it. “It’s closer to the bathroom.”
You nodded.
The practical explanation only made your embarrassment return.
He must have noticed something in your expression because he quickly added, “Not because I think you’re going to be sick again. Just in case you get dizzy when you stand up.”
“I know.”
Your voice sounded small in the quiet room.
You climbed onto the mattress carefully, trying not to move too quickly. Your body still felt weak and uncertain beneath you, as if even sitting down required more coordination than it should have.
Sunghoon pulled the blanket back for you before stepping away.
You lowered yourself onto the far side of the bed, turning onto your side with your back toward the wall. The mattress dipped beneath your weight and smelled faintly like him. Clean fabric, shampoo and something warmer you could not identify.
You pulled the blanket up to your chest.
Sunghoon remained standing beside the bed for a moment, clearly unsure what to do with himself.
“You can sleep,” you murmured. “You don’t have to watch me.”
“I wasn’t going to watch you.”
You turned your head enough to look at him.
He was already frowning slightly, as if he had only just realised how strange that sounded.
“I mean,” he added quickly, “I’m not going to sit there and stare at you.”
Despite everything, a small breath of laughter left you. It barely made a sound, but Sunghoon’s shoulders loosened when he heard it.
“Good,” you whispered.
He nodded, then walked around the bed and lay down on the other side.
The mattress shifted beneath him.
Sunghoon stayed as close to the edge as possible, leaving a wide strip of untouched bedding between the two of you. There was enough room for another person to lie comfortably in the space separating your bodies.
He turned onto his back and pulled the blanket up only as far as his waist.
You remained on your side, facing the room.
The room fell silent.
You could hear the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint ticking of the clock on his nightstand. Somewhere outside, a car drove past, its headlights briefly slipping through the gap in the curtains before disappearing again.
You closed your eyes.
Your body was exhausted.
Every muscle felt heavy, your head still ached, and the cold emptiness in your stomach had been replaced by a dull soreness. You should have fallen asleep immediately.
Instead, your mind refused to become quiet.
You could still feel the edge of the toilet beneath your fingers.
The bitter taste beneath the toothpaste.
Sunghoon’s hand against your back.
The way he had looked at you through the mirror.
You pulled the blanket a little higher, pressing your lips together as if that could stop the memories from moving through your head.
Minutes passed.
You were not sure how many.
Sunghoon shifted slightly on the other side of the bed. The movement was careful, almost hesitant, as though he was trying not to disturb you.
Then he spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
Your eyes opened.
For a second, you thought you might have imagined it.
You slowly turned your head toward him.
Sunghoon was still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His arms rested stiffly at his sides, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket.
“For what?”
His jaw moved slightly before he answered.
“For convincing you to go.”
Your brows drew together.
“What?”
“To the party.” His voice was quiet. “You didn’t want to go.”
You turned onto your back so you could look at him properly.
His profile was barely visible in the darkness. The line of his nose, the slight tension in his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly above him instead of looking in your direction.
“You had a migraine,” he continued. “You looked exhausted before we even left, and I still told you it would be fine.”
“Sunghoon–”
“I should’ve told you to stay home.”
“No.”
The word came out more firmly than anything you had said since leaving the hospital.
Sunghoon finally looked at you.
You pushed yourself slightly higher against the pillow.
“No,” you repeated. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I convinced you to come.”
“And I’m glad you did.”
He stared at you.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry your throat still felt.
“I mean it,” you said. “It was fun.”
His expression did not change.
“At the beginning,” you added quickly. “When I was with you and your friends. And Jaemin. I was having fun.”
Sunghoon’s brows pulled together. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”
“I’m not,” you turned more toward him, ignoring the way the room shifted faintly with the movement.
“I never go anywhere,” you said. “You know that. I work or study or stay at home. And I wanted to go. I was nervous, but I wanted to.”
He looked unconvinced. “You said yourself that you didn’t like parties.”
“I don’t usually.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is,” you took a breath, trying to arrange your thoughts into something that made sense. “I had fun when Jake hugged me even though it almost killed me,” you murmured. “And when Jay started arguing with Jaemin about music. And when you made your team lose at beer pong the whole time because you kept throwing the ball everywhere else instead of the table.”
Sunghoon’s mouth shifted faintly. “I wasn’t losing.”
“You were terrible.”
“I had one bad round.”
“You missed the table with like every shot.”
“It was crowded.”
A tiny smile pulled at your mouth despite yourself.
For a moment, the tension in the room eased.
Then Sunghoon looked away again, and it disappeared.
“You still wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t asked you.”
You stared at him.
“No,” you said softly. “But that doesn’t make it your fault.”
He remained silent. The guilt in his expression made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.
“It was mine.”
Sunghoon turned his head sharply.
“What?”
You looked down at the blanket gathered beneath your hands. “It was my fault.”
Sunghoon pushed himself onto one elbow.
“No.”
“I should have paid attention.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even think about having to watch my cup.”
“Y/N.”
“It was just water, right? Why would someone spike water?”
Your voice began moving faster, the thoughts spilling out now that you had started.
“Everyone knows you’re supposed to watch your drinks at parties. I was stupid. I wasn’t paying attention, and then everyone had to deal with it. You and Jaemin had to deal wth me being unconscious. You had to call the ambulance. Donghyuck left whatever party he was at and came in his costume. You missed training today and had to sit there all night because I–”
“Stop.”
Sunghoon’s voice cut through yours.
You froze.
He was fully turned toward you now, the empty space between you suddenly feeling smaller despite neither of you having moved closer.
“That is not what happened.”
You looked away.
“It is.”
“No,” his answer was immediate. “You had fun at a party and trusted the people around you to not have any bad intentions. That’s what you did.”
“I should’ve been more careful,” you pressed your lips together.
Sunghoon’s voice stayed controlled, but there was something sharp beneath it now. Not anger directed at you, but anger that seemed to fill the space around him.
“He put something in your drink,” he said. “He did that. You didn’t.”
“I still drank it.”
“Because you thought it was water.”
“I should’ve noticed.”
“How?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“How were you supposed to notice?” he asked again. “Was it supposed to smell different? Look different? Were you supposed to know what he was thinking?”
You stared down at your hands.
Sunghoon sat up slightly, his back resting against the headboard.
“You trusted someone not to poison you,” he continued. “That isn’t a mistake.”
Your throat tightened. “It feels like one.”
“I know,” his voice was firm. “But it wasn’t, Y/N. It wasn’t your fault.”
You blinked rapidly, refusing to look at him. “If I had been more careful–”
“Then he might have done it to someone else.”
You looked at him. Sunghoon’s face was difficult to read in the darkness, but his eyes were fixed on you.
“That doesn’t make it better,” he said. “And it doesn’t make you responsible. It means he made a choice to hurt someone.”
Your chest felt too tight“You don’t know that he wanted to hurt me.”
“He drugged you,” his voice hardened again. “He watched you get confused. He watched you lose control of your body, and he still kept touching you.”
Fragments flashed through your mind.
A hand at your waist.
A voice too close to your ear.
The wall beneath your palm.
Then Sunghoon’s voice cutting through the music.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“That was his choice,” Sunghoon said. “Every part of it.”
The mattress shifted.
For a second, you thought he might move closer, but he did not. He remained on his side of the bed, leaving the space between you untouched.
“Not yours,” he continued. “You didn’t choose to be drugged. None of this is your fault. It's not mine or Jaemin’s. It’s Intak’s fault.”
You turned your face toward the wall again. The darkness blurred slightly as tears gathered in your eyes.
Sunghoon was quiet for a few seconds, then his voice softened.
“And you’re allowed to feel awful. You don’t have to be okay.”
Your fingers tightened against the fabric.
“You were drugged,” he said. “You woke up in a hospital without knowing what happened to you. You feel sick, and tired, and scared. You’re allowed to feel all of that.”
A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and disappeared into the pillow.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” he continued. “Or upset. Or disgusted. You’re allowed to hate everything right now.” His voice cracked slightly on the next sentence. “You don’t have to make it easier for us if it’s hard for you, Y/N.”
That hurt more than you expected.
You swallowed hard and tried to say something, anything, but nothing came out of your mouth, because what were you supposed to say? You were you fine?
The silence stretched between you, but he did not fill it immediately.
He did not ask whether you understood.
He did not make you promise that you believed him.
He simply remained there, close enough that you could hear his breathing but far enough that you did
not feel cornered.
You stared at the wall.
Your body still felt wrong.
Your stomach was hurting, your throat was burning, shame was still sitting heavily beneath your skin.
Nothing he had said made those feelings disappear.
But for the first time since waking in the hospital, you did not feel as though you had to argue with them.
You did not have to insist that you were fine.
You did not have to explain.
You could simply lie there and feel horrible.
A quiet sob caught in your chest.
You pressed your face further into the pillow, trying to hide it.
Sunghoon did not move closer.
He did not reach across the space between you without asking.
He did not try to fix it.
He did not ask you to stop crying.
He was simply there.
And eventually, with your body still trembling faintly and his breathing steady behind you, exhaustion pulled you under.
Thank you so much for reading!
Lots of Love,
Patty
⤷ ゛OTHER INSTALLMENTS OF THE SERIES ˎˊ˗
AN ──── FINALLY! ITS HERE! Thank you so much for waiting! I hope you all had a great time reading...at least the fluffy parts. The next parts could be tiggering even more to those suffering or healing from an ed, so i am advising you to not continue reading. Its gonna be very angsty. Also if anyone is wondering why this took so long, ill let you know tht just formatting this to tumrbl text format took me 3 hours and reading over the text before that took 2 1/2 hours 😀. So i'd be really gratefull to hear your thought, I need that lil dopaimne, please don't be a quiet reader 😔🫶🏻
to the girl who is always the lesson but never the one
pairing: non-idol!jungwon x fem!reader
warnings: angst with happy ending, fluff, y/n is an overthinker and has lots of insecurities, heartbreak, jungwon somehow giving mixed signals, slow burn, did i miss anything?? hopefully not.
premise: y/n has always been the lesson, never the one. so when jungwon, the boy who is kind to everyone, begins caring for her in ways that feel a little too intentional to ignore, she convinces herself it’s just his nature. but as her feelings grow, she reminds herself how relationships always end. now, she must decide whether believing in him is worth the risk of being temporary again.
word count: 21,660
***
dear, y/n,
in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. sad to say, you're the latter.
there is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes with being someone’s stepping stone.
you spend months, sometimes years smoothing out their rough edges, teaching them how to love properly, how to listen, and how to stay. and then, once they’ve finally learned the lesson, they leave to go be with someone else.
at this point, you've become an expert at the curriculum. but you were never the one who got to keep the degree.
the cafe was loud, a chaotic symphony of clinking ceramic cups and the low hum of afternoon chatter, but it all faded into white noise the moment the image loaded on your feed.
it was a simple photo. a sunlit afternoon, two matching gold rings, and a caption that felt like a quiet slap to my face: soobin, your ex, his hands on another girl’s waist while he kisses her cheek.
thank you for teaching me how to love properly, the caption said.
two years.
you stared at the photo, my thumb hovering over the screen. he was with you for two years and he couldn’t say those words to you, even in your anniversary. the whole time in your relationship, he was reckless, emotionally distant, and entirely unpolished. you spent a year settling for what you had because you thought it was love.
but the day he sent you a text saying it was over, he told you he just wasn't ready for commitment. now you realize he was ready, he just needed two years of your patience to learn how to be the man a girl deserved.
then there was jaemin, a senior from high school, your first…you wouldn’t say boyfriend but a fling. it was simple, you liked him and he liked you back. but only because you liked him that he liked you back.
then when he met a girl from his club where he really, really liked, your fling was over.
and even before all of them, there was the ultimate what if: park jongseong.
he was your childhood friend, the boy who lived just doors down, whose laughter was the soundtrack to your earliest memories. you had loved him since you were six years old, a silly, innocent crush that somehow managed to grow up right alongside you. as the years bled into high school, that fondness turned into something heavy and terrifying. you spent months practicing confessions in front of your bedroom mirror, your heart hammering against your ribs, only to swallow the words every time you saw him smile at you. he was your safe haven. the risk of speaking up and ruining the one steady friendship you had was a price you couldn't bear to pay.
until, he took an interest in your cousin, karina. you watched frozen as he confessed to her in the school field during lunch. he told you that day that he would confess, breaking your illusion of anything happening between the both of you. what you didn’t expect was he fell for someone you also knew for years, let alone a family member.
then months later, he admitted that he liked you back. but you were still just children then. his definition of love was too small, too cautious to risk breaking the fragile, beautiful friendship you had built. he didn’t know how to hold a girl’s hand while holding her history at the same time. but thanks to you, he knew what real love was. you gave him a lesson he’d forever treasure.
just not with you.
the worst part, you never got to tell him how you felt. you just quietly stepped aside, becoming the supportive best friend who helped him figure out what to say to her.
"y/n? hey, are you even listening to me?"
wonhee, your roommate snapped the thread of my thoughts. she was sitting across you, a half-eaten plate of pasta between us, looking at me with a mixture of concern and mild annoyance.
you locked my phone, the screen going mercifully black, and forced a practiced smile onto my face. "yeah. sorry. just... an internship notification. what were you saying?”
"i was saying about the drama I just overheard by the counter while getting our drinks."
she leaned in closer across the small table, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "you know jisu from the department next to ours? apparently, she and sunghoon just made it official on their feeds. like, matching profile pictures, public couple status, the whole nine yards."
wonhee shook her head, taking a slow sip of her drink. "everyone is losing their minds because sunghoon used to be notorious for being completely uncatchable. he’d date a girl for a month, get bored, and leave them with enough character development to write a novel. but look at him now—completely whipped. i guess some girls are just born to be the final destination, while the rest of us are just the rest stops along the highway."
you gave wonhee a weak smile, “tell me about it.”
just when you were about to mope on your feelings, your boss from your internship messaged that you interns are needed tomorrow for an urgent shoot. luckily, you had no classes tomorrow so you have time while still catching up with some tasks for school.
tomorrow has finally arrived and you came to the building of the prestige building of véra, a magazine known for its sleek minimalism and its legendary ability to turn underground creators into overnight icons. it was a place where trends didn't just get covered—they were born.
"no, absolutely not. the lighting is completely flat, and the silk looks like cardboard under these gels. look at the monitor!"
"i’m tracking the ambient light, okay? but if you want that raw, overcast mood you specifically asked for in the mood board, we need to shift the reflectors. now."
the sharp, overlapping voices echoed across the massive concrete studio space the moment you pushed past the heavy double doors. the atmosphere inside was thick with tension, a frantic ballet of production assistants rushing past with garment bags, makeup artists adjusting their kits under blinding vanity lights, and the distant, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a high-end camera shutter.
in the center of the chaos stood the creative director, kang jiah, pinching the bridge of her nose in sheer frustration, while the lead photographer, oh minseok adjusted a massive lens on his tripod.
as a makeup artist student, your brain automatically began calculating the fix before anyone even asked you to. you could see the problem from ten feet away: the model had a gorgeous, warm skin tone, but the current lighting was clashing with the undertone of her foundation, making the high-shine finish look chaotic instead of seamless.
you gripped the handles of your professional makeup train case a little tighter, swallowing down your nervousness. you were just a standby intern here to clean brushes, prep skin, or rush to the makeup artist’s bag for products they need, but the thick tension in the room made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“excuse me,” a calm, clear voice suddenly broke the thick tension in the room. "if i may offer a small suggestion? what if we change the polarization instead?"
from the shadows behind the main monitor setup, a boy who seemed to be around your age stepped forward. he was dressed simply in a loose black sweater and clean trousers, a professional light meter slung casually around his neck.
"if we drop a linear polarizer onto the lens and tilt the key light down by just five degrees, the camera should cut the greasy reflection from the strobe while keeping the model's natural skin texture completely intact. director kang gets her soft, glass-skin look on the monitor, and you won't lose your highlights, sir. It should take less than two minutes to adjust."
the studio went quiet for a beat. photographer oh peered over his shoulder, checking the math on the monitor, before a slow, appreciative nod broke across his face. he stepped up to his own rig, quickly adjusting the polarization filter to test the student's theory.
"he's right. the polarization math checks out," photographer oh announced to the room, looking thoroughly impressed. "good eye…what’s your name?”
“jungwon, sir. yang jungwon.”
“good eye, jungwon.” director kang told jungwon with her stern voice but the look of amusement on her face did not leave.
yang jungwon.
everyone at the university knew who he was. he wasn't just talented; he was the golden boy and a prodigy. he was the type of student who's friends with everyone, the student whose photography portfolios were already being archived by professors as future curriculum benchmarks.
he possessed a rare, effortless blend of sharp academic intelligence and raw artistic intuition. he was brilliant, celebrated, and completely out of reach.
a boy existing in a flawless, sunlit orbit that a guarded, cynical standby intern like you had no business crossing.
jungwon wiped a stray lock of hair from his forehead, offering a small, dimpled smile to a stressed-out production assistant who had just dropped a roll of gaffer tape near his feet. he bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her with a gentle, "here you go. don't worry, we have plenty of time."
you swallowed hard, averting your eyes.
he was brilliant, he was elite, and he was universally kind. the ultimate hazard sign.
it would be a lie if you said you didn't find him cute the first time you saw him in the building.
"y/n, go in and touch up the nose and jawline," the head makeup artist, hyeji called out, waving a hand toward the vanity. "matte it down just a bit so the polarization works properly."
you blinked, snapping out of your thoughts, and quickly grabbed your powder puff and a translucent setting powder.
walking onto a live set always felt like stepping into a spotlight. your heart did a nervous little flutter as you approached the model, consciously keeping your eyes glued to her face and away from the monitor station where jungwon was standing.
"excuse me," you whispered politely to the model, stepping into her personal space.
you raised your hand, your fingers stabilizing against her jaw as you gently tapped the powder puff onto her skin. this was your comfort zone. the familiar scent of cosmetics and the meticulous, rhythmic tapping usually calmed your nerves.
until you felt a presence shift right behind you.
"ah, wait a second please," a quiet voice murmured.
you froze, your hand hovering inches from the model’s cheek. jungwon had stepped up right next to you, leaning in slightly to look at the model's face through the small space between you two. he was close enough that you could catch the subtle, clean scent of his fabric softener—like fresh laundry and cold winter air.
he wasn't looking at you. his sharp, focused eyes were entirely on how the studio lights hit the model's skin finish. he raised a hand, using his thumb to gently mimic the angle of the key light.
"if she tilts her chin up just a fraction when y/n finishes dusting the powder," jungwon said softly, addressing the photographer while subconsciously using your name, "the shadow under the jaw will clean up perfectly."
your breath hitched in your throat. y/n. he didn't even know you, yet hearing your name leave his lips in that calm, casual tone felt like a sudden spike of electricity.
this feeling was familiar, you said.
as soon as the thought crossed your mind, a cold wave of reality washed over you, dousing the spark before it could even catch fire. you quickly finished the last few taps of powder, stepped back, and offered a hurried, polite bow to the model and jungwon before retreating to the dark edges of the studio.
your chest felt tight. you're doing it again, you scolded yourself, your fingers gripping the plastic handle of your powder compact so hard your knuckles turned white.
you felt pathetic. you felt completely, utterly cursed.
it was always like this. one soft glance, one polite gesture, a boy simply using your name and your heart was already trying to sprint ahead. you fell fast, hopelessly fast, like a script that had already been written for you a hundred times before. you were the girl who romanticized the bare minimum, the girl who mistook a photographer's technical focus for something personal.
you closed your eyes for a brief second, forcing your breathing to steady.
if you let yourself look at yang jungwon, you knew exactly how this story would end. he would smile, he would be kind, he would inadvertently teach you how to love a little deeper—and then he would hand his heart to someone else, leaving you behind with nothing but a notebook full of character development.
you weren't going to be the rest stop on his highway. not this time.
"y/n? can you clean the brushes from the morning prep?" the senior makeup artist's voice called out from the vanity room.
"coming," you replied, your voice dropping back into its practiced, neutral tone. you pulled your shoulders back and walked away from the lit set, determined to keep yourself distracted from whatever feelings that are rising.
***
dear, y/n,
sometimes, old habits die hard. you recognized the electricity today, didn't you? it’s the exact same current that left you in the dark three times before. he is a walking hazard sign with a dimpled smile, and you are already stepping over the yellow tape. the truth is, you missed the way a single voice could make the room tilt, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt kind of beautiful to feel everything all at once again.
the train ride home was the worst part of the day. it gave you too much time to think, the rhythmic, metallic hum of the carriage matching the uneasy beat of your heart as the train rattled through the city.
sitting crushed between tired commuters, you pulled out your phone. your thumbs moved on pure instinct, opening the app and typing his name into the search bar before your logical brain could even try to stop you.
@jw_209
you swallowed hard as his profile loaded. no private account lock. no gatekeeping. just a blue checkmark, a massive follower count, and a grid that looked exactly like a highly curated digital museum.
your eyes scanned his feed, and that familiar flutter settled deep in your chest.
he liked taking photos of landscapes with ethereal vibes. misty horizons, soft pastel sunrises over quiet shorelines, and ancient trees swallowed by a dreamlike haze. he captured the world in a way that made ordinary things look completely breathtaking.
he was incredibly talented, yet his captions were entirely humble. just a single camera emoji or a word or phrases about the fleeting nature of everyday moments, or how softly a quiet afternoon can pass you by.
then, you scrolled down a bit further and hit the real hazard zone: his tagged photos.
there were countless pictures of him posted by other people. jungwon sitting at a university cafe surrounded by a huge group of friends, all of them leaning into him. jungwon smiling broadly, showing off those deep, clear dimples as he held up a peace sign next to girls from the dance club, the cheer squad, the student council. every single person in his tagged photos looked happy just to be standing near him.
he was tagged in sweet birthday posts, late-night study group sessions, and celebratory dinner collages. he wasn't just liked. he was cherished by everyone who crossed his path.
though he doesn't post photos of people in his social media. you guessed he likes to keep the people in his life private or he just likes taking photos of landscapes than people.
on the way back home, you were pulled right out of your thoughts by the familiar chimes of the convenience store down the street from your dorm.
the door swung open, and a boy stepped out into the humid night air, a small plastic bag dangling from his fingers. your footsteps completely faltered on the pavement.
it was yang jungwon.
he was dressed down even more than he had been at the studio, his hair slightly damp and a pair of simple slippers on his feet. he stopped under the warm, buzzing glow of the storefront sign, completely breaking the distant, untouchable image you had just been staring at on your phone. he was right here. in your neighborhood.
before you could even think about hiding or turning around, he raised his head. his sharp eyes blinked in surprise, and then, those deep, familiar dimples cut into his cheeks as he caught sight of you.
"oh? y/n, right?"
“j-jungwon!”
damn it, you really had to stutter and raise your voice.
“you just got home?”
"yeah, the head artist wanted the foundation brushes sanitized tonight because the morning crew needs them fresh, and then i had to sort the sponge bins and double-check the inventory list for the next shoot since we won't even be there on friday, so it just took way longer than expected."
it felt like you couldn’t breathe after that. why did you have to overexplain? he had asked a simple four-word question, and you had handed him a full logistical breakdown of your internship duties like a nervous suspect under interrogation.
jungwon blinked softly, taking in your breathless ramble. for a horrifying second, you thought he might find you completely weird—but then, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and that deep, gentle dimple appeared on his cheek.
"ah, so that's why you're so late," he murmured, his voice incredibly soft in the quiet night air. "you worked really hard today.”
“t-thank you. it was just part of the job, really. i’m still just a standby intern, so i have to do my best not to get in anyone's way."
jungwon tilted his head slightly, his gaze warm. "you didn't get in anyone's way. your skin prep made the polarization adjustment work perfectly."
the fact that he remembered that brought your heart into a sudden, breathless flutter, the erratic rhythm pounding so loud against your ribs you were terrified he could hear it in the midnight quiet. it was that exact same jolt of electricity from the studio, only this time, it felt twice as loud under the quiet streetlights. your heart was doing dangerous, hopeful flips, completely ignoring every single warning you had just given yourself.
jungwon shifted his weight, his plastic bag rustling softly against his sweatpants. he looked down at the street for a second, a small, polite smile lingering on his lips before he looked back up at you.
"well, it's getting pretty late," he said softly, gesturing slightly with his head toward the direction of the apartment blocks. "i should probably head back home before the ice cream i bought completely melts."
you blinked, forcing your brain to kick back into gear. "oh! right, yeah. of course. go ahead."
"get home safely, y/ni," he murmured, stepping past you with a gentle nod. "see you at the studio on friday."
"goodnight," you whispered to his retreating back.
you stood frozen on the pavement, watching his tall, relaxed figure disappear into the shadows of the street. the subtle scent of his fabric softener still lingered faintly in the humid night air, a cruel reminder that he had actually been standing right there.
you let out a long, shaky exhale, finally allowing your shoulders to drop. you were supposed to be building walls. you were supposed to be guarding your heart against the ultimate hazard sign.
but as you turned the key to your dorm room, your heart was still stubbornly replaying the exact way his dimples looked under the convenience store light.
the quiet hum of your desk lamp was the only sound in the room. you had been staring at your color theory assignment for the past hour, but the lines of text were starting to blur together. your brain was entirely fried.
just a five-minute break, you promised yourself.
it was a lie, and you knew it. your fingers moved on pure autopilot, unlocking your phone and opening the app before your conscience could stage an intervention. you had explicitly told yourself to stop looking. you had promised yourself on the train, and again at the door of your dorm, that you wouldn't feed the curse.
but as you clicked on his profile, a little red circle illuminated his profile picture.
new post • 2 min. ago
your breath caught. you tapped it.
it wasn't an ethereal landscape or a misty sunrise. it was a shot taken from a low angle, capturing the wet asphalt of the pavement reflecting the warm, buzzing neon glow of the convenience store sign down your street. in the distance, the blurry silhouette of the quiet neighborhood stretched into the dark, looking incredibly nostalgic and soft through his lens.
it was the exact spot where you had been standing together just an hour ago.
he had captured the ordinary street and turned it into something poetic. your heart did that dangerous, breathless stumble all over again as your eyes drifted down to the caption.
he wrote: daylight.
***
dear y/n,
how are you supposed to know which signs are real and which ones are just the universe playing a cruel joke? when you spend your whole life guarding your heart against a curse, you start to see warnings everywhere. you read caution tape in a polite smile. you read danger in a dimple. but when a boy posts a picture of a midnight street and labels it daylight, what are you supposed to believe? is it a green light, or just another beautiful hazard sign?
you and jungwon have the same elective of visual media color theory. though you never noticed him fully until yesterday’s studio shoot, you now vividly remember seeing his name printed right above yours on the attendance sheet every single week.
today, you sat right in the middle of the classroom just to get a better view, since you could barely see the slides when you were seated at the sides of the room.
what you didn't expect was looking up to see the dimpled boy sliding into the empty seat right next to you, greeting you with a soft smile.
“hey, y/n.”
“h-hi! jungwon.”
the syllable felt heavy on your tongue, entirely too loud for the quiet buzz of the classroom before the professor walked in. you quickly looked down at your desk, blindly organizing your highlighters just to keep your hands from shaking.
he set his laptop down on the wooden desk, the plastic convenience store bag from last night nowhere to be seen, replaced now by the clean, sharp scent of his usual cologne. out of the corner of your eye, you watched him lean back in his chair, his long legs stretching out comfortably under the desk.
"you usually sit by the windows, don't you?" he asked, his voice low and conversational as he adjusted his screen.
your hands froze on your pencil case. you turned your head to look at him, your chest tightening. "y-yes. how did you know?"
jungwon paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. he turned his head to meet your gaze, those deep dimples faintly tracing his cheeks as a soft, easy smile broke across his face. "i sit a few rows back. it's kind of hard not to notice when you're always dropping your pens under the chairs."
a mortified heat rushed straight to your face. you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. all this time, you thought you were completely invisible, a nameless face in a hundred-person lecture hall. but he hadn't just seen you yesterday—he had been watching your clumsy morning routines for weeks.
"i don't drop them that often," you muttered defensively, though your voice lacked any real bite because your heart was currently trying to escape your ribs.
"hm, if you say so," he amusedly replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder almost brushing against yours. "but since you moved to the middle today, i figured i'd move too. the view is better here anyway."
the professor finally walked into the room, clapping his hands to start the lecture, but your brain had already completely short-circuited.
the view is better here anyway.
you didn't say it out loud, but you completely, wholeheartedly agreed.
the view from the middle of the room really was so much better, especially when it included the sharp line of his jawline and the soft way his hair fell over his forehead as he looked back down at his laptop screen. you couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at your lips. you had originally just wanted to see the lesson clearly, but sitting right next to yang jungwon was an undeniable upgrade.
as the professor finally walked in and the slides changed to color wheel harmonies, you leaned back in your chair, feeling a warm, victorious rush of giddiness settling deep in your chest.
throughout the whole lecture, jungwon noticed how you were having a hard time catching up with the professor’s fast pacing. without a word, he simply slid his notebook toward the center of the desk, his clean, neat handwriting perfectly capturing everything you had missed.
you blinked, giving him a questioning look that clearly said, what about you?
he just leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he murmured, “it’s okay. i have photographic memory anyway.”
a quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, though you quickly clamped a hand over your mouth so the rest of the lecture hall wouldn't hear.
and when class ended, one of your elective mates came to jungwon and thanked him for lending him his notes from last week’s session.
you froze, your fingers tightening around your pen. a cold splash of reality hit you right in the face. you had almost fallen for it. you had almost convinced yourself jungwon only did that gesture for you.
but he was just like that with everyone else.
***
dear y/n,
sometimes, it would be easier to just pull back completely and build your walls so high that no dimpled smile can reach you. it is easy to tell yourself to keep your distance when you think you are just another face in his crowded room. you can convince your mind that his kindness is a warning sign, a trap designed to make you stumble.
but what are you supposed to do when the universe refuses to cooperate with your defenses? how do you run away when every detour somehow leads you straight back into his path? it feels like the world is intentionally shrinking, forcing your orbits to cross whether you are ready for it or not.
if every sudden encounter keeps pushing you closer, maybe the real danger isn't his casual charm. maybe the real hazard is how badly you want to stop running. you are standing on the edge of the hazard zone, and you are starting to realize you don't want to step back.
but the universe, it seemed, hadn't gotten the memo.
"y/n, thank goodness you're here early," the head stylist breathed, rushing past you with an armful of garment bags the moment you stepped into the studio. "the model for the second layout just called in sick, and the concept director is losing her mind. since you have the closest features to our model, could you maybe stand in for her today? don’t worry, i won’t make you add extra work. just be a model for today.”
your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around the strap of your makeup kit. "me? a model?"
"yes, please! the lighting is already set up for your skin profile anyway," she pleaded, gently nudging you toward the center of the dark studio before rushing off to coordinate with the wardrobe team.
even though you were nervous, you felt flattered by the sudden shift from being the one holding the brushes to being the one everyone was rushing to get ready.
seconds later, you were pressed into the leather chair, staring at your own reflection framed by bright, blinding vanity bulbs. as the senior makeup artist began sweeping a fluffy brush across your cheekbones, your eyes instinctively drifted to the mirror's reflection, scanning the dark background of the studio.
there he was.
jungwon was standing by the equipment table, a light meter slung around his neck as he manually adjusted a camera lens. but as you watched him through the glass, his hands suddenly slowed down. without turning his head, his gaze quietly shifted upward, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the mirror.
your heart did a violent, dangerous skip. for a split second, you were entirely breathless, caught in a silent, cross-room stare through a sheet of glass.
but then, jungwon blinked, casually turning away to say something to a lighting crew member as if nothing had happened.
you quickly looked down at your lap, your cheeks burning under the heavy layer of setting powder. you're tripping, you firmly told yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. you are completely hallucinating. he was a photographer; he was probably just looking at the vanity lights or checking the ambient glare in the room. he wasn't looking at you. he couldn't be.
"all done, sweetheart! step onto the backdrop for me," the artist said, giving your shoulder a reassuring pat.
your feet felt heavy, practically glued to the floorboards as you finally stepped onto the seamless backdrop. the harsh studio lights cut through the shadows, illuminating the space and making you feel incredibly exposed.
at the center of the set, jungwon was now waiting by the tripod. when you took your place, he slowly lowered the camera body from his face. the casual, easygoing expression he always wore vanished. he didn't smile, and he didn't drop a playful comment like he did in the classroom. he just stared, his dark eyes tracking you with that exact same quiet, unreadable intensity you thought you had imagined in the mirror.
you fixed your posture, forcing your face into a neutral, professional mask. you had to remember the lesson from yesterday. you weren't special.
“whenever you're ready, jungwon,” director kang said, her voice sharp but steady as she reviewed the digital monitor from the sidelines.
jungwon blinked, the director's voice hitting him like a sudden splash of cold water, snapping him out of his trance. his jaw tightened slightly as he quickly looked away from you, slowly raising the camera back to his eye to hide his face behind the lens.
"right," his voice came out a little rougher than usual, echoing slightly in the quiet studio. "let's... let's start with the profile shots. look slightly to the left, please."
you did as he asked, turning your chin toward the shadows and focusing your eyes on a random spot on the studio wall. at first, your limbs felt stiff, every muscle in your neck tight with the lingering anxiety of being just a temporary replacement. you were acutely aware of the lens pointed at you, and even more aware of the boy behind it.
click.
the flash illuminated the dark studio for a microsecond.
"good," jungwon’s voice drifted over from the tripod, lower now, carrying a calm, steady rhythm that instantly cut through your panic. "just like that. now drop your shoulders a bit, y/n. take a deep breath in... and let it out."
you followed his voice, exhaling slowly. as your shoulders relaxed, something shifted inside you. you looked down at the structured, high-fashion wardrobe they had styled you in, felt the perfect weight of the makeup on your skin, and realized something liberating: you weren't a mistake or a technical hitch. you were a cosmetology student who understood exactly how angles, textures, and lighting worked. you knew your face. you knew your undertones.
and suddenly, you didn't feel like a hiding substitute anymore. you felt powerful.
"perfect. keep that exact expression," jungwon murmured. click. "tilt your head up just a fraction. let the key light hit the high points of your cheekbones."
his guidance was effortless. he wasn't treating you like a standard, disposable model, nor was he acting like the casual classmate who shared notes. behind the camera, yang jungwon was a complete professional. he gave commands with a quiet, grounding confidence that made you feel completely safe to move, to experiment, to own the space under the lights.
click. click.
"bring your hands up toward your collarbone," he instructed softly, the lens tracking your movements. "soft fingers. look right into the lens this time."
you didn't hesitate. you turned your head back toward the center, lifting your chin, and looked directly down the barrel of his camera lens. you locked eyes with him through the glass, no longer trying to hide behind a neutral mask. you let your confidence show—letting him see that you were completely present, commanding the set just as much as he was.
from behind the camera, you heard the faint, sharp intake of jungwon's breath. but the camera didn't stutter.
"beautiful," he whispered, the word carrying a raw, genuine weight that sent a different kind of thrill straight down your spine. click. "stay right there. don't move."
beautiful.
he just said it so casually, so effortlessly, but the word felt entirely too heavy as it hung in the space between you. he didn't lower the lens, keeping his gaze locked onto yours through the camera glass as if he were trying to capture something far deeper than just a standard lighting test.
"and... cut!" director kang's voice suddenly cut through the air, breaking the spell. "excellent work, everyone. let's check the monitor."
the blinding studio lights dimmed slightly as the crew immediately swarmed around the main digital display. you stepped off the seamless backdrop, your knees feeling a little weak now that the adrenaline was fading. you tentatively walked over to the edge of the crowd, peeking over a stylist's shoulder to look at the screen.
a small gasp escaped your lips. the images looking back at you didn't look like a nervous, last-minute substitute at all. the lighting caught the crisp edges of your jawline, the makeup looked flawless under the exposure, and your eyes held a sharp, captivating confidence.
"wow, y/n, look at your facial symmetry," one of the senior stylists praised, clapping her hands together. "the textures are so clean. you look incredible!"
"honestly, you saved us today," director kang agreed, nodding dynamic approval as she scrolled through the burst shots. "the mood is exactly what we needed for the editorial pitch. you're a natural."
your chest swelled with a warm, triumphant rush of pride. all your hours studying skin prep and facial angles had paid off, and hearing the professional crew validate your work made you feel completely on top of the world.
"i'm completely satisfied with how these turned out," a quiet, familiar voice spoke up from behind you.
you turned around to find jungwon standing there, his camera now resting against his hip. he wasn't looking at the monitor anymore; his dark eyes were fixed directly on you, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips.
"the lighting and the textures hit perfectly," he added, his voice low and private amidst the loud chatter of the crew. "i'm really glad y/n stepped in today."
your heart gave a violent, unruly thud against your ribs.
the crew was still talking loudly around you, debating layout designs and background colors, but your selective hearing had already locked the world out. i'm really glad y/n stepped in today. his words replayed in a dizzying loop, sweet and terrifyingly sincere.
he might have sounded like a good coworker but as you looked at the faint trace of his dimples, you knew your defenses were in serious trouble.
after changing your outfit from the shoot, you stopped in your tracks when you saw jungwon clearing up the equipment by himself. the heavy studio lights were mostly shut off, leaving only the dim, warm overheads casting long shadows across the empty room. he looked completely different now. his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows as he reached up to untighten a massive softbox modifier from its stand.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting your tote bag down on a nearby stool. you walked over, your sneakers squeaking quietly against the concrete floor.
"need a hand?" you asked, reaching out to stabilize the heavy metal base of the C-stand before it could tilt forward.
jungwon blinked, looking down at you from his height. a look of surprise crossed his face, followed quickly by that familiar, easy smile. "oh, y/n. you're still here? it's okay, i've got it. you should head home, it's getting late."
"i want to help," you replied, your voice steady despite the quiet thumping in your chest. you didn't let go of the metal stand. "besides, you're the one who did all the heavy lifting during the shoot. consider it payback for the notes."
jungwon let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "alright. if you insist."
for the next twenty minutes, the studio was quiet except for the rustle of velcro, the clinking of metal stands, and the low, easy hum of casual conversation. you helped him coil the heavy black extension cords while he carefully packed his camera body and lenses into his padded backpack. without the pressure of the crew or the blinding lights, the stiff walls you had painstakingly built after yesterday's lecture began to feel entirely useless.
"all set," jungwon finally said, zipping his bag closed and swinging it over one shoulder. he turned off the remaining studio switch, plunging the room into darkness except for the green exit light by the door. "let's go?"
you nodded, walking out into the cool evening air together.
the walk to the transit station was surprisingly peaceful. the streets of the city were buzzing with the usual nighttime traffic, but between the two of you, there was a comfortable, easy rhythm. you talked about the concept director’s hectic energy, your favorite color theories, and how relieving it was to finally finish a long week of classes.
when you finally reached your stop, you turned to wave goodbye, but jungwon didn't stay on the platform. instead, he quietly stepped off the train right behind you.
"wait, jungwon," you blinked, looking around the familiar street corner near your neighborhood. "your place isn't around here, is it?"
jungwon adjusted the strap of his heavy camera bag, looking down at you under the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp. his dimples showed faintly as he smiled, his hands slipping into his pockets.
"it's not," he admitted casually, his voice low and incredibly grounding in the quiet night. "but it's dark out, and you worked hard today. i wanted to make sure you got home safe."
your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.
there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of kilig slammed right into your chest, loud enough to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.
for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.
but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes—the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.
he was just being a good guy. that was all.
"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."
jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.
"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."
your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.
there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of warmth slammed right into your chest, a sudden flutter so loud it threatened to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.
for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.
but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes. the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.
he was just being a good guy. that was all.
"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."
jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.
"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."
“thank you, jungwon.” you gave him one last polite nod, turning around to finally press the unlock button on your gate. your hands were shaking slightly, and you were desperate to get inside the safety of your house before your face completely gave you away.
“y/n?”
his voice called out, stopping you right in your tracks. your fingers froze against the cold iron of the latch. you took a quiet, steadying breath before slowly looking back over your shoulder.
“yes?”
jungwon was still standing under the amber streetlamp, his hands deeply embedded in his jacket pockets. he tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that completely bypassed your professional walls. the softest, most genuine trace of a smile appeared on his lips, causing his dimples to faintly show in the shadows.
“you looked pretty today.”
***
dear y/n,
sometimes, the universe doesn’t just nudge you; it completely corners you. you try to write off his kindness as a collective luxury, a universal trait he hands out to anyone who asks, because believing you are special is a luxury you simply cannot afford. but how do you categorize a quiet detour under an amber streetlamp? how do you rationalize a parting line that wasn't meant for a coworker, a classmate, or a crowd, but uniquely, devastatingly, for you?
you couldn’t reply.
the moment the word left his lips, your brain completely short-circuited, leaving you entirely breathless under the dim streetlamp. you practically threw yourself through the gate, shutting the iron latch behind you with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet neighborhood. your heart was hammering violently against your ribs as you sprinted up the steps, not daring to look back to see if he was still standing there watching you run.
it was only when you were locked safely inside the dark sanctuary of your bedroom that you finally collapsed against the mattress, pulling a pillow over your face to smother a helpless, frustrated groan.
you looked pretty today.
the phrase replayed in a dizzying, echoing loop, vibrating straight down to your fingertips. you tightly closed your eyes, desperately trying to summon the cold reality check from the lecture hall. he is just nice. he is just a naturally attentive guy who knows how to make people feel comfortable on a set.
but as you turned over and stared at the dark ceiling, your fingers tracing the edges of your blanket, a quiet, terrifying truth settled in your chest. no matter how high you built your walls, yang jungwon didn't even have to try and scale them.
he was effortlessly dismantling them, brick by single brick, and you were completely running out of places to hide.
the next morning brought a blinding, unapologetic sunlight that did absolutely nothing to clear the fog in your head. you woke up with your limbs tangled in your sheets, your phone still clutched tightly in your palm as if you had been guarding it in your sleep.
when you dragged yourself out of bed and walked over to the bathroom sink, you actively avoided looking at your reflection for the first five minutes. you splashed ice-cold water onto your face, hoping the shock of it would finally scrub the lingering warmth out of your cheeks and snap you back into reality.
it was just studio adrenaline, you reasoned with yourself, aggressively rubbing a fluffy towel against your skin. people say fleeting things when they’re tired after a long shoot. he was probably just riding the high of a successful layout.
but the moment you sat down at your vanity to start your morning skincare routine, your hands froze.
you picked up your daily moisturizer, but your eyes involuntarily drifted to your own reflection in the glass. suddenly, you weren't looking at your bedroom walls anymore. you were seeing the dark studio mirror. you were seeing the way his dark eyes had pierced right through the reflection, tracking your every move while the makeup brush swept across your skin.
you looked down at your hands, your chest tightening. your fingertips automatically brushed against your collarbone, tracing the exact spot where he had told you to place your hands.
"beautiful," his whispered voice echoed in your ears, so clear it made you flinch.
you let out a shaky breath, forcing your hands down into your lap. it was terrifying how a single night could completely alter the space around you. your bedroom, your vanity, your own face—everything felt entirely compromised by him. you couldn't even apply your makeup without wondering if your features really did look the way he implied.
unable to handle the loud silence of your thoughts, you decided to escape your room. you spent the rest of the morning trying to drown out his voice with mundane tasks—cleaning your desk, organizing your elective binders, and making a mental checklist of your upcoming assignments.
by saturday afternoon, your eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, your mind completely exhausted from the non-stop mental gymnastics. you had finally managed to calm your heart rate down, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at a textbook.
ding.
the sharp vibration of your phone against the wooden desk made you flinch.
your hands shook slightly as you picked it up, your breath instantly catching when you saw his name illuminated on the lock screen.
jungwon: [1 file attached]
jungwon: finished compiling the raw layouts for director kang. thought i’d send you your edit first.
you swallowed hard, your thumb hovering over the glass. you tapped the file, waiting a few agonizing seconds for the high-resolution image to clear.
when the details finally rendered, the air left your lungs completely.
it wasn’t just a well-shot photo. he hadn't used the sharp, cool commercial lighting the director usually preferred for editorial pitches. instead, the coloring was incredibly soft, almost romantic, warming up your skin profile in a way that made you look like you were glowing from the inside out.
but it was the lighting on your eyes that made your chest completely constrict. he had meticulously adjusted the shadows so that the tiny, glittering reflection of the studio lights caught the exact center of your pupils. your gaze looked impossibly deep, intense, and vulnerable.
he had spent hours looking at your face in high-definition. he had zoomed in on your features, balanced your undertones, cleaned up the lines, and perfected the exposure.
you stared at the screen, your heart racing. a normal photographer would have just dropped the files into the shared studio google drive or handed them over on monday. but yang jungwon had edited yours personally, isolated it from the rest of the layout, and sent it directly to your private inbox on a saturday afternoon.
you slowly leaned back against your chair, the cold wood pressing into your spine as you stared at the beautiful, terrifying image of yourself.
you could try to convince yourself that he was just a gentleman under the streetlamp. you could pretend he was just being polite when he called you pretty. but looking at this photo, you realized something that terrified you to your core: through the lens of his camera, yang jungwon looked at you like you were the only thing on the set that mattered.
your phone buzzed again in your palm, making you jump.
jungwon: do you like them?
y/n: i love them, jungwon! you did an amazing job with the lighting and the textures. it doesn't even look like me.
jungwon: it looks exactly like you. i just captured what was already there.
your phone slipped an inch in your hand. you squeezed your eyes shut, a soft, helpless groan escaping your lips as you buried your face in your arms on the desk.
he was doing it again. he was effortlessly throwing lines that completely bypassed your defenses, speaking with a terrifying sincerity that left you absolutely no room to hide.
a week later, director kang officially approved the editorial pitch, and the official shoot layouts were finally uploaded to the department's public portfolio. you felt a quiet sense of relief, thinking the excitement from that chaotic friday had finally settled down.
until later that evening, when your phone notification panel lit up with a tag.
yang_jw tagged you in a post.
your thumb practically smashed against the screen to open the app.
it was a carousel post titled simply: bts 📸
the first slide was a moody shot of an overhead key light piercing through the dark studio. the second was a close-up of a heavy black camera cable coiled neatly over a metal stand. the third was the empty grey seamless backdrop.
and then, you swiped to the fourth slide.
the breath caught in your throat.
it was you.
it wasn’t one of the polished, perfectly posed files he had sent to director kang. it was a candid, behind-the-scenes frame captured right in the middle of the shoot. you were sitting in the leather vanity chair, the bright, blinding bulbs framing your silhouette, your chin turned slightly over your shoulder. your expression wasn't a professional mask; it was soft, slightly dazed, caught in the exact microsecond you had instinctively looked into the mirror to search for his reflection in the dark background.
he had captured the exact moment you were looking for him.
you swiped to the fifth and sixth slides: more inanimate props, a discarded lens cap, the digital monitor from a distance.
you swiped back to the fourth slide, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently it felt loud in the quiet of your room.
you stared at the screen, your eyes tracing the soft edge of your own silhouette under the bright vanity bulbs. anyone else scrolling through his feed would just see a cool, atmospheric behind-the-scenes shot of a makeup student on set. they wouldn't notice the way the light caught the exact, vulnerable curve of your shoulder. they wouldn't know that the slight daze in your eyes was because you had been looking for him in the dark studio mirrors.
but you knew. and more terrifyingly, jungwon knew too.
your thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed by the sheer weight of what this meant. you could rationalize notes. you could rationalize a long walk home in the dark as standard gentlemanly politeness. you could even convince yourself that a personal photo edit was just him being a meticulous, dedicated photographer.
but this? breaking his own years-long aesthetic grid just to drop a candid frame of your face into the world?
there were no olympic-level mental gymnastics left to save you. you couldn't hide behind the "good classmate" excuse anymore.
with a trembling thumb, you tapped the little heart icon below the post, watching it turn red.
almost instantly, a new notification slid down from the top of your screen, making you gasp softly in the quiet room.
yang_jw: you're awake?
shit, shit, shit!
you scrambled backward against your headboard, nearly dropping the device straight onto your face. you had liked the post less than thirty seconds after he uploaded it. there was absolutely no playing the "i just happened to see it on my feed" card—you were actively lurking, and your lightning-fast double-tap had completely exposed you.
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting three different responses while your chest squeezed with a frantic, dizzying heat.
y/n: yeah, just finishing up some reading.
you pressed send, holding your breath as the single gray checkmark turned blue. almost immediately, the three typing dots appeared.
yang_jw: reading? at 1 AM?
yang_jw: or were you just waiting for my post?
you let out a helpless, strangled sound into the empty space of your bedroom, burying your burning face straight into your pillows. he was shameless. he was entirely, utterly shameless, and the worst part was that he was exactly right.
before you could even think of a defensive lie to protect your dignity, your phone buzzed again in your palm.
yang_jw: do you like the fourth slide?
your breath hitched. he wasn't dancing around it. he knew exactly what he did when he put that candid photo of you in the middle of his grid, and he was deliberately forcing you to acknowledge it.
you sat up, biting your lower lip until it turned white. you couldn't keep running. if he was going to be this bold, you had to find a way to stabilize your own footing before you completely dissolved under his pace.
y/n: the lighting was nice. but i thought your feed was strictly landscapes.
you stared at the screen, your heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against your ribs as you waited. seconds ticked by like hours until the screen lit up with his reply.
yang_jw: you keep tabs on my feed?
shit.
but before you could even think of a lie to salvage yourself, the next bubble popped up.
yang_jw: but yes, it is.
yang_jw: but you looked too pretty in that mirror to leave you in a hidden folder.
you completely froze in your spot.
the air left your lungs, leaving you staring blankly at the glowing screen as the world around you fell entirely silent. you couldn't move. you couldn't blink. your fingers remained locked stiffly around the edges of your phone, your eyes glued to the word pretty.
when you finally found the strength to move, it was only to let out a shaky, breathless exhale. then you rolled onto your bed, your stomach flat on the mattress, and let out a muffled scream into your pillow.
***
dear, y/n,
it is a completely strange but nice feeling to realize you aren't trying to pull away anymore. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing it's okay to just let someone in without making everything so complicated.
you find yourself looking forward to see and hear from him again, no longer finding the shield to protect your composure.
the next morning arrived. you walked onto campus with a lighter step, the lingering echo of jungwon’s late-night words crawling in your mind like he planned to occupy every single corner of your head.
you spotted him almost immediately near the entrance of the lecture hall, leaning against the hallway wall with his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he chatted with a few classmates. the exact moment you stepped into view, his eyes instinctively separated from the crowd, tracking your approach with that same soft, unwavering focus that had defined the studio mirrors.
as you drew closer, the conversation around him seemed to fade into a quiet blur, leaving just the steady ground between the two of you.
"morning, y/n," jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a softer, private register meant only for you as a genuine, dimpled smile broke across his face.
your heart gave a familiar, dangerous thump, but instead of panicking, you found yourself returning his smile. "morning, jungwon."
he stepped away from the wall, naturally falling into step right beside you as you walked through the threshold of the lecture hall. the sudden shift from the chaotic, noisy hallway to the relative quiet of the classroom felt seamless with him next to you. without even asking, he guided you toward the middle row, pulling out the chair right next to the one where his laptop and notebook were already neatly set up.
he had saved you a seat.
"you look awake for someone who was reading at 1 AM," he teased quietly, sliding into his chair and leaning his chin in his hand as he looked over at you, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful mischief.
you felt a sudden rush of warmth in your cheeks, but you managed to look right back at him. "i told you, i had things to finish."
"right," he hummed, the corners of his lips twitching as the professor walked up to the podium and the lecture hall began to quiet down. jungwon opened his notebook, but before he focused on the board, he leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice a low, comforting murmur against the background noise of opening laptops. "we're getting dinner after this, by the way. i found a really good place nearby."
it wasn't even a question. it was an inivitation that you would spend your evening with him, and the terrifying part was that you didn't even want to object.
by the time the late-afternoon elective finally wrapped up, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the campus pathways. you followed jungwon through the bustling streets just outside the university gates, the humid evening air a stark contrast to the air-conditioned lecture hall.
he led you down a quieter alley, stopping in front of a small, cozy restaurant with warm, low-hanging yellow lights glowing behind a tinted glass pane. inside, the space was small and intimate, filled with the soft chatter of other students and the rich, savory aroma of hot food.
"two?" the server asked, and jungwon nodded, naturally guiding you toward a booth tucked away in the back corner, away from the main walkway.
as you slipped into the leather seat, the soft ambient lighting washed over his features, throwing the sharp angles of his jawline and the deep set of his eyes into beautiful, soft relief. it felt completely different from the high-stakes pressure of the studio or the crowded campus. here, stripped of cameras and portfolios, it was just the two of you.
"order whatever you want," jungwon said, sliding the menu across the dark wooden table toward you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second that left a trail of static on your skin. "my treat today. to celebrate your successful photoshoot."
you looked up from the menu, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "you give me too much credit. you did good too, you know."
jungwon let out a low, amused huff, leaning back against the leather booth as he looked at you through the warm, dim lighting of the restaurant. "is that so? i guess we make a pretty good team then."
your cheeks burned, “i guess we do.”
and as the weeks bled into a comfortable rhythm, you realized you really did.
that quiet dinner quickly transformed from a one-time celebration into a regular part of your routine. it happened so gradually that you didn't even notice the shift at first. one day you were just elective mates, then interns working on a shoot, and the next, he was naturally weaving you into every single part of his day, making it easy for you to navigate the lively, chaotic orbit of his massive social circle.
because jungwon was the type of guy who belonged to everyone, hanging out with him meant automatically being pulled into his circle. you became a familiar face at the crowded university cafeteria tables, sharing loud, overlapping conversations with his friends who welcomed you without a single second of hesitation. you watched him handle the campus attention with an easy, effortless charm, throwing bright smiles to passing students and keeping everyone laughing.
but the real magic always happened when the noise of the crowd finally thinned out. no matter how many people were vying for his attention during the day, the late evenings always distilled down to just the two of you, sitting across from each other at that same dark wooden table under the warm, low-hanging yellow lights.
"you're staring," jungwon murmured one rainy tuesday evening, a soft, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he set his chopsticks down.
you blinked, tearing your gaze away from the sharp line of his jaw to look down at your half-empty bowl. "i am not. i was just thinking."
"about what?" he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the physical distance between you just enough to make the ambient chatter of the restaurant fade into the background.
"just... how you manage to keep up with everyone," you admitted honestly, gesturing vaguely toward the window where a group of students from his department had just waved at him through the glass. "you're always surrounded by people."
jungwon looked out the window for a brief second, then turned his focus back to you, his dark eyes softening into that intense, private expression he only ever used when the two of you were alone. "it's easy to talk to everyone, y/n. but that doesn't mean i want to spend my quiet hours with just anyone."
before you could even process the sudden, breathless skip of your heart, a confident, unfamiliar voice interrupted the space between you.
"hey, jungwon, right? i thought that was you."
you blinked, turning your head toward the edge of the booth. yoonchae from your class was standing there, looking effortlessly chic in a cropped leather jacket, a bright, confident smile fixed entirely on jungwon. she didn't even glance your way, completely erasing your presence from the table.
"i saw your latest photography feature on the department page," she continued smoothly, leaning slightly against the wooden partition of your booth. "it was amazing. i was actually wondering if you had time to collaborate on a editorial project next month? can i get your instagram or phone number?"
your chest tightened instantly. your mind, always looking for a reason to retreat, immediately clouded over with that familiar, suffocating insecurity. here it is, a bitter voice whispered in your head. this is his actual world. this girl was confident, stylish, and fit perfectly into the creative orbit he ran in. you were just the girl he casually helped out, the lesson he learned along the way to becoming a better photographer. you were a placeholder in his quiet hours until someone who actually belonged in his grid stepped up.
you lowered your eyes to your lap, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt as you prepared for him to give his usual, friendly campus smile and type his number into her phone.
"sorry, i can't," jungwon said.
his voice wasn't just polite; it was incredibly flat, completely stripped of the warm, universal charm he usually gave out so freely.
the girl blinked, caught off guard. "oh? are you too busy with the elective portfolio?"
jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he casually shifted in his seat, his hand moving across the table until his knuckles lightly brushed against your arm, drawing a firm, undeniable boundary in front of the stranger.
"no," jungwon said softly, his eyes dropping to you for a brief, reassuring second before he looked back up at the girl. "my girlfriend is right here. i don't take private project numbers."
your lungs completely locked up.
for a single, terrifying second, your heart fluttered so violently against your ribs it felt deafening. girlfriend. hearing the word leave his lips, spoken with such heavy, calm authority in his low voice, sent a sudden, dizzying rush of heat straight to your face.
but almost as fast as the thrill arrived, the cold weight of reality crashed right back down, pulling the warmth straight out of your chest.
yoonchae mumbled a quick, embarrassed apology and quickly retreated, but your mind had already clouded over, spiraling back into that familiar, suffocating insecurity.
you were just a prop.
the thought settled heavy and bitter in your stomach. because a guy like yang jungwon: a universally loved, constantly surrounded by people, and utterly effortless doesn't do serious relationships. he didn't need to. he was just a naturally attentive, overly nice guy who treated everyone with a baseline level of casual intimacy. he was smooth because it was his default setting, not because he was trying to win you over.
he didn't mean the word girlfriend. he had just used you as a convenient, safe shield to get out of an awkward conversation because he knew you wouldn't make a scene.
"sorry about that," jungwon murmured, turning his full attention back to you, his expression softening as if he hadn't just completely shattered your internal world. "she can be a bit persistent."
you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a small, tight smile to your lips as your walls slammed shut with a heavy, definitive thud.
"t-tell me about it," you said, forcing a small, hollow laugh as you poked at your food. "good strategy though. i make a pretty believable prop, don't i?"
you tried to look up and give him a funny, conspiratorial wink—anything to bury the suffocating weight crashing down on your chest. but your smile didn't reach your eyes, and your voice cracked just a fraction too much on the last word.
and jungwon, being the observant person he was, didn't laugh.
the easy, playful expression completely melted off his face, replaced by a quiet, piercing focus that made you want to look away. he slowly set his glass down on the table, his dark eyes tracking the slight tremor in your fingers before locking onto yours.
“you okay, y/n?” he asked softly, bending down to look at your eyes. but you quickly avoided him.
“y-yeah. just got something in my eye is all. listen, i still have some projects to finish so i need to go.”
“let me take you home–”
"no!" you quickly interrupted, scrambling to grab your bag. "i mean, wouldn't want to overstep." and just like that, you ran out of the restaurant before he could even reach for the bill.
what you didn’t know was jungwon felt his own chest tighten.
***
dear, y/n,
this is exactly why you should’ve kept your walls up.
it is a painful, heavy thing to realize how quickly you can fall back into the habit of building walls. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing that the only way to keep your heart safe from someone who belongs to the world is to completely remove yourself from the equation.
you tell yourself it’s safer to just be distant again. it’s way easier to pretend you don't care than to risk believing you actually matter to someone like him.
a week has passed since that day.
today, the morning arrived with a gray, overcast sky that seemed to match the cold numbness settling back into your chest. you walked onto campus with a heavy, deliberate step, your eyes strictly fixed on the concrete pathways to avoid scanning the crowds for a familiar shock of dark hair. you had your oversized jacket pulled tightly around you like armor, determined to slip back into the quiet anonymity of being just another student in the department.
you managed to avoid the main lecture hall entrance entirely, slipping through the side doors and taking a seat in the very last row, tucked far away from the middle rows where you had spent the last few weeks.
"y/n."
your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag at the sound of his voice.
jungwon was standing at the end of the row, looking completely exhausted. the usual easy, universal charm was entirely missing from his face, his dark eyes shadowed with a quiet, desperate intensity as he looked down at you. he didn't care that a few passing classmates were glancing over at his unusually tense posture; his focus was entirely locked onto you.
"you didn't answer my texts," he said softly, his voice dropping into that private register, though this time it sounded raw, carrying a heavy weight that made your chest ache. "i kept calling you."
you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing your expression to remain perfectly flat as you looked up at him, refusing to let him see how much you were hurting. "i told you, jungwon. i had projects to finish. you don't need to check up on me."
jungwon took a step closer into the row, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of the empty chair in front of you. "you’re not a prop. at the restaurant. i’m sorry i hurt you."
you looked down at your hands, refusing to meet his eyes because you knew your expression would crumble.
"it's fine, jungwon," you whispered, trying to force your voice to sound completely detached. "it was just a joke. you don't have to apologize for something petty."
"it wasn't a joke to me," he cut in, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a frustration you had never heard from him before. he slid into the empty seat right next to you, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small space in the back row. "i didn't say it just to make her leave, y/n. i said it because... because it didn't feel entirely like a lie to me."
your breath hitched, your eyes snapping up to look at him.
jungwon was leaning in close, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. he looked vulnerable, almost fragile, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of the warmth you used to give him so easily.
"there's actually someone i really like right now," he murmured, the confession slipping into the quiet space between you like a heavy secret. "and seeing her stand there, asking for my number...it just made me realize how much i only want to focus on one person."
he was looking at you with so much quiet intensity, his lips slightly parted as if he was waiting for you to understand, waiting for you to realize exactly who he was talking about.
but your brain, completely clouded by a week of suffocating insecurity, didn't see the love in his eyes. it only saw a devastating confirmation of your worst fear.
he likes someone else.
the words echoed like a physical blow inside your head. you were the practice run. the lesson.
"oh," you forced out, the word tasting like lead on your tongue. you managed to pull a tight, completely empty smile onto your face, even as your chest felt like it was physically breaking. "i... i didn't know. she's really lucky, jungwon. i hope it works out for you."
before he could even react to the sudden, freezing distance in your voice, you stood up, grabbing your bag and stepping past his frozen frame into the aisle, running away before the tears blinding your vision could finally fall.
“you.”
you didn't move. you couldn't breathe. for a second, you thought you were hallucinating.
slowly, you turned around.
jungwon was already standing up. his shoulders tense as he stared straight at you.
"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."
she would feel an absolute, dizzying rush of cognitive dissonance—like the ground had suddenly been pulled out from under her boots. after a whole week of meticulously convincing herself that she was completely invisible and just a temporary "lesson" in his life, his sudden confession completely short-circuits her brain.
her walls are still up, but they are cracking violently. she is caught between a desperate, fluttering spark of hope and the terrifying urge to protect herself from a cruel joke.
"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."
your brain completely short-circuited.
you stared at him, your chest heaving as you tried to find a catch, a punchline, anything to make reality align with your insecurities again. but jungwon’s face was completely raw, his lower lip slightly trembling as he waited for you to say something.
“w-what?” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as you took a small, panicked step back. “when? why?”
the questions tumbled out of you in a frantic, unpolished rush, stripping away all the cold, distant armor you had tried so hard to build.
"what do you mean why?" jungwon asked, a breathless, incredulous laugh escaping his lips as he took a step forward to close the gap you had just made. he reached out, his fingers gently captured your wrist, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse.
he let out a low, shaky exhale, his thumb moving in a slow, comforting circle against your skin, trying to ground you through your panic.
"i fell for you on our very first day as interns," he murmured, his dark eyes softening completely as he brought you back to the beginning. "remember that chaotic first shoot? everyone was running around, but i couldn't take my eyes off you. you were so shy, yet you were completely locked in. i loved how focused you were, how much heart you put into every single task. you were radiant, y/n. in a room full of people trying to stand out, you stood out to me just by being you."
he took a small step closer, his voice dropping into that intense, private register that belonged only to you.
"i did everything because i wanted an excuse to be near you," he whispered. "it's been you since that exact day. how could you think it was anyone else?"
“i was…i was never the one,” you whispered. “i was never the one that people think i’m worth staying for.”
jungwon let out a sharp, ragged breath, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to keep you anchored as your words physically pained him. the easy, polite campus favorite completely disappeared, replaced by a boy who looked entirely devastated that the girl he loved felt so invisible.
he didn't hesitate. he took that final step, closing the remaining distance between you until he was gently framing your face with his hands, his thumbs carefully wiping away the tears on your cheeks.
"i'm not going anywhere, y/n. i'm staying right here. with you."
***
dear, y/n,
it turns out that rewriting the script in your head is a slow, terrifying process.
for a long time, you were completely sure you were just the type of girl guys date before finding the one they actually want to settle down with. you really believed you were just a temporary phase. but now, jungwon is completely focused on you, and he isn't looking for anyone else.
you're still really anxious, though. every time your phone lights up, a part of you still expects him to text you saying he changed his mind or made a mistake. but he doesn't. instead, he just keeps showing up and proving you wrong.
nothing is official yet. you didn't suddenly become his girlfriend overnight. but even without a label, everything between you two feels completely different now.
on a tuesday morning, you didn't sit in the back row.
you had tried to, out of habit. your fingers pulling the strap of your oversized bag tight against your shoulder as you entered the side door. but jungwon was already there, sitting in the middle row right where you two used to be. the moment the door clicked, his head snapped up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours in the crowd.
he didn't wave or make a scene, but a small, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he casually lifted his laptop sleeve off the empty plastic chair beside him, claiming the space before anyone else could even think to take it.
your heart did that familiar, breathless flutter as you walked down the steps.
"hey," he murmured softly as you slid into the seat, his voice dropping into that private register that still made your face flush. he didn't slide his hand over yours or push your boundaries, but he reached into his jacket pocket and slid a small, familiar plastic bottle across the desk.
it was a fresh bottle of the exact soothing eye drops you always used when your eyes got tired from staring at editing screens.
"since you had something in your eye last week," jungwon said, his eyes crinkling slightly with a gentle, teasing warmth that completely lacked any judgment. "just in case."
you stared at the bottle, the lump in your throat returning, but this time it wasn't from sadness. "jungwon, you didn't have to—"
"i wanted to," he interrupted softly, leaning his elbow on the desk so he could look at you properly.
and then he did the one thing that always sent your heart into an absolute frenzy.
he leaned his elbow on the desk, tilting his head as he intentionally closed the distance between you. jungwon brought his face so close you could trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scent of his laundry detergent instantly filling your senses. his dark eyes locked onto yours, completely invading your personal space in that quiet, effortless way only he could pull off.
“j-jungwon?” you stammered, your voice coming out as a tiny, embarrassed squeak as you tried to press your back against the hard plastic of your chair to gain an inch of safety.
“mhm?” he murmured, not moving back even a fraction of a millimeter. instead, a tiny, knowing smirk began to pull at the corner of his lips, clearly enjoying how easily he could throw you off balance.
“y-you’re too close,” you whispered frantically, your hands gripping your desk as you looked around to see if anyone was watching. “mr. lee just entered the room.”
jungwon didn't panic. instead, his smirk widened just a fraction, his dark eyes brimming with amusement at your flustered reaction.
slowly, casually, he leaned back into his own space just as the professor set his briefcase on the podium. but right before he completely pulled away, jungwon leaned in one last inch, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper right against your ear.
"mr. lee can wait," he murmured, his tone dripping with a quiet, playful confidence. "but fine. i'll let you focus on the lecture. for now."
he straightened up in his seat, opening his notebook with perfect poise as if he hadn't just completely set your nerve endings on fire. but as he picked up his pen, he deliberately shifted his notebook just an inch closer to yours, his shoulder lightly brushing against your arm—a constant, warm reminder that he wasn't going anywhere.
now that you and jungwon are now aware of feelings towards each other, he has become flirtier each day. but with boundaries. he still asks if it’s okay to hold your hand, place his arm around your shoulder when walking, always checking in with a quiet, questioning look before stepping an inch closer into your space.
and every time he notices you second guessing if you want something, he takes the initiative of doing it. so in days that you do want to hold his hand but too shy to ask, he gently places his hand under yours and locks your fingers. and of course, it sent your heart into overdrive.
on friday afternoon, as the campus was emptying out, jungwon slung his backpack over one shoulder and leaned against the edge of your desk.
"a few of my seniors are holding a small wrap-up gallery in the department studio tonight," he said, tilting his head to catch your eyes. "then we’ll have an after party. just some music, drinks, and looking over the final print layouts. i want you to come with me."
your fingers paused on your notebook. the familiar, anxious tightening returned to your chest, your mind instantly telling you that you didn't belong in a room full of talented, confident upperclassmen who already knew him so well.
“is it alright?” you whispered, looking up at him uncertainty. “i don't want to intrude.”
jungwon’s expression softened instantly. he didn't laugh or dismiss your worry. instead, he stepped closer, blocking out the rest of the noisy hallway so it was just the two of you.
"you're not intruding, y/n," he said softly, his voice steady and completely serious as he reached down to gently tap the back of your hand. "i'm the one asking you. i want you to be there. with me."
then the night of the gallery came.
the studio was packed, filled with the low hum of indie music, the clinking of plastic cups, and the bright, warm glow of track lighting illuminating the rows of framed photographs along the walls. jungwon had been caught by a group of design seniors the moment you walked through the door. you had gently nudged his shoulder, giving him a small smile to let him know you didn't mind, before slipping away into the crowd to look around on your own.
the talent in the room was undeniable, but as you wandered down the final row of the exhibition, your steps slowed to a complete halt in front of a small, dedicated corner panel.
your breath caught in your throat.
the first frame was a candid shot from your very first day as interns. it was the chaotic studio set, cluttered with stray wires and half-assembled lighting rigs, but the camera hadn’t focused on the set. it was focused entirely on you. you sat on a crate with your face angled away, completely locked into adjusting a camera lens.
the second frame was the campus lecture hall taken from a low angle. it captured the stark, geometric lines of the plastic desks, but the focus was trained on the middle rows where you two always used to sit. a soft, natural light filtered through the gray windows, hitting the exact spot where his notebook usually brushed against yours.
and the final photograph made your heart do a sudden, breathless flip.
it was the outside of the restaurant from a week ago, taken through the glass window under a heavy, overcast sky. the frame captured the exact table where everything had boiled over, the blurry reflection of the street lights casting a quiet, moody atmosphere over the empty chairs.
the photos were the places you had been with him.
beneath the triptych of photos was a small, white card printed with a simple title:
paying attention.
"i didn't put your face on blast, i promise," a soft voice murmured right behind your ear.
you turned around to find jungwon right behind you, his hands in his pockets as he smiled down at you.
"i asked the professor if i could keep the subject anonymous on the final prints," he explained softly, stepping a little closer into your space. "i wanted to show you how i see you, but... is this okay? if it makes you uncomfortable, i can take them down right now. seriously."
"no," you whispered, a genuine smile finally breaking through the remnants of your anxiety. "don't take them down. they're... really beautiful."
without second guessing, you threw your arms around jungwon.
you felt a deep, grounding warmth expand in your chest—the realization that you were someone worth paying attention to.
after five hours, the after-party finally started. the room was alive with everyone cheering, laughing, and clinking their beer glasses together in celebration.
“congrats to us!” jungwon's senior, lee chan, toasted, raising his glass high into the air.
after taking a sip, chan’s eyes flicked over to you, a warm smile breaking across his face. "and thanks for coming, y/n! jungwon was practically talking about it for days.”
your face flushed a sudden crimson, your eyes darting over to jungwon.
jungwon just let out a soft laugh, completely unbothered by his senior exposing him. he casually slung an arm around your shoulder, bringing you securely into the circle. "ignore him," he murmured down to you, his thumb lightly rubbing against your arm. "but he's not entirely wrong."
“jungwon, hey!”
yoonchae was there again. you remembered that she was probably only around because her brother was in the same department as jungwon, a detail he had mentioned to you weeks ago.
“yoonchae, hi.”
“so, i heard from my brother that you and y/n aren't actually dating," she started, pulling her phone out of her bag and extending it toward him with a hopeful smile. "so… i was thinking if i can maybe, you know? come on, it's not like you're taken, right?”
“yoonchae, i've already told you before that i am interested in someone.” jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he reached down, deliberately capturing your hand and locking his fingers tightly with yours. “she's right here. dating or not, y/n is the only girl i like.”
yoonchae’s jaw dropped slightly. she stared at jungwon, entirely speechless at how effortlessly and publicly he had rejected her.
she looked at you, then back at jungwon. without uttering another syllable, she gave a stiff, embarrassed nod and quickly slipped away into the crowd.
the night continued with you and jungwon completely melting into the crowd. almost everyone couldn't help but tease him, laughing at how he looked like a total lovesick puppy and constantly joking about how he had finally found his muse.
eventually, the party wound down, and the two of you walked home together through the quiet streets. your hand was wrapped in his, his fingers locked firmly in yours.
“wasn't that too harsh?” you asked softly, breaking the silence as you looked down at your joined hands.
“not if she completely ignored your presence,” jungwon replied without a shred of regret, his grip on your hand tightening just a fraction.
you bit your inner lip, your heart doing a small flutter as you built up the courage to ask the question that had been looping in your head. “but... were you serious? about what you said?”
jungwon looked down at you with a slow, knowing smirk. he knew exactly what you meant, but he wanted to hear you say it. “which part?”
your eyes grew wide, but you tried your absolute best to maintain your composure. “you know... the part where you said... you like me.” the last few words came out as a quiet mumble, your face burning.
“what's that?” he teased, tilting his head closer to yours. “didn't quite catch that.”
“jungwon,” you whined, pulling slightly on his hand.
“what? come on, say it clearly,” he laughed.
“jungwon!” you whined again, hiding your face slightly behind your free hand.
but then, the teasing look in his eyes began to shift. his laughter quieted down, replaced by a soft, intense focus that made the breath hitch in your throat. the ambient hum of the streetlights overhead suddenly felt incredibly loud as he stopped walking, causing you to pause right along with him.
“you are,” jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a gentle, low register. he lifted your hand, his thumb softly tracing the knuckles before he let go of the tight grip to hold just your fingertips, his skin warm against yours. “i really like you, y/n.”
the sheer sincerity in his dark eyes stripped away all of your remaining defense mechanisms. the anxiety that usually kept you trapped in your own head completely evaporated, leaving only the honest, racing beat of your heart.
“i-i really like you too,” you whispered back, your voice small but steady.
jungwon took a slow step closer, completely closing the distance between you. his free hand came up, his fingers brushing light as a feather against your jawline before his thumb settled right at the corner of your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction. he didn't rush. he just stood there for a breathless second, his gaze flicking down to your lips before locking back onto your wide eyes, waiting patiently for you to adjust to how close he was.
“can i kiss you?” he asked softly, his thumb giving your cheek a reassuring, tender stroke.
“please,” you whispered, the word leaving your lips like a breathless plea.
a soft smile broke across jungwon’s face at your response. he didn't wait another second. his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he leaned down and finally pressed his lips to yours, sweet and slow.
it made your heart do a dizzying, breathless flip. his lips were incredibly soft, parting slightly as he pulled you just a fraction closer against his chest. your fingers instinctively gripped the fabric of his jacket, your whole body melting into the touch as a warm, electric flutter rushed from your chest straight down to your toes.
as both of you pulled away from the kiss, jungwon let his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you back in for a quick, tight hug. he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a second, letting out a soft hum of satisfaction that made your heart do another dizzying flip.
“does this mean we're… boyfriend and girlfriend?” you asked shyly, your fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his jacket.
jungwon let out a soft giggle against your skin, the vibration tickling your neck before he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes full of warmth. “yes. yes, i'd love that.”
***
dear y/n,
it is a beautiful thing indeed to be able to find someone. you are incredibly, genuinely happy, and your heart doesn't feel like it's constantly bracing for impact anymore.
but being with jungwon has also taught you that a real relationship isn't all cupcakes and rainbows. there are still days when your old insecurities and tendencies to overthink flare up out of nowhere, making you quiet and distant.
loving someone isn't a magical cure for anxiety. it doesn't fix the pieces of you that feel broken.
you and jungwon had a date today. it's been weeks since you have been girlfriend and boyfriend. and it was the happiest you've felt in a while.
a knock startled you out of your thoughts as you checked your outfit one more time. you had opted for a classic combination: a warm cream cardigan layered over a simple tee, paired with structured wide-leg trousers that made you feel completely put-together yet comfortable.
wonhee was grinning brightly at you, stepping right into the entryway the moment the door swung open. without a word, she reached forward to gently adjust the collar of your tee and smooth down the shoulder of your cream cardigan. "there. perfect. you look so effortlessly pretty today! are you ready for your date?”
“a bit nervous,” you admitted, feeling a sudden jolt of nervous electricity running through your system.
“hey,” wonhee placed her hand kn your shoulder, “you got this. and if jungwon doesn't see how incredibly lucky he is to have you, just let me know. i will personally make sure every single senior in his department knows he’s an absolute fool, and his pristine reputation will be completely ruined by tomorrow morning.”
“wonhee,” you taunt.
“i'm just saying.” wonhee giggled, gently grabbing your shoulders and turning you toward the door. she gave you a playful nudge forward. "now stop stalling and go. he’s probably already waiting outside, and you shouldn't keep your boyfriend waiting."
boyfriend.
on cue, a knock came again, and this time, you answered it.
when the door swung open, jungwon was standing there, looking effortlessly handsome in a simple jacket. the moment his eyes landed on you, his breath hitched slightly, his gaze sweeping over your cream cardigan and wide-leg trousers with a look of pure, unadulterated admiration.
“hi,” you murmured, your heart doing a familiar flutter.
“hi,” he replied softly, a warm smile breaking across his face as if he couldn't help himself. “you look beautiful.”
“you ready?” he asked, his voice low and comforting.
you nodded your head, the last of your nervous jitters completely melting away. jungwon offered his arm, and you gladly looped yours through it, stepping out into the hallway as he gently pressed your arm closer to his side, making you feel completely secure before you even left the building.
jungwon takes you out to a beautiful, open-air city square where the evening breeze carries the distant chatter of people and the soft glow of fairy lights tangled in the trees. walking arm-in-arm, he effortlessly shields you from the busier walkways, pointing out little shops or laughing at the synchronized fountains, making the wide, bright world feel incredibly small and private just for the two of you.
you smiled, the warmth in your chest blooming beautifully. but as you stepped past a brightly lit clothing storefront, the air in your lungs suddenly turned to ice.
“jungwon, is that actually you?”
the soft, bright voice called out from the restaurant entrance. jungwon paused, turning his head, and you felt his entire posture straighten up in surprise. walking toward your table was a girl with an effortless, radiant smile and a polished grace that made the entire room feel a little brighter.
“minji!” jungwon’s face lit up with immediate, genuine recognition as he stood up to greet her. “wow, it’s been so long. what are you doing back here?”
“my family just moved back to the area,” she laughed, her voice carrying a familiar, easy warmth. jungwon immediately turned to you, his hand reaching for yours to introduce you.
“minji, this is y/n. my girlfriend.”
“omg, hi! finally, jungwon has gotten himself a girlfriend.”
she was completely lovely. she didn't do a single thing wrong. but as she chatted with jungwon for a few minutes about their old neighborhood before waving goodbye, a suffocating wave of anxiety washed over you.
she was stunning. her hair sat perfectly, her laugh was effortless, and she possessed a kind of glowing, unbothered confidence that you felt miles away from. sitting across from jungwon again, your cream cardigan suddenly felt suffocating, and your wide-leg trousers felt like a clumsy attempt at looking put-together. the food on your plate suddenly looked unappetizing as the old, familiar voice whispered that you were completely out of your league.
“y/n? hey, you’re getting quiet on me,” jungwon murmured softly, leaning across the table, his dark eyes full of immediate concern. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
you stared down at your fingers, tracing the edge of the napkin to keep your voice steady. “she’s… really pretty, jungwon.”
“she’s an old friend,” he replied instantly, a gentle, reassuring smile breaking across his face. “i promise that's all.”
you swallowed past the lump in your throat, the overthinking brain refusing to let go of the bone. “did anything… ever happen between you two? back then?”
“no, never,” jungwon said easily, shaking his head. “we were just kids who grew up on the same block. we played video games and rode bikes. that was literally it.”
you looked up, your eyes searching his face, silent and unconvinced. jungwon sighed softly, a tiny, amused but fond smile tugging at his lips as he realized he couldn't hide anything from you. he reached across the table, covering your cold hand with his warm one.
“okay, fine,” he gave in gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. “the only thing that ever happened was that our parents used to tease us. when we were around ten, our moms joked around a lot about how we’d probably end up getting married because we were inseparable. but it was just a silly parents' joke.”
he meant it as a reassuring confession to show how ridiculous the history was, but inside your chest, the words landed with a heavy, deafening thud.
married.
“baby,” jungwon murmured, his hands coming up to gently hold your fingers. he looked down at you, his eyes completely honest. “i'm sorry. i shouldn't have brought that up so carelessly. when we were kids, maybe there was a silly, innocent part of me that had a crush on her back then. but i swear to you, those feelings are completely gone. they've been gone for years.”
when you wouldn't look at him, your eyes still trained on the ground as you tried to process the heavy spiral in your chest, jungwon didn't get frustrated or tell you that you were overreacting.
instead, he patiently guided your cold hands up, cupping them securely against his warm cheeks and leaning his face into your soft touch. he tilted his head just enough so that you were forced to see the absolute sincerity in his gaze.
“our parents made jokes about the past, but i'm looking at my future right now,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your wrist, his heartbeat steady and grounding beneath your palms. “it's only you, y/n. it's always just been you.”
“how sure are you about that?”
“how sure are you about that?” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of your own mind. you hated how small you sounded, hated that even with his face leaning so trustingly into your hands, the ugly, loud voice of your anxiety was still trying to convince you that you were a second choice.
jungwon didn't blink. he didn't sigh in frustration, and he didn't let go of your hands. instead, he just closed his eyes for a brief second, absorbing the raw vulnerability of your question, before looking right back at you with a gaze so steady it felt like an anchor.
“because when i was ten, i didn't know what loving someone actually meant,” he said softly, his voice incredibly quiet but unshakeable. “i thought it was just sharing toys and living on the same block. but with you? i know exactly what it is.”
he kissed the palm of your right hand, his lips warm against your cold skin.
“i'm sure because when something good happens, you're the first person i want to call. i'm sure because even when you get quiet and distant like this, i don't want to be anywhere else in the world except right here, waiting it out with you. minji is a part of a childhood scrapbook, y/n. but you are my real life. you are my today, and you're the only one i want for tomorrow.”
you let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding, the heavy knot in your chest finally loosening under the steady, unshakeable warmth of his words. the ugly, loud whispers of your overthinking brain slowly faded into silence, replaced entirely by the sound of his heartbeat beneath your palms.
he was right. she was the past, but you were his right now.
“okay,” you whispered, a small, watery but genuine smile finally breaking across your lips. “i believe you.”
jungwon smiled back, a look of pure relief crossing his handsome face. he kissed the palm of your hand one more time before lowering your hands, locking his fingers tightly with yours as the two of you began walking down the glowing, tree-lined street once again. the anxiety hadn't completely vanished from your system—it rarely ever did—but with his side pressed warmly against yours, the world felt safe again.
but your worries did not disappear overnight.
months have passed since that evening of your first date, filled with shared laughter and a love that grew steadier with each passing day. jungwon had proven his words true over and over again, never letting you drift when the overthinking got too loud.
yet, the mind is a stubborn thing.
jungwon was and is serious about you. every small gesture, every patient reassurance when you got quiet, and every look he gave you proved that you weren't just a passing chapter in his life. so, he decided that it was finally time for his parents to meet you. he wanted you to meet the people who mattered most to him, completely missing the way your stomach instantly dropped in panic.
“my son!”
as soon as the door opened to jungwon’s condo, his mom gave him a tight hug, immediately stepping past him to look at you with a wide, welcoming smile. jungwon laughed softly, wrapping an arm around his mom's shoulders before gently pulling you into the space alongside them.
“mom, let me breathe first,” he teased gently, though his eyes were bright with happiness as he looked between the two of you.
“but i miss my baby!”
this was the first time you can genuinely see jungwon embarrassed, but it was adorable. his cheeks flushed a faint, endearing pink as he cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual cool composure while his dad just chuckled behind them, carrying a small box of side dishes into the kitchen.
all was going well. the conversation flowed effortlessly over the sound of clinking chopsticks and quiet laughter.
“you know, y/n, jungwon has been smiling so much more lately,” his mom mentioned softly, reaching over to squeeze your wrist. “whenever we call him on the weekends, he’s always in a good mood because he’s either on his way to see you or just got back from a date. you’ve been such a wonderful influence on him.”
“thank you, mrs. yang,” you murmured softly, using the title she had warmly insisted on earlier. you felt a genuine sense of relief wash over you.
but that relief was cut short when his father set down his glass, looking between the two of you with a reflective nod. “it’s just so interesting seeing jungwon with someone so quiet and gentle,” his father noted with a thoughtful, friendly smile. “you know, his mother and i always assumed he’d end up with someone loud and full of energy, like minji. they grew up together, so we were just so used to that specific dynamic. but it’s good that he’s learning to appreciate a different kind of presence now.”
learning to appreciate.
your stomach completely dropped. they weren't trying to be mean at all. it was just a casual comment. but hearing his dad say that made your worst fear feel real. to them, minji was the standard: the girl who naturally fit into his life.
suddenly, that creeping feeling was crawling back into your system and into your head.
this option focuses on him noticing y/n's discomfort right away and stepping in to protect her peace.
jungwon, who had been watching you the entire time, saw the exact moment your face went rigid. without a second thought, his hand reached under the table, finding your ice-cold fingers and squeezing them tightly.
“that was a completely different time, dad,” jungwon cut in smoothly, his voice calm but incredibly firm as he looked directly at his father. “who i was when i was ten years old doesn't matter. y/n is my present, and she’s exactly who i like.”
his mother’s eyes widened slightly at jungwon's serious tone, her expression shifting into immediate regret. she looked at you, her face full of genuine worry.
“oh, dear, i’m so sorry,” his mom said softly, reaching across the table to gently touch your arm. “your father didn't mean it that way at all. we are so happy you’re here with him.”
“yes, please forgive an old man's clumsy words, y/n,” his dad added quickly, looking incredibly apologetic. “i only meant that we are glad to see how happy and grounded jungwon is with you. we really didn't mean to compare you.”
you managed to nod politely, offering his parents a tight, small smile. “it’s okay, mrs. yang. mr. yang, really. don’t worry about it.”
you forced yourself to get through the rest of the dinner. you chewed your food without tasting it, laughed at the right moments, and politely helped clear the plates. you didn't storm out, but your anxiety made you want to disappear.
the second the front door clicked shut and his parents finally left, the fake smile dropped from your face. your breath hitched, and the hot tears you had been holding back for the last hour finally slipped down your cheeks.
jungwon turned around immediately, his face full of pain as he stepped toward you. “y/n, baby, hey—”
“jungwon, please,” you whispered, stepping back, your hands trembling as you wrapped them around yourself. you couldn't take his comfort right now. the ugly thoughts were too loud. “i just… i think i need to go home.”
“y/n, look at me. you heard what i told them. she’s not like that to me. why are you pushing me away?”
“because they look at me and they see a lesson!” your voice finally broke, a sharp, painful sob escaping your throat. “they look at me and see someone who is helping you grow up, jungwon. what if that’s all i am to you? what if i’m just the person you’re with until you’re ready to go back to someone like her?”
jungwon flinched as if you had physically struck him. a heavy, painful silence fell over the apartment. he took a slow breath, his dark eyes brimming with a mix of deep hurt and sheer frustration that he couldn't seem to break through the walls of your anxiety.
“is that really all you think of me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet, raw whisper. “after all these months, you still think i’m just using you as a placeholder?”
he stepped forward, refusing to let you shrink away this time, his hands gently but firmly capturing your trembling wrists.
“i am not your ex, i’m not your fling, and i’m not jongseong, y/n,” he said, his voice shaking slightly with emotion as he looked directly into your tear-filled eyes. “i don't need a lesson, and i don't need to practice how to love someone. i love you. i chose you, and i am pouring everything i have into us. it hurts so bad that you’re letting a careless comment throw away everything we’ve built.”
you stared at him through a blur of hot tears, his grip on your wrists feeling less like an anchor and more like a trap you desperately needed to escape. you heard his words. he loves youand he isn't your ex. but the chaotic noise inside your head was just too loud. you were completely emotionally exhausted.
“jungwon, please,” you choked out, pulling your wrists back out of his hold. you couldn't look him in the eye, unable to bear the heavy hurt radiating from him. “i can’t… i can’t do this right now. i just really need to go home.”
jungwon stood perfectly still, his hands hanging empty in the space between you. he looked at your trembling shoulders, realizing that no matter what he said right now, your mind was miles away, trapped in a past he hadn't created.
he let out a long, heavy breath, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up at you with soft, tired eyes.
“okay,” he whispered quietly, his voice thick with unvoiced exhaustion. he didn't fight you, and he didn't force you to stay. instead, he reached for his car keys on the counter. “i’ll drive you.”
“no,” you said quickly, stepping back toward the door before he could even take a step toward you. “no, jungwon, please don't.”
jungwon froze, his fingers tightening around his car keys. “y/n, it’s late. i’m not letting you go out there alone like this.”
“i’ll book a ride. i just… if i get in the car with you right now, i feel like i won't be able to breathe,” you confessed, your voice dropping to a desperate, raw whisper. you hated hurting him, but the walls of the apartment already felt like they were crashing down on you. “i need to be completely alone. please.”
the word please seemed to deflate whatever fight jungwon had left in him. he looked at you, seeing the genuine panic in your eyes, and realized that forcing himself to accompany you would only make your spiral worse. it broke his heart, but he put his car keys back down on the counter.
“okay,” he whispered softly, his voice heavy with defeat. “i won't force you. but let me book your ride. let me at least do that so i know you're in a safe car.”
you didn't have the energy to argue. you just stood by the door, hugging yourself tightly as jungwon quietly pulled out his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he booked a ride to your apartment.
when the app showed the driver was outside, he walked over and opened the door for you. he didn't try to hug you or touch you, completely respecting the distance you asked for.
“text me when you get inside your room,” jungwon said, his dark eyes brimming with so much quiet love and unspoken hurt as he watched you step out into the hallway. “even if you don't want to talk to me, just send a dot. please. just let me know you're safe.”
you nodded your head and closed the door. as you walked down the hallway and headed toward the car, you finally let your tears fall, not caring if the receptionist in the lobby or the driver saw you.
***
dear y/n,
you thought you were completely past this after all these months of quiet, steady happiness.
he is good to you, and he has done absolutely nothing wrong. your heart knows he isn't the one who hurt you, but the fear of history repeating itself is paralyzing. you ran away tonight because the walls were closing in, and you are so terrified of ruining something beautiful.
you are standing at a crossroads now, completely exhausted from fighting your own mind. you want to believe you deserve this love, but the urge to protect yourself is pulling you backward. the storm inside you is loud, but will you still find the strength to trust and give it a try?
you texted jungwon that you needed space. you told him you just needed to make sure history wasn't repeating itself.
it took a few long, agonizing minutes before your phone buzzed in your hand.
jungwon: i understand. take all the time you need, y/n. i’m not going anywhere, and i’m not letting go of us. please just rest well tonight.
staring at the glowing screen, a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. he was giving you the exact reassurance you desperately needed, yet the heavy, unresolved space between you felt wider than ever.
days turned into weeks and the space between you only grew heavier. neither of you reached out, the silence lingering like an unspoken question that you were both too afraid to answer.
you had thought that having this time to yourself would help clear your head and make you feel safe again. instead, the endless quiet only proved that the ghost of your past wasn’t something he was creating—it was something you were still carrying all on your own. missing him had become a constant, dull ache in your chest, making you realize that the walls you built to protect yourself were only keeping you trapped in your own loneliness.
the realization hit you fully when you found yourself staring at an old photo of the two of you, his bright, genuine smile a stark contrast to the hollow ache currently sitting in your chest. you had spent so much time trying to make sure history wasn't repeating itself that you hadn't noticed you were the one sabotaging your own present. it was finally time to stop letting your fear dictate your future, even if your hands were still shaking at the thought of making things right.
but you were too scared. maybe you didn’t deserve that second chance when all he did was be so nice and gentle, giving you the love you had been searching for all along.
on cue, your phone lit up with an unexpected video call notification. you slid the button to answer, clearing your throat before speaking. “jongseong, hey!”
“hey, y/n,” jongseong replied, his face appearing on the screen. he gave you a small wave, looking totally relaxed but a bit curious. “i’m only calling because a few really sad heartbreak tweets popped up on my timeline today, and i noticed you liked one of them. it just felt a little out of character for you. are you doing okay? any problems between you and jungwon?”
you froze, the heavy silence of your room suddenly feeling magnified through the speaker. your throat felt completely tight, and your mind scrambled for a safe lie, a polite excuse, or any regular answer to cover up the mess inside your head. but looking at jongseong’s kind, expectant face on the screen, the wall you had built over the past few weeks finally crumbled.
you let out a shaky breath, looking down at your lap because you couldn't bear to hold his gaze anymore.
“do you know that there are two types of people in the world?” you murmured, your voice cracking slightly as the tears threatened to spill over again. “the lesson and the one. sadly, i’m the lesson.”
“okay…” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned closer to the camera. “i’m not following. what do you mean by that, y/n?”
“i mean… some people only enter a person’s life to teach them how to love, how to grow, or how to be better for the next person,” you whispered, a single tear finally slipping down your cheek. “they’re just a temporary chapter. they're the lesson. and then there are the people who get to stay forever. they’re the one.”
you finally looked up at the screen, your eyes completely raw and vulnerable as you stared at him.
“his parents think i'm just a phase, jongseong. they think i'm just someone he's with until he's ready to go back to a blueprint that naturally fits his world. and the worst part is… i’m starting to think they’re right.”
you let out a tired, shaky sigh, pulling your knees up to your chest.
“you know my history, jongseong. you’ve seen firsthand how many times i’ve been left behind, and how much it took for me to piece myself back together,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a soft, exhausted whisper. “i already know exactly how it feels to be the lesson that helps a man grow up for someone else. i’ve been that girl my entire life, and i just… i don’t think i have the strength to go through that all over again with him.”
jongseong went completely quiet on the other end of the line, his expression softening as your words settled over him. he rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a brief second as if carrying a quiet weight of his own before fixing his steady, grounded gaze back on you.
“y/n, look at me,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that deep, comforting tone. “i know your history. i know exactly how much you've been through, and i'm not going to sit here and tell you that your fears aren’t valid. but you are completely wrong about one thing.”
he leaned a little closer to the camera. “i don't know the guy personally, but i know you. and from everything you’ve ever told me about him, from the way your face lights up when you mention his name, he isn't the type to treat you like a phase. his parents don't get to decide who his 'one' is, y/n. he already chose you, so don't let their words choose his ending for him.”
you looked away from the screen, your bottom lip trembling as his words cut right through your defenses. you wanted so desperately to believe he was right, but the heavy weight in your chest made it so hard to breathe.
“but what if they’re right, jongseong?” you whispered, a fresh tear spilling over as you brought your knees closer to your chest. “it’s so easy to say he chose me now, but choosing someone gets a lot harder when the whole world is pulling you in the opposite direction. i'm just so tired of being the only one who ends up broken when the choice gets too heavy.”
“you told me once, he’s different. you said he was the first person who made you feel safe enough to lower your guard. don't take away his chance to be the one who stays just because everyone else before him left.”
you let out a shaky breath, wiping the dampness from your cheeks with the back of your hand. his words hit a little too close to home, reminding you of the girl who used to be so certain about the boy she loved.
“i did say that, didn't i?” you whispered, a small, incredibly tired smile touching your lips for a split second. you looked back up at the screen, trying to clear the thick emotion from your throat. “i'm sorry for dumping all of this on you out of nowhere. let's not talk about my mess anymore. how are things with you and karina?”
jongseong chuckled softly, the heavy atmosphere completely lifting as he leaned back in his desk chair. “speaking of the devil,” he murmured, just as the sound of a fridge door closing echoed through the speaker, followed by the soft padding of footsteps.
a second later, karina leaned into the frame, damp hair wrapped in a towel and a plate of sliced fruit in her hand. “tell her i say hi! and tell her you haven't washed the dishes from breakfast yet,” she teased, popping a piece of apple into her mouth before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head and walking back to the living room.
jongseong rolled his eyes fondly, watching her leave before fixing his gaze back on you. “see? we’re surviving, even if we’re constantly stressed about finals and rent. our parents definitely had their doubts about us moving in together so early, but we just decided to figure it out as we go. it’s not perfect, but it’s real. you and jungwon can figure it out too, if you just give him the chance to try.”
“thanks, jongseong,” you murmured, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally unravelling into a sudden, desperate wave of clarity.
“anytime, buddy,” he replied with a warm, final nod.
and with that, you both ended the call.
before the fear could creep back in, you immediately grabbed a coat from the chair and shoved your feet into your crocs. you unlocked the deadbolt with trembling fingers and swung the door open, but what you didn’t expect was jungwon standing right there, catching his breath with his hair sweaty, probably from running all the way to you.
“h-hi.”
“hi.”
a breathless, fragile silence settled over the hallway. jungwon looked down, his gaze lingering on your feet tucked into your crocs, and then you looked at his messy, sweat-dampened hair. despite the heavy heartbreak that had been hovering over you both for weeks, a tiny, incredibly watery laugh slipped past your lips.
jungwon’s lips twitched into a faint, exhausted smile, though his eyes stayed completely soft and intense.
“where were you going in such a hurry?” he asked softly, his voice still a little breathless.
“i was… i was going to you,” you confessed, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, blurring your vision.
jungwon’s eyes softened completely, his hand moving from your wrist to gently cup your cheek, his thumb catching the tear before it could fall. “to me? why?”
“because i’m so tired of being the girl who only exists to teach good men how to love someone else,” you choked out, your hands anchoring onto the fabric of his jacket because your knees felt weak. “i don’t want you to be my temporary chapter, jungwon. i don’t want this to be another heartbreaking lesson. i know you’re the one. i know it. and it terrifies me, but i was running to tell you that i don’t want to let you go.”
jungwon stared at you, completely frozen as his usual composure totally shattered. a glassy sheen quickly took over his sharp eyes, his bottom lip trembling just a fraction as the heavy unshed tears made him look incredibly vulnerable in the dim hallway light. he looked so profoundly undone by your confession that he couldn't even find his voice to speak.
seeing him look at you like that suddenly made a wave of intense self-consciousness rush over you.
you let out a wet, breathless laugh, instantly dropping your gaze to his chest as your cheeks flushed deep red. “oh god,” you muttered, your voice cracking as you weakly hid your face against his jacket. “i can’t believe i sound so silly saying that. it sounded so cringe, i'm sorry—”
jungwon wasted no time in closing the gap between the two of you and crashed his lips onto yours. compared to your first kiss, this one was full of pure yearning and a desperate, breathless relief that made your knees give out completely.
he kissed you until the lingering taste of your tears melted away, his hands moving up to cup your face so tightly, as if he were physically anchoring you to him. when he finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead remained rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in hot, uneven puffs in the quiet hallway.
“it’s not silly,” jungwon whispered fiercely, his voice raspy and thick with the tears he was trying not to spill. he blinked, a stray drop finally escaping and trailing down his flushed cheek as he looked deep into your eyes. “i ran all the way here because i felt like i was suffocating without you. i ran to tell you that i don't want to lose you. i'm not letting you go.”
you could only nod as a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. your fingers gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles turned white.
jungwon smiled weakly, his thumbs gently wiping away the new tears on your cheeks before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, right at your hairline. he kept his arms securely locked around you, anchoring you against his warm chest until your breathing finally synced up with his.
“i mean it, y/n,” he murmured into your hair, his voice steadier now but still filled with that fierce determination. “no more lessons. we're figuring this out together.”
***
dear, y/n,
in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. you were the latter. but right now, you’re the first.
you spent so much time convincing yourself that you were only built to be a temporary chapter, a stepping stone for someone else's perfect blueprint. but you don't have to stay broken just to teach a good man how to love. you can be the one who gets to stay, too. and you finally found your 'the one'—the boy who ran all the way to your door in the middle of the night just to prove he was never going to let you go.
three months later.
“jungwon, if you don't turn that stove down right now, we are going to set the fire alarm off for the third time this month,” you laughed, leaning against the counter of your apartment as you watched him frantically wave a kitchen towel in front of a smoking pan.
“i have it completely under control!” he insisted, though his cheeks were flushed a soft pink and his sharp eyes were wide with adorable panic. he quickly slid the pan off the burner, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief before turning around to face you. his hair was slightly messy, a soft contrast to the structured, neat look he usually wore around his family, and he was wearing an super oversized hoodie that you were pretty sure actually belonged to you.
you walked over, entirely unable to hide the fond smile on your face as you reached up to fix a stray strand of hair falling over his forehead. “you’re supposed to be the responsible college student, remember? what happened to the planner jungwon?”
“the plan got complicated,” jungwon murmured, his tone instantly softening the second your fingers brushed against his skin. without missing a beat, his hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him with that effortless, natural familiarity that had become your favorite part of every single day. “besides, i was distracted looking at you.”
“so cringe,” you teased, echoing the exact words from the night he ran to you, but your heart still did that familiar, happy flip against your ribs.
jungwon chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated against your chest as he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. “i told you three months ago,” he whispered against your lips, his thumbs gently rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. “it’s not cringe if it’s real. now kiss me before the smoke alarm actually goes off.”
you didn't miss a beat. you leaned up, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss that carried all the quiet certainty of the past three months. the heavy anxiety, the cruel comments from his parents, and the ghosts of your past heartbreaks were completely gone. there were no more lessons left to learn. there was only jungwon, holding you tight in a smoky kitchen, proving every single day that he was here to stay.
if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do
GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader ⋮ PART 02 WC 31.4k
SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes INCLUDES SMUT so +18 ONLY. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen + yeonjun of txt slowburn pining NSFW TAGS ⋮ dom!sunghoon, condescending remarks, piv, dumbification, creampie, unprotected sex (don't), degradation, spanking, praise, dry humping, fingering, edging, sunghoon puts reader into a mating press halfway, breeding kink, sunghoon says i love you while in it, reader is so down Bad save her.
AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ heeelloo i'm back again less than a week later TT up until this point i've had a huge draft to work from, but i wrote this part mostlyyy recently (like in the past 2-3weeks). i can't wait to see what everyone thinks of the fic as a whole and i'll be lurking in ur blogs... watching... also stream dwygd by the band camino the song sparked me back into finishing this fic and it's where the titles r taken from :7 ENJOY !!!! #hoonynforever
REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING
you know this version of yourself very well. it’s the one that immediately starts accounting for error before drawing conclusions, and the one that treats uncertainty as concrete evidence you’ve got everything wrong. by the time you reach your car, you couldn’t even pull your stupid phone out of your stupidly tight jeans, because the pocket seemed vacuum sealed to your thighs once you sat down.
the drive home is full of revision. memories, mostly, on the phone: did you dream all of lee heeseung up? who the hell started those conversations? who called you last night?
was this all one-sided?
every turn at every corner feels excruciating. the green lights are too slow and every second that passes makes you want to reach for your phone, call him immediately, and ask just what the fuck that was. your palms stick against the steering wheel and the thought of hearing his response makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.
it just can’t be possible. there is just no way that you’re this unlucky.
the rest of the journey is blank. you didn’t even turn on the radio, nor did you bother to plug in the carplay. it’s almost pathetic how fast you slide out of the leather seat, how hard you slam the door to the driver’s, and how desperately you punch in the code to your apartment. you mess it up once, which earns a small cuss under your breath, but none of it overshadows the confusion.
you can’t possibly text him like this. ringing him would only lead to something even worse. you might say something you don’t mean, or fuck things up in that signature way of yours.
so, you settle for the same routine as always: shower, lunch, nap, and try not to lose your mind throughout the day. at some point, you think it cannot possibly be this serious—you’ve never met the man like this, never spoken to him in person, and not once have you heard his voice utter your name in real life. it is absolutely ridiculous that your knees almost buckle in the shower, at the mere thought that this truly might have meant nothing. just nothing.
there is an attempt to move through the day without acknowledging the hundred pound weight on your shoulders. perhaps it’s because you’ve spent weeks with your brain at full power that it’s starting to swirl with all kinds of things now.
you’re dragging your feet against the floorboards as you make your way to the kitchen. caffeine might help, maybe. there’s no logic or sound reasoning behind the decision, but you reach for your favourite mug and position it under the coffee machine anyway. your bottom lip is swollen from biting down on it, a habit you never really got around to unlearning from middle school, and for a fleeting, pathetic moment, you think that this is your fate.
your knuckles almost go white, grip tightening on the edge of the marble island, like it’ll help regulate your feelings any better. an annoying chime plays from the coffee machine a few seconds later—hot ribbons of steam curling into the air—but you don’t even feel like drinking it at all, really.
half-heartedly, you take the mug and head straight for your bedroom. your hair is still damp against your neck, the apartment smells like your shampoo, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the neighbour above your unit. your things are still in a mess from last night—from when you were still on the phone with him, falling asleep with a sour mood and paper notes crumpled at the foot of your bed, books still flipped open to important pages that you conveniently wiped from your memory an hour ago.
and, your phone. face down, on your night stand, plugged into the wall and far too quiet for your comfort, as if lee heeseung could sense what was wrong with you from miles away.
“hello?”
you end up calling.
you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders slouched and back hunched over like it’ll do anything to ease the emptiness in your stomach. a screen is pressed up to your cheek, and you swear your nails might snap off if you hold your phone any tighter than you are now; the phone’s been ringing for a while, and now that he’s finally picked up, every thought decides to somersault out of the fucking window—straight down and plummeting into the concrete pavement outside.
“hey, y/n.” he says. “i’m… fuck—sorry. i’m with some friends right now. are you okay?”
he’s out of breath.
yelling in the background. plastic on plastic, some whistling, someone else calling yeonjun’s name.
you swallow thickly, but it gets caught in your throat halfway. your voice comes out more defeated than you intended. “why did you look at me like that?”
silence. you can hear his heavy breathing through the speaker, and all it does is make you pick at the skin around your nails. ears picking up everything, there’s voices layered over each other, the sound of something sharp cutting against snow, or ice. it stops momentarily when he finally understands the question, soft, but loud enough for your heart to pound.
“what?”
“like you didn’t know me,” you almost fucking whimper, and all you can think is: god, how much more humiliating can this get? “why?”
your free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of your nose, until little bursts of pressure bloom behind your eyes. all of this is giving you a headache, and there’s a split second where you think you should just hang up and save yourself the trouble. this is just how it is. your luck. your fingers knead, and knead, and knead—but it’s no use. all you can hear is him.
“y/n,” he mumbles. “can we meet? tonight?”
“you can’t just do that,” you breathe shakily. “tell me why. please.”
time has been moving wrong all day. everything feels delayed and stretched and slow in this awful, unbearable way. five seconds between responses starts feeling like whole afternoons, and minutes feel like centuries. you spent weeks getting used to talking to him whenever something happened—sending him stupid pictures and complaining about classes and saying things before thinking because there was always tomorrow, and that’s exactly what you did last night.
but now that tomorrow is here… shit, it doesn’t even matter anymore.
“y/n,” his voice breaks just a little—not very sure if it’s the horrible connection on campus, if he’s even still there. you imagine, just for the sake of your sanity, that he’s running his hands through his hair, breathing wrong, panicking. anything like those movies where the guy realises he’s going to lose it all. “i know it doesn’t make any sense—”
“what do you think, huh? do you think any of it does?”
“i know—shit, i know.”
your fingers keep kneading at your skin because the headache’s spreading now, radiating into your temples in slow pulses. you keep pressing harder like pain somewhere else will make this one smaller. it doesn’t work.
“i think we should meet in person,” he answers, calm again, like it’s how he’s always been. somehow, it pisses you off even more, when you know he can hear the shake in your voice. “i gotta go. i’m sorry.”
he’s never apologised to you before. not even for missing your calls.
“what the fuck are you sorry for, heeseung?”
you hear him breathe in, then out. he sounds exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
“i’m just…” his voice catches faintly, before smoothing back out. “i’m sorry.”
the line goes dead.
you stay, just for a while, phone still pressed against your ear like the warmth of your skin might coax him back and force an explanation out of him. your shoulders fold further into themselves until your spine starts to ache, but moving would mean admitting the call is over, and you’re not quite ready to do that yet.
your eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular—the opposite wall, maybe, where the late afternoon light stretches unevenly across the paint and catches the tiny imperfections in the plaster that you’ve somehow never noticed despite living here for months.
your stomach really hurts. sour and hollow, underneath your ribcage, compelling you to lower your phone and lock your screen before you can over-analyse the messages from last night.
you draw a deep breath through your nose, falling back against the mattress until your shoulder blades scratch against your duvet.
you are not crying over a man you’ve technically never even met.
this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, you mutter under your breath, but you still wipe under your eyes and try to blink all the salt out of your eyes anyway. your phone dies eventually because you forget to plug it back in, and now, all that’s left is you, the tear-stained sheets and meaningless pieces of paper.
─────────────────────────
two weeks ago, park sunghoon was on the brink of losing his shit.
it was purely emotional. probably more emotion than anyone on the team has ever seen him display, and lord, was it utterly humiliating. he wonders if anyone on the team still thinks about it, given how the locker room goes dead silent every time he steps in—and it’s literally like he just got named captain all over again.
practice ended badly. not disastrously, because no one broke anything, and maki didn’t start a petty argument between the goalkeeper and him. yeonjun barely screamed at the little freshmen, and only one of them cried post-cool down—so by all technical definitions, it had been productive enough.
and still, he was irritated.
it had been building for days now, in that same slow, ugly way tension knots all your muscles before becoming pain. finals always fucked everyone over, but not enough to stop them from showing up—mentally, though, they’re elsewhere. sunghoon had been there, before he had decided he was tired of making shitty excuses for his terrible performance.
shortcuts irritate him. he’s watching people cut corners before his very eyes because they assume he’s as tired as them—well, he is, but that’s besides the point.
he hated it.
metal lockers slammed shut one after another while conversations overlapped in every direction. someone was laughing too loudly, and sunghoon was almost certain the obnoxiously loud carly rae jepsen echoing through the room belonged to maki’s fucked up speakers again. the locker room was humid in that unpleasant post-practice way—the air thick with damp towels, deodorant and sweat drying into fabric, hot enough that stepping in after the rink always felt vaguely suffocating.
sunghoon walks further into the space and, while it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, conversations shift around him in tiny ways he’s learnt to recognize over the years. a few voices lower, someone moves their legs in so he can pass. one of the freshmen instinctively straightens up halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.
his duffel hangs off one shoulder. sweat drips slowly from his temples, sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing into the dark collar of his shirt. his whole body feels heavy today, and not even in the satisfying way—just fucking heavy. his shoulders ache in that deep, irritating way that suggests recovery isn’t catching up anymore, and lately sleep hasn’t been doing much except making him conscious again.
it’s fine. everything had been feeling vaguely wrong for a while now, anyway.
yeonjun’s already on his way out when he brushes past him, shoulder bumping his with enough force to be annoying but not enough to start anything. “have a wonderfully peaceful night,” he mutters with that unbearably cocky, punchable grin.
any other day, sunghoon might’ve shoved him into a locker.
instead, he dropped his bag beside the end of the bench, and listened to the wood creak underneath his weight. the freshmen lingering nearby begin moving almost immediately. one shifts two lockers down, and another grabs his things and suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be. by the time sunghoon looks up from his phone properly, half of them have disappeared entirely.
he watches one hesitate after accidentally making eye contact. the kid immediately looks away, picks up his shit, and leaves.
sunghoon looks back down. god, his shoulders hurt.
the muscles between his shoulder blades have been tightening more lately. sleep’s been shit. practice feels slower. finals are making everyone stupid. nobody can pass properly anymore, or communicate once they’re on the ice. everything seems held together by routine and whatever miscroscopic amount of discipline he can force onto everyone else.
whatever. it’s manageable, he thinks. everything always is, if you’re strong and willing and miserable enough. eat properly, sleep properly, train properly, study properly. repeat until wanting anything else becomes inefficient or a distraction, until it’s ordinary and until enough days pass that discomfort isn’t discomfort anymore, and simply morphs into the default.
maybe that’s why the past few weeks have felt stranger than anything else—nothing has gotten easier. his schedule has been become even more hellish than before, his muscles still ache and everyone expects more from him; but there’s been this stupid, absurd sense of anticipation stitched quietly into the gaps of his day.
he’s excited for something. for someone.
he checks his phone when he has nothing to do. sleeps later, thinks about conversations while stretching or when someone says something that you mentioned in passing. none of it means anything, at least individually, but it feels so a embarrassingly noticeable once he becomes aware of it together.
“…i’m serious, though.”
his thumb stills over his lockscreen. sunghoon doesn’t look up immediately, because the sentence barely reaches his ears at first. locker room noise tends to sound a lot like static after practice, but then your name slips, and suddenly every other sound becomes painfully irrelevant.
there’s a burst of laughter from somewhere to his left.
“y/n? yeah, i know. she’s prettier than i thought.”
sunghoon’s hand had been unlocking his phone without thought, thumb dragging upward automatically before freezing halfway. his forearm rests against his thigh, veins standing out faintly beneath skin flushed warm from practice, and he only notices after a second that his wrist has gone rigid enough to make the tendons ache.
the fabric of his jersey sticks unpleasantly against the centre of his back, where it hasn’t dried yet.
“fuck, i still remember that dress.”
“she’s fine as fuck, seriously,” someone snorts. “wonder if she’d let me tap. you think?”
“don’t be a fucking asshole,” sunghoon hears, the laughter echoing and bouncing off the walls suggesting that nobody is really bothered by this except him. “you’re not in her league, man.”
more laughter. sunghoon doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off before, truly, because now his fist is balled so tight that his knuckles are starting to pale. his ears are beginning to ring, and all his body decides to do is amplify the voices of his teammates who decided you’d be the centre of their attention tonight.
someone tosses their towel onto the bench he’s on. maki’s finally out, he notices, quieter now that he’s packing his things up.
“who knows if she’s desperate… might have a chance.”
“shut the fuck up!”
sunghoon rolls one shoulder once and immediately regrets it. something pulls underneath his shoulder blade where he took a hit earlier. his body feels strangely swollen after practice—muscles tight and full and unpleasantly warm under skin that suddenly feels too small to sit comfortably in. his thighs ache where they press against the edge of the bench, palms still feeling vaguely raw from his gloves.
the conversation goes on, and he tries not to listen. realistically, these men would never get anywhere near you. he wouldn’t let them, but that’s besides the point. willingly giving this his attention would only lead to something he can’t take back, and he knows it.
“you got her number?”
“think i do. we were in the same freshie group.”
wonderful.
his tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his jaw is ticking. he swears if he bites down any harder that a tooth might shatter, but sunghoon does his best to keep his eyes trained on the screen in his hands.
someone says something else, but he doesn’t even remember what. he only remembers the feeling of his jaw hurting, the edge of his phone case digging into his palm, and the slow, annoying feeling of anger coursing through his veins.
it’s hot in here. sunghoon feels it all—anger, resentment, the guilt and embarrassment, too, because he really wants it to stop. he really, really needs it to. there’s something deeply unpleasant in having to listen to a group of people talk about you like this is all you are, that your face and body, no matter how gorgeous it may be, is your most interesting feature.
do these people know you the way he does?
they don’t. they never could.
park sunghoon’s throat suddenly feels dry in a way water won’t, can’t fix. his shoulders stay tense while his gaze drags over your messages and something inside him twists. it’s obvious that this was never supposed to become anything, and that a relationship built on a lie would crumble before he could begin enjoying it.
it’s just… one late-night call becomes another, then another, and another. somewhere between protein shakes and assignments and practice schedules, he moves everything aside for you, and realises he wants you more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.
“could you guys just shut the fuck up?”
the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to think about them. the social repercussions don’t even matter anymore, nor were they even factored in to begin with. his voice doesn’t come out loud, which somehow makes it worse—it stays low and level and entirely lacking in visible irritation, like he’s asking somebody to pass him a bottle instead of telling half the room to stop talking.
the effect is immediate, anyway.
conversations taper off unevenly until the entire room is quiet. somebody lets out a laugh that cuts itself short halfway through, and somewhere behind him, a locker closes gently.
sunghoon only realises he’s spoken after the silence reaches him, and suddenly, his own breathing sounds louder than before. his shoulders ease by a fraction and his fingers loosen around his phone, just enough for him to feel the imprint left across the centre of his palm from holding it too tightly.
nobody says a thing. sunghoon doesn’t even know who was speaking anymore. that detail doesn’t seem important now—not compared to the things that were said, and definitely not compared to what had slipped out of his own mouth immediately after.
park sunghoon sits in the locker room with sweat cooling against his skin, realising something he spent the next two weeks trying very hard to negotiate with.
he wants you.
slowly, surely, quietly, he wants you.
at some point, it felt easier not to think about; topped with all the things he already has to deal with, accepting this fact is not particularly beneficial for him.
fourteen days after that—today—he’s done with practice again, same old, same old; walking into locker rooms that are hyperaware of his existence, everyone treading on egg shells until he gets out of the place and into his car.
he knows people noticed. yeonjun had asked if he was alright on the walk over to the parking lot and tried unusually hard not to sound like he was asking. no grin nor stupid comment attached, it’s plain, awkward concern delivered badly enough that sunghoon knew it was real.
“you good?”
what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?
that he’d heard your voice three hours ago, spent the entire session replaying the shake in your voice, and wanted to rip his heart out of his chest?
that the only time he was so sure of someone, he’s already fucked it up?
it’s his fault that he couldn’t answer and instead settled on walking away. park sunghoon heard you on the phone three hours ago and knew he’d be thinking about it the entire session—but now that he’s actually getting into his car, on the way to see you, his heart is beginning to pound harder.
his shoes scrape quietly against the asphalt of the parking lot as he walks. his duffel drags his shoulder lower on one side, dark blue hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows—sunghoon’s hand reaches into his pocket automatically and wraps around his keys before he even gets to the car.
You: where are you? 20:08
Y/n: [Shared a location] 20:08
─────────────────────────
the text came at 7 in the evening. you spent the previous 3 hours wondering where it went wrong, recalling every word exchanged, every misunderstood conversation that you dismissed in the moment. it’s incredibly easy to move past things in the heat of the things, you realise—it just seems silly now, almost childish, that you let those things slip past you.
you left the house in a random zip-up, shorts riding up your thighs with every forward step you took. there’s an annoying little hill you need to climb to get to this park, obscured by dark green trees and stray cats that rub against your legs if you stand still for too long, and you’ll usually start panting by the 2 minute mark.
once you finally reach the top, it’s unmistakable. an old playground swing, a plastic slide, and a bench that sat directly behind the big, interactive structure modelled after a sunflower. your feet feel heavy as you move, slippers scratching against the concrete, and you accidentally kick a few pebbles as you walk.
this feels like a waste of your time. heeseung messaged around thirty minutes ago, and he’s still nowhere in sight—eventually, you’re hunched over the park bench table, hands in your hair, trying to get this nausea to alleviate itself.
so what if lee heeseung decided he wanted nothing to do with you? the magnitude at which this is affecting you is starting to seem ridiculous. you keep telling yourself that a boy shouldn’t matter this much, that talking means nothing, and that modern love is nothing but a cruel endeavour that you’re constantly gambling on. so what if you lose, you think, but the feeling of your heart spilling out of your ribs is pressing so deep into your heart that it’s killing you.
your fingers are pressing into the bridge of your nose again. the streetlamps feel warm over your head, slipping through your fingers when you run them over your face. you think you must look horrible right now, but so does everyone else—never mind that the occasional parkgoer jogs past and stares you down: that is what you choose to tell yourself.
some kid walks by with her mom, pointing at the slide, and it almost makes you laugh when she hesitates before saying ‘no’.
just as the thoughts begin to tone down, swirling less and less, you catch a familiar figure in your peripheral: tall, broad, sleeves bunched at the elbows and dark brown hair falling over his eyebrows, looking as tired and miserable as the day you saw him a week ago.
this can’t be real.
the yellow light washes over his face and bathes him in a warm, almost greenish light. the moment he steps into focus, you’re already on your way up—standing next to the bench, hands shaking like you can’t quite believe this is actually happening.
“y/n—”
three steps later, you’re already on your way out.
what follows is immediate: park sunghoon, tired, red eyes, lounging a big ass bag on his shoulder, jogging towards you with a stride so big that it almost scares you. you can’t bear to look at him like this, like he’s actually hurt over what he’s done, even if you don’t specifically know what it is yet.
everything’s blurry as you move. you can’t feel your stomach, and it took you more than a reasonable amount of effort just to turn away and start walking. you can hear him, faintly—sunghoon calling out your name, as familiar as every night before this one, as sweet and genuine as it had always been—but has it really, though?
“is this some fucking joke to you?”
your voice cracks on the very last word, embarrassingly enough. as if the tears running down your cheeks wasn’t enough shame to carry around, sunghoon has to hear you like this. vulnerable and hurt and wanting answers.
“y/n, please. just stop walking away from me,” he pleads, out of breath from how far he’s been trailing you. the downhill slope isn’t that far away from here, and you can see a few couples taking a night stroll—as if the universe insists on rubbing it in your tear-stained face. “let me explain.”
“what is there to explain?”
you weren’t stupid. it feels like a cruel insult that sunghoon thinks you even need an explanation; he was heeseung. you’d been calling, texting, falling for someone completely different, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even fucking matter in the way he thinks it does.
“i wanted to tell you,” sunghoon blurts out, and the moment it leaves his lips, your feet suddenly stop working. it’s like your heels are anchored to the ground by something invisible, urging you to turn around—everything in his voice screams for you to do just that, to face him, to see how hurt he is by the lie he chose to tell. “y/n, please.”
you can’t. you just can’t.
it’s incredibly corny. this whole scene just seems like a big fuck-you from the universe, dragged straight out of a drama, because god knows you were never deserving of something so beautiful and easy. love had to strangle it’s way out of your hands, somehow. it’s to a point where there’s people staring, whispering as they pass you two.
“you know what? i wouldn’t even have fucking cared, anyway.” you sighed, blinking to get your vision to clear up. “you didn’t even have to lie to me.”
sunghoon is stunned at that. his whole body feels cold, locked in place, and his heart’s pounding so hard that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. by the time you eventually do turn around, his throat is already constricting, dry and tight, looking down at you—hand running through your hair, glassy eyes staring into his. the guilt weighs heavier now, sinking it’s claws into his neck, so deep that he can feel it nick his heart.
“what?”
he needs to rip it out.
sunghoon genuinely feels like his guts are going to spill out. your eyelashes are wet with tears and he can tell you’re trying your best not to burst into tears, and he hates himself for being the reason for it; he has to dig his fingers into his palms just so he can stop himself from reaching out for you.
selfishly, for a second, he lets himself memorise your face. he thinks it’ll be the last time he sees it. there’s something about you—even when your cheeks are red and your eyes are swollen with hurt, that he wants to see it all.
sunghoon wishes he could undo everything. perhaps, if he had just went up to you that friday night, underneath the stairs with his best smile and most polite greeting, he’d been able to hate himself a little less, and possibly not hurt you at all.
this is what he gets, isn’t it?
it’s a shame.
“i really liked you.” you sniffle. your eyes are deliberately avoiding his. sunghoon’s never leave your face. “heeseung or not, doesn’t even matter now, does it?”
for a second, sunghoon genuinely thinks he misheard you.
the streetlights blur, morphing into bright lines in your vision, and somebody laughs somewhere downhill. a bicycle rolls past, a dog barks behind you, and it is just unbearable how you have to focus on all these sounds just so you can distract yourself from the uneven breaths of your own body.
“i liked you too, y/n.”
sunghoon genuinely forgets how to breathe. his chest expands automatically, but the air never seems to reach his lungs, caught somewhere between his ribs and throat where everything suddenly feels too tight.
all this time, he thought he knew exactly how tonight would go. you’d tell him to fuck off, to stop following you, and he thought he would. it started off like that: the walking part, the not-being-able-to-look-at-him-without-crying. he prepared for it, every night, leading up to this one: imagined you laughing in his face, telling him to leave, to never call again, but this barely fits the mould.
every time he convinced himself that honesty could wait one more day because he needed more time, needed the timing to be better, needed to figure himself out first—all of it feels rotten, so useless and meaningless now.
you stand there with tears drying on your cheeks, eyes swollen and exhausted, and all he can think about is how much easier this could have been for you if he’d just been honest from the beginning. he should’ve never answered, nor should he have went with it when you started getting a little bolder. he should’ve never gone this far to feed his own selfishness.
park sunghoon doesn’t deserve to stand here and watch you cry over him.
“you could’ve told me.”
his fingers curl against his palms until his nails bite crescents into skin. he barely feels the sting. somehow, hearing you say it doesn’t feel relieving at all—not in the way he imagined it would, during all those nights where he let himself think about impossible things before forcing himself to sleep. he thought this moment, if it ever existed, would feel warm. he thought—maybe—there’d be this stupid sense of vindication buried underneath the guilt, a ugly selfish satisfaction that would prove he wasn’t completely insane for wanting you.
all he finds is more guilt, painted by a crystal clear picture of what could’ve been.
the image arrives all at once and it’s unbearable in how ordinary it is. walking up to you that first night instead of watching from a distance. introducing himself properly, and a few weeks later, he’s sitting across from you at some stupid coffee place after class. he’d be seeing his contact under his actual name and listening to you complain through his speakers without feeling his stomach drop every time you said “heeseung.” such painfully normal things that people do every day without thinking, and somehow they feel impossibly far away now, like he’d reached out and ruined them before they even had the chance to become memories.
his hand comes up to his face and presses hard against his mouth. you’re sniffling so much that your nose is beginning to redden. he notices the cuts on your lips, probably from biting down on them, and all he can see is you in the library, far away and out of reach.
“i should have told you,” he acknowledges. it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pounding headache you have. “i thought that if you didn’t know—fuck, i don’t know. i thought you would’ve liked me better like that… if you didn’t know.”
“how the fuck does that make any fucking sense?”
for the first time today, you’re looking at him. his eyes are red around the edges, the skin underneath them looking darker than normal and his lashes look damp under the streetlights. there’s something almost unbearable about it, the way he looks more exhausted than guilty, like he’s been carrying this around for weeks and would be the one bearing most of the pain.
still, despite it all, you want to wipe the tears away.
“i wasn’t lying,” his lip trembles slightly, “when i said that everyone’s scared of me. that night—fuck, i saw you, y/n. i knew you wouldn’t look at me—”
“what the fuck? really, what the fuck?” you cut him off, voice tapering off into that high, disbelieving tone. “how—just how? how did you think this would turn out, sunghoon? did you think we’d live happily ever after when i—when we spent months talking like that?”
you’re breathing wrong. everything feels so wrong. all of this feels so impossibly fucking wrong. you need to go home.
he flinches at your response. your eyes burn with all the movement in your peripheral, and your chest tightens with every passing second. you laugh, and it sounds horrible—small, breathless, like the sight in front of you is simply too baffling to process properly.
sunghoon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you stare at him, expecting something, anything, but the words refuse to make it past his throat.
“what the fuck is wrong with you, sunghoon?”
there is something painfully tragic about walking away from a good thing. honestly, if you tried hard enough, you could probably forgive him. you could pretend he never lied to you, and that everything he said after that first lie wasn’t a lie, either. you could pretend he was honest and truthful and all those good things, but the thing about pushing it down is that it always bubble back up eventually.
both things can be true: that it’ll always come back, and you’ll always believe that sunghoon could’ve been it.
“y/n—”
“don’t. just don’t fucking—don’t. don’t call me, don’t do anything. i can’t, i just can’t right now.”
you never really knew heeseung at all, now that you think about it. you remember being a freshman and watching him shoot hoops by the cafeteria one sunny tuesday morning—jiwon mentioned how cute he looked, and perhaps as some act of politeness between two newly introduced friends, said that the two of you would look good together. even now, you think that if heeseung had ended up being exactly like sunghoon, you still would’ve fallen.
but that would mean you never fell for heeseung at all, doesn’t it?
with sunghoon here, standing in front of you, all you see is the hardworking, ambitious, weirdly terrified boy you got to know. you see him in front of his computer thinking too hard, and you see him looking surprised that you smiled at him. it feels strangely dissonant that this will be the last time you get to stand this close to him, or that it’ll be the final time you hear his voice.
“you’re such a coward.”
you don’t know what he says after that, because you turn and walk away so quick that anything he mumbles next falls a step too short behind you. the words feel so bitter on your tongue, and you still taste it even as you walk past that one broken street lamp around fifteen feet away, lingering by the time you step into your apartment.
when you walk into your bedroom, you stay by the door a little longer, shoulder pressed against the wooden frame.
ironically enough, you left your phone behind. face down, still plugged to the wall.
then, almost as a final act in this depressing film, you slump over and slide to the floor, crying over something that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
it takes you a while to crawl into bed.
you blame the exams. that’s definitely why you’re too exhausted to speak to jiwon, despite the multiple texts from three hours ago detailing your predicament. now that she’s practically begging for you to pick up, three hours later, you just can’t.
instead, you scroll. scroll and scroll and scroll, through chats and messages that have nothing to do with heeseung, now that you know the truth—and as you do, a message pops up at the bottom.
lee heeseung: Get home safely, Y/n. 21:09
lee heeseung: I’m sorry for everything 21:10
─────────────────────────
the sun rises another day. it spills into sunghoon’s room in familiar strips of gold, slipping through the blinds and cutting across the walls in uneven slants that make the dust visible. tiny particles drift through the light lazily, suspended in the air and blinding enough that he has to lift a hand over his eyes instinctively, staring through the gaps between his fingers and pretending, stupidly, that if he stays still long enough, he’ll somehow fall back asleep.
he doesn’t.
his shirt is still where he threw it last night, half across the room and gathering dust in the middle of the floor. his once-superbly-clean desk is a mess, in the same way his room is lately—never dirty enough to clean, yet tidy enough not to notice.
his notes are spread all over. he’s pretty sure he should’ve stapled and organized them a long, long time ago, but he honestly could not care anymore. there’s that charger hanging halfway off the edge of his bedside table, a half-empty glass collecting warmth from the morning air, and his hockey bag remains unopened by the door from last night’s practice. he finds it amazing that he still manages to attend—just spectacular that nobody can tell how terrible he’s feeling, and even more so, miraculous that he’s able to do his job the same.
and, his curtains. left open for september’s autumn, long after that quiet summer when he still had you to call.
park sunghoon spends a little longer staring at the window once his eyes stop hurting from the brightness. the sunlight shifts slowly over his sheets as the minutes go by, reaching his hands where they rest against his stomach, and warm enough that it still reminds him of you.
the first thought he has is that he’s being selfish.
it’s embarrassing, honestly, how little he’s done in a month and how exhausting it all still feels. all he does is wake up, lie here, go to practice, come back, and sleep. heeseung’s always got someone new over, jake and jay are physically incapable of doing anything quietly, and sunoo, jungwon, and riki are too afraid to ask why he never speaks at dinner anymore—not that he did much of that to begin with, anyway. he chooses not to believe them when they say he seemed happier when the sun stayed out longer.
a month is barely enough time to break a habit, but it’s long enough that nobody asks anymore. there were those few weeks back in july where he’d let a laugh slip in front of his brothers and didn’t feel immediately disgusted by the sound of it afterwards. he supposes you brought out that side of him—the one that doesn’t need to act all perfect and gorgeous and saintful. at some point, he even let himself eat a tub of ice cream because riki asked nicely enough for him to stay and watch a movie. it didn’t feel difficult then, of course.
yeonjun stopped trying to irritate him after a while, probably realising it wasn’t possible. now, he just avoids it out of pity instead, and sunghoon knows it. nobody says it out loud, but they all look at him differently these days; like he’s become quieter in a way they can’t quite fix, and they don’t know whether to drag him out of it or leave him there in this pit he’s chosen to bury himself in.
he shuts his eyes, and it doesn’t help. all sunghoon sees is that fucking library, and you, standing between metal shelving under the evening sun—squinting and pouting, warm cheeks and messy hair from running your fingers through it all day, and back then, sunghoon wanted nothing but to do the same. that stupid expression you made, pretending like your eyes weren’t watering from all the dusty books and the harsh light hitting your irises, too.
he sees himself telling you to sit on his side, your smile, and how he almost froze up then and there.
all the brains in the world and none of it did anything for him then, and even less now. he spent years believing everything had a formula—that if he worked hard enough, controlled enough, became enough, things would eventually make sense and fall into place. but there was nothing logical about wanting to sit in uncomfortable, sticky heat because it touched your skin first, or remembering the exact way your eyebrows moved when you were confused, or missing somebody so intensely that even morning light starts feeling like fate; there was nothing sensible in falling for someone that makes him act so unpredictably.
“listen, dude. you gotta get the fuck up.”
sunghoon doesn’t realise how badly his neck aches until he turns away from the window. the movement pulls uncomfortably down his shoulders, stiff from sleeping wrong and doing absolutely nothing for days that didn’t involve practice. to his right stands lee heeseung, leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, looking mildly offended by the fact that somebody could sleep until ten in the morning.
“this is pathetic, do you realise that?” he sighs, pushing himself off the frame and strolling into sunghoon’s room with that same easy, unaffected energy he’s always had. carefree in a way that feels irritating today, and familiar in a way that reminds him too much of you. for a brief second, sunghoon sees it—the appeal. why you looked at him first, and why it was easy to do so. “man. you don’t even run in the morning anymore.”
“get out,” sunghoon mumbles, rolling over onto his side. his skin is cold where it leaves the sunlight and the sheets feel warmer than they should, sending a brief chill down his spine. “i am not in the mood to deal with you.”
“deal with me?” heeseung lets out this dramatic breath of disbelief and sunghoon hears the familiar squeak of his desk chair protesting under sudden weight. wheels scrape softly against the floor before rolling closer and closer until heeseung’s annoyingly charismatic face enters his peripheral. “everyone’s been dealing with your moping, hoon. it gets obvious when it’s six instead of seven after, like, two days—”
“okay.”
“okay?” heeseung repeats immediately, eyebrows lifting. his elbow lands on the arm rest and his chin settles into his hand. “okay.”
sunghoon shuts his eyes. the silence feels like summer all over again.
“do you wanna tell me why the fuck you’re being all weird?”
heeseung’s voice softens slightly. not enough to make a big thing out of it, because god knows how bad sunghoon would freak out and punch him in the mouth for that—but it’s enough to show the concern building up over the past few weeks.
sunghoon opens his eyes again, and somehow, seeing and hearing it for himself only annoys him more. sure, he knows it’s ridiculous and childish and just unfair, but he can’t help himself.
heeseung shouldn’t be worried. nothing happened to him. he didn’t stand in the park and watch you walk away, and he didn’t spend a month replaying every conversation, trying to figure out which version of him you liked more—and he did not ruin anything.
he swallows and stares at the windows again, drifting away from heeseung’s face.
the sunlight’s moved further away.
“i’m fine,” sunghoon says—his voice comes out flatter than intended. regardless, he does nothing to make himself sound any more convincing, and even if he did, he knows heeseung would see right through it.
the chair squeaks again as his friend leans further back, an unconvincing scoff being the only thing that leaves his lips. a soft thud as the backrest hits the wall, sunghoon would’ve glared at him any other day—but now, he can’t seem to find the energy.
“y’know, for someone who spent years acting all emotionless,” heeseung mumbles under his breath, “you’re shit at pretending like you don’t have them.”
it’s a decibel too loud to be accidental. sunghoon can’t even get angry now, because he knows better. after all this time, he really does—he knows better than to get angry at anyone else but himself.
he doesn’t answer. heeseung watches him for a little longer, head tilting slightly as his eyes drift over sunghoon’s face, lingering around the redness in his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his expression. there’s a brief moment where he looks like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.
“…you know, i still think what you did was insane. i still don’t get why you didn’t just tell her.”
sunghoon closes his eyes. he’s not trying to avoid it, believe him—he’s spent majority of his days holding the guilt against himself, on his shoulders, feeling it weigh down on his chest for days a time. he doesn’t necessarily disagree.
“you talked to someone for months, pretending to be somebody else, and expected that to work?”
sunghoon’s jaw almost shatters from how hard he’s clenching it. he imagined you saying those same words to him, at some point. your gentle smile behind his eyelids seem to be one of many things preventing him from beating the shit out of the guy.
lee heeseung notices it, and can’t help but sigh. “you looked happier, hoon. really.”
sunghoon wishes he just went back to sleep. he doesn’t know what good this is doing him, really—he’s aware of it. it’s lying everywhere, the proof scattered around like meaningless scraps: his reduced sleep, terrible appetite and unwillingness to see any girl that isn’t you.
he knows better than anyone how happy he was.
“didn’t know what it was at first,” he says. “thought you made it to the olympic lineup or something. shit’s no joke.”
he’s not even looking at sunghoon anymore. “i know it when i see it. checking your phone every five minutes, laughing more. then you came home looking like someone fucking died.”
heeseung scratches at the back of his neck, but sunghoon looks away before he can utter the last word.
“do i know her?”
“no.”
sunghoon’s answer is immediate. too quick not to raise his other eyebrow, apparently. heeseung notices, and sunghoon notices that heeseung notices—but both never look each other in the eye.
“…okay.” heeseung mutters. his eyes drift around the room instead, trying to keep themselves occupied, if only for the sake of not looking too long at his miserable, bed-ridden friend’s face. his fingers tap idly against the armrest once, twice, before stopping altogether.
“you’re making this way worse for me, heeseung,” sunghoon deadpans, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. the scene feels oddly intimate for someone who still doesn’t know half of what sunghoon’s done. “it’s getting on my nerves.”
“good.”
sunghoon shoots him a look. heeseung just smiles, soft and underpainted with concern that hurts him to even acknowledge. for all the effort sunghoon’s spent making himself difficult to read—for all the years of swallowing things whole and convincing himself that if nobody saw him, then nothing could really touch him—he’s still shocked that people notice when things go bad.
after a few, quiet minutes of sunghoon wishing for heeseung to vanish into thin air and heeseung’s incessant staring, he speaks again.
“…you going to sunoo’s thing this weekend?”
he completely forgot about that. sunghoon blinks slowly, the memories coming back to him now—he remembers, vividly, your voice on the phone, rambling about the stupid thing for five minutes.
you sounded ridiculously excited. obvious now why that was, it still feels just as bitter as it did back then. “what?”
he knows what. he doesn’t know why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a clue what heeseung’s saying.
“sunoo was freaking out yesterday,” he laughs to himself, head tipping back slightly as the chair rocks under him. one foot drags absentmindedly against the floor while his fingers hook around the edge of the armrest. “said he only needs two more people before he reaches the donation limit. i wonder how long the queue’s gonna be.”
sunghoon can vaguely predict where this conversation is going. his eyes narrow a little, and thinks he’ll genuinely kill lee heeseung if he even suggests going to that ridiculous event. if anybody came up and asked him for donations, he’d give it. fine. whatever. just not while publicly exchanging his dignity for it—
“you should go.”
of course.
sunghoon stares at him, blank-eyed with lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappear.
heeseung looks back for exactly half a second before exhaling through his nose, rolling himself backwards in the chair, spinning once and pushing himself off the wall with one foot.
“okay—listen. you need it, man. you’re acting like the love of your life just died, and shit, sitting around and waiting to stop missing her isn’t gonna fix anything.”
sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. humourless, if anything. his hand drags slowly down his face, pressing hard enough over his eyes that little bursts of colour bloom behind his eyelids, like he could wipe the exhaustion—or the irritation—straight off his skin. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“ah-ah,” heeseung immediately lifts a hand and wiggles his weirdly long index finger right in sunghoon’s face. nothing productive is going to come out of this conversation, sunghoon realises, so he just decides on shutting up for the rest of the conversation. “i know you keep acting like she already decided on hating you. it’s fine, y’know, if she does.”
heeseung sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs. he gets up in one, swift motion. “don’t you think she has every right to, sunghoon?”
his throat tightens.
“i—”
“shut up,” heeseung cuts him off instantly. “you’re such a control freak, it weirds me out. how did sooha even deal with all that?”
sunghoon is already pushing himself up from the bed. he will hang lee heeseung out to dry—upside down, in nothing but his boxers on this cold, dry autumn day.
though, by the time sunghoon actually manages to sit upright, heeseung’s already halfway out the door. with his hand still clasped around the metal doorknob:
“if she hates you, you should probably let her say that herself.”
the door shuts before sunghoon gets the final word.
he sits there, just for a moment. blanket pooled at the waist, room quiet except for a heater that doesn’t work very well. outside, there’s leaves scraping against the roof and sunghoon just stares at the closed door like it might open up again, with a completely different approach or words that won’t scare him the way heeseung’s did.
it does not.
─────────────────────────
you spent most of your summer waiting.
there’s something cruel about time. unstoppable, immovable, and somehow always aware of when you want it to move faster. it stretches itself thin when you need relief and collapses in on itself when you want more.
summer had always felt like that—golden and lazy and unbearably alive through the heat—but this year, it moved strangely, like someone had pulled all the warmth out and left only an afterglow.
your routine had gone to shit.
you slept at four in the morning, most days, and woke up at around eleven. lunch only happened when there was enough to get by in the fridge, and if your air-fryer was clean enough from the night before—jiwon often had to drag you by the ear to make that happen. half your laundry stays unfolded, because god knows where you disappear to in the middle of folding it, and the books from a month ago still stay.
there are hours spent doing nothing, and yet, the exhaustion lingers. stays in your bones, fusing with you, and refusing to leave.
the worst part isn’t even that you miss park sunghoon, either. it’s how often you reached for him, that being without him feels as significant as loss.
how ironic, considering you never had him to begin with.
you’re curled up on your couch, cheek squished up against the fabric and your knees tucked to your chest. oh jiwon is somewhere in this apartment with you—you’re not exactly sure where, but the soft banging of pots is enough to make a guesstimate.
“what’re you doing?” you yell, half-heartedly because you’re still aware enough to acknowlege your neighbours. “jiwon?”
she doesn’t respond. probably something about dinner, you think. the show on tv is loud enough for her voice to fade into the background, anyhow.
summer break ended some time ago—and with it went the warmth and heat and fuzziness that came with the man on the other end of the line. autumn arrives eventually, cruel in the way all inevitable things are, forcing you and everyone else to spend a little longer indoors because of the increasing cold. september is especially vicious; the air is sharper now, thinner, and you stop walking through that park altogether because every bench and every couple under those stupid yellow streetlamps reminds you too much of him.
for a guy that claimed to be so mundane, he sure takes up an absurd amount of your headspace—even now, even after more than a month of waiting and leaving and forcing yourself not to say things you wouldn’t be able to take back, he still lingers.
your hand still hovers over your phone after seeing something stupid online. you still walk past cute cafés and think he’d probably hate this place. you still watch movies and mentally bookmark scenes because you think he’d have too much fun analysing them with you and somehow, make the whole experience annoyingly enjoyable at the same time.
you still doubt yourself, and you still hear his voice afterwards—steady, certain, monotonous and so lovingly boring—pulling you back up before you spiral too far.
the silence fills your room like a slow-moving plague, settling into corners and underneath your blankets and against your walls until eventually, you start relying on old conversations to fall asleep.
you remember his laugh before his face, and you loved him before you saw his eyes. there’s something pathetic in that, you think, almost gullible—that after everything, after all the anger and humiliation and crying and weeks spent convincing yourself that this should not matter as much as it does—you still soften at the thought of him.
you hate that. you hate that he lied to you, and somehow, still ended up becoming so woven into parts of your life—enough for it to feel impossible to pull apart.
you hate it all, but never him.
“heeello?”
you blink before seeing jiwon’s legs standing right in your line of vision. blocking the subtitles, more like it.
she stares down at you from above with one eyebrow raised, afternoon light shining behind her head, casting her face into shadow in a way that feels unnecessarily threatening for someone holding an empty pot.
“what are you doing? get out of the way.” you squint, shifting ever so slightly—and completely uselessly—to get a full view of the text on screen. your head tilts one way, then the other, as though changing the angle will somehow let you see through her body.
she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder fluidly. she does that motion where she’s about to hit you with the pan, but you flinch hard enough for her to laugh and lower it down. “welcome back! have fun spacing out? i’ve been asking what you want for dinner, for like, five minutes.”
jiwon follows your line of sight and twists around, just enough to get a proper look at the tv, rolling her eyes before her mouth pulls strangely to one side.
“…you know you watched this last night, right?”
of course she knows that. cons of sharing a netflix account with your best friend, and co-habiting with her for the past month.
your eyes drift back to the screen and the episode progress bar, sitting near the end and there’s already that stupid little preview box hovering in the corner asking whether you want to continue to the next episode. you don’t remember a single thing that happened, and can’t find the energy to recall.
you let out a long sigh and prop yourself up properly against the sofa, blanket bunching around your waist. jiwon’s folding her arms now, a slight frown on her face, and you dislike it immensely.
“…what?”
she stares at you for another second before walking over and dropping onto the other side of the couch, pulling one leg up beneath herself.
“…okay,” she says slowly, looking at you in that way people do when they already know the answer. “are we gonna keep pretending you’re okay or am i finally allowed to ask? will you blow up on me again, or—”
“jiwon—”
“it’s fine, y’know,” she babbles on, immediately waving the hand holding the ladle, before circling around the coffee table. she drops down right next to you with enough force to make the cushions dip. pulling one leg underneath herself, she points dramatically to the apartment around her. “i can just stay here forever, cook forever, and clean forever. it’s alright!”
you stare at her, then glance at the pot, and finally, at the folded laundry sitting on the armchair.
you pinch at the bridge of your nose.
“…i didn’t ask you to do all that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes dropping back to the paused show. your fingers knead at the skin there once, twice, before your hand drops into your lap. you let out another sigh and lean your head back against the sofa. “i’m fine by myself—”
jiwon turns immediately. her eyebrows pull together, and her jaw almost goes rigid. “i do it because i care about you. don’t make me regret it.”
she’s already looking away afterwards, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie, and reaching over to adjust the blanket pooled around your legs.
your head hurts. the room is too quiet, again, without that show playing, or the music blasting on the home speakers.
how is it that the missing piece in your life is shaped exactly like park sunghoon?
summer. so useless, and yet, you were so alive.
“listen.” jiwon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. you turn, and she’s twisted sideways now, one leg tucked under herself and chin resting against her palm while her other hand reaches over to steal the remote. she clicks it twice before deciding against turning anything on again.
“about that thing this weekend—”
your jaw hangs. “are you kidding?”
jiwon’s eyes widen immediately. she sighs, both hands dragging down the sides of her face before slapping against the backrest of the couch.
“okay, i know we agreed to go together to the charity event, and all the different booths and shit like that, but my dad’s finally in town again, and i just—”
you wave your hand quickly, once before she can finish, eyes not leaving the screen as your fingers start picking at the seam of the blanket. “oh, yeah, no. i’ll just skip. it’s all good.”
jiwon turns properly this time. her forehead creases. “…what? what about the money?”
you shrug one shoulder and scratch absentmindedly at a loose thread near your knee. “it comes back. it’s all good. if it’s that big of a deal to you, ask your dad to apple pay me.”
jiwon stares at you for a second too long before setting the remote down, scooting across the couch in one smooth movement until her knee bumps against yours. she squints slightly, head tilting as she searches your face. “okay,” she says slowly, one hand reaching over to pinch the fabric over your thigh. “not funny.”
you squeal, and she just grumbles.
then, she nudges your knee with hers again. “but seriously,” she says, shoulders relaxing as she turns more towards you and props her elbow against the backrest, “you need to get the fuck outside.”
you let out a quiet laugh. “you’ve been stuck with me this entire time. we need to go outside.”
jiwon shakes her head immediately and sits up straighter, her fingers slipping off the blanket and flat against your forearm instead. “no,” she says. “that’s not what i mean.”
you look away, and she notices. of course, she notices.
her thumb taps once against your skin before she lets her hand drop.
“…i know you’re avoiding seeing him,” she mutters, eyes drifting briefly around the apartment—the dishes, the curtains that haven’t been opened properly all week, the same hoodie you’ve worn thrice in a row—before settling back on you. she presses her lips together and reaches over to smooth the blanket over your knee again. “but you’re throwing everything away for that.”
you don’t say a thing. you feel like a coward. you feel like a liar. you feel like a lot of things, but jiwon’s looking at you like you’re not.
“…you’ve been talking about that stupid fundraiser since february,” she continues. “you made me pay thirty dollars to get matched with strangers…. among other things. you’ll pay me for that, right?”
she realises, a second too late, that you’re not laughing.
you look away, eyes locked on something outside the window. you can’t really tell with how your vision begins to blur. she waits for a response, but when it becomes clear she isn’t getting one:
“you wanted to go.”
your hand comes up and presses against your mouth.
you remember sitting in the library during finals with your laptop open, and your notes everywhere and thinking about it between lectures. your brain would drift whenever revision got unbearable, and suddenly, you’d be imagining what you’d wear and whether heeseung would actually come, and if he’d be as nice as everybody said he was.
it felt harmless then. stupid and harmless. a little reward waiting at the end.
you remember texting jiwon about it. making jokes, pretending not to care.
but now, you remember another thing.
you remember sitting in the exact same library with someone only two feet away. you remember somebody asking if you’d eaten, and somebody telling you to stop being perfect. somebody remembering your schedule better than you did. somebody finding you in that secluded corner, where the world didn’t exist beyond it, if only for a few hours.
you remember leaving that library and not thinking about lee heeseung at all.
your thumb presses harder against your lip. you’ve been biting at a piece of dead skin on your cuticle unconsciously. “that’s embarrassing.”
jiwon frowns.
“…i don’t think i actually wanted him.”
she doesn’t interrupt.
you keep staring at the television instead, eyes tracing shapes that stopped moving minutes ago. your fingers keep smoothing over the blanket stretched across your lap, flattening the same crease over and over until the friction starts irritating your palms. eventually, your thumb catches on loose thread and you pick at it absentmindedly, winding it once around your finger before letting it snap back. “…i think i just liked wanting something. he was hot, yeah, and people liked him.”
“thought maybe…” you bite down on your bottom lip. “i don’t know. maybe if somebody like that liked me back, then that would mean something.”
everyone’s always told you that you had terrible luck.
you remember teachers saying things like that’s unfortunate and friends joking that your life always sounded a little too dramatic to be accidental. wrong place, wrong time—missing buses. getting sick before things you cared about, liking people that didn’t like you back. liking people too late. liking people wrong. liking people at all.
“proving that i’m not all that unlikeable...” you mumble. “but i’m just as unlucky as everyone says.”
it was never that serious to complain about. it mostly served it’s purpose as comedic relief in other people’s lives, but as one knows, after the age of sixteen—everything just seems self-deprecating instead of humorous.
“you like him.”
jiwon’s voice is slightly too quiet for it to be a declaration. she says it softly enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear, or so that you could roll your eyes and say obviously not and she’d just let you.
you try to think about all the reasons why you don’t, and why you can’t. you think about lying, about the trust, about the humiliation and about standing in the middle of the park, crying like that in front of someone who played you like a puppet.
and still, you do not say a thing.
“i think…” she starts quietly, eyes dropping to where your hands meet before lifting back to your face. “it doesn’t actually change anything. the one you like is still sunghoon, y/n. no amount of this—whatever this is that you’re doing—is going to change that.”
“you fell for who he was. the name was irrelevant, wasn’t it?”
jiwon watches you for a while after that, shoulders sinking further into the couch. she studies your face, one hand disappearing into the sleeve of her hoodie while the other stays resting over the blanket draped across your legs, fingers absentmindedly playing with yours.
she glances at the television once—the paused menu, your reflection sitting small and folded into yourself against all that dead blue light—and exhales quietly through her nose before shifting closer to you.
“can i say something else that might piss you off?”
you keep your eyes forward, rubbing your thumb over the edge of the blanket. “what?”
jiwon squints at you for a second before nodding once, slowly, like she’s 99% sure you will get pissed off anyway at the statement she’s going to make.
“okay. i think you’re being unfair—not to him, though. just yourself,” she says. “i’ve been watching you do this thing for a month now. you keep saying he’s bad for you.”
you look down. she notices, of course.
“maybe he is. probably. whatever,” jiwon mutters under her breath, trying to remember what point she was trying to make. “but i don’t think that’s why you’re cancelling on m—”
“you cancelled, by the way.”
“still. you’re just scared that all those feelings will come back, or that they’ll be completely gone, and it’s scary.” she’s looking forward now, too. she finds it harder to be serious when she’s looking at you in the eye. “it was real, right? everything?”
right.
you hum in acknowledgement, low and partially absent, eyes still fixed somewhere near the bottom corner of the television where the subtitles would usually sit. jiwon watches your face for another second too long, before taking it as permission to continue. honestly, she’s a little surprised you haven’t mauled her yet. a month ago, she would’ve gotten a cushion launched at her head by now.
“the more like you pretend he isn’t real, the more it’ll hurt,” she sighs. “you can forgive him, or don’t, i’m not gonna tell you what to do like we’re fifteen again. oh, that was a really bad time for both of us—ow!”
your fingers dart out before you can stop yourself, pinching the soft skin above her knee hard enough for her whole body to jolt sideways with a startled squeal. she swats uselessly at your hand, rubbing furiously at the spot through her sweatpants before shooting you the most deeply offended look she can manage.
“could you just listen to me for once?” she groans, collapsing dramatically into the couch cushions. “i’m trying really hard to be wise here.”
you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you anyway.
“there it is,” jiwon points immediately, grinning so wide it almost irritates you. “see? you’re capable of experiencing joy!”
“i’m about to experience violence.”
“that’s my girl!”
she laughs to herself before the smile gradually slips away again, replaced by something more serious. her fingers fold together in her lap, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against each other as she stares down at them for a moment, gathering whatever was left of her courage. when she looks back up, there’s none of that usual teasing left on her face.
“look,” she sighs. “i’m not trying to convince you that what he did wasn’t awful, because it was. i wanted to punch him just from hearing about it, and i still kinda do.”
she wrinkles her nose. “but i also watched you spend almost your entire summer waiting for him to call. you kept pretending you were watching movies when you were really staring at your phone, and you even stopped walking through that park because every bench reminded you of him.”
your throat tightens.
“you don't have to forgive him,” she continues, shaking her head slowly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “honestly, maybe you never will. maybe you shouldn't. but i don't think hiding from the world is the same thing as moving on, y/n.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the little crack running along the corner where the paint has started to peel. “what if i see him,” you mumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, “and i still want him?”
jiwon's expression doesn't change. she takes a moment before her mouth parts slightly, just enough to answer. “then you'll know.”
"and if i don't?"
she shrugs gently, her hand lingering over yours for another second, thumb brushing your knuckle once before it falls back into her lap. she looks almost sad when she says it. "then you'll know that, too."
the apartment falls quiet again. somewhere outside, a car door slams, and a few birds chirp before scattering into the clouds. someone's drilling something in the apartment above you. someone's yelling something in the street. the world keeps going, indifferent and loud, the way it always does when you seem to be
“okay.”
jiwon watches you for a second longer, like she's checking the word for cracks. she must not have found any, or perhaps a few too many to name, because she just lets it go.
─────────────────────────
by the time you reach campus, the fundraiser is already in full swing.
the entire quad has transformed overnight into something almost unrecognisable. white canopy tents stretch across the lawn in neat, uneven rows, their fabric flapping in the wind whenever the cold september breeze decides to pass through.
handmade banners hang crookedly above each stall, painted with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough artistic ability—bright acrylic letters bleeding into one another, beneath glitter and shiny lettering that catches the afternoon sun every time somebody walks past.
“come visit booth 6!” “free drinks at booth 52!” “stand a chance to win—”
somewhere off to your left, somebody is aggressively advertising homemade brownies through a megaphone that crackles every other sentence, while another group has somehow convinced the jazz society to play live beside the engineering department’s robotics display. the music overlaps with laughter, conversations, applause and the occasional groan from somebody losing money at one of the carnival games, until it all melts together into any introvert’s worst nightmare.
jiwon, as foretold, is busy smiling, shaking hands and pretending to enjoy the company of the stepfather she’s complained about for the better part of four years, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a sea of strangers. you’re beginning to wonder if any of this was even worth not paying her the thirty dollars for bailing. you could’ve been at home instead, cocooned underneath your duvet with instant noodles balanced precariously on your stomach while you binged that stupid show she keeps interrupting halfway through every episode—but apparently you did not need to be “sixty dollars broker,” and allegedly, according to her, “exposure builds character.”
students drift through the walkways in slow, uneven currents, weaving around one another with paper cups warming their hands and tote bags slipping from tired shoulders. autumn has only just begun settling over campus, leaving enough warmth in the afternoon sun to coax everyone outside while the breeze nips at exposed skin, carrying with it the smell of caramel popcorn, burnt coffee, fried food and fresh paint that still hasn't completely dried on half the handmade signs.
every few steps, someone brushes your shoulder without meaning to, and another laughs so loudly it echoes between the buildings. the quad feels impossibly alive, like the entire student body had been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.
you've just realised how long it'd been since you'd seen campus like this.
exam season had stripped everything bare. the library became the centre of everybody's universe, swallowing entire afternoons until the only sounds left were pages turning, keyboards clacking and chairs scraping softly against carpet. everyone looked permanently exhausted beneath fluorescent lighting, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and blind optimism, and now they're outside again.
clubs are recruiting first-years with embarrassingly enthusiastic chants, and the fourth-year students are pretending they aren't equally interested in the free tote bags.
autumn seems to bring something different into the air. meanwhile, summer, as you've known it, was spent mostly indoors or at the corner store fifteen minutes from campus, where you'd stand in front of the instant noodle shelf for far longer than necessary before carrying the same cup outside to eat on the outdoor seating. there were a handful of evenings where you'd glance up every time a dark-haired guy walked past, stomach flipping before common sense caught up with you. there were even more where you caught yourself wondering whether park sunghoon had ever been here before, whether he'd ever stood in front of the same vending machine deciding between two drinks, whether he'd look out for you the same way you did.
every single time, you wanted to walk straight into incoming traffic for even entertaining the thought. it's ridiculous. he literally lives on campus.
you spend quite a bit of time walking around the place. the sun isn’t too brutal at this time of day, and for once, you don’t dread seeing a bunch of people you know—there’s moments where you make eye contact with an old friend, a new acquaintance or someone who’s friends with someone you know, and they wave like they’ve known you for years. your feet begin to hurt by the end of the hour, and when you look down, you realise you’re holding an overpriced sea salt latte, a bag of homemade cookies, and a doodle of you a second-year student made for $5.
there’s a few flyers in your bag, too. you don’t even remember being interested in crocheting, but alright. somewhere along the way, you’ve lost the map that some student union members handed you when you first walked in, and for fifteen blissful minutes, you convinced yourself that you’ve never been to this part of the quad before.
it works. for a while.
you’re patting your jeans down. perhaps you folded it or crumpled it together with receipts or other useless junk from the day, but it’s literally vanished. nevertheless, your feet are carrying you to unknown places, through thickening crowds and high-pitched laughter that feels impossible to distinguish which direction it originates from.
somebody almost knocks your latte out of your hand. you almost cuss him out, before he whispers a ‘sorry!’ and joins a snaking queue, spilling onto the footpath.
“my god.”
you’re back at sunoo’s booth. pastel pink, covered in ikea string lights that are certainly not suited for outdoor use, the banner above spelling exactly what you signed up for: soul searching.
it sways gently overhead, now slightly lopsided after surviving what looked like several hours of relentless traffic. whoever had decorated the booth this morning had given up on maintaining any sort of order—heart-shaped balloons floated at uneven heights, paper cupid arrows had started peeling away from the tent poles, and one of the volunteers was hurriedly taping another handwritten sign across the front of the table.
queue full! please scan the qr code to join the line! we'll text you when it's your turn ♡
"honestly," somebody behind you mutters as they walk by. "this is way better. nobody’s standing for two hours.”
“right? i’m hoping they move me to the front,” their friend responds. “i bought the early ones too… i feel so fucking desperate. at least we’re in the line at all.”
you glance towards the front, almost absentmindedly. they weren’t wrong—the line that had wrapped halfway around the quad earlier had disappeared entirely, replaced instead by clusters of students with phones in hand. they’re hopping around and comparing wait times while volunteers hurried between the very few tables available, trying to answer stupid questions before the next wave arrived.
you did pay for this. your latte’s gone warm, anyway, and the condensation is starting to drip down onto your sleeves. might as well find out whether your ticket's even still valid.
the qr code sits laminated against the edge of the registration table, surrounded by little hand-drawn hearts and stars that look suspiciously like sunoo's work. you fish your phone out of your tote, thumb hovering over the camera app for just a second before lifting it. you step closer to get a clearer view, tongue poking at your cheek—
"hold on.”
you glance up, blinking slowly until sunoo comes into focus. he’s dressed in all sorts of shades of pink, from hot to muted to pastel, and his cheeks have hearts face-painted onto them.
“y/n! you actually came!”
he breaks into a wide grin, so wide that it almost scares you. for a brief moment, you wonder if this is even the kim sunoo you know, considering he was never too worried for your attendance when the fundraiser was first brought up.
before you can even say hello, he's already leaning across the table, volunteer lanyard swinging forward as he peeks at the ticket confirmation on your screen. you hadn’t realised it’s already loaded, displaying the ‘early-bird’ status right at the top. in bold, like it wasn’t humiliating enough just being here.
“i paid, so…”
he circles around the table.
“exactly!” his finger points at your phone. “early bird. you’re lucky!”
you nod slowly, like you understand where this conversation’s about to go. truth be told, you don’t, so in order to hide the confusion, your eyes dart around to avoid his.
"…early-bird participants get priority once they join the queue.”
strange. the other laminated sign your eyes land on, which is pasted right behind sunoo’s head, conveniently says otherwise.
“it literally is.” sunoo declares, with such effortless confidence that you might’ve believed him if not for the piece of paper taped up behind him. he still wears that smile, his cheeks rounding in a way that makes it dangerously easy to nod along, right until one of the volunteers at the registration table slowly lifts his head and looks over.
he deadpans. “sunoo.”
“what?”
“…since when?”
kim sunoo doesn’t even bother turning around to answer his fellow volunteer. you suppose being the organiser has its perks, because he simply says, “since today! operational changes are needed, aren’t they?”
all the guy can do is sigh and rub at his temples.
“great!” sunoo beams, already uncapping a marker with his teeth before flicking the cap into his palm. he hunches over the clipboard, the tip squeaking furiously across the paper in quick, decisive strokes, barely pausing to breathe before thrusting it back against his chest. “congratulations, y/n!”
you narrow your eyes. “on what?”
“you’re next!” he tears a small ticket from the pad with a sharp riiiip, stamps it against the clipboard with far more force than necessary, then slides it into your hand like he’s finalising an important legal transaction.
“sunoo, there’s literally people waiting behind me.”
sunoo merely raises an eyebrow. he tilts his head, peering past your shoulder with enough curiosity that, against your better judgment, you glance back too.
you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
a queue of complete strangers is, in fact, staring directly at the two of you. some look mildly confused, others openly entertained, but most are just pissed off. one guy even checks his phone, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s somehow joined the wrong line, and how he, too, could join ‘priority-access’.
“huh."
when you turn back around, sunoo’s already smiling again, not a shred of shame anywhere on his face. “you’re making this up, aren’t y—”
“prove it.”
“okay, then.”
─────────────────────────
a volunteer pulls the canvas flap aside for you with an overly enthusiastic smile, hair sticking to his forehead from the (presumably) constant back and forth sunoo’s making him do. for such a small booth team, the place is surprisingly put-together, and the online queue isn’t glitching out the way other booth’s are. you had to admit that you were somewhat glad you came.
“good luck,” he whispers, to which you reply with a confused expression before walking in.
the noise disappears almost immediately.
the bustle outside dulls into a soft, muffled hum behind layers of canvas, leaving the tiny booth wrapped in an unexpected sort of quiet. sunlight filters through the cream-coloured fabric overhead, warming the little space in soft patches until everything inside glows honey-gold.
it smells faintly of vanilla and paper, with the lingering sweetness of somebody’s perfume clinging stubbornly to the air from the last pairing. you wonder where they went to after their five minutes of alone time—did they go to grab coffee? did he say something to piss her off, and she stormed out early? is that why sunoo’s giving you priority?
you stop just after the entrance.
“oh.”
it’s… actually kind of nice.
someone had gone through an embarrassing amount of effort decorating the place. ivy vines wind around the tent poles alongside more tiny string lights, and battery-powered candles flicker lazily in the centre of a small round table dressed with a cream linen cloth.
a little glass jar is overflowing with folded paper stars. it sits between two untouched bottles of water, and it almost makes you wonder how much money they poured into this thing, before you remember that they probably went over the donation limit a long, long time ago.
somebody had even scattered fake rose petals across the tabletop, though several had already drifted onto the flimsy plywood beneath the chairs.
there’s only two seats. complimentary seat cushion, too, also pink and plaid. you sigh, seeing how it was already squished flat from all the people sitting on it before you, but you make your way regardless. the amount of walking you’ve put yourself through has done no justice to your feet, anyway.
the first thing you notice is that whoever’s sitting across from you is going to bump your knees, unless he happens to be significantly shorter.
you don’t really mind it. the tent is only so big, and god knows how they even managed to squeeze a table through that narrow entrance. still, it’s enough to make you silently hope he isn’t particularly tall, either.
you let out a quiet breath through your nose.
beside the battery-operated candle sits a neat stack of laminated cards bound together by a stainless steel ring, each one printed with colourful lettering and tiny doodles tucked into the corners.
♡ conversation starters ♡
you already know this is going to be terrible. who the hell pitched this?
#5 what’s your most irrational fear?
too intimate.
your fingers flip through the stack, anyway. there’s an identical set resting on the opposite side of the table, presumably waiting for whoever draws the short straw across from you.
#8 if you could relive one day of your life, which would you choose?
too deep. nobody thought these through. you keep flipping, snorting under your breath every few cards.
#10 what’s your biggest regret?
#11 when did you last cry?
#12 do you fall for looks, or personality?
your smile fades before you realise it had even appeared at all. another prank by the universe, you suppose.
the cards settle back onto the table with a soft tap. your hands find their way to the armrests, tapping against the wood, anything to stop thinking about the guy you’re not supposed to be thinking about.
outside, somebody cheers loud enough for it to seep through the canvas walls, followed by another chorus of laughter that slowly dissolves back into the fundraiser’s usual chatter. you glance instinctively toward the entrance, expecting the fabric to move.
nothing. the chair opposite you remains empty, and no one’s walking through that tarp.
you check your phone. it’s been three minutes.
you’re drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the table now, watching the fake candle flicker. the tiny plastic flame sways with every movement of the air-conditioning fan someone had hidden near the ceiling of the tent, convincing enough that you almost forget it isn’t real.
the things you do in pursuit of love, you think.
it’s almost funny, now that you’re sitting here.
you remember signing up for this thing with only one person in mind—someone you barely knew, someone you had no right to like because of all the missing pieces your imagination had so generously filled in. back then, this booth felt like a shortcut. maybe you’d sit across from lee heeseung, maybe he’d smile at you, maybe the universe would finally decide to do you one favour in this unlucky life of yours.
there was a point where you thought you knew your type. the kind of guy that seemed so easy to trip and fall on your face for. maybe it was that new year’s party, when you caught him standing at the front of the house with a cigarette between his fingers, the street light catching against his jaw while everyone else laughed somewhere behind you. maybe it was those tuesday mornings outside the cafeteria. maybe it was the words of everyone around you, but either way, you never really heard his voice, or stood close enough to know how he laughed, what he sounded like when he was tired, or whether he was a better listener than talker.
distance has a funny way of disguising itself as depth. you mistake wondering for understanding, admiration for affection, until one day you’ve built an entire person out of scattered glances and second-hand stories. maybe that was all the crush had ever been—a collection of assumptions, stitched together by not knowing enough.
perhaps, it was never about lee heeseung at all.
park sunghoon is a fucking headache. he lingers in every inconvenient corner of your life, occupying your thoughts long after he shattered your heart and broke your trust that summer night. it’s almost cruel how thoroughly he’s rooted himself into your memory—his voice still finds you before your own thoughts do, his quiet laugh still sneaks into your head whenever something stupid happens. you remember the thoughtful pauses before he’d answer your questions, the accidental sincerity he always seemed embarrassed by, and the unwavering certainty with which he’d tell you that you were capable of things you never believed you could do yourself.
despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything. despite the way he looked at you that night, like he couldn’t bear to lose you, and still let you walk away—you realise that there isn’t a single part of you that wishes it had been lee heeseung from the beginning.
the canvas shifts.
at first, it’s nothing more than a shadow moving across the pale canvas, followed by the dull scrape of shoes against packed grass outside. somebody murmurs something—a volunteer, probably—and another voice answers too quietly for you to make out.
your heart’s beating out of your chest. the last time you felt like this, it was january first, and also three in the morning.
the flap rustles once before stilling again, as though whoever’s on the other side already regrets doing this. you let out a quiet laugh through your nose, watching the silhouette hesitate in the narrow entrance where the fading warmth of september collides with the dry chill of the portable air-conditioner humming somewhere overhead.
the afternoon sun outlines him first. he’s tall, broad, holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand. he turns halfway around to mumble something behind him, and through the gap in the canvas, you catch a glimpse of someone suspiciously resembling sunoo. whatever he says earns him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades and an exaggerated shove forward, the bouquet wobbling dangerously in his grip before he manages to catch it against his chest.
your fingers are still tracing the laminated edge of one of the conversation cards when the canvas finally parts. he stumbles through the entrance, muttering what sounds like an embarrassed complaint under his breath, one hand instinctively reaching back to steady the flap before it swings shut behind him.
you only realise who he is when he looks up.
the sleeves are shoved up to his elbows like they always are, but he looks better than the last time you saw him—cleaner, less wrecked, like he’s actually been sleeping well now that you’re not around. his hair has grown out just enough to fall over his eyebrows, and despite everything, despite the month that’s wedged itself between the two of you, you remember every single feature on his face, and just how much you missed it.
that’s when you realise that a month and a half is nearly not enough time to forget.
for one impossible second, relief blooms before your brain catches up to your body.
the world seems like it’s flipping upside down, now. park sunghoon freezes, like he wasn’t expecting either; your pulse is slamming against your ribs so violently that you swear he must be able to hear it. you can hear your blood rushing in your ears by the time you stand up—chair screeching violently against the plywood as you shove yourself backwards, the legs offering some resistance before jerking free with your force.
your knees collide with the underside of the table hard enough to send the fake candle wobbling between the two of you. it’s tiny, plastic flame is flickering, almost mocking.
every instinct you have screams the same thing: leave.
sunghoon notices (of course he does), and something inside his expression crumbles just enough for you to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart.
his shoulder sinks by barely an inch, the hand which holds the bouquet to his stomach now dropping to his side. he doesn’t move any closer, too afraid to even breathe audibly, just standing by the entrance with the afternoon light outlining his familiar silhouette.
his eyes are soft, a gentle smile painted across his face, as though he’s trying to show you how much it hurts not seeing you for so long.
you’re just like how he remembers. golden light on your face, diffused now from the tent’s shade, bright eyes looking up at him the same way it did in the summer. perhaps it’s because of his dreams that this doesn’t feel as shocking as he’d thought it’d be—that one evening in the library between bookshelves replays like a highlight reel behind his eyelids, and in a way, he thinks it’s helped with his what little sleep he's managed to get recently.
and, in the same vein, he looks everything like the boy you've spent the last month trying to forget.
“…you.”
your voice is barely a whisper. sunghoon swallows, and his lips part once before closing again. you want to scream at him, maybe even punch him in the face. with that sad look on his face, you think he might even let you.
“y/n.”
you don’t hesitate. the moment sunghoon sees you grabbing your things, ready to turn around and leave—he speaks again, rushed with a tinge of desperation.
“please. five minutes, it’s all i need.”
what could he possibly say that would undo all of this?
park sunghoon bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. you’re staring at him with glassy eyes, hands shaking from either anger or just pure despair, waiting for an answer that might not even fix anything at all.
your shoulders stay angled towards the exit, eyes not meeting his. you’re afraid that if you look at him properly, you'll remember everything all over again.
“i'm sorry, y/n.”
you should’ve left as soon as you saw that frame in the sun—as soon as your heart sank and your mind briefly flashed to sunghoon.
silence stretches between the two of you. you’re somewhat thankful for the loud noise outside that helps dampen it. the laughter sounds impossibly far away from where you stand.
“not because i got caught lying to you.” his fingers tighten around the bouquet, knuckles paling beneath flushed skin. “i think about it every day. it never leaves.”
your molars grind together until your temples start to pulse. the muscles in your jaw ache from holding back everything that wants to come spilling out, and you realise, belatedly, that you're digging your fingernails so deeply into the canvas strap of your tote that the fabric has started to wrinkle beneath your grip. you’re blinking the salt away, too, trying not to let it drip down your cheeks. “why did you do that to me, sunghoon?”
your voice comes out quieter than you intended. it’s nothing short of humiliating. sunghoon stares at you for a little while longer, and it really does feel like his heart’s being ripped out of his ribcage all over again. there’s nothing nice about seeing someone you love in tears, much less because of you.
“i didn't think it’d go far.” his voice is barely above a whisper now. “that’s not an excuse. i know it isn’t. i realised that really early on.”
his thumb catches on the edge of the brown paper wrapped around the flowers, smoothing the same crease over and over until it begins to tear.
“i just...” he laughs quietly through his nose, and it breaks somewhere in the middle. “i was terrified, y/n.”
your breath catches. you just can’t understand. every word from him feels like relief and a new betrayal all over again, and for a moment, you wonder how you’re still standing here. there’s half of you that feels glad that he cares enough to show up again—and another that never wants to see his pretty face again.
“the only lie i ever told you,” he continues, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes, “was that i was lee heeseung. everything else was real. all the calls, conversations, every second i spent listening to your voice.”
sunghoon says it like a confession. like an intimate secret he’s yet to admit to anyone else but you, because truly, he hasn’t. it’s stupid how long he’s allowed this to suffocate him.
“i was scared of how much i wanted you, and i let it go on, because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i didn’t want to lose you, and i acted selfishly because of that.”
“you could’ve told me from the beginning.” your hand comes up instinctively, thumb dragging beneath your waterline before another tear has the chance to fall. you sniffle once, sharp and involuntary, and sunghoon feels it somewhere behind his ribs. “you could have. do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”
the words roll off your tongue before you can think twice. “i made myself look like a fucking idiot in front of you.”
sunghoon's breathing falters. his grip tightens around the bouquet until the brown paper crumples loudly in the silence, stems bending awkwardly beneath his fingers. he can't bring himself to look away from your face—not when your eyelashes are clumped together with tears, not when the skin beneath them has gone raw from how hard you're rubbing at it.
“i know.”
his voice barely survives the distance between you.
“every time i think about you,” he swallows hard, the muscles in his throat straining around the words. “i think about everything you trusted me with, and all i can remember is that i stood there and let you keep believing me.” his eyes fall to the floor for the briefest moment before finding yours again, impossibly guilty. “you deserved better than that.”
“i put you through so much,” park sunghoon adds, his voice so quiet you're forced to listen for it. “i was selfish. i convinced myself that if i told you the truth, i’d lose you, even if i deserved to.”
his thumb smooths absently over another crease in the bouquet's wrapping paper. “every day i waited after that, for the right time, for when it was easiest for me—it just got harder, and then it got impossible.”
he exhales shakily. “there was never going to be a good time. i knew that.”
you stare at him, at the bouquet he'd probably spent too long choosing. you imagine how out of place he must've looked picking those out, asking the store owner which ones would be good, knowing nothing about flowers, buying whatever was recommended to him without a second thought.
and then you're looking at the circles beneath his eyes—better now than they were before, but still there, still belonging to a boy who somehow looks exactly like the person you spent all summer missing, and the person who broke your heart in the very same breath.
“you could’ve told me,” you whisper again, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. your fingers curl helplessly around the strap of your tote until the rough canvas digs into your palm. “you could’ve walked up to me that first night. i would’ve—”
another tear slips free before you can force the last word out. your breath catches violently in your chest, chin dropping toward your collarbone as a broken sob tears through you before you have the chance to swallow it back.
sunghoon moves before he thinks. the bouquet lands forgotten against the table with a muffled rustle, baby's breath spilling over the edge of the table as he closes the distance between you in two hurried strides. his hand comes up instinctively—halfway to your face, halfway to your shoulder, he doesn't even know anymore—before stopping inches from your face.
"...y/n."
sunghoon freezes. fingers trembling, not knowing if he's allowed to be this close to you again, not knowing if he gets to touch you just because you're crying. nevertheless, his hand curls slowly into a fist before falling uselessly back to his side.
your shoulders shake harder.
you clap a hand over your mouth as if that'll somehow muffle the sound, but it only turns each breath into something more desperate and more painful. tears slip between your fingers anyway, dripping onto the backs of your knuckles before disappearing into the sleeves of your top.
sunghoon feels sick. everything is telling him to touch you, to hold you, to do everything he can to rid you of the tears staining your face. wiping your tears away with his thumb and all, like how he’s imagined doing a hundred selfish times over the phone—to tell you it’s okay.
something’s siphoning all the air out of his lungs. "...i'm sorry," sunghoon whispers again, voice splintering under the weight of the words. "i’m sorry, y/n. please, don’t cry, please.”
there’s a tiny part of you that wants to lean into him. instead, you let out something between a laugh and another sob. you drag the heel of your palm beneath your eyes, every tear replaced by another before you can finish catching your breath. vision blurry as you stare down at sunghoon’s shoes, he shuts his eyes.
“i didn’t care,” you sigh. “i wouldn’t have cared.”
your ears don't catch the quiet sniffle that escapes sunghoon. his own vision has long since blurred, tears gathering stubbornly along his waterline until the fairy lights overhead fracture into soft, indistinct halos. he doesn't bother wiping them away, not when you're crying like this—not when every broken breath that leaves you sounds like something he's carved into your chest with his own hands.
“i fell for you, hoon.” you look up at him then, your eyes swollen and shining beneath the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the booth. tears cling to your lashes, catching the light every time you blink. “you could’ve told me.” your voice cracks again, almost pleading. “you could have.”
the words seem to find every hollow place inside him.
his shoulders, already drawn painfully tight beneath the navy hoodie, sink another inch, the tension draining from them so suddenly he almost folds into himself. his hand, still hovering uncertainly between the two of you, curls instinctively before slowly uncurling again. this time, he doesn't stop.
fuck it.
park sunghoon’s touch brushes your cheek so lightly you barely feel them at first. gentle, like he doesn’t know quite how to handle you—warm and careful and everything you’ve ever needed.
his palm settles against the side of your face, thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye to catch the tear before it slips past your jaw. your skin burns beneath the touch, not because it hurts, but because you've missed it without ever knowing what it felt like—it's unbearably familiar for something entirely new.
you don’t mean to lean into him, but your body does it anyway.
for the smallest moment, your cheek rests against his palm, and the breath sunghoon lets out is so quiet that it almost disappears beneath the hum of the air-conditioner overhead. a sigh escapes him, almost as if he can’t believe how much he’s hurt you—and before you break into a sob again, you speak.
“maybe...” you whisper, voice shrinking beneath the weight of the thought—of park sunghoon and you, of that stupid new year's party, of library afternoons and late-night phone calls and every version of the future that never got the chance to exist. “maybe we’d be fine. maybe we’d be happy, if that’s what you even wanted—”
“it is.”
there isn’t a trace of hesitation.
sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek as fresh tears spill over his own, his forehead dipping just enough that he's looking at you from beneath damp strands of dark hair.
“it’s all i’ve ever wanted,” he mutters. “you are all i’ve ever wanted.”
park sunghoon has never been a decisive person.
it sounds contradictory when you consider everything he's responsible for, but those decisions were never really decisions at all. hockey is straightforward once you've watched enough game tape, drilled the same movement until your muscles remember it better than your brain does, or spent enough hours on the ice for instinct to replace hesitation. there is always a coach standing behind the glass with a whistle around his neck, always someone older, better, more experienced to tell you where your feet should be and how to fix what you've done wrong. school isn't much different. people call him gifted, but sunghoon knows discipline has always done more for him than talent ever could. if you study enough, if you sacrifice enough sleep, if you repeat something often enough, eventually the answer reveals itself.
life has always rewarded certainty. show up, work harder, do better—and there is comfort in that. an almost mechanical predictability to it all, completely untouched by human emotion.
but you have never worked like that. this, whatever this is—it has never operated on that principle.
sunghoon has known he loves you for longer than he's been willing to admit it aloud. what he hasn't known—not for a single day since you walked away from him beneath that streetlamp—is whether seeing you again would heal the wound or rip it open all over. every version of the future he imagined ended differently: maybe you'd scream at him, maybe you'd ignore him. maybe you'd look at him with the same quiet disappointment that had followed him into every waking hour for the past month. there was no correct answer to memorize, no strategy to rehearse, and no amount of discipline capable of guaranteeing that he wouldn't lose you all over again.
he even tried searching for it.
three in the morning, phone balanced against his chest, he'd typed every variation of lied about my identity and fell in love that he could think of into reddit, reading through strangers' catastrophes until the sun came up. none of them sounded quite like his, and none of them ended with an answer worth believing. he’s pretty sure 75% are engagement bait.
there wasn't a guidebook for getting back the only girl he'd ever loved. there was, however, an annoyingly persistent lee heeseung.
his friend spent the better part of yesterday refusing to let him back out, talking over every pathetic excuse sunghoon came up with until there were none left to hide behind. sunoo only agreed to squeeze him into today's schedule after extracting the promise of unlimited access to his card for food deliveries over the next month, grinning so hard throughout the negotiation that sunghoon briefly considered leaving on principle alone. jake had sat through the entire story for the first time without interrupting once, only burying his face in his hands whenever the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable. jay, jungwon and riki had been considerably less diplomatic.
yes, he'd fucked up. spectacularly.
yes, there was every possibility you'd never want to look at him again.
no, none of them blamed you for it.
they still told him to come anyway. because if you were going to reject him, then he deserved to hear it from you—not from the version of you he'd spent the last month inventing inside his own head. park sunghoon is not every sure if he’ll ever move on from it, from you, though he sincerely hopes he doesn’t have to.
“i can’t—i can’t hate you, hoon. i tried so hard, and it never worked, so what do i do now?”
the words seems to knock the air from his lungs.
sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek. even now, even after hearing the words, he can't let himself believe them immediately. his thick eyebrows draw together in quiet disbelief, lashes still damp, mouth parted around a breath that never quite leaves him.
“i think about you so much it hurts.” a laugh escapes you, exhausted more than amused, and you shake your head as tears gather at your chin. when you look up at him, the expression in your eyes drives something sharp straight through his chest. “i just don't know what to do.”
your fingers find his wrist without thinking, curling around it lightly. beneath your touch, his pulse stutters wildly, and sunghoon has the absurd, terrifying thought that if you hold him there any longer, you'll feel exactly how badly he's falling apart.
“i still want you,” you whisper. “so tell me, what do i do?”
sunghoon’s face crumples with relief, so sudden that it almost looks like pain. his shoulders shake before he even realises he's crying again. he presses his lips together, turning away for a second as a breathless, disbelieving laugh slips through his nose, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are wet and helpless and impossibly soft.
every sleepless night and every terrible decision has led park sunghoon here, standing in front of you and bracing for an ending that was never truly his to decide. you are the only thing he has ever looked at and thought, i might not get this back if i lose it, and that realization terrifies him more than failure ever could.
everything else feels survivable. the carefully constructed life he's spent years maintaining—he could lose all of it and eventually claw his way toward something new. he knows himself well enough to believe that, and well enough to know that you are different.
the mere thought of you turning around and walking away again is enough to hollow him out from the inside. it followed him into quiet rooms and sleepless mornings, into practices and lectures and every place he tries to forget you. for the first time in his life, there is something he cannot outwork, outthink, or outrun.
and still, even now, that something is standing here with tears on her face and her hand wrapped around his wrist, asking him what to do.
sunghoon’s wiping uselessly at his eyes. “i don't know,” he admits. “i don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”
your chest immediately drops. there’s that churning feeling again. you pick up on every movement of his, from the way his eyes never leave yours to how he can’t seem to speak up.
“i spent months trying to decide that for you, and look how that turned out,” another shaky breath leaves him, and his shoulders shudder with it. “if you want to yell at me, do it. if you want time, take it. if you wake up tomorrow and realize listening to me was a mistake, i’ll understand.”
sunghoon looks into your eyes. somewhere between the apologies and confessions, the distance between you has disappeared without either of you noticing. your knees almost brush, breaths mingling in the tiny booth, warm enough to fog the already close air between you. the fake candle flickers quietly in your peripheral, behind the abandoned bouquet and scattered conversation cards.
he blinks, just once, watching your eyes soften as they stare back at his. they never leave him, and they’re not searching for answers anymore.
“but if you're asking me what i want,” sunghoon mutters, taking a deep breath in. “i want you. i want you to let me stay, and i want it to be your decision.”
“you hurt me.” you swallow. “forgiving you doesn't magically make all of that disappear—but i’m tired. i’m really tired of being scared.”
“so this is my decision,” you step closer until the space between you disappears entirely. “stay.”
oh, park sunghoon is certain, now.
certainly, for the first time, he cares about someone other than himself, more than his stupid hockey games and ridiculous quizzes that he’d ace regardless if he studied or not—
certainly, the girl he loves is here, in front of him. her heart is in his hands and he’s trying not to crush it, because hurting her means hurting himself. she’s uncomplicated, and she’s beautiful, even in this kind of light, even with tears running down her face—looking at him like he’s all she’s ever asked for, despite everything he’s done.
certainly, he loves you.
all of you.
your arms find sunghoon’s waist with a familiarity that steals what little breath he has left. the movement is so instinctive neither of you seem to think too much about it. sunghoon's hand remains against your cheek for one lingering heartbeat, before his other joins it, cradling your face with impossible care, thumbs brushing absently beneath skin still warm from tears.
the space between you disappears altogether.
your arms slide further around his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie between your fingers, the last of the tension leaves his body in one long, shaking breath. sunghoon’s own limbs slip around your shoulders, drawing you against his chest so gently it almost hurts, his chin resting lightly atop your head as though he’s afraid that if he lets go now, you’ll disappear all over again.
“i love you, y/n.”
the confession comes easier than he expected—true, almost painfully so, for far too long.
you tighten your hold around him, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“i love you, too, hoon.”
for a second, park sunghoon forgets how to breathe.
all those nights spent lying awake, replaying every conversation until sunrise—every version of this moment he'd imagined, every argument he'd had with himself, every impossible outcome he'd tried to prepare for—they dissolve so quietly that he almost doesn't notice them leaving.
the questions that had followed him for weeks no longer demand answers. the guilt is still there, the hurt is still there, and he knows neither of them will disappear overnight, of course—but for the first time in months, park sunghoon knows one thing for sure:
he does not care, and he will keep loving you despite it all.
─────────────────────────
the fundraiser slowly forgets about the two of you.
by the time you step out of the little booth, there’s an insanely long queue that won’t stop staring at you and sunghoon—a bouquet sits in the crease of your elbow, and the man by your side is smiling so wide that it’s borderline embarrassing. he might as well put a sign on your head.
the sun’s begun sinking lower behind the engineering building, bathing the pathways in that familiar honey-gold light that always seems to arrive when you and sunghoon are together. conversations swell around you as students drift from stall to stall with paper bags hanging from their wrists and half-melted ice cream in their hands. somewhere behind you, sunoo lets out an aggressively theatrical cheer before somebody—jungwon, if you remembered correctly—smacks him hard enough to shut him up.
neither of you acknowledge it.
park sunghoon’s hand finds yours instinctually. he’s not even looking at you to see if you’re fine with it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. your fingers intertwine with his, warm and steady and weirdly tight—you glance down and feel the heat rushing up your cheeks.
“…you know,” you mumble, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walk down the wide path. “i think this is technically our first date.”
sunghoon blinks. date? you? you and him? on a date?
the crowd has thinned out considerably, but when you glance back towards the familiar pink tent, the queue is somehow still moving. students continue drifting in and out of the little canvas booths, phones in hand as volunteers wave them forward one pair at a time. sunoo catches your eye from behind the registration table, arms folded dramatically across his chest as if he's personally responsible for the greatest love story in university history. you can't help but to smile, and sunoo notices immediately. with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flicks his wrist in a half-hearted shooing motion before waving the two of you away.
you laugh under your breath.
ahead of you, the fundraiser is slowly settling into the evening. a handful of student union members balance precariously on folding ladders, looping warm string lights from one streetlamp to the next until little pockets of golden light begin blooming across the walkways. conversations soften as the afternoon crowd disperses, replaced by the quieter rhythm of people lingering instead of rushing somewhere else. somebody nearby is packing away handmade jewellery while another stall is still desperately trying to sell the last of their brownies to anyone willing to make eye contact.
your hand is still in sunghoon's. neither of you talk.
“oh.”
you glance sideways. he’s staring ahead, eyebrows pinched together in the sort of concentration that seems excessive for something this simple.
you snort. “that’s all you have to say?”
“i'm thinking,” sunghoon murmurs, finally allowing himself a quiet chuckle. his thumb absently brushes against the back of your hand before he looks over at you. “does this mean i have to pretend i don't already know everything about you?”
“i wouldn't say everything...” you mumble, nudging his shoulder with yours before looking away a little too quickly. you don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. you can feel it somehow, in the way his gaze lingers a second too long, in the quiet that stretches between you while he leans ever so slightly closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from his hoodie brushes your arm.
“you blush really easily.”
“i do not!” your eyes widen, yet, still refusing to meet his.
“you're so pretty, y/n,” sunghoon says before he has the chance to psyche himself out of it. the compliment leaves him with such effortless certainty that it almost catches him off guard. “so cute when you're shy. blushing like that in front of me...” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest grin. “i don't think i've ever seen anything prettier.”
you squeeze his hand so hard he almost laughs again.
“god,” you mutter, finally daring a glance at him before immediately looking away again, cheeks burning beneath the string lights overhead. “you're still so annoying!”
the fundraiser eventually disappears behind you. after sunghoon’s insistence on sharing an overly-sweet milkshake, his hands are full with paper bags, filled to the brim with overpriced homemade desserts and a few too many keychains. neither of you remember who suggested leaving first—at some point, the booths become smaller in the distance, and the chatter fades into little more than background noise.
there isn’t really a destination. there doesn’t have to be, you both know that—but it helps with the conversation. it flows easier than any of you expect, familiar, curious and gentle in the same way it’s always been.
you stop by a convenience store because sunghoon insists you’re hungry. allegedly, your stomach rumbled on the walk here, so he rushes into the store so fast that there isn’t enough time to protest. the high-school part-timer stares at him weirdly as he wordlessly pays for both ramyeon cups, spending the next five minutes pretending not to hear you complaining about it.
you eat, anyway. sunghoon can’t help but take a picture, too. you almost hit him on the head for that.
an hour later, the walk to your apartment is slower than it needs to be. autumn has finally settled over the city, the breeze cool enough to make you tug your sleeves over your hands every few minutes. leaves skitter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, collecting around your shoes before scattering around them again, and somewhere overhead the sky melts from gold into a dark, deep blue.
you pass through that same park—cyclists pass every now and then, bells chiming politely before disappearing further down the winding path, elderly couples taking a night stroll with plastic bags hooked around their fingers. the atmosphere is completely different now, though nothing tangible has really changed.
the two of you keep walking. sunghoon feels like he's going to explode from the amount of dessert you'd somehow convinced him to share with you, but the weight tugging at his shoulders feels lighter now. maybe it's because your hand is folded so naturally into his that neither of you have thought about letting go—or the fact that you managed to get rid of all those bags, thanks to him.
“it's nice to talk to you,” you murmur after a while, your gaze lingering on the river instead of him. the city stretches across the water in ribbons of gold and white, every reflection trembling with the movement of the current. “without the phone. easier to hear you.”
another breeze rolls against the river, cool enough to send little ripples across the water and lift loose strands of your hair across your face.
“uuuuhuh, i’m sure.” sunghoon smiles at you, easy-going and so reassuring it makes your pulse race. “keep pretending like we didn’t meet how we did.”
“the hell?”
you glance at him. all he does is squeeze your hand once—then, the corners of his mouth lift into that small, effortless smile.
your heart gives an embarrassingly obvious thump. you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, ducking your head almost immediately as warmth rushes into your cheeks. “don’t look at me like that—”
“like what?”
sunghoon stops walking. your footsteps falter a beat too late.
your hands are still joined, the sudden halt tugging you backwards before you can catch yourself. you stumble lightly into his chest, the front of his hoodie brushing against your sleeves as his fingers tighten instinctively around yours to steady you. your free hand lands against the warmth of his ribs, and for one, disorienting moment, all you can hear is the wind behind you and the quiet hitch in his breathing.
sunghoon looks down. you're close enough now that the warm lights stretching across this dim path catch in his eyes, turning the dark brown almost amber beneath the glow. a strand of your hair has fallen across your cheek again, flowing in the breeze—and sunghoon, stupidly, reaches up without thinking.
his knuckles brush your skin first—then his fingertips. they slip carefully beneath the loose strand, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. it lingers for a moment longer than necessary, five seconds too much just to move a strand of hair away, and his thumb rests lightly against your temple as though he’s trying to memorise the shape of your face underneath his touch.
oh. you can’t tear your eyes off of him.
park sunghoon looks like someone you could know forever. a gaze so gentle that you’d think he’s known whoever he’s looking at for a thousand years—a touch so tender that it’s unbelievable that he’s never loved anyone else.
the smile tugging at the corners of his lips dissolves into something almost disbelieving. sunghoon’s forehead dips, just enough so that your face comes into full focus, and the space between you disappears disappears so gradually that neither of you seem to notice how your noses almost brush.
his breath ghosts over your lips. warm, nothing like the cold air that’s enveloping you both. sunghoon hesitates for a moment—even now, he wonders just what he’s done to deserve this. he wants you to choose, and you do.
closing the distance, your lips find his with all the gentleness of someone coming home after being gone for too long.
for one impossible, weightless moment, the whole world seems to narrow until it is nothing more than the warmth of your mouth against his. the quiet rush of wind rolling off your skin, your hand tightening ever so slightly around the fabric gathered at his chest—every sleepless night, every apology, every version of this moment he'd rehearsed alone in his room dissolves the instant you kiss him back.
park sunghoon's convinced nothing has ever felt this right.
you're soft against him, kissing him with the same quiet hesitation you've carried all evening, as though you're still afraid that pressing yourself any closer might shatter whatever fragile thing the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. meanwhile, sunghoon melts into it like he's been starving—he holds himself back for only a heartbeat before months of missed chances quietly unravel between you, his hand sliding around your waist with a tenderness so instinctive it almost startles him. he gathers you closer, careful enough to let you pull away whenever you want. you do not.
instead, your fingers slip from the front of his hoodie to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair resting there. the movement draws the smallest, almost inaudible breath from him, and before he realises he's doing it, he's smiling into the kiss.
it’s contagious. you’re smiling now, too.
your lips part around a tiny, breathless laugh, and the sound is enough to make a smile form on his face. sunghoon leans in again without thinking, chasing another kiss, only for the movement to catch you off guard. you stumble back half a step, dragging him with you by the collar of his hoodie until the both of you have to force yourselves to stand properly.
your foreheads bump together as his arm tightens instinctively around your waist, trying to stop you from losing your balance.
“do you kiss all your girlfriends like this, sunghoon?”
“don’t piss me off,” his arm loosens from your waist for half a second, just enough for you to stumble before he catches you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with an annoyed sigh. “i don’t kiss anyone else.”
“i could’ve died right here. do you even care about me? should i just die right now?”
“i’m not even going to answer that, y/n.”
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“who gave you my number?”
by the time the two of you find yourselves right outside your apartment building, the streets have grown quieter. most of the shops have already pulled their shutters halfway down, leaving only convenience stores and late-night cafés spilling warm light onto the pavement. the walk here had taken nearly an hour—your car is still parked at campus, but sunghoon promised to pay the overnight fee anyway. neither of you remember deciding to take the longer route back to your place, but every turn just seemed like another excuse to keep talking.
you stop right in front of your building. the path is uneven here, the road tilted upward; the automatic doors slide shut behind somebody leaving, and the chime hums softly before settling into silence again.
“sooha,” you smile. the blush that infects sunghoon’s face spreads like a wildfire—you’re the one teasing now, after an entire day of his antics. “you had a thing with her, i’m guessing?”
“well, i wouldn’t call it a thing,” sunghoon sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of yours. he swallows before looking at you again. “i’ll be honest with you—we were hooking up.”
he watches your expression carefully for a shift. anything that'll tell him you were upset, or livid—anything at all. he swore he wouldn't blame himself if you were. how would he have known that the love of his life would waltz right in thirty minutes after sooha's exit?
sunghoon adds on a little too quickly. “it was before you.”
“how long?” you ask, tilting your head. curiosity, it seems, but these are dangerous waters that sunghoon’s treading. based on past experiences, his partners (can he even call them that?) never took to well to a previous acquiantance.
sunghoon almost considers lying, just to make himself sound better, before deciding against it. he's never been too good at that anyway. “on and off. a few months, maybe. nothing that meant anything.”
he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a wince. “i know. i wasn't—i didn't handle it well. i never called it anything, and i never made her think it was anything, but i also never stopped it when i probably should have.” he pauses, “that’s my fault.”
it's such a sunghoon answer. blunt and completely unflattering to himself, a lack of an attempt to soften it into something easier to hear. you almost want to laugh at how little effort he puts into making himself look good, like it hasn't occurred to him that he could, and you’d never be able to prove otherwise.
you nod, trying to hold your laugh in at the sight of his face. he looks like he's just seen a ghost, no matter how much he tries to hide it—lips pursed together instinctively, eyes wide and scanning yours for any hint of anger. “okay. good to know.”
you give his hand a small squeeze before beginning to loosen your fingers from his, only enough to shift your grip more comfortably. “i appreciate the honesty.”
sunghoon keeps staring. “that's it?”
“were you expecting more questions, hoon?” you can't help but smile now, your free hand covering your mouth in an attempt to hide how adorable you find him. “i didn't know you back then. you were still staring at me weird from the stairs.”
“i was not staring,” sunghoon shakes his head, a stray strand of hair falling loose over his brow with the motion. “you were staring. i’m surprised heeseung didn't notice.”
your jaw drops, mouth falling open in mock offense. "excuse me?"
“whatever. it’s over now, right?” sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic disapproval, fingers pausing briefly over his eyes like he's shielding himself from the sight of your face. "not really trying to share you with him."
“you're so annoying!” you shove at his shoulder, and he barely rocks with it, solid where he's standing, biting back a grin like he's trying—badly—to look unaffected.
sunghoon's mouth curls into a smile that reaches his eyes—dark in this dim light. he's still taller than you despite standing a few steps higher, your face now level with his, close enough that you can count the individual strands of hair falling loose over his forehead.
his hair is still a mess from the wind, and from your fingers ruffling through the strands earlier—sticking up at odd angles he clearly hasn't bothered to fix, like it hadn't even occurred to him. his cheeks are still faintly red, yet to fully fade since you first touched his skin, and his ears are airbrushed with a soft pink he probably has no idea is visible.
you hope no one else has ever gotten to see it on him before.
it's quiet. no dogs this time, for some reason. it’s just the low hum of the streetlight above you, buzzing faintly, flickering once before steadying again. an occasional cricket announces its presence somewhere in the bushes lining the building, and beneath that, nothing. though, there’s just your own heartbeat, loud and unreasonable in your ears, and the sound of sunghoon breathing, slow and careful like he's trying not to disturb whatever this is.
sunghoon’s hand is still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb tracing an invisible circle over your knuckles—it’s not quite a habit yet, but close to being one, you can tell. you can feel the calluses along his palm, rough from what you assume is hockey, a strange and grounding kind of proof that this is real, that he's real, standing this close to you at almost midnight with his heart clearly in his throat.
and then, there’s you. even in this horrible, fluorescent lighting—the kind that makes everyone look a little sick—you look undeniably beautiful to him. almost glowing, or maybe he's just sleep-deprived enough that his eyes are playing tricks on him. either way, he thinks, quietly and with helplessness, that he has never wanted to kiss someone this badly in his entire life.
his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. then back up, like he's asking permission before he's even said anything at all.
“can i kiss you, y/n?”
the question is so earnest it hurts. his voice is breathy, needy, everything that you could possibly ever need in a man right in front of you. you feel like if you fall for it—answer him right now, that your life ends here, because this is a trap, or a dream, or all of it at once.
you’re already leaning into him, tilting your head until your noses are brushing each other’s. sunghoon’s breathing so heavily that you feel it against your bottom lip, teasing, just asking for that final push.
one of his large hands settle at your waist. waiting. always waiting.
the kiss is slower than the last one. a little more desperate, maybe—you feel sunghoon’s large arms wrap around you again, tighter now, tongue swiping against your bottom lip, moving you as he pleases just so he can get the most of you.
you taste like him.
the thought’s driving him crazy. you've already confessed everything worth confessing tonight; now, there is only the quiet luxury of learning each other properly, without distance, without static, without the countdown of a call timer reminding either of you that morning would eventually come.
it’s messy in the way that two people are when they’re starving for each other. borderline greedy, too much tongue and then not enough at all, your hands running along the upper part of his back as you keep him anchored to you. sunghoon’s lips feel so perfect when they’re against yours, he genuinely believes that this is what he’s been chasing for all twenty-four years of his life.
every time one of you pulls back to breathe, the other closes the distance again without thinking, as though separating has become something your bodies no longer understand. your fingers wander instinctively over the broad line of his shoulders before settling against the back of his neck, keeping him close without ever needing to ask.
sunghoon’s hands remain anchored at your waist, warm through the fabric of your clothes, thumbs tracing absent little movements that make your pulse flutter for reasons you can't quite explain.
“not here, hoon—” you mumble against his lips before he pulls you right back in. so annoying. sunghoon’s lips crash into yours again, still just as curious, palm flat against the small of your back.
“hm?” the sound vibrates softly between you before he finally relents, resting his forehead against yours instead. one of his hands slides carefully along the curve of your side until it settles once more at the small of your back, holding you as though he'd forgotten any other way to stand. “...tell me where, then.”
you shake your head once, trying very unsuccessfully to compose yourself before meeting his eyes again.
you’re huffing, trying to catch your breath when your hands fall to his chest. the guy is looking at you with the most feverish smile, eyes narrowing because he knows he’s got you flustered.
“upstairs,” you murmur, barely louder than the evening breeze slipping between the apartment buildings. your fingers fist at his hoodie. “come upstairs.”
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park sunghoon likes to think that he’s good at sex.
there’s nothing complicated about it, really. he knows he’s good at most things.
his body—he knows it’s the kind most people would kill for, the kind other men spend half their lives trying to build. of that, he’s well aware. hockey, school, laundry, cooking, smiling and talking as if nothing’s ever the matter. he’s reduced it to a science: technique, precision, mastery, painstakingly perfected.
the data is there. they scream, they cry out of sheer pleasure, they moan like no one else exists but him, but park sunghoon. he predicts it in the same way he knows he’ll get that perfect score, and make that one ‘lucky’ shot—it’s calculation in it’s most unsurprising form.
human bodies are scientific. their anatomy is roughly similar, so he knows if he moves just like this, whispers just like that, she’ll fold. she’ll crumble underneath him like it’s her first time ever sleeping with a man, clinging onto sunghoon like what he’s doing is some lost art among the modern male.
there’s significant amounts of advice online to tell him how to please a woman. it’s not rocket science applying these concepts in practice, as he’s done—and sure, it’s done himself favours. there were nights where sunghoon couldn’t believe that he’d ever quit hook ups, but soon realised that that’s just how his brain works: that that’s just what the dopamine rush whispers into your ears as you cum for the third consecutive time.
there is a nice predictability in sex. it’s instinct, and where there is instinct, there is nature and nature is almost always studied—even if it’s an utter waste of time, stress relief aside.
though, when he finds himself stumbling into your apartment, kicking off his shoes and slide his hoodie off his back while simultaneously trying to keep his lips on yours, he finds himself wanting time to slow itself down.
just something about you, he thinks. that look on your cute face, staring at him like you didn’t know what to do with the heat pooling between your legs; you stumble against him a few times while you both try to find your way to your bedroom, shoulders nudging against light switches and shoving a few chairs out of place. your laundry is still on the couch from this morning, you note—but when sunghoon puts his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him—the reminder fades completely.
“what am i going to do with you?” sunghoon grins, letting his ass fall to the edge of the bed. sitting up, his hoodie’s discarded somewhere by the entryway, and the only article of clothing left being his jeans. his hands roam your body—up and down, before looping around your waist and pulling you between his spread legs. “so pretty.”
you whimper when his hands begin sliding underneath your top. “can i, baby?”
it’s almost pathetic how fast you nod. your hands rest on his shoulders, eyes locked on the way he leans closer to your belly. sunghoon’s slender fingers move up your warm skin, now burning hot under his touch, and eventually, he lifts your shirt completely.
“you sure about this, y/n?” sunghoon looks up, pupils blown with his cheek resting against your bare stomach. “we can stop. whatever you wanna do—”
“n-no,” you sigh, watching sunghoon’s eyes blink up at you, so dazed. “i want you, hoon.”
he hums at your response, turning his head so his lips touch the skin of your belly. they’re still wet from your earlier kisses, pressing nice and slow until he reaches from your belly button to your ribcage. truthfully, sunghoon’s mind has already gone to mush at the mere scent of you: the sweat from the day and your perfume blending into one, the heat from your body, that he just can’t help but to start leaving hickeys along the exposed area.
“i’ll make you feel so good, y/n,” he mumbles against your skin. “but you gotta be good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”
oh. he’s that kind of guy.
something’s flipping in your stomach—simmering low, intense, nothing like you’ve ever felt before. you stare down at him, face visibly flushed from the way he’s touching you; your knees almost buckle upon hearing his voice, and sunghoon can’t help but let a chuckle out at that in between kisses.
“can’t hear you. speak up for me.”
you swallow, feeling sunghoon’s hands exploring further—until his thumbs are right on your nipples, bypassing your annoying bra, rubbing gentle circles, smiling up at you like he’s done nothing too crazy.
“y-yeah, i can,” your voice comes out a tad too soft for his liking, evidently, because his little grin fades into something more displeased.
sunghoon stands up instead, large hands hooking around the hem of your shirt and helping to pull it off of you. your arms point to the ceiling, naturally, letting the fabric part from you with a gasp—the cold air hits your skin, and the wet imprints of kisses on your stomach feel even icier now.
he moves back to your stomach, taking in your scent; it’s even more potent now when you’re bare like this. curiosity gets the better of him once his nose bumps against your bra, his hair nuzzling against your chest as one of his hands move to unclasp it. effortless.
“sunghoon, stop teasing,” you whine, watching him lean back. sunghoon pulls your bra off of you on one swift motion. it’s an understatement to say that you were pretty—just gorgeous when you’re naked in front of him like this.
he ignores you. asshole.
sunghoon’s fingers hook around your skirt next—not quite pulling it down just yet. then, almost as if you’ve done something wrong, he stands up.
you forget how huge he is for a second. when the dim warmth of your lamp hits him, you lose your breath completely. every muscle is highlighted in orange, the definition outlined by shadows that leave you wanting, and it’s like air is caught in your throat from how unfairly good he looks.
“i’ll ask again,” sunghoon mutters, hands back down to your waist, and then your hips, and then he’s flipping you over onto the mattress. “you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”
whatever. fuck it.
all sense of reasoning leaves your body at once. sunghoon cages you between his arms, staring into your eyes, and the look in them sends pure electricity through your veins. he looks hungry, thirsty, like he needed you right now or he’d die.
and still, he waits for an answer.
“i’ll be s-so good, hoonie, i promise.”
the nickname doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth anymore. it’s been a while since he’s heard it—but when it comes from you, god, it sounds like it’s dripping in honey and coaxing him into whatever trap you laid out for him.
“gonna fucking kill me,” he rasps, pulling away before pressing a kiss to your cheek, down to your jaw, then to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe. the feeling of his warm tongue sliding against your skin makes you shudder—combined with his fingers pressing into your back, feeling every inch of skin, savouring the feeling of you;
when sunghoon first walked in, he noticed how unbearably you your room was. decorated in posters of your favourite bands, little trinkets here and there that he has no clue how you keep organized. his eyes glazed over your desk, your laptop, your lamp, and everything that you chose to keep that would now remind him of you—right now, your legs are wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass while he grinds nice and slow against the warmth of your pussy—feeling right through your panties, skirt tossed somewhere in the corner of the room.
what was most interesting about your room was that mirror in the corner—perhaps he was a pervert for wondering, only for a moment, if you had ever touched yourself in front of that very reflection. he could imagine your legs spread in desperation, knuckles deep in yourself as you chased whatever high you terribly wanted.
did you think of anyone? did you get off to the sound of his voice? though, most importantly, would you let him ruin you in front of that little mirror of yours?
“can i take this off?” he whispers into your ear, hands roaming down from your neck and to the lace around your panties—you nod again, and the chuckle that escapes his lips only sends shivers down your spine.
your legs fall to the side of his thighs, leaving you bare and spread in front of his eyes. “what about you?”
sunghoon literally laughs in your face. “be patient, baby. haven’t even gotten you nice ‘n loose yet.”
your breath hitches at his vulgarity. the image pops up behind your eyelids: sunghoon’s long, pretty fingers buried somewhere deep in you, curled at the perfect angle and prodding at that one spot that makes you sees stars—how long would it take for him to get there? would he even know how to?
famous last words, as they say. it takes four minutes for sunghoon to have your thighs pinned to the mattress, three to have the tip of his index and middle fingers inside of you and two to get you whimpering like a hot, pathetic mess.
maybe just one to get you soaking his wrists.
“what’s wrong, baby?” sunghoon pouts. his eyes are glimmering in the dark, the tiny light left outside reflecting off his irises. in this atmosphere it just seems like a mockery. “too much for my pretty girl? she can’t seem to get enough, though.”
and then his eyes flick down to where you suck him in—glistening, disgustingly sloppy and wet where you take every inch like it was always meant to be yours. it’s times like these where you truly believe fate is real; because there’s just no way you were this close to going your entire life without this—without sunghoon’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you.
“h-hoon, ugh—fuck!” you squeal when he curls his fingers just right, and he just watches, an eyebrow raised like you were some intriguing specimen. just a body underneath his touch, poking and prodding and spreading you as wide as he can, as best as he can. everything he does seems to illicit some reaction from you, too amusing for him to stop. “please, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, ngh—”
“so quick?” sunghoon sighs, kissing his teeth. “god, you’re so cute. must be too much, then?”
and then, he slows down. ripping your delicious orgasm right from your useless fingers.
“n-noooo,” you drawl, nails clawing into sunghoon’s veiny forearms as he nods slowly, expecting a coherent answer. what a mistake, as if you could even think straight right now. “it’s not—it’s not, fuck, i can take it.”
sunghoon chuckles, head tilting up just enough to get your pretty face in full view. “reaaally? need my permission to cum, too?”
your stomach flips at the way he says it—low and sultry and teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. rearranging your guts with his hands alone, whispering these ridiculous things to you, expecting zero reactions. is he stupid? has he lost it?
“you trying to snap my fingers off? relax, baby. can’t have that.”
the humiliation washes over you rather quickly, but disappears just as fast when you feel every muscle in your body beginning to lock up. the words can’t even find themselves, too lost in your mushy brain—everything narrows down to the man with his hands between your legs, pumping his stupidly long fingers in n’ out, watching you lose every piece of sanity you have left.
“who’d have known. such a sensitive girl,” and his thumb brushes against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to have you twitching, but never to cross that final, potentially fatal line. “do you always cum this fast?”
sunghoon sighs dramatically. if you couldn’t see his face, you’d have assumed that he was irritated with you—but your eyes haven’t left his, nor the red in his cheeks and his slightly parted lips, groaning whenever you buck your hips against his palm, feeling the friction of your clit against his skin. they occasionally glance down at the tent in his pants, fighting against tight cloth to be freed, twitching and already forming a dark, wet patch where his tip would be.
“oh my god,” you moan, gripping tight around his wrists. there’s a part of you that just wants to sit up and grind against his hand yourself, but that’d be much too embarrassing to live with. “can’t—can’t, i j-jus… can’t, please, hoonie—”
the words ring a bell that he can’t quite recall, is what he would say if his memory was absolutely terrible. the man remembers exactly when and where you said those terrible, terrible things, under a streetlamp and in a park he had never seen before; so sure that he’d never see you again, and now, here you are, losing your mind and at his mercy.
“oh.” sunghoon grins. cocky little bastard. “you close? gonna make a mess on hoonie? c’mon, soak me. won’t stop ‘till you do.”
there’s something utterly perverted about him tonight. hoonie was never an exclusive nickname, of course—generic by all means. sooha had taken great pleasure moaning and whimpering that exact term a hundred-something nights ago, and sunghoon swears that he must’ve been in a completely different body then. wonders how he ever let the name reach his ears without gritting his teeth, but now that you’re here… it’s like a completely different world has opened before his eyes, and his cock has never, ever been harder.
how could he have fucked anyone else when you existed? how could you have slept with other people when he was right there? the selfish thought invades his sick brain as fast as he feels his cock swell up.
never-mind that. this is way more important—there comes a point during sex where all the pleasure folds in on itself and magnifies by tenfold, becoming it’s own force, taking over your nervous system—nothing matters. sunghoon doesn’t matter. your pride definitely does not matter.
so it’s not really your fault, is it? couldn’t possibly be, even if you’re sitting yourself up (with an unreasonable amount of effort) and grinding your hips against his large, calloused hands, and whining like a bitch in heat against his mouth. even less so now that sunghoon’s letting you—his breath is taken from him when your tongue slides against his, wet and soft and everything he needs to get that pretty cunt fluttering around his digits.
“my filthy girl,” he moans between kisses, his warm breath ghosting against your glossy lips. your arms are running up and down his shoulders and finding a place to stay anchored, and when they finally do, sunghoon doesn’t wince one bit when your nails dig in, out, and in again. “just look at you, fucking yourself stupid on my fingers.”
you don’t hear him. genuinely. it’s all buzzing and static and you feel yourself starting to shake from the hip up. you shudder when he flexes his fingers, and it’s like everything you’ve ever done has led to tonight, every choice, every mistake.
“h-hoonie, ‘m sorry—fuck, need more of you,” you press a searing kiss to his bottom lip, almost missing completely and letting your mouth fall open against his anyway. your breath feel like fire against his skin, and sunghoon can only groan when he feels your walls spasming around his slender fingers. “please, i’ll be so good.”
sunghoon does that same, amused grin on his face, just watching you pant underneath him. the expression only reminds you of that night: you in the kitchen, and him, watching you from the front door on new years eve.
the corner of his lips turn upwards and it’s nothing short of pure perversion—tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, face red with heat crawling up his neck, and an eyebrow cocked up. “are you actually begging me right now? while you’re riding my hand like this?”
you nod your head, frantic. of course you’re fucking begging. it’s been an entire lifetime of teasing and sunghoon’s still dangling the idea of fucking you in your face, just revelling in your visceral and absolutely humiliating reactions.
your mind’s going blank. every thought diverges into park sunghoon and every desire has his stupidly handsome face plastered onto it. your stomach’s so tense that it’s starting to hurt, and you feel lightheaded from how often your breath gets taken right from you—so close, and yet, still so far.
“yes, pleasepleaseplease, i—”
“god, you’re greedy,” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, using his free hand to push you backwards. your spine hits the mattress with a recoil, and the springs creak just enough to muffle the pathetic whine that slips off your lips. “just an ungrateful girl. fine, then.”
and then, there’s nothing. just that mind-numbing feeling of having your body be sent to heaven, only to be denied at the pearly gates.
your heart’s pounding at the sight of him: warm, glistening skin under the dimness of your lamp, chest heaving as he pulls his fingers out from your slick entrance—it feels increasingly, unbearably empty as he retracts his ridiculously long digits. sunghoon does nothing but enjoy the view, eyes glazing over the way your body twists and turns at his cruel punishment.
“come on. again.”
who does he think he is, really? you kiss and make up, and in the same day, he makes you beg for a little gratification? does he have any idea what he put you through? to be truthful, you could go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any sort of control over you—
“please, hoonie. i’ll take everything—fuck, just fuck me already.”
fuck it. you don’t care. it doesn’t matter that park sunghoon is toying with you. you need him, you need all of him, you need every inch of skin that he’s willing to give and every word he’ll spit at you.
park sunghoon isn’t exactly inexperienced with sex. he knows that intimacy is one of man’s greatest discoveries, and it’s only natural that he participates in it. as one does. what’s not normal is that he’s never felt this before: this insatiable, lustful heat simmering in his core, making his cock twitch before it’s even been touched.
god, you look so perfect—spread bare beneath him with inner thighs soaked in your own juices, whining and pleading and begging for a taste of him, as if he wasn’t holding himself back already. you’re truly the greediest, just taking and taking even if he tries to take his time.
there’s blood lingering in his mouth and the metal feels sharp on his tongue, and still, he continues biting on his lip. sunghoon’s eyes never leave yours, hands coming down to unbuckle his belt with a single hand—the other pins your knees open, and while you squirm under the pressure, you never quite gain the courage to defy.
when sunghoon finally leans forward, the scent of him is enough to overwhelm your nervous system; he grunts when your arms wrap around his neck, and your nose nuzzles against his neck like it has nowhere else to go. a deep breath in and it’s like you’ve never felt more alive than now.
“this enough for you?”
he picks up on everything. from the way your eyes never stay on his for too long, to the way you twitch when he presses his briefs right against your cunt—your breathy moans in his ear as he leans in close, and how quickly you stain the spandex with your slick, mixing with his sticky pre.
“this should be fine, right? my girl can cum juuust like this.” sunghoon’s voice is the only thing cutting through the fog in your head. it’s spinning so much that gripping onto him is serving as the only anchor to your consciousness. your nails drag along this trapezius, sinking into the superficial skin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—instead, all he can offer is a mocking smile, fangs bare and taunting.
his hips are teasing. he moves them slow, taking his time with every drag of up and down, the fabric sliding between your pretty folds and swollen clit; there’s a brief second where he feels the tip of his cock slide into you through the barrier of clothing, only to slip free when he slides up again.
“so perfect,” sunghoon whispers into the conch of your ear—you don’t realise what he’s said until you feel his sharp teeth gliding against your helix, before he finally nips at it. “you’re so perfect, baby. made for me, aren’t you? can’t believe i almost let you go.”
sunghoon thinks about how ridiculous he must look right now—humping your poor cunt like he’s in heat, holding himself back for reasons beyond him, whispering these obscenely intimate things in your ears like he doesn’t want to fuck you right this second. the strain on his cock is getting too much; blood’s rushing down, he’s aching, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has left before he flips you over and has your ass slapping against his skin.
“hoon, fuck, i’m gonna cum,” you say, bucking your hips up just once. wrong move. “please, don’t fucking stop—it feels so good.” sunghoon’s head turns in your direction, nose brushing against your cheek before his mouth meets yours again. he doesn’t care that they don’t latch properly, nor that he’s practically drinking in your saliva, or that he’s gonna cum just from feeling the friction between your bodies. all sunghoon truly cares about is that you’re holding him like he’s all you truly need in this world.
“yeah? just from this?” sunghoon’s hand comes up to grip at your jaw, thumb and index pressing deep into the flesh of your cheeks. his body feels heavy on top of you, quick little movements doing the most to get you both over the edge—and though he still seems a little more composed than you, it all goes to shit when your fingers graze the sides of his ribs. “fuck—do it. cum for me, please, y/n—”
his hands run up your arms until his fingers are tracing your palms, slithering between your own, before finally interlacing. sunghoon’s pressing sweet kisses to your jawline as you moan into thin autumn air, feeling the vibrations of his groans against your throat; he moves at a frenzied pace, chasing friction that won’t ever compare to being buried tip to cervix, but it’s all he can get right now.
“i’m fucking cumming, hoon, oh my god—”
twenty seconds. twenty seconds is all he needs to have you gushing all over the spandex of his briefs, and twenty-five is all you need to chase his lips because you know you’ll scream if you don’t. perhaps around thirty for him to stop feeling like the room is spinning, and him along with it—your tongues meet and circle on another’s again, moans clashing between desperate attempts to slow down, and it’s only sixty for him to finally hook his thumbs around his boxers and shove them down his thighs.
thwap.
sunghoon’s heavy in a way you can’t say out loud. words get caught in your throat, with nothing but a pathetic hitch in your breath being audible. he’s so unbelievably pretty, flushed a deep red from the relentless teasing he’s put you through, serving as confirmation that he’s wanted this as much as you have.
he stares for a minute, catching his breath, before his hand reaches for you—spreading your folds wide between his fingers, watching it glisten under the orange light, almost sparkling if he could look close enough. the sheets below are soaked with you—a large, wet patch that’s darker compared to the rest of the pink duvet.
“thought about this pretty pussy for weeks,” sunghoon lets his saliva collect in the well of his tongue, before spitting a thick glob riiight onto your entrance. “and now you’re aaaall mine. aren’t you, baby?”
sunghoon looks up just as the name rolls off his tongue. you look absolutely wrecked, hair tangled in places where you didn’t even know it could get tangled—tear stains running down your face and highlighting the flush on your cheeks so well. your eyes are wide, caught between staring at his leaking cock and his expectant eyes, shifting between the two every now and then;
a reverent sigh leaves you when sunghoon begins pumping himself, nice and slow using his hand, spreading the pre all over his hardened length. sounds of wet slick echo through the room as he strokes, just enough to get himself wet, before his knees shift forward and he’s finally, finally letting himself touch you without a stupid barrier.
“gonna stuff this pussy full,” sunghoon hisses through his teeth. “pump you full of my cum, fuck, i can’t hold back anymore—” his right hand wraps around the base of his cock, the back of your knees brushing against his thighs as he pulls you flush against him. you’re still heaving by the time he taps his mushroom tip against your folds, running it along the wetness of it, once or twice before aligning himself with you.
“you’re so… annoying,” you huff, eyebrows pinched together, watching his jaw go slack at how warm you feel even from the outside. sunghoon’s stomach is in knots, anticipating the moment he finally sheathes himself all the way, how you’d probably claw at his skin from the sheer stretch—
and that’s exactly what you do.
“f-fuuuuck, hoon! it’s too—you’re too—”
park sunghoon is thick. so undeniably heavy and dizzying, pushing past your walls, and as much as you clench and squirm around him, they offer no real resistance. your pussy takes him in like it needs him—squelching when he bottoms out at last, big arms caging your relatively smaller head between them—all the air in your lungs feels like it’s being siphoned out.
who the fuck is this big? when was the last time you’ve had something this huge inside of you?
“o-oh my fucking god,” his eyes screw shut for one, weightless second, before they shoot back open. he stares down at where you two finally meet, your velvet walls fluttering around him so warmly, a desperate whimper clawing it’s way out of his throat that’s interrupted by a messy kiss.
“so perfect, baby, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, hips at a standstill because he plain refuses to move—convinced that he’ll cum as soon if he so much as shifts his weight. “wish you could see your face. so pretty when you’re taking me.”
“you’re… fucking… crazy,” you whisper against his mouth before your hands tangle in his hair; they bunch around the dark locks, pushing his lips against yours again, and he laughs between the sloppy attempts to lock your lips together—noses bump and his forehead thuds against yours. “just fuck me, please, hoon.”
“look at what you do to me,” he sighs, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. borderline addictive the way you wriggle underneath his touch, like you know his size would knock you out cold, but you still beg through small movements. “all your fault, isn’t it? and you keep asking for more. just a needy little slut for me, huh?”
and then his hips retract—pulling out halfway, your cunt still weeping from the reduced contact. he looks back down, hair falling over his forehead, marvelling at the way his cock glistens with you. so utterly filthy.
you whimper when you feel the emptiness. his veins slide against your gummy walls as he pulls out agonizingly slow. “don’t wanna hear you complaining tomorrow morning, then.”
sunghoon’s pace is slow at first. gentle, sweet thrusts that still manage to make you see stars—he’s too afraid to hurt you, too busy savouring in the sweet moans that sprinkle in his name every once in a while. he feels hot, every bone in his body begging for him to hurry and stuff you full of his cock—but how could he? you’re taking him so well just like this, and all he wants is to drag every second out longer, until he dies blissfully happy in this pussy of yours.
“fuck, mmngh—” and the man slams his lips against yours as his fingers find yours again. you wonder just how many times you’ve managed to kiss tonight, but the thought immediately wipes itself clean when he angles his hips so deliciously right that you feel him all the way in your throat.
“shit, i can’t—you’re too fucking big,” the sound of your breath shakes, too much for his brain to compute, and something primal claws at his sick brain until all he’s thinking about is folding your knees up and bullying your cunt ‘till it’s red. you moan into nothing, hands running over every hard-earned muscle in his back, eyes screwing shut because looking at him feels like a perverted form of self-torture. “fuck, you feel so good, hoonie.”
“yeah?” and sunghoon literally feels every thread of sanity snap when you say his name again. “fuck, look at me then—wanna see your pretty face.” your thighs shake with every slap of wet skin, his heavy body shifting the bed closer to the wall as he pounds and pounds and pounds. his hands move the damp strands of hair out of your eyes, ensuring the perfect, unobstructed view.
you mewl, all sweet and so coaxing when he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. it’s wet and salty on his tongue, but sunghoon’s smiling so wide that you think he must’ve truly fucking lost it completely.
“want you harder, hoon—not enough, please,” you whisper against his mole. there’s just something in the way you’re batting your eyelashes at him that he thinks is sending his nervous system into overdrive, but it’s irrelevant now. your pleas sound like honey to his ears, but the one singular thought that keeps circling his mind is if you’ll be able to take him like that.
his hands slide back down, stopping right where your tits are—his thumb grazes the hardened bud before he begins to palm at the mound of flesh. “f-fuck—”
“god, can’t hold myself back anymore,” sunghoon’s nose nuzzles against your neck and he takes his time breathing in your scent. the smell of your shampoo lingers, now masked mostly by sweat and fading perfume, and it faintly reminds him of a familiar library where all he could focus on was you, you, you.
you, beautiful you. you who’s underneath him now, pleading with him to give you what you want—still so naive, still so unaware, asking for things you have no idea what to do with—you, who bats her eyelashes with a curiosity he doesn’t know how to address, not without showing you.
he licks a long stripe along your jaw, rutting into you a little faster now. sunghoon’s hands find their way to the sides of your head; rationality has long left him, and his brain’s all foggy with visions of you. he wonders if he could take you just as well on the counter, on the desk, or by the window, and he just gets needier.
he’s getting sloppy and his brain’s all fuzzy. he’s not even sure what the rush is; when there’s someone else in his bed, he almost always finds it easier to take his time. teasing, foreplay, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it—he realised that the reactions he got were much more visceral.
but now—god, he needs you to cum around his cock as soon as possible.
“f-fuck, ngh—pussy was made just for me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up—he towers over you like this, lowlights bathing his skin in warmth all over again as his arms wander down to your waist, then your hips, and then to the back of your knees. “w-what’s wrong, hm? gotta speak up, baby. let me hear you. all that talking was just for show, huh?”
“f-fuuuuh—hoon, please, t-too much—”
“ah-ah, take it like the good girl you are,” his eyebrows knit together in focus, and a bead of sweat rolls down his face, down his chin and drips right onto the valley of your breasts. “y-yeaaah, see? just like that.”
you’re choking on a sob by the time he folds your knees up—brutal, to say the least. your tits get squished by your thighs as he pins your legs up, sunghoon’s rough fingers wound tight around the soft flesh, bullying his way into your poor cunt.
the sounds echoing through the room might as well be featured in a porno. your moans mix until it’s an amalgamation of yeses, gentle sobs, and sunghoon’s relentless teasing. every thrust knocks the wind out of you, your hands clawing at his wrists and leaving red streaks—but the pain barely even reaches him—the only thing on sunghoon’s mind is how gorgeous you look underneath him, taking every inch like it’s what you were born to do, moaning the name he spent so long hating;
“f-fuck, i love you, love fucking this pussy so much—” he hisses through his teeth, eyes zeroed on the way your eyes roll every time he buries himself to the hilt. your head tilts back, throat bobbing as you swallow back embarrassing moan after embarrassing moan—sunghoon’s making it difficult with the way he presses against your belly with one hand, the other holding your left thigh up. “shit, baby, you can be louder than that, can’t you?”
oh, fuck park sunghoon. fuck this stupidly huge cock drilling it’s way through you, and fuck this ridiculously gorgeous man who has you biting back screams, fuck everything, fuck how good you feel—your vision is clouding, stars exploding behind your eyelids every time you shut them, and all you can do is just sit and take it. “s-sunghoon, a-ah—slow down, i’m gonna fucking cum again—”
he kisses his teeth, now resorting to grinding his hips against yours. the angle is new, almost beautiful in it’s discovery. his hands are too curious, before settling on the fat of your ass, palming and fondling and treating it like his personal stress-toy until—
smack.
the moan you let out on contact is nothing short of humiliating. his palm smooths over the handprint, now blooming red right before his eyes, and your brain actually short-circuits for a second.
“fuck,” sunghoon laughs, mocking, rude and mean all in one. “you into that shit?”
the sting sends electricity through your body. sunghoon pulls his hips back just enough, before sliding back between your pretty folds so slow that it actually makes you gasp. every single time he pushes himself back in, it’s like you have to get used to it all over again—the stretch never becomes familiar, always melting your brain and forcing every coherent thought you have to mere nonsense.
“god, you’re such a fucking slut,” sunghoon’s head tilts back momentarily, his hair falling with the gravity and sending little drops of sweat down his neck and onto his back. his heart’s beating all wild now, cock aching for more friction, more force, more of you; so greedy and full of desire, bringing his hand up to land another harsh blow to your ass.
“a-ah—hoon!” you hiss, but you never really try to stop it. you squirm, hips jerking with every slap he decides to give you, but sunghoon knows your cunt tells a different tale: your pussy clenches around him so tight that it’s suffocating him, just begging for his load, and it’s driving him insane. “t-too rough, i can’t—slow down, fuck, you’re gonna break the bed in half—”
it’s true. the frame’s creaking upon each thrust, headboard slamming against the walls, but why would sunghoon care? fuck, he’ll buy you a whole new bedroom if he has to, so long as you just let him have you like this for a little longer.
“don’t give a shit, haa—i’ll buy you a new one, mm? fuck you again ‘till we break that one too. bet you’d want that, wouldn’t you?” he grins, and the corner of his lips turn up sharply when he sees how utterly fucked out you look. there’s this familiar expression he’s seen on other girls—when sunghoon proves to be too much for them to handle, and they end up tapping out—but it’s none of that on you. no matter how much you cry that you can’t take it, you cling onto him like the only thing you know, want, and need is him.
“answer me.”
and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten almost instantly—you don’t even realise that his hands have made it’s way up to your jaw, thumb and index pressing into the bone. a small squeal escapes your throat, and there it is again; that innocent look written all over your face, making sunghoon’s stomach do somersaults. his grip gets firmer with each passing second, before you finally manage to speak:
“y-yes, fuck, need it—i want it, pleasepleasepolease, sunghoon!”
it’s times like these were sunghoon really is convinced he’ll never quit sex. not when there’s a woman like you, with a pussy like this, with a voice so sweet that it makes his chest ache and his cock drip pre. it’s quite a confusing matter, actually, considering he’s never been one to talk too much during the act—that shit just leads nowhere, and feelings get confused by the time he comes down from his high, but god, he doesn’t think his mouth can stop at this rate, not when it’s you he’s buried in.
“yeaaah? gonna cream all over me, baby? make a mess all over this cock, come on.” sunghoon nods feverishly, both hands pinned to the undersides of your knees now, pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. your mind tries to catch up, but the pace at which he moves is too relentless for any real thought to form.
his hair falls over his face when he leans forward, just enough to press his full weight down on you. sunghoon’s washboard abs tense every time your nails claw at his chest and just thinking felt weirdly impossible now. your mind’s reduced to slush, ears ringing with wet smacks and constant grunts from the man above you. there’s an occasional moan that slips from him, to which he realises, far too quickly, turns you on more than you’d (probably) ever be willing to admit. mental note for the next time he decides to rearrange your guts, he supposes.
sunghoon glances down again. just for a moment. in the past twenty seconds that’ve passed, you both don’t realise how close you’ve got, damp foreheads pressed against each other in something sweet in the midst of all the roughness. his grunts have transformed into something else completely—now laced with need and breathy pleas, begging.
“there we go, yeah—cum on my cock, please, baby. i’m so fucking close—”
“i love you.”
the words almost kill him.
something seems to have snapped almost instantaneously. park sunghoon’s lips crash into yours with newfound fervor, and every muscle in his body seems to be operating on the sole purpose of getting you to come undone. he’s so fucking tired, truly—but the pain fades and all the soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s practice is irrelevant now.
“yeah? you love me?” his pussydrunk face is the only thing in view, a small gasp slipping when he feels you clench down on him. his hips begin to stutter, jerk, pace faltering. his eyes stare into yours through the gaps in his damp hair, waiting for an answer. “fuck, say it again—please.”
“i love you, sunghoon,” you whisper, almost sultry, your voice barely reaching his ears but ghosting against his lips anyway. “i-i love you—”
a starving man he proves to be. his lips lock with yours again, and this time, they never really leave. his tongue swirls around yours, drinking up every sound that you have to offer, still rutting into your cunt like he needs to fuck a whole new generation into you. your core tenses up so much that you think you’re gonna pass out from the impending orgasm—all sunghoon does is moan into your mouth, fingers intertwining with yours as he abuses your pussy with ruthless strokes.
“i love you, y/n,” the words are so sweet it makes your head spin. it doesn’t correlate at all with the obscene view beneath you, his soaked pelvis and your thighs pressed up against your stomach—your hole squelches with every roll, now much messier and haphazard, and the high is so close that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. “that’s it, baby. let it out for me, just like that.”
so cruel.
“c-cumming, fuck, i’m gonna cum, hoon—”
a revelation comes to sunghoon as soon as your walls begin spasming around his length—sunghoon has never had sex this good. you get impossibly tighter, and your moans are broken up by your lungs trying to take in more air. you sob when it hits, almost blinding in it’s entirety as sunghoon continues fucking you through it, feeling how you soak him from the inside and how it gets disgustingly easy to pound into you when you’re this wet.
“fuuuck, o-oh my god,” a guttural sound claws it’s way out of his throat. his forehead dips again, lips still glossy and tasting just like you, entranced by the way your pretty lips part in a silent scream that ends as a loud gasp. “you’re so fucking tight when you cum, shit—”
sunghoon is gone. just chasing his own release, sloppy thrusts making your juices splurt everywhere; your moans amplify and you’re barely holding your sanity together by the time you come back from whatever plane of reality you decided to visit. his thumb digs into the dip behind your knees, still trying to push his cock deeper into you, tip grazing your cervix every now and then—god, it’s pure filth. you’re half convinced that you might have to take the stairs tomorrow if you want to avoid your upstairs neighbour.
humans are truly just animals. sunghoon proves just as much with how frantic he is to spill himself inside of you. truthfully, the thought is stirring him on more than he’d like to admit—which is kind of scary, if he thinks too long about it. it’s a shame that he’s incapable of that right now, because all he manages to babble is:
“please, y/n, can i? let me cum inside of you, please, please—shit, need to fill you up, wanna see it dripping out of you all fucking night, please.”
and you, as drunk on him as he is on you, nods like it’s all you’ve ever needed in life.
sunghoon’s hips snap against your ass, eyebrows knit in frustration and lips parted to let an animalistic groan out. you take it, all of it, from the way he kisses you like he wants to eat you up, to the way he thumbs at your clit because he just needs you to unravel with him again. selfish as he is, he can’t have this alone—not when you look so beautiful breaking.
it takes ten seconds for you to cum for the second time, and him, eleven. it’s all heat and lust and pure hunger condensing into one, singular moment, where he buries himself to the hilt and spills months worth of holding back.
your walls pulse around him. your clit throbs unapologetically under his restless thumb, still circling nice ‘n slow as if you weren’t already gasping for air as it is. his dick almost feels like it’s getting bigger, twitching as it shoots load after load, hot and thick as it paints every crevice.
god, what the fuck. sunghoon’s panting when he finally collapses on top of you, the soreness from yesterday creeping up on him—though he has reason to believe it may be more of your doing. his face buries itself into your neck, not before his hands finally let your thighs loose, dropping right next to his, and for a minute, the two of you simply lay there.
sunghoon breathes you in again, slow enough that the scent of you settles somewhere deep in his chest. your arms slip around his neck without hesitation, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of it while your lips find his forehead in small, absent kisses that feel less like affection and more like habit. he lets out a quiet sigh against your shoulder, eyes falling shut as warmth spreads through him in steady waves.
“you smell good today.”
he lets himself believe, just for now, that it can stay this way, though it is probably foolish. if he were being honest, every sensible part of him should still be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to wake up and realise you've chosen the wrong person, for the guilt he's carried around for months to finally become heavier than whatever it is you've found in him. even after all of it, all you’ve dragged each other through—you’re still here, trusting him with your body.
confusing, he thinks. you’re so confusing.
“hoon,” you mumble against his skin. he hums in response. “you’re being weird—oh my god. stop sniffing me, i’m getting ticklish.”
he hums against your skin before taking another deep breath in. “don’t care.”
before you, none of this would have unsettled him. there had been other people, other nights, other attempts at filling the empty spaces—and it had been good. he had learned very early that casual was easy to survive because it demanded so little of him—he could leave before morning and return to his life unchanged, carrying nothing home except the faint smell of someone else’s perfume and the relief of having avoided being known. it never bothered him. if anything, he preferred it that way.
“can we wait a little longer?”
“didn’t know you were into cockwarming. you’re sick in the head.” you sigh dramatically, earning a groan from sunghoon—he shifts his weight slightly, hissing when he feels you squeeze around him again.
“just give me a minute,” he answers. “need to remember my first with you. should we take a selfie?”
you fist at his hair and sunghoon winces. “fuck, i was just kidding.”
four in the morning.
the clock on your nightstand blinks the numbers back at you in soft, white light, stubborn and familiar. nine months ago, that hour belonged to a stranger's voice crackling through your speaker and a crush that felt enormous simply because it was all imagination.
you remember lying awake with your phone pressed against your cheek, convinced the boy on the other end of the line was someone else entirely, and now the room is quiet enough to hear the city breathing beyond the windows.
sunghoon shifts against you, cheek warm where it's pressed to your chest, his hair a soft mess beneath your fingers. when he tilts his head up, tiredness still clings to him around the edges of his eyes, but they find yours immediately, like they've learned the route by heart. there is something almost unfair about it—that the boy who once hid behind another person's name now looks at you with such terrifying honesty.
“can you get off of me now?”
sunghoon lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheek still resting against your chest, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. he considers the question with suspicious seriousness before leaning over to press another lazy kiss against your collarbone. “no.”
luck and fate. such intangible concepts, but the feeling creeps up on you regardless. the universe seems unusually generous now, which scares you—after everything that’s happened, after all the ways the two of you managed to hurt each other before finding your way back, it feels dangerous to believe that happiness could be this simple.
and still—something tells you that this feeling might be yours to keep, anyway, so long as you keep choosing for it to.
sunghoon shifts closer, his voice rough with impending sleep as he presses his face into the warmth beneath your jaw. “i love you, y/n.”
when your eyes flutter open the next morning, the blinds are only half-shut, thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through the gaps and painting pale gold across the floor. there's a t-shirt bunched around your waist that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep, and your hair is sticking to your cheek in a way that immediately informs you that you’ve slept in way too long.
you stretch with a quiet groan, arms reaching above your head until your shoulders pop pleasantly, then roll onto your left side in search of the cooler side of the bed—but instead, you’re greeted by more warmth.
for a brief, sleepy second, you wonder if autumn has somehow changed its mind overnight. is it summer again?
but then, you see him.
park sunghoon is sprawled face-down across your mattress like somebody dropped him there and forgot to pick him back up. one arm is flung over the edge of the bed, the other trapped beneath your pillow, and his dark hair sticks out in every possible direction. sometime during the night, he'd apparently migrated until three-quarters of his body occupied your side of the bed while you clung to the remaining sliver.
his bare back is outlined by faint shadows of the morning, still unfairly sculpted while knocked out cold. it annoys you, just a little, but enough that you briefly consider stealing the blanket back out of spite.
instead, you stay where you are and watch him.
you watch the slow rise and fall of his ribs beneath your fingertips, the tiny hitch in his breathing every few breaths, and the way one hand twitches occasionally against the mattress as though he's still reaching for you in his sleep.
you lean forward until your lips brush the warmth of his shoulder—but the words you whisper there are too soft for him to hear.
“i love you too, park sunghoon.”
he sleeps through your confession, completely unaware of the smile that finds your face as you settle next to him again. your heart slows just a fraction, calming when your breathing unconsciously matches the rhythm of the man beside you.
time seems to slow itself down. the morning birds are quieter than usual, the grandmother across the street has spared the neighborhood her daily yelling, and when you look over at your calendar, there is nothing waiting for you there.
for a love this gentle, the universe has chosen to be unusually generous.
lucky you!
─────────────────────────
hoonie <3: [Attachment] 20:28
hoonie <3: I’ll be over after practice 20:28
hoonie <3: Yeonjun and Maki keep asking about you it’s starting to piss me off 20:29
hoonie <3: Also did you change my contact? 20:34
y/n: yes heeseung 20:40
y/n: oops i meant Park Sunghoon. my favourite boyfriend out of 10 20:40
GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader. TOTAL WC 60.7k
SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes, includes smut so +18 only. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen + nicholas // maki of &team + yeonjun of txt slowburn pining trust issues lies.. lots of lies
01: if you're going to break me in two ⸝⸝ wc 29.3k
02: do what you gotta do ⸝⸝ wc 31.4k
WHEREIN those with the wherewithal, stay here to waste the time they have too much of, with six handsome boys, who also waste time they have too much of. it's the academy's very own private playground. it is sure that you'll find enjoyment here, for the club exists for the happiness of everyone! so, come along, don't be shy, pick and choose any, among the six hosts of the club!
which archetype will you choose?
THE HOSTS
The Prince Charming Type | Myung Jaehyun x Tamaki Suoh
pairing: tamaki suoh! jaehyun x m! host! reader
genre: fake dating, fluff, a bit of angst, bl
synopsis: the number one duty of a host is to keep their guests happy, even going as far as engaging in fake dating to stop an unwanted arranged marriage.
enrollment date: July, 2026.
The Cool Type | Park Sungho x Kyoya Ootori
pairing: kyoya ootori! sungho x fem! reader
genre: enemies/rivals to lovers, contract marriage, fluff
synopsis: when two rival youngest child's scheme together to inherit their family's company. aka, a guide to how marriage works in the 21st century.
enrollment date: TBA.
The Fish Nerd Type | Kim Leehan x Mitsukuni Haninozuka
pairing: mitsukuni "honey" haninozuka! leehan x fem! reader
genre: angst, fluff, comfort
synopsis: sometimes, even fish cry. and sometimes, they drown in their own tears. but that's okay because leehan can just swim and save them!
enrollment date: TBA.
The Strong and Silent Type | Han Taesan x Takashi Morinozuka
pairing: takashi "mori" morinozuka! taesan x fem! reader
⋆｡°✩ pairing bf!woonhak x gn!reader wc 0.389k tw none genre fluff, established relationship, woonhak's a cutie author's note saw this pin and was Inspired™ (this is a tad bit self indulgent lolll) also woonhak looked so good at lollapalooza,, anyway enjoy and happy reading <3
⋆˙⟡ synopsis now why on earth is your boyfriend asking you to whistle? (spoiler: it's his stupid flirting tactics. but you love him for it.)
⋆⭒˚.⋆ reblogs + feedback very much appreciated! ^^
“babe.”
you look up from your phone, where you’d been mindlessly scrolling on social media. “hm?”
woonhak grins at you, his signature smile that lets you know he’s cooking up something in that scheming mind of his. you smile back slightly, confused as he approaches you. “what’s up?”
“nothing,” he hums, coming to a stop just in front of you. your boyfriend is tall, and from where you’re sitting you have to tilt your neck to hold his gaze. “i have a question.”
“ask away.”
“can you whistle?”
the question - no, rather his excitement, the twinkling in his eyes - takes you by surprise. “um…” you trail off. “no, i can’t.” you’ve tried to learn countless times, over the years. but it simply has never come to you.
at your response, he pouts, and the expression is so cute you have to resist the urge to reach up and take his face in your hands. “try anyway,” woonhak says. “please?”
you sigh, setting your phone down in your lap. “fine.”
(you know it’s a failed endeavor anyway.)
inhaling, you purse your lips, when woonhak moves. swiftly, he leans in, bracing his hands against the armrests of your chair, caging you in the circle of his arms. your eyes flick up in surprise, yet it's only for a moment where your eyes widen, only for a moment where you see his mischievous smile, before his lips press against yours.
you jump slightly in surprise, and woonhak giggles, the sound of his happiness tickling your ears. his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, and he kisses you just a bit deeper before pulling away, his dark eyes alight with amusement. “gotcha,” he whispers, to which you shove at his chest, cheeks flushing - but you’re smiling, too.
“that was so stupid.” you look up at the ceiling, exhaling. “you’re so stupid.”
“i know,” he laughs. he turns your face back to his, raising his eyebrows when you lock gazes once more. “but you like it.”
you roll your eyes, lifting your arms and looping them around his neck. “sure. how about you whistle this time?”
woonhak laughs again, bright and happy, and you feel your heart skip a beat. “okay.” he leans in once more, grinning. “i’ll whistle for you as many times as you want.”
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ want to check out the planetarium's other exhibits?
Description: Seven years ago, you and Spencer made a drunken pact: if you were both still single by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
You forgot about it. Spencer never did.
___________________________________
Title: The Deadline
The agreement had been written on the back of a takeout menu seven years ago, somewhere between the second bottle of wine and Spencer’s attempt to explain why your latest date had failed using probability theory.
“He talked about cryptocurrency for forty-five minutes,” you had said, dropping your forehead onto the kitchen table. “Then he asked whether I’d ever considered fixing my nose.”
Spencer’s expression had gone perfectly still. “What’s wrong with your nose?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why would he—”
“Because he was an ass, Spencer.”
“Oh.” He had looked offended on your behalf, which had made you feel marginally better. “Yes. Statistically, insulting someone during a first date does significantly reduce the likelihood of a second.”
“Thank you, Doctor Romance.”
He had taken the insult with a sip of wine.
His own evening had gone poorly, though it had taken nearly twenty minutes of careful questioning to get him to admit it. The woman had spent most of dinner checking her phone and had eventually told him that talking to him felt like attending a lecture she had forgotten to study for.
You had hated her immediately.
“We’re doomed,” you had decided.
Spencer had frowned. “That seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”
“You’re right. I’m doomed. You’ll meet some brilliant professor who collects first-edition Russian novels, and I’ll be found dead in my apartment after my cat eats half my face.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
“I’ll get one once I’ve accepted my fate.”
That was when you had made the pact. If neither of you was married by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
Spencer had insisted the agreement needed clearly defined terms. You had found a pen while he listed possible complications, including relocation, preexisting engagements, major changes in personal compatibility and, for reasons you still did not understand, tax implications.
You wrote it on the back of the menu.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You had signed beneath it with an exaggerated flourish.
Spencer had studied the words for several seconds before adding his name beside yours in neat, narrow handwriting.
Then you had folded the menu, tucked it into the junk drawer and forgotten about it.
At least, you thought you had.
••••••••••
“Thirty-five,” Garcia announced, dropping a pink bakery box onto the table in the bullpen. “A distinguished age. An elegant age. An age at which a woman knows her worth and will no longer tolerate men who own mattresses without fitted sheets.”
Your birthday was still two weeks away, but Garcia had apparently decided that celebrations were most effective when stretched across several business days.
“I’m not thirty-five yet,” you reminded her.
“Which is why this is a pre-birthday cupcake.”
“There are twelve cupcakes.”
“The passage of time is emotionally demanding.”
Morgan reached into the box before Garcia had finished arranging the napkins.
She slapped his hand away.
“Those are for the birthday girl.”
“The birthday girl isn’t even having a birthday today.” He retorted.
“That sounds like someone who doesn’t deserve frosting.”
You smiled as they argued, reaching for your coffee. Across the bullpen, Spencer had stopped halfway through removing a file from his bag.
His eyes were fixed on the bakery box.
More specifically, on the silver number thirty-five Garcia had stuck into the center cupcake.
You raised your eyebrows at him.
He looked away so quickly that he nearly dropped the file.
It happened again during lunch when JJ asked whether you had any plans for your birthday.
And again when Emily mentioned setting you up with a friend from Interpol.
Spencer became intensely interested in whatever he happened to be holding each time the subject arose. A book. A case file. An empty coffee cup he studied as though the meaning of life might be printed at the bottom.
By the end of the day, you had had enough. You found him in the kitchenette pouring an alarming amount of sugar into his coffee.
“Did I do something?”
His hand paused above the cup. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t.”
“You took the stairs when you saw me waiting for the elevator.”
“Taking the stairs can improve cardiovascular health and reduce the risk of—”
“You work on the sixth floor.”
He set down the sugar packet. For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved toward the doorway, checking whether anyone was nearby. Then he asked, “Do you remember the agreement?”
You stared at him. “What agreement?”
His mouth tightened slightly. The hurt crossed his face so quickly you almost missed it. “Never mind.”
He reached for his coffee, but you caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Spencer.”
“It was years ago. You were upset, and we’d both had wine. It was obviously a joke.”
The memory surfaced slowly.
Takeout containers. Cheap wine. Spencer sitting at your kitchen table with his tie loosened, explaining that he would need access to at least half of the bookshelves if you ever lived together.
Your grip on his wrist loosened.
“Oh my God.”
He gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Exactly.”
“The marriage pact.”
A crash sounded from the hallway.
You both turned.
Morgan stood outside the kitchenette with a broken plastic coffee cup at his feet. “The what?”
Spencer closed his eyes.
Within eight minutes, the entire team knew.
You suspected Morgan had broken several laws of physics to spread the information so quickly.
“A marriage pact?” Emily repeated, leaning against your desk. “With Reid?”
“It was a joke.”
“Was it?” JJ asked, glancing toward Spencer.
He was seated at his desk with a book open in front of him. He had not turned a page in five minutes.
Garcia pressed both hands to her chest. “This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened within these deeply beige walls.”
“It isn’t romantic,” you said. “We were drunk and miserable.”
“Historically,” Rossi said from behind his office door, “that’s how plenty of marriages start.”
Hotch emerged from his office carrying a file.
Every head turned toward him.
He looked from you to Spencer, then at the gathering around your desk.
“We have a case.”
The room scattered.
As Hotch passed, he placed the file in your hands. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.
Your mouth fell open. Morgan laughed so hard he had to brace himself against a desk.
The case should have ended the conversation.
Instead, thirty-five followed you to Iowa.
It appeared when you and Spencer were assigned adjoining hotel rooms. When a local detective mistook you for a couple. When Morgan referred to the vending-machine crackers Spencer brought you as “early spousal support.”
You laughed each time because it was easier than examining why Spencer never did.
He smiled occasionally, but it never reached his eyes.
On the flight home, you found him awake while everyone else slept.
The cabin lights were dimmed. Spencer sat across from you, one knee drawn slightly toward his chest, an unopened book resting in his lap.
“You really remembered?” you whispered.
His fingers tightened around the book. “I have an eidetic memory.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked toward the dark window. The reflection showed the strain around his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
“For seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer took so long that you started to wonder whether he would give one.
“Because I didn’t think it was a joke.”
Something shifted painfully beneath your ribs. “Spencer…”
“I knew you probably didn’t mean it.” His voice stayed low, careful not to wake the others. “At least, not in the same way I did. But you asked, and I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that if we reached thirty-five and you still wanted me, I would be the luckiest person alive.”
You could hear the steady hum of the jet beneath the silence.
He gave a short laugh that sounded embarrassed. “It was irrational. There was no reason to believe our circumstances would remain unchanged for seven years. The likelihood of either of us entering a long-term relationship was—”
“Spencer.”
He stopped.
“You could have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“So you planned to wait until my birthday and what? Show up with the menu?”
His eyes flickered toward his satchel.
You stared at it.
“No.”
His cheeks turned pink.
“Spencer.”
He lowered his gaze.
Slowly, you reached across the aisle and pulled the satchel toward you.
He did not try to stop you.
The folded paper was tucked inside the inner pocket, protected between two clear plastic sheets.
The restaurant had closed years ago. The ink had faded slightly, and there was a stain near your signature from the wine you had spilled.
But the promise remained.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You ran your thumb across his name.
“You kept it.”
“I went back for it the next morning.”
“You stole my takeout menu?”
“You had thrown it in a drawer with expired coupons and batteries.”
“That was my filing system.”
“It was a fire hazard.”
You laughed softly, though your eyes had begun to burn.
Spencer watched you with the cautious expression he wore when approaching something wounded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed it meant anything to you.”
You looked at him over the paper.
“The reason I forgot wasn’t because you meant nothing to me.”
He stayed perfectly still.
“I forgot because somewhere along the way, I stopped imagining a future where you wouldn’t be there.” You folded the menu carefully. “You’re already the person I call when something goes wrong. You’re the first person I want to tell when something goes right. Half your books are in my apartment, and you have your own mug in my kitchen.”
“The blue one.”
“The blue one,” you agreed. “You know how I take my coffee. I know you pretend not to be cold because you hate asking for an extra blanket in hotels.”
“I don’t hate asking.”
“You’re using your coat as a blanket right now.”
He glanced down at the jacket draped across his lap.
“That’s circumstantial.”
You smiled then you placed the menu on the empty seat beside you and held out your hand.
Spencer looked at it. His fingers slipped into yours slowly, as if he was afraid you might change your mind halfway through.
“You don’t have to wait until my birthday,” you said.
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“For an answer.”
The hope on his face was almost unbearable.
You tightened your hand around his. “Yes.”
His lips parted.
“Yes to the pact,” you clarified. “Eventually. I’d prefer a real first date before we start discussing tax implications.”
“You remember that?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“I was right about the tax implications.”
“I’m sure you were.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “So this would be a date with the intention of determining long-term romantic compatibility?”
“It means you’re taking me to dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“We land after midnight.”
“Tomorrow?”
You pretended to consider it. Spencer waited, visibly tense. “Tomorrow,” you agreed.
His smile appeared slowly, softening his entire face.
You had seen Spencer happy before. You had seen him excited, relieved, amused and triumphant.
You had never seen anyone look at you as though a seven-year wait had been worth every second.
He lifted your joined hands and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.
Behind him, Morgan opened one eye. “I better be the best man.”
Spencer nearly dropped your hand.
JJ’s muffled laughter came from two rows back.
Garcia sat upright beneath her eye mask. “I’m planning the wedding.”
“There is no wedding,” you whispered fiercely.
“Yet,” Rossi corrected without opening his eyes.
Hotch remained facing the front of the plane. “Everyone go back to sleep.” A beat of silence passed. Then he added, “And congratulations.”
Spencer looked at you, his face bright red.
You leaned across the aisle and kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow,” you reminded him.
His fingers found yours again beneath the armrest.
