the most irritating thing about me is that I'm a perfectionist that shrugs it off and wings it most of the time (and usually does better when very little goes to plan)
I had such a good celebration for him today, I went to a murder mystery birthday party where I played an androgynous role
I never wear makeup like I don't know how to apply it or nothing BUT I'm so proud of myself cause I did and I oddly suited it and it looked really good apparently
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you don’t expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively — waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesn’t understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until they’ve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece — through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The words settled somewhere deep enough inside you that for a second you forgot how to breathe normally.
He sat across from you beneath the warm café lights, fingers resting loosely around his drink while rain traced slow patterns down the windows behind him. His expression remained thoughtful rather than embarrassed, like he’d simply arrived at a conclusion after careful observation and decided to share it.
He noticed when you were gone.
Not I missed you.
Not I wanted you there.
Anton’s attention drifted toward the condensation gathering on his cup after a few seconds, giving you time to recover from whatever had just happened to your nervous system.
You cleared your throat softly. “We’ve known each other for like… two days.”
“I know.”
His voice came easier now than before. Still soft. Still sparse. But less fragile around the edges, as though speaking had become slightly less exhausting in your presence.
“That’s not a long time to notice someone.”
Anton tilted his head faintly at that.
“It is for me.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize belatedly that he might need to explain further because his fingers immediately twitched toward his phone again. You watched him hesitate halfway there before deciding to speak instead.
“Most people feel…” He paused. “Temporary.”
The sentence came out unevenly, like he was translating thoughts directly as they formed.
“They change quickly,” he continued quietly. “Or they stop trying after they realize I’m difficult.”
Your chest tightened.
Anton looked down at the table while speaking now, voice lowering further with concentration.
“So when someone stays longer than expected…” Another pause. “I notice.”
The café felt unbearably intimate suddenly.
You wanted very badly to say something comforting and equally wanted not to scare him by reacting too emotionally. Anton seemed sensitive to emotional intensity in the same way he was sensitive to noise — too much too quickly made him retreat inward.
“Well,” you said gently, “I’m not planning on disappearing.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, Anton looked up.
Not fully into your eyes.
But close enough that the breath caught in your throat anyway.
His expression shifted in that quiet subtle way you were learning to recognize — something loosening internally, tension unwinding one careful thread at a time.
Then he nodded once.
Small. Certain. Like he’d decided to believe you.
You had to look away first.
Outside, evening settled fully over campus, the windows darkening into reflective black glass broken only by rain and scattered lights. The café had emptied considerably while you talked, leaving only a few students hunched over laptops near the back.
Anton finished the last bite of his sandwich with methodical precision before pushing the plate slightly away from himself.
You noticed immediately. “You actually ate.”
He blinked.
Then glanced down at the empty plate like he’d forgotten about it midway through the conversation.
“See? Survived.”
Anton considered that seriously.
“It helped because you stayed.”
Your heart physically hurt at this point.
You pressed your fingers harder around your cup to ground yourself. “Anton.”
He looked attentive immediately.
“You can’t keep saying things like that so casually.”
Confusion crossed his face almost at once.
“What things?”
Exactly.
You laughed weakly under your breath. “Never mind.”
Anton frowned slightly, clearly dissatisfied with not understanding. He shifted forward a little in his seat, cardigan sleeves falling down over his hands again.
“No,” he said quietly. “Explain.”
The determination in his voice startled you.
You looked at him carefully. “Some things sound more emotionally intense than you realize.”
“Oh.”
His cheeks pinked faintly.
You watched the realization begin unfolding behind his eyes in slow increments. Processing. Replaying previous conversations. Reevaluating.
“When I said touching you felt calm too?” he asked carefully.
Your stomach flipped violently.
“Yes.”
Anton immediately lowered his gaze toward the table.
“And when I said I noticed you were gone.”
“Yes.”
Another pause stretched between you both.
Then, very softly:
“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know you weren’t. And you didn’t.”
That seemed to relax him slightly.
But his expression remained thoughtful, distant around the edges in that way it became when he was learning something new socially.
After a while, he asked, “Do people usually hide those things?”
“Feelings?”
Tiny nod. “Sometimes.”
“Why?”
You almost laughed at the genuine confusion in his voice.
“Because it makes people vulnerable.”
“But feelings already exist even if you don’t say them.”
The simplicity of the statement knocked straight through you.
You stared at him while he sat there completely sincere, genuinely unable to understand why people buried emotions under implication and performance instead of simply stating them aloud.
And maybe he had a point. Maybe everyone else was the confusing one.
“You’re dangerous,” you muttered before thinking.
Anton blinked slowly.
The pink in his cheeks deepened. “That sounds bad.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what does it mean?”
You groaned softly and covered part of your face with your sleeve. “You ask too many direct questions.”
“I know,” he said immediately, with the faintest trace of something almost amused hidden beneath the words.
You looked up in surprise.
Anton’s mouth had curved slightly at one corner.
The sight hit you embarrassingly hard.
“You did that on purpose,” you accused quietly.
His expression flickered with confusion again before understanding caught up several seconds later.
Then the almost-smile appeared once more.
Tiny. Beautiful.
Your entire body felt doomed.
Before either of you could say anything else, the café lights flickered briefly overhead. One of the workers behind the counter called out an apologetic, “Closing in ten!”
You glanced toward the windows. “Shit, it got late.. and I missed my shift.”
Anton followed your gaze outside immediately. Darkness had settled completely over campus now, rain reduced to a misty drizzle coating the sidewalks in reflected light.
You started gathering your things reluctantly.
Across from you, Anton had gone quiet again.
Not withdrawn. Just watching.
When you stood from the table, he stood too before you could even sling your bag over your shoulder. Immediate. Automatic.
You smiled a little. “You really do follow me everywhere now, huh?”
The second the joke left your mouth, Anton stilled.
His expression changed subtly.
You recognized it instantly now — processing something emotionally complicated in delayed real time.
“Oh my god,” you said quickly. “I was kidding, Anton.”
But he still looked unsettled.
“I know,” he murmured.
Yet his fingers had disappeared deeper into his sleeves again.
You softened immediately. “Hey.”
His attention lifted toward you.
“I don’t mind you being around me.”
“You would tell me if you did?”
“Yes,” you said gently. “I would.”
Anton studied your face for a long moment, like he was checking for inconsistencies between your words and expression.
“Okay.”
-
The walk back across campus felt different after that conversation.
Not heavier exactly, but charged in a quieter way, like something between you had shifted shape without either of you knowing what to call it yet. The sidewalks gleamed from the rain, reflecting blurry gold streetlights beneath your feet while damp wind tugged softly at your clothes. Anton stayed beside you in that instinctive way he had begun to, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours every few steps before drifting away again.
You couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said in the café.
You would tell me if you did?
The question lingered unpleasantly under your ribs because it revealed too much all at once. Anton expected people to tolerate him until they didn’t anymore. Every reassurance you gave him seemed to land with the careful disbelief of someone handling something fragile enough to break if held incorrectly.
And somehow, despite barely knowing him, you already understood that hurting him would feel unbearable.
“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Anton murmured beside you.
You turned toward him with startled laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“It changes your face.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“I like it.”
The response came so naturally that he didn’t seem to realize he’d said anything unusual until several seconds later. You watched awareness arrive slowly behind his expression, watched him mentally retrace the sentence and reach the point where another person might’ve softened it or taken it back.
Anton just frowned slightly, like he couldn’t figure out whether he was supposed to.
“You say things before understanding them,” you said quietly.
“That sounds irresponsible.”
“It kind of is.”
You expected embarrassment. Instead, his mouth curved faintly against the collar of his cardigan, hidden halfway inside soft fabric. “You still stay.”
The honesty of it made your chest ache all over again.
You reached the library steps too quickly. Warm light spilled through the glass doors, students moving around inside with backpacks slung over their shoulders, the entire building humming with that exhausted nighttime energy campuses developed after dark. Your shift started thirty-five minutes ago.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Anton’s fingers disappeared deeper into his sleeves while he stared somewhere near the ground beside you. Thinking again. You were beginning to realize his silences weren’t empty pauses in conversation but entire internal processes unfolding where you could almost see them happen.
Finally, quietly, “What happens when you stop being my aide?”
You looked at him carefully.
“The semester ends eventually.”
“I know.”
But something tightened in your chest anyway.
The question wasn’t really about schedules.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of the library roof nearby. Students brushed past the two of you without paying attention, conversations blurring together into meaningless background noise, but Anton remained fixed in place like he was waiting for an answer capable of settling something much larger than the conversation itself.
You tried for lightness first. “You planning on getting rid of me that quickly?”
“No.”
Immediate. Certain.
The word slipped out before he could reconsider it, soft but startlingly firm compared to his usual hesitation. His eyes widened slightly afterward, as though the speed of the response surprised him too.
You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”
Anton looked away first.
His throat moved subtly before he spoke again, quieter now. “I don’t think I know how to stop noticing you.”
The world genuinely seemed to pause for a second.
You stared at him beneath the glow of the library lights, rain dampening the dark strands of hair curling around his face, cardigan sleeves covering his hands almost completely. There was no performance in him. No flirtation sharpened intentionally for effect. Anton said things with the devastating sincerity of someone still learning that feelings often stayed hidden inside other people.
And maybe that was why every word reached directly inside your chest before you had time to defend yourself from it.
“You can’t say things like that to me right before I have work,” you muttered weakly.
Confusion flickered across his face before understanding slowly followed. “Because it changes your body language.”
You covered your face briefly with your hands. “Anton.”
“What?”
“You are unbelievably stressful.”
That finally earned a real smile.
You’d noticed already that Anton became beautiful in motion more than stillness. The softening of his mouth when he forgot to guard himself. The way his shoulders relaxed when something genuinely pleased him. Even his voice changed slightly during those moments, growing warmer, easier, less careful around the edges.
Watching that smile appear because of you felt dangerous in ways you weren’t prepared for.
“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Looking at me for too long.”
Heat crawled instantly into your face. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.”
Your stomach turned over so hard it almost hurt.
The terrifying thing was that he meant it literally.
Before you could recover, Anton stepped closer without seeming aware of the intimacy in the movement. Not enough to trap you against the library railing, just enough that you could feel warmth radiating through the damp fabric of his cardigan. His attention lingered near your face with unusual steadiness, focused and searching in that way he got when trying to understand something completely.
Then his hand emerged slowly from his sleeve.
You felt the slightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist.
Tentative. Curious.
Not grabbing. Not even really holding. Just touching your pulse like he was confirming you were real.
“You react here first,” he murmured.
Your heartbeat went absolutely feral beneath his fingers.
Anton seemed fascinated by it.
“When you’re overwhelmed,” he continued softly, still studying your wrist with complete concentration, “it gets faster before your expression changes.”
You couldn’t breathe correctly anymore.
“Anton,” you whispered.
That finally made him look up.
Really look at you this time, closer to eye contact than he’d ever managed before. His own expression had gone strangely open, all that careful distance he usually kept between himself and the world temporarily unraveled by curiosity and something warmer underneath it.
Then realization arrived. Not all at once. Slowly.
You saw the exact moment he understood what this looked like from your perspective — standing too close outside the library in the rain, fingers pressed lightly against your pulse while speaking in that soft voice of his.
His hand withdrew immediately.
Color spread across his cheeks.
“I—” He stopped, visibly overwhelmed by too many thoughts arriving together. “I was observing.”
You laughed helplessly under your breath, pulse still racing. “That doesn’t help your case.”
Anton looked genuinely distressed by this.
“You said I should explain things.”
“I know, puppy.”
The pet name slipped out accidentally.
Both of you froze.
Anton’s expression changed so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs. Confusion first, then surprise, then something deeper that unfolded slowly across his face as he replayed the word internally.
Puppy..
You watched him process it like a physical sensation.
“Nobody’s called me that before,” he said quietly.
And just like that, every coherent thought left your body.
You should’ve corrected yourself immediately.
Laughed it off. Said it slipped out. Pretended it meant nothing.
Instead you stood there outside the library with rain misting softly through the cold night air while Anton looked at you like the word had settled somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
Nobody’s called me that before.
The confession wrapped itself around your ribs painfully. Not because it was dramatic, but because of how sincere it sounded. Anton never exaggerated anything. If anything, he stripped emotions down so honestly that they became impossible to ignore.
You swallowed. “Really?”
He shook his head slowly.
Something about that felt impossible. Someone as soft as him should’ve been adored carefully. He should’ve had people smoothing his hair back affectionately, calling him sweet things without embarrassment, pressing warmth into all the places the world had taught him to make smaller.
Instead, Anton carried himself like someone accustomed to being handled incorrectly.
“You looked upset,” you said quietly, trying to explain the word somehow. “It just came out.”
“I wasn’t upset.”
“No?”
He thought about it seriously before answering. “Disorganized.”
Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Anton’s mouth softened again at the sound. Not quite a smile this time — something gentler, almost shy around the edges.
“I like when you laugh at me correctly,” he admitted.
“What does that mean?”
“When people usually laugh at me, it’s not for good reasons.”
You understood immediately. People laughed at him because they thought he was strange, or awkward, or unintentionally amusing. But Anton watched reactions carefully enough to tell the difference between ridicule and affection.
And somehow, without meaning to, you’d become someone whose reactions he trusted.
You leaned back slightly against the wet library railing, trying to steady yourself while Anton stood close enough for you to feel his warmth through the damp evening air. He’d gone quiet again, gaze lowered toward your sleeve where droplets of rain darkened the fabric.
“You’re cold,” he murmured after a while.
“So are you.”
“I don’t notice temperature immediately.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s true.”
“Anton.”
“What?”
“You say things that sound medically concerning and then act like it’s normal.”
This time the smile came easier. Small but immediate, hidden partially behind the collar of his cardigan as he tucked his mouth into the fabric instinctively.
You stared at him too long again. Anton noticed, of course.
“You’re doing it another time.”
“I know.”
“You stopped pretending it was accidental.”
Heat crept into your face. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” he said softly. “I’m observant.”
The worst part was that he wasn’t flirting intentionally. You could feel that. Anton approached conversations with too much honesty for manipulation, too much directness for games. Everything he said came from genuine curiosity or genuine feeling, and that somehow made every interaction more intimate than if he were trying.
A burst of laughter sounded from inside the library as students pushed through the front doors in a noisy group. The sudden volume cut sharply through the quiet night.
Anton flinched.
Not dramatically. Just enough that his body shifted closer on instinct before he caught himself. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and damp from the rain, and stayed there for half a second too long.
You felt him realize it.
Felt the exact moment awareness caught up.
But instead of moving away immediately, Anton hesitated.
His expression had gone distant again in that way it did when he was sorting through too many thoughts at once. You watched his throat move subtly before he spoke.
“When I touch you…” He paused, visibly reorganizing the sentence. “You never seem uncomfortable after.”
Your chest tightened.
“Should I be?”
“No.” Immediate again. Then softer, “I just keep waiting for it to change.”
Something painful pulled deep inside you.
Because there it was again — that expectation that eventually people would recoil from him, tire of him, decide he was too strange or too much work or too difficult to keep close.
You reached for his sleeve before thinking.
Anton went still beneath your fingers.
“You don’t have to earn basic gentleness from me,” you said quietly.
His breathing changed first, shallow for just a second before evening out again. Then came that look you were learning to recognize: the fragile disorientation of someone receiving care they hadn’t prepared themselves for.
You wondered suddenly how often Anton spent his life bracing for rejection before it arrived.
Probably constantly.
“You say things like you mean them permanently,” he whispered.
“I do mean them.”
“But people change.”
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Not bitter. Not angry. Just factual, like he’d learned it through repetition.
You slid your hand slightly further down his sleeve until your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. “Maybe some people do.”
Anton looked down at the contact immediately.
Not nervous. Focused.
His attention lingered on your hand against him with the same careful concentration he gave beautiful objects or pieces of music. You got the strange feeling he was memorizing the sensation.
Then, slowly, his fingers turned beneath the fabric until they touched yours.
Not fully holding your hand. Just resting there.
“I think,” he said softly, “if someone was kind to me when I was younger, I would’ve become attached too quickly.”
“You already get attached quickly.”
“Oh.”
Anton’s thumb brushed faintly against the side of your hand through the damp fabric between you both, absentminded and searching. He didn’t seem aware he was doing it. Or maybe he was beginning to notice now, slowly connecting physical closeness with the emotions underneath it.
You wondered what it felt like inside his head lately. How confusing all of this must be when he processed feelings in delayed waves instead of immediate understanding.
“Are you flirting now?”
“I’m not,” he said quickly.
“I know.”
“But I…” He frowned, looking suddenly distressed by the complexity of the conversation. “I want to keep touching you.”
Your entire body went warm.
Anton seemed horrified by your reaction immediately afterward, gaze dropping toward your joined hands like he’d accidentally uncovered something too private.
“I don’t know what category that belongs in yet,” he admitted quietly. “I’m still thinking about it.”
And there it was.
The slow terrifying realization happening in pieces instead of all at once.
You looked at him standing there beneath the rain-dim library lights, beautiful and overwhelmed and trying so hard to understand feelings everyone else seemed to experience instinctively.
Then you squeezed his hand gently.
“You can take your time,” you whispered.
Anton looked at you like the words hurt him in the nicest way possible.
For a moment neither of you moved.
The rain had almost stopped completely now, leaving only the occasional drip from the library roof and the damp shine of campus lights reflecting across the pavement. Students passed in scattered groups behind you, conversations fading in and out of the cold night air, but the world around Anton always seemed strangely blurred once he focused on something.
Right now, he was focused entirely on your hand.
Not romantically, at least not consciously. You could tell he was trying to understand the sensation itself before assigning meaning to it. His thumb brushed slowly against the side of your wrist again, thoughtful and absentminded, like he was memorizing texture.
“You really think through touch,” you murmured.
Anton nodded faintly.
“It’s easier than talking sometimes.”
“How?”
He stayed quiet for a while, gaze lowered toward your joined hands. You’d started noticing that his longest pauses usually came before the most honest answers, like truth took more effort to untangle than rehearsed responses would.
“People say one thing while meaning another,” he said eventually. “But touch is usually honest immediately.”
Your heartbeat stumbled again.
Anton looked up at you then. The library lights caught softly in his dark eyes, and for once he didn’t immediately look away. Instead he studied your expression with quiet concentration, processing every piece of you at once.
“You’re careful with me,” he said softly. “Even when you react strongly.”
He noticed that too. Not just your affection, but the restraint inside it. The constant effort not to overwhelm him, not to push him faster than he could process.
“You make me want to be careful.”
Anton’s expression shifted again in that subtle, dangerous way it always did around vulnerability. You could almost see emotions arriving one at a time behind his eyes, delayed but no less intense for it.
“I don’t think people usually do that,” he admitted.
“Be careful?”
“With me.”
Before you could answer, a gust of cold wind pushed through the walkway, making Anton shiver visibly beneath his damp cardigan. Instinctively, you stepped closer and reached up to smooth his rain-curled hair back from his forehead.
Anton went still beneath your touch, breath catching softly enough that you almost missed it. But this time he didn’t freeze from surprise alone. He leaned into your hand deliberately, slow enough that it felt like a choice.
A dangerous choice.
Your fingers stayed tangled briefly in the soft strands near his temple while Anton closed his eyes for half a second like he was overwhelmed by how nice it felt.
Then he whispered, almost confused by himself, “I kept thinking about earlier.”
“The practice room?”
A small nod.
“When you touched my hair.”
The memory rushed back instantly — his face tilting unconsciously into your palm, the stunned silence afterward.
Anton swallowed subtly before continuing. “I didn’t understand why I wanted you to do it again.”
Your pulse throbbed against his fingers.
“And now?”
“I still don’t fully understand.” His mouth softened faintly, frustrated with himself. “But I think…” He paused, searching. “I think my body recognizes you faster than my brain does.”
Anton seemed unaware of the effect he was having again, too focused on sorting through the realization itself.
“It happens a lot around you,” he continued quietly. “I move closer before deciding to. Or I touch you before remembering other people think about those things differently.”
You couldn’t take it anymore.
“Anton.”
He looked at you immediately.
“You have to stop saying things that sound romantic before I lose my mind.”
The confusion returned instantly. “But I’m being accurate.”
“I know,” you laughed helplessly. “That’s the problem.”
A tiny crease formed between his brows while he tried to process your reaction. “You keep reacting like I’m confessing to something.”
“What?”
Anton seemed startled too.
You watched realization ripple slowly across his expression after hearing his own tone, like he hadn’t intended to sound playful but discovered too late that he had. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly before he ducked his face partially into the collar of his cardigan again, hiding.
“You’re getting bolder,” you accused quietly.
“I’m getting…” He paused, thinking carefully. “Less afraid of being incorrect around you.”
The honesty in that sentence nearly undid you.
Because that was what this really was underneath everything else. Anton wasn’t simply learning affection. He was learning safety. Learning that he could speak before perfectly organizing every thought, touch before fully understanding the implications, exist without rehearsing himself into something easier for other people to handle.
And somehow you’d become the place where that happened.
The realization filled you with equal parts warmth and terror.
“You should go inside before your shift supervisor hates you,” Anton murmured after a while, though he still hadn’t let go of your hand.
“You’re the one holding me hostage.”
“I know.”
You stared at him.
Anton blinked slowly, processing his own wording. Then the faintest flush spread across his cheeks.
“That sounded manipulative.”
“It sounded cute.”
His expression softened instantly at the word.
Cute.
You were beginning to notice certain compliments affected him differently. Pretty made him quiet and uncertain. Cute made him shy. Puppy had nearly short-circuited him entirely.
Like every gentle thing said to him became something he carried carefully afterward.
“You think I’m cute?” he asked softly.
There was no ego in it. Just genuine curiosity.
You stepped closer before thinking.
Close enough now that you could see every raindrop caught in his lashes, every tiny shift in his expression as anticipation and uncertainty tangled together behind his eyes.
“Anton,” you said quietly, “I think you’re a lot of things.”
The way he looked at you afterward felt dangerously close to wanting.
-
By November, Anton had developed a habit of appearing at your apartment without warning.
Not in an inconsiderate way. He always texted first, usually something minimal and strangely formal despite how often he came over now.
| Are you busy.
| Can I sit near you today.
| My roommate invited six people over without discussing it first.
The last one had arrived at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday alongside a blurry photo of his dorm lounge crowded with strangers and empty energy drink cans. You had unlocked the building entrance remotely without even replying.
Now he existed in your apartment with the quiet familiarity of someone who had slowly woven himself into your routines without either of you acknowledging when it happened. His shoes stayed lined neatly beside your door. A pale blue toothbrush sat beside yours in the bathroom because he forgot things less when objects remained visible. One drawer in your kitchen held the snacks he consistently tolerated texture-wise. Your couch permanently smelled faintly like his fabric softener.
Anton liked your apartment because it was predictable.
No fluorescent lights.
No shouting through paper-thin dorm walls.
No roommate bringing strangers home unexpectedly.
No people touching his things.
Just you.
Which, increasingly, seemed to matter more than either of you knew what to do with.
Tonight, rain tapped softly against the windows while Anton lay stretched across your couch with his head in your lap, half-watching some nature documentary neither of you cared about. One of your hands drifted absentmindedly through his hair while you read over discussion posts on your laptop balanced beside him.
Months ago, touching him like this would’ve shattered his ability to function.
Now he melted into it automatically.
Not carelessly, though. Anton never became careless with affection. If anything, he grew more aware of it over time, not less. You noticed it in the tiny pauses before he touched you now, the moments where understanding flickered visibly across his face before he decided yes, he still wanted to anyway.
His fingers curled lightly against your knee beneath the blanket.
“You’re rereading the same sentence,” he murmured without opening his eyes.
“You’re distracting.”
“I’m horizontal.”
“You’re also staring at me every thirty seconds.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You laughed softly under your breath, fingers combing slowly through the damp silk of his hair. Anton had showered almost immediately after arriving, escaping the storm outside wrapped in one of your oversized hoodies and pajama pants that sat too short on his legs. The sight had nearly killed you on impact.
“You’re warm,” he said quietly after a while.
“You say that every time.”
“Because it surprises me every time.”
You looked down at him. “Are you usually cold?”
Anton considered it seriously. “I think maybe I don’t notice being cold until I’m near you.”
Your hand paused briefly in his hair.
Months later and he still said things that destroyed you casually.
The worst part was that now he understood why they affected you.
Not perfectly. Anton still processed emotions slower than most people, still arrived at certain realizations days or weeks after they began forming. But he had started recognizing tension between you. Recognizing the way your breathing changed when he touched your waist absentmindedly in the kitchen, or how quiet you became when he rested his face against your shoulder too long.
And once Anton noticed something, he studied it relentlessly.
“You did it again,” he murmured.
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “You monitor me like a science experiment.”
“You’re expressive.”
“You just know me too well now.”
At that, Anton finally opened his eyes.
The documentary light flickered softly across his face, catching on the silver chain around his throat and the strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. He looked devastating like this — relaxed enough that all the guardedness left his body at once. Soft-mouthed and sleepy and sprawled across you like he belonged there.
The realization terrified you a little.
Because he did belong there now.
Anton watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, voice lower than before. “You know me too well too.”
Something shifted in the room.
The rain outside deepened, tapping harder against the windows while the documentary narrator droned uselessly in the background about migrating birds. Anton’s thumb traced absent patterns against your knee through the blanket, thoughtful more than nervous.
Then, quietly, “My roommate asked if I was dating you.”
Your entire body went still.
Anton noticed immediately, of course.
You looked down at him carefully. “What did you say?”
He took longer to answer than usual. Not because he didn’t know. Because he was choosing words carefully.
“I asked what qualified.”
“Oh my god.”
Anton’s mouth curved faintly at your horror. “It was a reasonable question.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was.” He shifted slightly against your lap, face tilting more toward you now. “We spend most nights together.”
“You spend most nights hiding from your roommate.”
“I could hide in the library.”
“You hate the library after ten.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered near your face, steady and thoughtful.
“That wasn’t the point.”
Your pulse started climbing slowly.
Anton noticed that too.
You watched the realization happen in real time — the subtle focus sharpening in his expression once he recognized your reaction wasn’t irritation. Months ago, he might’ve missed it entirely. Now he tracked your emotions with terrifying precision.
“My body still does that around you,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“The heartbeat thing.”
“It gets worse when people imply romantic things about us.” His voice remained soft, observational. “I’ve been trying to understand whether that means my body already decided something before I did.”
You stared at him. He stared back with complete sincerity.
Rain filled the silence between you.
He made no effort to move.
Instead, Anton lifted one hand slowly toward your face. The movement carried none of the uncertainty it once had months ago. He still thought carefully before touching you, still approached affection with deliberate awareness now that he understood its weight, but he no longer seemed afraid of wanting it.
His fingers brushed lightly along your wrist first.
Then your palm.
Then slowly threaded through yours beneath the blanket.
“I think,” he said quietly, eyes lowered toward your joined hands, “if we aren’t already something, we’re very close to becoming it.”
And there it was again. That unbearable honesty.
No performance. No practiced confession.
Just Anton, slowly arriving at love like someone piecing together a language nobody had ever properly taught him.
You couldn’t speak for a second.
Anton remained stretched across your lap waiting patiently, fingers loosely intertwined with yours beneath the blanket while the rain softened outside into a low steady hush. His expression stayed calm in that way it always did when he said emotionally catastrophic things — not because he felt them less intensely, but because he approached emotions like discoveries instead of impulses. By the time he spoke something aloud, he had usually spent days quietly turning it over inside himself first.
You looked down at him carefully. “You’re saying this very casually for someone basically confessing to me.”
“I’m trying not to overwhelm myself halfway through the conversation.”
“That’s a real risk?”
“Yes.”
The sincerity of the answer nearly made you laugh.
Anton shifted slightly, cheek pressing more fully into your thigh as though seeking warmth without consciously deciding to. He’d become much more physical over the past few months, especially inside your apartment. Outside, he still carried himself carefully, shoulders tense beneath overstimulating lights and crowded spaces. But here he softened. Curled around you during movies. Rested his head against your shoulder while you cooked. Fell asleep with his hand tangled absently in your sleeve like he needed proof you were still nearby.
At first he hadn’t understood why he kept gravitating toward you physically. Now he did. At least partially.
And apparently that realization was making him brave.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m trying not to scare you.”
Anton frowned faintly. “By responding?”
“You process emotions slower than I do.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want them.”
You watched him for a moment beneath the dim living room light, taking in the softness sleep and comfort brought out in him. Months ago, Anton rarely looked at you directly for more than a few seconds. Now his gaze lingered near your face openly, comfortably, tracing your reactions with quiet fascination whenever you spoke.
“I needed to know if wanting you near me was different from needing safety first.”
Anton’s thumb moved absently against your hand while he spoke, attention drifting toward your joined fingers.
“I think at the beginning,” he continued quietly, “you felt calming in the same way music does.”
The confession wrapped around your ribs painfully.
“And now?”
A long silence stretched between you.
Not empty. Full. You could almost feel him sorting through emotions in real time, carefully separating one from another.
“Now when I leave here,” he said finally, “everything feels louder afterward.”
You laughed helplessly, and the sound made his expression soften instantly.
There it was again — that look he got whenever he realized he’d affected you. Months ago he used to seem confused by it. Now there was something else mixed into his curiosity. Something warmer. Quieter. Almost shy.
Like he was beginning to enjoy being wanted.
The thought sent heat crawling up your neck.
Anton’s attention dropped toward your mouth briefly before he caught himself. The movement was small, instinctive, but you noticed it immediately because it was new.
And judging by the way his breathing shifted afterward, he noticed it too.
Rain whispered softly against the windows while the television continued playing forgotten narration into the dim apartment. Anton stayed completely still against your lap, but you could feel awareness building between you now, slow and electric.
Then, very quietly, “I think about kissing you sometimes.”
Your entire body stopped functioning.
Anton flushed almost immediately after saying it, color spreading slowly across his cheeks like realization had arrived one second too late to stop the sentence.
But he didn’t take it back.
Instead he looked down at your intertwined hands, visibly forcing himself to continue through the embarrassment.
“I didn’t understand why at first,” he admitted softly. “I don’t usually think about people that way.” A pause. “Then I realized I only wanted to when you were being gentle with me.”
You covered your face with your free hand immediately.
Anton watched the reaction with quiet fascination.
“You’re flirting with me on purpose now.”
The statement hung in the air.
You felt the exact moment he realized you were right.
You laughed helplessly into your hand while Anton stared up at you with growing understanding, piecing things together in real time. The physical closeness. The teasing. The deliberate observations designed to make you react.
He really had been learning emotions through you.
And now he was learning how to want.
Anton’s gaze dropped toward your mouth again, slower this time. Intentional enough that heat rushed instantly through your entire body. When he spoke next, his voice had gone softer around the edges.
“I think,” he murmured carefully, “I want to kiss you now too.”
Every nerve in your body lit up at once.
Anton stayed motionless against your lap waiting for your reaction, but you could feel tension building beneath his calmness now. Anticipation. Nervousness. The terrifying vulnerability of finally understanding what he was asking for.
You slid your fingers slowly through his hair again.
Anton’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second on instinct.
The sight nearly destroyed you.
When he looked back up at you, there was something unbearably open in his expression. Not confidence. Trust.
Like he was placing the entire moment carefully into your hands.
“You don’t have to process this alone anymore,” you whispered.
For a long moment, neither of you moved beyond breathing.
Anton stayed stretched across your lap with one hand threaded through yours, the other resting lightly against your leg beneath the blanket like he needed constant contact now that he understood what it meant. The room had gone impossibly still around him. Even the television noise faded into something distant and shapeless compared to the awareness building between you both.
You could feel how hard he was thinking.
Not retreating. Not shutting down. Just processing with his entire body this time instead of only his mind. His thumb moved faintly against your hand every few seconds, unconscious and grounding.
Then, quietly, “I don’t know what people usually do after this part.”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly cracked your chest open.
“There isn’t really a correct order.”
“But most people know sooner.”
“Anton.”
His gaze lifted toward you.
“You spent months teaching yourself how to trust someone enough to want them.” Your fingers moved slowly through his hair again, gentler this time. “That’s not late.”
Something in his face shifted at the words. You watched him absorb them slowly, the same way he absorbed every kindness directed toward him — carefully, almost cautiously, like he still expected warmth to disappear if he accepted it too quickly.
“I think,” he said after a while, “I kept separating you into categories.”
You smiled faintly. “That sounds like you.”
“At first you were safe.” His eyes lowered toward your joined hands again. “Then familiar. Then…” He paused, visibly frustrated with himself. “I couldn’t organize it anymore.”
“Because feelings overlap?”
“Yes.” Immediate. Relieved you understood. “I would miss you and want your attention and want you touching me and get jealous when other people distracted you.” His brows drew together faintly. “But all those feelings seemed too large to belong under one thing.”
Anton flushed slightly as realization continued catching up to his own confession. “That sounds more intense when I say it aloud.”
“A little.”
“I’m trying to be accurate.”
“You’re being devastating.”
Anton liked being understood. You’d learned that early on. Not praised exactly — understood. Every time someone interpreted him correctly without forcing him to overexplain, something inside him relaxed.
“You know what the worst part is?” you murmured.
“What?”
“You say romantic things with the emotional tone of someone explaining weather patterns.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That might be why you trust me.”
There was no manipulation in Anton. No performance. Every feeling arrived honest and unfinished and frighteningly sincere. When he wanted something, he studied it carefully instead of disguising it behind games.
And right now, he wanted you.
You could see it all over him now that you knew where to look.
In the way he melted beneath your touch but still seemed hyperaware every time your fingers moved through his hair.
In how his body naturally settled toward yours no matter where he sat.
In the way his gaze kept drifting toward your mouth before he forced it away again.
Anton noticed you noticing.
The realization spread visibly across his face, slow warmth climbing into his cheeks as understanding settled in.
Anton shifted then, pushing himself slightly more upright against the couch until he was closer to eye level with you. The blanket slipped lower around his waist in the process, one of your oversized hoodies hanging loose from his frame. You could smell your own detergent on him mixed with the faint clean scent of his shampoo.
The intimacy of it all suddenly felt overwhelming.
He stayed close after sitting up. Very close.
Close enough now that your knees pressed together beneath the blanket and his breath brushed softly against your skin whenever he spoke.
“I have another question,” he murmured.
You laughed weakly. “Of course you do.”
“When people want to kiss someone…” His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “Does it usually feel this frightening?”
“What kind of frightening?”
Anton thought about it carefully before answering.
“Like wanting something important enough that you could ruin it accidentally.”
The vulnerability of the confession settled heavily between you.
You reached up without thinking, brushing your fingers softly along his cheek. Anton leaned into your palm immediately now, instinctive as breathing. Months ago the movement would’ve startled him. Now it felt natural enough that he didn’t even seem aware he’d done it until afterward.
His eyes drifted shut briefly.
“You’re so gentle with me,” he whispered.
The words nearly undid you.
“Someone should be.”
Anton opened his eyes slowly at that.
You watched the emotion arrive in real time — not sudden but gradual, filling his expression piece by piece until something unbearably tender settled there. He looked at you like the sentence hurt him and healed him simultaneously.
Then his attention dropped once more toward your mouth.
This time he didn’t look away.
“I think,” he said softly, almost to himself, “I’m ready to understand this part now.”
Your heartbeat turned uneven.
“Yeah?”
A small nod.
But he still didn’t move.
Because despite everything, Anton remained Anton. Careful. Deliberate. Wanting without assuming. You realized suddenly that even now, even after months of sleeping beside you and holding your hand and memorizing every expression you made, he was still waiting for permission.
Not because he lacked desire. Because he respected yours.
“You can kiss me,” you whispered.
Anton inhaled softly.
Then he reached for you with the same carefulness he used for everything precious.
GENRE/CW: smut (multiple scenes), angst, fluff, porn with plot, down bad hee, switch!hee, lowkey subby hee, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), lots of kissing, cunnilingus, blowjob, dry humping, fingering, sexting, phone sex, mutual masturbation, multiple orgasms, marking, crying. mentions of nicknames, messy feelings, lmk if i missed anything!
WORD COUNT: 24.7k words!
SYNOPSIS: Money can’t buy loyalty, and neither can years of friendship. After your boyfriend and your best friend decide to fuck each other behind your back, the only silver lining is Heeseung—the one person who looks as hollow as you feel. It begins as a petty revenge kiss and a no-strings situationship, but what will you do if it slowly turns into something dangerously real?
A/N: hihi loves <3 sorry for the wait, i had to edit a few scenes but here we are now, i hope you guys enjoy the fic, also i love jaem (sorry jaem), moon nics ricey cameo lets gaurrr <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <3
It really was a sight to see.
Your best friend pressed up against your boyfriend like they’d invented the concept of gravity, her hands shamelessly roaming under the hem of his shirt while his mouth dragged along the line of her neck.
No shame, not even a flicker of it. To the drunk, sweating crowd around them, it probably just looked like another hazy corner of the party—two bodies tangled in the dim lights, music blasting so loud it swallowed any guilt, if they cared to harbour any that is, but you saw everything.
To be more precise, you found out yesterday when they got bold enough to fuck each other at your boyfriend’s apartment, and oblivious enough to not notice your presence, or your low chuckle at the depravity of the situation. Instead of feeling mad, you felt that bone deep numbness. Why trust anyone at this point?
Emotionally unavailable, the label had never sounded so accurate, but was it truly your fault when you never felt the need to expect anything from him? It certainly was an experience faking your orgasms for him, but you cared on the deeper levels—well, till you found him balls deep inside your now ex best friend.
So you sat there now on the worn leather couch, legs crossed, drink dangling from your fingers, watching them like it was just another Tuesday night show.
“Oh hey—you’re here! Have you seen Mina?”
The voice cut through the haze of music and chatter, slightly breathless. You turned your head slowly, lashes lowering just a fraction as your gaze landed on Heeseung.
He stood a few feet away, tall and striking even in the crowd, dark maroon hair tousled like he’d rushed all the way here. His sharp jaw was tense, brows drawn together in mild confusion as he scanned the room. The leather jacket hanging off his broad shoulders caught the shifting lights, and for a moment, you wondered how he’d react to the news of his girlfriend in the arms of his best friend.
You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, amused smile that didn’t quite reach your eye,
“yeah,” you said, voice smooth as you clicked your tongue, “right over there.”
You lifted your glass in a lazy gesture toward the corner, and Heeseung followed your line of sight. The shift in his expression was immediate and downright visceral. His eyes widened, pupils blown with disbelief as he took in the scene of Mina’s leg hooked shamelessly around his best friend’s hip, her mouth pressed to the underside of his jaw while his hands roamed with practiced familiarity.
The way they moved together spoke of stolen nights and secret touches—months, maybe longer.
“They’re cheating,” you added lightly, almost conversationally, as if commenting on the weather as you took a slow sip from your drink, “bold choice, doing it in plain sight like this. Guess they figured neither of us would actually show up tonight—I mean, I did mention I wouldn’t.”
Heeseung’s adam’s apple bobbed visible, a flash of hurt brewed behind his eyes, before it ignited this anger within him, “what the fuck—” the words slipped out rather hoarse, broken.
He didn’t really look at you, eyes locked on them as if he couldn’t look away. Before you could say anything else, he was moving, pushing through the dense crowd with single-minded intensity. You watched his retreating back for a moment, that same curiosity curling in your chest. It would’ve been a sight to stay and watch the fireworks, sure, but you just got up.
You wove through the crowd without hurry, heels clicking softly up the narrow wooden stairs, each step carrying you farther from the mess downstairs.
The upstairs hallway was dimmer, and at the end of it, the balcony door was wide open, letting the night air slip in. You stepped outside, pulling a cigarette from the pack tucked in your jacket, lips closing around it as you flicked your lighter.
First drag hit deep, filling your lungs with that bitter, familiar burn. You leaned against the railing, letting the smoke curl out slow between your parted lips, eyes half-lidded against the wind tugging at your hair.
For a minute, everything felt almost peaceful, comfortable even, then the door scraped open behind you, and Heeseung stepped out, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way up. His hair was messier now, dark burgundy strands falling into his eyes, and his face—god, his face was a wreck. Eyes glassy with everything he was trying not to feel, cheeks flushed, mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.
Without asking, he closed the distance in two long strides and plucked it right from your lips.
A surprised little chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it, and you observed how he took a deep, shaky drag from where your lipstick had stained the cigarette, holding it in for long before he blew the smoke up toward the dark sky. His free hand gripped the railing tight enough that his knuckles went white.
“Fucking hell,” he rasped, voice rough, “how long? Just—tell me how long they’ve been doing this behind our backs.”
“Since at least yesterday,” you said, “I walked in on them fucking in his dorm, didn’t even have the decency to lock the door,” a faint smile ghosted your lips, “I just closed it again and left.”
Heeseung’s head turned toward you slowly, eyes wide with shock, the cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers, “you saw them and didn’t say shit?”
You shrugged, “what was there to say? They wanted each other, and I’ve never been the type to drown myself that deeply anyway. It just felt odd to see Mina do it, that part did affect me, years of friendship drowned for what? A guy.”
Heeseung let out a disbelieving huff, running a hand through his already tousled hair, “Jaemin was my best friend, man. We’ve been tight since freshman year—shared everything. And now this?” His voice cracked slightly, “feels like a fucking knife in the back from both sides. They looked guilty for a second but didn’t even bother following me here to explain themselves, though they did have the audacity to ask me not to tell you.”
You studied him for a moment through his ramble, the way the balcony light cast sharp shadows across his sharp jaw and the pained lines around his eyes. He looked devastatingly undone, yet there was something resilient in the way he stood there, refusing to crumble completely. The sight stirred a spark in your chest—that familiar free-spirited curiosity.
You passed the cigarette back to him after a puff, “people reveal their true colors eventually. It’s pragmatic to accept it and keep moving instead of letting it rot you from the inside.”
Silence stretched between you, thick with shared betrayal. Heeseung took another drag, then offered it back, his gaze lingering on your face with astute observation, like he was trying to peel back the layers of your calm detachment, he just couldn’t understand how you seemed so—unaffected?
You crushed the cigarette against the railing and flicked it into the night. That proactive restlessness bloomed brighter inside you, eyes gleaming with mischievous insight.
“Wanna do something fun?” You asked.
Heeseung blinked, lips parting in surprise, “fun? Like right now?”
“Mhm,” you stepped closer, “are you okay with a kiss, Heeseung?”
His breath hitched audibly, throat bobbing, “a—a kiss?” The word came out hoarse, almost stunned. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering, before snapping back up, cheeks flushing darker, “you serious?”
“Very,” you held his stare, “yes or no?”
“Isn’t that cheating?” He looked devastatingly clueless even mumbling that question, and you raised your brow.
“Yes or no?” You asked again.
He searched your face, the raw pain still churning, but something hungrier kindled beneath it—curiosity. After a beat, he gave one slow nod making you chuckle.
You took his hand and led him back down into the party’s suffocating crowd, and he followed without asking any questions. In the corner, Jaemin and Mina were still shamelessly entangled, her arms looped around his neck, his hands possessive on her hips.
You stepped straight into their space without hesitation, grabbing Jaemin’s arm to pull him back.
The sharp crack of your palm across Jaemin’s cheek echoed through the room, his head whipped sideways. Mina stumbled back with a gasp as the crowd around you froze, then erupted in murmurs and the bright flare of phone screens.
“What the fuck?” Jaemin snarled, clutching his reddening face, eyes blazing the instant recognition hit, “w—wait, Y/N?”
Mina’s face drained of color, “we—we didn’t think you would show up tonight—”
You desperately wanted to laugh, but you maintained your character, cause how were they dumb enough to think that you wouldn’t find out, especially when Heeseung did too.
“Clearly,” you said, getting ready to lie beautifully, “Heeseung told me everything. How long have you two been fucking behind our backs?”
Whispers exploded outward. Jaemin fumbled for excuses, mouth opening uselessly.
“I didn’t expect this from you Mina,” you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek as tears started forming in her eyes.
“No—listen to me, we didn’t—”
“Whatever,” you continued, a crystalline laugh escaping you, “be happy with each other, I’ll find someone better.”
You turned away from their frozen faces, and Heeseung stood right there, looking completely wrecked. Your eyes met his, like really met them. For a second everything else including the stares, the phones, the bass—faded into background noise.
He looked at you like you were the only person left in the room, and maybe to him, you were.
You stepped in close, sliding your hands up his chest. His heart was pounding under your palms, doe eyes full of trust and anticipation for what was to come. Heeseung’s breath caught, but he didn’t move away. His hands found your waist almost on instinct, fingers spreading wide and warm through your clothes, before pressing in to hold on tighter.
His gaze dropped to your mouth before flicking back up, nodding slightly as he understood the question you asked him earlier.
Which is why you tilted your head and kissed him.
You slotted your lips against his rather softly, just to test him at first. His mouth was warm, faintly tasting of smoke and the drink he’d had earlier. He froze for half a second, stunned at the easiness of it all, then let out this quiet, broken sound against your lips and kissed you back.
The kiss turned deeper fast, hungrier. Your tongue brushed his and he groaned low in his throat, the vibration rolling straight through you. You slid one hand into his hair, tugging lightly at the strands, while the other stayed fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened almost painfully so, one arm wrapping further around your back to press you flush against him. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. You could feel every shaky breath, the way his fingers trembled just slightly where they dug into your sides.
It was messy, a little desperate. Tongues sliding, breaths mixing hot and uneven, the faint wet sound of it somehow louder than the music behind. He kissed like he was pouring every bit of hurt and anger and sudden want into you as you took it all, giving the same right back.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, Heeseung was completely gone. Lips swollen and shiny, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath, eyes dark and hazy like his brain had short-circuited. A wrecked little sound slipped out of him, half-gasp, half-groan—as he stared at you, dazed and breathing hard.
Your smile embodied satisfaction as you leaned in again and pressed one slow, teasing peck to his parted lips, letting it linger just enough to make his breath hitch all over again.
Jaemin and Mina were staring like they’d seen a ghost with their jaws dropped, faces pale, eyes wide with pure disbelief. The whole party had gone dead quiet around you, everyone watching, phones still pointed your way like this was the best drama they’d seen all year (it probably was).
You laced your fingers with Heeseung’s, gave his hand a light squeeze, and tugged him toward the door.
“Let’s get out of here,” you murmured close to his ear, voice low and a little playful against his skin.
Heeseung didn’t argue, just followed, still breathing hard, fingers gripping yours tight as the door swung shut behind you.
The cool night air hit your heated skin, and for the first time tonight, everything felt wide open again.
A rather loud screech right next to your left ear woke you up, and you wondered if the world had somehow been corrupted by zombies because there’s no other explanation for such sounds, but your friend made it possible somehow.
You jolted, heart kicking once before your brain caught up. Sunoo was practically jumping beside your bed, phone in his hand, “one time—one single time I decide to stay in and catch up on sleep and you create a fucking scene? Gosh, babe.”
Winter shoved the door the rest of the way open with her shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair still a wild mess from her deep sleep. She planted herself at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at you, “fuck, Y/N,” she said before her tone got softer, “are you okay? I fucking knew that girl was a snake from the first time she came over. And your boyfriend? I always hated him, al-fucking-ways.”
You were still blinking, eyes half open and not willing to adjust to the brightness. Right then, a chuckle escaped your lips at the memory of last night—and you tried to remember the last time you felt so satisfied (maybe never?).
Sunoo dropped onto the edge of your mattress without waiting, “I always said we are your besties. The kind who’d help you hide a body, no questions asked. Ride or die, baby.”
You sat up straight, blanket pooling around your waist, and opened your arms because of course they were right, “come here, idiots.”
They didn’t hesitate, Winter climbing on first, wrapping her arms around you like she could shield you from the whole damn world. Sunoo piled on top a second later, all limbs and very dramatic sighs, squishing the three of you into a tangled heap of familiar warmth.
“Yeah,” you murmured into Sunoo’s shoulder, voice muffled, “you two are stuck with me.”
Winter huffed a soft laugh against your neck, “good, because we’re not letting you deal with that snake ex-bestie and cheating ex-boyfriend shit alone. We’re burning that chapter together.”
Sunoo’s voice came out muffled too, “and—we’re keeping the video forever, that kiss looked cozy girl, what else did you do—”
You let yourself sink into the warmth for a long moment, the bone-deep numbness from yesterday easing just enough to let something real and grateful slip through. The sting of Mina’s betrayal was still there, but it felt distant now—almost coherent in its simplicity.
People drift apart, friendships end. You’d always known that. What intrigued you more was how easily these two could make the weight feel lighter, their amiable chaos wrapping around you like a promise that some things indeed were here to stay.
Meanwhile, Heeseung was suffering.
Jay had shoved his phone into Heeseung’s face, close enough for him to make out, uh, absolutely nothing. It seemed like a blurry mess of lights until Jay yanked it back to show Heeseung a pixel version of you grabbing his jacket and pulling him into what appeared to be a passionate kiss.
The angle caught the exact moment his hands found your waist, the way his shoulders had tensed then eased up all at once. Heeseung’s ears burned red so fast it felt like someone had lit a match under his skin.
“Bro,” Jay said, grinning, “the video is everywhere, especially on the uni insta page for students. Someone made it into a trend—it’s actually insane.”
Before Heeseung could even form a coherent thought, the bedroom door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame, scaring both the boys.
Jake came barreling in, hair still sticking up from sleep, eyes wild, “you bitch—you kissed Y/N? She’s mine—I called dibs on her months ago!”
Heeseung groaned, dragging both hands down his face, “she’s not an object, Jake.”
“Oh fuck you—you know I like her,” Jake shot back, dropping on his knees.
Sunghoon strolled in next, casual as ever, one shoulder propped against the wall. He let out a low whistle and Heeseung wondered what the fuck is wrong with his friends, “so you’re what? Dating now? That was one hell of a plot twist.”
Jay sniggered, not even trying to hide it, “nah dude, you think he can handle someone like Y/N?”
Jake tried to butt in again, “I can—” but the rest of them talked right over him like usual.
Heeseung sat up slowly, the full reminder of the last night coming right back to him. The slap echoing through the room, the way you’d looked at him right before you kissed him, eyes bright with that reckless spark. The way he’d kissed you back like he enjoyed it. He swallowed hard, throat tight.
“Did I cheat on Mina?” He asked quietly.
The room went still for half a second, all three of them looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Jay let out a disbelieving laugh, “she cheated on you while you were still together.”
“Yeah but I kissed someone else literally a few minutes later—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sunghoon cut in, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Heeseung stared at the blanket pooled over his lap, replaying the kiss again—the heat of your mouth, the way your fingers had twisted in his hair, that soft, teasing peck you pressed to his lips after. It had been the best kiss he’d ever had. The whole situation felt far too complicated for the simple labels his friends were throwing arounf, and yet he couldn’t stop the memory from looping behind his eyes.
Jay sighed, softer this time, leaning back on his elbows, “did it feel good?”
They all looked at him. Heeseung didn’t answer right away, he just swallowed again, the memory burning behind his eyes like it refused to fade.
You on the other hand were absolutely not functioning when Sunoo had a trillion questions lined up for you—all of which consisted of Heeseung. You three had just managed to make coffees when the loud knock interrupted you. A sigh was all you could manage as you opened the door to find your pathetic excuse of an ex standing there with—roses? Wow, he didn’t even have the decency to remember that you were allergic.
He spoke up before you could, “I know i deserved that slap.”
Well, obviously.
“I messed up—I swear I don’t want her.” He was looking at you with that pout he mustered whenever you both had disagreements.
You bit down your laugh, “yeah? So?”
“Take me back, baby, please?”
Right then someone flew past the door, and your mouth hung open as Sunoo straight up landed a kick on Jaemin’s thigh, resulting in him falling down with pain. Now, you laughed freely as Sunoo bent down to warn him, “stay away from her, okay?”
Jaemin turned to look at you, eyes wide, “what—”
“You heard him, we’re over, Jaemin,” you shrugged, wrapping your arm around Sunoo as you both walked inside, Sunoo glaring at man till the door closed shut.
Jaemin stayed on the ground for a few more seconds, roses scattered around him, a thorn making him bleed just enough for him to roll his eyes.
That went well.
The afternoon sun filtered softly through the leaves of the uni garden, casting dappled shadows across the wooden bench where you sat. It had been three days since the party, and the campus still hadn’t let either of you forget it. Random students kept approaching you in the hallways, the library, even the coffee line—some offering awkward condolences, others straight-up calling the slap and the kiss badass with wide-eyed admiration.
You sipped your mango matcha slowly, the garden was quiet now, just the distant hum of students walking between buildings and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. You felt normal, jolly even, like it hadn’t affected you, but even you couldn’t deny how good of a kiss it had been.
Too lost in the pdf in your iPad, you didn’t notice Heeseung approaching until his shadow fell across your lap. He stopped a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hair still slightly messy and he somehow made it look good.
“Hey,” he said, voice polite as it had always been, “can we talk?”
You looked up, lips curving into an amiable smile, “sure, c’mere sit,” you patted the empty space beside you on the bench and held out your mango matcha toward him, “want some? It’s good.”
Heeseung only cocked his brow, “same straw?”
You blinked innocently, “you’re saying that as if we didn’t make out in front of the entire party three days ago.”
He stared at you for a moment, intrigued cause of your carefree answer, before he reached out and took the cup anyway. He drank without hesitation, the straw brushing his lips where yours had been moments ago, and when he lowered it, the corner of his mouth twitched.
You chuckled, watching the way his shoulders loosened just a fraction, “so—talk, what’s on your mind, Heeseung?”
He handed the cup back, fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary, “I’ve been thinking about that night. A lot.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but his eyes stayed on yours, “the kiss, the way you just handled everything. I keep replaying it and I can’t make it make sense.”
You tilted your head, taking another slow sip before answering, “what’s there to make sense of? They cheated, we both saw it. I decided not to let it ruin my night and you were there. The kiss happened—simple.”
He let out a short, disbelieving breath, running a hand through his hair, “It’s not simple for me. Mina was my girlfriend, Jaemin was my best friend since freshman year. And so much happened in like—an hour,” he paused, eyes searching your face, “did it really not mess with you at all?”
You shrugged, “It stung a little actually. Losing Mina as a friend after all those years felt kinda—odd? But drowning in it? Not really my thing.” Your lips curved again, “i’ve never been the type to hand my whole heart over and expect it to stay put.”
Heeseung watched you for a long moment, “you make it sound so coherent,” he muttered, almost to himself, “like it’s all just—logical. Meanwhile I’ve been walking around campus getting stopped by random people asking if we’re together now. It’s been three days and I still feel like my head’s spinning.”
You laughed lightly, “same here, a guy offered to buy me coffee because I deserved better, It’s weirdly entertaining.”
Heeseung’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, the first real one you’d seen from him today, “yeah, even my friend Jake was sort of, how do I even put it? But yeah, he wasn’t thrilled, hes got some crush on you.”
Your eyes sparkled, “wait, isn’t he the cute one with an accent? I like him.”
He shook his head at how you would probably encourage Jake, the thought was rather unsettling, then looked at you again, more serious, “but, y’know—the kiss, that part wasn’t just for show.”
That made you pause for a moment, and you held his gaze, intrigued by the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to figure out how someone could be so calm in the middle of the wreckage.
“So what are you saying?” You asked, voice soft but direct, “you regret it?”
“No,” he answered almost immediately, “I don’t regret it, that’s the problem. It felt good and I keep wondering what the hell that means when everything else is such a mess.”
You leaned back against the bench, letting the sun warm your face for a second, “it doesn’t have to mean anything big, I mean—we both got screwed over.” You watched how pretty he looked under the sunlight, lips slightly red cause he’d been biting them, “maybe we don’t overthink it. Maybe we just—just see where it goes.”
Heeseung took the cup again, fingers brushing yours once more, and this time he didn’t pull away right away, “you’re really okay with that?”
You smiled, “I’m okay with a lot of things, Heeseung. Especially if they feel good.”
Neither of you said anything more for a moment. The conversation didn’t need to be solved today, for now, sitting here with him, sharing the same straw and the same tension, felt like enough.
Heeseung has always been a man of few words, but even those little words seemed to disappear when you were around. And the worst part? You weren’t even aware of it.
You weren’t the one to intrude on anyone’s personal space, and that included Heeseung, much to his relief (or dismay?), he was just—confused.
A week had slipped by since the garden talk, and the quiet tension between you two had only grown heavier. He’d spent the days avoiding Mina’s messages, the knot in his chest tightening every time her name appeared. But you—you were everywhere. In literature class you sat three rows ahead, never together, but he stared. He couldn’t stop noticing the way the light caught the curve of your neck when you leaned over your notes, the soft way your fingers tapped the edge of your pen, the small, absent smile that played on your lips when something in the lecture amused you. Every stolen glance left him more tangled than the last.
Tonight the restlessness had won. He pulled on a hoodie and walked to the 24-hour convenience store near the dorms, craving something mindless like his ride or die—ramen to quiet the noise in his head.
The annoyingly white lights buzzed overhead as he stepped inside, grabbing a basket and turning down the snack aisle, mind still half-lost in yesterday’s class when you’d stretched and your shirt had ridden up just enough to—
He stopped just then, cause you were right there,
standing in the middle of the aisle in soft pink pajama shorts that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and a matching oversized hoodie that had slipped off one shoulder, you looked unfairly soft and warm, like you’d just rolled out of bed. Your hair was a little messy, and you were reaching up for a pack of strawberry gummies, the hem of the shorts riding higher with the movement.
Heeseung’s mouth went dry, and he wanted to slap himself for acting like a fucking creep.
You turned at the sound of his footsteps, eyes meeting his across the narrow aisle. A slow smile curved your lips, the same one that had been haunting him for days.
“Hey,” you waved at him, like running into each other at midnight in pajamas was the most normal thing in the world, “couldn’t sleep either?”
Heeseung swallowed, stepping closer despite the way his pulse kicked up. The faint scent of your shampoo clinging to your hair, “needed ramen, the boys emptied the fridge I swear,” he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.
You nodded in understanding, “same lowkey—was staring at the ceiling but then decided to get out.” You tilted your head, looking at him a little closer, eyes tracing the tired lines on his face, “you look like you’ve got a lot going on up there. Want to talk about it while we walk back?”
Heeseung hesitated for half a second, then nodded, “yeah, sounds good.”
You paid for your stuff together, the cashier barely glancing up, and stepped back out into the cool night air. The walk was easy at first, with absolutely no words being exchanged, your shoulders brushed every few steps, Heeseung kept his hands in his pockets, but he could feel the warmth of you next to him, the soft brush of your hoodie sleeve against his every time you shifted.
“Been a week,” he said after a few minutes, “Mina keeps texting, and of course I haven’t answered. It feels weird ignoring her, but answering would feel worse.”
You hummed, glancing at him sideways, “I get that. Sometimes the easiest thing is just to let it sit there until it stops stinging, y’know?” Your arm bumped his again as you walked, and you didn’t pull away, “you holding up okay with all of it?”
He just nodded, granting you a smile which made the corner of your lips lift up too, and he asked you the same, to which you laughed as if nothing had even happened.
It was so nice just walking beside you, even in silence, at this cursed hour of midnight, though Heeseung would argue and say that he felt more awake now than he did the whole day.
The dorm buildings came into view too soon, but then Heeseung saw something that made his steps falter on the pavement, body going rigid right beside you. It made you follow his line of sight, and of course—Mina was there, walking straight towards his building, head down and mind completely focused on her phone. She hadn’t noticed you yet, but it was clear that she was going to approach Heeseung.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, panic flashing across his features in a way you could feel it reach you too.
Before you could provide him with two words of comfort, his hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide and warm through the thin fabric of your hoodie. He pulled you in close, so close that your side pressed flush against his, the heat of his body juxtaposing the chill of the air. His palm was steady but his fingers trembled a little against your hip as you caught the faint scent of his cologne, it was clean and woody, just how you liked it.
“Play along, please?” He whispered urgently against your ear, voice rougher now.
You only chuckled, leaning into him as if you’d done it before, slipping your arm around his back, fingers resting lightly against the small of his back. Your head tilted up towards him, a soft smile curving up as you looked at him. Heeseung was flushed cause, damn were you good at acting.
“Got it,” you murmured back.
Mina looked up at the exact moment, eyes widened at the sight, a gasp leaving her lips as she watched Heeseung’s hand slide lower on your back as you reached his dorm door.
You didn’t even realize you were biting your bottom lip until Heeseung’s gaze dropped straight to it, his breath hitched, thumb pausing on your cheek as his other hand came up to cup your face, warm palms cradling your jaw like he was afraid you might pull away.
“Can I?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching yours.
You didn’t answer, just leaned in, closing the small gap between you, and pulled him into the kiss.
Your lips met his softly at first and Heeseung made a quiet sound against your mouth, his hands cupping your face fully now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek as he kissed you back. The taste of him was faint, a hint of the cherry juice he must have had earlier. Your own hands slid up his chest, fisting lightly in his hoodie as you tilted your head to kiss him a little deeper.
When you finally pulled back, Heeseung’s eyes were dark and a little dazed, lips parted and cheeks flushed. His thumbs were still stroking your cheeks, reluctant to let go.
Mina stood frozen a few feet away, face pale, cause she swore to herself it was an act, but this? It didn’t seem like one.
Heeseung didn’t look at her, just tightening his grip on your waist and guided you through the door, pulling you inside with him. The warmth of his palm stayed glued to the small of your back the whole way, steady now, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
Inside the apartment, Jake was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a half-eaten pizza box open on the coffee table, some mindless show playing low on the TV. He froze mid-bite when he saw you, eyes going wide.
You smiled, bright and completely at ease, like showing up at this hour with Heeseung’s arm still around you was the most normal thing in the world, “oh—hey. Jake, right?”
“Y/N? Uh yes—hi, you’re here?” Jake stuttered, making Hee roll his eyes.
You just walked over to him, dropping onto the couch beside him acting all normal though your heartbeat said otherwise, “yeah! Mind if I steal a bite?”
Jake blinked, then grinned like an idiot and lifted the slice he was holding right to your mouth, “here, go for it.”
You leaned in and took a bite straight from his hand, cheese stretching between your fingers as you chewed, “mhm, this is actually good, thanks.”
Jake’s face lit up even more, “right? You can have the whole slice if you want.”
Heeseung stood there watching the whole thing, jaw tight. He lasted about five seconds before he groaned low in his throat, “alright, that’s enough.” He crossed the room in two quick strides, caught your wrist gently but firmly, and tugged you up from the couch, “c’mon.”
You let him pull you up, giving Jake a little wave over your shoulder, “night, Jakey. Thanks for the pizza.”
Jake just waved back, still grinning, “anytime!”
The second Heeseung’s door clicked shut behind you, silence filled the room—it was dim, lit only by the desk lamp, the air suddenly too warm and too small. Heeseung’s back pressed against the door, eyes dark and fixed on you before he walked over and plopped on his bed.
You clicked your tongue, tilting your head at him, “now she’s gonna think we’re dating.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, looking genuinely sorry, “yeah—I know. I’m so sorry—I just panicked and pulled you into this whole thing. You didn’t have to go along with it.”
You shrugged, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. Then, without warning, you turned and sat right down on his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Heeseung’s breath caught, hands instinctively landing on your hips to steady you, eyes wide with surprise.
“I did kiss you first at the party,” you said, “so it’s kinda my fault too.”
Heeseung’s fingers flexed on your hips, holding you there. He gulped, throat bobbing visibly as he looked up at you, “so, now what?” he asked, voice rough.
You shrugged again, still sitting comfortably on his lap, fingers playing with the collar of his hoodie, “it’s your call, Hee.”
You kept talking as Heeseung pondered deeply about his choices. He didn’t register you saying something about how Jake’s face was priceless because Heeseung wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had dropped to the exposed line of your clavicle where your hoodie had slipped down, tracing the smooth skin there, then moving up to your lips—still a little shiny from the greasy pizza, slightly parted as you spoke. The way you were sitting on him, the soft weight of you on his thighs—it was too stimulating for him.
He didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed you hard, mouth practically crashing into yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other staying firm on your hip to keep you right where you were. There was nothing hesitant about it this time—it was hungry, deep. His tongue brushed yours, and he groaned quietly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips. You could feel the way his fingers tightened in your hair, the way his chest rose and fell fast against yours, the way his body reacted instantly to having you on his lap like this.
You kissed him back just as hard, hands sliding up his chest to fist in his hoodie. A soft moan slipped out of you when he sucked on your bottom lip, and Heeseung made this low, wrecked sound in response, hips shifting under you.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, barely pulling back, “this okay? Tell me if you want to stop.”
You shook your head, lips brushing his as you answered, voice already breathy, “don’t stop—keep going.”
He groaned and kissed you harder, tongue sliding against yours as one hand slid under your hoodie, palm warm on your bare back. You rocked your hips down against him and he moaned into your mouth, the sound raw.
You pulled back just enough to speak, forehead resting against his, “we doing this then?” You breathed against his lips, “no strings, just whenever we want or need?”
Heeseung swore you could read minds, “yeah,” he sighed in pleasure, “I want that—you and me, no strings.”
You smiled against his lips and kissed him again, deeper, grinding down slowly, “good fucking boy.”
He groaned louder, the sound vibrating through you as his fingers dug into your thighs, “shit—I’ve been so fucking pent up,” he muttered between kisses, hips rolling up to meet yours, “all week because of you.”
You moaned softly, rocking against him again with a chuckle, “that’s adorable, keep going, yeah? Don’t stop.”
He flipped you suddenly, laying you on your back and settling between your thighs. The new position made you both moan—the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, lips chasing yours mindlessly as his tongue slid against yours, hand tracing higher under your hoodie, hips grinding down slowly.
“God, you feel good,” he muttered, pulling you down for another kiss.
You nodded, moaning softly into his mouth, “so do you.”
The room filled with the sounds of lips, heavy breathing, and quiet moans as you kept moving together, hands roaming, bodies pressing closer. The conversation faded into breathy words and soft sounds between kisses, and honestly, both of you didn’t care about much anymore. You both were just two horny adults functioning on a verbal agreement with no rules whatsoever.
Outside in the living room, Jake had just taken another bite of pizza when the first loud moan drifted through the door. His eyes widened with betrayal—the slice slipping from his fingers and landed cheese-side down on the floor with a pathetic splat.
He stared at the closed door for a long second, mouth still full.
“Well—shit.”
You didn’t know that the consequences of spending one night with Heeseung could be so dire, granted you didn’t go beyond some innocent humping which bestowed you with the absolute pleasure of seeing Heeseung desperate and flushed underneath you.
The question bugged you—why would Mina even wish to leave such a beautiful man who’s very willing to provide pleasure?
You were still turning that over in your head as you walked down the hallway, iPad tucked under your arm, one AirPod in, but your mind was elsewhere—which was odd considering you never were the kind to just stand and ponder about random things, during the day time at least. The last time it happened was when you were a kid and Zayn had left One direction.
Regardless, you chuckled at the idea of Heeseung being the one to garner your attention, since you never saw him in that light before—something about friends’ partners being inanimate to you. Either way, you started walking back towards your dorm since the lectures were over, only to be stopped by Mina blocking your path with a scowl on her face.
You raised an eyebrow, “hey?”
“We need to talk,” she huffed, looking rather tired, maybe with the way people stopped the second they sensed any drama, and why wouldn’t they? You both were the centre of it given the circumstances.
“Do we really?” You gave her a lazy look, knowing well it bothered her.
Her jaw clenched. “You kissed Heeseung. In front of everyone. While he was still with me.”
A couple more heads turned. You could feel eyes on you now, phones probably already sliding out of pockets.
You let out a short breath, almost a laugh, “while he was still with you? That’s rich. Last time I checked, you were the one fucking my boyfriend in his dorm with the door wide open. I walked in on you two, actually. So maybe don’t lecture me about cheating.”
Mina’s cheeks flushed, “that’s not the same—”
“It kind of is,” you cut in, keeping your voice even, “Heeseung didn’t deserve to find out like that, neither of us did, but at least I didn’t sneak around for months like a coward. And yeah, I kissed him—I’d do it again. He’s too good for the way you two treated him.”
Mina’s eyes flashed with anger, “you’re no better than me. You basically cheated too—”
“Bro, are you actually serious right now?”
A tall guy with messy black hair and a skateboard tucked under his arm stepped out from the edge of the crowd. You’d seen him around in a couple electives. He looked Mina up and down, completely unimpressed, having seen the scene at the party in flesh too.
“Everyone’s seen the video,” he said, loud enough that the people nearby nodded, “I literally saw you and Jaemin at the party. You’re the one who cheated, leave her alone.”
A girl a few feet away nodded like she agreed. Mina glanced around at all the stares, lips pressed tight, then spun on her heel and shoved through the crowd, practically running toward the exit.
You let out a real laugh this time, almost like you couldn’t believe this was real, that your own friend would turn against you in such a manner. Riki turned to you, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Damn,” he said, “that was satisfying.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, still chuckling as you started walking again, “thanks for stepping in. You really didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, falling into step beside you, “she’s been trying to change the perception, i saw her lying to my friend earlier. Someone had to say it. I’m Riki by the way, or Ni-ki, whatever.”
“Y/N,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly, “seriously, I owe you a coffee for that.”
“Bet,” he smirked, already pulling his phone out, “just text me whenever. I’m free most afternoons.”
Ten feet away, half-hidden behind a cluster of students, Heeseung had stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Jay almost walked straight into his back, headphones on so conveniently, he missed the whole commotion.
“You good?” He asked, lifting one side of his headphones, “Heeseung?” He asked yet again when he didn’t get a reply.
How would he? When Heeseung was deep in thoughts, the tips of his ears red. Everyone knew he was the guy who kept to himself, not the kind to insert himself into a fight—eventually leading to him never getting into a situation where he’d have to defend himself.
But you did it so naturally with not a single hint of him witnessing the scene. It was heartwarming to say the least, the way you defended him so casually but your tone clearly portraying the care you harboured for him, even if it was little (as per Heeseung and his never ending self doubt).
Before Jay could wave a hand in front of his face, Jake came barreling around the corner like he was late for everything in life, backpack slipping off one shoulder. Without missing a beat he lunged forward, locking an arm around Heeseung’s neck and yanking him down into a tight headlock.
“Spill it right now—the hell did you do with Y/N last night, huh? I’m not letting go till you talk, dude, I swear to god—”
Much to his dismay, Heeseung pushed him off with ease, “the fuck? Get off,” he said, staring at Jake who looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
Jay was completely lost, headphones now resting on his neck, “what am I missing here exactly? What even happened?”
Heeseung groaned, “nothing happened—”
“Nah, he took Y/N to his room and then I heard moans. Moans—do you fucking get it? He’s actually fucking her.” Jake ranted, eyes blown wide.
Jay’s eyebrows shot up, “wait, what? For real?”
Heeseung shoved Jake off properly this time, cheeks burning as he fixed his hoodie, “It’s not—fuck, can you not yell that in the middle of the hallway?”
Jake threw his hands up, looking genuinely offended, “I’m sorry, I was trying to eat pizza and process the fact that my dream girl was getting railed by my roommate. You could’ve at least given me a heads-up, man.”
Jay let out a low whistle, finally catching on. He crossed his arms, which had gotten muscular somehow, “so, you and Y/N? Like, actually?”
Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, ears still red, “we have an arrangement of sorts. No strings attached, that’s it.”
Jake stared at him like he’d been shot in the chest, “no strings? She deserves love, she deserves aftercare and pampering and—”
Jay was never good at hiding his amusement, especially if it consisted of embarrassing one of his friends, “you sure you can actually do the no-strings thing? You’re the guy who gets attached after one good conversation. Remember that girl from school who just smiled at you in the library and you were googling how to ask someone on a date at two a.m.?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Heeseung muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched with his mind drifting back to you.
Jake however, wasn’t done. He threw his hands up again, “I’m serious, I even fucking dropped the pizza slice she ate from.”
Jay snorted, “you’re never gonna let that go noq, are you?”
“Never,” Jake said, dead serious, “that could’ve been our indirect kiss.”
Heeseung shook his head, finally starting to walk again so they wouldn’t be late for class, “It’s fine. We’re both adults, it’ll be okay.”
Jay fell into step beside him, clapping him on the back a little too hard, “yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, I give it ten days before you’re buying her flowers and writing her name in your notes with hearts around it.”
“Two weeks,” Jake corrected, still sulking, “max.”
Heeseung didn’t bother arguing. He just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, the stupid little smile refusing to leave his face completely.
You, meanwhile, had no idea any of that chaos had just exploded behind you. You groaned, sitting down on the couch, despising the silence that greeted you. Winter had gone to her family home for her cousin’s wedding, and Sunoo had conveniently decided to spend the night over at Hoon’s to torture him with some horror movie.
And you were here, unsure of what to do tonight, and the newfound interest you’d found within your ex’s best friend.
Whatever this was, it was definitely going to be interesting.
Turns out, the night wasn’t about to be boring at all. You had just gotten under the warmth of your duvet as your phone lit up, a text brightening your lock screen. Evidently, you seemed to be lurking in Heeseung’s mind as much as he had started persisting in yours.
Heeseung: you up?
You: that’s such a fuckboy question
Heeseung: oh shit i didnt mean it that way
You: hm? what’s it then
Heeseung: js felt like texting
You clicked your tongue, rolling to your side, phone propped up against your fluffy pink pillow.
You: mhm sure
You: what are you doing rn then
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, then popped up again—a proper reminder of how Heeseung’s personality shone through even through his texting patterns.
Heeseung: just lying in bed
Heeseung: can’t sleep for some reason
A second later your phone vibrated with a picture, a selfie to be precise. It was rather cinematic how Heeseung appeared to look even prettier with dim lights, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, no shirt, just the chain he always wore catching the light. He looked way too good for someone who was just lying in bed, lips slightly parted and swollen like he’d been biting them. The angle showed the sharp line of his collarbone and that adam’s apple, a few marks evident on his skin, courtesy of you.
You stared for a second longer than you meant to, completely zoned in how beautiful a few marks made him look.
You: oh wow
You: don’t you look dashing at one in the morning
Heeseung only let out a breathy laugh, clearly preening under your praise, as if he hadn’t clicked eight pictures just so he could send you the most perfect one, in his standards at least.
Heeseung: your turn
The corner of your lip twitched up as you sat a little, tugged the neckline of your oversized tee down just enough so the soft swell of your tits spilled over the fabric, nipples barely hidden. You angled the camera, snapped it, and hit send without overthinking, knowing that the reply would come within seconds, and so it did.
Heeseung: fuck
Heeseung: you’re actually evil
You laughed under your breath and sent another one right after, taking off your tee fully, letting him know how hard your nipples had gotten already.
You: now you. don’t be shy baby
Heeseung sent back a shot of his hand shoved down his sweats, gripping himself. The outline was obvious, the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband, flushed and already leaking. Then another one—his hand mid-stroke, thumb smearing the precum over the head. A low, rather shaky breath left his lips in the process, and he swore he hadn’t ever been the type to be so—so evidently horny before.
You’d say you bring out the worst in people, but Heeseung would contradict it with a goofy smile saying how it’s the absolute best. With that thought, he hit sent.
Heeseung: this is what you do to me
Your mouth went dry, the picture being enough for you to spread your legs under the duvet, only to push the duvet away entirely before angling your phone properly to ensure the slick on your cunt would be visible in the picture.
You: see what you’re missing?
Heeseung: jesus christ i’m actually throbbing
You bit down on your bottom lip, absolutely letting the pleasure of having Heeseung in control take over. So, instead of texting back, you tapped the voice message button and held it down.
Your voice came through low and teasing, a little breathy already.
“Aw, poor baby, you’re throbbing just from a picture? C’mon, lemme hear how good it feels, hm?”
You sent it without thinking twice, and he was quick to listen, his dick twitching just as he heard your voice. A few seconds later his voice message came back—husky, a little embarrassed, but clearly turned on.
“Fuck—you’re so mean,” he whispered, which almost came out as a whine, “I’m so hard it hurts. I’m stroking it slow at first, like this—” You could hear the faint, wet sound of his hand moving, “but I keep thinking about how wet you looked in that last pic. Want my mouth on you so bad right now.”
You caressed your clit gently, letting your head fall back at his not so shy admissions. It was hot how he didn’t shy away from speaking his mind.
“Hmm, good boy—keep stroking just like that. Faster now, I want to hear how desperate you sound for me. Tell me exactly what you’d do if you were here.”
His next voice message was even shakier, breathing heavier.
“I’d pull you on top of me, let you grind on my cock while you tell me how you want it. Fuck—I’d let you use me however you want. I’d suck on your tits while you ride me, make you moan my name louder, please take my name, please?”
You let out a soft, breathy moan right into your reply.
“Yeah? You like when I boss you around, Heeseung? Touch yourself exactly how I would. Tighten your grip—I know you’re close already, aren’t you?”
Heeseung’s voice cracked in the next voice note, barely above a whisper.
“Shit—yeah, I’m so close, your voice is driving me insane. Ah, fuck, wanna bury my face between your thighs right now—”
You were breathing harder too, fingers moving faster. You sent one last voice message, letting your voice be sultry.
“Then cum for me, Hee. Let me hear it. I want you moaning my name when you do.”
That did it for him, he could barely even keep the phone in his hand, shivering at the hyper awareness of it all, of you.
Somehow, you knew exactly the predicament he was undergoing, and you decided to spare the poor man, hitting the call button to free his hands. He picked up after a single ring.
“Fuck—you’re actually perfect,” he panted, the wet sound of his hand still audible. “I’ve never been this gone from just voice messages before.”
You laughed softly, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a quiet moan, “then don’t stop. Stroke it faster for me, yeah? Be good, I want to hear every sound you make while you think about fucking me.”
Heeseung groaned, clearly trying (and failing) to stay quiet because of his friends, who were in the living room. “Feels so good but it’s not enough—I keep imagining you riding me, telling me to go harder, shit,—”
“You’re doing so well,” you praised, clenching around your fingers as he moans out your name, “imagine it’s my pussy instead of your hand. I’m so fucking wet for you right now. You’d slide in so easy, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah—fuck, I would,” he whimpered, “I’d let you use me however you want. I’d let you choke me while you ride me, I don’t even care anymore—”
You moaned louder, fingers curling just right, “yeah, yeah, just keep talking like that and I’m gonna cum, be good c’mon, you’ll cum with me, yeah?”
Heeseung’s breathing turned ragged, desperate little sounds slipping out, “i’m so close—gonna—fuck, Y/N—”
You came first, moaning his name all soft and filthy into the phone. He followed right after with a choked groan, trying to muffle it against his pillow but failing miserably, and god knows what would happen if Sunoo (who was there all thanks to Sunghoon) was to witness this.
For a long moment the only thing between you was heavy breathing.
Then Heeseung let out a soft, wrecked little laugh, making you grin lazily, “you did so well, Hee.”
He didn’t expect that, making him whine again, and you swore you could run to see him all flushed and blushing, “you’re so perfect.”
Your breath hitched at his whispered words, gulping as you stayed silent, letting your breathing even out. He was quiet for a beat too, but his mind wasn’t stopping at that.
“Hey, uh I saw what you did earlier, in the hallway, with Mina.”
You blinked, surprised, “wait, you were there?”
“Yeah. I was a little further back, but i heard everything.” His voice dropped, almost like he was in awe, “the way you shut her down for me—defended me like that without even thinking. It was really fucking hot. Couldn’t stop thinking about it all night, that’s why I texted you.”
You let out a low chuckle at how unpredictable he was, “so that’s the real reason you were sending me nudes and moaning my name like a desperate little slut at one a.m., huh?”
If praises led Heeseung to moan, the degradation caused him to cry—not in a bad way of course. It was new for him too, as if he was learning about himself through you. And the voice you heard was beautiful, a broken cry of his desperation.
“I see you’re into degradation,” you pointed out.
“Fucking hell, even I didn’t know,” he breathed out, eyes closing.
You only smirked, getting closer to the phone now.
“Wanna test how it plays out?”
“Why the fuck did Hoon just tell me you’re fucking Heeseung?”
It was rather hard to distinguish his tone when he sounded both impressed and mad. Turns out, he was mad since he didn’t hear it from you first, then, he was impressed with how fast you moved on. Regardless, he didn’t let you live that down, trying to force the group together, only to see Heeseung squirming and you being absolutely normal.
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in the oversized hoodie you’d thrown on after your morning shower, when Sunoo burst through the door, Winter followed, sipping an iced latte and looking far too amused for someone who was supposed to be your emotional support. And so another interrogation session took place, which you survived (somehow).
Other than that, things had been normal. A few changes did occur such as you all having lunch together, even Winter invited her girlfriend, making the group seem livelier than ever. Jake made it his mission to sit next to you each time, and Heeseung—well, he stared at you more than he ate.
That pattern followed you straight into your English lecture later that afternoon. You slipped into your usual seat in the middle row, barely five minutes late, when Riki dropped into the chair right beside you, and you looked up at him, surprised.
Heeseung walked in later, eyes on how you greeted the guy easily, and with that, he almost walked into someone. He could only manage to groan, because why wouldn’t you talk to him? To be fair, you did talk to him, like a friend, but never more, no initiation of any sort. Heeseung was the one who texted first, and he didn’t mind, but with how soft hearted he was, he probably wouldn’t mind you texting first either.
That being said, Heeseung was basically sulk incarnate watching how you made plans to give Riki a coffee for some reason—was it a date? Why would you even like that tall kid? Heeseung knew you better despite the little time he spent with you. It was a given that you didn’t offer much about yourself despite your outgoing personality, but he did know how you played with your nails, how your eyes go wide when you eat something good, and how fucking good you sound moaning his name.
“We’re all going to the cafe,” Sunoo chirped the second you stepped outside after the class, Heeseung following behind to see all his friends standing there too.
You did find it odd how he was silent today, too silent, even worse when he didn’t try to initiate any conversation with you, just falling into step with his friends instead. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders a little hunched as the group started moving.
Halfway there he slowed down just enough to tug Jay’s sleeve, voice low and trying way too hard to sound casual, “Hey, can you do me a favour?”
Jay only raised his brow, urging him to continue, “uh, so when we sit down, maybe ask Y/N something that’ll get her talking, like the stuff going on in her life, just anything.”
Jay stopped dead for half a second, then let out a loud, wheezing laugh that practically bounced off the buildings. The sound was so sudden and genuine that you actually turned around mid-conversation with Karina and Winter, eyebrows raised like you were trying to figure out what was so funny. Jay just waved you off, still cracking up as he clapped Heeseung on the back a little too hard.
“You’re actually hopeless,” Jay wheezed, trying to keep his voice down but failing miserably, “just talk to her yourself, what the fuck.”
Heeseung shoved him off, cheeks hot, “shut up, man. Just—just do it, okay? Please.”
They caught up to the rest of the group right as you all reached the café. The usual corner table was free, so everyone piled in. Jake, of course, immediately dropped into the seat next to you like it was his assigned spot now. Heeseung ended up straight across from you, eyes meeting yours, but this time, he didn’t look away. The corner of your lips twitched seeing him this way, and soon, he found himself smiling fondly too.
Jay sat there as a witness to Heeseung’s internal breakdown, and well, happiness caused by two seconds of your undivided attention. In the midst of it all, everyone gave their orders, famished beyond words for some reason. The table was lively still, Jake trying to initiate conversations with you, even though Heeseung had not so subtly kicked him under the table to shut him up.
Jay waited until there was a small lull, then leaned forward with that lazy grin of his.
“So Y/N,” he said casually, like it was no big deal, “what’s the deal with you and Heeseung lately? You two been hanging out a lot or what? He’s been weirdly smiley these days.”
Heeseung’s heart did a stupid little flip, face clearly trying to play it cool, but his eyes were glued to you, waiting.
You took a sip of your drink and shrugged, knowing that if you say anything remotely wrong, Sunoo and Winter would be on your ass about it, “it’s nice hanging out with him, he’s funny.”
Jay snorted at how Heeseung’s smile widened, “funny, huh? That’s all you’re giving us?”
Before you could answer, Jake jumped in, mouth full of his cup ramen, which he somehow got into the cafe, “god, I shouldn’t have gotten Shin, I’m telling you, nothing beats Buldak. You team Buldak too, Y/N?”
Jake immediately turned to you with those big puppy eyes, “c’mon, tell him he’s wrong. Buldak or nothing, right?”
Sunoo and Sunghoon couldn’t even stand this, staring at Jake with the same expression of disgust, his fascination for you was genuinely funny.
You looked up at Hee, who waited for your answer with shiny eyes, then back at Jake again. Maybe teasing Heeseung wouldn’t hurt, right? Especially when he looked so innocent and serious about your input as if it mattered.
“I mean, Buldak is definitely good,” you agreed with Jake, taking another sip of your mango matcha.
Jake beamed at the reply, bumping your shoulder. But Heeseung’s smile faltered for a second, and you almost frowned, not expecting him to surrender, “yeah, fair enough,” he muttered, staying silent the rest of the time, eyes flicking up to you every few seconds, while you observed him openly.
Jay only sighed, and somehow Winter was just as exhausted at the exchange, because Heeseung couldn’t hide his feelings to save his life, and you?
You were missing the point of this little conversation entirely.
When everyone finally started packing up for their next lectures, the group split off in different directions. You noticed Heeseung hanging back a little, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders still hunched as he walked alone. With a chuckle, you jogged a couple steps, and grabbed his hand.
Heeseung startled hard, eyes going wide as he looked down at your fingers laced with his, and how perfect your new acrylics looked, the touch being enough to make a shiver go up his spine, “Y/N—?”
You only walked further, swinging your joined hands, “why so silent today?” You asked, looking up at him with a brow raised.
He let out a small breath, eyes flickering back to where your thumb brushed his knuckles, “it’s nothing, just thinking I guess.”
“Hm, about how I picked Buldak over Shin?” You tilted your head, “you got all quiet after that. Kinda cute, actually.”
Heeseung glanced away, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “It’s not that, but Jake looked happy, so—yeah.”
“Shin’s my favourite actually, I only said Buldak to see you fight back, but yeah,” you shrugged with a smile.
Heeseung’s head snapped back toward you, surprised, “wait, really?”
“Yeah. Remember that night we ran into each other at the convenience store? You were grabbing Shin too, I noticed.” You pointed out, “and you barely ate anything at the café either. Come over later? We can have ramen together.”
Heeseung’s steps slowed at the implication, and it showed on his face, mixed with the fondness of the simple fact that you noticed such little things. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed grand gestures, yes he’d appreciate it, but the little things mattered more.
“You—noticed that?” He asked quietly, almost shy.
You hummed, then leaned up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “you can eat something else too if you want.”
That sent him into this mode of short circuiting, and before he could even form a reply, you let go of his hand with a bright, mischievous laugh and took off running ahead across the path, glancing back at him over your shoulder with that same playful grin.
Heeseung stood there for half a second, face burning, your words looping in his head like a damn song on repeat. Then a big, flustered smile broke across his face and he took off after you, knowing he’d catch up to you in no time.
“Fuck,” he yelled, half-laughing as he chased you down the walkway, “you can’t just say that and run—get back here!”
He really hoped it could always stay this easy with you.
You fell on your mattress with a thud, the springs creaking under the sudden weight of both of you. Heeseung landed right on top, chest pressed to yours, mouth already chasing yours in a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted like the faint strawberry from his drink earlier.
His lips were hot and insistent, tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t get close enough, letting out every bit of his frustration into this kiss. One of his hands shoved under your hoodie and straight into your shorts, two fingers gliding through your slick folds before pushing inside you without hesitation. You gasped into his mouth, thighs falling open wider as he curled them deep, stroking that spot that made your back arch clean off the bed.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed against your lips, and you only sank in further, kissing all the way down to his neck, letting an open mouthed kiss linger on his adam’s apple, feeling it blobbing under you as he gulped in need, as if parched.
Heeseung let out a shaky groan, fingers stuttering inside you for a second before he doubled down, thrusting them deeper, curling harder, “shit—you’re gonna make me lose it just from that.”
You smiled against his throat, sucking lightly, then dragged your teeth over the same spot while your hand kept working his cock in slow, tight strokes. He was throbbing in your palm, hot and slick with precum, hips twitching every time your thumb swept over the head, and you almost moaned cause he was big.
But it wasn’t enough, you wanted him under you, wanted to watch him fall apart.
You pushed at his chest, flipping him onto his back in one smooth motion. Heeseung let out a surprised grunt as you straddled his thighs, yanking his pants and boxers down just far enough. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and glistening, curving up against his stomach.
Wrapping your fingers around his base as you leaned in to give his tip a slow kiss, making him moan shamelessly, “wait—you don’t have to,” he managed to let out.
You looked up at him, lips brushing the wet slit as you spoke, “I know, I want to,” you whispered, “been thinking about having you in my mouth since you were sulking on the way here, just to apologize, y’know?”
Heeseung’s breath hitched, “god—you’re serious?”
Instead of answering, you took him in, lips stretching around the thick head, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you sank down. The taste of him filled your mouth, salty and warm, and you moaned softly around his length.
“Shit—baby,” Heeseung’s hand flew to your hair, holding on like he needed something to ground him, his thighs tensing under you, “your mouth feels—so fucking good.”
You hummed in response, taking him deeper until he bumped the back of your throat. You relaxed around him, swallowing, and he let out a broken groan, hips twitching up before he caught himself.
“Sorry—gosh I didn’t mean to,” he whispered.
You pulled off just enough to speak, lips shiny, a thin string of spit still connecting you to him, “don’t apologize. Fuck my throat if you want to.” You stroked him slow and firm, eyes locked on his, “I can take it, I want you to use me.”
Heeseung’s eyes darkened. He’d never done this before, sure he’d gotten blowjobs, but the permission to take in full control of it? Oh, he swore he was gonna die, “you’re gonna kill me saying shit like that.”
You chuckled and sank back down, taking him all the way until your nose brushed his stomach. You held there for a second, throat fluttering around him, before you started moving, wet bobs of your head, hand twisting around the base.
Heeseung’s head fell back against the pillow, a wrecked moan spilling out, “fuck, fuck—oh my god.” His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing, but guiding you a little now, testing the waters, “you like this? Being on your knees for me?”
You moaned around him in answer, the vibration making his hips jerk. You pulled off with a gasp, spit dripping down your chin, “I like when you stop being so polite and just take what you want.” You licked a slow stripe up the underside, eyes never leaving his, “you’re always so sweet, Hee, but i also know how desperate you are, won’t you show it to me like a good fucking boy?”
Heeseung’s breath stuttered, it was almost like a switch flipping. His grip in your hair tightened just a fraction more, and when you took him back in, he let himself thrust up a little, shallow and careful at first.
“Like this?” He asked, voice strained, “tell me if it’s too much.”
You pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the head, “Harder, I can take it. Use my throat, baby.”
The words seemed to break something in him. He groaned deep in his chest and started moving his hips with more purpose, fucking into your mouth in short, needy thrusts. You relaxed your throat and let him, moaning encouragement around his cock every time he pushed deeper.
“Fuck, fuck—you’re so good,” he panted, voice cracking, “so fucking good at this. Look at you—taking me so deep.” His free hand came down to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek while he watched himself disappear between your lips, “I didn’t know I liked this so much, watching you choke on me.”
You moaned louder, the praise and the way he was starting to lose control making heat flood between your legs. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and Heeseung’s head tipped back again, a string of curses falling from his lips.
“Baby—slow down or I’m gonna cum,” he warned, but his hips kept moving, like he couldn’t stop himself, “you’re really gonna let me cum down your throat?”
You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast and tight, lips hovering just over the tip, “let me taste you.”
Heeseung’s eyes rolled back as he came with a broken moan of your name, hips jerking as he spilled down your throat in hot pulses. You swallowed every drop, working him through it until he was trembling and oversensitive, little whimpers slipping out every time your tongue moved.
When you finally pulled off, lips swollen and shiny, Heeseung was staring at you like you’d rewired his brain. His chest was heaving, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes dark and hazy.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice shot, “I didn’t know I could like something that much.”
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, smirking as you crawled up his body and kissed him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue.
“You’re learning fast,” you murmured against his lips. “and we’re just getting started.”
So, you were true to your word, because by the time you both stopped, all breathless and spent, it was nighttime. In the midst of everything, you both had managed to fall asleep tangled with each other. Heeseung was the one to wake up first, caressing your cheek as he stared at how peacefully you slept in his arms.
He stayed like that for a long minute, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, watching the way your lashes rested against your skin. Something heavy settled in his chest—not regret exactly, but a quiet, gnawing guilt that refused to leave him alone.
Carefully, he slipped out from under you, tucking the blanket around your bare shoulders so you wouldn’t get cold. He padded over to the window on quiet feet, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out at the dark sky. The campus lights glowed faintly in the distance, stars barely visible through the city haze.
Heeseung pressed his forehead against the cool glass, exhaling slowly. What the fuck am I doing? The thought looped in his head. He’d loved Mina—or at least he’d told himself he did. They’d been together for over a year. But even on the best nights with her, he’d never felt this—free, this wanted. With you, you didn’t ask him to be anything other than exactly who he was in the moment, needy, desperate, a little mean when you pushed him, soft when you let him hold you after. Just a hint of your attention made his chest feel too full and that scared the shit out of him.
Because he’d sworn he loved Mina. But this? He wasn’t even sure what to name this feeling anymore, and it felt dramatic when nothing had even happened, just freedom and the best pleasure he’d ever experienced.
The floor creaked softly behind him, making him turn his head to find you sitting up in bed now, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. Without saying anything, you reached for his hoodie that had been tossed on the floor earlier and pulled it over your head. It swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs as you padded over barefoot to stand beside him.
You leaned your shoulder against the window frame, looking out at the same dark sky. For a moment neither of you spoke.
“You okay?” You asked eventually, voice soft.
Heeseung, however, was in deep thoughts of silent appreciation, because you looked beautiful, you always did, “yeah,” he let out a quiet breath, “I feel like an asshole for even saying this out loud, but—I don’t remember it ever feeling this easy with Mina, even when things were good. With you it’s just different. Like I don’t have to pretend or hold back or be anyone else. I don’t know. That probably sounds stupid.”
You stayed quiet for a second, then bumped your shoulder gently against his, “it doesn’t sound stupid. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, Hee, it’s valid. You don’t owe her anything anymore, and you don’t owe me some perfect version of yourself either, okay?”
“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbled.
You smiled, looking elsewhere for a moment as you gulped, “that’s what friends are for,” you let out.
Heeseung turned to look at you fully, friends, is that what you were? Because friends don’t do all this. So, Heeseung only managed to muster one question, hoping the reply would be enough of an action to understand if he was truly alone in this or not.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper with the hope to earn even something as little as a nod.
This means something more, you thought. This isn’t just sex anymore, not for him. Truly, Heeseung wasn’t even the kind to do this, so why did he agree to this? You wouldn’t mind being a rebound for him but him getting attached would be a problem. Would it really, though? You should’ve said no, but you found yourself being entranced by the beauty in his eyes.
So, instead you stepped closer, sliding your hands up his bare chest, and tilted your face up to his, “yeah,” you whispered, “you can.”
Heeseung’s breath caught as he cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something fragile, slotting his lips onto yours almost achingly gentle, this almost felt like a question and an answer all at once to him.
When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he let out a shaky little laugh, pecking the corner of your mouth once.
The reflection on the window catching on everything you both were too afraid to admit.
Honestly, the fault was yours for not discussing the boundaries or making one of those contracts like they do in the movies or books (though they never work), cause now, you and Heeseung had been hanging around way more often, some witnesses might even confuse this intimacy for dating.
Maybe Heeseung was one of them, because when he texted you to come over, you half expected sex, not sitting alongside him learning League of legends at two in the morning. He was unpredictable to say the least, but he did wear his heart on his sleeve, so you could see the bits and pieces of the things he craved, and right now, he craved your time.
You didn’t mind giving it to him, but it did come with a cost. The second you walked into the room, eyes widening at this small corner of the desk where a mango matcha, a few blue walkers, and a pack of Ferrero Rocher was placed neatly, alongside two packets of cup noodles (just in case).
To Heeseung, it was normal, and you would have agreed had it been some synonym of aftercare, but no. It was just Heeseung being absolutely willing (and needing) to spend more time with you outside of your fancy little arrangement.
He had opened the door with a smile so contagious, you mirrored it as he led you inside. A small corner of his desk was full of snacks, a cup of matcha which he knew was your favourite, a couple of Ferrero Rochers because he saw you eating those during the English lecture. You stood there for a second longer than intended, staring at it all, then at the man who had already made himself comfortable on the spare chair, waiting for you with the same gentle smile he always carried around you, making you gulp for a second before you returned it.
“C’mere? Sit with me,” he said, patting his main gaming chair right next to him, and he half expected you to tease him for doing this, “I swear I’m not trying to be weird, and if you don’t wanna do this we can stop, or you can make fun of me.”
You let out a quiet huff of a laugh and kicked your shoes off before sliding into the chair beside him. Your knee bumped his under the desk and you left it there, the contact warm even through your clothes. Heeseung rolled his own chair closer right away, leaning in from behind you so his chest brushed lightly against your back, one arm resting along the back of your seat while the other reached around to the mouse, and you didn’t notice how he took in your scent with a dreamy sigh.
“We’re playing League of Legends?” You asked, and he nodded.
“Have you played it before?” He asked a little hesitant that you’d say you don’t wish to play or indulge in this.
“Nope,” you said, reaching for the matcha because your mouth suddenly felt dry. The cup was ice-cold, condensation dripping down your fingers as you took a sip, “I’m probably gonna suck at this, just so you know.”
Heeseung let out a small laugh, relieved that you aren’t opposed to this, “that’s fine, we can start from the basics,” he covered your hand with his on the mouse, guiding you through the first clicks. “You just run at people and spin when they get close. Super easy, I promise.”
His fingers were warm over yours, almost careful like he was scared you’d pull away. You felt the way his chest moved against your back when he breathed, the faint brush of his hair against your neck every time he leaned in a little closer to see the screen better.
You clicked around awkwardly and Garen just kind of—stood there swinging his sword at nothing, “this feels dumb,” you muttered, but you were smiling a little, “I look like a robot trying to dance.”
Heeseung bit his bottom lip at the sheer joy of having you play his favourite game, even though you looked lost, confused, and too adorable, “you don’t look dumb. You look cute as hell trying to figure it out.” He squeezed your hand gently and moved the mouse for you, making Garen run forward. “See? Just click on this, okay?”
You tried it and Garen spun like a big metal tornado, actually hitting a couple of the little enemy guys, “oh okay, that was kinda fun,” you admitted, biting your lip to hide the grin. You reached for one of the Ferrero Rochers with your free hand, unwrapped it, and popped it in your mouth. The chocolate melted sweet and crunchy on your tongue, “how’d you know I like this.”
Heeseung shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against yours, “I pay attention to you, sue me.” He took the half you offered him without hesitation, biting it right from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin for a second too long.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the little flutter in your stomach at how brutally honest he was. He pays attention, he set all this up just so you’d feel comfortable doing something he likes. This isn’t what you signed up for, this is him wanting you around, not just in his bed. Stop feeling it. Stop.
The game kept going, as you died a bunch—running straight into the big tower like an idiot, getting smacked by random enemies—but Heeseung never made you feel stupid about it. He’d just lean in closer, chin resting on your shoulder now, arm wrapped a little tighter around the back of your chair, and murmur stuff like, “try backing up a tiny bit next time, yeah?” Or, “you’re getting the spin down though, that last one actually hit three of them, nice.”
You passed him chips from the blue walkers packet, your fingers brushing his every time. He took them without pulling away, crunching quietly while his other hand stayed on the mouse with yours, guiding you through another wave.
Heeseung couldn’t say this out loud but boy was he thrilled. It felt so nice, so domestic to do something so simple with someone (you). He couldn’t help but compare, simply because he didn’t know the basic possibilities of the relationship universe, though you weren’t in one. His ex never spared time for such things, indifferent about his interests, while you were so—sweet.
“You’ve done this before? Teaching someone like this, I mean?” You asked after a while, “or am I getting special treatment?”
Heeseung went quiet for a second, then let out a breathy little laugh against your neck, “special treatment,” he admitted, no hesitation, “and no, it’s my first time teaching anyone.”
You leaned back into him a little more without thinking, the warmth of his chest solid and comforting against your back, the kind of solace that you had never had the pleasure of experiencing before. Was it supposed to be this easy?
The snacks slowly disappeared between you—another Ferrero passed back and forth, the mango matcha cup getting lighter with every sip you took. Heeseung kept talking about random shit that had nothing to do with the game. How Jake had stolen his last ramen again, how he stayed up last night thinking about if aliens eat solid food, or if the Thestrals from Harry Potter can see each other or not.
You told him about the fanpage you had at fifteen, he listened like it was the most interesting thing ever, thumb stroking slow circles on the back of your hand the whole time.
At some point the first game ended. You were still pretty bad, but you weren’t frustrated anymore. Heeseung’s arm had stayed around you the whole time, his chin heavy on your shoulder, breathing warm against your skin.
He didn’t queue another match right away, instead he just sat there for a second, arms loose around your waist, like he was thinking.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice a little rough as his hands slid to your hips and he tugged you gently, pulling you straight off the spare chair and into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your back settled fully against his chest, thighs bracketing his, his arms wrapping around you properly so he could still reach everything if he wanted. The chair creaked once under both of you. You fit too well, way too well.
He rested his chin back on your shoulder and clicked into another custom game like nothing had changed, but his arms stayed tight around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go.
“What are we doing, Hee?” You asked in a low mumble.
Heeseung went still, arms locking tighter around your waist like the question had burned him, he was afraid you’d bring it up and that’s exactly what you did. You felt him swallow hard, breath shaky against your neck.
He opted to answer with his actions instead, turning your face toward him with one hand and kissing you, lips pressing firm like he’d been dying to do it. His tongue slid in right away, tasting like chocolate and the mango you’d been sharing all night. He made this quiet, embarrassed little sound in his throat and kissed you harder, fingers sliding into your hair to hold you there.
You tried to pull back half an inch, though absolutely feeling your heartbeat fastening at how good the kiss, the warmth felt, “Hee, wait—”
He chased your mouth instantly, cutting you off with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue lazy and filthy against yours. His hand slipped under your top, palm hot and a little unsteady on your bare waist, thumb stroking slow circles like he needed to feel your skin to stay sane. He was breathing hard through his nose, cheeks burning against yours, but he wouldn’t let you speak. Every single time your lips parted he was right there again, kissing you quiet, desperate and messy like talking would ruin whatever this was.
“Bed,” he mumbled against your mouth. He stood up with you still in his lap, hands under your thighs, and carried you the few steps across the room. The second your back hit the mattress he was on top of you, settling between your legs and kissing you again before you could even breathe.
This time it was slower but no less intense. His tongue moved against yours in these long, deep strokes while one hand pushed further under your top, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up until his fingers brushed the edge of your bra. His other hand stayed tangled in your hair, tugging gently every time you tried to talk. He was so fucking flustered—ears red, breath shaky, little embarrassed groans slipping out whenever you rolled your hips up into him—but he still wouldn’t let you ask.
Every time you opened your mouth he swallowed it with another kiss, and you groaned, pulling him into you deeper, letting him showcase his feelings through whatever this was, and you understood it, but couldn’t stop it or ask any further, because you knew he’d deflect as if it scared him.
As if the only answer he could give was this.
You were decent at saying no, in fact, some might even admit how good you were at it, blunt as fuck. But that ability was limited to the world and it most certainly didn’t apply to this glorious six foot tall man who wished for you to join him at the basketball court. You could have made up some excuse, maybe tell him you have a lab report due, but you didn’t do that—because you wanted to go.
“This is getting ridiculous,” said Winter, watching you change into a loose t-shirt and old shorts, “you hate sports. You once told me basketball was just a bunch of giants running in circles. Now you’re rushing out at night because Heeseung said come watch me play? And you’re dressing up the part too?”
You shrugged, tying your hair up, “It’s not that deep. I’m bored.”
“Sure, tell yourself that,” she mumbled with her brow raised.
Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong, but you didn’t care much as you made your way out towards the court which was lit up by some harsh floodlights, looking over to find some guys already deep in the game. You could spot Heeseung, Chenle, Beomgyu, and Sunghoon—t-shirts sticking to their backs.
Nics (Chenle’s girlfriend) and Moon (Sunghoon’s girlfriend) were already on the bleachers with their chaotic friend, Ricey, who always carried snacks in her bag. The second they spotted you, Nics waved you over with a grin, patting the spot next to her.
Heeseung was mid-dribble when his head snapped in your direction, the ball bouncing once before he caught it against his hip. Even from across the court you could see the way his face softened, that small, stupidly genuine smile breaking through like usual. He lifted his free hand in a quick wave.
“Yo, Y/N’s here!” Chenle shouted, grinning like an idiot as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, “perfect timing, let’s do girls versus boys now.”
Nics hopped off the bleachers first, already pulling her hair up, “final-fucking-ly. Come on, we’re making this four on four.”
Moon laughed and stood up too, nudging Ricey, “you in or are you just gonna sit there eating chips the whole time?”
Ricey popped another chip in her mouth before standing, “I’m in, but if I break a nail I’m blaming all of you.”
You didn’t get a chance to sit as you got dragged into the court. Heeseung jogged over to you, still breathing a little hard, hair messy and damp. Up close he smelled like sweat and that familiar woody cologne, and the way he looked at you made you shiver.
“You actually came,” he breathed, grabbing your arm without thinking much at all.
“Couldn’t let you embarrass yourself alone,” you replied, stealing the ball from his hands just to mess with him. He laughed, eyes crinkling, and for a second it felt like the rest of the court disappeared.
But boy was it chaotic with Moon just distracting Hoon half the time, Nics and Chenle spent the time arguing—which was clearly their way of flirting, meanwhile Ricey was enjoying the drama in the middle of this all. The game was messy, and oh so loud.
You mostly ended up guarding Heeseung, and he was clearly not focused on winning anymore.
The first time you drove past him, he barely tried to block you, just let you slip by with this stupid little smile on his face. When you scored, he was the first one clapping, muttering under his breath, “fuck, that was hot,” loud enough for Beomgyu to hear and immediately start laughing.
“You’re not even guarding her properly!” Sunghoon yelled, hands on his knees, “you just watched her score and looked proud as hell!”
Heeseung didn’t even deny it, just shrugged, eyes still locked on you as you dribbled back.
“She’s fast,” he said, but the way he said it was way too soft, and he wondered why he called you with others around when he should’ve done this one on one, but even then, he was thrilled to see you fit in so well with everyone.
The court lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt, your oversized t-shirt clung to your skin in damp patches, the thin cotton sticking to the curve of your waist and the small of your back every time you moved. Heeseung’s eyes kept dropping to where the hem rode up every time you moved, and honestly? You liked it.
You caught the ball again and drove straight at him. This time his hand found your waist right away, palm warm through the damp fabric, thumb brushing under the hem like he couldn’t help himself. You spun past anyway, shoulder bumping his chest, and laid it up clean. When you landed he was still there, fingers lingering on your hip for a second longer than necessary.
“Shit, you’re good,” he muttered by your ear.
Beomgyu groaned loud enough for everyone to hear, “Heeseung, your hand was literally on her the whole time!”
Sunghoon just shook his head, “I can’t watch this anymore.”
A few plays later you slowed right in front of him, dribbling lazy, then hit him with the pout—bottom lip out, eyes big. Heeseung’s shoulders dropped instantly, “come on, that’s cheating,” he whined, but he was already stepping aside, hand sliding to your hip again as you blew past and scored.
Ricey started cracking up from the fence. “He folded. Let’s fucking go!”
Nics and Moon were dying, “Y/N, you’re actually evil,” Moon yelled, “like—look at him.”
The game kept going like that, every time you got near him his hands were on your waist or lower back, like he needed the excuse to touch you. After one layup he caught you around the middle when you landed, pulling you back against his chest for a second, chin brushing your shoulder.
“You’re killing me out here,” he said quietly, thumb rubbing slow against your side.
You turned your head, “stop letting me win so obviously.”
“Can’t,” he admitted, fingers flexing on your hip, “can’t stop you.”
Final possession got you dribbling right up to him. He stepped up, but the second you gave him the pout he let out a soft laugh and just gave up, both hands settling on your waist.
“Go win, baby,” he whispered, not even trying to hide it anymore as you drove and laid it in clean.
Game over.
Nics scooped you up spinning you once while Moon and Ricey cheered like idiots. The second your feet hit the ground Heeseung was there, arm sliding around your waist and pulling you back against him. His t-shirt was damp against yours, heartbeat steady on your back.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured into your hair, thumb still tracing slow circles on your hip under the hem, “didn’t even wanna stop you.”
You leaned into him, grinning, “you had your hands on me the whole second half.”
“Yeah,” he said, no shame at all, “felt too good.”
Heeseung didn’t get to talk more as a fuming Chenle grabbed his collar and dragged him away for what seemed to be some good beating.
Moon and Nics immediately grabbed your arms at the opportunity and pulled you a few steps away, cornering you near the fence while Heeseung was distracted talking (arguing) to Chenle.
“Okay, spill,” Moon said, “what the hell is going on with you two? Because that was not subtle.”
Nics nodded, still half-laughing, “girl, he had his hands on your waist like every single play. He’s so into you it’s actually funny.”
You tried to play it cool, wiping sweat off your neck with the bottom of your shirt, “It’s not like that. We’re just—hanging out? No strings, y’know?”
They waited for you to say you’re joking, or just laugh, but then none of it came and they gasped, collectively.
“You’re not serious,” Moon deadpanned.
Nics’ eyes went huge, “wait. You’re actually serious.”
Ricey let out a low whistle, leaning against the fence, “damn, Y/N. I thought you were messing with us.”
You shrugged, trying to laugh it off, but the sound came out rather shaky. Your stomach did that stupid little flip again, like your body was calling you a liar before your mouth could. The cool night air on your damp neck suddenly felt too cold, and your t-shirt clung uncomfortably to your skin, “I mean, yeah, that’s the deal. We both said it from the start.”
The words felt flat even as you said them. Your eyes drifted across the court before you could stop yourself. Chenle still had Heeseung in that dramatic headlock, ranting about how embarrassing he was, but Heeseung wasn’t even pretending to fight back. His head turned and his gaze found yours instantly through the mess of hair falling in his face. That soft, stupid little smile tugged at his lips like getting chewed out didn’t matter at all. Just you did.
Your chest squeezed as you looked away, but Moon followed your stare and let out a quiet oh, “girl, look at him right now. He’s getting yelled at and he’s still staring at you like that? Come on.”
Nics nudged your side. “he had his hands on your waist literally every single time you got near him. Called you baby in front of all of us. Folded like a lawn chair the second you pouted. That’s a man catching feelings and not even trying to hide it.”
Ricey nodded, arms crossed, “for real. We were all watching, he was playing how many times can I touch my girl without getting called out.”
You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the game anymore, “It’s not like that,” you mumbled but even you could hear how unsure you sounded. The way Heeseung was still looking at you made the label feel thinner than your sweaty t-shirt.
Before anyone could push harder, Chenle finally shoved Heeseung away with one last groan. Heeseung jogged back over, hair wrecked, cheeks flushed, but his eyes were already locked on you again. His arm slid around your waist without hesitation, palm warm and familiar against the damp fabric like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You guys done roasting her yet?” He asked, voice light and a little out of breath.
Ricey snorted, “not even close.”
Heeseung just grinned and pulled you closer, chin brushing the top of your head. You leaned into him without thinking, the solid warmth of his side against yours making that chest-tight feeling even worse. Or better, you couldn’t tell anymore.
Your newfound friends exchanged a look behind his back, but you caught it anyway.
Whatever this was—it didn’t feel like no strings anymore. Not even a little.
Heeseung always thought that his partner would an extension of his very soul, and he never achieved that. Maybe the saying can be moulded into perspectives of sort, perhaps connection wasn’t about mirroring souls but about finding someone who made the fractures feel intentional, beautiful even.
He mindlessly knocked on the door, heart drumming an uneven rhythm against his ribs, not expecting the door to open so quickly, his breath hitching at the sight of you in front of him.
Maybe your partner isn’t supposed to be an extension of you, but rather someone who’d stand on the opposite side of the spectrum and still look like a perfect puzzle when fitted together.
You stood there like a living poem rendered in silk—clad in a breathtaking white gown that slipped over your skin with liquid grace, the delicate fabric catching the hallway’s muted glow, the thin straps tracing the delicate architecture of your collarbones like a lover’s fingertip. It moved with you, shimmering faintly, alive with every subtle shift of your weight. Your hair styled perfectly, lips glossed to a tempting sheen, and the whole vision struck him so viscerally that the air in his lungs simply vanished.
You looked beautiful, like an angel in all white, while he stood in front of you in a black leather jacket, juxtaposing every bit of elegance you exuded.
Heeseung forgot how to breathe quite literally as time fractured around him. His gaze dragged over you in helpless reverence, while a razor-edged thought sliced through the haze. Are you going out? On a date? With someone else? The image of another man’s eyes tracing that same silk, another hand brushing the curve of your waist beneath it, coiled hot and ugly in his chest, stealing what little breath he had left.
“Hee?” You asked with a smile, tilting your head with genuine surprise, “what are you doing here?”
He gulped, forcing his eyes back up and oxygen to cooperate within him, “you’re breathtaking,” he managed, “I forgot what I came for.”
Warmth crept up your neck at the nervousness of the man in front of you, he was adorable—shifting from one leg to the other, playing with his fingers, as if the simple act of standing there might unravel him completely. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, cheeks flushed a soft rose, and those wide, doe-like eyes kept flicking back to the silk clinging to your body. You could practically feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat from where you stood, the way his throat worked on another swallow, the subtle tremor in his shoulders as he tried (and failed) to play it cool.
“I, uh—” Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh, “I wanted to show you something. I’ve been carrying it around all day like an idiot because I thought you might like it. Figured tonight could be, I don’t know, nice? Just us.”
Your heart gave a small tug, the evening plans you’d been dreading now sitting like a weight in your chest, “god, Hee—I wish I could,” you said softly, “my parents are in town and we have this family dinner thing tonight. It’s one of those non-negotiable things. I was literally about to walk out the door when you knocked.”
Heeseung’s shoulders dropped just a fraction, disappointment flickering across his face before he quickly tried to smooth it over. He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though he was relieved it wasn’t a boy you’d dressed up for, “no, gosh. It’s okay, I hope you have fun.”
He paused, eyes still lingering on you like he couldn’t help it, “but—if you’re not too tired later, maybe we could still meet up? Even if it’s just for a little while. No pressure or anything, I just—I really like being around you.”
All you could manage was a nod, making him smile wider. It was always a surprise at how clearly Heeseung said whatever he meant, and it wasn’t the best thing for your poor heart, which probably matched Heeseung’s pace now. Bidding goodbye was another problem especially when Heeseung stared till you got inside the cab. The dinner was a haze, your mom staring at your zoned out state with a knowing smile.
“Who is it?” She sighed finally, making you look up in horror.
“Mom—no,” you warned, knowing just how interested your family was in gossiping, which didn’t exclude gossip about you by any means.
“What? She laughed, feigning innocence while your dad hid his grin behind his water glass, “I’m just asking. You’ve been smiling at nothing and zoning out all night, now spill.”
Your cousin leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “yeah, girl. You look like you’re thinking about someone. Is he cute? Does he go to your uni?”
Heat flooded your cheeks, “there’s no one,” you lied, though the words felt flimsy even to you, “I’m just tired.”
Your mom reached over and squeezed your wrist gently, “mhm, sure. Whoever he is, he’s lucky if he’s got you looking like this. Just don’t forget to eat, okay? You’re glowing, but you’re also not touching your food.”
You groaned, covering your face with both hands as the table erupted into light laughter. The teasing continued with your dad throwing in a dramatic “If he hurts you, I’ll find him” that made everyone chuckle—but you managed to dodge the worst of it, cheeks burning the whole time. By the time dessert came, your family had mercifully moved on, though your mom’s knowing glances never quite stopped.
Meanwhile, Heeseung stood alone on the rooftop of the main university building, the cool night breeze slipping beneath the collar of his leather jacket and ruffling his dark hair. He’d quietly borrowed the keys from the maintenance office earlier—something he wasn’t proud of, but tonight the small rebellion felt worth it. Up here, the view was stunning. City lights stretched out below like scattered diamonds across black velvet, the crescent moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over everything. He slipped an airpod in, letting his playlist fill the silence.
His hand drifted to the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the carefully wrapped item inside. He’d wanted to show it to you tonight, watch your face light up, maybe steal a few more stolen moments of that easy warmth you gave him so effortlessly.
Heeseung leaned against the railing, staring out at the glittering skyline while the music in his earpods played on, and he wondered if you were thinking about him too, somewhere across town amid the family dinner. He didn’t mind waiting, in fact, he was good at it when it meant so much to him. Regardless, every couple of minutes he’d glance at the door, half-convinced he was being ridiculous for waiting up here like some lovesick idiot.
As he turned back again, the faint creak of the door was heard, and he went still. You stepped onto the rooftop still wrapped in that white silk gown, the wind caught the hem immediately, making it swirl softly around your legs, and when you smiled at him—he felt it right in the center of his chest.
“Hi,” you said, voice quiet.
Heeseung pulled the airpods out slowly, letting them dangle from his fingers, “you—you actually came,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them, his eyes moved over you again, helpless, “in that dress, god, Y/N.”
You walked closer, heels soft against the concrete, “told you I would. Couldn’t stop thinking about whatever you wanted to show me,” a small laugh escaped you.
He took a half-step closer, “I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, “but I’m really glad you’re here. You look—” he trailed off, shaking his head with a soft, almost disbelieving smile, “I don’t even have the words tonight, you’re beautiful.”
It was foreign, the way you felt all mushy inside with a compliment, granted you got those all the time, but this felt new. You stopped just inches from him, close enough to see the way the moonlight caught in his dark eyes, the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks, “show me, then,” you whispered.
Heeseung’s breath caught for the briefest moment. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a small box wrapped in simple paper, tied with a slender black ribbon. He placed it gently into your waiting hands, his fingers brushing yours with a lingering warmth that sent another quiet flutter through you.
You untied the ribbon, letting the paper fall away until the snow globe rested heavy in your palms. Inside the delicate glass sphere, a tiny couple danced beneath an invisible sky—her in a flowing white dress that mirrored the silk clinging to your body, him in a dark jacket that echoed the leather draped across Heeseung’s shoulders. Their hands were joined, bodies turned toward one another in quiet, perfect harmony. When you tilted the globe, soft white flakes swirled around them like the first gentle snowfall of winter, catching the moonlight in tiny, luminous sparks.
A rush of something overwhelming bloomed low in your stomach, as if butterflies unfurling their wings until your chest felt too full, too light. You looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering. “Heeseung,” you breathed, “this is us. The dress, the jacket, it’s exactly like us.”
He bit his bottom lip, smiling shyly as he nodded, eyes soft with affection that he never failed to display. “Yeah,” he murmured, stepping closer until the globe rested safely between your bodies, pressed lightly against the silk over your heart, “I know it’s a little cheesy, but when I saw it, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
It was yet again when he had rendered you speechless so beautifully, a small smile still graced your lips, and you couldn’t hide it, you didn’t wish to hide it, “it’s not cheesy, it’s beautiful, Hee. Thank you.”
You held the globe for another heartbeat, letting the tiny flakes swirl and sparkle inside the glass, before you turned gently and set it on the wide concrete railing
Heeseung watched you, nervous as he reached into his pocket, pulling out one of the earpods and holding it out to you between two fingers, “dance with me?” He asked, voice hopeful, “I’ve had this song on repeat—uh, I kept imagining what it would sound like with you here.”
It was as if you were facing the real tale of the entanglement after the initial surface level attraction had worn off, which should’ve made it worse, right? But Heeseung, unlike any other potential love interest you’d met, shone brighter after revealing himself day by day.
You took the airpod from him without a second’s hesitation and slid it in, that familiar, timeless melody of Everybody Loves Somebody filling your ear like an old friend crooning about love that finds you when you least expect it. Heeseung’s fingers brushed yours as he took your hand, threading them together with a quiet certainty that made your breath hitch. His other palm settled at your waist, warm through the silk, and he drew you in until your bodies met, like they’d been waiting all along. You let your free hand rest against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart beneath the leather.
Heeseung let out a soft, breathy laugh, “fuck, I actually feel stupid right now,” he muttered, “I’ve never danced before.”
You laughed, leaning into his scent further, “you’re doing great, Hee.”
“Yeah?” Another dorky chuckle rumbled through his chest. He adjusted his hold on you, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle at your waist, “I don’t know, lately I keep catching myself doing shit I never thought I’d do. Like stealing keys to a rooftop, buying a snow globe because it reminded me of you. It’s weird, I feel like I’m figuring out all these parts of myself I didn’t even know were there.”
He stole keys, the thought itself made you chuckle again. You’d once read somewhere that the act of loving someone doesn’t stop at accepting them but furthers by coaxing their selfhood out of them—it felt that way for you too because who would have thought you’d be dancing with someone at a rooftop wearing a gown?
You squeezed his hand gently, “I like that,” you said, “I like that you’re figuring it out with me.”
The proximity was perfect, yet your bodies kept on gravitating towards each other every few steps, and eventually the melody began to fade. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the position mirroring that of the snow globe miniatures. Taking another step, you leaned forward just enough to slot your lips against his, almost as if breathing each other in, lips parting at the same time before pressing into a gentle peck. Heeseung exhaled shakily against you, his hand tightening at your waist for a second like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
When you finally drew back, you gave him that smile you knew he couldn’t resist. You slipped the airpod out of your ear and dropped it into his open palm, fingers brushing his one last time. At the same time you reached over, picked up the snow globe from the railing, and tucked it carefully against your chest.
“Night, baby,” you whispered as you turned toward the door.
Heeseung just stood there, completely still, breathing a little harder than before. His eyes were wide and utterly lovestruck as he watched you walk away. The rooftop door clicked shut behind you, but he didn’t move for a long time—just stayed right where he was under the moonlight, that dazed, helpless smile slowly taking over his face.
You were panting as Heeseung pressed his lips on the base of your spine, sending a shiver up your back. He hadn’t been patient pulling you in his bed, turning you over to unzip your dress. He groaned with each kiss as if he was pleasuring himself instead of you while savouring every inch of skin exposed.
Heeseung pressed his forehead against the middle of your back for a second, breathing hard, “you’re trembling,” he whispered against you, “is my mouth really making you feel that good?” He kissed between your shoulder blades, then higher, until his lips brushed the nape of your neck, “tell me, baby. Tell me how wet you are right now just from this.”
“So wet,” you gasped, pushing your hips back against him, “Hee—please.”
He let out a broken groan and shoved your panties to the side with impatient fingers, not even bothering to pull them off. The thick head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, hot and heavy, before he sank into you in one long, relentless thrust.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound guttural as he bottomed out, stretching you wide, “you’re soaking my cock, baby. So fucking tight and wet for me.” He pulled back slowly, then drove in again, harder, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room, “listen to that. Hear how greedy your pussy is for me?”
You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he set a deep, punishing rhythm, each stroke dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you.
“Heeseung—oh god, yes—” your voice broke on a moan, tears of overwhelming pleasure already stinging your eyes, “harder—please, I need it harder.”
Heeseung cursed under his breath and fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with filthy precision, “like this?” He panted, voice hoarse “you want me to ruin this pretty little pussy? Tell me how good it feels, baby. I want to hear you fall apart.”
“It feels so good,” you sobbed, pushing back to meet every thrust, “you’re so deep—fuck, Hee, I can’t—”
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, white-hot and devastating, until it finally snapped.
“I love you—” the words tore out of you, raw and desperate, “Heeseung, I love you—”
He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt inside you, body going completely rigid.
“What?” His voice was barely a whisper, shocked and trembling.
You whimpered, hips twitching helplessly around his cock, the confession spilling out again in a blurry, broken rush, “I love you, I love you so much—”
Heeseung pulled out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. In one swift motion he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with wide, dark eyes and a chest that heaved like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice hoarse and shaking as he stared down at you, one hand cupping your jaw, “look at me and say it again, baby. Please.”
Your eyes were glassy, lips parted on a shaky breath, but the words seemed to have blurred, your face disappearing right in front of his eyes as you said, “I love—”
He woke up with a sharp, ragged gasp, bolting upright in his own bed, heart slamming violently against his ribs. The room was dark and silent except for his own frantic breathing. Sweat slicked his skin, and when he looked down, the front of his sweatpants was soaked with a warm, sticky mess.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, dragging a trembling hand down his face, cheeks burning with heat.
It was hard for him to contain himself when this is all he could dream of the past six days, feeling it deep despite it being a dream. Wet dream was fine really, but the confession that echoed? Yeah, that definitely made Heeseung feel eccentric because he needed to hear that for real despite the terms of the relationship between you both. It was bound to bloom into something more.
You two had fallen into a rhythm that didn’t need a label really. He showed up outside your lectures with your stupidly specific drink (matcha), the one with the exact ratio you liked, because he’d paid attention the one time you made a face at the wrong version. You’d started leaving your oversized hoodie at his place just so you could steal his instead and he could wear yours, the sleeves swallowing your hands while you lounged on his bed scrolling through your phone. He noticed how you always tugged at your bottom lip when you were thinking too hard, how you stole the last sip of his drink without asking, how your shoulders relaxed the second you kicked your shoes off after a long day. You noticed the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he was tired but too stubborn to admit it, the soft little hum he made when something tasted exactly right, the way his eyes lingered on you a beat longer than necessary whenever you laughed at something dumb he said.
You weren’t calling it dating, you weren’t calling it anything. But you also weren’t fighting it. You’d never been the type to deny yourself something that made you feel good, and Heeseung made you feel good in a way that snuck up on you. So you let yourself have it without the complications of overthinking.
Later that morning, Heeseung walked across campus still half-dazed from the dream, that stupid, lingering smile refusing to leave his face. The memory of your voice saying those three words kept looping in his head, well, until a voice didn’t wish to hear ruined his train of thoughts.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the thief.”
Heeseung slowed to a stop and turned. Jaemin stood there with his arms crossed, wearing the same smug, pissed-off expression he used to think was charming.
Heeseung let out a dry, humorless scoff, “thief? That’s fucking hilarious coming from the guy who was literally balls-deep in my ex while we were still together.”
Jaemin stepped closer, eyes narrowing, “whatever helps you sleep at night. You really think you’re gonna keep her interested?” His voice dripped with condescension, “Y/N doesn’t do soft boys. All that cute shit you do, y’know? All that bringing her drinks, playing with her hair, looking at her like she’s the only person in the room? She’ll get bored so soon. She needs someone who can actually keep up with her, not some pathetic, whipped little romantic who gets all starry-eyed at the sight of her.”
Heeseung forced out a dry laugh, “yeah sure, keep telling yourself that.”
Jaemin stepped even closer, that ugly little smirk twisting his mouth, “you’re playing house while she’s used to getting fucked properly, I’m sure you’re not offering much to at all, you’re nothing but a rebound to her,” he scoffed once, and walked away.
But the damage was done, because yes, Heeseung was soft, almost a whipped little romantic who let you take the lead when things got heated, how you pinned his wrists down or told him exactly how you wanted him, and how much he fucking loved giving in to you. The dream from this morning flashed behind his eyes again, your voice breaking on those three words while he was the one completely undone above you. Now it all felt suddenly pathetic, like something Jaemin could point at and laugh at.
Jealousy, envy, insecurity, these were the things he didn’t wish to feel, and gladly so, he never felt that with you, so why was an outsider here to remind him of his so called weaknesses? It felt like a spiral how he skipped the next lecture and pondered on Jaemin’s words. Did you actually not enjoy your time with him? Was he enough? Did you want a more intense relationship? Was it just a rebound?
He couldn’t find the answers to any of those questions, and managed to ignore every single text and call that came his way, letting himself cool down on the rooftop yet again.
What he essentially forgot was how communication wasn’t a part of the relationship but the very pillar that ran practically any relationship on this earth, this being the very first instance of him not being able to express himself—something he did so freely around you.
And so, the day passed without him replying to you.
You felt the absence like a missing pulse.
“You look crazy checking your phone every two minutes,” Sunoo pointed out, and you huffed, grabbing your phone again to stare at the unread texts you’d sent him through the day.
The screen glowed mockingly in the low light of your dorm room, the blue bubble of your last message still floating unanswered beneath the others, heeseung? talk to me. you okay? i’m coming over if you don’t answer. Just silence that didn’t sit right with you.
Sunoo flopped dramatically across the foot of your bed, legs kicking up behind him, while Winter perched on the windowsill, she watched you with that knowing tilt of her head, the one that always preceded a lecture of affection.
“Babe,” she said, “he’s been ghosting the group chat too, something’s off. Like, capital-O off.”
You set the phone face-down on the blanket, but your fingers still twitched toward it. Sunoo nudged your ankle with his socked foot.
“Go, seriously, and if he’s being a dramatic little shit, tell him Sunoo said to grow a pair and answer his damn phone.” His grin was bright, “you’re so in love it’s pathetic.”
Your lip only twitched, and you didn’t admit nor deny it. It was too early to even overthink what happened, was he drowning himself in self destruction while embracing pain for absolutely no reason? Regardless you frowned with disdain, pushing yourself up to actually do something about the situation, choosing to wear his hoodie he gave you a few days earlier.
You didn’t bother fixing your hair or changing out of the soft shorts you’d been rotting in all evening. This wasn’t about looking put-together, it was about the fact that Heeseung had never once left a message on read without answering, in fact, he was the one who usually texted first, shared his problems, and discussed any and everything this world has to offer. Whatever had him locked down like this, it had teeth, and you were done waiting for him to chew through it alone.
By the time you reached there, a feeling of nervousness washed over you. Jake pulled the door open almost immediately, like he’d been hovering behind it. His eyes were wide, hair sticking up in about six different directions, and he looked so relieved to see you that it almost hurt.
“Jesus Christ, you’re here,” he sighed, stepping aside so you could slip in, “he got back from class and just shut down. Told me to fuck off when I asked if he wanted pasta. Jay tried the concerned roommate bit and got the door slammed in his face. This isn’t—he doesn’t do this, y’know?”
You nodded, throat tight, “I know.”
Jake hesitated, then added almost sheepishly, “if he’s being a dick, tell him I said to stop being a dramatic prick or i’ll take you away, or whatever.”
You gave him a chuckle and headed straight for the bedroom door, hoping that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t, thankfully so, and you pushed the door open before you could talk yourself out of it. Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed in those black sweats that hung too low on his hips, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The silver chain sat against his collarbone, rising and falling with these tight little breaths. He looked exhausted, hollowed out even.
He heard the door and his head snapped up.
For a second his eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe it was really you standing there. The whiplash of emotions was too much, especially when you were clad in his hoodie with sadness gracing your pretty face that he really always wished to see happy. He stood up so fast the bed creaked, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled you against him like he’d been waiting to do exactly that all day.
His hands were rough as he grabbed your nape the second the door closed shut behind you, breathing hard as your lips parted to ask a question, but he only closed his eyes, slid his hand up to your head as he pushed you against the door, pushing his lips against yours in a messy claim.
He can be rough, he can be the one to give you pleasure, of course he can. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it, tongue sliding in deep. You tasted the faint cherry from whatever he’d been drinking, felt the way his chest heaved against yours like he’d been running.
“Missed you,” he mumbled right into your mouth, the words half-bitten off by another rough kiss, “fuck, I missed you so bad today.”
“Heeseung—wait, what the hell happened—” you tried, but he swallowed the question with his mouth, sucking on your bottom lip hard enough to sting before dragging his teeth down the side of your neck. His free hand shoved under the hem of the hoodie, palm sprawled over the expanse of your waist, fingers digging in like he needed to feel skin right now
“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice wrecked, “don’t talk. Just—let me.” He sucked a mark right below your ear, like he was stamping proof that you were here, that you were his. His hips pressed forward, pinning you tighter to the door, and you could feel how hard he already was through his sweats.
The force of him made your breath hitch, your back flush against the cool wood while every inch of him burned insistent. He was never like this, not with you. Heeseung had always been careful, as if afraid that wrong move would make you slip away. But tonight something had snapped in him, and the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin told you he knew it too. He was trying to prove a point—to himself, to the ghost of Jaemin’s voice still echoing in his head—that he could be the rough, ravenous version he thought you wanted.
He spun you around so fast your palms slapped against the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door. The cool glass kissed your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Heeseung’s chest pressed flush to your back, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing your head up so you had no choice but to look at your own reflection—parted lips, eyes already glassy.
“Look at yourself,” he rasped, “look how fucking pretty you are when you’re like this for me.”
His other hand snaked down your stomach, fingers dipping between your thighs without warning. Two thick digits pushed inside you in one smooth glide, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle. You gasped, forehead dropping forward until it rested on the mirror, but Heeseung’s grip on your jaw tightened, yanking you back up.
“Eyes open, baby. Watch, yeah?”
It most certainly was hot to see him take control, but you couldn’t understand the sudden switch, the implications, your mind was too foggy with the way you’d missed him through the day. Heeseung was too in his head, as if on some mission to make you feel good—which he always achieved, yet was not satisfied.
He pumped his fingers slow and deep, twisting them on every drag out so you felt every ridge, every knuckle. The wet, slick sounds of your pussy taking his fingers echoed obscenely in the quiet dorm room. In the mirror you watched it all: the way your lips parted on a shaky moan, the flush crawling down your neck to your chest, the way your tits pressed and flattened against the cool glass with every rock of your hips. Heeseung’s reflection behind you was devastating—dark hair falling into his eyes, jaw clenched tight, that chain around his neck swaying every time he thrust his fingers harder.
“God, you’re so deep already,” you whimpered, hips rocking back to meet his hand, “keep going like that, yeah, just like that, Hee.”
Heeseung groaned low, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second before he forced himself to look up again, as if in pain, “that’s it. Fuck, listen to how messy you sound. You’re dripping down my wrist, baby. Such a good girl for me.”
You bit your lip, eyes fluttering, but he tapped your jaw again.
“Don’t close your eyes. Want you to see how pretty you look when I finger fuck you like this.”
“Bossy tonight,” you teased breathlessly, even as your thighs started trembling, “I like it, but you’re gonna make me cum already if you keep rubbing my clit like that.”
“Good,” he rasped, thumb circling faster, fingers curling relentlessly, “cum for me. Right now. Let me see it.”
You moaned his name loud, walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers as you came, slick coating his hand. Heeseung kept working you through it, slower but deep, murmuring against your neck, “that’s my girl—fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Look at you shaking for me.”
He pulled his fingers out slowly, then brought them to your lips.
“Taste yourself, baby, hm? C’mon, open up.”
You sucked them clean, eyes never leaving his in the reflection, and he cursed under his breath the second your tongue swirled around his fingers.
“Fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”
Before you could catch your breath he dropped to his knees behind you, hands gripping your hips and yanking you back so your ass arched toward his face.
“Keep watching the mirror,” he said, voice hoarse with need, “I want you to see me eat this pussy like I’ve been starving for it.”
Then his mouth was on you, as filthy as he could manage. His tongue dragged slow and broad from your clit all the way up, and you moaned loud, hands sliding down the glass.
“Oh my god, Hee—”
“Mhm, fuck, you taste even better after you come,” he groaned against you, the vibration making your legs weak, “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. Let me get deeper.”
You did, pushing back against his face. His tongue fucked into you while his nose nudged your clit, then he sucked your swollen clit into his mouth hard.
“Yes—right there, don’t stop,” you panted, “your tongue feels so fucking good, baby, keep sucking like that.”
Heeseung moaned into your pussy, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other spread you open wider, “tell me how much you like it,” he mumbled between licks, voice desperate, “tell me you love my mouth on you.”
“I love it—fuck, I love your mouth, Hee. You’re so good at this—shit, I’m gonna cum again if you keep going like that.”
He sucked harder, tongue flicking fast, fingers joining to curl inside you, “then let go again, right on my tongue. I want to feel you fall apart while you watch yourself in the mirror.”
Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder, a high pitched moan leaving your mouth, almost as if you were chanting his name like a mantra, thighs shaking violently as you came on his tongue, and Heeseung licked you through every pulse, slow and greedy, humming happily like he couldn’t get enough.
You were still trembling when he finally pulled away, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh. His eyes met yours in the mirror for a second, looking all desperate, almost frantic before he stood up and turned you around. His hands were shaking as they gripped your waist.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough, like the words were being dragged out of him. He kissed you immediately, with the need to taste the way you’d just fallen apart for him, “bed. I need you on the bed right now.”
You nodded, legs still unsteady, and he didn’t wait. He lifted you, your back hitting the mattress a second later. He climbed over you fast, knees bracketing your hips, but instead of diving right in he paused, hovering above you, chest heaving. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and for a split second you saw the soft Heeseung underneath all that intensity—the one who always checked on you, the one who was terrified of messing this up.
“You really want this?” He asked, voice cracking a little even though he was trying to sound sure. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop himself, “all the way, me inside you. Tell me you want it, baby, please.”
“I want it,” you whispered, reaching up to pull him closer by his chain, “I want you, Hee. Stop holding back.”
He let out a shaky breath and nodded, like he was steeling himself. He shoved the rest of his clothes off as you watched the pretty boy in front of you. It was clear how he wanted to prove a point, and you were gonna let him, granted he wasn’t in the mood to talk, his faint muscles flexing was distracting you as well, but yeah, you were letting him take control.
He gripped your thighs and spread you open wider, breathing hard as he tried not to stare to the point he starts drooling because, lord, you looked absolutely stunning all spread out on his bed, looking up at him with need, bottom lip bitten. He lined up, the blunt head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and for a second he just stayed there, breathing hard, eyes flicking up to yours like he was still fighting whatever storm was in his head.
“Tell me again,” he said, “tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” you breathed, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongues sliding deep right away, “I want you inside me, Hee. Stop thinking and just take me.”
He groaned into your mouth and pushed forward.
The first inch stretched you open, slow and thick. You both gasped against each other’s lips.
“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, hips trembling as he held still, “just the tip and you’re already gripping me like that. You okay?”
You nodded quickly, nails dragging lightly down his back, “keep going, I can take more.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, almost desperate, and rolled his hips forward on the second thrust as another inch sank in. The burn was sharp but so fucking good your back arched.
“Shit—baby,” he groaned, voice cracking. He sucked a hard mark right under your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as he pushed in a third time, slower, letting you adjust, “you feel—gosh, you feel unreal, i’m trying not to lose it already.”
Your nails dug in harder, scratching down his shoulder blades as he gave one more careful thrust and finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours. The full stretch made you moan loud into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist.
Heeseung stilled completely, breathing ragged against your neck, trying not to whimper, “talk to me. Does it hurt? Tell me the truth.”
“A little,” you whispered, “but I love it. You feel so deep already. Move, baby, I need you to move.”
He started with slow, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against you on every stroke like he was still trying to stay in control. But you could feel the tension building in his body, the way his fingers dug into your thighs a little harder each time.
“Yeah? Like this?” He asked, voice rougher now as he snapped his hips forward a little sharper, “you want me to fuck you harder?”
“Harder,” you moaned, nails raking down his back again, leaving red lines, “don’t be gentle tonight. I want all of it.”
He dropped his head to your neck and bit down hard, sucking yet another dark mark into your skin as his hips suddenly slammed forward. The thrusts turned brutal, the bed creaking loudly under you. His chain slapped against your chest with every snap of his hips. He was fucking you like he’d been holding back for months—desperate, almost punishing strokes that knocked the breath out of you.
“Fuck—fuck, baby,” he groaned against your throat, voice completely wrecked, “you’re taking me so fucking good. This pussy is mine tonight. Mine.”
You cried out and he kissed you again, tongues sliding messily while he pounded into you without any rhythm left. His hips stuttered, slamming harder, faster, completely mindless now, like every doubt in his head was being fucked out with every brutal thrust.
“Shit—I can’t—can’t slow down,” he panted, “you feel too good, gonna fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
He was gone—eyes hazy, sweat dripping down his chest, hips snapping wildly as he lost himself inside you, chasing that raw, desperate need to prove he could be everything he thought you wanted. His chain bounced wildly against your chest, his fingers digging bruises into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto.
You were right there with him, body tightening, moans spilling out against his mouth, when the intensity tipped over into something too much, too fast. Your hand shot back, fingers digging into his hip.
“Heeseung—stop. Stop for a second.”
He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt, every muscle locking up at once. His breath hitched hard against your neck. For a long second the room was just the sound of both of you breathing, ragged and uneven. You could feel the panic crashing over him.
“Fuck—did I hurt you?” His voice cracked, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes already glassy with tears that spilled over when he blinked, “shit, I’m so sorry—I got too rough, I didn’t mean to, I was trying so hard not to be soft and I just—fuck, I thought if I fucked you harder you’d want me, you’d stay, I—”
His lip trembled. Another tear slid down his cheek and landed warm on your skin. He looked completely shattered, still deep inside you, like the idea that he might have hurt you was breaking him apart right there.
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing the tears from under his eyes, “baby, shh. You didn’t hurt me,” you whispered, voice soft, full of warmth, “not even a little. I promise. You feel so good, Hee. C’mon breathe with me, okay?”
He stared at you, eyes wide and wet, lips pressed tight together like he was trying not to fall apart completely. He gave the smallest shake of his head, refusing to speak at first.
You leaned up and kissed him, just a gentle press of your lips until he softened into it, a shaky little exhale leaving him. When you pulled back you kept your forehead against his, thumbs still stroking his cheeks.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I can feel it, baby. Something’s been eating at you. Please talk to me.”
Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut for a second as another tear slipped free. His voice came out small, cracked, almost ashamed.
“Jaemin cornered me after class,” he whispered, “uh—he said I’m too soft, fucking whipped. That I’m just a pathetic rebound and you’d get bored of me in a week because someone like me could never keep a girl like you. Said you need someone who can actually fuck you right, not some gentle loser,” his breath hitched, “I just—I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I wanted to prove I could be what you need, I know this isn’t what you wanted, our whole FWB thing.”
You stayed right there, forehead pressed to his, thumbs still gently wiping his tears as you looked at him with nothing but softness in your eyes, heart hurting at how the guy who makes you the happiest was reduced to some loser by your pathetic excuse of an ex.
“I like you exactly how you are,” you let out, heat creeping up your neck, the position only making you feel more with his cock still buried deep in you.
“Y—you like me?” He gasped as you licked his tear away, “really?”
“I do, Hee. I forgot about the whole no strings arrangement long back, I found myself wanting to spend more time with you, and who am I to deprive myself of happiness?” You chuckled, “you can’t force your feelings to go away, or change yourself, y’know? Fuck Jaemin, he doesn’t know shit, he could never make me cum and he definitely could never make me feel the way you do.”
Heeseung let out a shaky, broken exhale, his forehead still resting against yours as fresh tears welled up, “I thought—I thought I was ruining everything. I was so scared you’d realize I’m just the rebound, and you’d leave. I didn’t want to lose you, so I tried to be someone else tonight. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, “you didn’t ruin anything, Hee, not even close. You could never ruin this. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I don’t mind you being rough or soft, yeah?”
He swallowed hard, “I don’t want to be rough, I never really did. I just, I thought that’s what you needed from me. But I want to be soft with you, can I—can I do that? Please?”
You couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped you, the sound made his lips twitch, and then he was smiling—small, shy, and so genuinely relieved it made your heart squeeze. He immediately hid his face in the crook of your neck, embarrassed, his breath warm against your skin as he let out a quiet, shy laugh of his own.
“Stop laughing at me,” he mumbled into your neck, but you could hear the smile in his voice, the way his shoulders relaxed.
“I’m not laughing at you,” you whispered, still chuckling as you threaded your fingers through his hair, “I’m laughing because you’re adorable, and I like you like this. Exactly like this.”
Heeseung lifted his head just enough to look at you again, eyes still glassy but now shining with something brighter as he managed another kiss, pouring every unsaid feeling into it. When he pulled back, his voice was soft.
“I love you,” he breathed out, “I’m so in love with you. I don’t want no-strings, I want everything. Mornings where I wake up and you’re stealing my hoodie. Nights where we fall asleep tangled up like this, and I want all of it with you.”
You smiled against his lips, heart so full it felt like it might burst, “I’m falling in love with you too, Hee, I want all of that with you too.”
He whined, kissing you all clumsy, rolling his hips in long, loving strokes that made you feel every inch of him. The pace was unhurried, like he wanted to savor every second.
“Feel that?” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on you, “I love being inside you like this. I love feeling you around me—so warm, so perfect.”
You moaned softly, legs wrapping tighter around him as you rocked up to meet his slow thrusts, “you feel so good, baby.”
Heeseung smiled again with a giggle, hiding his face in your neck for a moment before kissing along your throat, “you’re so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses, “the way you look when I’m inside you, the little sounds you make, I could stay like this for hours. Just loving you, just making you feel good.”
His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning it gently above your head while the other slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, tender circles. Every thrust was accompanied by quiet words—I love you, you feel incredible, never letting you go, whispered against your skin like prayers.
You squeezed his hand, “I love how you make me feel safe, don’t ever change, okay?”
“I won’t, I promise, i just want to make you feel loved. Every single day.”
The room filled with nothing but the soft creak of the bed, your quiet moans, and his gentle praises. He kept the pace slow and deep, grinding against you on every thrust so your clit rubbed perfectly against him. His lips never left your skin—kissing your neck, your jaw, your mouth, your collarbone like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.
“You’re everything to me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion as he rolled his hips again, “I’m so lucky you’re mine. So fucking lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one, baby. Now keep loving me just like this, I never want this to end.”
Heeseung smiled against your mouth, eyes shining with pure adoration, and did exactly that—loving you slow, deep, and full of so much tenderness it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.
Just the two of you, and the moonlight in the room.
MEANWHILE:
You shushed Heeseung for the nth time as he smiled against your palm, but you were serious, peering down the hallway from the narrow alcove where you’d both hidden behind a pillar.
“Stop smiling, you’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, though your own grin was fighting to break free.
Heeseung only chuckled quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist, “can’t help it. You look so adorable trying to be all serious.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt warm as his arms stayed wrapped around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.
The classroom door finally swung open. Students spilled out, and then Jaemin stepped into the hallway, laughing loudly with his friends.
The second you saw him, you stepped out without hesitation, you lifted the chilled cup and poured the entire icy matcha straight over his head from the first floor, the aim being too good to your surprise.
Jaemin gasped, stumbling back as green liquid drenched his hair and hoodie, “what the fuck—”
Loud laughter exploded from the crowd around him. Phones came out instantly, people whistling and clapping, and you didn’t stay to admire your work.
You grabbed Heeseung’s hand and ran, both of you sprinting down the side hallway until you ducked into an empty stairwell, breathless and laughing.
“Oh my god, his face,” you wheezed, back pressed against the wall.
Heeseung leaned over you, one hand beside your head, smiling so beautifully it made your knees weak—eyes crinkled, full of pure adoration and joy.
“You’re insane, taking revenge for me again,” he said softly, “and I’m so in love with you.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek. He leaned in and kissed you sweetly, so full of everything you two had become. When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he was still smiling that same breathtaking smile.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, grinning, and you did mean it with your whole heart as you proceeded to say.
i saw this was uploaded after I turned on the shower so I turned my shower off to tune into this wonderful gooey goodness of a get rekt moment to two people who deserved it and then the ending everyone and their neighbour wanted. yesssss👏🏽
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you don’t expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively — waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesn’t understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until they’ve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece — through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The email had sounded simple enough when you first read it half-awake in bed that morning. Student accessibility services is assigning you as a peer aide for the spring semester. Flexible hours. Escorting between classes when needed. Organizational support. Occasional note-taking. The pay wasn’t terrible, and you needed another campus job anyway, so you accepted before really thinking about what it meant.
You regretted that decision a little when the counselor slid a thin folder across the desk and said, carefully, “He’s… not always easy with new people.”
The folder had almost nothing inside. Just a student profile and a class schedule.
Lee Chanyoung.
Preferred name: Anton.
Under accommodations, there was a longer list than you expected. Extended testing time. Alternative presentation formats. Excused absences during periods of overstimulation. Selective mutism.
“He usually communicates through typing,” the counselor explained. “Or writing. Sometimes verbally, but not often. Don’t pressure him to speak if he doesn’t want to.”
You nodded slowly.
“He’s very intelligent,” she added quickly, like she felt the need to defend him before you’d even met him. “He just struggles with certain social situations and transitions. Some aides have had difficulty because they expected him to respond in typical ways.”
Typical ways. You almost laughed.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Mostly help him navigate campus life. Keep him on schedule. Make sure he actually eats sometimes.” Her expression softened faintly. “He responds well to consistency.”
That part stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
Consistency.
By the time you found the humanities building, the campus had settled into that gray lull between morning and evening classes. Wet footprints marked the tiled floors from the rain outside, and the air smelled faintly like old books and coffee grounds. You checked the room number twice before knocking lightly against the open classroom door.
Nobody answered.
Inside, students packed their bags noisily while the professor erased the whiteboard. Near the back corner, separated from everyone else by two empty seats, sat a boy with pale headphones hanging around his neck and a cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was staring at his laptop screen with complete focus, fingers motionless over the keyboard as if he’d forgotten mid-thought what he intended to type.
You recognized him immediately without needing the student ID photo.
He was prettier than you expected.
Not handsome, exactly. Pretty in the way porcelain figures were pretty. Delicate wrists disappearing into oversized sleeves, soft mouth slightly parted in concentration, dark lashes low against his cheeks. His hair looked impossibly soft, falling over his eyes in uneven layers that almost hid his expression completely.
The room gradually emptied around him.
He didn’t move.
You approached carefully, suddenly hyperaware of your own footsteps. “Anton?”
His shoulders tightened immediately.
Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.
He looked up after a second, though not directly at you. His gaze stopped somewhere near your chin instead, uncertain and fleeting. Up close, he looked younger than a college student should’ve. There was something guarded about him, but not cold. More like someone constantly bracing for discomfort.
You offered your name gently. “I’m your student aide this semester.”
His expression didn’t change.
Then slowly, he reached for his phone.
The silence stretched long enough to become awkward before the screen lit up with typed words.
| You’re late.
You blinked. “Late?”
He turned the phone toward you properly this time.
| You were supposed to come at 2:40.
You checked the clock instinctively. It was 2:47.
“Oh.” Heat crawled up your neck. “Sorry. The office took longer than I thought.”
Anton stared at you for another quiet second before looking away again. Not dismissively. More like he’d already filed the interaction away somewhere in his head.
You noticed then that he had arranged everything on the desk with impossible precision. Laptop centered. Pens aligned parallel. Water bottle label facing outward. Even the edges of his papers stacked perfectly flush together.
Without warning, he stood.
You nearly stepped back from how sudden it was.
He slid his bag over one shoulder, then paused beside you awkwardly, fingers curling once against the strap. Waiting.
“For me?” you asked before thinking.
A tiny nod.
Right. Escorting between classes.
You followed him out into the hallway, trying not to make it obvious you were observing him already. He walked quietly, head lowered slightly, one hand tucked into his sleeve. Students brushed past in loud clusters, backpacks bumping into shoulders, sneakers squeaking against the floors. Every time someone came too close, Anton subtly shifted away before contact could happen.
He didn’t speak once. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to fill the silence or leave it alone.
“So… what’s your major?” you tried eventually.
Anton pulled out his phone again without stopping his pace.
| Composition and media studies.
“You like music?”
Another pause.
Then:
| I like beautiful things.
You glanced at him.
He remained completely serious.
Something about the answer caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because of how plainly he said it, like beauty was an objective category instead of a vague preference.
“What counts as beautiful?”
This time he took longer to respond. You could almost see the processing happening behind his eyes.
Finally, he typed:
| Certain voices.
| Clean piano sounds.
| Rain before it gets dirty.
| People with kind mouths.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before you could answer, a group of students burst through the stairwell doors laughing loudly. The sound ricocheted sharply through the narrow hallway. Anton flinched hard enough that you noticed immediately.
His hand caught your sleeve.
Not your wrist. Not your hand. Just the fabric near your elbow.
The contact seemed unconscious.
His fingers twisted lightly into the material while his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused and distant for a moment. You could feel how tense he’d suddenly become, every muscle drawn tight beneath layers of soft fabric.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly without thinking.
Anton blinked once.
Then slowly looked down.
Like he’d only just realized he was touching you.
He released your sleeve immediately, but not before his fingertips dragged against your arm through the fabric. Light. Careless. Intimate in a way he clearly didn’t understand.
A faint pink flush spread across the tops of his ears. Not embarrassment exactly. More like confusion.
Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time you reached the music building, rain had started again outside the tall windows, turning the campus silver-gray. Anton stopped near the entrance to his next class, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder while students filtered around both of you.
You waited for some kind of goodbye.
Instead, he stared briefly at the charm hanging from your bag. A tiny cat keychain.
His eyes lingered on it with open concentration.
Then he reached out suddenly and touched it with careful fingertips. Softly rubbing the plush fabric between his fingers once. Twice.
The movement was so absentmindedly gentle it startled you.
“It was from a friend,” you explained quietly.
Anton nodded faintly but didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed across the worn stitching near the ear before he finally withdrew his hand back into his sleeve.
Then he typed something quickly and turned the screen toward you.
| I don’t like most textures.
You looked at the message, then at him.
“But you like that one?”
A pause. Another small nod.
For the first time since meeting him, something in his posture loosened slightly around you. Not trust yet. Nothing that simple. But maybe curiosity.
The classroom door opened behind him.
Anton glanced toward the sound before looking back at you briefly, eyes flickering near yours but never fully meeting them.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand. Another message already typed before he turned away.
| You should arrive at 2:40 next time.
-
You spent the rest of the day thinking about him against your will.
Not in the embarrassing way your roommate immediately assumed when you mentioned meeting “a pretty quiet boy” during dinner, but in the persistent, nagging way people stayed in your head when you couldn’t fully understand them. Anton didn’t behave like anyone you knew. Every interaction with him felt slightly mistimed, like his responses existed half a step outside the rhythm everyone else moved to. He wasn’t rude. If anything, he seemed painfully aware of other people at all times. He just reacted differently, processing everything somewhere deeper and slower before deciding what to do with it.
You found yourself replaying small details while brushing your teeth that night. The way he’d described beautiful things with complete sincerity. The careful alignment of objects on his desk. The confused look on his face after grabbing your sleeve, like he genuinely hadn’t realized touching someone unexpectedly might mean something.
At exactly 2:38 the next afternoon, you walked into the humanities building carrying two coffees and an unreasonable amount of awareness about being on time.
Anton was already there. Of course he was.
He sat in the same corner seat from yesterday, laptop open, headphones on this time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving while students shuffled noisily around him. Even from across the room, he looked disconnected from everything else inside it, tucked into his own atmosphere entirely.
You approached quietly. “Hi.”
He looked up immediately.
Not at your eyes. Never your eyes. His gaze caught somewhere near your mouth before flickering away again. His headphones slipped down around his neck as he noticed the drink tray in your hands.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admitted, setting one coffee carefully beside his laptop, “so I guessed.”
Anton stared at the cup for several long seconds.
You suddenly wondered if maybe you’d broken some invisible routine and made a terrible mistake.
Then he reached out and turned the cup slowly until the logo faced away from him.
Only after adjusting it did he pick it up.
His fingers were slender, almost delicate-looking, silver rings glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights. You noticed his nails were neatly trimmed and slightly glossy, as if he buffed them absentmindedly.
He took one cautious sip.
Then another.
A pause.
His phone appeared in his hand a second later.
| Vanilla is acceptable.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Anton blinked at the sound, attention catching on your face immediately. Not startled exactly. Focused.
“You sound like you’re reviewing a product.”
He watched you type something into your own phone for class notifications while processing the joke several beats too late. You saw the exact moment understanding landed.
The corners of his mouth lifted faintly.
Tiny. Brief. But unmistakable.
It transformed his whole face.
Before you could comment on it, students started filing into the room more aggressively, conversations overlapping loudly enough that the atmosphere shifted from quiet to crowded within seconds. Anton’s posture changed almost immediately. His shoulders rose subtly. His hand tightened around the coffee cup. The soft crease forming between his brows looked more uncomfortable than irritated.
A boy dropped heavily into the seat beside him without noticing.
Anton froze.
Not metaphorically. Completely.
The student kept talking to his friend across the aisle, elbow spreading over the shared desk space while Anton sat perfectly rigid beside him, fingers curling tighter inside his sleeves.
You looked between them.
Then gently said, “Hey, I think he needs a little more room.”
The student blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
He shifted over carelessly.
Anton still didn’t relax.
His breathing had gone shallow enough that you noticed it immediately now that you were paying attention. You leaned down slightly toward him.
“Do you want to wait outside until class starts?”
For a second you thought he might ignore you completely.
Then his hand moved under the desk and lightly caught the edge of your cardigan sleeve.
The same way he had yesterday.
Small. Quiet. Automatic.
You waited while he gathered his things with stiff movements before leading him back into the hallway. The moment the classroom door shut behind you both, some of the tension visibly left his body.
You leaned against the wall beside him. “Does crowded noise bother you?”
Anton nodded once.
Rain pattered softly against the windows nearby. Students passed through the corridor in uneven waves, but it was quieter here, the sounds more spread out and manageable.
After a minute, Anton typed something.
| He smelled too strong.
You blinked.
“Oh.”
| And his coat kept touching mine.
The seriousness of his expression nearly made you smile again. Not because it was funny to him, but because he explained discomfort so literally. No exaggeration. No attempt to make himself sound easier or more reasonable.
Just facts.
“You don’t like being touched?”
Anton stared at the screen for a long moment after reading the question.
Then slowly typed:
| I don’t mind when I know it’s happening.
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard at the memory of his hand around your sleeve yesterday.
Before you could respond, the classroom door opened again. Students began settling down for lecture, voices quieter now.
Anton made no move to return inside.
“You still have class,” you reminded gently.
His gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.
Then his phone lit up.
| You come too.
“You want me to sit with you?”
A pause. Tiny nod.
Technically, student aides weren’t supposed to attend lectures unless necessary, but the way Anton stood there waiting made refusal feel strangely impossible. He shifted slightly closer while students continued walking around you both, the sleeve of his cardigan brushing your arm for half a second before he stepped away again.
You followed him back inside.
This time, Anton chose seats in the very back row.
You noticed he picked the one nearest the wall.
He sat down first, then hesitated oddly before placing his bag on the opposite side instead of between you. Like he’d considered creating distance and changed his mind halfway through.
Throughout the lecture, he barely looked at the professor. Instead, he typed constantly, notes impossibly organized across his laptop screen. Color-coded. Timestamped. Every heading perfectly aligned.
About twenty minutes in, you noticed movement beside you.
Anton had gone still again.
His fingers rested motionless over the keyboard while his attention fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The lecture hall lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone behind you kept clicking their pen repeatedly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Anton’s jaw tightened almost invisibly every time the sound repeated.
Without really thinking about it, you reached into your bag for your spare earbuds and placed them gently beside his laptop.
He looked down at them.
Then at you.
“They’re noise cancelling,” you whispered.
Anton stared for such a long time you thought maybe he wouldn’t take them.
Finally, he picked one up carefully between his fingers.
Not putting it in yet. Just feeling the smooth plastic surface.
His thumb brushed over it slowly.
Then, unexpectedly, he placed it back down and typed something instead.
| You notice too much.
You frowned slightly. “Is that bad?”
He read your lips while you spoke, eyes fixed there with quiet concentration.
Then he shook his head once.
A few minutes later, without warning, his shoulder tipped lightly against yours.
Not enough pressure to seem intentional.
Just there.
Warm through layers of fabric.
Anton continued typing with complete focus like he hadn’t noticed the contact at all.
You became aware of his shoulder long before you became aware of the lecture again.
Not because the touch itself was dramatic. It wasn’t. Anton barely leaned into you at all, just enough for the warmth of him to settle against your arm through the fabric of your sweater. But there was something dangerously intimate about how unconscious it seemed. He wasn’t testing boundaries or searching for reassurance. His body had simply decided you were easier to exist beside than everyone else in the room.
And apparently, that was that.
The professor’s voice blurred into background noise while rain streaked slowly down the windows. Anton kept typing steadily, expression soft with concentration. Every few minutes he paused to adjust something tiny: the angle of his pen, the brightness of his screen, the cuff of his cardigan slipping over his wrist. His movements were precise in a way that felt practiced rather than obsessive, like the world only stayed manageable if things remained arranged correctly.
The clicking pen behind you finally stopped.
Anton relaxed almost immediately afterward.
You weren’t sure why noticing that made your chest ache a little.
When class ended, students shoved chairs back noisily and crowded toward the exits in impatient waves. Anton didn’t move. He stayed seated beside you while the room emptied around him, fingers still resting on the keyboard even after the screen dimmed from inactivity.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
His eyes lifted toward you briefly before drifting away again.
Then he typed:
| There are too many transitions in one day.
You read the sentence twice.
It was such a strange way to describe exhaustion, but somehow it made perfect sense. You thought about how often people expected immediate adjustment from one thing to another without hesitation. Loud cafeteria to silent lecture hall. Crowded sidewalks to empty dorm rooms. Conversation to isolation. Most people did it automatically.
Anton probably felt every shift like stepping between different temperatures.
“That sounds tiring,” you said softly.
His gaze flickered back toward your face then, lingering there a fraction longer than usual. You got the unsettling feeling he wasn’t used to people responding like that. Not dismissing him. Not trying to correct or simplify what he meant.
Just accepting it.
Outside, the rain had worsened into a steady silver downpour. Students hurried across campus beneath umbrellas while water gathered along the sidewalks in shallow reflective puddles.
Anton stood beside the building entrance staring outside with visible hesitation.
“You don’t have an umbrella?” you guessed.
He shook his head once.
“You could’ve checked the weather.”
A pause.
Then his phone appeared.
| I did.
| It said 40%.
You stared at him for a second before laughing again despite yourself. Anton’s attention snapped toward the sound instantly, distracted from the rain.
“What?”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| Why do you keep doing that?
“Doing what?”
| Making that noise.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Laughing?”
He considered the word carefully, like matching it to memory.
Then:
| You laugh more quietly than most people.
Something about the observation felt far too intimate for someone you’d known less than two days.
Before you could answer, Anton stepped out into the rain without warning.
“Wait—”
Cold droplets immediately soaked into the dark fabric of his cardigan, dampening his hair within seconds. He didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he cared and didn’t know what to do about it. You hurried after him beneath your umbrella, catching up just as he crossed the sidewalk toward the arts building.
“Anton.”
He slowed.
“You’re getting soaked.”
He looked down at his sleeve like he’d only just noticed the rainwater spreading through it.
Then he typed while still walking.
| I like rain before people touch it.
You almost told him that made no sense before remembering who you were speaking to.
“What does that mean?”
Anton paused near the crosswalk, watching water rush along the curb in thin rippling streams.
For a while, he didn’t answer. Cars hissed past on wet pavement while students crowded beneath awnings nearby. You thought maybe he’d abandoned the thought entirely.
Then:
| Rain is clean when it first falls.
| Afterward it becomes campus rain.
You looked at him carefully.
His hair clung damply against his forehead now, soft dark strands curling slightly at the ends from the moisture. There was something vulnerable about him standing there in the middle of the gray afternoon looking entirely consumed by a thought no one else would ever have.
“You think about things strangely,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit hard.
Anton’s expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically. Just quieting.
His fingers stilled against his phone screen.
You opened your mouth quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
But he was already looking away from you.
Shit.
The walk to the arts building suddenly felt much longer.
Anton stayed half a step ahead the entire time, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again. You replayed your sentence over and over in your head, trying to figure out exactly where it had gone wrong. You hadn’t meant strange in a bad way. If anything, talking to him felt oddly refreshing compared to the exhausting predictability of everyone else.
But maybe he’d heard that before.
Maybe people had spent his entire life calling him strange.
By the time you reached the building entrance, guilt sat heavily in your stomach.
“Anton.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around fully.
“I’m sorry,” you said carefully. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”
Silence.
Rain hammered softly against the glass doors nearby.
Then Anton finally looked toward you, eyes lowering automatically before they could meet yours completely. Up close, you noticed faint water droplets caught in his lashes.
His phone lit up slowly.
| I know.
But he still looked hurt.
The realization unsettled you more than it should have.
You stood there awkwardly while students brushed past into the building around you. Anton readjusted the strap slipping off his shoulder with damp fingers, movements slower than usual now.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.
Close enough that your umbrella tilted awkwardly backward from the movement.
His hand appeared near your sleeve again.
Not grabbing this time.
Just touching the wet fabric lightly between two fingers.
“You’re cold,” you said quietly.
Anton blinked once, looking down at where rainwater darkened the cuff of your sweater too.
After a few seconds, he typed:
| You came into the rain anyway.
You weren’t sure why that sentence lingered so heavily in your chest afterward.
Maybe because he said things so plainly that they stopped sounding plain at all.
You came into the rain anyway.
Like it meant something.
Anton followed you silently into the arts building, water dripping softly from the ends of his sleeves onto the polished floors. The lobby buzzed with low conversation and distant piano scales echoing from somewhere upstairs, students moving between practice rooms carrying instrument cases and sheet music folders pressed against their chests. Compared to the rest of campus, the building felt strangely warm, almost sleepy, lit gold by old hanging lamps instead of harsh fluorescents.
Anton visibly relaxed the moment the doors shut behind you.
Not entirely. He never seemed entirely relaxed. But his shoulders lowered slightly, and his breathing evened out again beneath the soft hum of music drifting through the hallways.
“You have class here?” you asked.
Small nod.
“What kind?”
He typed one-handed while wringing rainwater absentmindedly from the cuff of his cardigan with the other.
| Composition lab.
That explained the major, at least partially. You tried imagining him making music and immediately could. Not performance. Nothing loud or attention-seeking. Something intricate and emotional and probably far too beautiful for most people to understand properly.
A girl passing through the lobby slowed suddenly when she noticed Anton.
“Chanyoung!”
He stiffened instantly.
She either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Professor Kim was asking where your revised arrangement went. Did you ever email it?”
Anton’s gaze dropped toward the floor.
Three seconds passed.
Five.
The girl’s smile faltered slightly as the silence stretched.
You watched panic build subtly beneath Anton’s expression, not dramatic enough for most people to catch. His fingers curled tightly into the soaked fabric hanging over his hands. His lips parted once without sound emerging.
He was trying.
Your chest tightened.
“He probably hasn’t had the chance yet,” you answered gently before the silence could become humiliating.
The girl blinked toward you like she’d forgotten other people existed. “Oh.”
Anton remained completely motionless beside you.
“Well…” She laughed awkwardly. “Tell him Professor Kim’s been emailing.”
Then she hurried off down the hallway.
The second she disappeared around the corner, Anton exhaled softly through his nose.
Not relief exactly. More like recovery.
You looked at him carefully. “You don’t like when people expect answers right away.”
His eyes shifted toward you. Then downward again.
After a moment, he typed:
| Sometimes words don’t arrive before the moment is over.
The sentence hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe for a second.
You wondered suddenly how many people mistook his silence for indifference when really it was delay. Like his emotions and thoughts existed behind glass slightly thicker than everyone else’s.
“That sounds frustrating,” you said quietly.
Anton stared at the phone screen after reading your response. His thumb hovered near the keyboard as if he intended to say more.
But instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
A nearby piano stumbled through the same wrong note three times in a row from one of the practice rooms upstairs.
Anton visibly winced.
“You can hear that from here?”
Tiny nod.
“That’s kind of impressive.”
Another wince at the fourth mistake.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached for your wrist.
Not dramatically. Not even fully.
His fingertips just settled there lightly, cool from the rain, before he began guiding you toward the staircase without explanation.
The contact shocked you enough that you followed automatically.
Anton climbed the stairs quietly, still holding your wrist with absentminded gentleness the entire way. Not possessive. Not nervous. Casual in the way someone might carry an object they’d already decided belonged beside them.
Meanwhile your heartbeat had become humiliating.
On the third floor, the hallway narrowed into rows of small soundproof practice rooms with rectangular windows set into each door. Music spilled unevenly through the walls anyway — violin scales, fragments of jazz piano, someone singing warmups badly enough to make Anton’s nose wrinkle slightly.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
He noticed immediately.
“What?”
Anton tilted his head faintly.
“You make expressions even when you don’t talk much.”
A pause.
Then he let go of your wrist abruptly like he’d only just remembered he was touching you at all.
The sudden absence of warmth felt strangely noticeable.
Anton stopped outside one of the practice room doors and pushed it open carefully. Inside sat a keyboard, two chairs, scattered sheet music, and little else. The room was dimmer than the hallway, insulated from most of the outside noise.
You stepped inside after him.
“This is yours?”
He nodded once, already moving toward the keyboard.
The room changed him somehow.
Not personality-wise. More like the tension he carried around campus loosened in specific places here. His movements became smoother, more instinctive. Comfortable.
Anton sat down on the bench and adjusted the sleeves falling over his hands before resting his fingers lightly against the keys.
Then he froze.
You waited quietly.
After a few seconds, he typed into his phone again without looking up.
| You can sit.
“Oh. Right.”
You settled into the chair nearby while rain tapped softly against the narrow window beside the piano. Anton remained still for another long moment, staring at the keys with intense concentration.
“You don’t have to play for me,” you said gently, suddenly worried he felt pressured.
He shook his head immediately.
Then finally, he played.
The first notes were so soft you almost missed them.
Not a melody at first. Just careful fragments unfolding slowly beneath his fingertips, delicate and thoughtful and strangely lonely. The sound filled the small room without overwhelming it, each note lingering long enough to feel intentional. Anton’s expression changed while he played. Not happier exactly, but clearer somehow. Like music translated things his body couldn’t organize into speech quickly enough.
You watched his hands move across the keyboard.
Beautiful hands, honestly.
Long fingers. Silver rings glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sleeves slipping down toward his knuckles every few seconds before he impatiently pushed them back again mid-song.
The music deepened gradually, weaving into something fuller and aching enough that your chest hurt unexpectedly listening to it.
Anton never looked at you once while he played.
But somehow it still felt like being let inside something private.
When the final note faded, silence settled gently back over the room.
You realized only then that you’d stopped moving entirely.
“That was really pretty,” you whispered.
Anton stayed motionless at the keyboard.
Then slowly:
| You keep using that word.
“Pretty?”
A tiny nod.
You smiled faintly. “Do you not like it?”
For the first time since meeting him, Anton actually looked close to nervous.
Not externally. You were just beginning to recognize the signs now — the slight tension in his jaw, fingers rubbing together beneath oversized sleeves, gaze fixed stubbornly on the piano keys.
Finally, he typed carefully.
| No one usually means it kindly.
Something inside you softened painfully at that.
The practice room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, the rain outside reduced to a dull silver murmur against the windows. Anton kept his eyes lowered toward the keyboard after showing you the message, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted saying it at all.
You thought about him walking across campus with his oversized cardigans and careful posture, about the glossy shine on his nails, the silver rings, the softness he didn’t bother hiding even though people probably noticed immediately. You could already imagine the kind of comments college boys made when someone didn’t fit neatly into whatever version of masculinity they found acceptable.
“You know I mean it kindly,” you said gently.
Anton didn’t respond right away.
His fingers drifted absentmindedly across a few silent piano keys without pressing hard enough to create sound. Thinking. Processing. You were beginning to realize he often needed silence the way other people needed conversation.
| I know now.
Now.
Not before.
Your chest tightened again.
Before you could answer, voices echoed loudly down the hallway outside the practice rooms. Several students passed by laughing, the sound muffled but sharp enough to pull Anton immediately out of whatever calm the piano had given him. His posture straightened. His hands stilled.
One of the voices paused near the door.
“Oh, he’s in there.”
Another laugh. “Of course he is.”
The doorknob rattled lightly.
Anton froze so suddenly it almost frightened you.
Not fear exactly. Anticipation. Like his body had learned to brace before his mind even caught up.
The door opened halfway before either of you could react. Two boys from what looked like an ensemble class leaned inside casually, both carrying instrument cases.
“There you are,” one of them said. “Kim keeps emailing about your arrangement.”
Anton’s gaze dropped instantly toward the floor.
Neither of them acknowledged you at first.
“You gonna answer him this year or what?” the other joked.
Silence.
You watched Anton’s fingers slowly curl into the sleeves covering his hands.
The first guy sighed awkwardly after a few seconds. “Right. Sorry.”
But he still lingered there waiting, clearly expecting some kind of response.
Anton’s throat moved faintly.
Nothing came out.
You could almost feel the pressure building inside the room.
“He said he’ll send it,” you interrupted quietly before the silence could turn cruel.
Both boys finally looked toward you.
The second one blinked. “Oh.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly but not enough, “Does he just not talk ever?”
The question landed heavily.
Anton remained perfectly still at the piano bench beside you, expression unreadable now in that way you were beginning to hate because it meant he’d withdrawn somewhere unreachable.
“He talks,” you answered before thinking. “Just not whenever people demand it.”
The room fell quiet.
One boy looked embarrassed immediately. The other shifted awkwardly against his instrument case strap.
“Right,” he muttered. “Whatever.”
They left a second later, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence rushed back in.
Anton still hadn’t moved.
You exhaled slowly, anger simmering hotter in your chest than it probably should have after only two days of knowing him. “They were being rude.”
Nothing.
“Anton?”
His hand moved toward his phone slowly.
Then stopped halfway there.
Instead, he pressed both sleeves against his mouth briefly, eyes fixed somewhere distant across the room. Processing again. You could see it happening now — the delayed impact arriving piece by piece after the interaction already ended.
When he finally typed, the message appeared slower than usual.
| They weren’t trying to be mean.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Anton stared at the screen after reading that.
Then:
| Most people become uncomfortable eventually.
The matter-of-factness of the sentence hurt more than self-pity would’ve.
Like he’d accepted it as inevitable.
“Well, I’m not uncomfortable.”
The room went very quiet.
Anton blinked once.
Then again.
You got the distinct feeling you’d said something unexpectedly important.
His attention lifted toward your face slowly, cautiously, eyes stopping just short of yours like always. For a second he looked almost disoriented, as if he didn’t know where to place the statement inside his understanding of people.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.
| Not yet.
The words startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Anton watched your reaction immediately, shoulders loosening just slightly at the sound.
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
A pause.
Then:
| You laugh when you aren’t upset anymore.
You stared at him.
Anton stared back in that indirect way he had, gaze hovering near your mouth while he read your expression carefully. Observing. Cataloging.
“You notice everything,” you murmured.
He processed that silently.
Then typed:
| Only things I need to remember.
The air in the room suddenly felt too warm.
Before you could recover, Anton stood from the piano bench in one smooth movement and crossed toward the stack of papers scattered near the music stand. He crouched to reorganize them with immediate focus, aligning the corners carefully against the floor before clipping them together.
You watched him for a second before kneeling automatically to help.
Anton went still beside you.
“What?” you asked.
His eyes flickered toward your hands gathering the loose sheets.
Then toward your knees pressed against the carpet beside him.
Finally:
| You don’t have to do that.
“It’s literally two papers.”
He kept s taring anyway.
Up close like this, you noticed how long his lashes were again. Ridiculously long, honestly. They cast faint shadows against his cheeks whenever he looked downward.
Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair away from his eyes.
The second your fingers touched him, Anton stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Actually stopped.
Your hand froze too.
His skin was cold from the rain. Soft.
You should’ve pulled away immediately.
Instead, both of you stayed there for one horribly suspended second, Anton staring at you with open confusion written across his face. Not discomfort. Something more startled than that, like his brain had failed to categorize what just happened.
Then, slowly, very carefully, he leaned forward.
Just slightly.
Into your hand.
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.
Anton didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on people when he did things like this. Or maybe he noticed reactions without understanding where they came from. Either way, the movement was small enough that another person might’ve missed it entirely — the faint tilt of his head against your palm, the way his eyes lowered halfway shut for a second like he was concentrating on the sensation.
Soft.
That was the first thought that hit you.
Not just physically. His entire presence felt soft in ways the world probably hadn’t handled gently.
Then realization flickered across his expression.
Anton pulled back immediately.
His hand came up halfway toward his face before stopping awkwardly in the air. You watched confusion move through him in real time, slow and visible behind his eyes as he tried to process the interaction after it had already happened.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, dropping your hand back into your lap. “I shouldn’t have just—”
Anton shook his head hard enough to interrupt you.
Not upset. Just overwhelmed.
He stared down at the papers scattered between you both, fingers tightening once around the edge of a music sheet before he typed something with abrupt intensity.
| Don’t apologize for touching me if it was kind.
The sentence settled heavily between you.
You looked at him carefully. “Has nobody ever told you there’s a difference?”
Anton frowned faintly.
“Between wanted touch and unwanted touch.”
He went still again.
Not frozen this time. Thinking.
You could practically watch him sorting through memories and information behind his eyes, reorganizing old experiences against the new wording. After a long silence, he typed slowly:
| People usually touch me accidentally.
Something about that answer made your chest ache.
You thought suddenly about crowded hallways brushing against him, strangers shoving past without warning, uncomfortable handshakes, impatient taps on the shoulder when he didn’t respond quickly enough. Touch that happened to him instead of for him.
And maybe because Anton processed emotions later than everyone else, maybe by the time discomfort fully arrived, the moment had already passed.
“That’s not the same thing,” you said quietly.
He read the sentence twice.
Then:
| You ask before doing things.
You almost pointed out that you hadn’t asked before touching his hair, but Anton continued typing before you could.
| Most people decide things for me first.
The practice room felt unbearably quiet after that.
Outside, someone played scales down the hallway while rain tapped steadily against the narrow windows. Anton gathered the rest of his papers into a neat stack again, movements slower now, attention split somewhere deeper inside himself.
“You think about people a lot, don’t you?” you asked softly.
He glanced toward you.
Then away.
A tiny shrug.
After a moment:
| I have to study people longer than other people study me.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
Because it was true, probably.
Most people would look at Anton once and make immediate assumptions. Quiet. Strange. Awkward. Difficult. Sensitive. Meanwhile he seemed to spend enormous amounts of energy trying to understand everyone around him properly while they rarely extended the same patience back.
Your eyes drifted toward the music sheets in his lap. The notes were impossibly neat, handwritten annotations arranged with color-coded precision along the margins.
“You really like organizing things.”
That earned the faintest reaction from him. Almost defensive.
| Things behave better when they’re organized.
You smiled slightly. “People don’t?”
Immediately, before even typing:
“No.”
The sound startled you both.
Anton’s eyes widened a fraction.
It was the first time you’d heard his voice.
Quiet wasn’t even the right word for it. His voice sounded soft in the same way fabric could be soft, low and airy from disuse, almost careful around the edges. Like speaking required more physical effort for him than most people realized.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then color rose slowly into Anton’s cheeks.
He looked away so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.
You tried not to react too strongly, suddenly aware that if you made a big deal out of it he might retreat completely.
But your heartbeat was going insane.
“You’re right,” you said gently, pretending your pulse wasn’t stumbling all over itself. “People are kind of impossible.”
Anton kept staring stubbornly at the floor.
The blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears now.
You bit back a smile.
“You have a nice voice.”
The reaction was immediate.
Anton’s shoulders drew up slightly, like the compliment physically struck him somewhere sensitive. He tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and focused aggressively on aligning the papers again even though they were already perfectly straight.
Interesting.
“You don’t like compliments?”
A pause.
Then, quietly this time, barely above a whisper:
“I don’t know.”
You almost melted directly into the carpet.
Anton seemed startled by his own answer too. His throat moved faintly afterward, like he was still adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of speaking aloud. But he didn’t fully shut down again. If anything, he looked more disoriented than distressed.
“You don’t know if you like compliments?”
Tiny shake of his head.
“Why not?”
He reached for his phone again, clearly more comfortable typing complicated thoughts than saying them.
| Sometimes people compliment me because they think I’m strange.
| Like observing an animal that learned something impressive.
Your expression must’ve changed because Anton immediately looked down again.
“I wasn’t doing that,” you said quietly.
He nodded before you even finished.
| I know.
That I know sounded different now too. More certain than earlier.
You sat there for another moment listening to the muffled music outside before your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder.
Work shift. Ten minutes.
“Shit,” you muttered, checking the screen. “I have to go.”
Anton’s attention lifted immediately.
“I forgot I’m covering someone at the library tonight.”
The atmosphere shifted so subtly you almost thought you imagined it.
Not disappointment exactly.
But something adjacent to it.
Anton looked toward the rain-streaked window automatically before typing:
| You don’t like leaving in the middle of things either.
You stared at him.
“No,” you admitted softly. “I guess I don’t.”
For a second he just watched you gather your bag and jacket. Or rather, watched your hands. Anton seemed to focus on hands often, you realized suddenly. Movements. Gestures. The physical shape of emotion instead of eye contact.
When you stood, he stood too.
Immediately.
Like it was obvious he should.
“You don’t have to walk me out,” you said.
Anton blinked once, confused.
Then:
| I know.
But he still followed you anyway.
The hallway outside the practice room had grown quieter by the time you left, most classes already in session. The muffled sounds of instruments still drifted through the walls in uneven fragments — piano chords from somewhere downstairs, a violin stopping and restarting the same passage over and over again, distant laughter echoing briefly before fading down another corridor.
Anton walked beside you without speaking.
Not awkwardly silent. Just present.
You were beginning to realize there was a difference with him.
Most silence between people felt empty because both parties waited for someone to fill it. Anton’s silence felt occupied already, crowded with observation and delayed thoughts and tiny details he seemed to absorb constantly without comment. Walking beside him made you hyperaware of your own movements in return — the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor, the shift of your bag strap on your shoulder, the warmth lingering in your palm from where he’d leaned into your touch earlier.
You tried very hard not to think about that too much.
At the stairwell landing, Anton stopped suddenly.
You nearly walked past him before turning back. “What?”
He looked distracted by something over your shoulder. Following his gaze, you noticed a girl descending the stairs carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale pink paper. Tiny white flowers peeked through the plastic.
Anton stared openly.
Not at the girl. At the flowers.
The intensity of his focus almost made you smile.
“You like those?”
His attention flicked back toward you, caught.
Then he nodded once.
“They’re just baby’s breath.”
Another small shake of his head this time. Incorrect.
Anton typed carefully while still watching the bouquet disappear downstairs.
| They look soft.
Of course that was his reason.
You wondered if he categorized the world entirely through sensory feeling. Soft. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. Wrong. Safe.
The realization made him seem somehow even more vulnerable.
As you continued downstairs, Anton drifted closer beside you whenever groups of students passed in the opposite direction. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his sleeve brushed your arm occasionally before he corrected the distance again. Like his body naturally sought proximity before his mind remembered it was supposed to maintain space.
By the first floor lobby, the rain outside had softened into a fine mist coating the windows silver.
You adjusted your bag strap. “I’ll see you tomorrow before your lecture?”
Anton nodded immediately.
Then hesitated.
You could tell by now when something was stuck inside him trying to become language.
His fingers moved once against the edge of his sleeve before he finally typed:
| You don’t have to keep talking when I stop responding.
“Oh.”
You frowned slightly. “Was I talking too much?”
He looked alarmed instantly and shook his head hard enough that damp strands of hair fell into his eyes again.
Quickly:
| No.
| Most people become uncomfortable with silence.
You stared at the screen.
Then at him.
“Do you?”
Anton seemed genuinely confused by the question.
| With silence?
“Yeah.”
A long pause.
| Silence is easier because nobody expects immediate versions of you.
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Immediate versions of you.
You thought suddenly about every rushed conversation you’d ever had, every moment people interrupted each other or filled pauses before anyone could truly think. Anton moved through interactions like someone translating feelings manually while everyone else operated automatically.
No wonder he got exhausted.
“You think really beautifully sometimes,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
Anton went still. Not tense. Just attentive in that startlingly complete way he had.
Then slowly, carefully, he typed:
| You say things to me like they aren’t dangerous.
The comment confused you for half a second before understanding arrived.
Compliments. Kindness. Gentleness.
Things he’d apparently learned to handle cautiously.
Your chest ached again.
“Well,” you said softly, “they aren’t dangerous.”
Anton looked at you for a very long time after that.
Not direct eye contact. You still weren’t sure he’d ever fully meet your eyes comfortably. But his attention stayed fixed near your face with unusual steadiness, expression unreadable beneath the soft fluorescent lobby lights.
Then someone entered the building loudly behind you both, the door slamming harder than necessary.
Anton startled.
Not dramatically, but enough that his hand caught the fabric of your sleeve again automatically.
The movement happened so naturally now that neither of you reacted immediately.
His fingers stayed there lightly curled against your wrist while he glanced back toward the entrance, orienting himself. You looked down at the contact for a second before lifting your eyes toward him again.
Anton followed your gaze belatedly.
A flush spread across his face almost instantly.
He released you carefully this time instead of jerking away.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
The second the word left his mouth, surprise crossed his expression again. Like he still wasn’t entirely deciding when speech happened.
You smiled a little despite yourself. “You don’t have to apologize every time you touch me.”
Anton stared.
You watched the sentence process in real time.
Slowly. Dangerously.
His lips parted slightly before closing again. He looked down toward his own hand like it had become unfamiliar to him somehow.
Then his phone appeared.
| I think about it afterward.
“What part?”
| Whether I was supposed to know something.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“About touching?”
Tiny nod.
The honesty of it nearly killed you.
You leaned against the wall slightly, trying to steady yourself before answering. “Most people attach meaning to physical affection.”
| Even small things?
“Yes.”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| That seems exhausting.
You laughed softly before you could help it. “It can be.”
Anton watched your face with quiet concentration.
| When you touch me it feels calm.
| So afterward I don’t understand why everyone makes those things complicated.
The entire world seemed to tilt sideways for one horrifying second.
Anton, meanwhile, looked completely sincere.
No flirting. No awareness of the effect he’d just had on you. He said things the way people described weather patterns — observationally, honestly, without understanding how intimate they sounded once spoken aloud.
You were absolutely doomed.
Before you could respond, Anton’s phone buzzed sharply in his hand. The sudden sound made him flinch slightly before checking the screen.
His expression shifted immediately.
“What is it?”
He turned the phone toward you.
A calendar notification.
Dinner — 6:00 PM
Underneath it, another smaller reminder:
Eat full meal. Not snacks.
You blinked.
Then looked at him slowly. “Did someone actually schedule meals into your phone?”
Anton took the phone back.
After a moment:
| I forget.
“You forget to eat?”
Tiny shrug.
| Other things are louder.
-
You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary after that.
Other things are louder.
Anton said sentences like they were simple facts, then left you standing there trying to recover from the weight of them afterward. You wondered if he had any idea how revealing he sounded sometimes, how easily little pieces of himself slipped into conversation before he could recognize them as personal.
Probably not.
“Have you eaten today?” you asked carefully.
Anton’s silence answered first.
You stared at him. “Anton.”
Another pause.
Finally:
| A banana.
“Since when?”
His eyes drifted upward slightly, thinking.
| Morning.
Your chest tightened in immediate irritation. “That’s not enough.”
He looked mildly confused by your tone, like your concern had arrived too intensely for him to categorize right away. You were beginning to notice that too — strong emotion seemed to make him pause longer, processing each word more carefully before deciding how to react.
“I mean…” You exhaled, softening your voice. “No wonder you’re tired.”
Anton leaned lightly against the wall beside you, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again while students passed through the lobby in scattered groups. He looked genuinely thoughtful now, considering your statement with unusual seriousness.
| I didn’t notice until you said it.
“That you were hungry?”
Small nod.
You weren’t sure why that made you sad.
Maybe because Anton seemed disconnected from his own body half the time, noticing discomfort only after it became impossible to ignore. Hunger. Overstimulation. Emotions. Everything arrived delayed.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag again, “you should eat before your next class.”
His gaze shifted toward the rain outside immediately.
Avoidance.
“You don’t want to go to the dining hall.”
Another tiny nod.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too unpredictable. You could practically map the reasons out yourself already.
“You could get takeout somewhere quieter.”
Anton didn’t answer.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re not going to, are you?”
| Eventually.
“That means no.”
Anton blinked slowly, caught.
The expression that crossed his face was so unintentionally cute you almost got angry about it.
Before you could stop yourself, you sighed and said, “Come on.”
He frowned faintly
“Where?”
“There’s a café behind the library that stays pretty empty around this time.”
You watched confusion spread across his expression in stages. Then surprise. Then something more hesitant underneath both.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
The soft sound of his voice caught you off guard again. It was still strange hearing him speak aloud after spending most of the past two days communicating through typed messages and silence. His voice felt intimate somehow. Fragile in a way people instinctively leaned closer to.
“I know,” you said gently. “I want to.”
Anton stared at you for a second too long after that. Then lowered his gaze first.
You were starting to suspect he did that whenever emotions became too large to process immediately.
The walk to the café was quieter than usual because the rain had driven most students indoors. Damp leaves clung to the sidewalks, the entire campus washed gray and silver beneath the evening sky. Anton stayed close beside you without seeming aware of it, occasionally brushing against your shoulder before drifting away again.
At one point, your umbrella tilted slightly from the wind.
Anton adjusted it for you automatically.
Not taking it from your hands. Just reaching up carefully to straighten the angle so the rain stopped hitting your sleeve.
The gesture was so natural it took you a second to even process it.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
He nodded once like the action required no acknowledgment.
The café sat tucked behind the library exactly as promised, warm yellow light glowing through fogged windows. Inside smelled like espresso and cinnamon with soft instrumental music low enough not to overwhelm the room. Only a few students occupied the scattered tables.
Anton stopped just inside the doorway.
You turned toward him. “Too much?”
He looked around carefully.
Then shook his head.
Relief loosened something in your chest.
While you ordered at the counter, Anton lingered several feet away studying the dessert display with complete concentration. Not the food itself, you realized after watching him for a moment.
The colors. The arrangement.
Tiny fruit tarts lined perfectly in rows beneath warm lighting. Frosted cakes decorated with edible flowers. Soft pink macarons stacked like polished stones.
Beautiful things.
You smiled to yourself before ordering.
When you carried the drinks and food back to the table, Anton immediately moved his phone and sleeves out of the way for you with careful precision. You set a sandwich in front of him.
His eyes widened slightly.
“That’s too much,” he murmured.
“It’s half a sandwich.”
“It’s large.”
“You had a banana six hours ago.”
Anton stared at the sandwich like you’d handed him a complicated assignment instead of food.
“You remembered.”
The words landed strangely soft between you.
“Of course I remembered.”
Something changed in his expression again. Small enough that another person probably wouldn’t notice. But you were starting to recognize these tiny shifts now — the way his shoulders loosened when he felt safe, the faint unfocusing of his eyes when emotions became difficult, the careful stillness whenever he was trying to hold onto something internally.
Anton picked up the sandwich obediently after a moment.
You expected him to eat delicately.
Instead, he took one bite and immediately closed his eyes.
Not dramatically. Just briefly.
Processing.
“It’s good?” you asked, amused.
After swallowing, he typed one-handed:
| The bread texture is correct.
You laughed so suddenly a nearby student glanced over.
Anton’s attention snapped immediately toward your face.
Again.
Always again.
He watched your reactions with such complete focus it made your stomach feel strange.
“What?”
His fingers stilled against his phone.
| You laugh differently now than yesterday.
“Oh?”
Tiny nod. Less careful.
You looked down at your drink for a second, suddenly embarrassed by how comfortable you’d already become around him. It had only been two days. Two very strange, emotionally days.
Across from you, Anton continued eating in small precise bites while occasionally glancing toward the rain streaking the café windows. His damp hair had finally begun drying, soft dark strands curling slightly near the ends.
Without warning, he spoke again.
“You touch people a lot?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
“What?”
Anton looked immediately concerned, like he’d skipped too many conversational steps again without realizing it.
“You…” He paused, visibly searching for the words. “Move close easily.”
“Oh.”
Heat crept into your face embarrassingly fast.
“I mean, not everyone.”
Anton processed that carefully while peeling the wrapper from his straw with meticulous attention.
“Only people you like?”
You stared at him across the tiny café table while he waited with complete sincerity for an answer, entirely unaware of how loaded the conversation had become.
“I guess so,” you admitted quietly.
Anton nodded once.
Then returned to eating like he hadn’t just destabilized your entire nervous system.
For a while, neither of you spoke again.
The café settled into a comfortable hush around you both, low music blending with the soft hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. Rainwater crawled slowly down the windows in thin uneven trails, turning the lights outside blurry and gold. Anton seemed calmer here than anywhere else you’d seen him on campus so far. Not fully relaxed — you were beginning to think that state barely existed for him — but settled enough that the constant tension in his shoulders had eased.
You watched him absentmindedly peel the paper sleeve from his straw into perfectly even strips.
Not fidgeting.
Organizing.
His sandwich sat precisely centered on the napkin between bites.
“You always do that?” you asked softly.
Anton glanced up.
“With objects.”
Then his eyes drifted toward the neat pile of paper strips beside his drink.
“Oh.”
He looked faintly embarrassed for the first time all evening.
“I’m making a mess,” he murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
You reached over before thinking and straightened one of the uneven paper pieces he’d missed. Anton went completely still watching your fingers brush the table.
The silence stretched.
“You don’t get irritated by things?”
The question caught you off guard. “What kind of things?”
He gestured vaguely toward the strips.
“The wrongness.”
You looked down at the table.
Then back at him slowly.
“I mean… sometimes.”
Anton waited.
“But not like you do, I think.”
He stared at your mouth while you spoke, expression thoughtful and slightly distant again. Processing. You were getting frighteningly good at recognizing when he’d gone inward like that.
After a moment, he typed:
| Most people say I overreact to discomfort.
The ache in your chest returned immediately.
You wondered how many parts of himself Anton had spent years apologizing for simply because other people experienced the world less intensely than he did.
“Well,” you said carefully, “if something genuinely feels overwhelming to you, then it’s overwhelming. Even if other people don’t understand it.”
Anton stopped moving entirely. Listening.
You saw the exact moment your words landed somewhere important.
His fingers tightened once around the edge of his sleeve before loosening again. Then he lowered his gaze toward the table almost abruptly, like he suddenly needed somewhere else to look.
“You say things softly,” he said after a while.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“What does that mean?”
Anton frowned faintly, searching.
“Like…” He paused again. “Like you don’t want them to hurt anyone.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly killed you on the spot.
You looked away first this time, pretending to focus on your drink so he wouldn’t notice how flustered you’d suddenly become.
Across from you, Anton continued studying you openly in that indirect way he had. Not eye contact exactly. Attention contact. Total and unnervingly observant.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
The reaction was immediate.
His shoulders tensed before he even checked the screen.
You watched his expression shift as he read the notification. Not upset. Just… burdened.
“What is it?”
Anton turned the phone toward you after a second.
Mom calling
He stared at the screen while it rang. Didn’t answer.
The vibration stopped after several seconds before immediately starting again.
“You should probably pick up,” you said gently.
Anton looked genuinely distressed by the idea.
“She worries if I don’t.”
“Then answer?”
Another ring.
He swallowed faintly before pressing accept and lifting the phone to his ear.
You looked away automatically to give him privacy, but silence stretched so long you eventually glanced back.
Anton hadn’t spoken.
He sat perfectly still listening to the voice on the other end while his thumb rubbed repeatedly against the edge of his sleeve beneath the table.
Then, very quietly:
“Yes.”
A pause.
“No.”
Another pause.
“I ate.”
Something in your chest twisted at how carefully he said each word, like speech over the phone required even more concentration than face-to-face conversation.
His mother’s voice carried faintly through the speaker, too muffled to understand.
Anton’s gaze drifted toward you unexpectedly.
Then away again.
“Yes,” he whispered after another long silence. “I’m with someone.”
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Whatever his mother said next made faint pink rise into his cheeks almost instantly.
“No,” he murmured quickly. “Not like that.”
You nearly inhaled your straw.
Anton looked absolutely horrified the second he realized you’d probably heard that.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “She’s my aide.”
The sentence shouldn’t have stung. It did anyway.
You hated yourself a little for that.
Another stretch of silence followed while Anton listened again, expression becoming more and more strained by the second. You could almost see the social exhaustion building in real time.
Then finally:
“I know.”
A beat.
“I’ll sleep.”
Another.
“Yes.”
And softer this time:
“Love you too.”
The call ended.
Anton immediately set the phone facedown against the table and exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding tension in his lungs the entire time.
You looked at him carefully. “You okay?”
He nodded automatically. Too quickly.
You didn’t call him out on it.
Instead, you stirred your drink quietly while Anton reorganized the paper sleeve strips again despite already arranging them perfectly. The café lights reflected softly against the silver rings on his fingers.
After a minute, he spoke without looking up.
“She asks if I’ve eaten every day.”
You smiled faintly. “Sounds like she knows you well.”
Anton’s expression shifted strangely.
“She remembers things even when I don’t tell her.”
The words lingered between you both.
Then, after another pause:
“You do that too.”
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
Before you could answer, Anton finally looked up fully enough that his eyes nearly met yours for half a second. It was the closest he’d gotten yet.
“She’ll think…” He stopped, visibly reorganizing the sentence mid-thought. “She’ll think you’re important.”
The café suddenly felt too warm again.
You stared at him across the table while he remained completely sincere, completely unaware of the effect he had when he spoke like this. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t testing anything. Anton just said honest things before understanding the emotional consequences attached to them.
And somehow that made it worse.
“What do you think?” you asked quietly before you could stop yourself.
The second the question left your mouth, Anton went still.
Slowly, carefully, his attention fixed near your face again while the entire café blurred strangely around you.
Then, after what felt like forever, he answered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I think…” He paused. “I noticed when you were gone.”
does this boy know how much i’ve cried because of him tonight?
‘i hope you remember me’ of course i do
guanlin was my first maknae that was actually younger than me and i’ve been worried about him for a long time. i was really hoping to see him back as wanna one, maybe not as a singer but back with the group again. but i’m glad we got this rather than nothing.
i’m getting upset just writing this - i’ve got my period, the flu and now i’m sad. is there any wannables around? please tell me i’m not the only one that cried my eyes out.
what’s surreal is that i’ve seen some of his dramas, little of his projects but have seen photos and he’s so mature and grown up now - so handsome and collected. but to see him with sungwoon again, with the little cute tilt in his voice reminds me and his soft gentle and loving spirit i can’t help but be sad about it.
A car accident has turned your life upside down, leaving you with a knee and ankle that ache like they belong to someone three times your age. Navigating college with these setbacks is hard enough, but when your overprotective dad insists you take an internship with the men’s hockey team, you’re thrust back into the world you’ve spent years avoiding. The rink represents everything you’ve lost, and then there’s Heeseung, the captain whom you somehow cannot stop thinking about.
💿 SOUNDTRACK 〢🖇 SERIES MASTERLIST 〢⛸️ PART TWO
wc pt 1 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 24,868
ᵎ!ᵎ WARNINGS ──── GRAPHIC CONTENT! car accident, PTSD, chronic pain & disability, depression, Y/N is very, very frustrated and kinda angry at the world for a second, overprotective/controlling dad & brother, sports injuries, alcohol, mild drunkenness, hurt/comfort, panic attack, mentions of zombies, mentions of dying by said mentioned zombies, smooching (each other, not the zombies!!)
# TAGS ──── SLOW-BURN friends-to-lovers, coach's daughter x hockey captain, mutual pining, very much bed-sharing, and a lot of napping, Y/N is a napper, they very obviously have crushes on each other, angst with happy ending
❝ AN ❞ ──── I really loved working on this fic and am SO excited to republish it! I hope you enjoy reading it just as much. I've not finished the whole fic yet, but I assume it's gonna be about 55 to 60k long! We also ignore that she would not be at rehab this shortly after a surgery! Things had to be changed for the plot!!
all feedback and reblogs are welcome ⭑.ᐟ
The sound of crunching metal and the violent jolt of impact were the last things you remembered clearly from that day six years ago.
It was louder than the music on the radio. Louder than your dad’s panicked shout.
Louder than your own scream as the world folded in on itself.
It had been raining for days, thundering even, thick, dark clouds hanging above the skyscrapers of the city, blocking out any sunlight.
You had been sitting in the front seat of your dad’s car, your legs tucked comfortably into the seat as he drove through the rain on what was supposed to be a regular, boring Saturday morning.
You remembered the music, a song you had heard a million times already. You desperately wished to change the radio station, but didn’t dare to ask.
You had fought with your dad in the morning, you couldn’t recall what it was about, you knew it was probably something stupid, something meaningless, but it was enough to dampen his mood, making the whole ride to the ice rink uncomfortably tense.
You remembered the car coming to a stop at an intersection just a few streets away from the ice arena.
You hated going past that intersection now.
There wasn’t even a single trace left of what happened that day. The traffic light had been changed, the tyre marks washed away after years of cars driving over the asphalt, and yet it left so many scars on you.
You remembered the horn that cut through the silence in the car. A loud, long, shrill sound.
Seconds later, time seemed to slow down.
The impact was deafening.
You heard everything at once. Felt everything at once.
The high, tearing shriek of brakes.
The heavy, hollow boom as metal slammed into metal.
The feeling of your head connecting with the window in a sharp, sickening thud, and the white, hot pain that would follow. It exploded through your body, radiating from your foot up into your chest, stealing the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping, choking on your own breath.
For a moment afterwards, everything was silent.
You knew it was never silent, but it was like you had dislodged all your senses for a few seconds before the world came rushing back in a torrent of pain and noise.
You remembered the rumble of thunder, the rain drumming harder on the crumpled roof, a sharp staccato against the twisted metal. For a few seconds, you were able to hear your dad over all of the noise, his voice full of panic.
“YN!” His voice sounded far away, buried under the ringing in your ears. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me!”
You blinked. Your vision was blurry, your eyes stinging. You tried to move to rub your eyes, find a way to make it stop hurting.
Another rumble came from overhead, thunder chasing the storm across the sky. It blended in with the sirens, with the echo of the truck’s impact replaying in your skull.
Everything after that was gone.
You couldn’t remember the ambulance coming in, the process of freeing you out of the wreck, the drive to the hospital, the surgeries, or the days in the ICU.
The only thing you could remember from the weeks afterwards was the dull, never-ending pain.
A hand landed gently on your shoulder, startling you into ripping your open eyes, almost jolting upright. Your heart was hammering against your ribs until you recognised the white ceiling of the room in the rehabilitation centre.
"Whoa, easy," Jihoon, the physiotherapist in charge of the EMS machines, chuckled.
The pads placed along your clave went silent, the current fading to nothing, leaving a faint prickling feeling. He peered at you over his glasses, that soft smile in place, that he always used when he knew you were exhausted.
You blinked hard, swallowing dryly while heat crept up your neck. "Sorry. I zoned out."
"Again?" He raised an eyebrow, peeling the electrodes off one by one, before attaching them to your thigh. His touch is brisk but kind, years of working making it almost automatic. "You’ve been stuck in your head a lot lately. Everything alright?"
You forced a laugh, nodding. "I am just dreaming of the day when I don’t have to come close to this building ever again." Your ankle throbbed without the distraction, a deep, insistent pull.
Jihoon hummed. "I really love our sessions together, but for your sake, I am hoping the same."
"Thanks," you muttered, clenching your teeth when he started up the machine again.
“Do you want me to let you sleep while you’re hooked up to the machine?” Jihoon asked, cleaning his hands from the gel he had used to attach the pads.
You made a sound in agreement, not trusting your voice, while the little electrode pads hummed steadily against your skin.
It was almost routine by now, the gruelling physio sessions and lymphatic drainages that were leaving dark bruises blooming across your skin, the agonising moment of having to get up and get home despite the exhaustion.
Soobin's car idled close to the entrance, its hazard lights blinking.
Your brother leaned over to pop the passenger door as you approached, crutches clacking unevenly on the pavement. "Hey," he said, voice light, his eyes scanning your face.
“Hi,” you eased into the seat with a wince, folding the crutches across your lap.
You hated this, having to be chauffeured around like a helpless child. Having to wait for someone to get you home.
Soobin grabbed your bag and placed it on the back seat before turning back to you with a soft smile. "How was your day?"
"Hard. Tiring." The words came out flatter than you meant, edged with frustration you couldn't quite bury.
Soobin caught the bite in your tone, glancing over as he merged into traffic. He was quiet for a second before he started talking again. "My media ethics class was a circus today. The professor had us debate whether deepfakes should be straight-up illegal or just watermarked to hell. This one guy, a total idiot, argued that those who have deepfakes created by whatever AI just had to tell people it wasn’t them. Sometimes I really wonder how those people got into Decelis. I thought it was supposed to be a top university.”
You nodded, half-listening to his rambling; his voice was a steady hum over the engine. When he killed the engine a few minutes later, you had to force your eyes open again, squinting against the bright light in the underground garage.
Your brother glanced over, smirking as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I see, you’re truly interested in my life, Y/N.”
You hummed, letting your eyelids close again. “I’ve paid attention. You told me something about deepfakes and laws and…yeah.”
Soobin chuckled and got out of his seat, rounding the car. By the time you fumbled with the door, Soobin had already grabbed your crutches with one hand and slung his and your bag over his shoulder. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty. Up you go."
You groaned, but obediently swung your legs out of the car, reaching for the crutches and heaving yourself upright with a huff. Your brother was waiting patiently, holding the car door open wide until you had made your way out of it. He led the way, propping doors open through the dim garage halls, up the elevator, and right to the apartment.
Soobin entered the hallway with a loud, “We are home!”
Inside, it was cooler than the warm, humid August air. “Hello, you two," your mom's voice came from the kitchen, followed by her head appearing in the doorframe. ”Get changed and come eat.”
“Hi mom,” you answered, giving her a tired smile.
Soobin dropped your bag in your room, and you thanked him before letting yourself drop onto the bed with a huff.
For a long moment, you stayed there, the only movement coming from your ribcage, slowly lifting and lowering with each breath you took. You crossed your arms over your head, your skin sticky from a faint sheen of sweat.
“Y/N, aren’t you hungry?” Your father was standing in your doorframe, mustering your figure.
You slowly dropped one arm after the other, still staring ahead at the ceiling. The small glow-in-the-dark stars that Ryujin and Beomguy glued onto your ceiling during your first stay in the hospital were slowly peeling off, leaving holes in the constellations.
“I’m tired, Dad.”
“You still need to eat Y/N. And I will not bring dinner to your bed, so come on,” his eyes were ranking over your figure, as you heaved yourself upright. “I can get your mom if you need help changing, and then you can join us.”
“Heeseung!” the voice of his coach ripped Heeseung from his thoughts. “Do you have a minute?”
Heeseung came to a stop and turned around to face Coach Choi, standing near the bench, his clipboard tucked under his arm.
His eyes darted from the older man to the entrance to the changing rooms. It has been nearly a week since the season started, and he couldn’t remember anyone doing anything that could have gotten him or anyone else in trouble. “Sure, Coach.”
A few strikes over the ice were enough to reach the boards before he stepped onto the rubber flooring. The Coach gestured for him to sit down.
“Heeseung, my boy, I’ve been thinking about the team’s image,” the Coach began, his tone casual but deliberate.
Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Image?”
The Coach nodded, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “Yeah. You boys are doing great on the ice, and it’s a pity we don’t showcase that more on social media. I’ve had a meeting with the athletic department, and it has agreed that we need someone to handle not only your social media but also the figure skaters' social media. They want to have more exposure for the teams and for your students.”
He looked at Heeseung expectantly, and he nodded slowly, waiting for the older man to continue.
“Scouts, sponsors, even alumni donors, they pay attention to more than just your games. They want to see personalities, professionalism, something marketable for their teams.”
Heeseung crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the boards. “I am aware, sir. But what does that have to do with me?”
The Coach hummed. “We’ve come to an agreement that we will build a social media team this semester. Students and professionals alike. We would like to give students a chance to get internships done and have someone who has an eye on the situation.”
Heeseung tilted his head, curious. “A PR manager?”
He wasn’t aware that the team had the funds to hire a person to post a few pics of them on Instagram to appease the sponsors. He knew the swimming team had a PR-manager, a sweet girl being tasked with filming them while they swam and making them partake in ridiculous TikTok trends.
“Yes. I was thinking about asking my daughter for now, until we’ve officially built a team and publicised the applications,” the coach said, nodding, “I want to start posting as soon as possible, so that we already have a few followers when the games start.”
“Y/N?” Heeseung blinked, caught off guard.
The Coach nodded, his expression softening slightly. “She knows hockey inside and out. And she’s good with this kind of stuff, social media, PR, that kind of thing. It’ll be good for her, and it’ll help the team.”
Heeseung hesitated for a second.
The coach’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face, as he spoke up before Heeseung could answer. “She’s been looking for something to focus on, and this is a good opportunity for her. Plus, it’s not like she’s starting from scratch; she grew up around this sport.”
Heeseung nodded slowly, uncertain what influence your prior knowledge of hockey had on you filming some cringe TikTok videos. “Okay. What do you need from me?”
“I need you to help make this transition smooth,” Coach said, his tone firm. “She’s going to be around a lot, and I don’t want her feeling like she’s an outsider. Make sure the guys treat her with respect, and if she needs anything, you help her out.”
Heeseung frowned slightly. “You’re not asking me to babysit her, right?”
The coach let out a low chuckle. “No, she doesn’t need babysitting. But you’re the captain. It’s part of your job to make sure the team stays cohesive. She’s going to be part of the team.”
Heeseung was standing under the hot stream of the showers in the arena, washing away the layers of sweat that had collected on his skin during the last three hours of drills on the ice. The muscles in his back started to relax slowly under the heat.
“Hee, do you wanna come over later? Yeonjun, Beomguy and I were thinking about inviting Tae and Kai as well. They are in Seoul today and tomorrow, and we want to get something to eat.” Soobin was rubbing his hair with a hot pink towel, standing in front of Heeseung's cabin, ripping him out of his thoughts.
He nodded and hummed a ‘sure’ before stepping out of the cabin, reaching for his towel.
“You tired?” Soobin asked, lifting one of his brows.
Heeseung hummed again. “I haven’t slept much last night.”
“Oh, believe me. I’ve heard,” Soobin chuckled. “Gyu was screaming around until like 3 am. What did you play?”
“We played Catan online,” Heeseung shrugged. “Let’s say, we all united against him and used the robber well.”
“Catan?” the older mustered him with an amused smile.
“I have no clue. Jeongin wanted to play,” Heeseung wrapped his towel around his lower half and stepped out of the showers, towards the locker room.
He glanced at Soobin, who was still scrubbing at his hair with that ridiculous pink towel.
Soobin insisted it was a lucky charm.
"Hey," he said after a few beats, pulling a shirt over his head. "Your dad mentioned something about an internship? A PR intern for the team or whatever. He said his daughter might take it to catch up. He claimed Y/N needed something to ‘focus on’. Not gonna lie, he seemed pretty set on me babysitting her. Any idea what's up with that?"
Soobin's hands froze, and his towel dropped a fraction, a frown making its way on his face. „Y/N? Are you sure he said Y/N and not another name?“
Heeseung stopped adjusting his shirt and turned his gaze towards the older, nodding slowly. „He said ‚my daughter‘, and you only have one sister that I know of?“
Soobin closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath before continuing to towel his hair dry, now with a bit more force than necessary. „Whatever he is talking about, no. She would never do that. She isn’t supposed to do that.“
Heeseung blinked, his hands stilling as he reached for his pants. "Oh. Why that? He claimed that, you know, since she grew up around the sport, she'd be doing just fine?"
Soobin's expression darkened further, a flash of real upset crossing his face, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "She will absolutely say no. No chance."
Heeseung turned fully now, brows raised as he zipped up. “Why? She's not into it?"
Soobin exhaled sharply through his nose, as a mix of confusion, disappointment, and annoyance flickered across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, pacing a single step before stopping,. "Into it? Man, she'll hate every second. Turn it down flat, no question. My dad has this obsession with dragging her back into the hockey world. He thinks being around the rink, the team, all that will 'motivate' her, get her excited about life again after everything. But it does the exact opposite. She shuts down hard. He just... doesn't get it."
Heeseung raised a brow, leaning against his locker as he grabbed socks from his bag. He knew of the accident, of the surgeries. Soobin never really talked much about it, about you, and Heeseung wasn’t one to ask. Soobin was touchy about the topic. "Opposite how? I mean, PR's not even on-ice stuff. She wouldn’t have to skate?"
Soobin hesitated longer this time before answering. "She just had her fifth surgery, Heeseung.” he was quiet for a second, pulling a white shirt out of his locker before he continued. “She loved hockey before the accident. She had a sharper wrist shot than most of the guys here. She’s on crutches or a wheelchair most days now. She barely watches my games anymore and avoids the rink unless she has to. I don’t think she would ever say yes to anything that has to do with hockey ever again."
Heeseung felt a twist in his gut. "The coach made it sound so straightforward."
"Yeah, he always does," Soobin muttered, disappointment heavy in the words as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "I know he thinks he's helping, but he’s just…clueless.”
You first heard them in pieces, muffled voices coming from the kitchen.
“…don’t you think you should have told me first before you ask Heeseung?” Soobin’s voice was low and tight.
It was uncommon for your brother and father to fight, even more so for Soobin to sound this pissed. You sat up quietly on the sofa, the blanket your mother had thrown over you, slipping down your shoulders.
“I was going to,” your father answered in a clipped tone. “But the athletic department needed an answer. This internship is perfect for her. It gives her credits, a routine, something to focus on. She is not taking classes this semester.”
There was a pause before Soobin answered with a hiss. “Perfect for her?” he repeated, incredulous. “You mean the Y/N who hasn’t watched a full game since the accident? The one who hates everything that reminds her of the time before the crash with a passion? That Y/N?”
Your heart climbed up your throat, and as quietly as possible reached for your wheelchair, pulling it towards the sofa, so you could slide into the seat. The corridor light spilt in as you nudged the door open a little further, not wanting to interrupt them, but also wanting to know what they were discussing. They were standing in the narrow hallway just by the kitchen door.
“You’re exaggerating,” your father said, though his eyes flickered towards your mother, who was wordlessly watching the two. “She used to love the rink. Being around the team will do her good. Motivate her. She’s been doing nothing for months now, just physio and classes when she still had some. She needs a hobby, something that she actually enjoys.”
Soobin let out a short, humourless laugh. “A hobby? Dad, you’re talking about throwing her into a job in the loudest building on campus. You want her sitting behind the bench while thirty guys slam into the boards and pucks hit the glass. You think that’s going to magically fix things?”
“She doesn’t have to be behind the bench,” your father retorted. “She’d be in the office most of the time. Running social media, filming short videos, and organising content. She always liked making videos with her friends when she was younger.”
Your fingers curled around the cold metal of the wheels. What were the two talking about? An Internship?
“Meaningful for who?” Soobin fired back. “For her, or for you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to drag her back into your world whether she wants it or not.”
Your father straightens, shoulders squaring.
“That’s not fair,” he said sharply. “I’m trying to help her. She’s twenty and stuck in her own head. I know how bad the recovery is going, I know that this surgery was the last try, Soobin, believe me, I know. But I can’t watch her sitting at home and rot, she has so much life to live. And maybe getting back into something she loved will help with that.“
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, forcing your heart to calm down.
You hated it, you hated it so much, how they tried to decide over your life as if you weren’t there. ‚This isn’t good for you, Y/N‘.
‚Do this, and you’ll feel better, Y/N‘
“Maybe she wouldn’t feel stuck if people stopped treating her like a broken project,” Soobin snapped.“She’s allowed to want things that aren’t hockey. Not everything has to lead back to the rink.”
“And what does she want, then?” your father shot back. “She wants to drop her minor, barely talks about her major, and every time I ask about physio, she shuts down. At least this internship gives her structure. Colleagues. A reason to get out of bed that isn’t just rehab.”
“I can ask her,” Soobin said, stabbing a finger toward your room. “You could have asked her too, you know, instead of deciding for her and talking to Heeseung first.”
“He’s the captain,” your father snapped. “I needed to make sure he understood the situation. The team has to respect her.”
“And maybe your daughter should’ve been the first to know?” Soobin’s voice cracked on the last word. “She’s going to hate this. You know she will.”
“I know she needs something,” your father said stubbornly. “She always lit up around the rink. She used to film everything on that old camera, remember? Tournament vlogs, locker room interviews with you and the boys. Why is it wrong to try to give her that back?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Your own voice surprised you. Both of them turned at once.
You rolled into the hallway, having to crane your neck to look at them. “Can you two please stop yelling like I’m not here?”
Soobin’s expression softened immediately, guilt flashing across his face. “Y/N, we’re not–”
“You’re exactly what I think you are,” you cut in, looking from him to your father. “Arguing about my life as if I had nothing to decide here.”
Your father exhaled, some of the anger draining into a frown. “We didn’t want to upset you. I was going to talk to you after dinner. It’s just an internship, Y/N. Helping the hockey team with PR, filming a few videos, and taking pictures. It could be good for you.”
You stared up at him. “No.”
The word left your mouth before you even thought it through.
His brows knit. “You haven’t even heard the details.”
“I don’t need the details,” you replied, heat rising behind your eyes. “If I could, I would never do anything with hockey again. Not as a player, not as a manager, not as a mascot, nothing. I don’t want to work for your team. I don’t want to sit in that rink, listening to sticks smack the ice and pucks hit the glass and pretend I wouldn’t die to be down there, to play.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Y/N–”
“And I’m so tired of you acting like forcing me back into that world is some kind of cure,” you pressed on, voice tightening. “I am healing. Slowly. Miserably. With more pain than you want to admit. You deciding I need a ‘hobby’ is not going to fix my leg.”
“You do need something,” he insisted. “You can’t just exist between physio appointments and your bed. This isn’t about hockey, it’s about your life. You need a reason to get up, a project. You always loved filming and editing; this combines what you’re good at with something that gives you real working experience. Why is that so terrible?”
“Because you’re not listening,” Soobin said sharply. “You’re not listening to what she wants, Dad. You’re listening to what you want. What you miss.”
„Stop it!“ you raised your voice, now almost louder than the two of them. „I get it! You’re worried about me, but I am the one deciding what I want and what’s good for me, okay! I already feel like shit with everything going on, you don’t have to make it worse!“
Your father’s shoulders sagged, and he was the first to break the silence that followed your outburst. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter. “You’re right. Both of you.”
He dragged a hand over his face, the years suddenly visible in the lines around his eyes. “I shouldn’t have talked to Heeseung before I talked to you. That was wrong. I still think this could help you, but… It’s your life. We can discuss it properly. Without yelling at each other like idiots.”
Soobin nodded, moving to stand beside you now. “Then maybe actually listen when she says no,” he said, but there is no heat in it anymore.
You exhaled slowly, tension leaking out of your shoulders. “We can talk,” you agreed, your voice tired. “Later. When we have all calmed down and had something to eat. You two tend to get hangry”
A corner of your father’s mouth twitched, reluctant. “Fair enough.”
You shuffled into the bathroom after dinner, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that hadn’t disappeared since you interrupted your father and brother. There was a chair already set up in the shower, positioned under the handheld nozzle you’ve installed there after the last surgery. Your mom followed you, grabbing fresh towels from the linen closet.
“Need help?” she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.
You nodded silently and let her help ease you onto the chair, after wrapping up your leg in a plastic bag. You sat hunched forward, one leg extended awkwardly, while she knelt on the bathmat with a loofah and body wash. Her hands were gentle, methodical, washing your back first, then your good leg, avoiding the cast with practised care.
You hated how all of this was routine already, how your mother had to sacrifice so much of her time for you, to care for you, when you should be able to do all of this by yourself.
The steam rose slowly, fogging the mirror, distorting your reflection until the only thing you saw was blurry silhouettes.
“Honey,” your mother said after a while, watching you rinse soap off your shoulders. “Do you really think the internship is such a bad idea? Your father only means well. He worries about you. Maybe… maybe you would have some fun with it? Filming the boys and girls, making videos. You used to love that.”
You kept your eyes on the drain, watching suds spiral away. “I have friends, Mom. I do things.”
She pauses for a second. “I know you do. But you’ve refused visitors for weeks. You don’t leave the house except for rehab. You’re just… sleeping. All the time.”
“I’m tired,” you said, sharper than you meant. “That’s all.”
“I know you’re tired,” she murmured, taking the loofah from your hand and gently cleaning your injured side. “But I’m worried too, Y/N. You used to be so bubbly, so outgoing, you had so much fun. Now… It’s like you’re fading. And we all see it.”
Frustration bubbled up hot behind your eyes. “Because even three months ago, I still could have fun mom,” you burst out, water splattering as your hand clenches. “I knew this surgery wasn’t a good idea. It's stealing another nine months of my life again, Mom. And look at me now. I’m exhausted, my hip aches so bad from the bone graft that I can’t sit up alone some days. It’s not healing. You and Dad keep acting as if I just try harder, that with a hobby, an internship, whatever, it’ll magically get better. But it won’t. I’m stuck like this, and pretending otherwise just makes me angrier.”
Your mother’s hands stilled completely. She sat back on her heels, water dripping from the sponge onto the mat. Her eyes met yours, sad and searching.
“We don’t know how to help,” she admitted quietly. “Your father pushes you because he’s scared. I… I miss my girl. The one who was always in a good mood, who always had a smile on her face. But I also know that we will never understand what you are feeling, Y/N.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I miss her too.”
She reached out, cupping your cheek despite the spray of the water. “Then let us try. Not to fix you. Just… to be with you.”
The air wasn’t particularly cold where you were sitting in the bleachers.
It had been three days since you had spoken properly to either your father or Soobin.
You were hurt. It hurt, hearing them say that, them all somewhat agreeing that you were letting your life just go by without…living it.
The worst part about everything was that they were right. You were just sitting around doing nothing, but what were you supposed to do? All you could do at the moment was go to rehab, spend your day with grandmas who have gotten new hips or knees, and have to hear how you were too young for your injuries. You did your best with the exercises, taking it easy, but you had the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough.
You were watching a Sunghoon float across the ice. He was tall and slim, jumping around the ice as if it were nothing.
Your dad had wanted you to start figure skating as well. He had enrolled you in a class, but you hated it. You weren’t elegant or willing to go through the grueling training to get flexible enough to actually do some of the elements; you wanted to play hockey, like your brother…like your father.
The figure skater jumped, and his toe pick got stuck in the ice, causing him to stumble and fall onto his side. He stayed on the floor for a few seconds. His face was turned away from you, but you could imagine the frustration on his face. Sunghoon had fallen five or six times while doing this specific element already.
Getting stuck over and over, having to repeat one step over and over.
You knew that feeling, being stuck.
But he got up every time, started his music anew and ran the program again and again and again.
The door to the rink opened with a soft metallic groan. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw another tall person stepping inside. He was dressed in all black, baggy clothes, shaking out his hair. He stepped to the boards, watching Sunghoon gather his speed again and stumble into a jump he had landed with ease before. You recognised Heeseung even from afar. You had spent the last few days stalking the team, or well, teams on their social media accounts.
Sunghoon made an annoyed sound and skated to the boards where his phone rested, and Heeseung stood. They talked for a bit, Heeseung looking amused, if not a bit worried.
You couldn’t hear what they were talking about; the low hum of the rink was louder than their conversation. After a while, Sunghoon went back to his starting position, and for a moment, the hockey player just stood there, watching before his gaze drifted up, scanning the stands.
You straightened a little when it landed on you.
You had met Heeseung a few times, at parties or when he came over while Soobin was still living at home. He was nice, polite.
You lifted one hand in a small wave, trying to tug your mouth into something that could pass as a smile. He blinked, surprised for a fraction, then his features softened, and he waved back, lips curving. A moment later, he disappeared from view, heading out of the rink’s sightline.
You assumed he had gone to the locker room, but a couple of minutes later, you heard the faint echo of footsteps on the metal staircase. You turned your head and saw him coming up towards your row, duffel thumping lightly against his hip.
He didn’t say anything at first, just reached the top and crossed over to your row. He lowered himself onto the seat next to the one where your crutches lay, balanced awkwardly against the bench.
You blinked before turning your head to the ice again, watching Sunghoon skate.
He hadn’t restarted his music, so the silence in the rink was only broken by the sharp sounds of blades scratching over the rough ice.
You glanced to the side, where Heeseung was now leaning back into the seat. He had to fold his legs slightly, too tall for the tight space in between the rows. His gaze was focussed onto the ice, watching the figure skater.
It felt awkward, the silence between the two of you.
You averted your eyes and mustered the grey plastic of your cast, hoping for him to go back down again.
This was supposed to be your escape. You wanted to be alone for a second. To not see anyone, to not talk to anyone. You didn’t know why you decided the rink was the best place to go.
You hated coming here.
You hated the rink.
It reminded you of everything you had lost, of the future that would never be a possibility. But somehow, when you had finished your rehab earlier than planned today, and got into a taxi, you ended up coming here.
“I’m Heeseung,” he said after a while, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, and his eyes were fixed ahead. “By the way.”
You huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “I know who you are.”
He nodded once, accepting that, and silence settled again, thicker this time.
Sunghoon stumbled on the ice and fell hard onto his hip. You frowned at the sight.
Heeseung spoke up again. “How long have you been here?” he asked quietly.
“A while,” you answered, shrugging one shoulder. “He’s been struggling with that sequence for… I don’t even know how long. It keeps tripping him up.”
Heeseung nodded, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “He won’t care,” he said, like he’d seen this happen a hundred times already. “Sunghoon will stand up and do it again as many times as he needs to. He’s preparing for the Olympic qualifiers.”
You hummed this time, watching as Sunghoon pushed off the ice again, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Of course, that was the right thing to do.
When you were that talented, giving up was not an option.
It never had been.
“Are you training for the Olympic team as well?” you asked after a beat, turning your head slightly towards Heeseung.
He let out a short laugh, glancing over at you. “No,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth. “It’s hard enough being captain under your dad. I’ve already been drafted by a team. I want to play with them first, see where that goes. Maybe then I’ll think about the Olympics. If they even want me.”
You nodded, accepting that answer.
You sat like that for a while, both of you watching the streaks of motion on the ice. Eventually, a dull ache started spreading up your calf, into your thigh. You shifted, carefully adjusting the position of your leg, trying to find a spot where the pull lessened.
“You alright?” Heeseung asked, his head turning a fraction towards you.
“Yeah,” you said, biting back a wince. “Just… aching muscles. My physiotherapist had me try a new exercise today.”
“Oh.” He nodded slowly. “That sounds good, though. That’s how healing works, right? At least that's what building up muscles is like. It hurts a bit?”
You let out an annoyed little huff, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Unfortunately,” you admitted. “It is.”
He smiled to himself, eyes drifting back to the ice, and you followed his gaze, both of you letting the quiet settle over you again, the sound of blades and distant music filling the spaces.
“I can’t do the internship,” you said finally, the words tumbling out of nowhere, surprising even yourself.
He hummed low in his chest. “Yeah,” he replied. “Soobin told me already.” His gaze didn’t leave the ice. “It’s alright. I get it.”
Down below, Sunghoon went into the troublesome pass again. You watched his blade catch, just slightly off, and he went down hard on his hip this time. The music kept playing, while he got up slowly, his chest heaving.
"Do you need a ride home?" Heeseung asked after a while, breaking the silence , his voice casual, eyes still fixed on the ice.
You turned your head slightly, surprised by the offer. "Oh," you said, shaking your head. "No, thank you. I will take a taxi."
He let out a soft huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting. "If Soobin knew you were here, and knew that I was, that we met, he would probably kill me if I let you take a taxi home." He nodded towards the ice where Sunghoon was gliding into position again. "So let me drive you. It would save us both some trouble. The men in your family are quite protective of you, in case you haven’t noticed."
You shook your head again, though a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "You just arrived. Do you not want to train or something?"
He hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Then he shook his head. "No. I will not get Sunghoon off the ice anytime soon."
"I am only here because I was feeling bored," he continued, as if it explained everything. "I wanted to procrastinate on one of my essays, and what better way than going to the ice instead of being stuck behind my desk?”
You hummed. Sunghoon took off again, his blade catching just enough to make him stumble, and glanced back at Heeseung. He leaned back against the bench, taking your hum as an agreement, stretching his arms along the top row behind him.
"How is your rehab going?" he asked, his tone shifting to something gentler.
You exhaled slowly, nodding slightly. "I’m not sure. Worse than my doctor had anticipated? I don’t really know what to do with myself at the moment, if I am honest.” With a shrug, you turned to him. “This surgery was meant to restore the little mobility I had left and ease the scar tissue pain in my leg. But I am just more exhausted than before. The hip where they took the bone for the graft aches so badly on bad days that I cannot even sit up alone."
He winced visibly. "That sounds horrible."
"Yes," you agreed. "It is."
The silence returned, softer this time, with Sunghoon's music looping faintly in the background. After a moment, Heeseung spoke again. "Do not worry about the internship, by the way. I am sure they will find someone else."
"Yes," you said, nodding. "It does sound like fun, in a way. I am sure someone will love it."
He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Would you not love it?"
You would.
The thought stung because part of you really would love it if you gave it a chance.
"I would," you admitted after a moment, your voice heavy. "But I would hate coming here every day. Seeing what I could have had."
He nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his expression. "Were you ever on the ice during the phases when you could walk?"
"No," you replied, averting your gaze from him to the ceiling, before closing your eyes. "I was too scared I would hurt myself even more."
He hummed. “Do you think you could try skating again? After you’re done with rehab, even if it isn’t completely healed. You would not have to be some crazy hockey player. Just skating. It could be nice, no?"
Sunghoon landed cleanly below.
You watched the motion of his blades, the way he moved as the ice belonged to him, and felt that familiar ache.
You would love to, you were almost desperate to.
"Maybe," you said quietly.
“You would have some pretty good coaches on your side, if you ever want to try,” Heeseung joked, and you huffed out a laugh.
“I would, wouldn’t I?”
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊
You were stuck in traffic almost as soon as you exited the rink's parking lot.
Heeseung cursed under his breath, not letting go of the brakes fully, barely letting the car roll forward even after the light turned green for the second time.
He was still in disbelief at what was happening right now.
He had come to the rink to clear his head, maybe get some solo drills in. But he knew that there was no chance he would be able to get Sunghoon off the ice today, as soon as he stepped inside. His friend had been sick for days, and this was the first time since then that he had time to go over his routine, so he didn’t want to impose. He scanned the empty stands out of habit, than anything else.
He was surprised to see someone actually sitting in there.
You sat high up in the bleachers, crutches propped beside you, your expression distant as you watched Sunghoon glide across the ice. There was no particular cold in the air, but you looked small somehow, hunched into yourself, like the weight of something invisible was pressing down on you.
Heeseung paused by the door, surprised at himself for even recognising you.
He barely knew you beyond team events and Soobin's warnings to "be nice but don't get too close."
For a second, he wondered if he was crazy.
What was he supposed to do, walk up to his Coach's daughter and strike up a conversation?
But you looked… miserable. Sad, even. And you seemed nice enough from the handful of times you'd exchanged words.
He wasn’t a person who went up to others to just start up conversations; he was rather awkward most of the time with new people, but before he could talk himself out of it, his feet were already carrying him up the stairs. And now he was driving you home.
Heeseung took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down enough to not start cursing out the poor drivers in front of him and noticed how you shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat next to him. He imagined the cast to be uncomfortable, especially now in the hot, humid summer.
"Is it very bad?" his voice was gentle, when he broke the silence in the car for the first time, since you got in.
"Just sore," you answered with a shrug, repeating your answer from before. He would have been fine with that as an answer, but you continued talking. "I swear my physio is trying to kill me. I know to rebuild muscle, I have to actually work on it, but he thinks of the worst exercises."
He huffed out a soft laugh at that. "Sounds like your dad. He claims that if we are not sore by the end of a gym session, we are pussies who haven't done enough."
That made you smile, small but genuine. "Sounds like him, yeah."
A car honked behind you, and Heeseung sighed, resting his forehead briefly against the steering wheel, closing his eyes in resignation, before turning his head towards you. "I think we're going to be stuck here for a while."
You snorted and raised a brow. "You think?"
He ignored the remark and sat up properly again, trying to strike up an actual conversation this time. "Which year are you in?"
"Third," you answered. "You?"
"Same," he replied. "Well. Technically. I took an extra semester."
"Hockey?"
"Hockey," he confirmed.
The music from the speakers shifted quietly between R&B and pop. He kept his eyes on the traffic ahead. "So, what are you studying? Your major."
"Business administration," you replied, staring out at a couple walking their dog on the sidewalk next to Heeseung's car. "With a minor in media production."
"That fits," he nodded. "With the internship, I mean. PR stuff. Content creation."
You hummed in acknowledgement but did not say anything further, and Heeseung bit his lower lip, thinking he had fucked up by mentioning the internship again. He glanced at you, but you were still staring out of the passenger window.
Great, seems like he did fuck it up.
"What about you?" you asked after a long moment of silence, turning your head towards him.
"Music production," he answered, almost relieved. "Sound engineering, mixing, that kind of thing."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly, interest sparking. "Music production? Have you done anything like… professionally? Or just as a hobby?"
He smiled faintly, tapping the steering wheel with the beat. "Right now, it is mostly me in my flat at three in the morning, trying to layer vocals over beats that sounded better in my head. My roommates have to suffer a bit with it.”
"That sounds cool," you cocked your head a bit to the right. "Do you make whole songs? Or just remixes and stuff?"
"Both," he gave you a small smile, counting it as a win, that you seemed at least a bit interested. "I started with remixing songs I liked, speeding them up, adding drops, that kind of thing. Now I am trying to write originals. Lyrics are harder than the production, though."
You nodded thoughtfully. "What kind of music? Like… pop? Electronic?"
"Bit of everything," he admitted. "Pop, hip-hop, some lo-fi. Depends on my mood. Lately, I have been messing around with ambient stuff."
"Have you put anything online?" you asked, leaning a little closer to the centre console now. "Like on SoundCloud or something?"
He felt his ears heat slightly; he usually didn’t talk much to strangers about his music.
Most of the stuff he did write or produce was close to his heart, had a lot of meaning to him, or was the person to whom he gifted the songs. "A few tracks, yeah. "
You were smiling properly now, eyes bright. "What is your artist name?"
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You’re gonna have to try to figure that out by yourself, Y/N."
“Aw, Heeseung,” you pouted, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “I thought we were friendly now. Why would you make me work for it?”
He raised an eyebrow. "Friendly?"
"Are we not?" you said simply. "You came up to me while I was moping around, and you are driving me home now. In a weird way, you were able to even lift my mood a bit!"
Heeseung giggled at that, a real, full giggle breaking out of him, and he felt his ears reddening before he caught himself. “I am glad I could lift your mood, Y/N. But you’re not gonna get my user. You have to work for that.”
You huffed out a breath and pretended to be upset, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Unfair!”
"What do you do in your free time, aside from now probably trying to figure out my Soundcloud handle?" Heeseung asked, his curiosity genuine as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. The traffic had finally started to ease up a little, but you were still crawling along at a snail's pace.
You let out a small sigh, your gaze drifting back to the window. "Lately? I sleep a lot. I do not really do much aside from physio and sleeping at the moment. Maybe watch some Netflix if I have the energy."
He nodded slowly, processing that. "And before? If you are in media production, you probably did a lot of video stuff, right?"
Your smile returned, but it did not reach your eyes. "Yes, I did. A lot of video editing. It was actually a lot of fun. I used to vlog, make edits for friends, little projects for classes. I even had a small following on TikTok for a while."
“Oh, what did you upload?” he tried to keep his tone light.
“Different things? Mainly edits of a few idols?”, you answered, sounding a bit embarrassed at that.
Heeseung nodded, smiling, amused at your reaction. “Like those thirst traps of them being half naked?”
“No!” you gasped and shook your head. “Definitely not that. Usually, it was just a few videos cut to a song I thought was cute with a few filters and stuff like that.”
Heeseung laughed at that, and you nodded, averting your face, but grinning.
“Do you do anything aside from playing Hockey and cooking up some crazy beats that I am not allowed to hear?” You asked a few seconds later.
He hummed and nodded, switching lanes before he answered. “Not much? I like to play video games. Do you know Beomgyu? We tend to play League a lot.”
That made you snort and shake your head. “Oh, believe me, I do know Gyu rather well. He claims gaming is helping his strategic thinking on the ice. I call it bullshit.”
Heeseung chuckled, nodding along. "Fair enough. But you have to admit, his game sense is pretty good sometimes. Gyu reads plays two steps ahead, sets up those perfect give-and-gos like he sees the whole rink in his head."
You raised a brow, turning fully towards him now. "Dude, what the fuck? If he wasn't as good with his wrist shots, he wouldn't be any good on the ice at all."
Heeseung blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "His wrist shot?"
You shrugged, but your eyes lit up just a fraction. "Gyu's release is filthy. He hits the top shelf before goalies even track it. Without that, his 'strategy' wouldn't save him from anything."
He stared for a second, lowkey impressed. He had forgotten, not just that you were Coach's daughter, but that you had played yourself. "Damn," he said, grinning despite himself. "Spot on. How do you know all that?"
You huffed a small laugh, glancing out the window. "I catch highlights sometimes after you play. And yeah, Gyu's shot carries him."
"He did a reel with his best shots of last season," he said carefully. "It got a few million views on his TikTok."
“I know,” you went quiet for a moment, your fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. “I cut the videos. I helped out with most of his videos when he was still actively posting.”
Heeseung hummed at that, not knowing what to say now. The playlist shifted to another soft pop track, filling the space.
"I don't know," you finally admitted. "Part of me thinks it could be good. To do the internship, I mean. I think my dad is right, and I would love it. But coming to the rink every day… being surrounded by hockey again. It is hard."
"Why not try it?" he pressed gently. "Just for a bit. If you like it, great. If not, you quit. I will even play babysitter.” He huffed out his chest a bit and winked at you. “I’ll be rude to anyone who does not participate. Make sure everyone behaves."
You let out a small laugh, genuine this time. "Ohh the scary captain saving the poor social media girly in need? I don’t think you’re scary enough to get the others to film stupid TikTok trends."
He grinned, playing along. "Oh, I am terrifying. Ask the freshmen. They cry into their pillows every night."
You snorted, shaking your head. "Such a bad captain. The team must hate you."
"They worship me," he shot back, mock-serious. "Fear and respect. Perfect balance."
The laughter faded into a comfortable quiet, but he could see you thinking, turning the idea over in your head. "Just say the word. I will make sure everyone is on their best behaviour."
You smiled tiredly, but nodded. "Deal."
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊
Crazy. You had to be batshit crazy for what you were about to do.
You had just finished brushing your teeth when your father shuffled into the bathroom, yawning wide as he reached for the cup where he kept his toothbrush. The morning light slanted through the frosted window, catching the tired lines around his eyes. Before he could even start his routine, you turned from the sink.
"I'll do it," you burst out, watching his reflection in the mirror halt mid-motion. His hand froze over the cup, toothpaste tube half-squeezed in the other.
He blinked, setting the tube down slowly. "Do what?"
"The internship," you said, taking a deep breath that did nothing to steady the sudden hammering in your chest. "I'll try it. I'm not promising anything. If I hate it, I will quit. But I'll give it a shot."
Your father straightened up, toothbrush forgotten entirely now. Shock flickered across his face, eyebrows shooting up, mouth parting slightly as if he thought he had misheard you. He turned fully to face you, leaning one hip against the counter. "Wait. You-you're serious? After everything you said the other night?"
You nodded, gripping the edge of the sink behind you. "Yes. I'm serious."
He stared at you for a long moment, processing, then a slow smile started to spread across his face, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger. "Y/N, that's… that's great. Really great." He stepped closer, clapping a hand on your shoulder gently. "What changed your mind?"
You shrugged one shoulder, avoiding his gaze by focusing on the toothpaste flecks in the sink. "I do need something to do, no matter how hard it might be. You and Mom are right, sitting around all day… It's not helping. I think I need to really live my life again.”
The words tasted bitter, like admitting defeat, but they were true.
He nodded eagerly, hand lingering on your shoulder a second too long. "Exactly. This is perfect for you. With your eye for video, knowing the game inside out, you could do hockey media afterwards. Analyst, journalist, or something in the industry. Build a real future around it. This is such a good opportunity for you! I am glad you’re finally seeing that aswell."
You froze, closing your eyes, while your heart slowed down for a second, before beating faster than before. Disappointment washed over you.
"Dad," you said, your voice tired. "I told you that I’m having a hard time doing literally anything and want to try to get my life started again, and you want me to already turn that stupid PR thing into a career? The last thing I am thinking about is building a future around something I would be close to but could never have."
He frowned, hand dropping. "What do you mean, can't? You’ve always loved–"
"No." You turned fully now, gripping the counter edge so your knuckles whitened. "Dad, how can you still not understand what I am saying? You’re right, I loved hockey. But I have to leave that in the past; I had to reinvent myself dad. I will never be the girl who lived and breathed hockey. I can’t even sit up without help for fucks sake!”
His expression softened into pity. You pressed your lips onto each other, turning away, trying to blink away your tears. "Y/N…I didn’t mean it like that. I always imagined that when you’re healthy again, you’d go back onto the ice, help me with the summer camps, and have fun joking around. You were such a talented player."
Tears pricked in your eyes. "So you still see me as a prodigy lost, got it."
Silence hung heavy between you. He stepped back, deflated. "I… thought the rink would help."
"You thought wrong,” you snapped. "This isn't about your dreams for me. I regret letting Heeseung talk me into this now. I’m such an idiot. How could I think you’d ever understand me?"
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his neck. "Y/N I was driving the car. I saw you almost die. You think seeing you not getting better is something I enjoy? I am trying to understand. But I actively lived my life after the crash, and I know you can too.”
You laughed; it was a hollow, pained sound. "Your surgeries were nothing compared to mine, Dad. You walked weeks later. I got crushed. Pinned. It’s been six years, those six years that are the most important ones. Hell, I was in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday, I can barely remember my sixteenth, I was too high on pain and anxiety meds! You don't get it."
The bathroom felt too small suddenly, air thick between you.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice quieter. "You're right. I got ahead of myself. I’m just… trying to help."
You swallowed hard, the fight draining as quickly as it came. "I know," you muttered. "But let me try this my way. Okay?"
He nodded, reluctant but genuine. "Okay. Your way."
You grabbed your crutches, brushing past him towards the door.
Heeseung was lazily shooting a puck into the goal. He had actually finished his essay this morning and had handed it in as soon as Jake had read over it, wanting to get rid of the stupid document and never look at it ever again. He loved his major, and he did enjoy the lectures he had with that particular professor, but this essay stole away every ounce of motivation Heeseung had going into the summer break. If one could call it summer break. He had spent it training either by himself, with his younger brother or helping his older brother move and renovate. If Heeseung was honest, he didn’t catch much of a break.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, and the heavy door to the rink opened. He didn’t see anyone in the doorframe. The door closed again.
Heeseung skated towards the boards opposite the door, when it opened again with more force than necessary, revealing you. You were sitting in a wheelchair and struggled to get over the threshold, getting caught on the door while it closed on you.
“Y/N?”, he heard himself ask over the music coming from his headphones.
You looked up and immediately back down, muttering something under your breath while pushing open the door again.
“Hi, Heeseung,” you greeted him, giving him a tired smile, when you finally made it into the rink. “That door is heavy, Jesus Christ.”
“I–,” he was at a loss for words for a second. The view of you in a wheelchair took him by surprise; you looked like you knew what you were doing, casually rolling closer to the boards. You were wearing oversized clothes, a shirt with the logo of a band you couldn’t recall and a pair of what looked like Soobin's basketball shorts, judging by the size. It made you seem small, almost fragile, in combination with the wheelchair.
“Have I shocked you into silence with my fabulous wheelchair skills, oh scary captain?” you joked, pulling him out of his thoughts.
He felt heat creep up his neck, and he coughed once in embarrassment before catching himself. “No. Sorry. I just…I just didn’t know you needed a wheelchair? I would have opened the door for you?”
“Nah,” you waved dismissively. “It’s fine. As you see, no door is heavy enough to stop me and the immense levels of willpower I have when we’re talking about opening doors on my own.”
He chuckled and skated along the boards. The two of you were silent for a long moment; it wasn’t uncomfortable, rather the opposite of it.
You were rolling into the direction of the opening to the rink, him doing the same, glicidng over the ice before jumping over the railing as soon as the thick plexiglass stopped.
You came to a stop a few meters from him, watching him.
“I said yes,” you said, suddenly.
Heeseung looked up from where he was just putting on his bladeguards, leaning against the bench with his thigh.
“To what?”, he blinked at you in confusion, his hand stilling.
“The internship,” you hummed, not looking at him. “I kinda…fought with my dad a bit about it…But I agreed.”
“You… said yes,” Heeseung repeated, just to make sure his ears weren’t lying. “That’s… good. I mean–” He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to his hands as heat crept up his neck. “–I’m happy for you. I guess?”
You snorted softly, the sound cutting through the rink’s chill. “You guess?”
He shrugged, feeling a little helpless under your gaze. “I don’t know. It sounded like a sore spot last time. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and scare you off because I am an idiot, in case you really wanted to do it?”
Your expression softened, just a fraction, as you let out a breath through your nose. “It is a sore spot. But you were right.”
Heeseung hummed, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering surprise “Well…I’m glad, then.”
You rolled your eyes, but a hint of a smile ghosted your lips. “You’ll have to protect me, though. Make them take part. I’m not begging twenty overgrown kids to lip-sync for TikTok.”
He laughed, the echo bouncing sharply off the empty boards. “Sure. I can do that. I’ll be the bad cop. Very scary captain, remember?”
Or else.
They probably won’t listen to him, but to the coach, who was your father, they definitely would.
“Oh, absolutely terrifying,” you deadpanned. “They’re all shaking in their skates.”
He grinned and shook his head, then his gaze dropped for a second to the chair again before flicking away. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his glove. He wanted to ask why you were suddenly not able to walk at all anymore. He knew you weren’t healing as fast or as well as you had wished, but having to use a wheelchair? “Can I… uh,” he started, then stopped, grimacing slightly. “This is going to sound stupid.”
You tilted your head, scrunching your nose and smiling, making him feel even worse. “It’s okay. Just ask.”
He scratched his neck, feeling his cheeks heat up again. “I just… didn’t know you were… using the chair now. You had crutches the last time. Is it… worse?”
You glanced down at your hands on the wheels, then back up at him. “Not really worse,” you said. “Just different bad. When the weather changes and the rain comes in, my leg and hip hurt more. The bones and scar tissue get… angry, I guess. Today, the wheelchair is just easier than forcing myself to hobble around.”
He hummed in acknowledgement, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “Makes sense,” he said quietly. “Less strain.”
You nodded and pushed yourself a little closer to the gap in the boards, resting your forearms on the ledge. “I was just hoping to sit here for a bit,” you continued. “Be nostalgic. Watch Sunghoon or whoever might be training. Then, you know… eventually get my shit together.”
He followed your gaze to the empty rink, only a few stray pucks scattered over the surface. “If you want to watch properly,” he said after a moment, “there are disabled seats in the upper ranks. It’s not as high up as your seats last week…but you’d have a better view? I can take you up there later, if you’d like.”
You made a face, half amused, half resigned and he feared again that he might have said the wrong thing.
“It’s fine,” you shrugged, sitting up again. “I’ll just give my commentary to your playing instead.”
He huffed out a laugh, honestly surprised at that answer. “Oh? You’re going to roast my shot selection?”
“Obviously,” you said. “Someone has to keep you humble, captain.”
His eyes lingered on your profile, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you looked up at him expectantly, as if you were waiting for him to say something else.
He shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. “Do you… want to see your office?” he asked. “Your dad told me that the room would be for the social media team. We started dumping some stuff there. I can show you.”
You hesitated, glancing once back at the ice, then at the hallway behind him. “Stuff?”
“A desk and a chair? The room has been used for storage for at least half a decade now, so it’s a bit stuffed.” He admitted.
That made you smile. It was small but seemed genuine. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay. Show me.”
He nodded and moved to the side, grabbing your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he should push you or leave you on your own, but decided to just let you do your thing. “I handed my essay in, by the way,” he explained, walking backwards a few steps as you rolled toward the staff door, leading towards the offices and media rooms of the rink. “I did finish most of it after I drove you home, actually.”
You snorted. “Well, then I don’t have to feel bad about stealing your time in the rink.”
“You sure don’t, Y/N,” he held the door open this time, letting you wheel past into the corridor. The air was warmer here, laced with the familiar mix of sweat, detergent and faint rubber, even though the players rarely came here. Heeseung assumed the smell he had come to love and grow familiar with carried through the whole building.
As you started down the hall together, your chair clicking softly over the uneven floor and his bladeguards thumping with every step, it was silent for a few seconds before you started talking again.
“I didn’t know I’d get an office,” you hum, while Heeseung opened the door. It was rarely locked, it was in a locked part of the building and mainly used for clutter that is yet to be thrown away.
“I think they want to have a whole social media team? So think you’re not only getting an office but colleagues as well,” he opened the door and revealed the small room. It was lit by a small window, one side of it stuffed full with clutter, stacks of paper, scattered office supplies covered multiple surfaces, including an old wooden filing cabinet. A half-empty bookshelf leaned under the weight of folders, some piled haphazardly on top of one another. Boxes of miscellaneous items were stacked in a corner, threatening to topple.
In one corner stood a seemingly clean desk that Heeseung and Yeonjun had cleared up a few days earlier. They had dumped everything that was on there onto the other side.
“I’m sorry, it’s still a mess. I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes, and then you know, your dad would have had to officially search for someone, and that would have given us a bit of time?” Heeseung leaned down and picked up two boxes to make space for your wheelchair.
“Is my dad making you clean the room?” Your voice sounded annoyed, and he turned around. Your gaze was fixed on him, and he blinked again. “...No? Yes? What answer would you prefer?”
You laughed teasingly and hit him with your healthy leg. “It’s not your fault if he made you. My dad is an asshole.”
“He…can be?,” Heeseung said, nodding slowly.
He knew Soobin wasn’t the closest with his dad, and apparently you weren’t either.
“Hee, you don’t have to keep being so careful,” you giggle, and that confused me even more than using a nickname. “My dad is an ass, for the record. I still love him, but he can be annoying as fuck.”
Heeseung laughed once and leaned against the desk in the room. “He…yeah…he is an asshole, especially if you don’t do what he wants to do.”
“And you know what I really like doing?” You stopped for a second, but answered your own question before he could even open his mouth. “To not do what he wants me to do. I think if he knew I was here instead of at home, he would scold the shit out of me.”
Heeseung raised his eyebrows. “Really? Why?”
“Well, for starters, he gets really paranoid when I sit in the chair. I have no idea why, because usually people have even more pity with me and try to help me, but he hates it. And that I am here technically alone, cause I couldn’t know you’d be here, would get me scolded,” you shrugged and let your gaze wander across the room.
He mustered your face, let his eyes wander across your face, your hair, and the blue shirt. You were smiling; it was a small smile, but at least you were smiling. When he met you last week, you seemed so down, so frustrated; seeing you be so upbeat today made him smile as well.
Your face snapped back at him. “What’s got you smiling like that, Captain? My dad possibly scolding me when I get home?”
“Ah-I-no-”, he stumbled, being caught staring at you the second time today. “I was just thinking about how you look a lot better than last week, even though you’re going to get scolded.”
“Oh, you just had the pleasure of meeting me in a bad mood. I promise I can be fun?”, you joked, shooting finger guns at him, causing him to laugh lowly again. “No, seriously. I just haven’t had the best time doing anything after the surgery; it’s been hard.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better than,” Heeseung grinned.
You were sitting on the floor of Soobin's living room, your head resting against the side of Beomgyu's thigh. He was deeply immersed in a rather intense game of FIFA, his focus unbreakable as his thumbs flew over the controller. Yeonjun, Beomgyu, and your brother had decided to invite a few people over for a pre-semester get-together at their flat. When they said ‘a few people’ it really just meant the three of them, their girlfriends, and you. While Chaewon and Yunjin were in the kitchen reheating the pizza you had all ordered for dinner a few hours earlier, you had decided not to move an inch. Your eyelids felt heavier than they should have, especially after the unhealthy amount of Diet Coke you had consumed all evening long. So, you simply curled up closer against your friend's leg, letting his warmth seep into you.
Beomgyu huffed in annoyance when his team lost to whoever he was playing against online. A few seconds later, his hand landed gently in your hair, softly caressing your scalp. The motion only lulled you further toward sleep, your body growing heavier by the second.
"Hey, Y/N," Soobin's voice startled you, forcing your eyes open again. "Do you want to go to sleep?"
You took a deep breath and rubbed your eyes, ignoring the smudges of mascara from the excessive amount you had applied that morning. "No, I'm fine. Gyu is warm."
Beomgyu laughed loudly at that. "Damn right. You heard that, everyone? Y/N agrees that I'm hot!"
You reached up and slapped his calf playfully, while the boys made various sounds of disagreement and mock disgust. Beomgyu whined in protest, but he did lift your head slightly so he could look down at you properly. "It's fine if you want to sleep a bit. You can use literally any bed in the apartment. I'll even personally carry you to bed if you want."
You just shook your head and gave him a tired smile. Then you sat up a bit straighter, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your hip from the sudden movement.
"You're basically asleep, Y/N," Yeonjun said from the couch, pausing his own game to look at you with clear concern in his eyes. "Seriously, go crash in a bed."
Soobin nodded in agreement, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Use my bed"
"I'm not gonna sleep," you protested, though your voice came out weaker than you intended. "I’m fine. I’m just resting my eyes a bit."
Beomgyu paused his game with an exaggerated sigh, then shoved Yeonjun's leg off the coffee table and hip-checked Soobin just enough to claim more space on the sofa. "Scoot over, you losers. Make some room for her." The other two grumbled playfully but shifted aside, clearing a spot as he patted his lap insistently. "Come on, Y/N. Get up here and rest your eyes properly."
You laughed softly and let him tug you up without much resistance. You settled with your head properly in his lap as he sprawled back against the cushions. His hand found your hair again, fingers carding through the strands in gentle, rhythmic strokes. Your eyes fluttered shut almost immediately, the steady warmth and motion pulling you right back under.
You were just on the edge of sleep when your brain snagged on something important. Your eyes cracked open again. "Oh, wait," you mumbled, your words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "I took Dad's internship offer."
Soobin froze mid-sip of his soda, his eyes widening over the rim of the can. "You did what?"
"I said yes," you clarified, shifting a little to peer up at their stunned faces. “On my terms and conditions tho. You’ll have to be nice to me and let me film you for some stupid Tiktoks or I’ll get dad involved.”
Your brother stared at you, his sodacan now slowly sinking into his lap. “Y/N did he make you say yes?”
You let yourself sink back into Beomguys' lap, appreciating once more how muscular hockey player thighs were. You had spent many hours napping in various laps over the last few years.
"No, he didn't make me do it. I just…thought about it. I did like making those TikToks for Gyu last year, and I like the team. You’re fun. Plus, I'm only taking two classes this semester. Rehab ends soon, and I'll be bored out of my mind otherwise."
Somehow, you didn’t feel like telling your brother about how you met his captain, how talking with him for a mere two hours was enough to convince him. You still didn’t understand how or why, he didn’t even have to do any convincing, but somehow…somehow it was enough.
Soobin set his can down on the table with a sharp clink, his brow furrowing deeply. "Y/N, I don't know if that's such a good idea. You–"
"Yo, that's actually dope," Yeonjun cut in immediately, grinning wide as he leaned forward. "I’ll sort things out with the others if they refuse to film with you, don’t worry, Y/Nie."
Beomgyu nodded enthusiastically, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on your scalp. "Hell yeah, exactly. I told you it would be fun."
Soobin opened his mouth to argue further, clearly not convinced, but the kitchen door swung open right then. Chaewon and Yunjin came back balancing stacks of pizza boxes and plates, steam rising from the reheated slices. "Okay, what's going on? Why does Soobin look like he just bit into a sour apple?" Yunjin asked with a laugh, dumping her pile onto the coffee table.
"YN's doing the media internship for the hockey team," Yeonjun filled them in quickly, already reaching for a slice loaded with pepperoni. “And Soob isn’t the biggest fan.”
Chaewon's face lit up with genuine excitement. She dropped straight into Soobin's lap like it was the most natural spot in the world, making herself comfortable. "No way, that's so cool! I’m sure the boys will love having to dance to weird TikTok sounds, just get them drunk, and your job’s gonna be easy." She winked at you over his shoulder.
Soobin sighed deeply, his arms looping loosely around Chaewon's waist as she stole a bite from the slice he had just grabbed.
"I guess it's cool, yeah," He trailed off with a half-grumble, relenting under her steady gaze.
Yunjin clapped her hands together sharply. "Anyway! Who's up for Mario Kart next? The loser has to grab the next round of drinks from the kitchen."
You nodded faintly in agreement, already sinking back into Beomgyu's lap as the chatter erupted around you once more.
The locker room was warm and smelled faintly like perfume and deodorant. The figure skaters had just ended their training session when Heeseung came into the rink. He had watched for a few minutes before heading deeper into the building, his bag heavy across his back.
Some of the other players, mainly his roommates who had driven with him, were already changing when the sound of laughter came in through the doors. Beomgyu’s head appeared in the doorframe.
“Is everyone dressed?”
Heeseung glanced at his teammates, all in various states of undress, and shrugged. “Yeah? Mostly?”
“Perfect!” Beomgyu stepped fully into the room, followed by – you?
Heeseung’s brows shot up, and he had to stop himself from gawking.
You looked a little embarrassed, hovering awkwardly just behind Beomgyu’s shoulder. It was the first time he saw you in something that wasn’t athleisure or oversized clothes. Your hair was done, framing your face, and there was a bit of makeup on your skin that softened and sharpened you at the same time. It was a bit weird, seeing Soobin’s face on a female with makeup on, but it was pretty. You were pretty.
“This is Y/N, she is going to be our social media manager for this semester,” Beomgyu announced, gesturing into the room like he was presenting a prize. “This is our locker room. You’re not welcome in here unless you want to see dicks, Y/N. So don’t come in. This is Heeseung, our captain.”
You gave him a small, amused smile and waved, lifting your crutch slightly in greeting.
He smiled back at you. “Hi, Y/N. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well.”
He had to laugh a bit at how stiff and formal that sounded, while Beomgyu continued introducing the rest of the team that was standing around. Jake was holding his jersey against his naked chest, his face blooming red as he stuttered out his name. You glanced Heeseung’s way every so often, and he just shook his head in amusement.
“The coach will introduce her to the rest of the team later and, like, explain why we have a social media manager now,” Beomgyu continued, ignoring that the rest of his teammates were a bit taken by surprise at Soobin’s sister, their coach’s daughter, standing in the locker room. “Tell the others to stick by later. The coach asked me to tell you all.”
“Sure. I’ll text the rest,” Heeseung said, dusting imaginary dirt off his jersey pants. “Are you gonna show her the office? Have you finished cleaning it out?”
“Yeah, and not yet,” Beomgyu shook his head and jerked his chin toward the door. “You wanna come along, Hee? Show her around as the captain? I’m doing your job now.”
You laughed at that and boxed Beomgyu in the ribs with your elbow. “Let him be. You just pulled me into the men’s locker room, and now you want to make him show me around because you wanna change?”
Beomgyu shrugged. “You know your dad could have also just made your brother or Yeonjun hyung show you around? I didn’t choose this job. Let me graciously hand it over and get ready, woman.”
That made you giggle and roll your eyes, before shaking your head and looking at him fondly. The two of you seemed pretty close.
Heeseung’s legs and mouth worked faster than his brain. “I’ll show her around. I’m almost done anyway, Gyu.”
“Cool! Perfect!” Beomgyu seemed surprised but genuinely happy about that. “Have fun then!”
You rolled your eyes again when he patted your shoulder, but when you turned to Heeseung, there was a small, careful smile on your lips. “Lead the way then?”
“Sure.”
He crossed the room in three strides and opened the door for you, letting you step out first. Today, you were much faster and almost agile on your crutches compared to when you first met. The movement looked practised, a bit stiff around the hips, but confident.
“Thank you, oh dear scary captain,” you said once you had crossed the threshold.
He huffed out a quiet laugh and let the door fall shut behind him. “You really gonna keep that going?”
“Yes,” you replied without missing a beat. “You have a reputation to uphold, Lee Heeseung. I can’t ruin that by calling you nice.”
“Ouch,” he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “So I open doors and volunteer tour guide services and still get slandered. Tough crowd.”
You smiled, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You’re recovering from it just fine.”
You walked side by side down the corridor, your crutches clicking on the slightly uneven floor.
He stopped in front of the small office door, pushing the handle down and nudging it open with his shoulder.
“Here we are, Miss Social Media Manager. Welcome back.”
You stepped inside, eyes sweeping across the room, letting out a little huff. “Wow. Still depressing.”
He leaned against the doorframe, watching your expression. “Hey, the desk barely wobbles now. That’s an upgrade.”
“I really need to bring some decoration or something,” you muttered, moving closer to the window and looking back at the desk. “Plants. Posters.”
Heeseung chuckled. “Just let me know what you need, and I’ll arrange everything as the big scary captain. One word from me and we’ll have fairy lights and a coffee machine in here.”
You turned halfway to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Sure, Hee.”
The nickname slipped out so casually that it took him a second to register it. Something warm tugged at his chest before he could stop it. He really liked the way it sounded, simple and familiar, like you had known him a lot longer than you actually had.
“Do you think we could rearrange a bit?” you asked, turning around, a pout on your lips.
He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the desk. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”
“Could you push the desk under the window?” you said. “I’d prefer some natural lighting while staring into a screen all day. Gotta work on my tan. I am sick of looking sick”
He snorted and grabbed one side of the desk, dragging it across the floor with a dull scrape. “I assure you, you’re looking a lot less sick today. It’s nice to know you are owning jeans.”
You laughed at that, the sound soft but real. “I sure do. I think I have at least two, you know, for some diversity”
Heeseung bit back a smile.
As he adjusted the desk under the window, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. The fondness in the way you had looked at Beomgyu earlier stuck with him. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was something going on there. The two of you were the same year, had clearly known each other for a long time, and with how close Soobin and Beomgyu had been since school, it would make sense.
He didn’t say anything, though. It wasn’t his business, and assumptions never helped anyone.
“There,” he said instead, giving the desk a small shove to straighten it.
You moved forward and leaned your weight onto the edge, then gave it a small shake. It didn’t wobble. “Not bad, captain.”
“I do what I can,” he replied lightly, brushing his hands off as if he had just completed major construction work. “I’m sure we can get this room to look a bit more inviting in no time.”
“I sure hope so,” you said, looking around the room again. This time, your gaze lingered a bit longer, less unsure, more thoughtful. “It’s weird, but… I kinda feel stupid for doing this. My dad just nepoed me into this job. I am sure there are so many others who would have loved it and actually want a job in this industry later.”
He nodded once, understanding more than he knew how to say. “He did, yeah. But the edits you made for Gyu were really cool, and I feel like you’re just as qualified as anyone else that might have applied. If you don’t like it, you can always stop. You said you’d only do it on your terms.”
You glanced at him, and for a brief moment, there was something open and vulnerable in your eyes. “Yeah, my terms.”
He cleared his throat, stepping back toward the door. “I should get back to get changed, before your actually scary father scolds me later.”
“God forbid,” you said, lips twitching again. “Go protect yourself from getting scolded by my very scary father.”
He grinned, hand on the handle. “If you need anything, just come find me. Or, you know, call your big scary captain to move furniture.”
A few hours later, you found yourself sitting in front of a flipchart, surrounded by notes and scribbles of ideas for content. Your research had turned up dozens of trends and challenges that could work for the hockey team’s social accounts, but your enthusiasm was running low. The chair you were sitting on felt like it was designed for maximum discomfort, and you were seriously considering bringing your wheelchair the next time. You sighed, shifting your weight in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position.
Just then, the door creaked open slightly, and Heeseung’s head popped in. “You surviving in here?”
Without looking up, you muttered, “Barely. What do you need, Heeseung? Is my scary father done torturing you?”
He chuckled and stepped fully into the room, leaning casually against the wall. “We’re done for the day, actually,” he said, flashing you a grin. “He asked me to get you, so he could introduce you to the rest?”
You took a deep breath, resting your face in your palms, “Can I say no? I feel like doing that once a day should be enough.”
“I fear you can’t,” he replied, chuckling, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step closer to the desk. “I will try to make sure you’re not seeing any half-naked men or dicks, and compared to Beomgyu, I will wait for a proper answer and not burst into the locker. I don’t want to scare you away when you just started. And potentially get killed by either Soobin or your dad.”
You snorted despite yourself, leaning back and stretching your arms. “I don’t think any male creature will ever be safe from that, if I am completely honest, not even his star student. So you better take good care of me, but don't get too close!”
He laughed and crossed the room to hand you your crutches. As he moved closer, you noticed a faint, fresh scent, like soap and something woody, maybe a hint of citrus.
“Did you get any work done in here?” he waited patiently for you to pack your bag while holding out your crutches.
You shrugged. “Tell me why some of you post random pictures of food with 20 filters slapped onto them.”
“Ah, come on,” he said, leaning forward with a grin. “It’s not that bad. My Instagram is pretty and aesthetic!”
“Something like that,” you muttered, unable to suppress a small smile, as you stood up slowly. “I found some trends and figured we could hop on a few of them. I’ve got ideas for locker room Q&As, pre-game routines, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then,” Heeseung said, nodding as he moved to grab your bag. “So, when do we start?”
“We?” you scoffed, raising an eyebrow.
He laughed, shaking his head. “Your dad made me responsible for everything you do and makes me babysit you, so yes, we.”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes again, though it was becoming less from irritation and more out of habit. “Jesus Christ.”
“At least I have all of my teeth. And we have some pretty faces on the team, that should help,” he teased.
꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊
The air in the locker room was a thick haze of sweat, body spray, body wash and perfume. You scrunched your nose in disgust for a second before doing your best to even out your facial expression, when Heeseung pushed the door open. You hovered just behind him, your crutches digging into your arms, trying not to breathe too deeply as the full team turned to stare. Two dozen pairs of eyes locked on you and Heeseung from the benches and stalls. Your father was standing next to the door with a clipboard in his hands, while he nodded appreciatively at Heeseung and gave you something like a welcoming smile before he turned to the team.
"Alright, listen up," he clapped his hands once, and the chatter in the room died. "This is Y/N. My daughter.” You pressed your lips onto each other in embarrassment while he continued talking. “She's taking over social media for the semester, content, TikToks, Instagram, whatever gets eyes on us. You all participate when she asks. There will be no whining, no skipping. She is here to get you known by sponsors and teams, so cooperate, understood?"
Murmurs rippled through the team, a few nodded, and there were even a few agreeing grunts. You shifted your weight and searched for Soobin’s face, hoping for him to save you, but his face made it clear that he still did not like the idea of you being here. You blinked before forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Yeah. Hi, everyone. Um, nice to meet you all?"
They greeted you back by waving and nodding, while you turned back to your dad, waiting for him to say something else, but he just stood there in silence.
You nodded, and your gaze flicked automatically to Heeseung, though. He was leaning against his stall near where you were still standing, arms crossed over his jersey, now giving you a small smile.
A few seconds later, your father seemed to realise that you had nothing else to say and cleared his throat. "Alright, show's over. Until tomorrow, everyone."
Ryujin’s sofa was uncomfortable.
It usually wasn’t.
You’ve spent many hours here, watching movies or talking until deep into the night, but today the old, worn fabric rubbed at your skin wrong, the pillows were too hard and too soft all at once. You tried to adjust your position, but the only thing that happened was the pack of frozen peas that were resting on your ankle slowly sliding down your leg, causing you to shiver.
The apartment was filled with the smell of bacon sizzling on the stovetop, where your friend was cooking dinner for the two of you. The food in the cafeteria didn’t seem too appetising, so the two of you decided to cook at her place.
With a grunt, you sat up, reaching for the improvised ice pack. “I don’t understand how anyone can enjoy being massaged. All I get from a ‘massage’”, you made quotation marks in the air, “are bruises. My legs and my left ass cheek are going to be black and blue tomorrow."
"Nobody is seeing your legs or your ass, girl. Aside from your physiotherapist, who might add some new bruises," Ryujin shot back, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. The warm, buttery smell mingled with the salty scent of bacon, making your stomach growl in anticipation.
“Unless you want to show someone else your ass?” she wiggled her eyebrows playfully.
"Not really. Who would want to see my blue and black scarred arse unprompted? Do you want to see? I'll undress just for you," you grinned at her, letting the frozen peas drop unceremoniously to the floor before reaching for your crutches.
Ryujin rolled her eyes, laughing as she scooped the cooked pasta into the pan. "I love you, and I have seen plenty of your naked ass already, but I don't need you to erotically strip for me, Y/N. You're not really my type, I'm sorry."
You sat down on one of the chairs around her kitchen table, the plastic groaning, when you adjusted yourself. "You wound me, Ryujin!" You clutched your chest in mock offence.
"Ha ha! I'm sure we can find someone who would like to see your ass. There are plenty of guys on campus that are horny 24/7," she shot back, glancing over her shoulder as she added a sprinkle of cheese to the mix.
“Yeah, number one problem: my brother is also at that campus and knows everyone and would scold me for doing that. He and his big brother complex,” you sighed and rolled your eyes, before resting your chin in your hands. “I feel like it’s gotten worse since I’ve started working with the team.”
“Really?” She stepped over and handed you one of the forks she and Lia were borrowing from the cafeteria. “Why do you feel like that?”
“I–”, you groaned and shrugged. “I can’t even pinpoint single events, but he hates it. I think he really hates that I am there. Not in a he-wants-hockey-to-be-his kind of way, more like he is afraid it would…I don’t know, trigger me?”
Ryujin plated the carbonara, sliding one over to you before settling on the chair opposite yours with her own bowl. Steam curled up between you as she twirled pasta onto her fork. “Does it?”
You poked at the noodles, thinking of what to say.
You weren’t good with feelings or talking about your feelings. .
After a long moment of silence, you hummed and nodded slowly before answering. “Both?”
You leaned down and took a bite of your noodles while Ryujin waited for you to continue, chewing slowly.
“I think he is afraid that I’ll go back and hide in my shell when I realise that all of the dreams I once had are dangling in front of my feet, but are so unattainable?” You swallowed, the sauce leaving a creamy film in your mouth. "Don't get me wrong, that can happen. I’ve done my best to try to not interact with the women's team, but Soobin should just let me do my thing, let me live my life. Maybe my dad is right, and I just need to finally come to terms with what my life is now and have to, you know, still have fun? They both do their best in trying to tell me what I am supposed to do, which is annoying, but at least they care, I guess.”
You took another bite, the noodles flicking a bit of sauce on your face.
Ryujin hummed. "Have you told him that?"
You nodded once, slow, the tangle easing a hair. “I did. I’m just not sure if he understood.”
The air in your office was stuffy and warm, the open window doing little to let in some fresh air. The sun was still relentlessly blazing down, even two weeks into September, and you were suffering from the heat.
To help with the airflow, you had opened the door to your office, had pulled a chair into the doorway with more effort than necessary, your wheelchair getting in the way.
Your mom had taken you shopping for the office a few days ago, after she had visited your office for the first time, so now there were a few plants and a floor lamp standing around.
It wasn’t much, but it was something at least.
You were sitting with your healthy leg pulled to your chest, and the injured one stretched onto the desk, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, for the better part of an hour now. You actually had a few videos to cut, but the heat made you feel lazy and lethargic.
You could hear the shrill sound of your dad blowing his whistle, and your eyes searched the small clock that was hanging on the office door.
4.15.
You hummed to yourself and turned your attention back to the reel looping for the third time now.
A few minutes later, you could hear the door to the hallway open, the sound of laughter echoing along the walls. Yeonjun's head appeared in your doorframe, grinning at you. His hair was flat and damp from sweat, and his face was still red from the on-ice session. “Hello, my dearest Y/N!”
Behind him, Soobin and Beomgyu strolled in, just as sweaty, looking completely worn out. Beomgyu flopped dramatically into your office chair.
“Yeah, sure, come in and just take over my whole workspace while you’re all stinky and sweaty”, you teased, though you didn’t mind the company.
Beomgyu groaned, stretching his legs out. “This break isn’t long enough. Your father is killing us. I swear I’m going to die.”
Soobin rolled his eyes, perched on the edge of your desk, while Yeonjun leaned against the wall. “You’ll survive. We’ve had worse drills.”
Yeonjun smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m not built for this much cardio.”
You laughed. “Maybe you’re just really out of shape because you spend the biggest part of your summer break eating anything you find?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I was just bulking up, Y/N. Just you wait and see!”
“Man, that’s such a lame excuse,” Beomguy groaned and laughed at Yeonjun. “Just admit, you let yourself be fed fat by your charming girlfriend who is madly talented in the kitchen.”
“Can’t confirm or deny!” Yeonjun shrugged, and Beomguy rolled his eyes at that, smiling.
You turned to your brother. “Can I help you with something?”
He nodded and scratched the back of his head. “I was wondering if it was okay for you to go home with Heeseung? I have a study group later, and Dad has a meeting after training. He offered to take you home?”
You blinked at him, your brain needing a second to catch up.
“Heeseung?” you repeated slowly. “Driving me home?”
Soobin nodded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s going that way anyway and said it’s no problem.”
That was… new. Your brother was many things, but usually, if it involved you and getting you from A to B, he shoved the responsibility onto Beomgyu or Yeonjun without thinking. They were the default options, the built-in safety net. The idea of Heeseung offering, and Soobin being cool about it, caught you off guard.
“Wow,” you said, half-teasing, half-genuinely stunned. “You’re cool with that?”
Soobin studied you for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Heeseung’s not an idiot. He’ll get you home in one piece. And I really can’t miss that study session.”
There was something in his tone that made your chest squeeze; it was as if he was reluctant, but trusting. You swallowed and nodded once. “Alright. Sure. I’ll go with him.”
“Cool,” Soobin said, as that settled it. “We gotta get back. Dad wants us in the gym in–” he glanced at the clock on your door, “–five minutes.”
“Yay,” Yeonjun groaned, peeling himself off the wall.
Beomgyu pushed up from your chair with a dramatic sigh. “If I die, Y/N, post a really hot memorial slideshow for me, okay?”
“I’ll only use pictures where you blink,” you replied sweetly.
“Monster,” he muttered, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth.
Soobin leaned in as the other two started bickering their way toward the door. He bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, the gesture so familiar and careless it almost made your throat close up.
“Text me when you’re home, okay?” he said quietly.
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable. “Yes, Mom.”
He snorted and straightened. “Brat.”
You watched him walk out with the others, sweaty and tired and already complaining about gym sets, and for a second, the irritation and tension of the last days dulled.
You still loved him.
Of course you did.
Even when he was hovering and moody and weird about the internship.
He was still your brother.
Heeseung was tying the shoelaces of his sneakers; the rink was silent, almost eerily so. He sighed, reached for his bag and ruffled his hair. It was still damp from his shower and fell into his eyes, sticking to his forehead. He pushed them back with the heel of his hand and stepped out into the hallway.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as he walked past the locker room, past the gym, the familiar path toward your office tugging at his feet more than any conscious decision.
Your door was propped open, and the air coming from inside was warm and heavy. He paused in the doorway and leaned his shoulder against the frame.
You were in your wheelchair, curled into a strange, half-comfortable position. Your injured leg was stretched out onto the desk, while your healthy leg was bent, heel hooked against the wheel. Your laptop sat in your lap, fingers flying over the keyboard as you typed something with determined focus, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
Heeseung took in the scene for a second, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “You know that looks mildly unsafe, right?”
You startled, fingers pausing mid-word as your head snapped up. For a heartbeat, you just stared at him, then you let out a breathy huff. “Jesus, Hee. Do you make it a habit to sneak up on people?”
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, smile widening. “The door was open. I think that’s technically an invitation.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, shifting your leg a bit on the desk with a wince, “maybe the invitation didn’t extend to commentary on my sitting positions.”
He glanced pointedly at the way you were half-twisted in the chair. “Are you at least comfortable like that?”
You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the chair for a moment. “As comfortable as a person can be when only one side works properly, I guess. Don’t discriminate against my wheelchair pose, Lee Heeseung.”
That made him laugh, the sound soft and genuine. “Right. I’ll work on that. I’m sure the media team would gladly give us another of those PR sessions. Are you ready to go?”
You snorted, then closed your laptop halfway, the screen dimming. “Yeah, I am sorry that Soobin makes you drive me home.”
He shook his head and gave you a small smile. “It’s fine. I offered to drive you.”
You hummed at that, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you. Can you give me my bag?”
“Sure!” Heeseung pushed himself away from the doorway, crossing the small room, until he was next to your desk, leaning down to grab your bag. It was surprisingly heavy when he lifted it up and handed it to you.
His eyes drifted across your working space. It looked a lot better than a few weeks ago; plants and decorations gave the still cluttered room at least a bit of character.
He picked up one of the tiny figurines you had placed on your desk and turned it over in his hand with a grin. “What’s with these little guys? A personal touch?”
You gave him a mock glare, clearly more amused than offended. “They’re called Sonny angels, and yes, this office was depressing. I needed to liven it up.”
Heeseung laughed softly, putting the figurine back down carefully. “Why would you bring naked angles?”
You rolled your eyes again. “Don’t make fun of my babies. They are cute, and that one was a gift, so leave it be.”
Heeseung laughed, setting the figure down gently. “Okay, okay”, he sat down on the edge of your desk, “Have you had a productive day? You’ve been here for like six hours now”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to finish up all of the videos I want to post next week, but it’s taking longer than I thought.”
Heeseung glanced over at the cluttered desk, noting the piles of papers and sticky notes you were using. “And you couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Nope. I like torturing myself,” you said dryly, then raised an eyebrow as he continued to toy with one of the angels. “Are you done judging my office decor now?”
Heeseung twirled the figurine in his fingers, then squinted at it. “I mean, I’ve got questions. First off, what’s up with this one?” He held up a small yellow angel wearing a dinosaur costume. “Did you really choose this? Not gonna lie its kinda ugly. And why is the other one naked?”
You groaned, rolling your eyes. “No! I wanted the pink dinosaur one, but kept getting the yellow one instead. Three times! So, this is what I’m stuck with. And honestly, I am not sure, but they are cute.”
Heeseung laughed, genuinely amused by the annoyance in your voice. “Are they figurines from lucky boxes?”
“Yeah, but I don’t seem to have luck with them,” you replied with a deadpan expression. “I have one in my room, one in my car, and now this sad thing is stuck here, reminding me of my failure every day.”
Heeseung chuckled. “Well, pink dinosaur or not, it does help make this place less depressing.” You just laughed at that.
He watched you for a moment, noticing how your shoulders were slightly hunched. His gaze dropped to the wheelchair you were sitting in.
“You know,” he said, looking around the room. “This office still feels so crammed and uninviting. You need a couch or something.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A couch?”
He grinned, nodding. “Actually, Yeonjun and I were thinking about it even before you had the office. We need to get Coach to clear out the junk on the other side of the room so we can move in a couch. You’d have a nice place to chill while pretending to work.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “And by ‘chill,’ you mean take naps, right?”
“Exactly.”
You glanced at your leg, then back at him. “Can you grab my bag? And maybe, if you’re feeling extra heroic, help me get this thing off the desk without me dislocating something? My foot is…asleep.”
Heeseung moved without complaint. He set your bag on the back of your chair, then stepped to the side of the desk, hands hovering near your ankle. “Tell me what you need.”
“Just… support under the heel? It feels weird when it’s lower than my hip for too long.” Your voice softened a bit, more matter-of-fact than apologetic.
He slid one hand carefully under your heel and the other under your calf, lifting slowly until the tension in your face eased. “Like this?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, shoulders dropping. “Like that. Thanks.”
He guided your leg down until it rested back on the footrest, making sure you were steady before letting go. “There. No dislocations on my watch.”
You gave him a small, crooked smirk. “Guess I’ll keep you on the payroll, then.”
He stepped behind your chair and wrapped his fingers lightly around the handles. “Ready to go home?”
You glanced once around the office, then you nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get out of the sauna before I melt onto the floor.”
He chuckled and eased the chair out of the doorway, careful of the threshold.
Heeseung's bedroom was dark except for the blue glow of his phone screen, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
He had dropped you off almost an hour ago.
The drive had been quiet, comfortable in the way that didn't need filling, your wheelchair folded neatly in his trunk. He had pushed you inside without asking, just because the path from the car to the entrance of the apartment complex you were living in had those stupid uneven steps.
His thumb hovered over the screen, mind circling back to the way you had stretched your leg across the desk in your office. The faint wince when you shifted. The fact that you were using your wheelchair most days.
It must be horrible.
He didn’t dare to ask either you or Soobin about what happened.
He knew that you were involved in a car accident and needed multiple surgeries afterwards, but your dad sat in the same car, right? Why was his coach so… healthy compared to you?
He sat up a bit, bunching his pillows under his elbows in the process and typed your full name into Naver. The first entry on the results page was to a junior hockey league profile. He clicked onto the link, and a profile pic loaded first: you at maybe 16 or 17, wearing the same colours as he was at that time.
You played for the Hyundai Juniors.
He scrolled past your picture, and his breath caught. Your stats from before the accident were still listed on the page, your last five games ever played.
Apparently, you were a top scorer in your division and had an impressive number of assists. A few clips were added to the gallery at the bottom of the page, and he couldn’t stop himself from clicking on them.
You moved like lightning in them, sharp edges, explosive starts, a cocky grin flashing after breakaways.
Damn.
Impressed didn't cover it.
You were good.
Really good.
He returned to the Google results page and clicked on the next link, ‘Junior League Star Y/N Lights Up Regionals–Scouts Take Notice’.
He read the article and the next one and the next one. You truly were a star player in the female league. You could've had a career, scholarships, maybe Europe, hell, even NCAA if you had pushed academics. Instead…
He swallowed before continuing this thought.
Instead, you were now sitting in a wheelchair, unable to walk without crutches. Heeseung's jaw tightened, thumb pausing on a crash article thumbnail, the rain-slick road, mangled car, your name in the survivor column.
He tossed the phone screen-down onto the nightstand, harder than intended.
It was awful, all of this was awful. He understood why you didn’t want to do the internship, why you were so hesitant.
And he had more or less talked you into it.
To being stuck editing other people's glory while yours rusted away. Heeseung felt nauseous.
Your class had dragged on endlessly today. The two hours of marketing lecture blurred into white noise, your hip throbbing sharper with every shitty shift in the lecture hall seat.
You had planned to meet up with some of the ice hockey players and figure skaters to film challenges with them later, and the thought of working on your essay for said lecture in the library, sitting in one of the uncomfortable seats, was worse than anything else you could imagine right now. By the time you crutched across campus to the rink, the universe felt like it had a personal grudge.
You pushed through the players' entrance and beelined for the sofa tucked in the corner of your newly cleaned-out office. The players had spent one gym session cleaning out the room from all the clutter, in exchange for not having to work out on that day. Now you were the proud owner of a new sofa, a clean shelf, where your decoration and a few hockey books were now lying, and a floor lamp. Your bag hit the floor with a thud, crutches clattering beside it as you collapsed onto the cushions with a loud groan. Pain pulsed like fire up your leg, every nerve screaming, even when you hoisted it up on the armrest.
"Fuck this," you hissed to the empty room and sat up again. You fished for your bag and searched for your painkiller; you had taken one barely an hour ago, but you didn’t care. The blister pack rattled slightly when you finally found it and popped one of the pills out. You swallowed it without water and leaned back down into the sofa.
You still had around an hour or so until the others would come in, so maybe you could try napping a bit and letting the painkillers do their thing. Your body sank into cushions, and you tried falling asleep. But even trying to blacken out the light in the room by crossing your arms over your eyes doesn’t seem to help you fall asleep.
Frustration burned hot up your throat, and you snatched your phone instead, opening TikTok; maybe mindlessly scrolling would help a bit.
A few minutes in, you realised that you were logged into the rink's account, figure skaters and ice hockey players popping up nonstop. You took a deep breath, but continued scrolling. Your thumb hovered over the screen, the TikTok looping again and again, but you couldn’t get yourself to swipe it away. Jeon Somi was holding up the Lee cup, surrounded by her teammates, her face
split wide in a grin mid-celebration. She was wearing a pro club jersey gleaming under the arena lights, the women's league logo stamped bold at the front. It was an edit; someone had edited her shooting goals, giving assists, and celebrating.
Your heart dropped.
You used to play together, to match, to dream of the same dream.
Tears stung your eyes, and the screen blurred, before you tossed your phone to the floor, not caring if the screen cracked or not.
You pressed heels of your hands into your eyes, grinding hard till white sparks bloomed behind your lids. You knew there was no use in being sad about it, of being jealous. But you were so, so jealous. She was living her dream, the life you had dreamed of, the life you could have had, but was so unattainable now. Life was unfair, it had always been, will always be to everyone. You knew it was, and you knew you had to get used to how it was now. You were used to it, but you hated it. So so much.
A sob broke through your lips, and you pressed your hands across your mouth, trying to stop yourself from making any sounds.
A familiar male voice, low, careful, said your name like he didn't want to startle you. "Y/N?"
You cracked one eye open. It felt heavy and swollen. You sighed and closed them again.
There was a chuckle before your name was said again. You grumbled something garbled and tried to roll away, shoving your face deeper into the cushions. The fabric was rough under your face, and you cursed your father for picking out a cord sofa. The movement sent a sharp pain down your hip, your leg had tangled upwards, the cast hooked heavily over the armrest like a dead weight. You cursed and opened your eyes again, only to notice that you didn’t imagine Heeseung's voice. He was kneeling right in front of the sofa on the scuffed lounge floor, elbows braced on his knees. He gave you a small smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Heat flooded your face, and you yanked your arms up quickly, crossing them over your face like a shield, your elbows digging into the sofa.
"Go 'way," you muttered, muffled thick against your sleeves.
God, why him?
Why now?
You must look like a mess. Your eyes were swollen, your hair probably a mess.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked. His voice was steady and even, like asking about the weather. Even if he noticed the state you were in, there was no pity in his voice.
The "M'fine," you answered with, came out moody even to your own ears, the lie sour on your tongue. Your head felt foggy from the painkillers that weren't kicking in yet, and every sound in the small room, the humming from the AC, the sounds from the rink, the ticking coming from the old clock, everything was too loud.
"Mhm. Sure, you are." Amusement threaded through his words, light and teasing.
You risked peeking one eye out from under your arm, squinting at him. Damp strands fell over his forehead, and your phone dangled loose in one hand. "Don't you have training or something?"
He shook his head. "Not for another two hours. You'd be stuck here at least five, waiting for your dad or Soobin to drive you home."
A groan ripped out of you, pure, raw annoyance bubbling inside of you.
"I can drive you home if you want," he offered, straight and simple, like it was nothing. He straightened up a little but didn't rise fully, keeping himself at eye level. "It’s no big deal."
Pride warred hard in your chest, you wanted to say no, you didn't need pity, not your brothers, not your friends and especially not Heeseungs. You hated that he saw you this way, how broken you were. You sat up and had to close your eyes when you were seated upright, to make your head stop spinning.
Maybe you should go home.
No, you should definitely go home.
"Yeah. Okay," you swallowed, your voice small. There was a beat of silence. "I’m just…not having a good day. My painkillers aren’t working. I might be a bit slow."
"That’s no problem," he said immediately, without hesitation. He pushed to his feet smoothly then, but instead of heading for the door, he just... dropped cross-legged onto the floor right there. “You should wake up properly before we go outside. I’ll text the others that we aren’t going to film today.”
You bit your lips and closed your eyes, suppressing a groan.
You had forgotten about that.
Heeseung leant back against the sofa arm, close enough you could smell the citrusy perfume he liked to use.
“I’m gonna tell them I am feeling unwell,” Heeseung added, while he already started typing something into his phone.
You nodded and leaned back into the cushions, resting your cheek against your knee, staring at Heeseung's hair. It was still styled, the stands lying in a way that made it seem as if he hadn’t put much thought into it, but the way it barely moved with the movements of his hair made it clear that he had spent some time on it today. You rarely got to see him like that, in his street clothes, with his hair looking like this, you got the sweaty, tired Heeseung.
Not that you were complaining, you still didn’t understand why you got any Heeseung at all, why he would care, come to your office, check on you as often as he did.
Why did he offer to drive you home, even though he would have to come back to the rink?
He had been quiet for a while, back resting against the arm of the sofa, thumb scrolling half-heartedly over his phone.
When you shifted and swallowed down another groan, he spoke again. “I’m not leaving you here if you’re not feeling well, Y/N. Don’t even think about asking me to go somewhere else.”
You stared up at the ceiling for a beat, jaw tightening. Of course, he would say that. Of course, he had been… kind. It scratched at something raw in your chest, that familiar mix of gratitude and rage, like your body couldn’t decide which way to flinch.
“I don’t want your pity,” you snapped before you could stop yourself, the words out sharp and ugly. They hung between you, heavy. You winced at your own tone, but it was too late.
Heeseung’s brows pulled together. He didn’t look offended, just surprised at your sudden outburst. “It’s not pity,” he said quietly. “If I pitied you, I’d have walked away a long time ago. I like being around you.”
You swallowed, throat tight. Heat crawled up your neck. You turned your head toward him, meeting his eyes. They were soft, steady, no pity in sight. They just had that same quiet determination you’d seen at practice, the one he got before stepping into a faceoff.
“I just…” Your voice thinned. “People feel bad, and then they hover, and I don’t… need that.”
He held your gaze, shoulders loosening a little. “Okay,” he said. “Then don’t call it pity.”
“What am I supposed to call it, then?” you muttered, more tired than angry now.
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m your friend,” he said simply. “And your friend’s not going to leave you here when you’re in pain and can’t even roll over without cursing out the universe.”
Your chest squeezed at that, tears stinging your eyes again, and you averted your gaze, hoping for your eyes to stop watering. “You’re really bad at minding your own business, you know that?” you whispered.
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Comes with the captain thing, I guess.”
Heeseung's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the steering wheel, the windshield wipers sweeping steady, rhythmic arcs across the glass. Rain hammered relentlessly against the car roof, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolour of streetlights and glistening asphalt. You were slumped deep in the passenger seat, your crutches jammed awkwardly between your knees. Neither of you had said much since you had sat down, music filling the space. He had no intention of starting up another conversation, waiting for you to talk, if you wanted to.
You crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze fixed on the downpour sheeting down the window. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable; he had grown familiar with it over these past weeks, but he could feel the tension radiating off you, shoulders stiff, fingers picking absently at the seam of your jeans.
He wanted to ask.
To ask how you were doing.
Why you had been crying.
What had happened today.
His heart broke a bit when he saw you asleep on the sofa. Your eyes were puffy as if you had cried. Your face pulled into a frown even in your sleep.
His chest tightened at the thought. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he stayed silent.
You broke the quiet first, voice cutting soft through the rain. "Do you know if it's supposed to thunder tonight?"
Heeseung glanced over quickly, then returned his eyes to the road, his hands flexing on the wheel. "No idea. Probably?"
You fell silent again for a long moment, watching the rain streak the glass. "I hate thunder," you muttered finally, the words almost lost under the drumming downpour.
He nodded, keeping his tone even. "I get that. Rain's not my favourite either."
You huffed a small sound, not quite a laugh. "Rain is okay, actually. Thunder just... reminds me of the accident."
Oh.
Heeseung's grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles paling slightly. He didn’t know what to say before, but now even less. He wasn’t good with words, has never been. He wetted his lips before nodding once. “Did it rain that day?”
He glanced at you, trying his best not to do it too obviously, but even if he had, you were staring out the passenger window.
You took a slow, shaky breath.
"It had been raining for days,” you paused and dropped your hands to your lap. “Dad was driving me to my last game of the junior league season." A dark chuckle escaped you, "I was the second hockey prodigy in the family, you know? His whole pride and joy. I was the star player, top scorer, scouts circling like vultures. We were just a few streets from the rink when it happened. The other driver hydroplaned. He t-boned into our passenger side. The metal of the car crumpled together as if it were paper, and glass exploded everywhere. Thunder cracked at the exact same second as the crash. Everything blended together for me, screeching tyres, folding steel, that boom shaking my whole world."
You stopped there, staring at your hands. Heeseung kept quiet, he was a bit surprised at the outburst, of you telling him all this, but maybe you just needed to talk about it, and he would gladly be there for you.
"I don't remember much after that," you continued, voice dropping monotone. "I woke up five days later in a coma. My right side was completely shattered. My hip took the worst of it; the dashboard basically shoved straight through it. My ankle was mangled too. My femur snapped clean, nerves shredded everywhere. The Docs said I was lucky to keep my leg. It’s a miracle that I can use it at all, that I am alive."
Heeseung swallowed hard, the horror sinking slowly and cold into his gut. He kept his eyes on the road. His stomach twisted awfully, pity rising despite himself. He knew you hated it, so he did his best not to show it.
Your voice stayed flat through the medical rundown, but he caught the faint shake when you wiped your eyes quickly with your hoodie sleeve. "That's why loud sounds hit me so hard. Sticks cracking. Pucks slamming boards. Whistles piercing. You know loud sounds. It got better with years of therapy, but bad days still send me spiraling and I just hate thunder,” you sniffled. Heeseung risked a glance at you; your face was still turned toward the window, and tears glistened on your lashes. He wanted to reach out for your hand, for your face.
He hated seeing you cry.
You laughed dryly and wiped over your face once again.
"Your dad," Heeseung surprised himself by speaking up. "Wasn’t he in the car as well? Why is he, you know…"
You shrugged before finally turning to look at him straight. "His injuries were a joke next to mine. He healed within weeks, and then he was back on the bench. He walked everything off like it was nothing."
Heeseung didn't know what to say.
"I'm glad you survived," he managed a few seconds later, his voice rough and low.
You took a long breath. "I wished for a long time that I didn't." Then you groaned, pressing palms to your face. "Oh man, sorry for trauma dumping. What the fuck. This never happens to me."
He shook his head fast, pulling to a red light, turning fully. "It’s fine, Y/N. Trauma dump whenever you need to. I’m not really good with feelings and stuff, but I’ll do my best."
Rain blurred everything outside. You held his gaze a beat, your eyes teary, and he had to stop himself from reaching over, stopping them from dropping. The streetlight changed to green, and he had to break eye contact before he could act on any of his intrusive thoughts.
You exhaled slowly, wiping your sleeve across your eyes one last time, the rain still drumming steadily on the roof. "Anyway," you said, noticeably forcing your voice lighter, turning your head to look at him properly. "Why were you at the rink so early today? You were half an hour ahead, even if we were filming."
Heeseung blinked, caught off-guard for a split second. Truth to be told, he had shown up early on purpose. He had wanted to see you. He had wanted an excuse to see you alone, to talk with you, hang out with you just for a bit. He liked being around you. The drives home had become a highlight these past few weeks. Talking about nothing, not talking at all, sitting there in comfortable silence, he enjoyed your presence.
He scrambled quickly. "I wanted to nap on the sofa. Watch a bit of this new series I've been into."
You tilted your head, curiosity flickering through the remnants of tears. "Oh? What are you watching?"
He racked his brain, landing on the first thing that popped up. "Gyeongseong Creature. A new season dropped a few weeks ago. Jeongin has been hyping it nonstop."
Your eyes lit up a fraction, a weak smile tugging at your mouth despite the redness around them, and Heseung mentally thanked his friend for being so annoying about the show. "Oh, I love that show! How far in are you?"
Heeseung shrugged. "The second or third episode?"
"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, shifting a little in your seat. "You like it so far?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding as the light ahead turned green. "It's good. Weird as hell, but pulls you in."
"That's great," you replied, the smile holding a bit longer now. Then quieter, almost sheepish, you added. "I can barely watch a full episode, though. I get too scared and have to pause."
He grinned, seizing the opening to tease you a bit. "You get scared? Do you have to hide behind that pillow you told me about?"
You rolled your eyes, but a laugh bubbled out of your mouth. "Shut up. They're terrifying. Those demons ripping people apart? No thanks. Not even my squishmello could save me."
He chuckled, warmth spreading in his chest at the sound.
He loved this part.
Making you smile.
Stealing the heaviness away, even just for a drive. "I'll protect you from the TV demons," he promised, mock-serious.
"Very heroic," you shot back, but your voice softened. "If that ever actually happened, though, I'd really need someone to protect me. I wouldn't be able to run."
Heeseung glanced over, still grinning. "Oh. Well, I need to do some more leg days then. So I can carry you around all the time."
You protested immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "Hey! I'm not that heavy!"
"Yes, but the water and supplies we need?" He raised one eyebrow.
You paused, then huffed a laugh. "Okay, yeah. True."
The rain eased a little outside, wipers slowing their rhythm. You settled deeper into the seat, the atmosphere warm now. "What would you do in a real zombie apocalypse anyway?"
Heeseung thought for a second, merging onto a quieter street. "I'd grab my youngest brother, Jungwon, and my closest friends, mainly Jake, Jay and Sunghoon. Maybe their girlfriends as well, l if they had any. We would get out of the city fast, head somewhere rural with supplies."
You nodded, a small smile playing. "Mhm. Yeah, that's probably clever. Do you have any actual survival skills?"
"My video games taught me plenty," he said, nodding earnestly. “I just need to acquire unbreakable joints so I can jump around like a maniac and a gun. Or multiple. And a crash course on how to use a gun.
You sniffed, but the laugh came again, brighter this time. He loved hearing it, loved pulling that lightness back into your voice.
Heeseung glanced over at you, the rain still pattering steadily against the windows, the wipers sweeping their familiar rhythm. The conversation felt easy now, lighter than it had any right to be after what you'd just shared, and he wanted to keep it there. "What about you?" he asked. "What's your zombie apocalypse plan?"
You let out a small, dry laugh, shifting in your seat to face him a little more. "I have no survival skills. I'd probably just end things before I could turn into one of them."
He raised an eyebrow, keeping his tone light but curious. "You think that's a good idea?"
"Yeah," you said, shrugging one shoulder. "Better than turning and eating Soobin or something."
Heeseung laughed, the sound filling the car with warmth. "Man, Soobin wouldn't let anything touch you."
You groaned in fake annoyance, rolling your eyes dramatically, but a smile tugged at your lips. "True. It's kinda his duty as the big brother."
He grinned, turning onto your street now, the headlights cutting through the wet dark. "Protecting siblings from zombies?"
"Yeah," you replied, your voice softening with affection. "You'd do that for Jungwon, too, right?"
Heeseung nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I'd burn the earth down for him if I had to."
You huffed another laugh, genuine this time. "Yeah, so don’t you dare judge him. He might be overprotective, but it’s in his DNA. Just look at our dad."
Heeseung shook his head, still chuckling as he slowed to pull into your parents' driveway. "My god, your dad is a scary man. I don’t want to cross him in a zombie apocalypse.
The front door clicked shut behind you with a familiar solid thunk. You took off your shoe by the entryway, stopping there for a second.
You were tired, so tired.
It wasn’t even five pm yet, and yet you felt like it was at least eleven.
You sighed and made your way down the hallway, past the door to your room. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain up your leg. Your mom stood at the sink, rinsing dishes with slow, methodical swipes of the sponge, the radio humming low in the background with some old pop tune half-buried under the running water when you reached the kitchen.
She turned at the heavy thud of your bag hitting the floor, her smile starting automatically and warm, only to freeze solid on her face when she caught sight of you.
You couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
"Y/N? Honey, what's wrong?" Her voice came out soft but sharp with worry, the plate in her hands dripping forgotten into the sink.
The question cracked something deep inside you wide open. You crossed the kitchen tiles in three shaky, uneven strides, your crutches clattering abandoned to the floor as you crashed straight into her.
You buried your face into the soft fabric of the sweater she was wearing as the first sob tore out of you. It was a raw and ugly sound, your whole body heaving against hers with the force of it. Her soapy hands hesitated for just a beat in surprise, wet palms hovering, then wrapped tight around your back, pulling you in closer as she steadied the two of you against the counter.
Your tears soaked through the fabric in seconds, your chest hollowing out with ragged gasp for air.
"It's not fair," you choked out, your voice breaking wet and jagged against her collarbone. "Why can't I just be healthy like everyone else? I want to play hockey. I want to skate for real, feel the ice under my blades again,” another sob interrupted you, “I want to go to school without counting every single step, without the pain chasing me down. I want to travel, see games, visit friends, live, instead I'm stuck in this endless fucking loop. Nothing works. It's just surgeries. Over and over, and I'm so done."
The words spilt out frantic and unfiltered, grief twisting sharply into rage and then dissolving back into despair. Your mom started slowly rocking you back and forth, one hand stroking steady passes down your hair like she had when you were little and woke from nightmares.
You wished you could wake up from this one as well. But there was nothing to wake up from; you were awake.
Suddenly, the closeness, the touches, felt too much. You pulled back abruptly from her arms, pressing the heels of your hands hard into your eyes instead as you sank down against the cabinets. Fresh tears leaked through your fingers anyway.
Your mom didn't let go or back away. She knelt right down there on the cold kitchen tile with you, her knees popping softly in the quiet, arms looping loose but firm around your shoulders from the side.
"Shh, baby. I've got you," she murmured just once, her voice thick and cracked at the edges with her own helpless ache, but after that she stayed mostly silent. She always said you had to let the storm rage itself out without interruption when you were a child.
She was always there, a coming presence, but she knew that sometimes crying was the only option, before going on.
Eventually, it did.
The storm in your head ebbed, your sobs fading into hiccuping breaths that left you hollowed and spent. You sagged heavily against her side, your face damp and swollen.
Your mom's thumbs came up to brush the last few tears from your cheeks as best she could, her own eyes shining wet. You knew she was suffering, maybe not as much as you, but she always worried. You hated worrying her with this. She should be worried about you partying, about you doing dumb things, and instead, she had to worry that you couldn't stop.
Triggered by one single stupid TikTok.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you washed up and into bed."
She helped you to your feet slowly and carefully, handing back one crutch and then the other with a steadying arm under your elbow as you limped together down the short hall to the bathroom. The sink faucet ran warm over your hands; she squeezed a swirl of toothpaste onto your brush without a word, waiting patiently while you scrubbed your face and teeth in mechanical motions, staring at your puffy, wrecked reflection in the fogging mirror.
"What happened today, sweetheart?" she asked quietly from the doorframe, leaning there with her arms crossed loosely.
You spat into the sink, rinsed your mouth with a slosh of water, and gripped the porcelain edge until your knuckles went white.
"Everything," you rasped out, finally meeting her eyes in the mirror's reflection. "I saw a video of Somi winning the Lee cup. She is playing for Samsung. She deserves to…but,” you sniffle before continuing. “I should be there too, Mom. But instead, my hip has been hurting so much that no painkiller is strong enough to make it stop. Heeseung had to drive me home because I just napped it off in the office like a total wreck."
Your mom nodded slowly, her expression soft but steady. She grabbed a clean towel from the rack, stepping close to pat your face dry with gentle dabs. "I know, baby. God, I know." Her arm slipped around your waist then, pulling you into a hug, as if she had to soothe herself. “I wish you were there, too. So much, Y/N.”
You sniffled and rested your head on her shoulder again, before pulling back. “I think I’m gonna sleep now.”
She nodded and followed you into your bedroom.
It was dark outside when you woke up a few hours later, your face still tender and swollen from crying.
You fumbled for your phone with one hand, wanting to know what time it was when it vibrated. The buzzer sounded against the wood of your nightstand. You fumbled for it with one hand, the screen's glare harsh against your tired eyes, when you found it.
Lee Heeseung (Male Hockey Team):
Hey
Training just wrapped!
Are you feeling any better now that you're home?
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long moment.
Part of you wanted to lie, tell him that you were feeling better, but the words wouldn't form. You didn’t want to lie to him.
Y/N
No
But it's alright
I will be
Thank you for driving me home. It helped a bit.
I hope the others didn’t give you any grief for not filming today.
You hit send before you could overthink it, then let the phone rest loose in your palm. Dots danced on the screen almost immediately, pulling your gaze back.
Lee Heeseung (Male Hockey Team):
Don't worry about it, no one is mad
Get some rest
You stared up at the ceiling tiles, their bland white blanks blurring slightly in the low light.
‘I like being around you.’
Heeseung's face flashed in front of your inner eye again, the way his hair was styled today, his easy smile when you'd first woken up grumpy. The way he was there, getting you to open up, by just being himself. You didn’t understand why, but you knew one thing, and that was for sure:
You liked being around him as well.
Thank you so much for reading!
Lots of Love,
Patty
CONTINUE READING PART TWO
⤷ ゛OTHER INSTALLMENTS OF THE SERIES ˎˊ˗
to the boys i’ve crushed on .ᐟ k.hj, j.yh, j.wy, p.sh
.ᐟ you’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic, even more so than you are a stumbling social disaster, which is saying something. you fall easily for four guys around campus and of course, because your luck is just that great, the sappy love letters you wrote to each of them end up delivered and send your usually uneventful life spinning into total chaos.
.ᐟ part one | part two | part three (~14k) | part four
.ᐟ music major!hongjoong x fem!reader, brother’s best friend!seonghwa x fem!reader, tutor!yunho x fem!reader, baseball golden boy!wooyoung x fem!reader
.ᐟ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | cursing, detailed descriptions of a panic attack, suggestive at the end
You stare at Wooyoung’s message, your brows knitting together as your grip on the phone tightens just slightly, your other hand still loosely curled around your cup. The café hum continues around you, unchanged, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening somewhere far outside of you.
This was all supposed to start at the game Saturday. There was a plan, there was structure, and now he’s just pulling the rug from under you. You were sure you’d have enough time to mentally prepare for this whole charade by Saturday, but now he’s saying you’re going to have to put a rush order on confidence and hope it arrives in time.
what??
and why?
Your fingers fly across the screen before you can think it over, sure that now your anxiety about this entire situation must be clear as day to him.
His reply comes faster this time, having read your message the second you sent it.
bc karina’s gonna be there
Right. Of course she is. You almost forgot that this was never just about you to him.
Your gaze drops, your shoulders curling in just slightly as your fingers begin to worry at the sleeve of your hoodie again, twisting the fabric between them until it bunches. You press your lips together, your thoughts already spiraling outward. There’s too many variables, too many ways this could go wrong.
okay but why do i have to go
You type it slower this time, your thumb pausing between words. You’re trying your hardest to soften the edge of it, make it sound less like stubborn resistance and more like confusion, but you think it just makes you seem stupid to him.
bc u’re my girlfriend now??
Before you can even process that one, another message pops up.
try to keep up
Your lips press together, the corner of your mouth twitching faintly, not quite a smile but not quite irritation. It’s something in between that you don’t want to examine too closely because, really, you think if anyone else said this to you while only having spoken to you twice, you’d be peeved.
that’s not funny
You type it out quickly, your thumb hitting send before you can rethink it. You shift in your seat, your back pressing lightly against the booth as you glance up briefly, grounding yourself in the café around you. It all feels strangely distant now, like you’re watching from behind glass.
im not joking
Your fingers still slightly against the table as you read it, your stomach tightening again. Another message follows.
if i show up alone and then suddenly have a gf at the game the next day it’s gonna look fake
The response makes your eyes flutter closed in defeat, the back of your head colliding softly with the cushion of the booth you’re sitting in, because, in a way you hate, that makes perfect sense. The logic settles in slowly, frustrating in how reasonable it is.
You sink back again, your shoulders dropping just a fraction as a quiet breath leaves you, your gaze drifting down to your drink. The whipped cream has fully dissolved, soft peaks having fully melted into uneven swirls. If only it were so easy to disappear for you as it is for the sugary cream.
it’s a baseball kickoff thing. everyone’s gonna be there
including her
You lean forward slightly without realizing it, your elbows hovering just above the table as your fingers curl loosely around your phone as you type a reply.
what am i even supposed to do there
You stare at the screen after sending it, your foot stilling for a second before starting up again, a restless, repetitive motion against the floor. You watch the typing bubble appear and disappear and appear again. Each second stretches just enough to make your chest tighten, your thoughts beginning to fill the silence with possibilities you don’t want to examine.
stick w me
look pretty
You roll your eyes instinctively, your head tilting back just slightly as you let out a small, quiet exhale through your nose, but the reaction doesn’t fully convince you. Underneath it, there’s that same flicker again, something warmer that makes your stomach dip in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.
ill handle everything tiny, don’t worry ur pretty lil head
A flush floods your face at his words, rising fast and uninvited, settling high in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. You think you can actually recall a line like that from your favorite movie, the love interest wearing that charming smile, insisting that the protagonist won’t have to stress her pretty lil head about it. Your shoulders draw in, your fingers tightening around your phone like you can physically contain the embarrassing reaction to such a simple sentence.
Slowly, you remember he’s waiting for a reply, so your thumbs move hesitantly.
fine
Why did you ever agree to this, anyway? You’ve read enough books and seen enough romcoms to know that fake relationships never work. The thought alone is enough to have fear flicker throughout your body again.
there u go, see? isn’t it easier when you let me think for u tiny
There’s a spike of irritation in your chest, but also something else you would feel humiliated to admit to.
stop, you type back.
lmaoo
just messing w u, its way too easy
You try to think of how to respond, but luckily you don’t have to because, in all of his grace, he ends the conversation.
pick u up at 8 on fri
Friday arrives faster than you’d expect, and by the time you’re in Wooyoung’s car, it already feels like you’ve been swept into some insane situation you didn’t fully think through.
The Jeep hums steadily beneath you, a low, constant vibration that you feel through the soles of your shoes and up into your legs, grounding and unsettling all at once. The windows are cracked just slightly, letting in thin ribbons of cool evening air that tug faintly at your hair, carrying with it the distant noise of the party you’re parked outside of.
You sit angled just slightly toward the door; you didn’t mean to put that space there between Wooyoung and yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to close it either. Your bag rests upright between your feet, one hand loosely gripping the strap, your thumb dragging absently over the worn edge of it in a repetitive motion you don’t even notice anymore.
Your knee bounces uncontrollably, a restless, nervous motion that doesn’t stop even when you press your foot harder into the floor. Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off rhythm, like you can’t quite settle into it.
This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea from the start, yet here you are, seconds way from having to play a role when you were never a good actor.
“I can’t do this,” you mutter, your voice quieter than the music outside but sharp enough in the small space of the car. Your gaze is fixed forward, not really looking at anything, instead just avoiding everything else.
“It’s a party,” he sighs, like that alone should solve it, his voice easy, unbothered in a way that feels almost unfair. He leans back slightly in his seat, one arm resting lazily against the wheel, the other draped along the back of your seat like he’s already settled in. “You’re acting like I dragged you to court or something.”
Your fingers tighten further into the fabric in your lap. “That’s not helping,” you mumble, your shoulders drawing in just slightly as your gaze flickers toward the house again, then away just as quickly: too many people, too many eyes, too many chances for something to go wrong.
Wooyoung glances at you then, really looks this time, and something in his expression shifts. He sighs, softer this time, his hand lifting from the wheel as he turns slightly toward you. “Okay,” he starts, like he’s conceding something, adjusting the plan in his head. “Give me your phone.”
You blink, caught off guard, “What?”
“Your phone,” he echoes, holding his hand out expectantly, palm up between you. “C’mon.”
Your brows knit together immediately, confusion cutting through the anxiety just enough to make you turn toward him fully now. “Why?” you question, your grip tightening slightly around it instead of handing it over. “What are you—”
“Just give it to me, won’t you?” he cuts in, firm and maybe a little annoyed, in the soft kind of way, wrapped in something that sounds to you like endearment.
You hesitate for a second longer, your fingers lingering against the edges of your phone like you’re trying to hold onto some control, but it slips from your hand anyway, landing lightly in his.
You immediately regret it as you watch him unlock your phone, thumbs dancing across your screen. “What are you doing?” you press, leaning slightly toward him, your voice edged with something between suspicion and nerves.
He hums lightly, and before you can ask him in what world that serves as an answer to your question, he leans in. Your breath catches immediately, your body going still as he shifts into your space like the way your shoulder brushes his chest isn’t sending your thoughts scattering.
“What are you—” you start, but the words don’t finish because his hand comes up and settles along your jaw, his palm cradling the underside of it as his fingers press lightly into your cheeks, squishing them just enough that your lips part in surprise.
Your eyes widen, your gaze snapping to the phone now held up in front of both of you, the screen capturing the exact moment you realize what just happened; your flustered expression, his grin already breaking across his face, far too pleased with himself.
He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, the warmth of his hand disappearing from your skin, leaving behind a lingering awareness that makes your face burn hotter.
“What was that for?” you demand immediately, your voice breathless and sharp.
A quiet laugh slips out of him, low and satisfied, his thumb tapping across your screen as he does something — multiple things, judging by the way his focus narrows just slightly.
“Wooyoung,” you press, leaning closer again, trying to see, your shoulder brushing his arm this time. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he murmurs, still not looking at you and completely at ease in a way that makes your stomach churn. He taps at your phone a few more times before he finally turns the phone back to you, “Done.”
You take it automatically, your fingers brushing his for half a second as he hands it back, the contact brief but enough to make your chest tighten again. Your gaze drops to the screen, your lock screen now the photo he’d taken of the both of you — you, wide-eyed and flustered, your cheeks squished slightly under his hand and him, leaning in close beside you, grin sharp and bright, eyes crinkled with something undeniably amused. You pause for a moment, studying it a second longer before you speak, “You changed it?”
“Mm,” he hums, already reaching for the door handle, “Now it’s believable, and hopefully you can stop doing that,” he gestures toward you vaguely, “whole freaking out thing you’re doing.”
Before you can argue and claim that you’re not ‘freaking out’ and that a new lock screen doesn’t help make this more believable, he’s out of the car, the cool night air rushing in as he shuts his side. For a second, you just sit there, staring at the photo again, your heart doing something wobbly in your chest.
Your door opens and Wooyoung’s standing there, one hand resting casually against the top of the door, the other outstretched for you to take. The porch lights from the house cast a warm glow across him, catching in his hair, cushioning the sharpness of his features.
“C’mon, girlfriend,” he urges, tilting his head like all of this is just another day and not some deliberate charade you’re both performing to solve your problems, “Don’t make me come get you.”
You huff softly under your breath, but you take his hand anyway, letting him pull you up and out of the Jeep. The night air is cooler than you expect, brushing against your skin as you step onto the gravel. The sound of the party feels louder now, closer, the bass thudding through the ground beneath your feet as you move toward the house.
Wooyoung leads you forward, weaving easily through the small groups gathered outside. Every so often, someone calls his name, and he answers easily, tossing greetings over his shoulder without breaking stride. There’s something effortless about it, about the way he belongs here, as if the space bends around him instead of the other way around.
Gravel crunches under your shoes, uneven and loud in your ears, and every step closer pulls more of the party into focus — the low thrum of bass vibrating through the ground, the spill of warm yellow light from the windows, silhouettes moving past them in blurred, overlapping shapes. Someone laughs too loudly from somewhere off to the side, the sound sharp and careless.
The air once you step inside is warmer, heavier, and tinged with something sweet and artificial that clings to the back of your throat. Music pulses through the walls and floor, loud enough that it hums in your bones, and the room itself is crowded in a way that makes it hard to tell where one conversation ends and another begins. Bodies brush past you too close, shoulders knocking lightly, laughter overlapping with the rhythm of the song until it all blends into something overwhelming.
Wooyoung’s hand shifts, sliding from yours to rest at your waist, steadying you as he guides you deeper into the house. The touch is deliberate, grounding, and for a second you focus on it instead of everything else, on the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your top, on the way his thumb moves once, absentminded, like reassurance.
“Wooyoung!” someone calls, and suddenly you’re being pulled to a stop.
A boy approaches first, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair that falls into his eyes in loose, slightly messy waves. There’s an effortless looseness to him, the kind that comes from someone who laughs often and loudly, his grin already spreading before he even fully reaches you.
“Where have you been hiding?” he questions, voice bright and animated, before his gaze drops to you. It sharpens instantly, interest lighting behind it. “Oh. Oh, this must be her.”
Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate; his arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer into his side as he nods. “Jisung,” he states in way of introduction, then gestures lightly toward you. “This is _____.”
Jisung’s grin widens like Wooyoung just confirmed something he’s been waiting a while for. “Damn,” he drawls, dragging the word out, clearly amused. “You’re real.”
Before you can process that, someone else steps in beside him. This one is different, leaner and sharper in presence, his posture relaxed but composed. His hair is dark, parted cleanly, framing a face that looks put together, sharp in contrast to the chaos around him. There’s something observant in his gaze, assessing and almost skeptical in a way that only makes you more aware of the fact that you’re lying.
“So this is why you’ve been ignoring everyone,” he maintains, voice smooth, measured, though there’s a hint of amusement there that dulls it. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Wooyoung. “Minjae,” he introduces, offering you a small nod.
“Wasn’t ignoring,” Wooyoung shoots back, though there’s a grin tugging at his mouth that betrays him.
“Right,” Minjae replies simply, unconvinced.
Another presence leans in from the side. It’s a girl this time, her hair long and dark, falling sleekly down her back, her features sharp in a way that makes her expressions feel deliberate. She’s tall and lean and you think she’d make a killing in the modeling industry. She studies you openly, not unkindly but just thoroughly, like she’s taking inventory of you. “I’m Ara,” she offers, tilting her head slightly. “You’ve caused a lot of speculation this week.”
Jesus, you didn’t realize Wooyoung had been talking so much about you. You’d kind of thought you’d show up as his girlfriend suddenly at the game, and it would all work itself out. You suppose it makes more sense for him to have at least mentioned a girlfriend before showing up with one.
“So,” Jisung starts, clapping his hands together once like he’s been waiting for this moment, his grin turning almost mischievous. “How did this happen?”
Your fingers curl slightly against Wooyoung’s side, your gaze flicking up to him for half a second, a silent plea. You hope it comes off more that you’re just shy and less like your mind is scrambling for an answer and your only reassurance is the fact that he told you he’d handle it.
“Library,” he explains smoothly, as if the word has been sitting on his tongue waiting to be used. “She dropped her stuff, I helped her pick it up, we started talking—”
“That did not happen,” Minjae cuts in immediately, brows lifting.
“It did,” Wooyoung insists, unbothered, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as he continues. “And then I walked her to class, and then we kept running into each other, and, y’know, the rest just happened.”
Ara’s brows lift slightly, her lips curving into something amused. “Convenient.”
“Fate,” Wooyoung corrects without missing a beat.
Jisung lets out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my god, you’re serious?”
Wooyoung just shrugs, but there’s something in his expression now that plays into the story so convincingly it makes your chest tighten. “Love at first sight,” he claims, like it’s nothing, and you think he’s laying it on a little too thick now. It seems you’re not wrong, because the group erupts. There’s laughter, disbelief, teasing comments thrown his way in rapid succession.
“I have never seen you like this over a girl,” Ara huffs good-naturedly, shaking her head, still smiling, “not once.” That sentiment sits in your mind a little longer than you’d like it to. It makes no sense because isn’t he, like, madly in love with Karina? Isn’t that why you’re doing this whole thing in the first place?
“You’re all dramatic,” Wooyoung scoffs, though the corner of his mouth lifts, his hand tightening slightly at your waist.
“You’re smiling,” Ara points out, motioning to his face.
“I always smile.”
“Not like that.”
Wooyoung’s hand stays firm at your waist as the conversation starts to blur around you. His thumb moves absently against your side, a small, repetitive motion that feels practiced. You try to focus on that instead of the way your pulse won’t settle, instead of the way every new face feels like another pair of eyes assessing something you’re not sure you’re performing correctly.
“So,” Ara starts again, leaning forward with that same sharp curiosity, her gaze flicking between you and Wooyoung. “Love at first sight, huh?” It’s teasing in a familiar way that almost draws you to her, and you think if you weren’t so awkward and this situation weren’t so… the way it is, you’d like to be her friend.
Your mouth opens and stalls, because you still don’t have anything. You feel Wooyoung shift beside you, just slightly, like he’s about to step in again, to catch it before it slips, but a voice cuts through.
“Wooyoung.”
The group quiets just a fraction, attention shifting in that subtle, collective way that tells you that everyone knows this is about to be awkward. You feel it before you see her, the slight tightening of the air, the way the moment rearranges itself around her presence.
Karina stands just a few feet away, framed by the kitchen light behind her. She looks so composed, effortlessly so, outwardly unbothered in a way that makes you worry that the plan to make her jealous isn’t working at all. Her posture is straight without being stiff, her expression controlled. Her hair falls neatly over her shoulders, smooth and untouched by the chaos of the room, and there’s something in her gaze, sharp and observant, that settles on Wooyoung first.
“You actually came,” she says, her tone light, but there’s a faint edge beneath it, something just slightly off from casual.
“Obviously. Makes more sense for me to be here than you,” he replies. He’s not wrong, this is a baseball kickoff thing, or however he said it.
Her eyes narrow just a fraction, then they shift to you and this time there’s no mistaking it. The irritation is subtle, but it’s there, tight in the corners of her eyes, in the way her glossed lips press together just a second too long before she smooths it over.
“This is her?” she asks, even though it’s not really a question at all. You know she must recognize you from the party.
Wooyoung’s hand presses a little more firmly into your side. “Yeah.”
Karina lets out a quiet breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wow,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly as she looks at you again, assessing you like a predator to its prey. “You really do move fast.”
There’s a flicker of something in the group, an even mix of tension and curiosity, you think, but no one interrupts. You feel it settle under your skin, that tone of hers, not outright rude but definitely not kind either.
“I didn’t think you were a serious relationship kind of guy,” she continues, her gaze sliding back to Wooyoung, then returning to you like she can’t help it. “You weren’t, like… two weeks ago.”
Wooyoung exhales softly, “Things change.”
“Clearly,” she replies, and there’s a tightness there now, something she’s not bothering to hide as well. Her arms cross loosely over her chest and her weight shifts to one side, her gaze lingering on the way his hand rests against you, on the space you’re occupying next to him.
You suddenly feel how out of place you are. Not just here, in the party, but here, in this conversation, in whatever history exists between them that you don’t understand. It presses in on you from all sides, invisible but heavy, as if you’ve stepped into something already in motion and you’re expected to keep up without knowing the rules.
“You’ve been quiet about her,” she adds, and this time it’s sharper. “That’s new.”
Jisung glances between them, catching on a little belatedly that this couldn’t end up going anywhere good. “Okay—”
But Karina keeps going, her attention still fixed, “I mean, you usually don’t shut up when you’re interested in someone,” she remarks, her lips curving faintly, though it doesn’t read as a smile. “So I guess I was just wondering what makes this one different.”
Something in your chest dips, uncomfortable and sudden. You feel like you’ve just been reduced to something smaller, something easier to dismiss. You feel it in the way your shoulders pull in just slightly, in the way your fingers tighten again at your sides.
Wooyoung’s hand shifts at your waist, anchoring, but it suddenly feels too noticeable, too present, like it’s drawing attention to something you’re not sure you can hold up under scrutiny. “Maybe I just don’t need to explain everything to you,” he argues lightly.
Karina hums, unconvinced. “Or maybe,” she starts, her gaze flicking to you again, “there’s just not that much to explain.”
The words lingers in your chest, uncomfortable and quiet, something pressing down just enough to make it harder to breathe. You become hyperaware of yourself; of how you’re standing, of where your hands are, of the way your face feels warm. Your thoughts are slightly scrambled, your presence too visible and not enough at the same time.
And somewhere in the middle of that, of her voice, of the pressure, of the way everything feels just slightly tilted, your mind slips. You don’t mean to stop listening, you really don’t, but it just happens. Her words blur together, still audible but harder to hold onto, sliding past you instead of actually clicking in your mind. Your focus loosens its grip on the conversation, searching for something else, something easier to latch onto.
Your gaze drifts across the room, and your breath stutters violently in your chest when you see him.
The sight of Hongjoong hits all at once, sharp and immediate, something snapping into place in your chest and knocking everything else out of alignment. He stands near the kitchen, half-turned toward Mingi, his posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other moves as he talks. The rings on his fingers catch the light with every small gesture, glinting in brief flashes that feel too familiar, too grounding even across the room in a way that makes something in your chest twist.
He looks normal, the same way he did Sunday night, and he hasn’t seen you, but he will, and the thought lands heavy and immediate, sinking into your chest. The air feels heavier, harder to pull into your lungs, and the music sharpens, each beat hitting a little too hard, a little too loud, like it’s pressing inward instead of outward. The conversations around you blur, voices overlapping into something indistinct and overwhelming. Wooyoung’s hand at your waist suddenly feels like too much.
You’re unable to tear your eyes from Hongjoong across the room even as the thought cuts through everything else:
You slept with him. You slept with Hongjoong, and now you’re here, standing in the middle of a crowded room, tucked against Wooyoung’s side, his friends surrounding you as if you actually belong there and aren’t just playing a part.
You really didn’t think this through. You didn’t think about how it would feel, or about what it would look like from the outside.
“I—” you start, but your voice doesn’t carry, swallowed immediately by the noise. Your fingers curl tighter into Wooyoung’s shirt, your thoughts slipping faster than you can catch them. “I need—” you stutter uselessly, unable to finish your thought before your body is already moving, pulling away in a quick motion that’s urgent enough that Wooyoung’s hand slips from your waist as you step back, “I need the bathroom,” you finally manage.
“Down the hall to the left,” Minjae gestures vaguely and your feet are taking you there before you even realize it.
The hallway is quieter, but not enough. The music still bleeds through the walls, dulled but persistent, the bass a low, constant thrum beneath your feet. The space feels too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re pressing inward with every step.
By the time you reach the bathroom, your hands are already shaking.
The door shuts behind you with a sharp click that sounds too loud in the small space, and for a second you just stand there, back pressed to it like you need to make sure it’s really closed because something might follow you in if you don’t hold it there.
Your breath doesn’t come right, catching halfway, shallow and uneven, your chest tightening like something is wrapping around it, pulling too tight beneath your ribs. You try to inhale deeper, try to force it, but it only makes it worse — your lungs stutter and your throat feels too narrow, like the air isn’t getting where it’s supposed to go.
You push yourself off the door and stumble forward a step, your hands landing against the sink hard enough that the porcelain rattles faintly under your grip. The cool surface barely registers as your fingers curl over the edge, knuckles whitening.
Your reflection looks wrong, you realize as you stare up at it. You’re too bright, too flushed, and your eyes are too wide, glassy in a way that almost makes it feel like you’re looking at someone else entirely. Your lips part as you try to breathe again, but it comes out in short, uneven bursts that just aren’t enough.
Your heart is beating too fast and you can feel it everywhere — your chest, your throat, the tips of your fingers. It makes your head feel light, dizzy in a way that tilts the room just slightly off its axis. You press your palm flat against your chest like you can physically force it to slow down.
Thoughts crash in, rapid and unorganized, overlapping so quickly you can’t hold onto any of them long enough to make sense of them.
You think about the way everyone was looking at you, the way Wooyoung said love at first sight, the way Hongjoong hadn’t seen you yet, but would have, and the way that you didn’t think about this, didn’t plan for this, not even at all.
Your stomach twists sharply, nausea rising fast and sudden, your body reacting to something your mind can’t even fully process. You lean forward slightly, your grip on the sink tightening as your breathing breaks again, a small, strangled sound slipping out of you before you can stop it.
“I can’t—” you whisper, and you don’t know who you’re talking to, but it barely sounds like words, more like breath catching on something that won’t let it pass. You turn around and press your back to the cabinet of the sink, sliding down it to sit on the floor.
There’s a faint tingling creeping into your fingers, like they’re falling asleep or like they don’t quite belong to you anymore. It spreads slowly and subtly up your wrists, and it only makes the panic spike sharper.
Something’s wrong. Something is wrong.
You try to breathe deeper again, desperate now, your chest lifting too fast, too sharply, but it just makes your vision blur at the edges, little dark spots flickering in and out as your body struggles to keep up.
A knock at the door startles you, sharp enough that your shoulders jolt, your breath catching again in your throat.
“Tiny?”
You don’t answer — you can’t, your body wouldn’t let you even you if you tried, but you don’t think you would have anyway. The thought of him seeing you like this, so broken and helpless, almost makes the panic spike again.
“I’m coming in, tiny.”
That’s the only warning you get before the door opens just enough for Wooyoung to slip inside, shutting it quickly behind him and sealing the space again. The shift is immediate — he takes one look at you, really looks, and whatever he was expecting clearly isn’t this.
“Hey,” he starts, but his voice is more hushed now than it was from outside the door, the word careful, as if he doesn’t want to startle you further. He steps closer like he’s approaching something fragile and the realization almost makes everything worse. You must look as pathetic as you feel. “Hey— look at me.”
You shake your head instinctively, your grip tightening on your upper arms as another wave of dizziness rolls through you. “I can’t breathe,” you manage, the words breaking apart, your voice thin and uneven. “I—I can’t—”
“You can,” he cuts in immediately, firm in a way that cuts through the noise just slightly. “You can. You’re just breathing too fast.” He crouches in front of you and his hand hovers for a second before settling gently on your arm and you think the contact should overwhelm you but it’s more grounding than anything. His thumb moves slightly, a small, steady motion against the thin fabric of your sleeve that gives you something to focus on.
“Look at me,” he repeats, softer this time. It takes effort, but you do, your gaze lifting, unfocused at first, then slowly finding his.
“Okay, good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough that it feels separate from everything else. “We’re gonna slow it down, yeah, tiny? In through your nose,” he guides, “slow, like this,” He demonstrates it, exaggerated just enough for you to follow, his own breathing controlled. You try to mimic it, but it doesn’t work at first. Your body resists, still stuck in that frantic rhythm, but he doesn’t rush you. “Again,” he mutters, “you’re okay.”
The next breath comes easier, still not easy, by any means, but better. Your heart is still racing, your hands still trembling, but the edges of the panic start to dull, just slightly, the volume of your thoughts turned down just a fraction.
“I’ve got you,” he soothes, his hand still steady on your arm. “You’re not gonna pass out or anything, okay? It just feels like that.”
Your eyes squeeze shut briefly, a shaky breath leaving you as your shoulders drop just a fraction. The room feels a little less like it’s spinning, and after a long moment of letting you regaining your bearings, Wooyoung speaks again.
“We can leave,” he offers after a moment, watching you carefully. “We don’t have to stay here. I can take you home.”
God, you want that more than anything now. You nod, wiping your eyes of the tears that started to gather, looking up at him in a way you’re sure must look pitiful, but if he feels that way, his expression betrays none of it.
Wooyoung doesn’t comment on the way your lashes are still damp, or the way your breathing still catches every few seconds. If anything, something in his expression softens.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low now, gentler in a way you haven’t heard from him before. His hand shifts slightly on your arm, thumb brushing once, anchoring instead of guiding this time, “don’t look at me like that.”
You blink at him, still a little dazed, your chest rising unevenly as you try to catch up with your own body again. “Like what?” you manage, your voice small and still rough around the edges.
“Like you did something wrong,” he answers plainly, studying your face.
Your gaze drops instinctively, your fingers curling faintly into the fabric at your sides, the remnants of that tight, suffocating feeling still lingering in your chest. You don’t argue with him, you don’t even really know how to, but the thought doesn’t leave just because he says it.
He watches you for a second longer, like he can see that much without you saying it, then he exhales softly through his nose, shifting his stance just slightly. “C’mon,” he urges, hushed now, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
The hallway feels narrower on the way out, or maybe it’s just you — your awareness stretched too thin, still recovering, still catching on every little thing like it matters too much. The bass from the party thumps through the walls in dull, distant waves, no longer overwhelming but still present enough to sit uncomfortably under your skin. Your body hasn’t fully decided that you’re safe yet.
Wooyoung stays close. His hand finds yours somewhere between the bathroom and the front door, his fingers warm as they wrap around yours just enough pressure to anchor you to something.
“C’mon, tiny,” he murmurs, voice dipped lower than usual, softer in a way that feels reserved only for moments like this. “Almost out.”
You nod, even though your throat still feels tight, your breathing still not quite right. Your fingers curl a little more firmly around his without meaning to, as if your body is clinging before your mind can catch up and tell it not to.
The front door opens and cool air rushes over you, crisp and open, cutting cleanly through the warmth and noise you just left behind. It fills your lungs differently and for the first time since the bathroom, your breath doesn’t catch halfway through.
You didn’t realize how suffocating it felt in there until now.
Wooyoung exhales beside you, like he’s been holding something in too, like he’d been holding onto some kind of phantom twin panic and could only calm down once you did. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly now that you’re outside, though he doesn’t let go.
“Yo, you’re dipping already?” someone calls from the porch, voice slurred slightly with alcohol and laughter.
Wooyoung barely turns, just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah— text me,” he tosses back, easy and dismissive in a way that says he doesn’t have the energy to entertain anything else right now.
“Bring her tomorrow!” another voice calls, louder, more curious.
Wooyoung glances back just long enough to flash a grin, sharp and effortless. “Obviously,” he shoots back, like it’s a given, already decided.
Your chest tightens slightly at the reminder that you’re still going to have to go through with this stupid plan, but it fades quickly as he tugs you gently towards the driveway.
The Jeep is parked a little off to the side, dark under the streetlight. He lets go of your hand only to open the passenger door for you, one arm braced against the frame as he looks at you, really looks at you, his expression softening just slightly at whatever he finds.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You nod and you’re not sure if you’re telling the truth.
He studies you for half a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to push or not, then just nods once and steps back, letting you climb in. The interior smells faintly like his cologne and something so distinctly him, and the familiarity of it settles around you. You curl slightly into yourself as you settle in, your hands slipping into your sleeves, your fingers brushing against your own skin.
By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the door shutting with a soft thud, you’re staring straight ahead. The engine hums to life and for a while, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s just quiet in an intentional kind of way, giving you space without abandoning you to your thoughts completely.
The road stretches out ahead, quiet and dimly lit, streetlights passing in slow intervals that cast fleeting shadows across his face. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift, tapping absently like he’s thinking.
You watch the city pass by in fragments through the window, all familiar streets and familiar turns, until he doesn’t take one of them.
Your brows knit faintly, “Wait,” you murmur, your voice still a little soft from earlier. “Where are we going?”
Wooyoung shrugs, like you’re the weird one for even asking. “Gonna cheer you up.”
You blink at him. “That’s not an answer,” you point out, a little more present now, though the exhaustion still clings to you.
He just grins, quick and easy. “Relax.” That’s all you get.
The roads get quieter the further he drives, the glow of campus fading behind you until it’s replaced with something dimmer and less populated. Buildings grow older, less maintained, shadows stretching longer across cracked pavement.
He pulls up in front of what looks like an abandoned building. It’s tall, looming, the windows dark and hollow, parts of the structure worn down by time and neglect. There’s graffiti along the lower walls, the entrance half-blocked by a rusted gate that’s been forced open just enough to slip through.
It’s kind of scary.
“…Um,” you start slowly, turning to look at him. “How is this supposed to cheer me up?”
Wooyoung laughs, actually laughs, the sound warm and unbothered as he kills the engine and glances over at you. “It gets better, I promise,” he says, already pushing his door open.
He rounds the front of the car, opening your door before you can even decide whether you’re getting out or not.
“Trust me,” he adds, offering you his hand like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and that’s how it starts to feel, you realize. Life is easy with Wooyoung, never too many thoughts or too much panic or too much fear, or if there is, it never lasts long. That’s something you think you really like about him.
There’s always something about the way he carries himself, easy and confident and so certain without a doubt in his mind, and it’s a soothing balm to your anxious nature. If he weren’t so into Karina, you think to yourself, you think a real relationship with him would be good for you.
The inside of the building is worse than the outside, when you enter. It’s quieter, the air cooler in that stale, forgotten way, and your footsteps echo faintly as he leads you through, your hand still in his, his grip steady as he navigates like he’s done this many times before.
“Have you been here a lot?” you whisper, instinctively lowering your voice like this place is haunted and the ghosts are sure to hear you.
“Enough,” he replies, glancing back at you with a small grin.
You don’t know if that’s reassuring or not.
He pushes open a heavy door at the end of the stairwell, and suddenly everything opens up, stretching beyond the eye can see.
The rooftop stretches out in front of you, wide and unobstructed, the night air rushing in to meet you, cooler and cleaner than anything below. The city unfolds beyond the edge, lights scattered endlessly in every direction, glowing gold and white like constellations pulled down to earth.
You stop walking completely, because it’s beautiful in a way that steals the breath you just fought so hard to get back.
The skyline cuts sharp against the dark sky, buildings rising and falling in uneven patterns, windows lit like tiny flickers of life stacked on top of each other. Cars move like slow trails of light below, red and white threading through the streets, constant but distant enough that it all feels still despite the fact that you know they’re moving.
Above it all, the sky stretches wide and endless, deeper than it looked from the ground, scattered faintly with stars that somehow manage to exist despite the city’s glow.
“…Oh,” you breathe.
Wooyoung watches you instead of the view. There’s something quieter in his expression now, like he thought your awed reaction was the whole point and he’s happy to have made it happen.
“Told you,” he hums lightly in that cocky Wooyoung kind of tone, and it’s tugging a smile at your lips before you realize it.
You don’t respond right away, just taking in every detail, every flicker of light, every distant sound that barely reaches this height. Your chest feels different now, not tight or suffocating anymore, but full in a way that feels so starkly pleasant compared to the earlier feelings of the night.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.
“Isn’t it?” he replies, and when you turn to look up at him, he’s already looking at you. He nudges you gently, not giving you time to process that before he’s walking.
“C’mon.”
He guides you toward the edge, slow enough that you don’t feel rushed, and then sits first, like he’s proving it’s safe. His legs dangle over the side without hesitation, completely at ease.
After a moment, you finally mimic him, lowering yourself to sit. Your legs dangle over the edge, the height noticeable but not overwhelming, not with him there, not with the city stretching out so beautifully in front of you that it distracts from everything else.
For a moment, neither of you speak. You’re not scrambling to fill the silence like you usually do, content instead to listen to the quiet inhale and exhales of the man beside you.
You really like spending time with him, you think. You can be calm in a way you never were able to before, because he makes you everything feel so easy and simple and he makes any atmosphere he’s in feel the furthest thing from judgmental. He’s the kind of person to make jokes of everything, yet he never makes a joke out of you, nothing beyond teasing. He doesn’t look at you like some pariah when you stutter or take too long to finish a thought.
You think that’s why it’s so easy to talk with him so freely, because the words are coming out of your mouth before you realize, “Do you take all of your girls here?”
Wooyoung snorts, his head turning toward you with an incredulous grin, before nudging your shoulder with his. “What other girls?” he shoots back, teasing. “Love at first sight, remember?”
You laugh. It slips out before you can stop it, light and genuine and uninhibited in a way that surprises you. “You were laying it on way too thick,” you tell him, shaking your head slightly, unable to wipe the smile off your face.
“Hey,” he protests, though he’s still smiling, “they believed it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
You huff softly, your gaze drifting back out to the city, the corners of your mouth still lifted just slightly.
The quiet settles back in around you again, but it’s different now. It’s not the suffocating kind from earlier, the kind that pressed in on your ribs until breathing felt like work. This silence feels like it’s giving you space instead of taking it away.
The city stretches endlessly in front of you, lights blinking and shimmering like they’re alive, like each one holds a story you’ll never hear. A car passes far below, headlights trailing like slow-moving stars, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails faintly before dissolving into nothing. The air is cooler up here, brushing softly against your skin, tugging gently at the ends of your hair. It feels clean in a way the inside of the party never could.
Beside you, Wooyoung shifts just slightly, leaning back onto his hands, his posture loose and unguarded. His head tilts up toward the sky for a second, like he’s taking it in too, even though he’s probably been here a hundred times before. There’s something easy about him like this, something unperformed.
“You laugh different up here,” he says after a moment, voice hushed now, not teasing in the same loud, exaggerated way it usually is. It’s almost thoughtful.
Your brows knit faintly as you glance over at him. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder, his lips curving just slightly like he doesn’t fully have the words for it. “Dunno. Just… less like you’re thinking about it.”
Your chest tightens a little at that, not uncomfortably, just enough to make you aware of it. You look away again, your gaze falling back out over the city, your fingers curling slightly against the concrete of the ledge.
“I think I think about everything,” you admit, quieter than you mean to be.
“Yeah,” he agrees easily, like it’s obvious, not something you needed to confess. “I know.” You blink, turning your head toward him again, a little caught off guard by how certain he sounds.
He glances at you then, just briefly, his expression more tender than you expect, before it shifts again into something lighter, something more familiar. “It’s kinda your thing.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh at that, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “That’s not a good thing.”
“Says who?” he counters immediately.
You hesitate, because you don’t actually have an answer for that. You sit with that for a second, your lips parting like you’re about to argue, but nothing comes out. The city hums below you, steady and indifferent, like it has no opinion on whether you think too much or not. For once, you don’t feel like you have to justify it, or explain it, or shrink it into something more acceptable.
Wooyoung watches you out of the corner of his eye, not in that sharp, observant way that makes you feel picked apart, but in something looser, something that feels like he’s just there with you, letting you take your time.
Then, inevitably, because he’s him, he breaks the silence. “Besides,” he adds, nudging your knee lightly with his, “if you didn’t overthink everything, you probably wouldn’t have agreed to fake date me.”
You turn your head toward him immediately, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” he insists, lifting one hand like he’s making a very valid point. “A normal person would’ve said no. Immediately.”
“I did say no,” you shoot back.
“Yeah, and then you thought about it,” he grins, as if he’s already won, “and then you said yes.”
“That’s not—” you stop, because… that is exactly what happened.
He raises his brows, waiting. You squint at him slightly. “You’re annoying.”
“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “you’re here. On a rooftop. With me.”
You huff, but there’s no real bite to it, your shoulders relaxing as you shake your head. “I take it back. You’re insufferable, actually.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased with himself, leaning back again onto his hands. “You like it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
He turns his head toward you again, eyes narrowing just slightly in mock suspicion before he leans a little closer, like he’s trying to inspect you. “You smiled when you said that.”
You freeze for half a second, caught completely off guard by how close he suddenly is. He’s not too close — he’s not invading your space in a way that makes you want to pull back — but close enough that you can see the tiny details you wouldn’t normally notice. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth like he’s holding back another grin, the way his eyes narrow just slightly when he’s amused, the mole on his cheek, the soft movement of his hair shifting with the breeze. It makes your stomach do something you don’t entirely appreciate.
“I did not,” you argue, but it comes out weaker than you intend, your voice betraying you just slightly.
His grin widens immediately, like he’s the cat who got the cream. “You did,” he insists, leaning in just a fraction more, as if proximity alone will prove his point. “Right there, just now. You smiled.”
“I didn’t,” you repeat, but now you can feel it, the way your lips are still threatening to curve, the way your face feels a little warmer than it did a second ago.
He studies you for a beat longer, dragging it out in a way that makes you increasingly aware of yourself, before he leans back again with a soft, victorious hum. “That’s crazy,” he says lightly. “You’re lying to my face.”
You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, your hand coming up to push lightly at his shoulder, not enough to actually move him, just enough to create space again. “You’re actually unbearable.”
“Mm,” he hums again, completely unbothered, shifting his weight so he’s angled slightly toward you now, one knee bending just a little. “And yet, you still came to the party with me.”
You glance at him, then out at the city again, your fingers curling against the edge of the concrete. The wind brushes past again, softer this time, like it’s settled into something quieter along with you. “…You didn’t really let me have a choice,” you point out, though there’s no real accusation in it.
“That’s true,” he admits easily, not even pretending otherwise. “I’m very persuasive.”
You huff softly, but there’s a small smile pulling at your mouth again, stubborn as it is unintentional. “That’s one way to put it.”
He nudges your knee again, lighter this time, almost absentminded. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it? And the night’s not all bad. I mean, I am cheering you up a little now, aren’t I?”
You tilt your head slightly, considering that for a second longer than you mean to. Your chest doesn’t feel as tight anymore. Your breathing has evened out, your thoughts quieter, no longer tripping over each other in a rush to be heard. The panic feels distant now, like something that happened to someone else, hours ago instead of minutes.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly.
Something in his posture shifts at that, subtle but noticeable. He straightens just a little, like that answer mattered more to him than he was letting on when he asked it.
“Told you,” he replies, but it’s softer now, less teasing and more satisfied, in a quiet kind of way.
The silence that follows settles easily, not empty, instead just full in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you. Your shoulder brushes his when you shift slightly, and this time you don’t overthink it, don’t immediately pull away or try to correct it.
“You’re kind of, like… a really bad actor.” Wooyoung finally says.
For a second, you don’t even process what he’s said. It lands lightly, almost lazily, like he just plucked the thought out of the air and dropped it between you without much consideration, but the moment it settles, your head turns toward him, your brows pulling together in immediate offense.
“…What?”
Wooyoung doesn’t even look at you right away. He stays leaned back on his hands, gaze tipped up toward the sky like he’s contemplating something far more important than the insult he just threw at you. There’s a pause, just long enough to make you feel it, before the corner of his mouth starts to lift again.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, like he’s being completely reasonable, “for someone who’s supposed to be my girlfriend, you look at me like I just asked you to solve a math equation every time I touch you.”
Your jaw drops slightly, your disbelief immediate and unfiltered. “No, I don’t!”
He finally turns his head then, his expression already betraying him, amusement sitting too comfortably on his face for him to even attempt to hide it. “You do,” he insists, nodding once like this is a confirmed fact. “There’s, like, a visible buffering moment. Right here,” he gestures vaguely toward your face, circling a finger in front of you, “where you’re processing it.”
You make a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, your hand coming up to cover your face for a second like that might somehow shield you from the accuracy of what he’s saying.
“I’m just being honest,” he shrugs, though there’s a grin tugging at his mouth again, clearly pleased with himself. “Transparency is important in a relationship.”
“This is not a relationship,” you shoot back automatically.
“Wow,” he exhales, placing a hand over his chest like you’ve genuinely wounded him, “breaking my heart, tiny.”
You drop your hand just enough to glare at him. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back without missing a beat, nudging your knee again.
You swat at his arm this time, a little more force behind it, though it still barely does anything. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m not psychoanalyzing you,” he laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained, carried off slightly by the wind. “I’m observing.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
“It’s accurate,” he corrects.
You huff, turning your gaze away from him again, back out toward the city like it might side with you instead. But there’s a smile there again, small and stubborn, tugging at the corners of your mouth no matter how much you try to fight it down.
There’s a shift beside you, subtle but enough that you notice. Wooyoung moves just slightly closer, not enough to crowd you, not enough to make it feel like something you need to react to, just enough that his shoulder presses a little more solidly against yours.
The contact is light, almost incidental, like it could be explained away as nothing more than a shift in balance, but it lingers in a way that makes it feel intentional.
You notice it immediately, not in the sharp, panicked way you might have earlier, where every touch felt like something to analyze and survive, but in a softer, more aware way. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of your sleeve, grounding in a way that feels almost unfair after everything your body just put you through.
For a second, your instinct is still there, to pull away and create space and overcorrect, but it doesn’t win this time.
Beside you, Wooyoung doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t look at you to check if you noticed, doesn’t tease you for not immediately flinching away. If anything, he does the opposite. He lets the moment exist without touching it, as if he knows that if he calls attention to it, you might retreat again.
His head tilts back slightly, gaze drifting up toward the sky again, and you follow it without thinking.
There aren’t many stars tonight — not with the city glowing as brightly as it does — but there are a few, faint and stubborn, barely visible past the haze of light pollution. You find yourself focusing on them anyway, tracing the dim points with your eyes.
“They’re kinda underwhelming,” he murmurs after a moment, like he’s reading your mind, his voice more hushed now and threaded with something thoughtful. “The stars, I mean.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh, your shoulder still pressed to his. “Yeah, it’s… kind of sad.”
“I know,” he sighs dramatically. “Expected better. I was sold a false bill of goods.”
You glance at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “By who?”
“The me who’s been here when the stars were prettier,” he says like it was obvious, a grin tugging at his lips again.
You shake your head, a quiet laugh slipping out, the sound softer than it was before, less guarded. “You set your own expectations too high.”
“Yeah,” he hums, nudging your shoulder lightly this time, just enough to make you sway a fraction toward him before settling again. “Happens.” He says it like there’s some deeper meaning there.
The quiet that follows stretches out gently, not awkward, just wide enough to hold both of you without asking anything in return. The city hums below, distant and constant, a heartbeat you’re no longer trying to match. Up here, everything feels just slightly removed from consequence, like the world can’t quite reach you.
You let your gaze drift back up, searching for those faint, stubborn stars again, but your thoughts don’t stay there for long. They slip, unsteady, circling back to earlier whether you want them to or not — to the party, to the noise, to the sharp, suffocating moment your chest gave out on you.
Your fingers curl slightly against the rough edge of the concrete, grounding yourself in something real before you speak. “I saw someone,” you admit finally, your voice lacking the usual edge of defensiveness you lean on. It feels fragile, the way it leaves you, and it feels like it might fall apart if you don’t handle it carefully.
You swallow, your throat tightening slightly as you try to find a version of the truth that doesn’t unravel everything. “One of the… people I wrote to,” you add, placing the words down one at a time instead of letting them spill.
The admission hangs there, suspended between you. Wooyoung’s brows knit faintly, his head tilting just slightly as he turns to look at you properly now. There’s no judgment there, just confusion, open and unfiltered in a way that feels very him. “Okay,” he says after a second, drawing the word out like he’s trying to follow the thread. “But…” he pauses, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly, not teasing, just genuinely puzzled, “wasn’t that kinda the whole point?”
“What?”
“The whole fake dating thing,” he clarifies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, his hand brushing the air like the concept itself is something tangible. “So they’d see you with me.”
You let out a small, uneven breath, your gaze dropping to your hands, watching the way your fingers twist together like they don’t quite know where to settle.
“I know,” you murmur, the words softer now, almost frustrated with yourself. “I just— I didn’t think it would actually feel like that. I didn’t think about… how it would look,” you continue, your voice quieter still, your thoughts slipping out a little easier now that you’ve started. “Or how they’d react. Or how I’d react.” You let out a small, breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it — just disbelief, maybe a little embarrassment. “I just thought it would be simple,” you admit. “Like— ‘oh, look, I have a boyfriend now, problem solved.’”
Wooyoung huffs softly beside you, not quite a laugh, but close — more like he’s acknowledging how naïve that sounds without making you feel stupid for it. “Yeah,” he mutters, “life would be a lot easier if it worked like that.” He says it like he wasn’t half the reason you had that stupid thought, framing it that way when he proposed the plan. You suppose you can’t blame him for your own naivety, though.
You glance at him briefly, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself, before your expression softens again, something more vulnerable settling in.
“But then I saw him,” you say, your voice dipping like the memory itself weighs something. “And it just—” You stop, your brows pulling together faintly as you try to put a feeling into words that don’t quite fit. “It all hit at once,” you finish finally. “Like I did something wrong.”
For a moment, Wooyoung doesn’t respond. He leans back slightly on his hands again, his gaze drifting out over the city.
“You didn’t,” It’s simple. Firm, but not forceful, not trying to convince you as much as he’s just stating something he believes.
You don’t look at him right away. Your fingers tighten slightly instead, your shoulders drawing in just a fraction. “It feels like I did,” you admit, keeping it purposefully vague because admitting you slept with one of the letter recipients feels like too much right now, too open in a way that makes it too easy to ruin this vulnerable moment with him, to make him think of you like some kind of heart-breaking player (even if that’s how you feel these days).
There’s a pause, and then you feel it, his shoulder pressing a little more deliberately into yours, no longer able to be brushed off as an accidental shift.
“That’s just ‘cause you think too much,” he says lightly, “You’re connecting like, ten different things at once and deciding they all mean something bad.”
You let out a small breath, your lips pressing together as you consider that. “They might,” you mumble weakly.
He snorts quietly at that, shaking his head. “Or,” he counters, turning his head just enough that you can feel his gaze on you even if you’re not looking back yet, “you’re just a nice person who doesn’t like hurting or, like, confusing people.”
For a moment, you just sit there like that—shoulder to shoulder, the city stretched out in front of you, the night wrapping around the two of you in something quieter than before.
Then, after a second, he nudges you again. “Also,” he starts, his tone lighter, and you can already tell he’s about to try to make you feel better in that usual Wooyoung fashion, “kinda rude that you saw another guy and still chose to have a panic attack over him instead of me, or, like, how overwhelmingly honoring it must be to be my girlfriend.”
You turn to him immediately, incredulous. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, completely serious in a way that makes it worse, “if you’re gonna spiral, at least make it about your current fake boyfriend. I have a reputation to maintain.”
You stare at him for a second, then let out a disbelieving laugh, your hand coming up to push at his shoulder again, “Shut up.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he mocks a salute at you, and you smile at that.
The both of you settle into a comfortable silence again, and the thought crosses your mind that Wooyoung is a good friend. Karina’s lucky he’s so in love with her.
The next morning comes quieter than you expect. It’s not peaceful, definitely not, just muted, like everything’s been turned down a notch after last night, the world still moving but not quite as loudly as it should. Your body feels heavy in that strange, hollow way that follows a panic attack, even after the nice nightcap you had with Wooyoung. It feels like you barely had time to recover, barely had time to let your body settle after the panic and to let your thoughts stop ricocheting off the inside of your skull.
You sit across from Yunho like you always do on Saturday mornings, notebook open, pen in hand, your posture just right, like if you hold yourself together physically, everything else might follow. The table between you is scattered with your notes, his handwriting neater than yours where he’s corrected things or added small clarifications in the margins.
“…so if you move this over here,” he’s saying, his voice calm, “you’ll get—”
Your phone buzzes. Your hand stutters because nothing good has come from your iMessage since last Saturday, pen dragging slightly across the page and leaving a thin, crooked mark that doesn’t belong there. You still, your breath catching just enough to notice.
Yunho stops talking, but you don’t look up yet. Slowly, bracing yourself, you reach for your phone and turn it over in your hand. The screen lights up, and the moment you see the name, something in your chest drops out completely.
Hongjoong. Of course it is.
You stare at it for a second too long, your thumb hovering just above the screen as if touching it might trigger something you can’t undo, but you open it anyway.
come over this afternoon? like 3?
There’s no weight to it on the surface; no indication that anything is wrong, no sign that he knows anything he shouldn’t. It reads exactly like it would have a week ago, like Sunday night never unraveled into something complicated, like Friday didn’t happen at all.
He doesn’t know about you and Wooyoung — about the fake relationship, about the fact you were at the party, or about the way you stood there tucked into someone else’s side while he was across the room, completely unaware. The realization sits heavy in your chest, pressing down in a way that makes it harder to breathe.
I have to tell him, you realize with a clarity so stark against the harsh collision of the rest of your thoughts. What do you even say? Do you start with Wooyoung? Do you explain the letters?
Your breath shifts, catching slightly as your fingers curl around your phone.
“You okay?”
Yunho’s voice is quiet, but it lands cleanly, cutting through everything else without effort. You blink, like you’ve been pulled back into your body.
“Yeah,” you answer quickly, your gaze dropping back to your notebook. “I’m fine.” It sounds like a lie even to your own ears. The silence stretches, present in a way that makes it harder to pretend you didn’t just spiral in front of him.
“…You sure?” he asks after a moment, clearly not believing you.
You nod faintly, even though you don’t look at him. “It’s nothing.” It’s another bad lie, and you feel it sit there between you before Yunho shifts slightly in his seat, leaning back just a fraction, his attention still on you but less like a tutor trying to guide you somewhere and more like the friend he was so happy you’d let him be.
“You don’t have to pretend with me. We’re friends, right?” His tone is painfully earnest, not prying just to pry but because he really wants to help, to take the burden off your shoulders.
Something in your chest gives way, sudden and silent, a thread snapping under too much tension. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding everything in until now. It slipped past your awareness just much you’ve been managing, redirecting, avoiding, and patching things together just enough to get through each moment without actually dealing with any of it.
No one’s asked you if you’re alright quite like that, without expectations attached and without pressure, or assumptions, or something you’re supposed to perform in return.
Your hand slackens slightly around your pen, your gaze fixed stubbornly on the page because you still can’t look at him, especially not as you admit everything.
“…I messed up,” you admit.
Yunho doesn’t interrupt, so you continue.
“You know about the letter,” you start, your voice small but steady enough to continue. “The one you got.”
There’s a faint shift in his posture at that, “Yeah,” he confirms softly, a soft confusing tone lacing his words as if he’s wondering where this can go.
“There was… more than one,” you admit, the words coming a little faster now, uneven at the edges. “Not just yours. I wrote a few, and I didn’t send any of them, I wasn’t supposed to, I just— I wrote them and kept them, and then my roommate sent them all at the same time and now everything’s just—” You exhale shakily, your hand coming up briefly to press against your temple. “—like this,” you finish weakly.
“…How many is ‘more than one’?” He inquires after a moment.
You hesitate, “…Four.”
There’s the faintest shift in the his posture, surprise, maybe, but not judgmental. “Okay,” he finally says, motioning gently for you to continue.
“And I didn’t know what to do after that,” you start again, your words picking up speed now that they’ve started. “Because suddenly you all knew, and I didn’t mean for that to happen, and I panicked and—” You force yourself to stop, swallowing before you continue, “…that’s why I kissed you,” you admit, your voice dropping slightly. “In the library.”
There’s a small silence after that, and you force yourself to keep going before you can think too hard about it. “One of the others was there,” you explain, your fingers curling into the edge of the table now. “I saw him and I just— I panicked, and you were there, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I just—” you gesture uselessly between the two of you, because you’re both so painfully aware of what you mean that saying it out loud would only make it worse. “I’m sorry,” you add, softer. “I didn’t mean to… use you like that.”
The words feel awful in your mouth and there’s a beat before Yunho speaks, “Hey,” he begins, and you look up to find that he doesn’t seem angry in the slightest. If anything, there’s something gentler in his expression now, something that makes your chest ache in a completely different way. “It’s okay,” he placates, and he means it, you can hear it in his voice, “I mean, I figured it wasn’t… random.”
There’s the faintest hint of something else under that, something he doesn’t say, but he smooths over before it can surface.
“I still should’ve explained,” you murmur.
“Maybe,” he allows gently, “but… you were overwhelmed.” He gives you more grace than he should, you think, but you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He doesn’t push it further than that, and he doesn’t make you sit in it longer than you already have.
“And then—” you continue, because you’re not done, because somehow it gets worse, “I slept with one of them.”
The confession drops heavily into the space between you. His fingers, which had been resting loosely around his pen, tighten just slightly before he sets it down altogether, as if he knows he’s not going to be able to focus on anything academic anymore. He shifts, his movements subtle in the way his shoulders slide back a fraction like he’s absorbing more than he expected to this morning.
“And I’m… dating another one,” you add quickly, your words tumbling now, tripping over each other. “But it’s fake, it’s not real, he just needed something, and I said yes, and now everyone thinks it’s real and I don’t know how to fix it because I didn’t think it would actually turn into anything like this—” Your breath catches again, your chest tightening. “And now the one I slept with just texted me to come over today,” you finish, lamely, the confession stiff in the air, “and he doesn’t know about any of it.”
You watch Yunho process it, the way his gaze dips briefly to the table before coming back to you, steady and thoughtful. “…That’s a lot,” he manages finally, his voice soft but anchoring, and something about the way he says it, so simple, so understanding, makes your chest ache.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit, your voice fraying slightly at the edges, your forehead coming down to rest against the table. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
For a second, Yunho doesn’t say anything, but he leans forward slightly, just enough to close some of the distance between you, “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” he offers tenderly. There’s something thoughtful in the way he speaks, choosing each word carefully so it doesn’t push you further into yourself. “But you probably should tell him,” he adds after a moment, “the one who texted you.”
“I know,” you murmur, not even having to think about how right he is.
He watches you for a second longer, like he can see the way your thoughts are already starting to spiral again. “And for what it’s worth…” he starts, then pauses briefly, like he’s deciding how to phrase it, “you didn’t ruin anything with me.”
Your lift your head to look at him, caught off guard. His expression is soft, steady in that usual Yunho kind of fashion, but there’s something quieter underneath that he doesn’t let fully surface.
“I meant what I said before,” Yunho continues, a little more lightly now, easing the weight of everything you just dropped on him. “I like our sessions.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And I still think we’d make good friends.”
You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on your face for half a second longer than it needs to, or the way he leans back again after, like he’s putting that distance back on purpose. You just choose to ignore it, attributing it to your making-romance-where-there-isn’t-any mind again.
The walk to Hongjoong’s apartment feels longer than it should.
Every step is measured, slow in a way that doesn’t match the pace of the world around you. The afternoon is bright, almost offensively normal; people passing by in small groups, laughter spilling across the sidewalks, the distant hum of campus life continuing on like nothing is about to implode.
You keep thinking about what you’re going to say. Hey, so I slept with you and now I’m fake dating someone else—
No. Absolutely not.
By the time you reach his door, your heart has already picked up again, not quite panic, but something close enough to it to make your breathing feel shallow if you let it.
Your hand lifts, hesitates, and then finally knocks. You barely have time to second-guess it before the door swings open.
Hongjoong looks exactly the same.
That’s the first thing your brain latches onto, stupidly. He’s wearing the same loose style of long-sleeve he usually does, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his wrists, rings catching the light when he moves. His hair is slightly mussed, like he ran a hand through it one too many times, and his expression shifts the second he sees you, something bright and easy settling into place.
“Hey,” he greets, like this is normal, like you’re normal and right where you belong outside of his door.
“Hi,” you manage.
His gaze lingers on you for just a second longer than necessary, like he’s taking you in properly, then he steps back, pulling the door open wider, “Come in.”
The door closes softly behind you, the sound almost silent but final in a way that makes something in your chest tighten. You slide your shoes off when he motions toward the stack of shoes near the door. You barely register Hongjoong moving further into the apartment, barely process the familiar warmth of the space — the low hum of something playing faintly from a speaker, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something citrusy lingering in the air —because your attention snags immediately.
Seonghwa sits on the couch like he belongs there, like this isn’t the most disorienting, universe-playing-a-joke-on-you moment you’ve experienced in the last week.
He sits on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, his posture relaxed in a way that feels eerily familiar, so similar to the way he looked at San’s apartment that it almost makes your stomach drop. He’s mid-motion when he notices you, something in his expression shifting immediately as recognition hits.
“…Oh,” he says finally, the word slightly muted but laced with something you can’t quite place. His gaze flicks between you and Hongjoong, like he’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t quite make sense. “You’re—”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong cuts in easily, completely unaware of the undercurrent snapping into place around the two of you. There’s something almost proud in the way he gestures toward you, like he’s been waiting for this introduction. “This is her.”
“What are you doing here?” you blurt toward Seonghwa before you can stop yourself. It comes out too fast, too unfiltered, your voice catching on the last word because your brain hadn’t approved the sentence before it left your mouth.
Seonghwa blinks at you, clearly thrown — not just by the question, but by the fact that you’re here at all. His gaze flicks over you once, swift but thorough, like he’s checking if you’re real, if this is actually happening. “Um, I live here?”
This has to be some kind of cruel joke. How could you not know two of your crushes are roommates? You almost wish you’d been more of an obsessive, stalker-type crusher so you’d at least have known this ahead of time.
Hongjoong’s head turns between the two of you, brows knitting slightly, confusion settling in as he picks up on the tension that neither of you managed to hide. “…Wait,” he starts slowly, looking from you to Seonghwa and back again. “You guys know each other?”
Seonghwa sits up a little straighter, his arm dropping from the back of the couch as his attention sharpens, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight. “She’s San’s sister,” he explains slowly, like he’s not sure what it means in this context.
Hongjoong blinks, “Wait, seriously?” he questions, surprised, his attention snapping back to you with something almost amused lighting behind it. “You never mentioned that.”
Of course you didn’t. You didn’t mention a lot of things.
“I didn’t— it just never came up,” you manage weakly, your voice thinner than you’d like.
Seonghwa’s gaze doesn’t leave you. It’s not harsh or accusatory, but it’s searching, confused. There’s something unsettled in it now, something that wasn’t there before, like he’s replaying something in his head and not liking what he’s finding.
Hongjoong doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t understand why. “Huh,” he hums, rubbing the back of his neck lightly before letting his hand drop. “Small world, I guess.”
The moment should end there, but it doesn’t, because Hongjoong looks at Seonghwa again, something lighter slipping back into his expression, something fond, and he gestures loosely toward you like he’s about to bridge the gap in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“This is her, by the way. The one I was telling you about.”
Seonghwa’s gaze flicks to him, then back to you. “You were,” he agrees slowly.
There’s something off in his tone, but Hongjoong doesn’t catch it. If anything, he leans into it, clearly far more interested in talking about you than whatever shift just happened in the room.
“She wrote me this letter,” he continues, and your stomach twists so violently it almost makes you lightheaded. “It was…” he exhales, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth, “honestly one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
Seonghwa goes still, not in a way that anyone else would clock immediately, but you see it. It’s clear in the way his posture locks just slightly, the way his gaze flickers back to you, something new settling into it.
“…A letter,” he repeats.
Hongjoong nods, still unaware. “Yeah. Didn’t even know it was her at first. All I knew was it was from someone with her name, but we’d only talked at a few parties before that, so I couldn’t really put a name to a face, but,” he pauses, glancing at you again, something softer in his expression now. “Kinda glad I figured it out.”
Your chest is so tight it almost hurts.
Seonghwa exhales lightly through his nose. “…Right,” he says, his tone so plainly unusual in a way that makes Hongjoong finally seem to pick up on it, his brows pulling together faintly as he glances over.
“What?”
Seonghwa’s gaze drifts back to you, lingering in a way that feels like he’s trying to piece something together that he doesn’t quite have all the information for yet.
“Do you wanna tell him or should I?”
It doesn’t feel like a choice so much as it feels like a countdown.
Your chest tightens so sharply it almost steals the air from your lungs again, your pulse loud and uneven in your ears as both of their attention settles fully on you now.
“…Tell me what?” Hongjoong’s voice is quieter than before, confusion threading through it, but there’s something else underneath now that you don’t have the bandwidth to try and place.
You can feel Seonghwa’s gaze on you, steady and unmoving, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d just said it himself. “He should know, _____.”
“I… I didn’t just write one letter,” you finally manage, the words coming out thinner than you intended, like they’re being pulled from you instead of offered.
Hongjoong’s brows knit slightly.
“…What?”
You force yourself to keep going, even as everything in you resists it. “I wrote… more than one,” you clarify, your fingers curling tighter into your palm, the digging of your nails in the skin grounding in its pressure.
Hongjoong glances at Seonghwa briefly, then back to you, something not quite settled in his expression anymore. “…Okay,” he says slowly. “And?” You think he must think you mean you wrote more than one about him, and that’s why he’s not pissed yet. It’s the only thing that makes sense to your guilt-riddled mind.
“I wrote one to you,” you continue, your voice quieter now, more fragile, “and I wrote one to him.”
Silence follows immediately, thick enough that it presses in around you. Hongjoong doesn’t react right away and it’s almost worse because you can see him thinking, see the way he’s trying to process that, to fit it into the version of things he had in his head just moments ago.
Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, but you feel the way his attention sharpens, the way the weight of what you just admitted settles differently now that it’s out in the open.
Hongjoong exhales slowly, a hand coming up to drag back through his hair, the movement more deliberate than usual.
“…So the letter—” he starts, then stops, like he has to recalibrate mid-thought. “The one you emailed me…”
“I didn’t send it,” you cut in quickly, the words rushing out before he can finish, before he can land on the wrong conclusion. “I wasn’t going to send them. My roommate found them and she— she sent them without telling me.” Your voice dips at the end, something smaller slipping into it despite your effort to keep it steady.
His eyes drift, just for a second, back to Seonghwa. Something unspoken passes between them that you don’t fully understand but can feel all the same.
“Um, I think… I should probably let myself out—“ You try, taking a step backwards.
“Stay,” Seonghwa speaks, and there’s something different in his tone now, the confusion gone and replaced with something eerily similar to command.
You think Hongjoong found whatever he was looking for in his silent, conversation-with-their-eyes thing he was doing with Seonghwa, because he’s stepping forward slowly, maneuvering himself around you to press at your back. He brings his lips to your ear and you don’t fight it despite the confusion pulling at your mind, body tensing under his touch as his hands land on your hips.
im very sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged! i tagged those who replied under previous ttbico chapters and expressed interest, if you’d like to be removed from the taglist please tell me!
masterlist | part one , part two , part three , part four
GREEDY LITTLE THING FOR US WHAT 🙀 my jaw dropped so badly it's dripping will be re reading multiple times ofc what are we omg now they all know there's multiple and wooyoung is sweet as fuck, and yunho is just so patient and perfect and like calming, seonghwa is present and hongjoong is just so confident and the way he approaches is actually so sexy like honest and forthcoming and I didn't even mean to ramble on like this but I think I need to
@tiramingisu I think I love you and imma use this reblog to say it
to the boys i’ve crushed on .ᐟ k.hj, j.yh, j.wy, p.sh
.ᐟ you’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic, even more so than you are a stumbling social disaster, which is saying something. you fall easily for four guys around campus and of course, because your luck is just that great, the sappy love letters you wrote to each of them end up delivered and send your usually uneventful life spinning into total chaos.
.ᐟ part one | part two (~17k) | part three
.ᐟ music major!hongjoong x fem!reader, brother’s best friend!seonghwa x fem!reader, tutor!yunho x fem!reader, baseball golden boy!wooyoung x fem!reader
.ᐟ contains smut minors dni 18+ | cursing, reader can give second hand embarrassment, virgin!reader, oral (fem receiving), fingering, joong is condescending, biting, protected sex, overstimulation
.ᐟ not proofread please be nice! i love how this is progressing, this fic is my baby and i can’t wait to show you all where reader’s story is goinggg <3
It starts with the game on Saturday.
You remember that part clearly now, the way he mentioned it like it was the most important part of the plan.
“You’re coming to the first game next week,” he’d said, like it wasn’t even a question. According to him, Wooyoung doesn’t need to tell people you’re dating if you’re sitting in the stands wearing his number, if you’re there when most people who know him expect to see someone important. He says that’s the kind of thing that spreads on its own, carried in passing comments and half-heard conversations.
And then, he’d told you, the most important thing is consistency, because one appearance doesn’t make a relationship from thin air, but patterns do. So it won’t just be the game, or sitting together in econ, or one interaction in the campus square — it’ll be all of it, reinforced until it stops feeling like something new and starts feeling like something that’s always been there.
Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone buzzing slightly on the mattress. You reach for it, your fingers hesitant in a way that feels almost pathetic, hovering just above the screen before you finally pick it up. Your thumb lingers there for a second longer, bracing yourself, before you click on your phone and blanch.
Your most recent notification is from Seonghwa.
hey. can we talk?
It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a text from someone you know fairly well, but it presses against everything you’ve been trying to hide since you ran out of the library, because talking means actually standing in front of him. Talking means hearing his voice, soft and guilty, saying things you’re not ready to hear. It means hearing him tell you that you’re like a sister to him, but that he thinks your little puppy love crush is cute. You think you’d rather die than face that.
Your grip tightens slightly around your phone before you sigh, clicking it off and sighing into your hands.
Your life is fucking hell.
It doesn’t stop with one text. That’s the part that unsettles you the most.
You expect silence after you don’t respond; something passive-aggressive, maybe, or even just nothing at all, but you should’ve known better. Seonghwa doesn’t do that. He doesn’t fill the space with irritation or impatience, he fills it with something worse for your heart: care.
Your phone buzzes again an hour later, then again not long after that.
are you okay?
And then, after a stretch of time where you almost convince yourself it’s over, your phone buzzes again.
we don’t have to make it a big thing. just talk to me
You stare at the messages longer than you should, your thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, your chest tight in that quiet, suffocating way that has nothing to do with panic and everything to do with something heavier.
You don’t answer. You can’t, because answering means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means facing him, and facing him means seeing it in his expression — that soft, careful way he looks at you when he’s worried, when he’s trying to be gentle about something that is impossible for you to pretend is gentle at all.
You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you, dragging your hands over your face as you pace your room in uneven steps, your thoughts spiraling faster than you can keep up with. Every version of the conversation plays out in your head whether you want it to or not; him asking questions, you stumbling over answers, the inevitable shift in his expression when he realizes just how much of a hopeless, lovesick loser you are.
It makes your stomach churn, because Seonghwa isn’t like the others, not really. Hongjoong is a fleeting moment, something soft and unexpected that you can tuck away and romanticize without consequence. Wooyoung is chaos, confidence, something bright and overwhelming that you can barely keep up with even when he’s standing right in front of you. And if there’s one thing Yunho made clear in the library, it’s that he’s just your tutor.
But Seonghwa knows you, not the polished version you build in your head and not the edited, romanticized version you write into your letters. He knows the real one — the awkward pauses, the way you hover in doorways instead of entering rooms, the way you shrink into yourself when conversations last too long — and now he knows the rest, too, the parts you never meant for anyone to see.
Your grip tightens against your arms as you fold in on yourself slightly, sinking down onto the edge of your bed. Your gaze drifts, unfocused, landing somewhere near your laptop sitting shut on your desk.
That stupid, stupid laptop.
For a brief, irrational second, you consider opening it again, like maybe if you check hard enough, something will be different, like maybe the emails will be gone, like maybe this entire situation will have undone itself while you weren’t looking.
Your phone buzzes again, but this time you don’t move for it. You just sit there, staring at nothing, your thoughts looping in quiet, exhausting circles until even that starts to feel like too much.
The knock comes just as you start to convince yourself you might be able to sit here forever.
It’s sharp enough to pull you out of your thoughts immediately, your head snapping toward the door, your entire body going still as your body instantly assumes it’s for you, which is ironic, really. Your room has never really been a place people come to. There’s no unexpected visitors, no casual drop-ins, no boys lingering outside your door like this is some kind of scene out of the movies you spend half your life imagining yourself into. If anything, your door has always existed in a kind of quiet irrelevance, something people pass by without thinking twice about.
The knock comes again, firmer this time. You stand slowly, like approaching the door too fast might somehow make it worse. Your feet carry you across the room before you can fully talk yourself out of it, hand twisting the knob.
Kim Hongjoong stands on the other side like this is normal, like boys just show up at your door now. He looks casual, like this is a thing that happens to you, specifically, as if you’ve somehow crossed into a different genre of your own life without noticing.
Your brain doesn’t catch up fast enough, but your body does. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door and you start to push it closed again almost immediately, instinct kicking in before logic has a chance to intervene, because no. No, you’re not doing this again, not twice in two days, not another conversation about things that were never even supposed to exist outside of your own head.
“Hey—” he interjects, quick but not sharp, his voice catching the motion before it can fully happen. He doesn’t shove the door open or wedge himself in or push past your resistance the way Wooyoung had, all confidence and forward momentum. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, coming to rest against the wood lightly, his expression doing everything to tell you he sees you like a frightened deer right now, “I’m not here to embarrass you, I promise. I just wanna talk.”
Your grip loosens a fraction without your permission, because there’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel like a line, doesn’t feel like he’s trying to talk his way inside just for the sake of it. It feels considered, as if he’s already thought through how this might look from your side and decided not to make it worse.
You study him for a second longer than you probably should, your gaze flicking across his face in search for some hint of amusement, some flicker of this being funny to him in a way that would justify shutting the door in his face. You don’t find it.
“…You guys are really making this a habit,” you mutter before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out under your breath, edged with disbelief that you don’t even try to hide.
His brows pull together slightly. “What?”
“Nothing,” you shoot back too fast, shaking your head as if that could erase it. Your body moves before your brain fully agrees, stepping back just enough to open the space between you. “…You can come in.”
He doesn’t question it. He just nods once, subtle, like he understands that this isn’t an easy concession, and steps inside without crowding you.
You close the door behind him, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet of your room.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You just stand there, your back to him, staring at the door, hoping that maybe, just maybe this isn’t real and your daydreams have just taken an unusually cruel turn.
You feel him there, not in an overwhelming way, but present enough that ignoring it would take more effort than facing it. When you finally turn, it’s slow, reluctant, like you’re bracing yourself for something you‘re not quite ready for.
He looks… exactly like himself. There’s something about him that always reads a little rough around the edges at first glance, the kind of style that leans into darker tones, layered pieces that look thrown together until you realize they’re not. The rings lining his fingers catch the light when he moves his hand, subtle flashes of silver that feel more like an extension of him than an accessory. His hair’s a little longer now than the last time you really let yourself look, dark strands falling just enough to frame his face without hiding it, softening something that might’ve otherwise come off sharper.
It should feel a little intimidating, but to you, it doesn’t. If anything, there’s a kind of ease to him that grounds everything else, like no matter what he looks like, he’s still just standing there, in your room, talking to you like this is normal.
Your arms tighten slightly where they’re folded over yourself.
For what you assume is your sake, he doesn’t drag it out. “I’m sure you know I read your email.”
Your gaze flicks away immediately, like eye contact would make it worse, your fingers curling slightly into the muscle of your biceps as if that might anchor you.
“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, the word slipping out before you can stop it, hushed and familiar and completely useless.
He tilts his head a little at that, something almost thoughtful in the motion. “Why?” he queries like it’s a genuine question, even though it seems like a ridiculously stupid one to you.
Why? Because you utterly laid your heart out for a guy you’ve spoken to twice! Because the contents of your letter were way too familiar coming from a girl he barely knows, embarrassingly delusional and completely humiliating.
You don’t answer him, because where would you even begin?
He exhales softly through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough that it softens the space between you instead of tightening it. “It was nice,” he tells you, like he’s commenting on something way simpler than this, “really nice, actually.”
Your gaze lifts just enough to look at him properly, searching his expression for any sign that this is leading into something humiliating you haven’t prepared yourself for yet.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, tone still casual in that way that somehow makes everything he says land heavier, “it didn’t come off weird, or creepy. Or whatever you’re probably thinking right now.”
You are definitely thinking that. Your lips press together slightly, your shoulders pulling in just a little tighter.
“I mean,” he adds, glancing at you again, something faintly amused flickering at the corner of his mouth now, “some parts were kinda…” he pauses, like he’s choosing the word carefully, “…intense.”
Oh god.
Your entire body tenses, your brain scrambling through every single sentence you’ve ever written, every overly romantic, completely unfiltered thought you’d poured into those letters.
“You— you don’t have to—” you start, panic creeping into your voice, but he talks over you just slightly.
“‘The way you look at people makes it feel like you’re listening to something more important than what they’re actually saying’,” he quotes, voice quieter now, almost fond but that fact does nothing to stop your breath from hitching in a horrified gasp.
Heat floods your face so fast it’s almost dizzying, your hands dropping from your arms just so you have something to do with them, your fingers curling uselessly at your sides. “Oh my god,” you breathe, barely audible, your gaze snapping away from him like you physically can’t look at him anymore.
“That one was my favorite,” he admits.
You make a small, strangled sound that you think might be your brain short-circuiting in real time.
“Or—” he adds, like he’s actually considering it, tilting his head slightly, “‘I don’t think you realize how easy it is to imagine something more with you.’ That one’s up there too.” His eyes flick back to you, something quieter settling there.
You cover your face with your hands immediately, mortified beyond recovery, your entire body curling inward like that might somehow erase the fact that he just said that out loud.
“Please stop talking,” you mumble into your palms, your voice muffled and desperate in a way that makes it very clear you are not surviving this.
And of course, he doesn’t stop talking, at least not completely. “You’re cute,” he asserts instead of torturing you by presenting you with your own words, but this is almost worse, in a way.
The words don’t land all at once. They settle slowly, like something sinking through water, reaching you in pieces rather than impact — first the tone, then the meaning, then the realization that he isn’t taking it back.
You look up before you mean to. It’s instinctive, almost reflexive, like your body needs to confirm that he actually said it, that this isn’t your imagination filling in gaps the way it always does. Your hands lower slowly, your fingers lingering near your mouth because you’re not entirely ready to let go of the shield they provide. Your expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and lingering embarrassment, your heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest that you don’t even want to try and name. “What?” you mumble in question, because that feels like the only possible response.
His shoulders lift slightly in a small shrug, like it’s not a big deal, like he didn’t just say something that completely derailed your ability to think clearly. “You are,” he repeats, simple in a way that frustrates you because Kim Hongjoong calling you cute is the furthest fucking thing from simple. “The way you write, the way you…” he gestures vaguely toward you, like he doesn’t feel the need to over-explain it. “All of it.”
Your breath catches in a way that’s subtle but impossible to ignore, your chest tightening around it like your body doesn’t know what to do with something like that. You’re used to imagining it, sure; building it carefully in your head, scripting out the exact tone, the exact timing, the exact way someone might look at you when they say something like that. But this is real life, not the fantasy you’ve created in your mind, so you don’t have a perfect, charming response like the most flawless version of yourself would.
Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, like they don’t know where to go now that they’re not hiding your face. You feel too aware of everything: the warmth in your cheeks, the way your shoulders are still slightly drawn in, the fact that you’re standing in front of him with every part of you feeling a little too visible.
And somehow, by what can only be the grace of God, you don’t immediately retreat from it.
There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something yielding settling in, like he recognizes that pause for what it is: not confidence, not quite, but something close enough to it that he doesn’t want to break it.
So instead, he takes a small step forward, gauging your reaction as he reaches a tentative hand to tuck a strand of your hair behind your head. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t seem to be that much better at this romance thing than you are, a small flush you’ve never on him dusting his cheeks.
Your breath hitches again, quieter this time, your body going still without pulling away. You’re aware of him in a way that feels different now. He’s not just as a presence in the room, but something closer, something you could reach out and touch if you just let yourself.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he maintains after a second, his voice nothing but a murmur now, “since I read it.” Your throat feels dry, your fingers curling faintly at your sides. “About you,” he adds.
That does something to you, a thread pulling tight somewhere in your chest. He watches you for a moment longer, searching for anything to tell him to stop before he takes this any further.
Whatever he finds in your expression isn’t that.
“Can I kiss you?”
The words hang there for a minute because your brain doesn’t seem to know how to form it into something coherent. This feels so different from everything else that’s happened this week, so different from the chaos and the panic, so different from the overwhelming, humiliating spiral you’ve been stuck in since this that morning in the library.
Your heart is beating so loudly you’re almost certain he can hear it, your chest rising and falling just a little too fast as you stare at him, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of yourself that doesn’t get moments like this.
You realize he’s still waiting, eyeing you with that sure, serene look in his eyes that you fell so easily for.
You nod, small and nervous, and his hand, the one that had brushed your hair back, lingers near your cheek for just a second before settling lightly there, his thumb resting just below your cheekbone like he’s grounding himself as much as you.
There’s no rush to it, no sudden movement that steals the moment from you. It’s a slow closing of space, a quiet question even after he’s already asked it, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips like he’s checking one last time.
When he finally kisses you, it’s softer than you expected, softer than anything you’ve ever let yourself imagine in detail because imagining it always felt too indulgent. His lips are warm against yours, tentative in a way that mirrors your own uncertainty, as if he’s just as aware of how easily this could go wrong if he moves too fast.
Your brain lags behind your body again in a way that embarrasses you, trying to catch up to something it’s only ever rehearsed in theory. It’s small, almost hesitant, the way you lean into it just a fraction, your lips pressing back against his in a way that’s more feeling than technique.
Your other hand lifts without you thinking, resting lightly against his chest, your palm flattening there like you need to ground yourself in something solid. You can feel the steady rise and fall beneath it, just slightly uneven, and for some reason that steadies you more than anything else.
He shifts slightly at that, just enough to deepen the kiss, his lips dancing with yours. He exhales softly against you, the sound barely there but he’s close enough that you feel it, and it sends a small, quiet shiver through you that you don’t quite know what to do with. His free hand wanders to your hip and he begins shuffling the both of you backward without breaking the kiss, the backs of your knees hitting your bed before you even realize how far you’ve moved.
You both buckle against the mattress in a way that makes a laugh bubble up from your throat, his weight landing on his elbow by your head as he chuckles with you. He adjusts his weight so more of it rests on his elbow, his free hand coming to your cheek again.
You’re suddenly acutely aware of everything. You can’t ignore the easy way you’re half-laughing, half-breathless beneath him, the dip of the mattress under your weight, the closeness of him in a way that feels entirely different now.
Your hand is still on his chest, fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt like you forgot to let go. He looks at you for a second longer than necessary before he leans in again, leaving a chaste kiss against your lips.
“Are you… is this alright?” He checks, his hand slowly slips from your face to trail down your side, ringed fingers cold where they slip mindlessly under the hem of your plain cami.
You nod dumbly, because of course this is okay. It’s all you could do to avoid thinking about it since you met him, the image plaguing your mind in a way that made you feel like some kind of perverted freak.
“I can take this off?” He tugs lightly at the hem, the stretchy material yielding to his soft grip. You nod again, the words stuck in your throat, but he doesn’t seem to mind, helping you to pull the cami over your head. He mindlessly tosses it somewhere at the foot of your bed, too busy raking his eyes over your form to be bothered where it landed.
Hongjoong’s stare feels heavy in a way that has you curling in on yourself, your hands coming to cover your bare chest before his ring-clad fingers wrap gently around your wrist, pulling it away, “Don’t hide,” he waits for you to lower your other hand on your own, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your lips before pulling back to continue studying your form, “you’re beautiful. Really.”
You swallow your saliva, the compliment hitting you even harder than his earlier ‘you’re cute’, but you aren’t able to dwell on it before he’s pressing gentle, feather-light kisses down the valley of your breasts in a way that makes the butterflies rage in your stomach. All you can do is lay there and watch him as he descends, too afraid to say something that validates your fear that this moment will be nothing more than a fleeting memory.
“You ever done this before?” he mumbles against the skin of your abdomen, eyes trained on your face. You must look like a tomato, you realize as his fingers dance just slightly under the band of your shorts, waiting for your answer.
You let out a noise that can only be described as a squeak you wish you could take back, shaking your head.
“You’re gonna let me?” The question falls from his lips easily, confident and sure that you want this, all while giving you the space to prove him wrong if you need to.
You nod, pulling your lower lip between your teeth as you do, but apparently that doesn’t suffice for him. “Words, otherwise I can’t help you, baby.” As if he’s proving he’d make good on his threat, his hands retreat from your waistband, and you can’t stop the embarrassing whine that comes from your throat.
“W-Wait, no, I…” your hand shoots down to grab his wrist, trying to urge him to continue, “I’m sorry, I… y-yeah, I’ll let you.” Your nod as best you can while looking down at him, your chin brushing your sternum, “Please.”
His hand stills where you’ve caught his wrist, your fingers wrapped around it in a way that’s more instinct than intention. Then a smug grin spreads across his face, so far removed from the usual small twitches of his lips corners but still subtle in that same way. “Y’want it that bad?”
“Please,” you whisper, not giving him the satisfaction of response to a question he already knows the answer to.
Indulging you, he hooks his fingers into your waistband and panties at once, sliding them down your legs and throwing them wherever your cami ended up. Your legs instinctively go to close when your core is exposed to the cold air, but he pinches your thigh, hard, and it makes you clench around nothing in a way that surprises yourself. “What did I say about hiding?”
“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” you breathe as he flattens his palms against your inner thighs, spreading you open. He hums, one hand coming to spread the lips apart, the heat of your face deepening at being inspected in such a way.
“Poor girl, you’re soaked. Did you ever think about me like this before, when you were writing that sweet lil letter, or is this the first time I’m getting you this messy?”
You have thought about him like this before, but in your imagination he was never quite so vulgar and you were never quite so into that. The fact that his words alone are enough to make your thighs twitch surprises even you.
“Answer me, baby.”
There’s a strangled noise in the back of your throat that you can’t stop, and the petname somehow almost flusters you more than the way he’s spreading you open, because being called ‘baby’ was like a pipedream for a girl like you.
Granted, you usually imagined it in a more romantic way, the word coming from someone who’d shown you all the best sides of himself and seen all the worst parts of you and still stayed. This isn’t quite that, but somewhere in the back of your mind, your subconscious convinces you that it can be, with time. Maybe Kim Hongjoong could be the prince charming you’ve dreamed of since you were little.
Just as the thought forms in your head, his teeth sink into the meat of your thigh, causing you to squeal and writhe away slightly, only for him to wrap his arms under your legs and pull you forward again, “Stop gettin’ distracted. Get out of your head, baby.” He urges softly, like he understands that’s something you have a problem with so he won’t reprimand you for it too much, “Answer my question. Did you think of me like this?”
The words tangle behind your teeth, a small whimper slipping through in lieu of any coherent thought. You swallow down the knot in your throat before you try again, “Y-yes.”
An all-too-pleased grin settles on his face, “What was I like, in your imagination?”
You pause for a moment, trying to hurry and string together words even though he looks at you like he’d wait for you forever, “…Um… n-not like this,” you manage, but after considering it for a moment, you add, “but… I, um… this is…better.”
“Yeah?” he rewards your sentiment by leaning forward and licking a stripe up your core in a way that makes you squirm against his hold. “Barely started, baby. How’m I supposed to make you feel good if you’re moving around so much?” He broke off only for long enough to get the words out, connecting his mouth back to your core and wrapping his lips around your clit before he moves back down.
“‘m sorry, I— I can’t—“
“Yes, you can, come on,” He slurs against your hole, tongue darting out to collect your juices as soon as he was finished talking. He pulls away for a moment before you feel his finger prodding at your entrance, your knees trying to press together at the intrusion. He only shoves them further apart, humming to himself as he slides his middle finger past the resistance of your hole, “C’mon, baby, let me in.”
Hongjoong pushes his finger in until you’re leaking over his knuckles, maneuvering to slide another in alongside it. The cold of his rings at your core makes your hips jolt, but he pays no mind as he eagerly slurps at your clit, his fingers feeling around inside you for—
“Oh, there it is, isn’t it, sweetheart?” He coos against your slit when you jolt, and he presses his fingertips harder into that same spot.
“Fuck, fuck—“ You gasp, hand flying down to grip at his hair when he sucks harshly at your clit, hips canting upwards. They lurch when he pinches at your outer thigh again in reprimand.
“What’s a sweet girl like you doing talking like that?”
The words cause warmth to creep up your neck, dropping your head to the mattress to avoid the haunting memory of how he looks when he says things like that.
“Sorry—“ the syllables are familiar on your tongue, but you gasp as his tongue flicks your clit, hand pulling taut in his hair, “Sorry, Joong.”
Hongjoong regards you for a moment before his fingers pick up pace, “Make it up to me by making a mess on my fingers.” A moan garbles in your throat, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. Your hips move against his fingers and mouth without you realizing, pulling him closer by your grip on his strands.
“I’m— Joong, I’m g’na—“
“I know, baby,” he heaves against your core, hand never once faltering, tongue dancing across your slit. With one last sharp suction to your clit, you fall apart, eyes rolling back slightly as the wave of your climax crashes over you, back arching into his ministrations.
You don’t know long you lay there staring at the inside of your eyelids catching your breath before there’s two fingers tapping lightly at your cheek, drawing your eyes open. “You still with me, sweet girl?” You manage a nod, looking up at him where he now leans over you, studying your face. “You want more?”
“Please,” you say automatically, thinly veiled desperation lacing your voice.
“You got a condom?”
You pause for a moment because, no, you don’t. It’s not like you really made a habit of doing this, but, and you mean this is the most sex-positive way, Nakyung does. You’re thanking every god above that you’re pretty sure she and Yeosang take advantage of the empty dorm every time you’re out to visit San on Monday nights, because that means she probably has condoms in her nightstand.
“Um, I think maybe my roommate has some in her nightstand,” you gesture vaguely to the other side of the room where her bed lies, and Hongjoong wastes no time in pushing himself up from over you, crossing the room. He clearly had no qualms about snooping through Nakyung’s things, pulling open the nightstand and making a small ‘a-ha’ sound, reaching into it and pulling out a foil, turning to wave it at you with a grin.
You didn’t realize he was quite so dorky, but you think it almost makes you fall harder. You reach a hand to your mouth to hide your smile but he seems pleased at your expression anyway, returning to his spot in front of you.
“Is there anything you need from me, baby?” He’s being genuine, you know, seriously considering you in a way that would make your heart flutter in any other circumstance, but the way he says it now when you’re so desperate for him to continue grates against your nerves.
“Anything,” you whisper, “just do something, please?” your hands clutch at his shirt, and you realize now that you do need something from him, “Plea…please, take this off, Joong?” You were starting to feel a little out of place, completely exposed while he’s still fully clothed.
He presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to your lips before he pulls away, pulling his shirt and oversized zip-up over his head at the same time. His hands then start working at his belt as his eyes rake over your form. Once he’s slid the condom on, he’s back in his spot over you with his weight on his hand near your head. He leans closer, face inches from yours in a way that makes the heat rise to your cheeks all over again, “You’re so pretty, y’know that? Really, you are.”
Your hands come up to cover your face, in no position to navigate the trenches that are acknowledging the way compliments from him feel, “Stop.”
Hongjoong laughs, not that usual soft exhale that you know holds amusement or the subtle way his features tell on him when he tries to hide it, but a genuine, fond-around-the-edges chuckle. He reaches up to wrap his fingers gingerly around your wrist, pulling it from your face and bringing it to his instead, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Stop hiding, sweet girl,” his words remind you this is the third time he’s had to tell you, but there’s none of those punishing pinches or lingering bites; now, he’s just the picture of fondness, eyes studying your face in a way that feels way too intimate for this to end up being a one-time-thing.
His hand releases yours and you don’t quite know what to do with it until it lands on his shoulder when you feel the head of his cock sliding up and down your slit. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and look to his face, but he’s already looking down at where you meet, an expression on his face you’ve never seen before. As if he felt your gaze on his face, he looks up at you through his eyebrows, not pausing his movements, “You ready, baby? I’ll be gentle.”
“Mhm,” you nod in a way that’s a little too fast, a little too eager in a way that you’re sure will haunt you later when you try to sleep, but he seems more endeared by it than anything, hand settling on your hip as his tip catches at your entrance. His lips meet yours again, a precursor to the tender way he pushes into you, and you gasp against his mouth at the stretch. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, panting against your lips as his tongue slides along yours.
The further he pushes in, the more debauched he seems, lips pulling off of yours to trail them down your neck as he finally bottoms out, stilling for you to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out against the skin of your shoulder, lips working along the surface as he tries to find his words. Finally, you think he decides on something, because his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, “Thank you, sweet girl,” he sighs out, a small gratitude that almost comes out more breath than words before he continues, “for letting me in this perfect pussy.”
You feel yourself clamp down around him at that and so does he, because he lets out a strangled ‘fuck’ before he speaks again, “Don’t do that, baby, shit,” he seems like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he wants to make this nice for you.
“D-Don’t say things like that, then,” you manage even though your voice feels like it’s all bundled up and stuck in your throat.
Hongjoong stares at you for a moment, then his lip curve and he shakes his head in an almost imperceptible way, “Nah. You like it, so why would I stop?”
You don’t have a good argument for that, but you do know that if he doesn’t move soon you think you might die. You clutch onto his biceps, trying to manage your best pleading doe-eyes, “Pl-Please move, Joong.”
Something akin to a hum leaves him before he pulls his hips back halfway, sliding back in and nudging against that same spot inside you. The feeling sends you scrambling up the mattress, trying at the very least to get a moment to breathe without that overwhelming pleasure shooting up your spine.
He presses up from where his weight was on his hand, leaning back now and placing his hands so they’re on your hips, yanking back down onto his length. An embarrassing squeak falls from your lips and your hands scramble to push against his abdomen, only for him to gather your wrists in his hand and press them to the mattress above your head.
“C’mon, baby, you looked so pretty askin’ for this and now you’re gonna run from it?” He clicks his tongue in a reprimanding kind of way that makes you want to hide your face again.
“S-Sorry, it’s just—!”
“Just what?” he punctuates his words with another thrust, “You just gotta take it for me, baby, I promise I’ll take good care of you.”
You’re too lost in the pleasure to reply to him, so much so that time kind of blurs together, unable to focus on anything but the way his tip keeps nudging against your cervix. Luckily, you don’t think he expected a reply from you anyway, if the way the pace of his hips picks up tells you anything. Your noises pick up, whines and whimpers falling from your lips easily now that you don’t have the bandwidth to try to keep them in.
“Need you to cum for me, baby, can you do that?” His voice is huskier than you’ve ever heard it and it sends a shiver down your spine, clenching harder around him in a way that sends his hand traveling down your stomach.
“I— I don’t—“
“Yeah, you can,” he answers for you, as if he knew your capabilities more than you did, thumb drawing small circles on your clit, “you’re my sweet girl, aren’t you? All mine?”
It’s almost cruel that he expects a reply now, of all times, when your brain is the most fogged and your tongue is the most heavy. You must take too long to answer, because his fingers are pinching hard at your clit in a way that has you squealing, apologies spilling from your lips, hiccuped ‘sorry, ‘m sorry’s coming from your mouth as if it were gospel.
“Answer me, or I’ll leave you here just like this.”
“Y-Yes, yes, yours, just yours—“
“There you go, finally using that brain of yours.”
All you can hear are your own whines, desperate in a way that would be embarrassing if you weren’t so fucking close, hands scrambling to grab onto his biceps. “Please, please, s’so good, so close.”
“Fuck, y’sound so pretty, baby,” he breathes, thumb speeding up at your clit, his thrusts never faltering. Hongjoong pulls back slightly to draw his eyes to where he disappears inside of you, seeming dazed for a minute before he spits directly onto your pussy, filthy in a way that only draws you closer to the edge. His fingers continue to work at you, humming, “Come on, cum for me.”
It’s enough to send you over the edge, nails digging harshly into his upper arms as your vision blurs at the sides, pleasure so intense and nothing like anything you’ve ever been able to bring yourself to before.
“Jesus, so fucking tight around me,” he moans, breath coming out shaky and uneven as he’s drawn closer to his own peak, thrusts losing their otherwise perfect rhythm.
“P-Please cum, Joongie,” you manage through the haze, wanting to be able to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure he’s given to you.
“Aw, my— fuck, my sweet girl, begging me to cum even if I won’t be filling you up,” his voice is tight and pinched, sounds bubbling up from his throat that you think you’ll be hearing on a loop all week. His rhythm falters, leaning further over you to press his mouth to your shoulder as he finishes, pressing himself impossibly deep inside you.
There’s a quiet kind of intimacy in the calm that follows, Hongjoong panting into your shoulder with his weight collapsed on you and running his hands up and down your sides soothingly.
You think you can finally get a second to breathe, to process everything that just happened, but then he’s sliding down to his knees in front of the bed and slurping at your cunt. The first pass of his tongue alone is almost enough to make you panic, still sensitive so soon after your orgasm.
You gasp, reaching down to try and push his head away from your core, but he roughly grabs your wrist with his free hand and pins it against the bed, “S’too much, can’t—“
The small whimpers that come from your lips were dry until you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You were beginning to think he just wouldn’t respond to your pleas, until you hear him reply. “Just one more, baby, promise. You can do it for Joongie, can’t you?”
His expectant tone almost made you feel an intrinsic need to please him, like if you disappointed him it would feel as if you were turning your back on a fundamental part of your nature. It sounds dramatic but that’s really how it feels, his eyes trained on your face as he searches for what he knows he’ll find, for something that tells him you’ll do just as he asks no matter how hard it is.
Your hips squirm against him, his arm wrapped under your thigh and planted firmly on your abdomen as his tongue flicks insistently at your clit. You feel yourself getting close already, and he notices because of course he does, always observant.
“Yeah, there you go, feels good now, huh, baby?” Hongjoong slurs against your clit, sucking on it in a way that feels almost as much for him as it is for you. “Cum for me again, please? Make me proud, sweet girl?”
You nod dumbly at him, noises almost pornographic as they pitch up, thighs trying to close around his head and only being stopped by his free hand prying them back open. Your orgasm comes violently, crashing over you in a way that almost makes it hard to breathe, oxygen getting trapped somewhere in your chest as your eyes roll.
Time fades together and you think you might’ve blacked out for a minute when you feel a washcloth against your core, Hongjoong gingerly cleaning you up in a way you’re not sure you expected after the way he spoke, but are pleasantly surprised by. Somewhere through the haze, you can hear him faintly, whispering sweet, comforting words to you that you wish you could focus on clearly.
But all that’s clear in your mind now is that you just slept with Kim Hongjoong, and you told him you were all his even though you’re set to hard-launch your ‘boyfriend’ in a week.
Monday night is supposed to be predictable.
That’s the only reason you agreed to keep coming back, week after week, slipping into San’s off-campus apartment like it’s a fixed point in your schedule, because now it is. Monday nights are always quiet and low effort. You sit on the couch, you half-watch whatever San puts on, you listen to him talk about things you don’t always follow, and you exist in a way that doesn’t require too much of you. It’s a nice escape from the usual chatter in your head, and that’s something you’ve always appreciated, but something you definitely need now.
Lately, you’ve been far too aware of yourself, of the way your life has changed so quickly after the letters got out, and of the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in your dorm, tangled up in something you never thought would actually happen to you, especially not at the hands of Kim Hongjoong.
That realization settles heavy in your chest as you reach the door, your hand hovering for just a second before you knock, because you need that extra moment to pull yourself together. You need that time to press everything down into something manageable, at least for the sake of San and his kind of endearing attachment to your weekly routine.
San opens it almost immediately. “Finally,” he barely gives you time to register anything before he’s stepping aside with a distracted, ‘you’re late’, already turning back toward the living room like he assumes you’ll follow.
“I’m not late,” you mutter automatically, slipping past him and into the apartment, breath catching when you see Seonghwa on the couch like he’s been here long enough to make himself at home, one arm draped along the backrest, legs stretched out slightly, attention half on the TV and half on you.
“What—” the word slips out before you can stop it, your voice catching slightly as your eyes flick between him and San, your brain struggling to process how this is happening, why this is happening, why this is happening to you. “What is he doing here?”
San glances over his shoulder like he’s just now remembering to acknowledge the very obvious addition to the room. “Oh,” he says, casual, like this isn’t the worst possible thing that could’ve happened to you tonight. “I told him to come by.”
Your stomach clenches tight in your abdomen, “Why?” It comes out sharper than you mean it to, your fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your bag.
San frowns at you, brows pulling together like your reaction is the strange part of this situation. “Why not?” he shoots back, shrugging as he moves further into the apartment. “He was bored, I was bored, figured it’d be fine.”
“B-But—“ you start uselessly as you follow him inside, like maybe if you’re close enough at his heels, maybe if you come up with a good enough reason fast enough, he’ll kick Seonghwa out and save you the embarrassment, “Mondays are— they’re for us, it’s… it’s sibling night!”
San actually pauses at that, turning back to look at you properly for the first time since you walked in. His expression shifts into something caught between confusion and mild amusement, like he can’t decide if you’re joking or not.
“Sibling night?” he repeats, one brow lifting. “Since when do we have a label for this?”
You falter under that, your mouth opening and closing once, your grip tightening uselessly around your bag strap as you scramble for something that doesn’t sound as panicked as you feel. “I— we always hang out on Mondays,” you try, weaker now, already aware of how flimsy it sounds the second it leaves your mouth.
“Well,” San shrugs, “he’s just hanging out. Thought it’d be fine. Besides, he’s practically your second brother anyway, you’ll live.” He finishes, turning away again like that settles it.
You won’t. You’re fairly certain, actually, that this might be the thing that finally kills you, especially now that San’s said Seonghwa is like a brother to you, when you and now Seonghwa, too, knows that isn’t true.
You don’t look at Seonghwa, you don’t think you physically can without throwing up.
“…Right,” you murmur instead as your body moves on autopilot, following the routine you’ve carved out here despite the fact that everything about tonight feels fundamentally wrong. You set your bag down where you always do, near the arm of the couch, your fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary before you finally drop it and take your usual seat.
You’re not too close to San but not too far, just enough not to crowd him so he doesn’t start whining about it, which is the same distance you’ve always kept on your Monday movie nights. The only difference now is that Seonghwa is on the other side, close enough that you can feel his presence without touching him, close enough that you’re aware of every small movement he makes.
You keep your eyes on the TV like moving them anywhere else would condemn you to death, but you don’t register a single thing on it. It’s some action flick San put on, saying something about how it’s supposed to be really good.
San talks through half the movie like he always does, making commentary that ranges from mildly funny to completely irrelevant, occasionally nudging you with his foot when he thinks you’re not paying enough attention. You respond where you can, short answers, quiet hums, just enough to keep up appearances.
Seonghwa plays his part, too, laughing at the right moments and throwing in a comment here or there. He doesn’t look at you too long, not in a way that would draw San’s attention, but you can feel the tension, the way it hums beneath everything, threading through the space between you, something unsaid but fully understood.
Every time you shift, you’re aware of him noticing. Every time he moves, you feel it in your peripheral, like your body is tracking him without your permission. It’s exhausting.
You wonder if this is what it feels like to be slowly, quietly dying in real time.
Halfway through the movie, San groans loudly, throwing his head back against the couch. “I’m telling you,” he complains, reaching for his phone on the coffee table, “girls are actually insane.”
You blink, pulled out of your spiraling thoughts just enough to glance at him. “What?” you question even though you’re not sure you really want to hear the answer.
He shoves his phone in your direction like it’s evidence. “This girl I’ve been talking to just ghosted me out of nowhere.”
You glance down at the screen without really reading it, your stomach tightening slightly at the word. Ghosted. It hits a little too close to home considering the presence at your other side. “Maybe she’s busy,” you offer weakly, the irony of the statement not lost on you.
San snorts. “For days?” He scoffs, clearly offended on principle. “No way.” Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your sleeve where your hands lay in your lap. “I don’t get it,” he continues, shaking his head. “like, if you’re not interested, just say that. Why ignore someone? That’s so…” he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, dropping his phone back onto the table. “it’s annoying.”
There’s a small, uncomfortable moment where you’re too aware of the dip in the couch next to you.
“Yeah,” Seonghwa finally says in an undeniably pointed way, “I don’t really love being ignored, either.”
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. There’s this immediate, instinctive tightening in your chest, something invisible pulled too tight beneath your ribs. Your breath stutters and heat creeps up your neck, slow but undeniable, settling high in your cheeks in a way that makes you painfully aware of your own face.
The words echoes louder in your head than they ever did out loud, because it isn’t just a general statement, and you know that. You know it in the way your stomach twists, in the way your thoughts immediately scramble backward to those unread messages sitting in your phone, to the way you stared at his name on your screen and chose, very deliberately, not to respond.
You hadn’t thought of it as ignoring him, not really. You’d told yourself it was temporary, that you just needed time and you’d figure out what to say when you weren’t actively on the verge of combusting from embarrassment.
Your mind starts moving too fast, scrambling for something to do with it; say something, laugh it off, agree, disagree, change the subject. Anything to take the weight out of it before San notices.
But it’s too late, because his gaze flicks between the two of you, a slow, suspicious narrowing of his eyes that makes your stomach twist all over again. “Okay,” he drawls, dragging the word out like he’s already clocked that something’s off. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” you reply too rapidly, the words falling from your lips like maybe if you’re quick enough this moment will end sooner.
Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, because of course he doesn’t, leaving you to explain this tension to your brother by yourself.
San snorts lightly, unconvinced. “That,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you like the tension is something visible, something tangible he can point at. “That weird energy. Did I miss something?”
You feel it before Seonghwa says it, clear in the way he shifts beside you, the kind of movement that means he’s decided something, that he’s not going to let this sit in that half-hidden space anymore. “She’s been ignoring me,” Seonghwa finally lays it out there in the open, casual like the statement itself doesn’t drop straight into the room and split the air open.
There’s no room to deflect it, no room to pretend it wasn’t meant the way it was. It lands fully formed, unmistakable, and suddenly the thing you were trying so desperately to keep contained between the two of you is sitting right there in front of San like an open invitation.
San’s head turns sharply toward you, “You what?” he questions, more nosy than anything else, which you try to be grateful for. At least, you think, he’s not mad… yet. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s trying to piece something together. “Wait,” he starts, something almost amused creeping into his tone now, “since when do you two even text enough for her to ignore you?”
“I—” you try again, your voice thinner now, your fingers twisting tighter into your sleeves as your thoughts start racing, tripping over themselves in their urgency to find something believable.
“Sometimes,” Seonghwa answers for you, purposefully vague in that kind of way you know will only stoke the flames of San’s curiosity.
San’s brows lift, interest piquing further. “Sometimes?” he echoes, glancing back at you with a look that’s equal parts suspicion and intrigue. “When did that start?”
Your chest tightens, breath coming just a little too fast now, your pulse loud and overwhelming in your ears as panic starts to bloom properly, no longer contained to something internal and manageable. You need to get out now, before San asks the next question, before he says something that corners you into admitting you sent an incredibly detailed love letter to his best friend.
“I have to go,” you blurt, the words rushing out uneven and abrupt as you push yourself up from the couch too quickly, your balance wavering for half a second before you steady yourself.
San blinks up at you, caught off guard, “What? Since when?”
“I just— I forgot I had something,” you ramble, already reaching for your bag, your fingers clumsy as they fumble with the strap. Your voice sounds wrong, too high and too rushed, but you can’t stop now. “I need to— I have to go, I’m sorry, I just—”
“Whoa, hey—” San stands halfway, confusion bleeding into concern now, “Did I do something, _____?”
“No,” you insist quickly, already backing toward the door, your grip tightening around your bag like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “It’s nothing, I just remembered something I have to do.” You don’t wait for him to question it further. You turn, your hand already on the doorknob, twisting it open with more force than necessary, the cool air from the hallway rushing in as you step out like you’re surfacing for air. Your movements are too fast, too uneven, your thoughts scrambling ahead of you, tangling together in your hurry to leave before anything else can be said.
You make it a few steps down the hall, your breath tight in your chest, your fingers gripping your bag strap so hard your knuckles ache, when the door behind you opens again. You don’t even need to look to know it’s him.
You try to speed up your steps to flee, but his strides are longer than yours and there’s a quick set of footsteps, controlled but purposeful before his hand clasps around your wrist.
You stop, your body going still as the door clicks shut behind him, the sound sealing the hallway into something more contained.
You inhale sharply, turning on him this time, the movement abrupt and unsteady, your emotions catching up to you all at once. “Why would you say that?” The words come out tighter than you intend, edged with something raw, your brows pulling together as you look at him properly for the first time since you arrived. “In front of him?”
Something subtle shifts in Seonghwa’s expression, and his hand yields his grip around your wrist, dropping his hand to his side now that he’s sure you aren’t going to leave without giving him the conversation he wants.
“Because it’s true,” he replies, his voice even, but there’s something underneath it now, less patient than before. “You have been ignoring me.”
“That’s not—” you cut yourself off, frustrated, your free hand coming up to push through your hair, the motion restless. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” he questions more directly now, disbelief woven into his tone like he can’t believe that you think ignoring him is somehow not the point.
“The point is that you can’t just… bring that up in front of San,” you insist, your voice lowering instinctively even though the door is already shut, as if the walls themselves might carry it back to him. “This isn’t something he needs to be involved in.”
Seonghwa’s brows knit slightly at that, his jaw tightening just a fraction. “Then maybe you should’ve talked to me,” he counters, and there’s frustration there now, clearer than before. “If you wanted it to stay between us, you don’t just… disappear for three days.”
“I— I didn’t disappear,” you argue weakly, even though you both know that’s exactly what you did.
He exhales through his nose, a quiet, controlled breath that feels like restraint more than anything else. “You didn’t answer me,” he corrects. “not once.”
You look away for a second, your gaze dropping to the floor between you, because that part you don’t have a defense for. The closest thing you can manage sounds weak, but you say it anyway, “…I didn’t know what to say.”
“Then you could’ve said that,” he replies immediately, the frustration slipping through a little more now, “Anything would’ve been better than nothing.”
Your head shakes quickly, almost instinctively. “No, you don’t get it,” you insist, your voice picking up again, nerves fraying at the edges. “it’s not just about what to say, it’s— it’s him.” You gesture uselessly to the wall that San’s apartment shares with the hallway.
“San can’t know about this,” you press, your words tumbling out faster now, less controlled. “He just— he can’t. You’re his best friend, Seonghwa. He’s known you longer than I’ve known half the people in my life, and if he finds out that I— that I sent you that—” your voice catches slightly, the memory of the letter alone enough to make your stomach twist. “He’s not going to see it as something normal,” you continue, your breathing uneven now, your thoughts spilling out in a way that feels too exposing, but you can’t stop yourself, “He’s going to think it’s weird, or inappropriate, or— or like I crossed some kind of line, because I did. I did, I know I did, and it’s not like you said anything first, I’m the one who— who put that on you, and if he thinks I made things weird between you two then that’s—”
Your throat tightens, “That’s going to ruin things. For— for you and for him and for me.” By the time you finish, your chest is tight, your breath uneven, like you’ve just run a distance you weren’t prepared for. The hallway feels smaller now, quieter in a way that presses in on you, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead suddenly too sharp against the ringing in your ears. You can feel the heat still lingering in your face, creeping stubbornly beneath your skin, and you hate it; how easily your body betrays you, how it insists on making everything visible even when you’re trying so hard to keep it contained. There’s a faint tremor in your hands that you try to still, pressing your thumb harder into the seam of your sleeve.
When you finally glance up, it’s hesitant, brief at first, testing the waters. The tension that was sitting so sharply in his expression before has eased, not gone entirely, but softened enough to give you hope that this won’t end in argument. His posture isn’t as rigid, his shoulders no longer held quite as tight, as if your words have given him something to work with.
“…Okay,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your eyes flick back up to him, surprised by the shift, “I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he admits, his voice measured. “not in front of him.”
The apology comes, simple and unembellished, and it lands in that strange, fragile space between you. It doesn’t fix everything, but it smooths over the sharpest edge of the moment and takes the immediate sting out of what just happened. You feel it in the way your shoulders drop just slightly, the way your grip on your sleeve loosens a fraction without you meaning for it to. For a second, it almost feels like you can breathe again.
But it doesn’t last.
“Did you mean it?” His gaze doesn’t waver, steady and patient in a way that makes it clear he’s not going to let this dissolve into avoidance again.
Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out at first. Your gaze drops again, instinctively, like you might find the answer somewhere in the space between your feet if you just look long enough.
Your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves, fabric bunching between them, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels remotely solid right now. Your pulse is loud in your ears, uneven, and your thoughts are moving too fast, tripping over themselves in that familiar, panicked rhythm — fix it, say something, make it go away.
“It wasn’t—” you start, and your voice catches immediately, thin and uncertain. You swallow, forcing yourself to continue, “It wasn’t supposed to get sent.” Your gaze stays down, fixed somewhere near the floor between you. The words feel flimsy the second they leave your mouth, too small for what he asked, too far from an actual answer. “It just… did,” you add swiftly, the pace picking up as you try to build this into something that sounds more acceptable. “I don’t even know how— I must’ve clicked something, or—” you shake your head, cutting yourself off before you get stuck there, “it was an accident.”
You nod faintly, as if that settles it, but it clearly doesn’t because he’s still staring at you, waiting for an actual answer to his question in such a scrutinizing way that you scramble for the words to make this all better.
“And— and it wasn’t… recent,” you continue when you’re faced with his silence that makes you too aware of yourself, “I wrote that a long time ago.”
The lie sits wrong the second it leaves your mouth. Well, not completely wrong — there’s enough distance there that you can almost convince yourself it’s true if you don’t think about it too hard — but not right either, not when you remember sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed last year, typing it out slowly, obsessively, rereading every line like it mattered more than anything else, because at the time, it did.
“It was just…” you let out a small, awkward breath, something that almost resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite land that way, your shoulders shifting restlessly. Your hand lifts slightly, gesturing in that vague, dismissive way like you’re trying to wave it off. “You know. A crush.”
The word lingers in the space between you, and it almost feels too light for what it really is, but you need it to sound this way. You need him to believe that that’s all this really is.
“A stupid one,” you add quickly, layering over it before it can settle. “Like—like those… high school, puppy-love kind of things.” You shake your head again, a little more firmly now, because you’re convincing yourself as much as him. “I just— I got over it, eventually.” Your gaze stays lowered, fixed stubbornly anywhere but him. You’re afraid that if you look up, he’ll see straight through it.
The hallway falls quiet again, the hum of the lights overhead filling the space where your voice just was, and all you can hear now is your own breathing, uneven and shallow.
There’s a long, uncomfortable moment that almost makes you squirm before—
“Okay.”
Your breath catches slightly at the sound of it, your chest tightening again for a different reason now. Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your gaze just enough to look at him.
Seonghwa nods once, like he’s coming to terms with something, his jaw shifting faintly before it settles again. His expression isn’t hard, not upset in any obvious way, but there’s a subtle change there that you can’t quite place.
“If that’s all it was,” he adds after a moment, “…you could’ve just said that,” he murmurs, not quite looking at you this time, his gaze angled slightly past you down the hallway. “Would’ve saved you the trouble.” He exhales lightly through his nose, dragging a hand back through his hair in a small, absent motion before his attention returns to you, more neutral now and hiding whatever confusing glint in his eyes that you couldn’t place earlier. “I won’t bring it up again,” he maintains after a moment, tone steady, “you don’t have to worry about San.”
For a second, the words don’t land the way they’re supposed to. They’re clean and simple and exactly what you wanted, technically: no confrontation, no drawn-out rejection, no careful, pitying explanation about why it could never happen. He takes what you give him and treats it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding, something small and already resolved.
It should feel like relief, but instead it feels like something hollowing out in your chest. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up to it, a strange, sinking sensation settling low in your stomach. Your shoulders feel lighter in a way that isn’t comforting, like you’ve set something down that you weren’t actually ready to let go of.
You got what you wanted, so why does it somehow feel worse?
Your gaze lingers on him a second too long now that you’ve finally looked up, like you’re trying to catch something before it disappears completely. There’s nothing obvious in his expression, no anger, no accusation, but there’s a distance there now that wasn’t there before. It’s subtle but undeniable, as if he’s already adjusted to this new version of things, already stepping back into a space where you don’t exist in that way anymore.
Your throat feels tight again, but there’s nothing you can say to fix it without undoing everything you just did, so you nod instead, small and almost mechanical. “Yeah,” you murmur, your voice striped of the frantic edge it had earlier. “It’s— it’s not a big deal.
The words taste strange in your mouth. Not a big deal. How could this ever not be a big deal?
Seonghwa watches you for a second longer, searching for something, but whatever he’s looking for, he either doesn’t find it or doesn’t bring it up. He just nods again, in that way that feels sickeningly final, “Alright.”
The hallway suddenly feels too still, the air heavier now that there’s nothing left to say. You become aware of everything all at once: the faint buzz of the overhead lights, the distant, muffled sound of San moving around inside the apartment, the way your heart is still beating just a little too fast for something that’s apparently over.
You shift your weight, the movement small but restless, your body already leaning away before you’ve fully decided to leave. “I should—” you start, your voice trailing off as you gesture vaguely down the hall, the excuse forming out of habit more than necessity. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” he replies, easy, like this is normal, like this is how this was always going to end. “I’ll… see you around.”
See you around. It’s such a casual thing to say, something you’ve heard a hundred times before, from a hundred different people. It’s never sounded like this.
You nod again, because that’s all you can do, because it’s easier than acknowledging the way something in your chest twists at how final it feels. “Yeah,” you echo, and then you turn. Your steps feel strange at first, a little too speedy, as if you’re trying to outrun something. The hallway stretches out in front of you, familiar and unchanged, but it feels different now, like you’re moving through it wrong somehow.
You don’t make it far before the quiet starts to press in on you. It follows you down the hall, clinging in that way silence does when it’s not really silence at all, when it’s instead just everything you didn’t say.
Your hand finds the stairwell door without you really thinking about it, pushing it open harder than necessary, the heavy metal giving way with a dull clang that echoes a little too loudly in the enclosed space. The sound startles you more than it should, your shoulders tensing briefly before you force them to relax, exhaling through your nose like you can steady yourself that way.
You stop there for a second once you walk into the brisk February air, the door swinging shut behind you with a quieter, more final click. Your chest rises and falls a little too fast, your breath visible in the faint chill, and for a moment you just stand there, like your body doesn’t quite know what to do now that it’s over.
Because that’s what it is. Over.
By the time you make it back to your dorm, the world has settled into that late-night quiet that usually feels comforting.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
Your steps slow as you reach your door, your hand hovering over the handle for just a second longer than necessary. There’s a dull kind of exhaustion settling into your bones now, the kind that comes after too much thinking, too much feeling, too much holding yourself together in situations where you didn’t really want to. All you want is to get inside, collapse onto your bed, and not think for a while.
You push the door open and you only get one foot inside the dorm before she’s talking to you.
“Finally—oh my god, where have you been?”
Nakyung is already halfway off her bed, her energy filling the room so completely it feels like you walked into something already in motion. She doesn’t even pause to look at you properly, doesn’t clock the slight stiffness in your posture or the way your shoulders are still holding tension from earlier. She’s too busy, too wound up, her hands already moving as she talks.
“Do you know how I had to find out?” she continues, incredulous, like this is the biggest betrayal of the century. “From Yeosang. Yeosang!”
You blink at her, your brain lagging a full step behind as you shut the door behind you. “…What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me,” she shoots back immediately, pointing at you like you’re the problem here. “You’re dating Wooyoung? Since when? And why am I hearing it from someone who isn’t you?”
The words land all at once, stacked on top of everything else from tonight, and for a second you just stand there, your hand still loosely holding the knob behind you.
Right. That.
“Oh my god,” Nakyung groans, already pacing now, running a hand through her hair in disbelief. “How long has this been going on? Is it recent? Was it before the party? Wait— was it because of the party? That would actually make so much sense—”
“I—” you start, and immediately realize you have absolutely nothing prepared. You haven’t had the time to make up some meet-cute with Wooyoung, too busy falling into bed with Hongjoong and lying to Seonghwa.
Your mouth opens, then closes again, your brain scrambling uselessly as it tries to piece something together fast enough to keep up with her.
“It’s just—” you try again, your voice already thinner than you want it to be, “it’s… new.”
“That’s not an answer,” she cuts in instantly, waving you off as she continues her pacing. “Like, how new? First date new? Already-kissed new? Oh my god, have you kissed him?”
Heat creeps up your neck immediately, your fingers tightening slightly around your bag strap as your mind flashes — unhelpfully, vividly — to a pair of lips belonging to an entirely different person.
You swallow. “I— no,” you manage, because that part, at least, is technically true. “We just— we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s new.”
“Clearly,” Nakyung mutters, rolling her eyes, though she looks far too excited to actually be annoyed. “Except apparently Yeosang, which is wild, by the way, because how does he know before me?”
You latch onto that, desperate for something to ground the conversation, “I— I guess Wooyoung told him after he asked me to be his girlfriend—“
“Oh my god,” she interrupts again, gasping like this is the most romantic development she’s ever heard. “That’s literally insane. That’s actually insane. Do you even realize how many people would kill to be you right now?”
You let out a small, weak laugh, the sound barely holding together. “I don’t think—”
“Wooyoung?” she presses, turning to you fully now, eyes wide, sparkling with excitement. “Jung Wooyoung? Like, the Jung Wooyoung? Baseball, campus golden boy, annoyingly charming, way too good at everything— that Wooyoung?”
Your nails dig into your palms again, carving crescents into your flesh. “…Yeah,” you confirm, voice softer this time and almost a little resigned.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she can’t physically contain it. “And you just… didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t have time,” you admit, which is the closest thing to the truth you’ve said so far.
She’s already moving again, energy bubbling over, completely caught up in it. “Okay, no, I need everything. Like, right now. Start from the beginning. How did it happen? Who made the first move? Was it him? It was him, right? He definitely made the first move—”
Your brain scrambles again, piecing together fragments, trying to build something believable out of nothing, your thoughts still too tangled from everything else tonight to keep up with her pace. “It just kind of… happened,” you try, the words vague.
“That is not enough detail,” she complains immediately, though she’s already half-talking over you again, filling in the gaps herself. “God, I knew it though. I literally knew something like this would happen. I mean, come on,” she says, like it’s obvious, like this was inevitable from the start. “Sending those emails out? I knew it would land you with, like, some prince charming eventually.”
The world stops. It doesn’t feel dramatic when it happens, even though it absolutely should. It’s like something in you just goes still, the calm before the storm.
Your thoughts don’t crash or spiral like they usually do. They just cut off, abruptly, mid-motion, like someone pulled the plug on them. The room is still there, Nakyung is still talking, her voice continuing on in that same excited rhythm, but it sounds distant now, like it’s coming from somewhere just slightly out of reach.
“…honestly, I should get, like, roommate of the year for that,” she’s saying, laughing lightly to herself. “Landing you with the campus golden boy? That’s insane. You’re welcome, by the way—”
You’re still standing by the door, your bag hanging loosely from your shoulder, your fingers no longer gripping it the way they were before.
Sending those emails out. The words replay, slower this time, enough to pull you out of the halting lull of your mind.
Your gaze shifts to her, really looking at her now for the first time since you walked in. She’s still smiling, still caught up in her own excitement, completely unaware of the way your expression has gone completely blank.
“…What did you just say?” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own when you speak, low and cold and almost scary in a way you’ve never heard from yourself. It cuts cleanly through her ramble in a way that makes her pause for the first time since you walked in.
She blinks at you, thrown off, her momentum faltering. “What?”
You take a step further into the room now, your bag slipping from your shoulder, landing softly against your side, forgotten. “What did you just say?” you repeat, a little sharper this time.
There’s a brief flicker of confusion across her face, like she’s trying to figure out which part you’re asking about. “Uh—” she hesitates, then gestures vaguely, a small, uncertain laugh slipping out. “I said I should get roommate of the year?”
“The emails, Nakyung.” Your voice lifts, cracks through the space between you with something that makes her expression shift immediately, the realization hitting her fast: you’re pissed.
She freezes, actually freezes — mid-breath, mid-thought, her entire body going still because she’s just been caught in something she can’t talk her way out of.
Your heart starts pounding again, but it’s different now. It’s not anxious or panicked in the way you’ve gotten used to. This is something different: anger. “How—” you start, but the words tangle immediately, too many thoughts crashing into each other at once. You take another step toward her without really thinking about it, your movements sharper now, less controlled. “How could you do that?” Your voice rises, louder than she’s probably ever heard it from you, the restraint you usually cling to snapping clean through. “I thought it was an accident,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now, your hands coming up in a helpless, incredulous gesture. “I thought I messed something up, that I clicked something wrong, that I—”
“No, I—” she tries, finally finding her voice again, but it’s weaker now, unsure in a way you’ve never heard from her before. Her lips part, then press together again, her shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of your gaze. “…I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?” you repeat, the disbelief in your voice almost incredulous. “Nakyung, those were private. Those weren’t— those weren’t meant for anyone to see, let alone all of them at the same time!”
You’re closer to her now, close enough that she has to tilt her head up slightly to meet your eyes, and there’s something in your posture that makes it look, for a split second, like you might actually do something about it. You don’t, and you wouldn’t, but the possibility sits there, unspoken, in the way your hands clench at your sides.
“I wrote those for me,” you press, your voice shaking now, anger bleeding into something more raw. “I didn’t send them because I wasn’t ready to deal with any of that, and you just— what? Decided to do it for me?”
“I was trying to help!” she blurts out, the words rushing out of her now that she’s been cornered into saying something. “You were miserable, okay? You kept sitting in the room all day, doing nothing, and when I found out about the letters that night of the party, I was sad for you! You were writing all those letters and never doing anything about it, and you were so— so lonely, and I just thought—”
“You thought what?” you demand, your voice rising again.
“That you deserved a chance!” she fires back, her own frustration breaking through now, even if it’s shakier than yours. “I mean, come on, you had, like, four different guys you were clearly into, and you were just sitting on it! I figured—” she gestures helplessly, like this all makes perfect sense in her head, “—four chances are better than one!”
You stare at her, the anger in your chest twisting into something tighter, something that makes your throat feel like it’s closing up.
Four chances. Like your life was some fucking game.
“So you just— what?” you question, your voice more hushed now but no less intense. “You picked for me? You decided that I should just… deal with whatever happened after?”
“I didn’t think it would be a bad thing,” she insists hurriedly, stepping back half a step as your proximity starts to feel like too much. “I thought maybe one of them would respond, and it would be cute, and you’d finally get out of your own head for once—”
“It’s not cute,” you snap, the word hitting harder than you mean for it to. “It’s humiliating!”
The word hangs there, sharper than you intended, heavier than anything else you’ve said so far, and that seems to hit her the hardest.
Nakyung’s expression falters immediately, the last bit of defensiveness draining out of her. Her shoulders drop slightly, the weight of what she did finally settling in properly.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out like the words have been sitting at the back of her throat waiting for a moment to escape. “I’m— I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t think it through,” she continues, her voice smaller now, stumbling over itself in a way that feels familiar even though you’ve never seen it come from her. “I swear I didn’t. I just— I saw them, and I thought it was sad, and I thought you deserved better than just… keeping everything to yourself and never doing anything about it, and I—” she cuts herself off with a frustrated breath, dragging a hand over her face. “I messed up, okay? I know I did.”
Your chest is still tight, your pulse still loud in your ears, the remnants of your anger sitting just beneath the surface like it hasn’t quite decided whether it’s done yet.
“I didn’t mean for it to turn into… this,” she gestures between you vaguely, like ‘this’ could even begin to cover it. “I didn’t think all of them would actually read them, or that it would get around, or— or whatever happened, I don’t know, I just thought maybe one of them would respond and it would be… good. And— I mean…” she hesitates, clearly grasping for something, anything that might make this better. “It kind of… worked? Right?”
You stare at her.
She winces slightly under the look but pushes through anyway, words tumbling out now, desperate. “Like— you’re with Wooyoung now,” she explains, gesturing toward you like that proves her point. “That’s not a bad outcome, right? He’s— he’s great, and he likes you, and you like him, and—”
You almost laugh. Of course she’d try to patch it together with something like that, as if the outcome could ever justify the means. “I didn’t plan that,” you mutter, “That’s not— that doesn’t make this okay.”
“I know,” she agrees, nodding, stepping forward just a little, testing whether it’s safe to close the distance again. “I know it doesn’t, I just— I’m trying to say it’s not all bad. I didn’t completely ruin your life, right?”
There’s a hopeful note in her voice that makes something in your chest twist, not in anger this time, but closer to reluctant understanding.
She’s not calculating, she’s not malicious, she’s just… impulsive and way overly confident in her logic. It’s frustrating, god, it’s so frustrating, but you know she wasn’t being cruel.
You look at her properly now, really taking her in — the way her hands are fidgeting at her sides, the way her posture is slightly hunched in like she’s bracing for you to keep going, the way her words keep tripping over themselves in that same clumsy, anxious way you know you sound when you’re the one trying to explain yourself.
You let out a long breath, your shoulders dropping slightly as the tension finally starts to bleed out of them. “Your logic was insane,” you tell her flatly, running a hand back through your hair. “Like, actually insane.”
“I know,” she expresses immediately, nodding a little too fast. “I know, it was— it was really bad.”
“You don’t just send people’s private stuff without asking,” you continue, your voice steadier, less sharp but still firm. “Ever. I don’t care if you think it’ll help or not.”
“I won’t do it again,” she promises quickly, stepping closer now that you’re no longer advancing on her like you’re going to swing. “I swear, I won’t. I’ll never touch your stuff again, I’ll— I’ll ask, or I’ll just stay out of it completely, I don’t know—”
“Good,” you cut in decisively. “…I’m still mad,” you admit after a second, your gaze dropping briefly before flicking back up to her. “Like— really mad.”
Her face falls a little, but she nods, accepting it. “That’s fair.”
“But…” you hesitate, the word sitting awkwardly in your mouth before you push through it, “I get that you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
That seems to matter to her more than anything else you’ve said so far, relief flickering faintly across her expression. “I really wasn’t,” she replies, gentler now. “I just… wanted something good to happen to you.”
You nod once, because that’s all you have the energy for, and turn away from her before the conversation can stretch any further. Your bag slips fully from your shoulder this time, landing by your desk as you move toward your bed, your movements slower now, heavier. You collapse face-first into the mattress.
You don’t have the capacity for any more conversation today.
By Wednesday, everything has started to blur together in that unpleasant, dragging fashion where time moves forward whether you’re ready for it or not.
You wake up tired, you go to class tired, you sit through lectures barely processing anything beyond the surface of the words being said. Your mind feels crowded, like there’s too much sitting in it at once — Wooyoung and his stupid plan, Hongjoong and the way his hands felt on you, Seonghwa and that look in the hallway, Nakyung and her apology that you accepted because it was easier than staying angry. It all overlaps, bleeds into everything else, makes it hard to focus on anything that used to feel simple.
So when you see the email from Professor Lee, it hits you harder than it probably should.
I’d like to speak with you after class regarding your recent performance.
You spend the rest of the lecture barely hearing a word he says, your eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes, your leg bouncing faintly under the desk. You already know what this is about. You don’t need him to say it. You’ve seen the grades, the slow but steady decline, the assignments you rushed through or turned in late or didn’t put nearly enough thought into.
Still, knowing doesn’t make it any easier when the room starts to empty out and you’re left behind.
The classroom feels too quiet once everyone else leaves, the usual hum of conversation gone, replaced with the faint shuffle of papers as Professor Lee organizes something at his desk. You linger for a second longer than necessary, gathering your things slowly, like delaying this will somehow make it better.
“Come on, have a seat,” he says when you approach, gesturing to the chair across from him.
You do, your movements careful and a little stiff. Your bag settles at your feet, your hands folding together in your lap because you don’t know what else to do with them. You can feel the anxiety sitting in your chest, heavy and familiar, your thoughts already bracing for impact.
He doesn’t drag it out, thankfully. He talks about your grades and how they’ve been slipping, not all at once, but enough to be noticeable. He mentions missed details, weaker analysis, a lack of engagement that wasn’t there at the beginning of the semester. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s firm, making it clear this isn’t something you can brush off.
You sit there, nodding occasionally, your gaze dropping to your hands, fingers twisting together slightly as he speaks. There’s a quiet kind of embarrassment settling in, the kind that doesn’t burn hot like earlier this week, but sits heavy instead, weighing you down.
“I think it would be beneficial for you to work with a tutor,” he maintains eventually.
Your head lifts slightly at that, something in your chest tightening again. A tutor. Of course.
“I’ve already reached out to one of our available tutors for this course,” he continues, glancing briefly at something on his desk. “Given your schedule and theirs, it seemed like the most efficient option.”
There’s a small, uneasy feeling starting to form in your stomach now, something you can’t place yet.
“They’ve agreed to take you on,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “You should be hearing from them soon, if you haven’t already.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten just a little more. “Who is it?” you ask before you can stop yourself, your voice smaller than you intend.
Professor Lee looks up at you, entirely neutral. “Jeong Yunho.”
For a second, you just stare at him, your brain refusing to process it properly, like if you don’t react, maybe it won’t be real, but it is real, sitting there in the space between you, unavoidable. Of course, after everything — after the letter, after the conversation, after the kiss — this is what happens next, like the universe is just… committed to making sure you can’t escape any of it, no matter how hard you try.
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening slightly in your lap. “That’s… fine,” you manage, even though it doesn’t feel fine at all. It feels like the exact opposite of fine. It feels like being pushed right back into a situation you were considering killing yourself over the last time you faced it.
Professor Lee nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. I think this will help get you back on track.”
The conversation wraps up shortly after that, but you barely register the rest of it. You gather your things, thank him automatically, and step out of the classroom feeling completely dejected.
You don’t make it very far before the feeling settles in, a quiet kind of dread that makes everything feel just a little harder than it should be. Your thoughts keep circling back, looping over themselves in the most unhelpful ways possible. Very soon, you’re going to have to face Yunho, sitting in front of you again, trying to pretend like you didn’t jump him in the library.
You press your lips together, your grip tightening slightly on your bag strap as you walk. You need a distraction, or a reset, or anything that isn’t standing in the middle of campus replaying the worst possible sequence of events your life has decided to throw at you this week.
The café comes into view before you realize that was even your destination, tucked along the quieter side of campus like it always is, warm light spilling out through the windows. You’ve only been here just enough to know what to expect: low music, the faint hum of conversation, the smell of coffee and sugar that clings to the air in a way that feels almost comforting.
You push the door open and step inside, and the shift is immediate. The noise dulls, replaced with something cozier. There’s a kind of lived-in warmth to the place, wooden tables worn just enough at the edges, mismatched chairs that somehow work together, small plants sitting by the windows. It feels tucked away from everything else, like the world slows down just a little when you’re in here.
You exhale, some of the tension in your shoulders easing.
The line isn’t long, thankfully. You step up when it’s your turn, your voice coming out a little more tired than usual when you order, “Hot chocolate, please. Um… extra whipped cream.”
It feels childish, maybe, but you don’t really care right now. You just want something warm, something sweet, something that doesn’t require you to think too hard.
You take the cup when they call your name, the heat of it seeping into your hands immediately, grounding in a way that you didn’t realize you needed. For a second, you just stand there, letting it settle, before you turn and find a table near the window. You sit, your bag dropping to the floor beside you, your hands curling around the cup as you stare down at it.
The whipped cream is piled a little too high, already beginning to melt at the edges, and you watch it absently. The steam curls up in soft, lazy spirals, blurring your vision just enough that it gives you something to focus on that isn’t the mess in your head. You watch the whipped cream sink slowly into the chocolate beneath it, the edges dissolving in a way that feels unfairly easy compared to everything else in your life right now.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup, soaking in the warmth, trying to anchor yourself to it. Around you, the café continues on like nothing’s wrong, because nothing is. Quiet conversations continue at nearby tables, the low clink of ceramic sounds against wood, the distant whir of the espresso machine cuts clearly through the clutter. It’s all so normal that it almost feels dissonant, like you’ve stepped into a space where your chaos isn’t allowed to follow.
Just as the thought crosses your mind, like your chaos was summoned by your thoughts of it, there’s a soft, deliberate tap against the table.
Your breath catches, your head lifting too quickly, the world snapping back into focus all at once, and there he is. Yunho stands at the edge of your table, his fingers still resting lightly against the wood where he tapped.
He looks the same as last time you saw him, comfortably put together and soft in that effortless way he always is, but there’s something else there too, something more careful in the way he holds himself. It’s clear he’s aware this isn’t a normal interaction.
For a second, neither of you say anything. Your grip tightens around your cup, the warmth suddenly too noticeable, your pulse picking up. It feels unfair when you were just starting to calm down.
“Hey,” he greets awkwardly after a moment, his voice gentle like he’s trying not to startle you.
Your throat feels like the Sahara. “…Hi,” you manage, the word small and barely there.
There’s a brief pause, his gaze flicking over you, not invasive, but observant in a way that makes you feel seen whether you want to be or not.
“Can I sit?” he finally requests, motioning offhandedly to the seat across the table from you.
It’s instinctive and immediate: the urge to say no, to protect the fragile bubble of quiet you’d just managed to carve out for yourself. It’s the knee-jerk reaction to avoid this, avoid him, avoid the conversation that’s clearly coming whether you’re ready for it or not.
That thought runs straight into reality just as quickly. You’re going to have to see him anyway, soon and repeatedly. You’ll have to sit across from him like nothing happened, like you didn’t completely humiliate yourself in front of him and kiss him out of panic.
Avoiding him now won’t fix that, you realize, so you swallow, your fingers loosening slightly around your cup as you nod once, “…Okay.”
He pulls the chair out across from you, the soft scrape of wood against the floor loud in your ears, and sits down, careful in the way he settles. Yunho exhales lightly, his hands coming to rest on the table, fingers lacing together loosely before he glances down at them, then back up at you.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
You don’t mean to say anything, you really don’t. You’re fully prepared to just sit there, nod when appropriate, let him say whatever he came to say, and survive this with as little additional humiliation as possible, but the second the silence stretches even a fraction too long, something in you gives.
“I’m really sorry,” You’re sitting there as the words tumble from your lips, hands curled around your cup, watching the last soft peaks of whipped cream collapse into the surface of the drink. “I—” you try again, and then it all spills out before you can stop it. “About the library. That— that wasn’t… I didn’t plan that or anything, I just— I panicked,” you rush, your fingers tightening around your cup, “It was a lot all at once and I didn’t really think and then it just happened and I know that’s not a good explanation but—” You cut yourself off with a small, breathless exhale, daring to chance a look up from your cup and to his face. “I’m really sorry,” you finish lamely.
“It’s okay,” he placates immediately, whether to reassure you or to put a stop to your hopeless rambling, you’re not sure. You glance up, hesitant. You’re expecting something else to follow — awkwardness, discomfort, anything — but it doesn’t come. Yunho just looks at you, shaking his head at the bewildered expression on your face, “Really,” he adds, “that’s not why I came over.”
Your thoughts stutter at that. What else could he possibly be here for, if not to address the way you threw yourself at him?
He exhales lightly, his gaze dipping for a second before returning to you. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t hurt you.”
You blink at that, “What?”
“Back then,” he clarifies, his voice still gentle. “When I—” he pauses, the word rejected hanging in the air between you before he continues, “I’ve been thinking about it,” he maintains, his fingers shifting slightly against the table, restless in an understated way. “About how I handled that conversation. I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed,” he tells you, his eyes steady on yours now, searching in a way that makes it hard to look away. “or like you did something wrong.”
Something in your chest pulls tight at that, because you did feel that way. You still do, a little.
“I meant what I said,” he continues, “about the situation, that it wouldn’t be right.”
You shift slightly in your seat, your shoulder brushing the back of the chair as you instinctively pull in just a fraction. Your gaze drops again, drawn back to the surface of your drink, even though you’re not really seeing it anymore.
“But…” He shifts slightly, a small adjustment in posture that feels like him recalibrating, choosing how far to go with this. “that doesn’t mean I didn’t, like… think about it.” The phrasing is vague, intentionally so, you assume.
As if just realizing how he sounded, he hurries to clarify, the tips of his ears gaining a pink tint, “Like, as in, I gave it thought. Not like, um—“ His breath stutters, and his hand reaches up to adjust his glasses. A nervous habit of his, you think, “I just— I just mean that I liked our sessions.” Your brows knit faintly, caught off guard by the shift. “I still do.”
There’s something in the way he says it, like it carries far more weight than the surface meaning. “You’re…” he pauses, his gaze drifting for a second like he’s searching for the exact word, then returning to you. “You’re really consistent.”
Your fingers still faintly against the cup, your attention catching on the word, trying to figure out what he means by it. It’s not what you expected, but you let him continue, hoping the longer he talks the more this will finally make some fucking sense.
“You show up,” he continues, his voice more thoughtful now, working through something he’s noticed over time. “Even when you don’t want to, or when it’s hard, you don’t check out, you try to understand it,” he carries on, “and even when you’re tired, or confused, or not in the mood for it, you still try.”
Heat creeps up your neck, slow and uninvited at the way he just tells you how you are, observant in a way you weren’t prepared for. “And you listen,” he adds, the faintest hint of something almost tender woven into his voice, “like… actually listen, not just to get through it, but because you want to understand.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
“I like that about you, and I think… I think we’d make good friends, if you want that. I know your, um… feelings won’t just change, and, I, uh… I don’t want you to feel like you have to respond a certain way just because I’m your tutor,” he continues, nervous as your silence stretches on too long, “Or like I’m taking advantage of that. But, uh, just because we can’t… do whatever this would be,” he gestures faintly between the two of you, the motion small, “doesn’t mean we can’t still, y’know, be friends. Right?”
Your grip on the cup loosens without you realizing it, your fingers sliding slightly against the cardboard sleeve as the warmth fades into something barely there.
There’s a part of you, small and stubborn and a little pathetic, that wants to ask what he meant before, about thinking about it. You want to ask him about the way his voice dipped, just slightly, like there was more there that he wasn’t letting himself say.
But you don’t, because you’re afraid of ruining what has somehow, against all odds, turned into the best possible outcome of this situation.
Your throat feels a little tight when you finally lift your gaze back to him. He’s watching you patiently, bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say. “I…” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to, a little uneven at the edges. You clear your throat softly, trying to steady it, your fingers curling faintly against the cup again just to ground yourself, “Yeah, I mean… that would be good. I’d like that.”
It’s subtle at first, just the faintest lift at the corners of his mouth, but it builds quickly into something brighter and almost disarmingly genuine. He has the kind of smile that feels truly authentic, as if it slipped out before he could even think to contain it.
“Oh— okay. Yeah,” he grins, and there’s a noticeable shift in his energy, tension released. He sits up a little straighter without realizing it, his shoulders loosening, his hands fidgeting lightly against the table like he suddenly has too much energy and nowhere to put it. “Yeah, that’s— that’s good.”
There’s something almost endearing about the way he looks right now, the slight pink still dusting the tips of his ears, the way his smile lingers a second too long like he can’t quite hide how relieved he is with this outcome.
Your heart stutters, a traitorous flutter that you immediately try to ignore, your grip tightening faintly around your cup again. You just agreed to be friends, so why do you have butterflies over something as simple as his smile?
“Um—” he starts suddenly, like he’s just remembered something important, his gaze darting briefly toward the clock mounted near the counter. The shift is immediate, the easy warmth giving way to mild panic as his eyes widen just slightly. “Oh—wait, I—” He huffs out a quiet, breathy laugh, dragging a hand back through his hair in a quick, slightly flustered motion. “I’m gonna be late.”
The words come out rushed now, his body already shifting like he’s halfway out of the conversation before he’s even stood up. He gathers his things, stacking his notebook and adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder with slightly clumsy efficiency.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was,” he adds, glancing back at you, and there’s a glint of earnest apology in his expression, the kind that makes it hard to be anything but understanding.
“It’s okay,” you manage, watching the way he moves like he’s trying to be swift without being abrupt.
“I’ll—” he starts, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes again, something a little more grounded slipping back into his expression. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? For tutoring.”
“Yeah,” you echo lamely.
His smile returns, smaller this time but no less warm, and then he’s stepping back from the table, already turning toward the door. He gives a small, absent wave over his shoulder as he goes, pushing it open with his foot as he adjusts his bag again, the bell above the café door chiming softly as he disappears back out into the world you were trying to hide from just minutes ago.
And just like that, he’s gone.
The café settles back into its quiet rhythm around you, the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of cups and dishes behind the counter, the muted shuffle of people moving in and out. It’s all the same as before, unchanged.
You exhale slowly, sinking back slightly into your chair, your fingers tracing absently along the rim of your cup. Friends. The word lingers in your mind, a little uncomfortable for a reason you don’t want to address.
Your phone buzzes suddenly against the table, the sharp vibration cutting cleanly through your thoughts and making you flinch slightly. You glance down, your brows pulling together faintly as you reach for it, your hand hovering for just a second before you flip it over.
It’s a message from Wooyoung, the little gray ‘W’ that serves as his contact photo staring back at you.
change of plans, tiny
ur coming with me to hyunjin’s party
taglist | @j4mergy @yuki-sama6 @sinn6rs
request to join the taglist in the replies or in my inbox! <3
SO i found this yesterday, lost it and found it again let’s goooo but obsessed with it actually, will be waiting patiently and re reading in the mean time loves <3
