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jungwon thinks you need a break from studying 𖹭 749%
> ﹏ <。 𝗰𝘄 # kisses ﾟ glasses bf ! won +PHYSICS mentioned
if there’s one singular flaw you have, yang jungwon finds himself thinking, it’s that you study a tad bit too much.
from his seat directly across you, he’s been watching you mumble about physics formulae for close to 3 hours. the library, too, is now almost completely empty save for the two of you.
it’s not that he wants you to stop—jungwon’s more than aware of how important the assignment you’re working on is. so of course he wants to be supportive. which is why he’s tagged along with you in the first place, after all.
but hell, a guy gets tired of waiting, alright?
especially when his girlfriend just so happens to be sitting right across him—in hand holdable, and even, dare he say, kissable distance.
and you refuse to make it any easier on him with how cute you look when you pout at the page of numericals in front of you. it’s like you don’t even care about his sanity.
he rests his chin on his palm as he watches you furiously scribble something and erase it immediately after.
tone flat, your boyfriend finally breaks the silence. “you know you’re looking at that worksheet like it personally offended you, right?”
you answer without even sparing him a glance. “ugh, shut up. i got the sign convention messed up again. and i hate differentiation.”
“hmm. well maybe, and hear me out here ... what if … the universe is telling you to take a break.”
you don’t answer. he wonders if you even registered the words he’s just said.
“orrr …” jungwon leans forward, attempting to catch your eye to no avail, “maybe spare a glance towards your attention starved boyfriend? i promise he’s more interesting than electrostatics.”
that gets a giggle out of you, which admittedly does make him momentarily proud. but in mere seconds you’re back to locking in. he can’t help but mentally curse the education system for bringing him to this position. because god. this is tragic, really.
with a sigh, he finally decides to take matters in his own hands. without a second’s hesitation, he’s pushing back his chair in favor of getting up and walking over to you.
“baby. i’m talking to you.”
“alright, gosh, i’m—” but you apparently hadn’t taken into account the change in his position. you blink, confused, and realize after a minute that you feel a soft warmth behind you.
and as you turn in your chair to face him, you find his arms caging you in against the table.
“... i’m listening.”
jungwon leans in closer, his expression oddly smug. “don’t you think you’ve practiced enough questions for today?”
“i just— there’s only a few more chapters i have left to go over ..” you’re not fully sure if it’s the close proximity that’s making you flustered.
“no. i think you’ve done enough.”
you want to argue but the finality with which he speaks makes you reconsider your own words.
“we don’t want you getting burnt out, yeah? you need some time away from physics.”
you can barely think to formulate a reply to that as he dips his head down, placing a short kiss to your lips as if to emphasize his point. all you can do is smile into it, kissing him back with a hand resting on his chest to steady yourself.
“think we can both agree my idea was better, hm?” jungwon mumbles, peppering a few short peck along your jaw for good measure.
you pull back slightly, though, much to his displeasure. “well, mr. boyfriend, if you’ve had enough attention, then … i really do need to finish at least one more page.”
“... who said i’ve had enough?”
and then he’s taking off his glasses in one fluid motion before his lips are back on yours swallowing any protests you might have had. gone is the sweet, soft boyfriend who’d been giving you company all this while.
(seriously, he picks the worst times to do these unfairly attractive things.)
the edge of the table digs into your back ever so slightly but you’re much more busy processing how sweet he tastes against you—of desperation. it’s a gorgeous color on him.
you vaguely think you hear his glasses fall to the floor with a soft clink. but with how intent your boyfriend seems upon robbing you of your coherence, you can’t say for sure.
doing physics numericals is overrated anyway. you’d honestly rather just kiss your boyfriend, instead.
𝖤𝖷𝖳𝖱𝖠! [ <3 ] do we like layout. yes or yes. + gais i finally understand what timestamps are. its when u write a drabble and don't know what to call it!
it’s not anything dramatic - just the subtle way her eyes catch on him when you both walk in. a split-second pause, a slow scan from head to toe, then that practiced little smile like she’s already decided he’s hers to try for.
and anton? your sweet anton, with his hand resting casually on your thigh, laughing at something the bartender just said - completely oblivious to the way her baby blues are raking him over.
you grit your teeth, fingers tightening ever so slightly around your glass. you were never the jealous type. if anything, you were the opposite - confident, grounded, secure in what you had with him. anton never gave you a reason not to be.
but tonight? tonight, she’s giving you one.
you nod along with whatever he’s saying, laughing when he does, but your eyes stay on her. she’s already drifting closer, walking like she’s done this before - like the room owes her its attention. the confidence isn’t what bothers you. it’s the intention behind it. calculated, dripping off her in her cheep perfume and high heels that scream notice me.
you shift in your seat, just enough to lean into anton, your knee brushing his. his hand squeezes your thigh gently, thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin. “you good?” he asks, glancing over with a soft smile.
“yeah,” you reply, voice light as you raise your glass. “just people watching.”
anton doesn’t press. he leans in, kisses your temple, and turns back to his drink. and just like that, she’s there.
she sidles up beside him on the other side, pretending to look for space at the bar - even though there’s clearly plenty. she leans forward just enough to catch his attention, brushing her arm a little too close to his.
“hey,” she says, voice sweet and casual. “sorry. super crowded in here tonight. do you mind if I squeeze in for a second?”
you glance at anton, who shifts politely to the side, closer to you. “oh, yeah. of course,” he says, always nice. too nice.
she smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “thanks. i feel like i’ve seen you somewhere before. you don’t work in tech, do you?”
your jaw tightens. she’s not even subtle.
anton laughs, confused. “uh, no. i do marketing.”
“oh,” she says, clearly uninterested in the actual answer. her eyes are still on him. you lean in just a little closer, voice low but clear as you rest your chin on your hand. “do you two work together? i love meeting his coworkers.”
her gaze finally flicks to you, like she hadn’t realized you were there - which is almost laughable considering anton’s hand is still firmly on your leg.
she gives a soft, practiced laugh. “i guess not. he just has one of those faces, i guess.”
you tilt your head. “mm. one of a kind.”
there’s a pause. not awkward, but heavy enough. she doesn’t say anything else - just takes a slow sip of her drink, and after a few more seconds, drifts back into the crowd.
anton glances over at you, brows raised, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. you meet his look with an easy shrug, swirling the last bit of your drink like nothing just happened.
he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, voice low near your ear. “i didn’t even notice her.”
you turn toward him, giving him a quick peck on his lips. “i know.”
With his million watt smile and magnetic presence, Ji Changmin has had a lifelong 100% adoration rating. You would know: you’ve been attached at the hip since you were three years old. He’s always been obsessed with the idea of falling in love, chasing relationship after relationship in search of his soulmate. You think you’ve already found yours, but you’d never be good enough for him.
at a glance: university au, childhood best friends to lovers, secretly in love x oblivious idiot trope, fluff and angst but i hope it’s comforting above all, PINING, gender neutral reader, ft. 98z
words: 14.5k
warnings: alcohol consumption, minor death mention
notes: this is my favourite fic i’ve ever written so please look upon it kindly <3 (also spin-off for juyeon in the works so stay tuned!)
——————————
i. some people turn sad awfully young.
You were generally a well-behaved kid growing up with one exception: you weren’t with Ji Changmin, the neighbourhood menace and your best friend. Some (your parents) called him a terrible influence. Others (Ji Changmin) argued he helped bring you out of your shell, throwing a rope around your waist and dragging you kicking and screaming behind him.
Alone you were serious and withdrawn, but with him you were a handful. He was the one who forced you to talk to the other kids on the playground instead of hiding behind him and letting him do the talking for you. The only time you weren’t trying to set people’s rubbish bins on fire or doing dangerous flips off the playground monkey bars was when you were at the house at the end of the street.
You and Changmin went there often; the elderly man Mr. Lee there lived alone and welcomed the company. He’d give you both chores to do to keep you out of trouble and paid you for your efforts. Changmin took care of his rose bushes, and you dusted the bookshelves.
One day, Mr. Lee asked Changmin to harvest twelve red roses while he supervised his work with a watchful eye. You sat at the kitchen counter while he carefully arranged the roses in a tall glass vase, enraptured by the deftness of his usually shaky and frail hands.
“Who are those for?” Changmin asked.
Mr. Lee smiled, the type of syrup-sweet smile adults only gave to children. “It’s my wife’s death anniversary.”
You pointed to a small, black-and-white photograph of a woman sitting neatly in a silver frame on the TV cabinet. “Is that her?”
“Yes. We were high school sweethearts,” Mr. Lee began, smiling wistfully. “I lost her four years ago, and I miss her more and more everyday.”
You sat and listened politely as he told you about her illness, hands resting on your knees, thinking you should make an effort to visit him more often. Beside you Changmin was tearing up, his bottom lip trembling in the way little kids’ lips always did when they tried not to cry.
“Don’t be upset,” Mr. Lee chuckled, ruffling Changmin’s hair. “Everyone returns to the universe eventually. Here you go.”
He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, dropped a small pile of coins into yours and Changmin’s outstretched hands, and sent you on your way.
The walk from Mr. Lee’s house to the corner shop wasn’t a long one. He meant to teach you about the value of money, but being the children you were, you two always blew all your earnings immediately on sweets.
Changmin usually talked on the way there, but that day he was strangely quiet.
“I wonder when I’ll find my soulmate,” he mumbled after a long silence. “When I grow up I’m going to love someone as much as Mr. Lee loves his wife.”
——————————
It very quickly became clear as the two of you grew up that Changmin was everything you were not. He was a forever-smiling boy who attracted people to him like iron to a magnet. Every adult in the neighbourhood doted on him, and everyone at school wanted to be his friend.
Why wouldn’t they? He was one of those people who sucked the marrow out of life, who gave all of himself to anyone who asked. He loved life so much he was overflowing with it.
But he never left you behind, despite kids far cooler and more popular than you vying for his attention. On weekends, instead of going to the parties he was constantly being invited to, he went to Mr. Lee’s house with you to take care of the elderly man’s rose bushes.
After school, too old and proud for the playground but too nostalgic to let it go, you sat together on the curb and watched the cars fly by. He would point out the ones he liked, saying, “I’ll buy that one for my mom someday.”
You’d smile. “You and what money?”
And then he’d shove you and call you a cynic.
In your binary star system, he was the sentimental one, crying on Saturday movie nights and writing you birthday cards that got longer and sappier by the year. While you loved him with all your heart and had no doubt he knew that too, you could never find a way to show him that. And you were certain that someone like him, who felt so deeply and loved so freely, would get fed up eventually.
“Come sit with us, Changmin,” the star football player of school offered to him during lunch once when you were fourteen, staring at you with disdain. Behind him, the entire cafeteria was watching. Changmin reached for your hand and laced his fingers with yours.
“No thank you,” he said sweetly, with his trademark dimpled smile that blinded you every time you saw it.
Perhaps you weren’t binary stars at all. Perhaps he was the only star — pure and golden and dazzling — and you were his planet, illuminated by him only insofar as you were in his orbit. You didn’t mind, though. Comets couldn’t have bright tails without debris around them to ignite. Not everybody could be special.
“I’m so nervous,” Changmin whined, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you vigorously. You were fifteen, standing with him in the corridor as he clutched a bouquet of six red roses to his chest, courtesy of Mr. Lee.
“You’ll be fine,” you assured him.
The soon-to-be recipient of the bouquet, Dain, emerged from around the corner. Dain was one of the prettiest girls in school and the apple of Changmin’s eye for the last month. He’d told Mr. Lee about her and asked him if he, too, became giddy when he looked at his wife back when they were teenagers.
“Here I go,” he declared, his hands shaking. You had no doubt in your mind that Dain would accept the flowers; it was Ji Changmin, after all.
It took you far too long to realise you were hopelessly in love with your best friend. You were sixteen. It wasn’t a grand bold declaration that he was choosing you over the popular kids in front of the entire school, or a green-eyed epiphany from one of his sappy romantic gestures to whoever he was in love with at the time.
No, it was one of your Saturday movie night sleepovers. It was his turn to choose the film, so of course you were watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre. As usual, he laughed throughout the film while you sat frozen in fear under the blanket.
That night, after you retreated to your bedroom to try and sleep despite still reeling from the movie, Changmin opened your door. You screamed, jumping out of your skin.
“Sorry. I came to check on you,” he said softly.
You sighed, heart still racing, and closed your eyes to regain your composure. “I thought you were Leatherface,” you groaned, throwing the orange stuffed octopus he gave you for your twelfth birthday at him.
He giggled, caught the octopus, and walked over to your bed. “Okay, move over.”
“Why?” you frowned.
“Move over. I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.
That was the moment, when he climbed into bed with you and tucked your octopus back into your arms and pulled your head against his chest.
The thing about crushing on someone you’d known for so long was that he didn’t make you nervous like other crushes did, not really. He wasn’t a source of anxiety; he was a sedative. You stopped thinking about the movie and relaxed into his touch, burying your face into his soft maroon hoodie that smelt like fabric softener.
“I’m here now. He can’t get you,” he whispered, running his fingers through your hair.
His presence seemed to make everything go away — the faint knocks you kept hearing outside your window, the dark shadows you kept spotting as your paranoid eyes played tricks on you.
You never told him, obviously. You shared every other aspect of your life with him, but this you had to keep to yourself. Through his dozens of crushes and relationships, through the piles of chocolates he received every Valentine’s Day, you gritted your teeth and never said a word. Such was the condemnation of a one-sided love.
——————————
Changmin liked giving roses to people; it was his thing. It started when he was eleven and gave a red rose to his crush at the time. A single flower became a handful, and a handful became a deliberately arranged bouquet wrapped in gauzy tissue and matching ribbons. Mr. Lee was always happy to let him nick a few roses from his garden whenever he wanted — it was for love, after all.
The habit continued all the way into the end of high school. Changmin swung past Mr. Lee’s house after school that day with you to pick up some roses. It was the day before his then-girlfriend Mikyoung’s birthday, and he wanted to surprise her.
He still vividly remembered that night. He was almost eighteen, standing outside the girls’ track team’s locker room waiting for Mikyoung to emerge after her training. You were stationed down the corridor with his phone in your hand, ready to film the surprise.
“I thought you were dumping Changmin today.”
Mikyoung’s voice was light and breathy. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. I’ll do it soon.”
“Why the rush? He’s cute.”
“He’s too clingy. I thought he’d be cooler, with the way everyone talks about him,” Mikyoung answered. “Whatever, I got what I wanted. I was never gonna keep him around, anyway.”
Changmin froze. Surely things like this didn’t happen in real life. Surely people this cruel didn’t actually exist.
He was vaguely aware of a presence behind him, but he couldn’t make himself turn around until you actually called his name.
“Min? What’s wrong?” you asked, only for your attention to be drawn away by the voices inside the locker room.
“Yeah, you made it, girl. You dated the Ji Changmin.”
“You better break up with him soon. It’s my turn next, remember?”
Changmin didn’t notice his grip on the bouquet getting progressively tighter and tighter until the thorns of the roses pierced through the wrapping paper and into the flesh of his palm, the stalks crushing in his hand.
“How do you even know he’ll like you?”
“Please, he’s a serial monopolist. I just need to bat my eyelashes and call him babe and he’ll be mine.”
“You mean monogamist, you moron,” you muttered to the girl you couldn’t even see. He would’ve laughed at that — it wasn’t often that you spoke so bluntly and with so much contempt — but there were other things on his mind.
“I want to go home,” he said quietly, not to be heard by anyone but you.
You looked ready to burst into the locker room and give Mikyoung a piece of your mind, with a quiet rage blazing in your eyes he wasn’t used to seeing from you, but the second you heard him it dissipated.
“Okay,” you nodded, taking his free hand, “let’s go.”
It was a short and silent bus ride back to his house; Changmin hated talking when he was upset and you were the only person on the planet who never forced him to. Nor did you say anything when he aggressively acted as though everything was normal, bringing an armful of snacks up to his bedroom and turning his speakers on to play music as he usually did whenever you two hung out.
He tossed the bouquet carelessly onto his bedside table and shut the door behind him, not wanting his parents to see it and ask questions.
“What happened to your hand?” you asked. “Come here, I’ll help you.”
There were superficial cuts on the heel of his palm from the roses’ thorns, though none were deep enough to bleed and most barely broke the skin.
Changmin said nothing, only sitting cross-legged on his bed with you and letting you brush liquid bandage over the cuts. You hummed along to his playlist as you did, even though he knew you didn’t like this song.
“Why would she do that to me?” he finally said, fighting off the ache behind his eyes he hadn’t felt in a long time.
You sighed sympathetically. “I don’t know. Min. I’m sorry.”
He never understood why people said they were sorry for things they had nothing to do with. If it had been anyone else he might have gotten annoyed, but he could never get annoyed at you.
“Don’t say that,” he mumbled, the ache now too much to bear. He palmed away his tears and sniffed. “You always apologise when other people hurt me.”
At last, you looked up at him and smiled, although your eyes stayed sad. “Do I?”
Changmin took the bottle to put it back into his drawer, blinking rapidly, trying to hide his face from you.
“You were right to not like her,” he admitted, hoping his voice didn’t waver.
“I never said I didn’t like her,” you said.
“You didn’t have to. I knew the minute I told you I asked her out,” he told you, still holding back tears. Then, he broke into a soft smile and poked your cheek. “You’re a bad liar.”
The air in his bedroom was stifling. You walked out to the convenience store two streets over for instant ramen like you usually did on nights like this, bringing your food to the playground where you used to play as kids.
The playground was always empty at night, quiet and peaceful. It made him nostalgic, as lots of things did these days. Just a few years ago he used to run through these deserted streets with you almost every night, filling the cold air with laughs and giggles, basking in moonlight and the glow of adventure. You sat at the bottom of the blue plastic slide, and he chose one end of the wooden seesaw.
“Why did you bring those along?” you asked, pointing to the roses in his lap.
He held them out to you. “For you.”
It was a dark night, with thick clouds obscuring what would have been a full moon and one of the playground lights not working, but he could still see your smile as you took the bouquet.
“Are you going to text Mikyoung?” you asked with a cautious glance, ready to change the topic the second you detected any discomfort on his face.
“I’ll confront her tomorrow. I want to do it in front of everyone. On her birthday,” he replied.
He was a more vengeful person than he liked to admit, but he had hurt burning in his ribcage and it needed to go somewhere. It was clear from the look in your eyes that you disapproved of this plan, although you said nothing. You’d always been the magnanimous one.
He knew how people saw you, although he never knew how to fix it, or if you wanted him to fix it at all. You were ‘Changmin’s friend’: his saturnine, slightly cold, aloof sidekick, notable only because of him.
He didn’t care for popularity, nor what everyone else thought of you. But as much as he pretended to be above these labels, there was something about your reputation that made him feel incredibly special, that he was the only person with the luxury of truly knowing you.
The silence between you two was thin, airy. He’d never once felt awkward with you, even when your silences dragged on. Your eyes met his again for a split second.
“Do you ever think I’ll find my soulmate?” he mused.
“I think we’re too young to be thinking about that,” you answered, which wasn’t the first time you had expressed this sentiment. But you always entertained him.
“Don’t you want that, too?” he asked. He’d asked you this before, but you had never given him a straight answer.
“I don’t know. I’m scared,” you said.
“Scared? How can you be scared of love?”
You bit your lip in thought, always so measured in conversations like these, carefully thinking over each response before you spoke, never saying anything you didn’t mean. Unlike him — impulsive, reactive.
“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,” you eventually replied.
In a strange way, he felt like he knew what you meant.
——————————
ii. hiding in the belltower.
Despite having a happy childhood, you had never been a happy child. You had loving parents, a roof over your head, and the best best friend you could’ve asked for, so why did you always feel like there was an emptiness within you that was destined to never be filled?
The night before you were set to board a bus that would take you to your new city and close the door on all you’d ever known, you and Changmin were lying on the side of the hill near your house, staring up at the night sky. It was a remarkably clear night, cloudless, brimming with stars.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“How I didn’t think leaving would be this hard,” you said after a lengthy pause.
Changmin rolled onto his side to face you, making you turn to him too. “Me neither.”
Your breath hitched in your throat when you came face-to-face with him. His eyes, warm and brown as they always were, felt like they pierced through you. He had the kind of eyes that could make anyone feel special, that he liked you just a little more than anyone else.
As scared as you were, you’d made your marks on the small canvas of your tiny hometown, done and seen all there was to do and see, and you were ready to leave. You had your sights set on the top fine arts programme in the country and he enrolled in the very same one. We’re a team, he said. But you knew he had a longing to leave, too.
It didn’t take long for Changmin to acclimate; he made friends quickly and easily, to whom he soon introduced you — the performance major Juyeon and the fashion major Chanhee.
“If you gave them a chance I think you’d like them,” Changmin said to you one evening, lying on your bed while you were hunched over your desk, studying. He’d just asked you to come along with him to dinner at Chanhee’s apartment (who was lucky enough to live off campus, unlike the rest of you), and you declined.
“I do like them,” you said.
Everything always seemed so easy for him — the way he fit in everywhere, adapted to anything. You hadn’t belonged in your hometown and you didn’t feel like you belonged in this one, either. Maybe there was no place for you, anywhere.
He kicked your desk chair, like he did whenever he wanted you to pay attention to him. “So why aren’t you coming?”
“I don’t want to intrude,” you answered.
You and Changmin could have two conversations at the same time: what was being said and what each of you really meant. He was the only person in the world who heard the words you crossed out in your mind before they were spoken. In this case, they were, what if they don’t like me?
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not intruding,” he scoffed. Why wouldn’t they? I like you.
“Are you sure?” But they’re not you.
He threw your stuffed octopus at your face. It was one of the few keepsakes you’d brought with you from home.
“They asked me to bring you, idiot.” Anyone would like you if you let them see what I see.
So you joined them for dinner. And every dinner after that.
You studied with Chanhee in the library a lot — more than you did with Changmin, even — because he was the only one who didn’t distract you when you needed to get work done. And you sought refuge in the café where Juyeon worked when the air conditioning in your dorm room broke, which was often.
If you weren’t in the library, Juyeon’s café, or your room, you were in Changmin’s. It was only natural that the group coalesced around Changmin, that his dorm room almost immediately became your base of operations.
You sat on his bed one day, your back against the wall and your laptop on your lap while he lay beside you scrolling idly on his phone. Juyeon and Chanhee were on the floor building a Lego spaceship.
“You’re typing very angrily,” Chanhee said to you. “What are you doing?”
You looked up from your laptop screen, realising that you had, in fact, been hammering away at the keys.
“I’m writing a story for my creative writing class,” you replied.
“It’s about soulmates,” Changmin added, waving his hand around with a theatrical flourish.
“Ew,” Juyeon said.
Changmin swung his leg off the bed to kick Juyeon, but ended up hitting Chanhee on the back of his head.
“Ow!”
“It’s a cute story!” Changmin scolded, ignoring Chanhee’s yelp of pain. “It’s about how our neighbour met his wife.”
You sat in silence, listening to Changmin recount Mr. Lee’s entire backstory in excruciating detail. Under normal circumstances anyone would have swiftly lost interest, but he had a knack for holding onto people’s attention.
He’d never really been the same after that night with Mikyoung in high school. He didn’t fall head over heels anymore, didn’t ramble on about his crushes with sparkles in his eyes, didn’t give his partners flowers. But even then, he still often spoke of falling in love. It seemed like no amount of heartbreak could quell his desire for it.
Juyeon turned to you. “Can I read it?”
“No,” you answered.
“They won’t even let me read it,” Changmin whined.
Chanhee gasped dramatically. “Not even Changmin? But you two are basically one organism!”
You had spent the better part of the last few years fighting to purge your unrequited love. Pushing your feelings away got easier over time, although the green light at the end of the dock never fully went away. Initial hopes that it was just a sandbox love failed to materialise, and you were starting to think you had to live with it your whole life — an ache you couldn’t outpace.
Changmin slammed the lid of your laptop shut to get your attention, staring intensely at you in faux anger, with his trademark dimpled smile you could never look away from. “See? You should let me read it!”
“You should submit it to the student filmmaking guild,” Juyeon suggested. “They’re always looking for scripts.”
You instinctively shook your head without really hearing what he said, because the mere thought of serving up any part of you on a silver platter for others to see was enough to make you recoil.
“Submit it! Submit it!” Changmin chanted, slapping your knee with each word. “They’ll definitely choose it.”
“You haven’t even read it,” you said, messing up his hair in retaliation.
Changmin stopped hitting you and pouted. “I’m sure it’s good; everything you do is.”
Sometimes you wondered if it would be easier to get over your feelings if he wasn’t so sweet to you. Part of you wanted him to betray you or ruin your life — anything to let you hate him.
Because people of his calibre fell for the glamorous girls with perpetually bouncy hair and all matching jewellery, the charismatic boys with broad shoulders and bewitching eyes. Those with a dazzling history of attractive ex-boyfriends and girlfriends, the girls with DMs full of messages and the boys with ins into all the hottest clubs. People like him didn’t fall in love with people like you.
——————————
The approaching end of your first semester caused you to go into a bit of a tailspin; you thought you’d be happy by now. You were in your dream city and your dream programme, with a generous scholarship and new friends. It was all you ever wanted, and yet the misery remained. Perhaps happiness was not made for you.
“You’re really not coming?” Juyeon asked, pleading. He and Changmin were leaving for a party, while you and Chanhee were staying in for the night at his apartment to study.
Chanhee gestured to himself, swaddled in a hoodie and bundled up under the blanket on his sofa. “Do we look like we’re coming?”
Changmin was already halfway out the door, stomping his foot and nagging Juyeon to hurry up as you were talking. Juyeon shoved his feet into his boots and clumsily tumbled out of the door with a hurried goodbye.
“I thought Changmin was an introvert,” Chanhee griped under his breath once they’d left, returning to his laptop.
You laughed and sat down on the other end of his sofa, your notebook perched on your knees. A good full hour went by before either of you broke the silence, when Chanhee glanced up at you over the top of his laptop screen.
“Why aren’t you going home with Changmin for the mid-year break?” he asked.
“I have a lot of assignments due,” you said. Chanhee wrinkled his nose in disapproval of your obvious lie. You sighed, “Fine. I don’t want to go home.”
“Do you not miss your family?” he asked.
“I do, that’s why I can’t go. I don’t want to be happy for two weeks and then get homesick all over again when I come back,” you said. “It’ll be harder to leave the second time.”
Chanhee stared intently at you with his chin resting on his palm. “If you visit often enough it won’t feel so crushing,” he pointed out after a brief silence. “Does Changmin know?”
“I told him I had too much work to do,” you said.
“I’m pretty sure he knows you were lying,” Chanhee said with a bemused smile. But he kindly dropped the topic after that, turning back to his work with a pat of your knee.
——————————
Changmin had always had a clear mental picture of each major milestone ahead of him: moving out for university, meeting his soulmate, proposing, buying a house with them, settling down…
His first year hadn’t even ended yet and he was already getting anxious. He’d dated three (Juyeon would’ve said two and a half) people in university so far and none of them had lasted more than two months. He’d long since moved on from Mikyoung, but the precision strike to his heart was harder to let go. It sat in the back of his mind on every first date, every time he asked someone to be his partner, after every break-up.
He was thinking all of this because his mom had just called to tell him Mr. Lee had passed away.
Mr. Lee had been old the entire time Changmin knew him, but the thought of his mortality somehow never crossed his mind. He knew it crossed yours, because you’d mentioned the possibility of this precise scenario twice.
The news didn’t upset him that much, which in itself was more upsetting. Granted, as you and him got older you stopped going round to Mr. Lee’s house as often, but Changmin was disturbed by how quickly his brain had warped a man’s death into selfish thoughts of his own coming-of-age.
He stayed in the dance studio for a couple more hours after getting off the phone with his mom before he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to go see you. His feet seemed to move on their own, taking him straight to the minimart and then to your dorm room.
“Come in,” you called, hearing his signature knock.
He keyed your PIN into your door lock, a pattern burned into his muscle memory, and let himself in. You were seated at your desk with books strewn everywhere and your laptop balanced precariously in the middle of the chaos.
“Hi,” you greeted, noticing the single white rose in his hand. “What’s the occasion?”
Your tone of voice was flat, but he could tell you knew why he was there. It was so obvious to him — the distance in your eyes. He chose not to even acknowledge your pretence, closing your door behind him and handing you the rose.
Buying it was a strange experience. He’d walked into the mart not really knowing what he wanted to get for you, only that he wanted to bring you something, when he saw the flower display stand in the back of the store. He’d picked the largest, brightest, whitest rose for you, a single long-stemmed flower wrapped in clear cellophane rather than the shorter bundles clipped from Mr. Lee’s rose bushes he was used to dealing with.
“Are you okay?” he asked. You took it, fingers curling around the single stalk.
“How did you know I knew?” you asked, looking down at the rose instead of at him, all but confirming his conclusions.
Changmin sat down on your bed, hooked his foot under the leg of your desk chair, and yanked you towards him and away from your desk. You were so transparent.
“You’ve been listening to the Mario Kart Wii soundtrack for the last three hours,” he sighed. “You should turn off your Spotify activity.”
You laughed, but it was an empty laugh, and nudged his knee with yours. A few seconds passed before you looked up, studying his face carefully.
“Are you okay?” you asked, echoing his earlier question.
“I asked you first,” he pointed out, stubborn.
At that, you finally stopped pretending. He didn’t know why you bothered — it was impossible for you to hide from him — but you always tried anyway.
“I wish we could go to the funeral,” you said quietly. It was an admission of sorts, in your own roundabout manner, that you were in fact not okay.
“Me too,” he said, which wasn’t a lie, but the words had come out by rote and not because he actively wanted to say them. He knew you would never judge him; he’d made lots of idiotic choices and not once had you ever criticised him unfairly. It was this that compelled him to continue, “Is it bad that I don’t really feel anything?”
You turned the rose over in your hands, pausing to think.
“I don’t think scrutinising the validity of your emotions is something you should be doing,” you said after a while. It wasn’t the first time you’d told him that, that trying to moralise the way he felt was never a worthwhile endeavour.
And he knew you were right; you always were. He watched as you set the rose on your bedside table and immediately started picking at your nails, a tic of yours that kicked in whenever your hands were empty.
“I should have gone home with you,” you muttered, eyes shining with tears, “I should have gone to see him.”
He frowned, reaching out to take your hand. “Hey, don’t say that.”
From the very beginning he’d never been as perceptive as you were. He hardly ever knew what to say when you were upset, although you always did when the roles were reversed. It was one of his greatest regrets, but he liked that you chose him to take care of you regardless.
“Come here,” he said, beckoning you forward and lying down on your bed. You complied and lay down beside him, letting him thread his arm around your shoulder.
He hated all your mattresses. They were far too soft for him — truthfully he didn’t understand how you could still sit up straight. Every childhood sleepover at your house netted him a two-day long backache at minimum, but he never had the heart to tell you no when you asked him to spend the night.
“Thanks for being here,” you mumbled into his hoodie, your cheek pressed against the fabric.
“Of course,” he said.
Changmin spent last night at Myungseo’s place, the girl he’d been casually dating for the last month. This morning, he told her they should see other people. Why? Because he caught her rolling her eyes at him when he laughed at a TikTok on his phone. She did that often; like his happiness was a blight on the earth.
He felt like an idiot, being upset about something so banal while you were grieving a death. The worst part was that he didn’t even like Myungseo that much, not really, and yet his heart was so easily bruised.
“Is my laugh annoying?” Changmin asked (his back was already starting to hurt).
“No. Why would you say that?”
He shook his head instead of answering you, and you didn’t press him further.
“We should move in together. Let’s get an apartment,” he said suddenly.
You craned your neck to look up at him, frowning, as if this was somehow a ludicrous suggestion. Both your dorm leases were up at the end of the year and there was no way either of you could afford to live alone, so it surely just made sense. But you’d never once brought up the possibility to him, probably because you knew he was looking for his next serious partner to move in with. The idea that you could have been holding that back just for him made him feel guilty. Lots of things made him feel guilty, it seemed.
As he got older a sinking feeling in his chest had begun to develop, a deep fear that seeped all the way into his bones. You used to keep a notebook of quotes or lines of poetry you liked which he flipped through on occasion out of curiosity — you still had it, although you didn’t add to it anymore these days because you called the concept of it pretentious and your teenage self insufferable.
Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you.
That was the only quote he remembered (and to be honest, the only one he liked) from your notebook, and he knew it word-for-word. It was that quote that sat in his bones, he thought. Maybe he was doomed to bear it for the rest of his life.
——————————
iii. how did i forget to live before i lived at all?
A couple of weeks before his second year began, Changmin signed his first lease with you. He couldn’t help but be slightly upset at how it all turned out — he’d always imagined he’d move into his first apartment with a partner — but he would obviously never say that out loud. The guilt of knowing he was treating you like an inferior replacement to a relationship was crushing enough.
Moving into his first apartment was too big a milestone to feel real, at least not immediately. Even when he went to Ikea with you it didn’t feel real; perhaps that was because you found Ikea strangely entertaining as children and went there far too often. You used to go to the kitchen timers section, set all of them to go off in a minute, then run away and watch the ear-splitting chaos from afar.
“We should get a wine rack,” you said, your arms full of stupid knick-knacks you definitely didn’t need. “Juyeon gave us that nice dry riesling.”
The second you collected your keys for your new apartment last week, you invited your friends over, ordered pizza, and ate dinner on the floor in your padded jackets because you had neither furniture nor heating. As housewarming gifts, Juyeon brought the riesling and Chanhee brought a sizable stack of polaroid pictures of your little friend group. You put them all up on the living room wall together.
Changmin knew you well enough to know you only suggested the wine rack because he liked wine, but you never wanted the kind things you did for him to be obvious. He grabbed a wine rack.
“When I eventually move in with someone, I’m gonna buy those fake leaf garlands,” he pouted, still sulking a little. You’d vetoed them a few minutes ago, arguing they would get unbelievably dusty and annoying to clean.
“Someone? You mean Serim,” you said, clearly distracted for reasons unknown to him. He could tell by the shallow dimple in your chin that formed whenever you pursed your lips in thought. Serim was his new girlfriend of a few months.
He hummed, looking at a set of wine glasses. “Maybe not. I don’t think she’s right for me.” Serim had a way of making him feel small, dumb, breaking off bits of him to feed her own ego.
You looked up from the crescent moon-shaped vase in your head. “Are you going to break up with her?”
“Probably. Eventually,” he sighed.
Two more trips to Ikea and a week later, the apartment was finally coming together. You both dedicated that weekend to putting together the non-essential furniture — he worked on a shelf while you assembled a shoe rack.
“Oh, we still need to get rid of the old TV cabinet,” he noted, remembering the hideous green thing blocking the entryway.
“I can do it tomorrow while you’re in class. Juyeon said he’ll help me take it downstairs,” you told him.
Changmin squinted at his own instructional manual. “You and Juyeon have gotten pretty close,” he observed, one of those things he said without thinking just because he wanted to talk to you.
You only half-heard him, searching for your allen wrench. “Hm? Yeah, I guess,” you said.
That made him jealous, even though he knew it shouldn’t have. He was too used to being the only person who got to be close to you — to the point that Juyeon and Chanhee being unable to make it for your regularly scheduled Saturday night dinner felt like a return to form for him.
The two of you had dinner out on the balcony that night, the crown jewel of your apartment and the main reason you’d picked it in the first place. You opened Juyeon’s riesling for the occasion: your first Saturday night dinner in your new home.
“It’ll be nice to have breakfast here,” you mused, filling his glass before your own.
That turned out to be true. He spent many a morning doing just that with you, mornings of sunny side ups and secondhand smoke from your neighbours downstairs. Mornings were easier for him; nights always seemed to cut through him like a knife.
Changmin tapped his wine glass against yours with a smile, and the clink felt like a christening.
“We should give Juyeon and Chanhee some roses,” he suggested, nodding to the plant pots behind you on the balcony. The main reason Changmin had insisted so vehemently on finding an apartment with a balcony was so that he could grow roses. It felt like the right thing to do; Mr. Lee would’ve wanted him to continue the tradition.
“It’s been a while since you gave someone roses, rose boy,” you teased, peering at him over the rim of your wine glass.
“I gave you one a few months ago!” he refuted.
You waved this away. “I don’t count.”
He rolled his eyes and sipped his wine.
Yes, nights weren’t so difficult anymore. Changmin liked walking home after dark and looking up to see a warm square of yellow in the window, telling him you’d gotten in before him. He liked the idea of carving a little soft world out of the big cold one just for him and his favourite person. He liked being able to take the weight off your shoulders each day when you walked through the front door.
——————————
You did listen to Juyeon, in the end. The students film guild put out their yearly call for script submissions just as you finished your assignment, and you turned it in. You weren’t quite sure why — it was a decision entirely incongruous to the way you lived your life — but you did.
Changmin was the only person you told, because you weren’t sure you could take the embarrassment of the others knowing if your script was rejected. When you made it past shortlisting, you kept it to yourself. There were other more pressing matters at hand.
He broke up with his girlfriend of five months, Jinah, right around the same time and it hit him hard. Normally you would have attributed this to him being too nice, too trusting, too willing to jump into relationships. Many people just wanted the opportunity to declare they had dated him, like he was a video game achievement. But Jinah was not one of them. She treated him well and genuinely liked him — life just had a way of breaking hearts.
“This one seems different,” Chanhee whispered to you over the café booth, as if the not-present Changmin could hear him. “Jinah was actually nice, too.”
“It was his most serious relationship in a while,” you agreed, glancing at your phone. Changmin had promised to join you both at Juyeon’s café, but he hadn’t shown up nor answered any of your calls.
Juyeon walked over during a lull in customers and placed a fruit tart and a caramel slice on the table. On the house, as usual.
“Is he okay?” Juyeon asked.
Chanhee shrugged. You shook your head.
“You don’t look okay either,” Juyeon said to you, unsubtly nudging the caramel slice towards you. It had become a habit of yours to get one whenever you were having a bad day.
“I’m fine, just tired,” you said, which was for once the truth, but you took the caramel slice anyway. “Changmin’s been having a lot of people over. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Ah, rebounds,” Chanhee sighed, his chin propped up on the palm of his hand. “We should do a movie night or something. To cheer him up.”
The bells hung above the café doors rang as they opened, but it wasn’t Changmin. You deflated slightly, glancing over at your phone yet again.
“I think he just wants to be left alone for now,” you said. “But I’ll ask him.”
Over the next couple of weeks the frequency of Changmin’s hookups slowed, he started hanging out with the rest of you again, and he stopped playing exclusively breakup songs around the house. You were busy relaying this intel to Juyeon at his café one day when you got an email from the film guild, subject line: Congratulations!
You didn’t even bother opening it to read the rest, simply throwing your stuff into your tote bag and tumbling out of the café with a cursory goodbye to Juyeon cast over your shoulder. You raced home to tell Changmin, bursting at the seams with excitement as you swung the front door open.
“Changmi-” You stopped in your tracks, face falling. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had someone over.”
There was a girl on the sofa beside him, kissing his neck, and he had his hand in her lap. She glared at you, clearly not pleased with your interruption.
“What is it?” Changmin asked, not-so-gently pushing her away.
“Nothing. It’s not important. It can wait,” you answered, backtracking. You were a terrible liar; you could not deny your feelings for him to save your life. The only thing that kept you from discovery was him never asking the right questions.
He sat up and combed through his hair with his hands, frowning. “Are you okay?”
It was unbearable sometimes, the way his voice became so soft and tender whenever he could tell you needed him. Of course, you could never hide from him. He knew if you were upset by how you opened the door.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later,” you said.
With that, you hurried into your bedroom and closed the door behind you.
Your heart had been hardened with practice over the years, or so you’d thought. Maybe it was just an off-day, or maybe you could only keep up the charade for so long.
It wasn’t until you heard Changmin and his date move to his bedroom — their whispering and giggling and him slamming the door shut — that you cracked and reached for your phone.
“Hi, what’s up?” Juyeon greeted, picking up almost immediately despite being at work.
“I’m in love with Changmin,” you blurted out.
That was exactly it. You didn’t love him, you were in love with him. It had consumed you for so much of your life. It made you sick.
There was nothing but stunned silence on the other end, your shocking revelation rendering Juyeon speechless. Even without being able to see him you could picture his expression, jaw dropped and eyes round and blinking.
“O-okay… When did…?” he asked, pausing after each word.
“Since we were sixteen,” you replied.
He sighed loudly. “Oh, you’re one of those.”
Juyeon, at least when it came to love, was Changmin’s polar opposite. He avoided romance at all costs, called it humanity’s greatest scam, and thought it was a supreme waste of time.
“Hey, I called you in my time of need,” you retorted, forcing some lightness back into your voice. That was noteworthy in its own right, that after so many years you had finally admitted your feelings to someone other than yourself.
Juyeon coughed. “Right. Sorry. Did something happen?”
“No, I just… he brought a girl home and-” you paused, “I’m normally better at coping with these things.”
“What changed?” Juyeon asked.
You didn’t know. All you knew was that this had been chipping away at your heart piece by piece for years, and you were running out of pieces.
When you didn’t answer, Juyeon continued, “You won’t tell him, right?”
“God, no,” you said.
“Good. It’s not worth ruining your friendship for love,” he lectured, despite you already agreeing with him.
Maybe that was why you decided to call him — you knew he would understand. Chanhee might have tried to convince you to take a leap of faith, but a cynical anti-romantic like Juyeon would recognise your fate for what it was: a tragicomedy of epic proportions.
You took a deep breath and let his words percolate. It was one thing to realise the sentiment, but another thing entirely to hear it from someone else.
“I did what you suggested,” you said, the compulsion to change the topic and forget what you’d just admitted to overwhelming you in that moment. “I submitted my script. It was chosen.”
Juyeon screamed. You winced and moved your phone away from your ear.
“Congrats! You deserve it!” he shouted down the line, clapping wildly.
“Thanks, Juyeon.” You were grateful he couldn’t see how weak your smile was, although you were sure it seeped into your voice. There was a reason you called him instead of FaceTiming.
“Do you want to come over tonight?” he asked. “We can order food. Chanhee’s coming too. Get your mind off him.”
Neither of you could bear to say his name.
The old you would have turned down his offer without a second thought, choosing instead to trap yourself in a despairing fortress of your own making with no one but yourself privy to your thoughts.
“Okay. Thank you,” you said quietly, hoping he would be able to read between all your layers of gratitude.
——————————
A few days had passed since that night, and you still hadn’t brought up what you’d wanted to talk to Changmin about. He knew something was up with you, but he couldn’t tell what. Maybe you were annoyed with him. You always said you didn’t mind him bringing people over, but he also wasn’t sure you’d tell him if you did.
“I have news,” you announced as soon as he walked through the front door, holding something behind your back. There was a weight to your words, an unusual heft that immediately made him concerned.
“What is it? Are you okay?” he asked.
You handed him a stapled sheaf of papers, twiddling your thumbs. If he didn’t know you he’d think that was just a figure of speech, but you did literally twiddle your thumbs when you were anxious and he teased you about it constantly. It was an adorable habit, like how you tied rubber bands around all the jars you struggled to open to make them easier to grip onto.
“Remember my creative writing assignment?” you began, with a tentative edge in your voice he wasn’t used to hearing. “I submitted it to the film guild, and it was chosen.”
Changmin let out a high-pitched screech, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you vigorously, jumping around. “Really? Really? That’s amazing! I knew it!” he giggled. His heart swelled with pride, more pride than he knew what to do with.
You joined him in his celebrations, laughing along with him, but there was still something you were nervous about.
“Is this a secret? Does anyone else know?” he asked, clutching the script to his chest.
You shook your head. “Only Juyeon.”
Changmin’s face fell. That didn’t seem right. That went against the laws of the universe, against life as he knew it. How could you tell Juyeon first?
“Oh,” he said, not even trying to hide his dejection. “You told him before you told me? Why?”
He was self-aware enough to realise he was turning your success into a story of his own heartbreak, to feel repulsed by his narcissism and disgusted by his jealousy. But he couldn’t help it, because it was you. It was written in the stars that you were supposed to put him before anyone else, and he was supposed to do the same.
Your eyes softened, instantly filling with regret, and you reached out to take his hands between yours. It stung more precisely because he knew how tightly you held your cards to your chest.
“Because I was worried,” you answered.
He frowned. “About what?”
“That you wouldn’t like it.”
The absurdity of him not liking something you did wasn’t lost on him, but some part of him understood what you meant. To him, there was no question more intimate than: do you like it? It revealed what you cared about, showed another’s importance to you, opened a direct line to one’s heart.
“You’re the first to read it,” you assured him, squeezing his hands, probably mistaking his silence for more hurt. “I’m not letting anyone else read it but you.”
He glanced down at the script in his arms. The apology clear in your tone made the guilt of his response settle in now.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Who you told first isn’t important. I’m proud of you.”
You beamed, bright and dazzling; your parents always commented on how you only lit up like that when he was with you.
——————————
iv. you are the knife i turn inside myself.
It surprised you how quickly the novelty of living with Changmin wore off, because within months it felt like this had always been your life; you had always lived in this apartment with this schedule and these friends. You’d always had Chanhee’s polaroids on the living room wall and caramel slices from Juyeon’s cafe in the kitchen and Changmin’s weekly bouquet of roses harvested from the balcony sitting on the dining table.
“Who’s directing your film?” Changmin asked one night on the sofa, peeling an orange for you two to share.
“Kevin Moon,” you said. “I think he’s an art student. Chanhee knows him.”
“Will you get to meet him?” Changmin asked, shoving an orange carpel into your mouth with great inelegance.
You shrugged, your mouth too full to speak, and he waited for you to finish eating with a bemused smile. “Maybe. He invited me to the start of production party, but I’m not going.”
“But you have to go,” Changmin whined, throwing a piece of orange peel at you.
“No,” you shook your head, baulking at his comment. “I won’t know anyone there. I already told Kevin I was busy-”
Just like that, Changmin plucked your phone from your unsuspecting hand and sprinted away, cackling and shrieking.
“Hey!” you shouted, running after him. But he was faster than you and always had been. You chased him around the living room a couple of times, only barely catching up to him even though he was furiously typing away on your phone while he ran, jumping on his back to tackle him to the floor.
“This is assault!” he screamed, a high-pitched whistle that made your ears ring, wildly batting your hands away.
Finally, you managed to wrestle your phone back from him (or, more likely, he finally let you win).
“What did you do?” you groaned, scrambling to your feet when you saw your chat with Kevin pulled up on the screen. You (Changmin) had just eagerly announced you wanted to attend after all, and, of course, Kevin responded with equal enthusiasm.
Changmin threw his arm around your shoulder and pulled you in for a side hug, giggling and ruffling your hair. You were still staring at your phone screen, too dumbfounded to even register his hold on you.
“That’s not how I text,” you finally managed to get out.
He looked at you, confused. “It’s how you text me.”
You bit your tongue and pushed his hand away, sighing as you reread the texts. He had reacted to Kevin’s final message with a heart, something you never did with anyone but Changmin himself.
“I’ll come with you! I’m your plus one,” he declared proudly, beaming. Even after all these years, you never understood how he could be both so obnoxious and so endearing.
So there you were walking into director Kevin Moon’s apartment, Changmin in tow, wanting to crawl out of your own skin. The apartment was small and clean but buzzing with activity, although the music was soft and the crowd was thin. You were relieved to find it less of a university rager and more of an understated hang out. There was a neatly set up drinks table void of any hard liquor by the kitchen archway that looked barely touched.
Changmin squeezed your hand (because of course he was holding your hand) and smiled at you, the very smile of his that made the constant buzzing anxiety in your head fade.
“See? This isn’t so bad,” he said.
You would never admit it, but he was right.
“I just need to say hi to Kevin, then we can go,” you said.
Right on cue, a black-haired crescent-eyed man strode over to you.
“Y/N? I’m Kevin, the director,” he greeted with a wide smile. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” you said. “This is Changmin.”
“Hi,” Changmin beamed.
Kevin returned the greeting before turning to you. “We were actually just about to start the speeches. Would you like to give one? You are the writer, after all.”
What kind of university party had speeches? A film kid’s party, you supposed.
“I’m not great at public speaking,” you replied, shy.
Changmin let go of your hand to sling his arm around your shoulder, grinning mischievously. “Can I give a speech for them?”
You looked at him in horror, but he pretended not to see it.
“Uh, sure. I’ll gather the cast and crew,” Kevin agreed, politely downplaying his surprise.
Changmin skipped after Kevin and jumped right onto the coffee table, grabbing the TV remote and holding it up to his mouth like a microphone. He held out his free hand to you. You wanted nothing more than to dig a hole in the ground and bury yourself in it, not least because seemingly everyone in attendance at this party was now filing into the living room at Kevin’s request.
But Changmin looked down at you, his eyes pleading, the softest of smiles on his face. You sighed, took his hand, and he pulled you up onto the coffee table. Even after you found your footing on the glass (which you had serious doubts was sturdy enough to support both your weights), he didn’t let go.
“Everyone,” he began, talking into the remote. You suppressed a smile.
Of course, being the person he was, he captured the attention of the room with just one word. The crowd fell silent instantaneously.
“Everyone, please give it up for your screenwriter, Y/N!” he shouted, spawning a confused rumble of applause that only made you more anxious. You were standing on a coffee table in a stranger’s house, surrounded by more strangers, holding hands with the most attention-grabbing person alive. When your hand started to shake, he squeezed it.
“Y/N will never admit this, but this script means a lot to them,” Changmin began, swinging your joined hands back and forth. “It’s a very important story to us both, and I’m so excited for it to be told.”
He hadn’t even introduced himself, you realised belatedly, like the only thing on his mind was giving this stupid speech for you. He paused, taking a deep breath and turning to you. All his showmanship melted away, the persona he put on in situations like this. He was still using the remote as a microphone, but even that didn’t undercut his words. Despite all the attention on him, his gaze never wavered from you. But this was how he was — in a room full of people his eyes always found yours first.
“You’re so smart and talented, and now people will finally get to see it,” he said, running his thumb over your knuckles. “I’m so proud of you, really. Not just for your script, but for putting yourself out there.”
You weren’t sure at what point in your life feeling shame when people praised you, or even paid attention to you, became your modus operandi. You felt that shame now, so strong it was almost unbearable. But Changmin wasn’t done.
“You’re a star, okay?” he said, more insistent now. He shook your hand urgently like he could tell he was losing you to the room, training your attention back onto him. “You’re my star. I hope you can see yourself the way I see you.”
It was when you forced yourself to meet his gaze that you noticed he was tearing up. You hadn’t seen this side of him in a long time; it came out less and less frequently as he got older. But this was who he was deep down, the type of person who felt so freely and deeply that he got drunk on life, intoxicating everyone around him and wrapping them up in his whirlwind.
“I’ll be in the audience of every show,” he promised, smiling through the glassiness of his eyes. “I’ll be your fan until the day I die.”
When you were sixteen Changmin had quite dramatically broken up with his girlfriend at that time because he found out she and her friends were mocking you on her private Instagram stories. He did this in front of your entire class before walking right up to you, grabbing your hand, and skipping off.This didn’t feel like that. He wasn’t getting back at anyone; he wasn’t proving a point about moral integrity or kindness. He was just talking to you, private despite his audience, like you were hiding yourselves within yourselves.
——————————
As soon as you and Changmin got down from the coffee table you sequestered yourself in the corner of the kitchen. He very graciously and loyally stayed by your side instead of mingling like you knew he wanted to.
“Wasn’t that a good speech? Did you like it?” he giggled, hopping around and slapping your shoulder in giddy excitement.
He did that a lot, which was fine when you were kids but problematic when he was a fully grown man who didn’t quite seem to grasp his own strength. It started hurting around the time you turned fourteen, although you never had the heart to tell him to stop. He smiled so brightly when he did it, after all.
“It was a great speech,” you admitted, although your heart was still bleeding into the cavity of your chest. The pain came not from the knife that had been lodged between your ribs for years, but from Changmin grabbing the handle and twisting it as he spoke.
Across the room, Kevin waved to you. You waved back awkwardly, which Changmin of course noticed.
“You should go talk to him,” Changmin said, pushing you towards the director so forcefully you nearly tripped and fell flat on your face. By the time you regained your balance, he was gone and Kevin was standing right in front of you.
“Hey, I meant to say this earlier,” Kevin prefaced. “I just wanted to tell you I loved your script and I’m really excited to bring it to life with you.”
At his gentle disposition, you relaxed. You needed to stop reacting like a spooked deer every time someone other than Changmin (or by now, Juyeon or Chanhee, you supposed) talked to you.
“Thank you,” you forced yourself to answer. Your whole life you’d felt like a puppet jerked around by invisible strings, carrying out every expected perfunctory action without anyone noticing how practised your motions were. “And thank you for picking my script.”
Kevin waved this away with a smile. “You’re welcome to drop in on table reads or filming sessions whenever you want,” he offered, gesturing behind you. “As is your boyfriend.”
You paused for a moment before the realisation hit you, turning around to see what he was pointing at.
Changmin was standing in the middle of the room (of course, because he was a middle-of-the-room person) talking to one of the main cast members, the male lead. He caught your eye earlier — tall, charismatic, and strikingly handsome. You swallowed the familiar bitter taste of inadequacy and turned back to Kevin.
“We’re just friends,” you recited, a practised phrase, each word a sharp blade slicing your tongue and making it bleed. Just, as if friendship was somehow less than. You felt the marionette strings around your wrists and ankles tighten.
“Oh, I misinterpreted,” Kevin said politely. It was a reasonable interpretation, with the ‘plus one’ text and the hand-holding and the tooth-rotting sweetness of Changmin’s speech. “But, hey, feel free to bring him along regardless.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it, really,” you said, just barely having enough time to get your sentiment across before the stage manager came to drag him away to another more important conversation.
Someone tapped you on the shoulder and you turned around. It was Juyeon. He had signed up as a crew member in secret right after he found out about the film and was brought on as a boom operator (because he was tall, you guessed). So had Chanhee, in costumes and makeup. You learnt that only when Kevin posted the cast and crew roll online.
“You good?” Juyeon asked, empathetic, his brows drawing together in concern. “That speech was… wow.”
“I think Kevin can tell and it’s stressing me out,” you blurted out, not answering his question.
“Kevin can tell what?” Juyeon asked, before taking one look at your face and realising what you meant. Rather unsubtly, his gaze flitted over to where Changmin was.
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Why did I submit this script?”
“Because you were brave and took a leap of faith,” he said, swatting your shoulder as if to punch out your self-doubt. “You still haven’t told Chanhee about you… being in love?”
At that, you looked up in alarm. “No. Did you tell him?”
Juyeon calmly shook his head, not registering your panic. “Was I supposed to?”
“No, just checking,” you breathed out, relieved. He seemed slightly proud that only he knew.
“Good. Chanhee’s one of the suckers. I’m sure he’d tell you to shoot your shot,” he said. “You people are so annoying.” You were about to retort that you weren’t one of them — a Changmin-esque hopeless romantic — but why else would you be in love with the same person for years? Perhaps you just didn’t know how to hold love, or let it hold you, without its thorns ripping holes in your skin.
——————————
Changmin always thought you spent far too much time on eBay (and Facebook marketplace, and GMarket, et cetera), but even he had to concede that your secondhand shopping habit made the apartment his favourite place to be. You procured the best furniture and decor, and he styled it to perfection.
You and him picked up a new shelf yesterday from a creepy old man’s creepy old house. Getting murdered over a shelf wasn’t his preferred way to go, but he wasn’t going to let you go alone.
The shelf was soon filled with your most prized possessions and all the stupid trinkets that had been consigned to the junk drawer since you moved into the apartment. Random bits of sea glass collected from some school trip or other, dance competition trophies and chess tournament medals, the orange stuffed octopus he’d won for you from a claw machine when you were twelve. Your mementoes were so intertwined he could barely tell them apart — a shrine to the double helix of your souls.
“Hey, new shelf,” Juyeon said when he and Chanhee came over for dinner the next day.
“Pretty, right? Y/N chose it, and I picked the wood stain,” Changmin beamed.
“Where is Y/N?” Chanhee asked.
“At class. They’ll be home soon,” Changmin replied.
Then he shrieked, remembering something. Chanhee jumped, but only slightly, considering how loud the sound was, and Juyeon barely reacted.
“I have to show you something!” Changmin yelled, sprinting into his bedroom and reemerging with a thin book with a leather cover.
He held up the book with a proud grin. “Isn’t it cool? I printed Y/N’s script and got it leather-bound. Look, the title is embossed. Their name, too.”
Chanhee reached for the book, running his fingers over the indented letters on the front cover. The leather was soft, glossy, and clearly not cheap, with a beautiful patina.
“What’s the occasion?” Chanhee asked, flipping through the pages.
“Was it expensive?” Juyeon asked. Different priorities, these two.
Changmin rolled his eyes. “It’s for the wrapping of the short film, and yes.”
He didn’t usually spend much money on you, nor did you on him. The most either of you ever dropped on each other was a fancy meal here or there, perhaps a nice sweater or jacket if one of you saw something in a shop you knew the other would like. This book was the most expensive gift he’d ever gotten you.
“Do you think it’s too much?” Changmin asked, watching Juyeon inspect the bespoke craftsmanship of the binding on the book’s spine.
Chanhee smiled, not teasing him for the first time ever. “No. I think they’ll love it.”
Changmin left not long after that to pick you up from class, because it started raining and you didn’t pack your umbrella that morning. He waited outside your lecture theatre, watching a stream of your classmates trickle out the doors. You were usually one of the first to leave.
Finally, you emerged, your eyes lighting up the second you spotted him.
“Hi,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”
Changmin waved his umbrella around in answer. “You forgot yours.”
In hindsight, he probably should’ve just brought yours. Yours was sturdier and his had two broken ribs.
“And you didn’t wear your coat today,” he added, holding out the hoodie in his other hand. You smiled and put it on.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I bumped into Kevin,” you said.
His ears perked up. “Kevin? What did he want?”
“Nothing. He just showed me his concept boards and asked me what I thought,” you answered.
Changmin forced his broken umbrella open. It would have to do — at least the rain wasn’t too heavy. You and him quickly fell into step side-by-side on the narrow pavement.
“He seems to talk to you a lot.”
“I think he’s just trying to include me,” you said, in neither agreement nor refutation.
“Maybe you should ask him out,” he suggested with a teasing lilt. “You have a lot in common.”
You simply smiled and shook your head.
He had never quite understood your reluctance to date. You said no to every single person who tried to ask you out, which never grew less bewildering with time. Even at Kevin’s start-of-production party it was instantly obvious, at least to Changmin, that Kevin wanted to talk to you — but you didn’t notice in the slightest.
It was a quiet night, dark and chilly with only the sounds of raindrops hitting concrete to fill the silence. It was exactly the kind of night that made him painfully aware of his own melancholy. You stumbled, slipping on the wet pavement, and he grabbed your elbow to steady you.
“Are you going to Yuri’s tomorrow?” you asked.
Yuri was a classmate Changmin had been seeing for the last month. It wasn’t serious yet, but he was already getting the feeling she was tiring of him. As always, he could not keep people from slipping through his fingers.
“Probably not,” he replied. “We fought. She said I’m moving too slowly. So I guess I’m supposed to have asked her to be my girlfriend by now.”
You looked at him curiously, perhaps wondering when he’d become so bitter. He wondered that too, more and more these days, in fact. But you remained silent, somehow sensing his arm was starting to ache and taking the umbrella from him.
“Do you ever feel like no one actually sees you?” he asked, rain pelting down around him. “They want to be your friend or they fall in love with you, but it’s not actually you?”
“Sort of,” you said, in a tone that implied you knew how you answered wasn’t really that important.
“That once people crack you open they realise there isn’t anything inside you and move on? You’re just empty with nothing to offer anyone?” Changmin said. He wasn’t talking about Yuri anymore.
You’d reached your apartment building. He looked up at the warm yellow square. He could see Juyeon and Chanhee’s silhouettes in the window — the former standing still while the latter appeared to be draping fabric over him. Working on costumes for the short film, he presumed.
“You have yourself to offer,” you answered after a long pause. “That’s not nothing.”
Changmin remembered reading about false front architecture as a kid, when he was in his cowboy phase. Those Wild West buildings in America with elaborate front facądes to hide how plainly and shoddily they were built by White colonists. He felt a strange affinity for them even back then, when he was just eight or nine, however odd it was to see oneself in a building.
“Thanks for coming to get me, Min,” you said, ushering him inside the lobby ahead of you.
He watched with a smile as you shook the water off his umbrella with more force than was probably necessary and battled with the broken ribs to get it to close. Your right shoulder was soaked, evidently a result of you shielding him from the rain over yourself.
“Of course.”
——————————
v. wishing, wanting, yours for the taking.
To celebrate the wrapping of Kevin’s short film, your friends were throwing you a surprise party at your regular Saturday night dinner. Well, it was no longer a surprise to you — a result of their total inability to lie — but you appreciated the thought nonetheless.
Changmin sent you and Juyeon to the supermarket to ‘pick up a few things’, none of which were necessary for what he and Chanhee were cooking for dinner, to get you out of the house for an hour or so. You worked your way through the bogus shopping list anyway, humouring them.
“Y/N?”
You turned around at the sound of a vaguely familiar voice.
“Hi, Jinah,” you greeted, nudging Juyeon to get his attention. He waved politely, although he seemed to only recognise her after you said her name.
“Hi! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Jinah smiled. “How’s Changmin?”
Her question took you aback. You paused, and even Juyeon raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry. That was so rude,” Jinah blurted out, embarrassed. “How are you?”
“It’s fine. I’m alright, and you?” There you went, feeling like a marionette all over again.
Jinah was unbelievably pretty, the sort of face that belonged on the silver screen or in luxury advertisements rather than in your neighbourhood supermarket’s snacks aisle, the sort of person Changmin dated. You understood why he took so long to get over her.
“Yeah, I’m well!” she answered, bubbly and cheerful, before she hesitated. “I’m really sorry about that. I just- I guess I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”
Juyeon was beginning to fidget next to you, shifting his weight from foot to foot and awkwardly poking at the food in the shopping basket on his arm. You just smiled and waited for her to continue.
“How is he? Is he- I mean-” Jinah cut herself off with a sigh, upset with herself for even trying to ask you that. “It doesn’t matter. We didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry. It must’ve been difficult,” you said.
She forced herself to smile. “I guess he was the one who got away. We’ve all got one of those, right?”
You bit your lip. “Right. We do.”
“Well,” Juyeon interjected, far too loud, clearly having been waiting for his chance to jump into the conversation for a while. You suppressed a laugh. “We should probably get going.”
“Ah, yes. I didn’t mean to bother you,” Jinah said. “I’ll- I’ll see you guys around.”
Juyeon hurried you to the self-checkout the second she was out of earshot.
“You handled that well,” he observed, on scanning duty as usual. “I was half-expecting you to offer to put her back in touch with Changmin.”
You looked at him, baffled. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you like shooting yourself in the foot,” Juyeon answered. “Because you don’t think you deserve love.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in love at all,” you countered, mainly because you didn’t want to let his last statement just sit in the air like that.
But the whole walk home, up until your hand was on the front door knob, his words swirled incessantly in your mind.
You opened the door to a shower of pink confetti.
“Surprise!” Changmin, Chanhee, and Juyeon shouted in near-perfect unison.
Changmin jumped on your back and ruffled your hair with a giggle. “Why aren’t you surprised? Did Juyeon spoil it?”
“You all did,” you laughed, looking around the apartment.
The table was set, food all cooked and ready, with a fresh bouquet of roses as the centrepiece. Chanhee (you presumed) had hung string lights all around the living room and dimmed everything else, lending the apartment a warm, intimate glow. Golden foil balloons spelt out ‘congratu’, which Juyeon would later explain was because he ran out of money and hadn’t thought to just commit to ‘congrats’.
“Look!” Changmin exclaimed, jumping off your back and shoving a helium balloon in your face. It read: it’s a boy film! He did the same thing when you made the dean’s list in your first year of university, with a happy birthday dean’s list! balloon, crossed out and scrawled over in black marker.
“Ah, the food’s getting cold!” Chanhee whined, pushing you all towards the table.
You obediently sat down, Changmin lit the decorative pillar candles, Juyeon poured the champagne, and Chanhee started shovelling ridiculous amounts of food onto your plate.
“We bumped into Jinah earlier,” Juyeon told Changmin. You turned to the former in surprise, having expected him to keep it a secret. “I don’t think she’s over you.”
Changmin looked up from the ladleful of soup he had precariously hovering over your bowl, his expression inscrutable. Being unable to read him was not an experience you were used to.
“Isn’t that such a rom-com trope?” Chanhee teased. “The old flame, the lingering feelings, the reconnection-”
“I don’t believe in that stuff,” Changmin said, laughing slightly.
You looked at him — at his slight smile and the flickering candlelight making his skin glow — and then at the vase full of red and pink roses he’d harvested and arranged that morning. The extra care he’d put into them had been your first clue that he was planning something.
“Since when?” Chanhee asked in shock.
Changmin laughed, saying nothing, pouring your soup. Then, he cleared his throat and raised his champagne flute. You and him had found the set of four in a secondhand shop, and he always gave you the glass without any chips or scratches.
“This is Y/N’s party,” he said, changing the subject. “To Y/N!”
——————————
Changmin and Chanhee did a good job with the decor, if he did say so himself. His bouquet was even better than usual, as was his food. Chanhee matched the red candles to the red roses and found the perfect combination of string lights and lamps to lend the whole apartment a dreamy orange glow.
“What?” you asked over a spoonful of soup when you spotted Changmin staring at you out of the corner of your eye. You were eating heartily — you seemed to only eat that well when he cooked for you — your cheeks stuffed with his tofu stew.
He smiled fondly and shook his head. “Nothing. Is it good?”
“Yeah, it’s always good,” you replied.
Changmin wondered what a stranger would think if they looked up at your apartment window from the street below, at the square warmer and dimmer than usual. They couldn’t possibly hear Juyeon and Chanhee fighting over whose turn it was to pick the dinner playlist or see the balloons on the wall next to the TV. But maybe they could make out the silhouettes of four friends gathered around the dinner table, feel the love held in the space.
“I have another surprise,” Changmin announced, producing the leather-bound book from a bag stashed under his chair and handing it to you.
You took it carefully, breaking into a wide smile when you saw the title of the short film and your name embossed in the brown leather. In awe, you held the book up to the candlelight, marveling at the masterful stitching of the perfectly bound spine.
“This is beautiful,” you said. “Thank you.”
He threw his arm around your shoulder, excited. “Open it, open it.”
The very first page held an inscription he’d agonised over for hours. You read it aloud.
“To Y/N, my past and present and future —
I’m so proud of you and so lucky to know you. Let’s stay together for a long time.
I hope I get to grow old without ever letting go of your hand.
Love,
Changmin.”
Even in the relatively dim glow of the candles and the string lights, Changmin could see your eyes shining with tears. When was the last time he saw you cry — when Mr. Lee passed away? He pulled you into his side, patting your shoulder.
“Thank you, Min,” you breathed, running your fingertips over the neat blocks of his handwriting. “I love it.”
“Aww,” Juyeon cooed. Sitting beside him, Chanhee had his phone out, filming the moment dutifully as always.
——————————
It was well past your bedtimes when Juyeon and Chanhee finally headed home for the night, but both of you were still far too wired to sleep. Changmin curled up on the sofa beside you with a cup of chamomile tea in his hands.
“Thank you for doing all this, Min,” you said, leaning against him with your back to his chest and his arm around your shoulder.
“Of course.” He picked a stray sliver of pink confetti out of your hair. “I really am proud of you, you know?”
“It’s just a student production,” you mumbled, shaking your head at the fondness in his words. Even though he couldn’t see your face, he could hear your embarrassed smile. You used that word a lot, just, and often you used it against yourself. It made him sad.
He sipped his tea, humming along to your playlist under his breath. It’d been a while since you moved into this apartment. Maybe it was time for him to buy better Bluetooth speakers than the cheap ones he brought with him from home when he first moved here.
“You know how Mr. Lee and his wife broke up after high school, then got back together after six years apart?” Changmin asked after a long silence.
“They met again at a funeral when their old classmate died tragically young,” you recited obediently, a story Mr. Lee had told you both many times. Seemingly able to sense he had something important to say, you sat up and turned to face him.
He pursed his lips, pensive, not really wanting you to shift away from him. “When Juyeon brought up Jinah, part of me was hoping I’d be happy. But I didn’t feel anything.”
You placed your hand over his. Whenever he got like this, there was a pillowy sadness in your eyes. You were always there to take his pain and despair and press it into your own heart, so they were not his to bear alone. He didn’t know how or why you put up with him for so long, sure that if he showed this side of him to anyone else they’d be gone in an instant.
“I guess I was waiting to see if I’d magically fall back in love with her when I heard her name again,” he admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. “What’s wrong with me? Why does everyone else have someone made just for them, and I don’t? Am I a bad person?”
You ran your thumb over his knuckles, your voice warm and tender. “You’re not a bad person, Min.”
He had never been a stranger to this shame, this limitless regret, and yet, he was unable to stop it from slicing him open. It lingered in his bones.
“And for what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone has anyone made just for them,” you added.
“I know, I know, soulmates aren’t real,” he mumbled, just barely cracking a smile now. “You’re becoming just like Juyeon.”
But you had a point. Everyone he dated cast a gold idol in his image, only to smash it to pieces and melt it back down the second they realised he was just a person like anyone else. How many people had ever seen him as he really was, and not as an idea?
“Well, say soulmates are real — the red thread and all that,” you posited thoughtfully, reaching out to swipe away a tear from his cheek he hadn’t even noticed was there. “Of the people you dated, why did you choose them?”
He looked at you, holding your hands between his, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “I didn’t. They chose me.”
You smiled, shaking your head and leaning forward. “But what do you want in a soulmate? What makes you happy?”
“You, mainly,” he replied, with no hesitation. “Juyeon and Chanhee. Our apartment.”
That same sadness in your eyes was back, even though you were smiling. He remembered that look from Kevin’s party, when you were both up on the coffee table together. It was there that night in the playground when Mikyoung broke his heart and he gave you the roses intended for her. He always recognised it, but he never knew what to make of it.
”Why?” you asked.
“Because you’re kind. And you actually see me,” Changmin said.
Why did you make him happy? He was happy seeing you smile like you were now, your cheeks raised and your eyes crinkling at the sides, feeling you play with the silver rings on his fingers in this space you’d made for each other.
“Everything just makes more sense when you’re around,” he told you, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in his chest. “Nights are less lonely. Washing dishes is more fun.”
You didn’t take your eyes off of him, nor pull your hands out of his grasp. It hit him in that moment — an overwhelming wave that crashed down around him, cleaving at his heart and clawing at his soul — why the stars always shone brighter around you.
Something in his face must have shifted, because your expression changed without him having to say a word. Your eyes widened, your shoulders rose as you held your breath.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Your pillowy sadness at last gave way to shy trepidation. How long had you waited for him to meet you here?
“I’m yours, Min,” you said, so soft as to be almost inaudible, squeezing his hand. He could feel a tremor in your fingers. “You know it.”
He’d spent a lifetime chasing this elusive concept, magical and abstract and surreal, trapping himself in an impossible quest to disguise the depth of his want. But he didn’t regret it, not really, because everything in his life had led him to you. Every mistake, every heartbreak, every laugh and every tear.
Changmin leant forward and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, but there was a stillness in the room nonetheless. Maybe it was you, grounding him, making it bearable.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat.
“Please,” you whispered.
Slowly, he closed the distance between you, your lips meeting, hesitant and careful at first, before you kissed him back, making him come alive. He cupped your face gently, fingers trembling on his skin, and your palms rested on his chest. You could probably feel his heart racing through his clothes. You tasted like red wine and black cherry lip balm.
He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, brushing his thumb across your cheek. Your fingers traced the outline of his jaw, warm on his skin.
“I love you,” he mumbled, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from lifting.
Suddenly, it didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. He wondered if you remembered that quote too, if you carved it into your bones the way he did.
“I love you,” you echoed.
Changmin pulled you into his arms, hiding you from the world. You were two halves of a whole, held up to the light, unmasking each other.
Love was in the rose bouquets he arranged with you, not to gift to you but just to spend time with you. Love was in the way you held his hand and the way he tucked you in when you fell asleep on the sofa. Love was at the dinner table and out on the balcony and under his umbrella with two of the ribs broken.
synopsis: The rain had its oceans. The sun had its moon, everything had a reason for falling—and you had him. With Park Jisung, you were always falling: falling down, falling short, falling in love. But sometimes, love isn’t enough. And sometimes, love is all you need.
wc: 3.3k pairings: ex bf! jisung × fem! reader genre: angst, fluff, exes to lovers warnings: swearing, loserish pining ig notes: can you tell i like the exes to lovers trope ... anyways HAPPY JISUNG DAY!! tried something a little interstellar and cosmic themed for our favourite space nerd and NASA lover jisung.. I hope you like it gang ! gotta stay true to my user iykwim | LIBRARY
Today marked exactly 6 months.
6 months since everything fell apart.
The time had stretched by, hours like days, weeks like months, and the nights dragged on, even longer.
You struggle to believe that you and Jisung broke up only 6 months ago. It could have been six years, six centuries, or even six lifetimes, and it would all feel the same—an endless expanse of time.
It wasn't healthy, you supposed, because in each and every waking moment, the thoughts of him clouded your mind. His name was on your lips, repeated like a mantra, day in and day out.
And the nights?
They'd swallow you whole, pulling you into their eternal embrace, the minutes dragging on, slipping through your fingers like stardust.
Every night, he invaded your sleep. His face, his laugh, the way he looked when he’d roll his sleeves up a little too high.
You could trace every inch of him if you closed your eyes—those familiar grooves in his hands, the faint scars across his skin, each imperfection etched into your mind. Pain you could never erase, left only for you to commit to a beautiful memory.
To you, Park Jisung was the sun, the moon and all the stars in the sky.
Eternal, radiant and yet so very distant.
As you stood on the balcony, feeling the weight of the empty space beside you, you sighed. You didn’t remember when the sky had become so empty, but it felt like it had been that way for years.
The constellations that once felt familiar now seemed like strangers, their lights flickering in ways you couldn't recognise.
When you lay down, hoping to take your mind off of him, you remembered how you used to lie together.
Beside you, the bed sunk with emptiness, and you recalled how your hands had traced the starry formations against his skin, mapping the universe as your fingers brushed over his.
In those moments, you swore you could taste the stars in his words, the way he’d speak of them—of space, of time, of you.
Park Jisung called you beautiful, like it was your name. He loved you like it was all he knew. And in his eyes, you saw a future made of light, of endless skies, of forever. A forever with you.
But now, the stars looked different—fainter, perhaps. The moon, too, seemed smaller tonight. Maybe it was the distance, or maybe it was just the weight of how long it had been since he called you his sky.
You caught yourself wondering if he was out there, somewhere beneath the same curtain of noir, staring up at the same stars, feeling the same tug in his chest. In his heart.
Truly, you don't know how it happened. But you remembered it like it was yesterday.
The rain tapped against the window in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, the kind that made the world outside look like a blurred painting, colors mixing into nothingness.
Inside, your apartment was quiet—too quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft rustle of Jisung’s jacket as he dropped it by the door. The clock on the microwave read well past midnight.
04:25
You had just gotten home after work.
You stood by the kitchen counter, your calloused fingers gripping its edge as you stared down at the chipped mug in front of you, the steam from your tea rising in slow spirals.
Your eyes were tired, red, dark circles hinting at restless nights. You hadn’t expected him—hadn't even wanted him to come. You didn't have the energy for it. For him.
But here Jisung was, standing in the entryway, his hair damp from the rain, his hoodie hanging loosely around his shoulders.
The space between you felt too wide, too heavy.
"You didn’t have to come," you said, your voice quieter than you’d intended.
You shouldn't have, Jisung heard.
He didn’t move immediately. His gaze lingered on you, on the way your shoulders hunched as though the weight of your silence was pressing down on you.
He exhaled sharply and crossed the room to stand beside you.
The space was still there, the one that had always been between you two these past few months, like an invisible chasm that neither of you had known how to cross.
"Y/n, I—" Jisung stopped himself. His words, heavy as they were, seemed to hang in the air, too fragile to be spoken.
He hadn't seen you in weeks. Not properly at least, only through 2 minute FaceTime calls and quick selfies snapped between the times you'd head to work and to sleep.
And you hadn't seen him, perhaps if you had it would've been easier to notice the deepening bags beneath his eyes, how his cheeks were beginning to hollow. How every part of him reflected you, dull and lifeless.
Jisung was an open book before you, yet at this moment, you were blind to his pages. Illiterate in the way of his unspoken words.
You swallowed hard, blinking back the warmth threatening to rise in your chest.
"What are we doing, Jisung?"
His lips tightened. He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours before he pulled back, as if the contact was too much, too little all at once.
What were you doing?
Jisung wished he knew.
You were both trying, he was sure of that much, but it felt as though your efforts bred different results, like you aimed for the same thing and ended up in opposite directions.
Relentlessly, you had tried and tried and tried, but no amount of effort seemed enough. Like nothing could save you. A cruel twist of fate.
"We’re both drowning," Jisung said, his voice low, almost lost in the noise of the storm outside. "In everything... and there's no space left. Not for us. Not for anything."
You turned your back to him now, because facing him felt too much like watching something break. "I know." You said.
There was nothing else to say, nothing left.
Still, Jisung had hoped you'd continue.
You didn't.
You didn’t have the energy for it.
Between work, and the extra degree you'd all too ambitiously decided to start studying, the basic necessities, like sleeping, and eating, there was no time left. Like a robot, you only did what you were programmed to do, and it seemed Jisung was no longer part of your code.
He waited for your denial. It never came.
You barely had time for yourself, you didn't in fact, so how could you argue that you had time for Jisung, for your love?
You couldn't correct his words, not when he hadn't said anything wrong.
So you stayed quiet.
The silence was no longer comfortable. It stretched between you like an unwelcome presence, suffocating in its weight.
Jisung wanted to reach for you, to hold you like he used to, but every time he moved, it felt forced, it felt wrong. The timing had always been wrong. Schedules clashing.
You had become ghosts in each other’s lives.
"I miss you," he whispered, as though admitting it would make it hurt less. It only made the ache deepen. "But I’m not sure I know how to be the person you need anymore."
Your breath hitched in your throat. "I know, I’m sorry."
Jisung’s chest tightened, his hand balling into a fist at his side. The weight of your words settled on his ribs, pressing down on him.
He had never wanted this.
Never wanted to stand here, in this cold apartment, feeling the distance that had crept between you two over the weeks, the months.
And yet, here you were, saying things you hadn’t said in so long. Truths that had long been buried under the weight of your hectic lives.
The rain beat harder against the glass, as if the world outside had heard the finality in your voices.
You closed your eyes, your fingers brushing the edge of the counter.
The room was too still, too heavy with everything unsaid.
"I love you, you know,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it's too selfish of me to expect you to do the same, even now.”
Jisung nodded slowly, the motion jerky, like something inside him was unraveling.
He hadn’t come here to say goodbye.
But the words had already formed, and the door was already closing, even if neither of you had pushed it shut.
“Maybe it's best if we break up.”
"I'm sorry," he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "For everything."
You nodded in return, your gaze fixed on the rain outside. "I am too."
And with that, the space between you two grew wider, a gap neither of you could bridge, no matter how hard you tried.
The storm outside wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore. It was the silence, growing heavier, thicker, until it swallowed you both whole.
And then, he was gone.
You told yourself you were fine, told yourself that moving on was just part of life, that you'd get over it. You'd heal. But as you went about your days, the ache never fully disappeared. Instead, it had faded into a dull throb, a constant reminder of what once was. The endless longing had inserted itself into your routine, and you'd learnt to live with the pain.
But when you saw his name pop up on your phone, the world, your world, had tilted on its axis, orbited too much, too fast and too far. All at once, your throat constricted and you gasped for air, shaking, trembling.
You couldn't breathe.
In the moments it took you to gather enough courage to read the text beneath his contact, your heart raced, your palms sweat and the weight in your chest intensified. So foreign, yet so familiar.
It was exhilarating.
Jisung always made you feel this way, electric, ablaze— like the universe ran through your veins.
The message was simple: "can we talk".
No punctuation, no personality—the same as the first time Jisung had ever texted you.
It was dry, it was boring and yet it planted that same quiet curiosity in your chest as it had years ago. Before Jisung had sunk beneath your bones and nurtured that deep-rooted familiarity into the only thing, the only feeling, the only experience that you could ever call love.
You didn't respond right away, though your fingers hovered over the screen. The hesitation gnawed at you, for a moment you considered not responding at all. A long moment.
But it was the memory of his eyes, the way he'd looked at you before everything fell apart, that forced you to tap out a reply. How could you ever say no?
Though you're not sure falling apart was the right term.
You and Jisung had crumbled, piece by piece, atom by atom.
Your light had dimmed, your nebula collapsed— everything caved in on itself. Slowly but surely, your strengths, your weaknesses, your love.
You had imploded.
The coffee shop was small, cosy, almost like a memory.
Pink walls and tall ceilings, the soft murmur of conversations and the clink of mugs create a comforting background, with the same warm lighting overhead that you had always loved.
You hadn't been here in months, and you felt the nostalgia creeping in, coming through smiles from regular customers and greetings from the baristas. It had been so long, too long.
But strangely, you didn't miss it as much as you thought you would.
Still, amongst the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the pastel walls of the building, it felt warm, easing the tightness in your chest ever so slightly.
You sat waiting for Jisung, tucked away in a booth just next to the window.
You had arrived earlier than the both of you had agreed, hoping the nerves would settle if you had accustomed to your surroundings.
You weren't so sure that was the case now.
Too many questions clouded your thoughts, what did he want to talk about, and why so suddenly? He had only messaged you last night, agreeing to meet the next morning—today.
And if there was one thing you knew about Jisung, it was that he rarely, if ever, acted on impulse.
His urgency was disconcerting, to say the least.
But your thoughts didn't end there.
You wondered if he had changed, if he was still the Jisung you loved, or a new version you wouldn't recognise.
Sure, it had been 6 months since you broke up, but it had been far more since you saw Jisung, really saw him, not just the 2 second check ins and the 5 minute calls.
You shifted in your seat, a shiver running down your spine. A bitter taste sat in your tongue.
Behind you, the sound of the door opening brought a rush of emotion—like your heart recognised him before your mind had the chance.
Jisung was standing there, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting around as if he wasn’t sure where to go.
But then, they locked on you.
And just like that, the months between you disappeared.
He smiled. It was a quiet thing, more like an exhale than an expression. The same smile that you knew so well, and had told you countless times that things would be okay.
You hoped it could do the same today.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you remembered. The warmth in it making your chest tighten.
You nodded, unsure of how to start.
Your throat felt tight, like there were a thousand things you wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.
“Do you… do you want to sit?” you asked, gesturing to the chair across you.
He nodded again and you watched as he settled in, eyes not leaving yours.
The silence was thick, heavy, like the air was holding its breath. You were too.
It felt like Jisung was waiting for you to speak, but you didn’t know how to bridge the gap.
You never knew how when it came to him. Not when the distance between you had never been there in the first place.
He spoke first.
“How have you been?” his gaze was gentle, tender, a half smile rested across his lips as he spoke.
“Fine.” you choked out, really as convincingly as you possibly could.
But Jisung clicked his tongue.
He knew, you thought.
How could he not?
You and Jisung were born from the same star, he echoed your emptiness, and you reflected his light.
Of course he knew.
“Really?” he sighed, raking a hand through his now dark blue hair, “Because I haven't been.” Jisung sighed, locking his eyes with yours once again, only this time he didn't dare to look away, speaking with conviction, with determination.
“I miss you. So much. It kills me to wake up and see that you're not next to me” Jisung gulps, holding back in every aspect but verbally, “I even miss you now, when you're sat across from me, because I don't just miss seeing you, I miss knowing you.” he pauses,”I miss loving you.”
Jisung's voice is heavy with each breath he takes, and fuck, he feels like he's floating when your gaze softens beneath his, choked with tenderness for you.
He wants nothing more than to bask in the sweetness of your voice, to drown in your moonlit eyes and show you all the little stars in his heart.
Jisung's not done yet though, there's so many things left to say, too many in fact, but nothing more pressing than this.
“I regret it.”
He feels the weight lift off his shoulders, like he can sit up straighter as each syllable falls from his lips, “I regret not telling you then how much you meant to me, how much I didn't want this to happen to us.”
How much I loved you
Carefully, you listen, like every word is sacred.
You don't speak, you don't nod, you don't even move.
Scared that the slightest disturbance would fray your concentration and you'd miss every small signal Jisung sent towards you, like the fire in his soul wasn't contagious, like that fire wasn't ignited by you.
“You weren't just part of my life Y/n, and I'm an idiot for not having realised sooner. You were my life. You are my life.”
There was a pause. You didn’t know how to respond to that.
It had taken him half a year, six months, twenty-six weeks, one hundred and eighty-two days to finally give his truth a voice.
And God, was it liberating.
Jisung had loved you in every life, he thinks, like you were written on every molecule he ever became. Your souls intertwined. Star-crossed.
He watched closely as you processed his words, the glow in his eyes growing warmer with each second he let them rest on you. You were yet to respond, but you knew, Jisung hadn’t a care in the world aside from that, it only mattered to him that you knew.
There was a knocking at your chest, a feverish swelling, innocuous, like flowers blooming through the cracks of your ribs. Like your whole body had been struck by lightning.
But you couldn't move.
The stillness coated your limbs, spreading across your entire being, a strange sort of paralysis that only seemed to occur when he was around.
“I love you,” he said, suddenly, sharply cutting through the silence.
“I don’t expect anything,” he continued, his voice thick with regret. “I just… I needed you to know.”
His words hit harder than you expected, and you flinched inwardly, trying to keep your composure.
The ache in your chest grew, the familiar pang of loss creeping in.
You thought you had buried it, locked it away in the back of your mind, but now it was surfacing, raw and insistent.
You didn't know what you wanted from this, what you hoped would happen now. It wasn’t like before, when you could just run to him and everything felt right.
This time, it felt like a dream—something you couldn’t quite touch. Distant.
An interstellar love, but you weren't capable of defying gravity.
Or maybe you were just so damn scared that this was another moment where you'd let yourself fall for him all over again, only to end up with the same broken pieces.
Perhaps it would have been easier to hate him.
Your silence stretched on, his words lingering in the air between you.
Jisung's knee began to bob impatiently beside you, though his expression was still just as comforting as before.
He sat, awaiting your response.
“I love you.” he repeated.
“Again?” you breathed out, finally.
“Still.” he confessed. “Desperately, selfishly, irrevocably, I still love you”
Oh.
“I thought you were happy,” you managed to say, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I thought you were better off without me.”
I thought you were over me
His eyes softened, but there was something almost painfully raw in them, like a wound that had a band aid slapped carelessly over the top, unable to heal.
“I never was. But I convinced myself I could be,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I thought there was no point if i couldn't even see you, no point in us, no point fighting.”
He sighed, running his tongue across his cheek, “I was wrong, so fucking wrong.” Jisung knew that, and it had cost him everything.
You nod. Part of you wanted to leap with joy, and another part of you wanted to cease to exist.
But all of you wished he had said those words sooner.
You hadn't realised when you’d caught your bottom lip between your teeth, but it had gone raw from how you'd been constantly biting at it.
You hadn't noticed until you felt Jisung's gentle touch against your lips, his thumb guiding your lip out from your clenched jaw, his hand resting beneath your chin.
He didn't say much, instead Jisung quietly shook his head.
And then it hit you.
Every beautiful quirk, every perfect imperfection, everything that so delicately composed Park Jisung, you saw it all then.
Everything you loved.
He had the sun in his smile, the stars in his eyes, he loved like the moon, through every phase, eternal and silent. Like a promise, celestial.
It came crashing down on you, like an asteroid would the earth. Beautifully, crushingly.
“I love you too.”
It had been 6 months since you saw Jisung, and you loved him all the same, like he'd hung all the stars in the sky.
Jisung smiled at you, like a match catching fire. Like he had been waiting for ignition.
And in that instant, you realised—he wasn’t just a star in your sky.
He was a supernova, brilliant and all-consuming, collapsing and expanding in the same breath, burning, not just with you, but for you.
Love like his didn’t fade quietly; it burned, it devoured, it reshaped the very fabric of the universe.
1.2k words, obvious tension, ig u could call it pining if you wanted to, fluff(...?), very light swearing, slow dancing with the friend you really want to be more than friends with, i also write in PRESENT TENSE??? absolutely unheard-of.
a/n: suddenly had a burst of inspiration tonight. blame it on this gorgeous edit of leehi's only
“It's pretty simple.”
Changmin holds out a hand to you—his left for your right—your fingers slotting against his like twin pieces of wood carved perfectly to fit the other. He coughs once, avoiding your eyes as you do the same, guiding your other hand to rest on his shoulder before settling his right hand on your waist.
You feel the warmth of his palm over your side, the nerves there sensitive. The tension in your shoulders pull as you pretend you're not bothered.
The position has you toe to toe, noses not nearly close enough to be brushing, but in proximity enough where you could count the eyelashes behind his glasses and smell the faint scent of aftershave on his skin. Your pulse pounds somewhere at your throat; your carotid artery has always been strongest around him.
“Pretty simple for you,” you choke out in an attempt to lighten the heft in the air. Maybe it's the dim lighting as you and he stand in the middle of your living room, less than two breaths apart; maybe it's the faint knowledge that you are alone in this apartment together; maybe it's just the way his palm melts against yours. “I've got two left feet, y'know.”
He huffs out a laugh—breathy, barely there. It grazes your cheekbone in a phantom caress that seems to collapse all your nerves running from your face, down your spine in an intricate line of dominoes. “Yeah, don't worry. I know.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Hey! What's that supposed to mean?”
“That my feet still hurt from when you stepped on them two days ago.”
“That was an accident,” you say, rolling your eyes, and giving yourself a chance to look away from his stare.
(If you only stand here, did his hand in yours spell out something different?)
“There was dog shit on the ground and I didn't see it in time.”
It's a defense Changmin's undoubtedly heard at least five times since the incident, and he doesn't really care that you sound like a broken record. He's the one who keeps egging you on to say it again and again; he's the one who keeps dredging up that brief moment when your body brushed up against his. And maybe your winter jackets prevented any true skin to skin contact, but it didn't take away from the fact that he wants you to remember.
He snorts. “Yeah, alright,” he drawls in a vocal tone that's low and lazy, and the corner of his mouth curls upward in a half-smirk that can only mean he's teasing. “But I swear to god, this'll be the easiest dance you ever do.”
“Willing to bet on it?” you ask in incredulity, shifting on your socked feet.
Changmin cocks a brow at you, and you see it appear over the top rim of his glasses frame. “Stop stalling.”
“Damn.”
It almost gets a full smile out of him. You see his lip quiver, and you count it as a win.
Your dance partner-slash-friend turns his head toward his phone laying on the coffee table nearby. “Hey Siri, play Only.”
“Playing Only by Leehi.”
Your pulse leaps so hard you can feel it twitch against the meat of your neck. “Only?” you query with a chuckle that sounds unnervingly anxious. “Never took you for a romantic.”
He gives a shrug with one shoulder, the movement stiff. It's unlike him, you realize, as someone you understand to be graceful and effortless—a breath of air in his own right. “It’s a good song. Okay, just follow my lead.”
“Okay,” you whisper, your head immediately ducking to watch his feet and yours to prevent any collisions or overlap. “And by the way, I'm not refuting that it's a good song—”
“Eyes up here.”
Your body moves as a marionette strung to the will of his commands. You meet his eyes again, and you have no other choice but to hold them—to hold two things that have the ability to make your every will crumble. “Why?”
Your bodies are moving in a loose diamond: back, right, left, forward; back, right, left, forward. And it's to the slow rhythm of Leehi's croons and the piano; time stands still… there is nowhere else in the world to be, but here, with his hand wrapped around yours and your eyes wrapped up in one another's.
Briefly, you register the bob of his throat. “Hyperfocusing on your feet will make you fuck up,” he reasons quietly. “Just—the music will sway you.”
“Do you do this often?” you ask. “Think about slow dancing to this song, I mean.” You hope your hands aren't truly as clammy as you think they feel. “Is this on a playlist of other slow, romantic ballads, Ji Changmin?”
“What's with the interrogation?”
“I only ask because I'm curious.” The words coming out your mouth surge forward from the nervous pounding of your heart. It beats in three-four time, increasing in intensity as the song crescendos.
Changmin doesn't answer the question. “You wanna spin? I think you're ready for a spin.”
Your eyes blow wide open. “Uhm no. What do you mean spi—”
The curse on your tongue is lost in the wind, as Changmin effortlessly twirls you outward until your arms are extended and your fingers barely latch onto the other. In that brief pause, your eyes meet again, and it's the beam of delight on his lips that make your ankles want to twist, a muscle in your heart contracting violently. He's pulling you back toward him again, then, one half of a piece of string that physically cannot take being apart from the other.
And in the beat of time that your world is spinning, you realize you don't know where to look.
But in the blur, it's Changmin you see.
Your feet fumble over one another, and his fingers hold fast to your own, clutching yours in a grip of iron as if he sensed your stumble before your brain could. Your body hits his chest, and you're bunching his shirt in your fingers.
His hands have left yours and found the curve of your waist, chest rising and falling in rapid movements even as the song in the background is slowing to a close. “Sorry, I” —he’s lost his head for a moment, his voice, his words; and he swallows when you raise your head to look at him— “should've taught you how to spot first. That was my bad.”
“No, you're fine. It's fine,” you reassured him, pulling back.
It's jarring how cold your waist feels where his hands have fallen away.
Changmin grasps the back of his neck. “See? Not too bad, right?” The question comes with a slight upward intonation, toeing the water.
You nod. “Yeah, no. For sure. You made it easy.”
He smiles then, the corners of it digging into his cheeks to form wells of contentment in the flesh. You miss the way his hands hesitate in the air between you two, because he has never hesitated before. “You'll be fine with whoever they pair you up with,” he says to you.
“Right.” It's stupid; you almost forgot you were learning to dance for an event, and not just because you wanted to know what it felt like. “Thanks.” For a moment there, you could fool yourself into thinking that there was something more.
“Sure,” and he looks at you like it's nothing close to what he really wants to say.
When you bring it up to him, he waves it away—a breath that has become air—and tells you it's something for another day.
𝓲𝓿 ⦂ after a horrible terrible breakup with your ex; you swore off men, you were gonna be celibate for the foreseeable future … then here comes sungchan with a terrible first impression …
genre. university au. strangers to lovers. smut. humor. tiny angst. fluff.
𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 warnings .ᐟ female reader. heavy language. unsavory jokes amongst friends. mature content. + will add more
starting date. february 7 2025 taglist open until then
synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.
author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3
warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama
playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift
RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU
“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.”
“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier.
“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”
“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes.
“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely.
You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson.
“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly.
“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.”
“I was handling things just fine on my own.”
“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state.
You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.”
The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention.
By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support.
Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.
Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw.
“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers.
“You don’t look―”
As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.
After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?”
You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck.
And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod.
.
.
.
Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer.
Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip.
When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood.
“That was…delicious,” he breathes.
“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.”
“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs.
“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.”
Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together.
He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw.
Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes.
“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly.
“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks:
“So, you’re hiring?”
You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question.
Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up.
“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”
“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias.
Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.
“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand.
You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say:
“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?”
It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries.
“I’d love nothing more.”
Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu.
He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling.
RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE
“Are you out of your mind?”
You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.”
“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”
“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!”
“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses.
“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?”
Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“What?”
“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice.
“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”
“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“So, when do I get to meet him―”
You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup.
You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking.
“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly.
“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.”
Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.”
You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.”
“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows.
You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.”
“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.”
His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in.
But you don’t.
“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.”
And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you.
He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him.
Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday.
“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth.
“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly.
“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand.
“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.”
The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.
“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease.
His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?”
“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.”
It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck.
“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh.
“Pretty lame, right?”
“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.”
Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.”
“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently.
He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”
That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?”
He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.”
There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length.
“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!”
“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow.
“Of course. Who else would I go with?”
“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately.
“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain.
“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.”
“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms.
“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile.
“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him.
He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.”
“That doesn’t sound―”
“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?”
“...Seven.”
.
.
.
Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property.
“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.”
“You got it, Captain.” He salutes.
You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you.
Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along.
“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.”
He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt.
“Oh my God, your face!”
“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.”
“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.”
“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes.
“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice.
Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself.
You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you.
“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression
“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile.
“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod.
“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.”
“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”
“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.”
You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here.
“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh.
“Why?”
You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you.
“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.”
Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction.
“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.”
He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that.
“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.”
Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away.
He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever.
“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.”
You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself?
You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.
You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway.
.
.
.
“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table.
Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.”
“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice.
Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it.
“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms.
“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.”
“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”
“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.”
“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.”
“I’ll help,” he insists.
“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.”
He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”
“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”
“What? A blueberry pie?”
Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.
“Peace.”
And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too.
RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF
It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t.
You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now.
He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him.
You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay.
“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.
“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee.
She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold.
Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too.
“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?”
Maybe because he has, you want to tell her.
Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.
“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away.
You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself.
However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be.
.
.
.
The cream puffs aren’t rising.
You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise.
But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t.
You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff.
“Y/N, they’re burning.”
Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp.
“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs.
“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.”
He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it.
Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?”
When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?”
His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch.
“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.”
He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.”
“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?”
“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly.
“Do you treat all your friends like that?”
“When I don’t want to see them.”
You wait for him to continue.
“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”
He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him.
But he steps back.
“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.”
“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly.
“I probably should,” he answers shakily.
“What’s stopping you?”
“Just…one reason.”
“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.”
Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.
“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.”
When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back.
“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.”
RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE
When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all.
And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you.
You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself.
However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless.
So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check.
“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.”
You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly.
“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.”
Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first.
When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take.
The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about―
And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way.
“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.”
You stare at him, still not sure how to react.
“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”
Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting.
“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?”
You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―”
Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.
When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath.
“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.”
He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?”
“What?”
Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare.
“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.
You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich.
“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”
“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.
“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up.
“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again.
And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.
Peace.
EXTRA
“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?”
Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone.
“Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“If I answer, will you let me rest?”
“Depends on how good your answer is.”
“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.”
You smile against the crook of his neck.
“Why?”
“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.”
white ferrari. good times. the love shared between you and sohee was pure. innocent. it was a time spent worth living. it was rare. only sohee could bring that kind of love out of you. you met sohee in your first year of high school, he was a shy boy, someone who always looked away in slight panic when your eyes met his. he was a sweet boy, someone who saved a seat for you in every class. he was a quiet boy, someone who didn't say much but you could read him like an open book. you both were young and naive, sohee seemed to take a liking to you quickly and began following you everywhere like a lost puppy. you didn't ever mind his presence, in fact you liked it more than you led on. soon you and sohee became inseparable. sohee was your gate to another world. he always watched you, his big eyes full of curiosity and love. before sohee you were alone. just there, existing without many emotions. sohee brought out the best in you. he taught you how to be fun, how to enjoy life.
sohee was your first to many things. at the age of 18, he was your first kiss. you two had been at a party, a bit drunk, but sober enough that you were aware of your actions. the tension between you and sohee had grown as the two of you got older, the curiosity in sohee's eyes only focused on you. he was only curious about you. you who has been by his side for the past 2 years. you sat by the poolside rambling on and on about god knows what. sohee wasn't paying attention to your words. the alcohol in his system only focused on your pretty lips.
"you look pretty today" sohee interrupted. "what?" you turned towards him.
in that moment sohee swore his heart skipped a beat. you heard what he had said, it was normal for sohee to compliment you, but now you were aware of the way he had been staring at you for the past 15 minutes. you felt your face heat up as you smiled looking into sohee's eyes. those eyes that you swore were straight from the galaxy itself. the silence only lasted a couple of seconds before sohee spoke again.
"can i kiss you?" he asked with confidence. and to your surprise, his sudden confidence influenced yours.
"yes," you said softly.
sohee leaned in, letting his soft pink lips mold into yours. it was your first kiss; and his. it was sweet and slow, yet somehow sloppy and wet. it only lasted a few seconds before he pulled away with a big bright smile on his face. you both giggled and looked away shyly. that night your crush for sohee only grew more fonder.
later that same year, the two of you graduated and started dating. he was your first boyfriend and it was everything you had ever imagined. your bond with sohee was like no other. he was your best friend before anything. you could trust him with your life. as long as sohee was by your side you believed you could do anything.
at the age of 19, you became used to doing everything with sohee. going to and from the college campus together, sleeping over at each others apartments, being in every part of each others lives. it was your normal. you spent everyday of the year with sohee but you didn't mind it, you were both in love. the kind of love you thought would last forever. you were young and naive to think you and sohee would last forever. but were you really? sohee was the one who gave you that hope after all. thinking back to the night sohee held your hand tightly as he drove with his other hand.
"do you think we'll stay together forever?" he asked. his tone was playful and warm, but there was a hint of something serious there. sohee was always like that, always smiling through his words. you felt his hand give yours a squeeze, as if he was making sure your heard his question. "of course sohee" you smiled watching him smile to himself. how could you not have hope in your future with sohee when he was always like that.
it all went downhill from there.
you both turned 20, you left your teens behind. not only did you leave your innocence and pure love behind, it seemed like you left sohee behind too. sohee didn't follow in your footsteps like the two of you had planned. you both seemed to be going in opposite directions. sohee gained popularity, he made new friends, it wasn't something you minded. you were happy sohee found happiness outside of your relationship. but you noticed the changes in sohee's behaviors. he became distant, you don't think he meant to, but you felt it. he didn't seem to notice though. you always sat across from him watching him as he was so invested on his little handheld device. you were in the same room, yet sohee felt so far. your attention was on him, but his wasn't on you. you could reach out and speak up, but what use would it be when sohee would just spare a minute max for you and then go back to doing whatever he was doing.
over time you felt your roles reverse, sohee was always the one to look at you, watch you, connect with you while you were in your own world. then it all flipped. you found yourself grasping for sohee while he was still there. when sohee's eyes focused on you, you no longer saw them full of curiosity and love, instead they seemed dark and dull. his smile no longer beamed of innocence when you called his name. you noticed sohee was always one step ahead of you, you'd watch him lead, your footsteps dragging behind him, wanting to run to catch up, but he was entering a different world, one that didn't include you anymore. you felt the shift.
the first stage was denial. you refused to believe in the change of your relationship. you knew you were losing sohee but you tried to pretend it was all okay. you thought of the good times. the feeling of being everything to each other. the hot summer days where sohee held your ice cream cone just so it wouldn't drip down your hands, the rainy days where sohee held his jacket above your head so you wouldn't catch a cold, the days where sohee made sure to kiss you every chance he got because he was so obsessed with you, the days where sohee took the extra long route to your apartment just so he could spend time telling you how much he loved you. you couldn't accept that the end was near for you and sohee, so you focused on the good, only the good.
sohee knew he loved you, but as sohee grew older, he grew bored of the love you two shared. the same routines, the basic took a toll on him eventually. he found new interests, a new path for himself. he wasn't aware of how he had been hurting you from his distance. you never bothered him for more, so he thought you were feeling the same. he felt guilty. but he knew life went on and this was bound to happen. he cared you for still and he would forever. that was his part of the deal. he would always hold onto the good memories the two of you shared growing up.
and soon enough, what you feared the most had happened. the two of you came to part ways. you held onto hope. sohee held onto the memories and moved on. you weren't angry with him, you loved him. it was a peaceful split. but you secretly wished you could have stayed in sohee's life watching his new path unfold. you were deeply hurt, but you didn't let sohee see that. you wanted to show him that you were just as strong as he was, you didn't want to hold him back. but your first love left you and you were broken. you wondered if sohee felt the same at all.
"i'm sure we're taller in another dimension"
in another dimension, you thought. another dimension where you and sohee had met while you both had your lives figured out. while you both were older. what if you had met sohee now instead of at 16 years old? maybe then things wouldn't have ended the way they did. maybe then you didn't have to think about the good times that were no longer in your life.
"you're tired of movin' your body's achin'"
you wondered if sohee left you only when he felt burnt out. you wondered if he was truly happy the last few months you two had spent together. you questioned everything. but questioning everything wouldn't do you any good, you didn't want to hold resentment against sohee and taint your rich memories of him.
"we could vacay, there's places to go
clearly, this isn't all that there is"
you held onto hope, hope that maybe one day your paths would cross again. there was so much more to life, you wanted to experience it all with him.
"but we're so okay here, we're doing fine"
you had to face the reality of it all. the reality that sohee was gone and that life won't end here. the reality that you'll be as okay as he is in this life. at the end of it all, your relationship with sohee was white. it was an innocent and pure young love, one that couldn't develop into your adulthood due to different paths. your relationship with sohee was a ferrari. it was expensive, rare, something you won't just find if you tried to. it came to you both because you were lucky enough. your relationship with sohee was a white ferrari. good times. and now you're both free to roam. it was unforgettable. you loved lee sohee and you knew he loved you. you were grateful he was your first love.
y/n is low-key a loner at her college and her dearest friend tells her to hang out with his friend, what happens when she entangles herself with him ?
warnings: eunseok is a red flag, swearing, angst, unhinged, mentions of smoking, based off my love life except the ending</3
im in high school while writing this so please be patient with me! english is also not my first language so feel free to correct me !
none of the boys or any of the idols mention behave this way in real life, i do not know them personally, i am just writing off of my experience and making it a happy ending since i never got one!
summary : liking jeno was a mistake. kissing him didn't make it any better.
warnings : mentions of alcohol/drinking, kissing, cusswords, angst!! (this does not portray how the idols are irl, all the things here are written to match the song crush culture by conan gray!!)
wc : 6.3k
a/n : reader uses she/her pronouns !! jerk!jeno and bestfriend!mark :D thank u for 100+ followers ~~ cant believe i managed to pull out more than 5k words out of my ass >< my finals are currently happening so that's why i've been ia for soooo long :( i promise when i'm done i'll be clearing out both my drafts and requests ^^
Seeing your best friend, Belle, flirt with Jeno on your couch hit harder than you ever expected. The way they leaned into each other, laughter spilling from their lips like a sweet melody, made your stomach churn in a way that felt foreign and unwelcome. You had no right to feel this way, not when you knew about her crush on him. You had even agreed to be her wingman tonight, setting up this moment so she could finally have her chance. But somehow, along the way, you fell for him too, your heart weaving itself into a tapestry of unspoken feelings and bitter regret.
You should feel happy for her, after all her efforts to catch his attention, but the tight knot in your chest made it impossible to be anything but miserable. “It’s fine. Be happy. It’s your birthday, after all,” you whispered under your breath, trying to convince yourself. The words felt heavy, lacking the enthusiasm they were meant to carry. You exhaled a shaky breath before heading to the kitchen, desperate to escape the sight of them together.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the faint scent of alcohol and fruity punch hanging in the air like an unwelcoming fog. Mark stood by the counter, effortlessly mixing drinks with an ease that told you he’d done this a hundred times before. He glanced up as you entered, and a flicker of concern passed over his face when he caught sight of your downcast expression. He flicked his eyes toward the living room, and you knew he had noticed. Most of your friends knew about your crush on Jeno. It wasn’t something you talked about much, but the way your eyes lingered on him said enough.
“You okay?” Mark asked, his voice low, but the concern was clear, filling the space between you like a fragile glass.
You could only shrug, unsure of how to explain the whirlpool of emotions churning within your chest. It felt too complicated to articulate.
Without a word, he whipped up a drink, something colourful and sweet, and handed it to you. The condensation from the glass cooled your palm, but it did little to soothe the fire raging inside. The drink looked vibrant, but you could already tell it was just a disguise for the hollowness you felt.
“She’s kind of a bitch for doing that in front of you,” Mark muttered, glancing back at the couch, his fingers absentmindedly wiping down the counter. His words hung in the air like a lifebuoy tossed your way, and for a moment, it felt like they were offering you a chance to vent, to express all the things you were holding back. But you shook your head, pushing the thoughts down.
“Not really,” you sighed, taking a sip of the drink. The sweetness coated your tongue, but it tasted like nothing, a mere distraction. “I’m the bitch here. Liking the same guy as my best friend, after she tells me she likes him, that kind of thing breaks girl code.”
Mark furrowed his eyebrows, his confusion evident. “Girl code? Really?” He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “Come on, Belle falls for every guy who looks her way. Everyone knows that. Besides, you actually have a better shot, Jeno knows you, trusts you. You should go for it.”
You nearly choked on your drink, laughter bubbling up despite your mood. “Yeah, and get a reputation for stealing my friends’ crushes? No thanks, Mark. I’ll pass.” You handed him the empty glass, watching as he refilled it, his movements swift and practiced. The glint of the alcohol under the dim kitchen lights reflected how your emotions felt; messy and swirling, a whirlpool threatening to pull you under.
Mark sighed, exasperated. “It’s your party. Don’t let them get in your head. Go have some fun.” He handed you the new drink with a smile, but before you could take another sip, he added, “And don’t drink too much. You can’t handle it, and we both know it.”
But after two glasses, fun was the last thing you felt. The sight of Jeno and Belle still played in your mind, a vivid loop that made the alcohol churn uncomfortably in your stomach. You tried to find Belle in the crowded room, but she was nowhere to be seen. After asking around and realising Jeno wasn’t there either, the pit in your stomach grew deeper. You knew what that probably meant.
You found yourself wandering back to the kitchen, your mind foggy but determined to drown out the ache with another drink. Mark raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see you again. When you asked for yet another glass, he sighed deeply, a mixture of concern and frustration in his expression.
“This is your last one,” he warned, handing you the drink reluctantly. “You can’t handle much. I don’t want to have to carry you out of your own party.”
But Mark’s warning felt like a distant echo in your ears. By the time you were begging for a fourth drink, all caution had slipped away, and you couldn’t care less about the consequences. The music in the living room was thumping, laughter echoing like a cruel reminder of your current situation, and all you could feel was the weight of everything you couldn’t have — Jeno, your peace, the ability to not care.
“I already told you, no more drinks. You’re cut off,” Mark said, frustration clear in his voice. “I’ll get you some water instead.”
As he turned to open the fridge, you took your chance. The cold metal of a beer can brushed against your fingertips as you snatched it from the counter. You were so focused on your mission to drown out the pain that you didn’t notice Mark turning back toward you.
“y/n,” he snapped, his tone stern, “let go of the can. You’re going to regret this.”
You raised the can to your lips, but Mark was quicker. His hand reached out to grab it from you, and in the struggle, the can slipped from your grasp. The beer splashed everywhere — over your shirt, dripping down your arms, and pooling on the floor. The cold liquid seeped through your clothes, clinging to your skin, making you gasp at the sudden chill. Mark groaned, grabbing a napkin from the counter as you stood there, drenched, with a look of defiance still written across your face.
Undeterred, you tried to tilt the can toward your mouth, desperate to drink whatever was left inside, despite the mess. “Come on, y/n, you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Mark sighed, exasperation laced in his tone as he managed to pry the can away for good this time.
The alcohol-soaked shirt clung to your body, the sticky sensation uncomfortable, but you were too far gone to care. The frustration bubbling inside wasn’t going to be soothed by just a drink anymore. You were angry, angry at Belle, at Jeno, at the fact that you had let yourself feel anything at all.
Before you could make another move, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, prying you away from the counter. You froze, looking up into the familiar dark eyes you’d been avoiding all night — Jeno.
The world felt like it stopped as Jeno glanced from you to Mark, his brows furrowed in mild concern. “Help me out here, Jen. She’s had too much already, and she won’t listen to me,” Mark said, his voice weary but relieved that someone else could take over.
Jeno’s gaze softened as he looked down at your soaked shirt, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. He let out a small sigh, his grip gentle but firm as he took the can from your hand and replaced it with a bottle of water. “You’re done with the drinks for tonight, okay?” he said softly, his voice holding the same care you’d heard earlier.
Before you could protest, Jeno wrapped his arm around you, guiding you out of the kitchen, away from the noise and the eyes of your curious friends. The walk to your room was a blur, but the warmth of his hand on your waist kept you grounded, even as the alcohol swirled in your system.
The sight of Belle sobbing into someone’s shoulder as you passed through the hallway barely registered in your hazy mind. You were too focused on the warmth of Jeno’s presence beside you, the way his touch lingered longer than necessary, as if he was anchoring you.
Once in your room, Jeno gently guided you to sit on the edge of your bed, his touch careful as if he was afraid you might fall over. His eyes roamed over your beer-soaked clothes, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You’re a mess,” he teased, though his voice held no judgment. If anything, it was laced with concern, the kind of worry that felt warm and comforting instead of scolding.
You glanced down at yourself, wincing as you finally took in the state of your shirt. The beer stains were obvious now, dark patches clinging to the fabric and sticking to your skin in an uncomfortable way. You grimaced, the sticky sensation making you feel even more self-conscious. The alcohol had dulled the sharpness of your embarrassment, but not entirely. A faint blush crept up your cheeks as you mumbled, “I should change…”
You attempted to push yourself off the bed, but your limbs were heavy, sluggish from the alcohol coursing through your system. Your balance wavered, and you nearly stumbled forward before Jeno’s hand gently pressed on your shoulder, keeping you steady.
Without saying a word, he crossed the room to your closet, rummaging through the clothes until he found one of your oversized t-shirts. He walked back to you with that same quiet focus, kneeling down to your level, holding the clean shirt in his hands. His gaze met yours for a moment, and something in his expression made your heart skip a beat.
“Here,” Jeno said softly, his voice just above a whisper. “Let me help.”
Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers reached for the hem of your beer-stained shirt. He moved slowly, giving you plenty of time to object, to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The closeness of him, the way his eyes held nothing but tenderness. It was like the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving just the two of you in this charged, intimate bubble.
Jeno’s hands were careful as he lifted the fabric, peeling it away from your sticky skin with a precision that made your pulse quicken. The cool air hit you, contrasting the warmth of his touch. Every time his fingers brushed your arms, it sent shivers through you. It wasn’t overtly intimate, but the care he took in making sure you were comfortable made the moment feel far more meaningful than it should have.
Once your shirt was off, he handed you the fresh one, his eyes deliberately focused anywhere but your body, giving you the privacy to finish. You quickly pulled the oversized shirt over your head, feeling the soft cotton fabric glide down. Your cheeks burned, not from the alcohol, but from the way Jeno’s thoughtfulness had disarmed you, leaving your heart racing in its wake.
When you were finally settled in your clean shirt, Jeno took a step back, his hands awkwardly fumbling at his sides, unsure of what to do next. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet but sincere.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. The warmth pooling in your chest wasn’t just from the remnants of alcohol, but from the way Jeno had cared for you, so gentle and attentive. The kindness in his actions made your emotions swirl even more intensely.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you heavy with something unspoken. The room felt smaller with Jeno in it, the atmosphere charged with a new kind of tension. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. If anything, it felt safe. Like he was there to make sure you were okay, to take care of you, in a way that made your heart feel lighter despite the whirlwind of the night.
Jeno’s eyes flicked from the bed to you, a soft concern still lacing his gaze. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
You climbed under the covers, feeling the exhaustion settling into your bones now that the noise of the party was long behind you. As you laid down, Jeno lingered by your side for a moment, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder before he moved to sit at your desk. His presence filled the room, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.
“Jeno?” your voice came out as a soft murmur, barely loud enough to reach him, but he turned to you right away.
“Yeah?”
You hesitated for a moment before whispering, “Thanks… for everything.”
A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, the soft light in your room making his features look even kinder than usual. “Get some sleep, y/n. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
You closed your eyes for a brief second, trying to process what was happening. Jeno was in your room. The Jeno. The one who was always surrounded by friends, admired by so many. The same Jeno your best friend had been talking about for months, and the one you, slowly but surely, had found yourself falling for.
The alcohol still buzzed in your veins, loosening your inhibitions just enough to make you bolder than usual. This was your chance, maybe Mark had been right all along. Jeno was here, with you, taking care of you in ways that felt like more than just friendly concern. Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t imagining the way he stayed close tonight, the way his eyes lingered a little longer.
It was now or never.
The air in the room felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. Jeno sat at your desk, his steady gaze unreadable as you shifted under the covers, a mix of nervousness and warmth blooming in your chest. The alcohol had numbed your inhibitions, but the electricity between you both was impossible to ignore.
You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to ground yourself in the fabric, though it did little to help. “It’s cold,” you mumbled, barely audible, your voice betraying the hint of vulnerability you didn’t want to show. In truth, the room was a bit chilly, but more than anything, you longed for his presence next to you. The space between you felt far too wide, like an unspoken barrier you didn’t know how to cross without risking everything.
Jeno’s eyes flickered toward you, his hesitation lingering in the silence that stretched between you. After a beat, he stood up from the desk, his movements slow and deliberate, as if carefully weighing each step. Your breath hitched as he approached, and your heart pounded in your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach.
Wordlessly, Jeno slid under the covers beside you, his warmth instantly chasing away the cold. His scent, a comforting mix of cologne and something undeniably him, wrapped around you, making your head spin. Instinctively, you leaned into him, your head finding its place against his chest. His arm moved naturally around you, pulling you closer, and you melted into the embrace, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.
With Jeno’s warmth cocooning you, the outside world felt like a distant dream. The party’s once-loud music had faded into a faint murmur, barely audible over the sound of his steady breathing. Every now and then, his breath grazed your hair, sending tiny shivers down your spine. You stayed perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would break this fragile moment, this perfect stillness.
“Is it still cold?” Jeno’s voice was low, a gentle murmur that seemed to sink into your very bones.
A small smile tugged at your lips, and you pressed yourself closer to him, allowing the exhaustion of the night to wash over you. “Not anymore,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. His arm tightened around you in response, as if silently saying that he wasn’t going anywhere. That, even just for tonight, you had him.
The soft light from the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the room, its dim shadows creating a cozy, intimate space that felt removed from reality. The world beyond your bedroom door seemed to slow, leaving only the two of you in this quiet bubble, suspended in time. You found yourself wishing that you could capture this feeling forever, keep this warmth and peace bottled up in your heart.
Jeno’s hand rested on your waist, his fingers moving in slow, absentminded circles over the fabric of your shirt. His touch was so gentle, so careful, that it sent little sparks dancing across your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol making you dizzy; it was the tenderness in every brush of his fingers, the way he held you like you were something delicate.
“You’re always running around, taking care of everyone,” he murmured softly, his words carrying a weight that tugged at your heart. “Who takes care of you, y/n?”
His question hung in the air, the raw sincerity in his voice cutting through you. A lump formed in your throat, and you blinked rapidly to keep the sudden tears at bay. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that. Who did take care of you? For as long as you could remember, you were the one who held everything together, the one who put everyone else’s needs before your own. But in this moment, with Jeno’s arms wrapped around you, it felt like someone was finally seeing past all of that—seeing you.
“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you admitted the truth aloud. “I guess I’m just used to it.”
Jeno shifted beside you, his body pressing closer, his breath now warm against your ear. “You deserve more than that,” he said softly, his voice low and earnest, each word landing like a promise. “You deserve someone who’ll take care of you, too.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, and you swallowed hard, trying to hold back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. His words felt too good, too perfect, and a part of you was afraid to believe them. Afraid to believe that someone like Jeno could really see you like that, could want to take care of you.
Still, in this moment, wrapped in his warmth, you allowed yourself to pretend — to imagine, if only for tonight, that this could be your reality. That Jeno could be yours.
His thumb traced another slow circle on your side, his touch so gentle it was almost hypnotic. “I don’t want you to forget tonight,” he whispered, his voice even quieter now, like he was sharing a secret meant just for you.
You turned in his arms, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes locked with his. There was something in his gaze, something soft and unspoken, that made your heart race. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm on your skin, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stop altogether.
You swallowed, the words escaping you before you could think twice. “What if I do?”
For a moment, Jeno’s expression darkened, his gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. Then, in a movement so gentle it felt like a dream, he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. The contact sent a shiver through you, your whole body reacting to the warmth of his touch.
“Then I’ll remind you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper.
The night blurred into a series of quiet moments. Soft touches, shared whispers, and a closeness that felt too tender, too fragile to belong to the real world. You could have stayed in that moment forever, tangled in Jeno’s warmth, pretending that the world outside didn’t exist.
But, as always, reality had a way of creeping back in.
Jeno’s phone buzzed on the desk beside him, the soft vibrations shattering the stillness. He sighed, his arm loosening from around you as he reached for the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. You watched as his brows furrowed, his expression tense as he scrolled through the dozens of missed calls and messages.
“Shit,” he muttered, sitting up, his warmth slipping away from you entirely.
The cold rushed in immediately, filling the space where Jeno had been, and your heart sank. You knew what was coming next.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, already knowing the answer but dreading hearing it aloud.
Jeno ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. “The guys… They’ve been calling me nonstop. I told them I’d leave with them, they’re my only ride home.” His voice was tinged with regret, but beneath it, you could sense the guilt.
You forced a smile, trying to mask the disappointment that was tightening in your chest. “It’s fine,” you lied, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You should go.”
Jeno glanced down at his phone again, then back at you, his jaw tightening as he hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said quietly, his voice thick with the conflict swirling inside him.
You shook your head, the ache in your chest growing. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, your words feeling hollow. “Really. Go.”
For a fleeting moment, you held onto the hope that Jeno might stay. The way he looked at you, his eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your heart race, felt like a promise unspoken. But then the phone buzzed again, shattering the delicate moment. You watched as his resolve shifted, the warmth in his gaze giving way to a distant sadness.
With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed, the fabric of the moment tearing slightly as he slipped his phone into his pocket. The air around you felt colder, thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions, as if the very room held its breath. Just before he reached the door, he hesitated, turning back to you one last time. His eyes softened as they met yours, and he stepped back toward the bed, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. It was soft and lingering, yet it carried the weight of finality.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” he whispered, his breath brushing against your skin, leaving a warmth that contrasted the chill that enveloped you after he left.
And then, he was gone.
The weekend stretched endlessly, an expanse of silence that felt like an aching void where his presence had been. No calls. No texts. Just the stark absence of his warmth and the echo of the night you had shared. With each passing hour, the memory of Jeno’s embrace faded, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts and an unsettling sense of regret.
You spent the next two days trapped in a loop of memories, replaying every moment over and over. The way he looked at you with such intensity, the way he held you close, the sincerity in his voice when he told you that you deserved better. You ached to reach out to him, to check if he still remembered the fleeting magic of that night. But every time you reached for your phone, a wave of fear stopped you cold. The thought of his response, what he might say or, worse, what he might not say, paralyzed you.
By the time Monday rolled around, you had convinced yourself that maybe it was better this way. Pretending nothing had happened would be the safest path. After all, he would slip back into his life with friends, back to the way things were before, and you would have to bear the weight of your choices alone.
As you stepped through the school doors, you immediately felt the weight of stares bearing down on you. Whispers trailed you down the hall like a shadow, and you quickly pieced together the rumors that had spread like wildfire. Word had gotten out about you and Jeno, and Belle had undoubtedly heard every detail.
It wasn’t long before she found you. Standing by your locker, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, her glare twisted your stomach into knots.
“I can’t believe you, Y/N,” Belle hissed, her voice sharp and full of venom. “You promised me you’d be there for me. You said you’d help me with Jeno, and instead, you—” She cut herself off, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.
You swallowed hard, guilt and shame coiling tightly in your chest. “Belle, I—”
“No,” she interrupted, her eyes flashing with hurt. “Don’t. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Everyone’s talking about how you left the party together. You think I didn’t see the way he looks at you?”
Your heart plummeted, a heavy weight in your stomach. You longed to explain, to articulate that it hadn’t been what it looked like, that you hadn’t intended for any of it to happen. But deep down, you knew the truth: you had crossed a line, and no amount of explanation would erase the breach of trust.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.
“It’s not fair. I was so close to having him, Y/N. I was right there, and then you had to ruin it for me.” Belle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her expression hardened like ice. “You’re a liar. You promised to help,” she spat coldly, turning away from you. “You’re no better than the rest of them. Maybe you should’ve tried harder not to ruin everything.”
And just like that, she walked away, leaving you with the sharp sting of her betrayal echoing in the silence behind her.
You stood there, frozen, as the world around you faded into a blurry haze of whispers and judgmental stares. The hallway stretched out longer than usual, each step feeling like an uphill battle against the suffocating air thick with unspoken words. You could almost see the rumours swirling like storm clouds, brewing around you as classmates shot knowing glances. Some gleeful, others disdainful, while they whispered behind your back, oblivious to the truth.
You made it through the day by shrinking into yourself, avoiding everyone as if they were fragments of glass waiting to cut you. Each laugh from a group nearby felt like a mockery, reminding you of how the moments you shared with Jeno now felt like scattered shards, impossible to clean up without inflicting wounds on your heart. Every time you caught a glimpse of him in the halls, your chest tightened as his eyes flicked toward you for just a fleeting second before looking away, as if that one shared night had evaporated into thin air. Maybe it had for him.
The days following that night passed under a strange, silent agreement between you and Jeno. Neither of you acknowledged what had happened. No messages. No lingering glances. No awkward conversations. It was as if you had both silently decided that pretending it hadn’t meant anything was the easiest way to cope. But you couldn't shake the feeling that, to him, it truly hadn’t.
At school, Jeno slipped seamlessly back into the rhythm of his life, surrounded by his friends, laughter pouring from their mouths as if nothing had changed. He blended effortlessly into the crowd of popular kids, exuding an air of confidence that was painfully absent in you. Later, you overheard snippets of their conversations, casual, dismissive remarks. “She’s not worth it, man. You could do way better,” Haechan chuckled, as if your very existence was a punchline. Jeno merely shrugged, his indifference cutting deeper than any blade. “It was nothing.”
The words pierced through your carefully constructed defences, more painful than you could have anticipated. They shouldn’t have stung; after all, you had spent the entire weekend convincing yourself that you didn’t care, that it was just a fleeting moment. But those three words echoed in your mind, a relentless mantra: It was nothing.
Still, you played your part. Whenever you passed him in the halls or found yourself near his group during lunch, you donned a mask of indifference so convincingly that you almost started to believe it yourself. You laughed with your other friends, pretended to focus in class, and convinced yourself that forgetting was the best option. You were adept at pretending, had to be, but that night continued to linger, haunting you like a bittersweet melody you couldn't silence.
The only person who seemed to peel back your façade was Mark. You never spoke about that night directly, but he could read between the lines. He noticed the way your gaze avoided Jeno, how your laughter felt forced, and how your smile no longer reached your eyes.
One afternoon, when the weight of everything felt too heavy to bear, you found yourself gravitating toward Mark. He sat on the grass at the edge of the soccer field, scribbling furiously in his notebook. You dropped down beside him, the warmth of the sun contrasting with the cold ache in your chest. He looked up, brow raised, but he didn’t say anything right away, giving you space to breathe.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” you finally admitted, staring into the distance as the horizon blurred with your emotions.
Mark closed his notebook, shifting his full attention to you. “Want to talk about it?”
You shook your head, frustration bubbling inside you. “Not really. Just… everything’s a mess.”
He didn’t press you, but his unwavering gaze bore into you, his concern palpable. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I can tell you’re not okay.”
The tightness in your chest intensified at his words, and you forced a laugh that felt hollow. “It’s not a big deal. I barely even remember that night, anyway.”
Mark didn’t buy it. He never did. “You don’t have to lie to me. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too.”
The silence stretched between you, filled with all the unsaid things that hung heavy in the air. You stared at the ground, fighting the emotions that threatened to spill over.
“Jeno didn’t say anything, did he?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could hold it back.
Mark sighed, leaning back on his hands. “He’s pretending it never happened, too. His friends… Well, they’re being assholes, like always. Told him he could do better. You know how they are.”
You nodded, the weight of disappointment sinking deeper into your bones. Of course they would say that. Of course Jeno would follow their lead. It was easier to dismiss the connection you had shared, to act like you hadn’t been wrapped up in each other, sharing warmth and vulnerability in a way that felt almost sacred.
Sensing your shift in mood, Mark nudged your shoulder lightly, offering a small smile. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend to understand what’s going on in Jeno’s head. But you deserve better than this, better than being some secret he feels like he has to hide.”
His words wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, yet they only amplified the ache in your heart. You wished it didn’t hurt so much, wished you could just move on like Jeno seemed to. But the truth was, that night had meant something to you. Even if you shouldn’t have felt that way, even if you tried to convince yourself otherwise, it did.
It wasn’t just the gossip or the whispers that hurt; it was the entire situation. The reality that you had gotten swept up in something so fleeting, yet so consuming. You felt like you were living on a stage, where every move was scrutinised, turned into something larger than life. Belle, Jeno, his friends; they were all part of that act, and now, so were you. You thought back to the party, to the fragile intimacy you had shared with Jeno, the way you had intertwined your lives for a moment. But the harsh reality was that it hadn’t been real. Not for him.
When you got home, you collapsed onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling, its familiar texture suddenly feeling foreign and oppressive. The quiet of your room suffocated you, amplifying the echoes of whispers and judgment that had followed you all day. It should have been a relief to escape the chaos, but instead, it was a stark reminder of how alone you felt. Gone were the masks and the laughter; all that remained was the haunting silence, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.
Your phone buzzed, and for a fleeting moment, hope flickered inside you. Maybe it was Jeno, maybe he finally had something to say, something that could bridge the chasm that had formed between you two. But as you glanced down, the screen illuminated a message from Mark instead.
Mark: How you holding up?
You stared at the words, the glow of the screen casting a pale light over your uncertainty. Mark had always been the one to see beyond your carefully constructed façade, the only person who didn’t press for answers you weren’t ready to give. His concern was palpable even through the digital barrier, but the weight of your own feelings made it hard to respond.
You: I don’t know.
The reply felt painfully inadequate, a thin veil over the storm churning inside you. You tossed your phone aside, pulling your knees up to your chest, as if trying to protect your heart from the world outside. What did you even want at this point? Jeno wasn’t coming back to fix things, and Belle was probably rehearsing her next round of accusations. You felt caught in a strange, uncomfortable limbo, yearning to forget while being unable to erase the vivid memories of that night.
In the days that followed, you had tried to convince yourself the night with Jeno was nothing more than a fleeting mistake, a moment spurred by alcohol and the warmth of the moment. But now, as the realization washed over you, it became painfully clear: you had wanted it to mean something more. You craved the way he looked at you that night—not with the haze of drunken affection, but with something deeper, something that could fill the void you felt inside.
But he didn’t. He never would.
You remained motionless on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling the silence stretch around you like a shroud. Your phone buzzed again, probably Mark checking in, but you couldn’t muster the energy to respond. The weight of your decisions pressed heavily on your chest, reminding you of the loss that had settled in your heart.
You had lost your best friend, sacrificed your bond with Belle for something ephemeral, and now, you were left to pick up the pieces alone. And maybe that was what hurt the most. The realization that in the end, none of it had felt real. Not the intimate moments shared with Jeno, not the friendship you had thought you could count on with Belle. Everything felt built on a shaky foundation, fragile and destined to crumble.
As you lay there, you reached for your phone, hoping to drown out the noise in your head with music. You scrolled through your playlist, searching for anything that could take you away from this moment. And then it started, the familiar notes of Crush Culture by Conan Gray filled the room, wrapping around you like a bittersweet embrace.
With each lyric, you felt a rush of recognition that hit you like a truck. Crush culture makes me wanna spill my guts out. The words resonated deeply, echoing the tumult of emotions swirling inside you. It was as if Conan had taken the scattered pieces of your heart and crafted them into a song, pulling at the very strings of your soul.
The lines about fleeting moments, unreciprocated feelings, and the pain of wanting something that was never truly yours surged through you. You closed your eyes, allowing the music to wash over you, each note igniting memories of that night with Jeno. The way he held you, the laughter you shared, the promises whispered in the dark. But with each line, the weight of reality crashed down harder, reminding you of the distance that had grown between you since then.
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, the catharsis almost overwhelming as the song played on. You could feel every word burrowing into your heart, every melody capturing the longing you tried to hide. This wasn’t just about Jeno; it was about everything you had lost, everything you had poured into moments that turned out to be nothing but illusions.
And in that moment, you felt a fragile clarity. You might be lost now, but you wouldn’t stay that way forever. The lyrics continued to echo around you, each syllable a promise that you would find a way through the pain, that you could reclaim your voice, your heart, and maybe, just maybe, discover what it meant to feel whole again.
As the song faded into silence, you lay back against your pillows, allowing the tears to flow freely. It was time to face the truth, to embrace the chaos of your emotions, and to start piecing together a new beginning. And with that thought, you closed your eyes, a flicker of hope igniting within you. A hope that lingered long after the last notes faded away.
summary. your love is pursuing his dreams as a violinmaker in italy, leaving you to wait for his return.
genre. slight angst. fluff. based on whisper of the heart.
warnings. some crying. reader feels lost and alone and like she's not good enough :( not proofread.
pairing. zhanghao x fem!reader.
wc. 1.3k.
request. no.
a/n. tiánxīn = sweetheart btw. ofc hao is already perfect for the role of seiji cause he plays violin (also he looks like seiji fight me). for all the other writers out there (even tho i don't ever plan to get properly published) we all relate to shizuku so much :') her struggles are so relatable and i just love whisper of the heart so much i think its such a beautiful and underrated ghibli movie. divider by @/aquazero.
The night air nipped at your cheeks as thoughts swirled in your head. Hundreds of worries, feelings, and uncertainties followed you wherever you went, and all you could wish was to be back in high school when everything felt a bit easier. Back with Hao to occupy all your thoughts and in turn take your mind off of everything.
Sometimes you wondered if waiting was really worth it. You were doing your best to pursue your dreams, do well in your final year of university, and throw yourself and your work at different publishers, hoping that one liked you enough to give you a chance. But you felt like a constant failure in comparison to your boyfriend. You’d always thought opportunities were more beneficial than school. Hao only seemed to prove that to you.
He was working in Italy, getting valuable skills from the masters. You were still stuck in your hometown, going to the same university everyone else in your family had gone to, trapped in the same system. You wanted to get out, prove yourself, do something meaningful with your life. But did you even have the talent to? Were you even worth it?
On nights where your thoughts just wouldn’t leave you alone, you grabbed a handful of Hao’s letters and walked up the hill back to the spot where you used to watch the sunrise with him. You missed him more than anything. Without his presence, you felt lost. There was no one to ground you, no one to reassure you, no one to believe in your flimsy dreams.
You hadn’t received a new letter in a while, and you were starting to wonder if it was a post issue, or if Hao was too busy to write. You hoped you would get one soon. It was the start of Winter already, and a breeze blew past you, causing a chill to run up your spine. You hugged Hao’s old jacket closer on your body. It must be even colder in Italy…
You slid one of the old letters out from its envelope. You were always careful to keep everything intact. From the colourful wax seals to the elegantly written address, to the coarse texture of the fancy paper, everything about it was precious to you. Hao was always meticulous, and his presence could be felt from every detail of the card.
Tiánxīn, how are things back at home? Lonely.
How is your writing? Did you finish the last 3 chapters you were struggling to write? I finished the final draft last Saturday. Are you proud of me?
I’m doing well here, although I never stop missing you. At least one feeling is mutual.
It’s the beginning of Spring as I write this, and the flowers are starting to bloom. Every pink bud reminds me of you. How are you always so romantic, Zhang Hao?
I taught some kids how to hold a violin properly the other day— one of them almost dropped it. I swear my life flashed before my eyes. If they had broken it, I could’ve gotten kicked out. They don’t know that they’re handling a piece of wood worth thousands of dollars. As much as it scared me in the moment, spending time with the kids cheered me up. Childhood innocence is an endearing thing, don’t you think? It is. Is it bad that I wished you had gotten kicked out just so I could see you sooner? I want you to tell me everything about Italy with your own voice.
I’m starting to find beauty in things that used to annoy me. It’s a strange feeling, but I think I could get used to it. The flowers used to only make me sneeze, but now they’re a gentle reminder of who I’m living every day for. Children used to get on my nerves, but now I can only think of your baby pictures. I keep working hard every day hoping that I’ll get a break to come visit soon. I’ve been saving up for tickets. Hopefully before Winter, I’ll be back in your arms. It’s Winter now… I miss your arms around me.
Ever yours,
Hao
You could only sigh and blink back the tears that had formed on your waterline. Why did he make you miss him so much? You sniffed, from the emotions and from the cold. It was getting even later in the night, and while you didn’t want to leave your special spot, you also needed sleep.
When you got back to your cheap apartment, you sprayed some of Hao’s perfume on your pillow and changed into pyjamas. It was funny how much time went into hunting for the exact fragrance he wore; but you had been thankful for it every single day since you bought it. Any way you could to bring traces of him back to your home was worth it. You fell asleep hugging the pillow tightly and hoping that he would grace you in your dreams.
A soft puff of air hit your nose making you scrunch it up. It woke you out of your slumber, but not enough to open your eyes yet. You were in a confused bleary state trying to figure out where it came from. You definitely didn’t leave the fan on in the middle of Winter, so why…?
“Tiánxīn, wake up.”
You blinked your eyes open slowly, furrowing your eyebrows as the view came into focus. Light from the morning sun shone through the window, cascading down until it hit the side of a face. Hao’s face.
“Am I still dreaming?” You whispered. A lump formed in your throat at the thought that you were— you must be. How could he be right in front of you? He was still far away in Italy.
He shook his head, a smile splayed on his lips. He moved closer, his weight dipping down on the bed. You could only stare, memorising everything about him. His eyelashes fluttered as his gaze dropped to your hand and he reached to hold it. His hands were warm and the skin of his palm was soft, although his fingertips were roughened by calluses after years of playing strings. He cupped your cheek with his other hand, brushing his thumb against your skin.
“I missed you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to come visit.” He frowned slightly as he saw tears start to build in your eyes. You squeezed his hand, as if still deciphering whether he was actually real. It had truly been years since he had first gone for his apprenticeship and then got accepted full time to make violins and teach. Although you had communicated through letters, it could never compare to being with him like this.
“It’s okay.” You tried to steady your voice, force the lump in your throat down, blink back the tears. But you couldn’t with him right there.
“Don’t cry.” He wiped your tears carefully, his touch soft as always.
“Kiss me. Please?”
And he obliged. He would always do anything within his power to see you happy. If you told him one day to fly to the moon and bring you back a piece of it, he was sure he would find a way, just to see you smile. The feeling of kissing him again was indescribable. You’d forgotten how it felt to be kissed by his soft lips, how they melded with yours like a dream. As if you two were meant to be.
You knew you always were. Your love story, although it sometimes felt tragic, was like something out of a fairytale. You would never forget the lengths Hao went just to get your attention. How ambitious, determined, and caring he was. He was your constant motivation to keep striving to be better.
It was hard to live for your dream while being so far apart from him. Part of you knew that he would have to go back. Maybe in a month, maybe in only a week. Maybe sooner than that. Your heart would break once again saying goodbye to him.
But, for now, as he kissed you in the morning sunlight on your bed, you felt your heart healing from his touch. The long years away from him were a small price to pay for moments as precious as these.
↳ zerobaseone taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @okshu,, @chewryy,, @haecien,, @sobun1est,,
GYUVIN IN A PRIVATE BUT NOT SECRET RELATIONSHIP ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆ smau !
idol!gyuvin x idol!reader (female), y/n is faceless ^_^
other members: matthew gunwook
another zb1 post in celebration of the new cb ( ๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ♡ and scratch what i said about charlie being the only tolerable puppy ever because no one can dethrone my baby eumppapa
genre. fluff.
warnings. gyuvin is shirtless ‼️⁉️ n reader gets very shy. AND GYUVIN IS SO FLIRTY GOD. not proofread cause it's 6 am and i'm going to sleep but i'll fix it later if i have to skdjsk.
pairing. gyuvin x fem!reader.
wc. 1k.
request. requested by 🥟 anon for prompt #27: "eyes up here, idiot" ++ written for @blue-jisungs <3 (i forgot if this was a deal before or not but uhh ik im getting gunwook in return for finishing this so a win is a win 💪)
a/n. the zb1 delusions continue guys (send more in if u have any 😭‼️)
You had never been a fan of summer. The overwhelming heat, sticky sweat, and endless free time just clashed with you. As soon as summer started, you were already counting down the days until it would end, much preferring winter to it any year.
But, as you sat on the pool chair under an umbrella, you realized that summer might have at least one perk to it. And that was your boyfriend shirtless at the pool.
You had been dubious at the idea of swimming with your boyfriend’s friends when he suggested the idea to you that morning. It was only your second or third time hanging out with them, and you never particularly liked water activities. But all your prior reluctance seemed to have disappeared into thin air the second Gyuvin walked out of the house with iced lemonade in his hands and a very clear absence of any swim top.
You couldn’t help but blush at the sight. Truthfully, the most you had seen was him in a tank top as the weather got warmer. You were always one to take things slowly, and while you knew he worked out and definitely had muscles hiding underneath, you were never in a rush to see them. Maybe because you knew you would get flustered like you were now.
Gyuvin’s eyes searched for yours, as they always did when he was apart from you for any amount of time. His face brightened when he spotted you sitting cross legged on the pool chair, book in your lap, trying your best to look anywhere but him.
“Want some lemonade?” He asked as he walked over, holding a cool glass topped with a pink straw and a paper umbrella. The sun shined straight down on him, doing wonders to warm his skin tone to a rich golden colour, his chest and abdomen catching the warmth of it as well.
He had told himself he wouldn’t get his hopes up about your reaction to him being shirtless. He loved having an effect over you; it boosted his ego. But he didn’t want to be cocky. It was true that he had worked on his chest and abs a little harder specifically for you. Who could blame him for wanting to look nice for his girlfriend? He just wanted to match up to how pretty you were.
He didn’t miss the way you were avoiding eye contact, or the flush that was taking over your face. Now that he saw how shy you were, he couldn’t help the grin that spread to his face. You took the lemonade from him and used it as a distraction, although you snuck another peak at his stomach when he handed you the glass.
“The boys want to do a relay race. I’ll be back once I win!” He said cheerfully, leaning over your chair to give you a kiss on the forehead.
You let out a sigh of relief when he turned away from you, so sure you were going to completely melt into a puddle under his stare if he looked at you for even a second longer. Watching him from a distance was infinitely easier on your racing heart.
The boys did several rounds of relay races, and then started to play catch with some pool toys. You just watched them with a smile on your face. They were having fun, and you loved to hear your boyfriend’s laugh. He was on a team with Jiwoong, Yujin, and Ricky for a game of pool volleyball, and somehow, miraculously, they won against the others.
You saw Gyuvin cheer, hugging Ricky in celebration. It was cute how hard they celebrated just for winning a game of pool volleyball. Gyuvin then turned to you, grinning as your eyes met. You smiled at him and he beckoned you over to him, meeting you at the side of the pool.
You dipped your feet into the water, sitting on the poolside as the other boys got out to dry off. Gyuvin swam over to you, still somehow taller than you despite standing much lower in the water.
“Did you see I got the winning point?” He laughed, pushing his hair back off of his forehead as he got to the edge of the pool.
“I saw! It was a super close game.” You smiled as he wrapped your legs around his waist, closing the little distance between you two. “You know, you distracted me from my book.” You draped your arms around his bare shoulders, not minding how they were still wet from the water.
He started to smile, “Oh? How so, baby?” He teased, already knowing where this was going.
“How am I supposed to focus on anything when you’re shirtless?” It was hard to even say it in front of him, the sight of his smirk widening making you blush. You would’ve run away from his teasing if you could, but he had you trapped, hands securely on your waist, keeping you close to him.
“Eye's up here, idiot.” His eyes twinkled as he lifted a hand to your cheek, feeling how warm it was. You couldn’t even think of a suitable defense to save yourself from the embarrassment given how your brain was short-circuiting. Not that Gyuvin gave you any time to respond regardless, much more focused on capturing your lips with his.
Seeing you shy only made him bolder, confidence bubbling in his chest more than it ever had before. Your blush was already the most adorable sight Gyuvin had ever seen, but to know it appeared because of him made his heart warm in his chest.
Summer’s biggest perk was definitely this. Shy giggles, flushed cheeks, and warm kisses shared in the pool with your (shirtless) boyfriend.
↳ zerobaseone taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @okshu,, @chewryy,, @haecien,, @sobun1est,,
1.3k words, est. relationship au, hurt/comfort, minor fluff but more angst?, a bit of silliness, mentions of work pressures, neck kisses, intimacy, mentions of playful biting, pretty much not beta'd or proofread (past my bedtime; written in an hour)
a/n: @kimsohn saw some of the goofiness first <3 ily (*breathes in deeply* idk what im doing guys. anyways, this belongs in the category labeled "i get yappy and sappy when im existentially exhausted")
In the dark, the clock on top of the oven screamed “3:22AM” in angry, red light. You stumbled past it, vision blurry and footsteps as quiet as you could make them against the hardwood. Your bones ached to the marrow and you could feel the blood throbbing violently in your skull; you could not sleep.
It had been three hours of tossing and turning before you completely gave up and slipped out into the kitchen. Usually, it wasn't too difficult for you to fall asleep, but alas, there would always be exceptions.
You managed to find the opened bag of tangerines on the kitchen counter, the orange, wiry mesh already torn from the last person who'd grabbed one to snack on. As your eyes grew accustomed to the dark, you dug your nail into its skin and began to peel it open.
Through your daze, you just barely registered the sound of the bedroom door opening—footsteps followed after and came closer; they weren't trying to stay quiet like you were, as there wasn't any reason to anymore. Hands patted you down from your shoulders to your arms until they could settle comfortably around your waist; his body slid flush against your back like a puzzle piece, still warm from being in bed. Hair tickled the underside of your jaw as he nestled his chin into the crook of your shoulder, the ghost of his breath fanning across your skin like a caress, relieved.
“Did I wake you?” You murmured, forcing yourself awake a little as you felt him lean more of his weight against you.
A low hum. “Bed got cold.”
The corners of your mouth tilted upward as you stuck a piece of fruit into your mouth—it was summer; the bed couldn't have been cold. Juice spilled over your tongue in a comfortingly sweet tang, and you went for another. “Sorry, love. Do you want some?” You asked, holding onto a piece of tangerine.
“Mm-mm,” Changmin hummed, shaking his head with a slight movement. You felt his arms give your body a squeeze. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice small.
You shoveled the remainder of the tangerine half into your mouth, hands reaching for another one to keep yourself busy as you chewed, then swallowed. “Tired.”
“Is it the thing?”
Just the thought of the thing—the project you were given charge of at work—made you wish the ground would swallow you up. Your hands stilled on the orange.
The project was the first you were given a manager role for, as they thought it appropriate because you came up with the idea, but it seemed to only be an excuse to overload you with every Herculean task they could think of. You were practically chained to your cubicle desk until day's end, only leaving to go to the bathroom and attend another god forsaken meeting. Where home was supposed to be for rest, you were often slumped over the dining table, stressing yourself silver.
The thought of Monday… no, you couldn't think of Monday. You'd gone so long working on this thing—how could they make you loathe an idea that you proposed?
At your lack of an answer, there came a small breath against your neck. His thumb gently rubbed your side back and forth, the ebb and flow of the tide. “I'm sorry, baby. I know it doesn't mean much, but I'm proud of you.”
“It does mean something,” you countered quietly, and moved one of your hands to place it over his that rested over your stomach. “I'm just—I hate it here sometimes.”
The two of you seemed to sigh at once, your chests raising up then deflating in tandem. It made the knots in your shoulders loosen for just a moment, and you could release some of the strain keeping you tight and awake.
“One more,” he coaxed lowly. “In—”
You both slowly pulled air up through your nose to fill the caverns in your chests.
“—Out.”
As all things came and went, so too did this breath.
“Good,” he murmured, his lips pressing something sweet against your throat.
You were too tired to cry, but you might have just then. Sometimes it was just a project, but other times it was everything to you. It was born from your two hands, your brains, your back, your bones. Plenty of blood, sweat, and tears had seeped into every proposal and presentation, but you could never tell if it was enough. Would it ever be enough?
Changmin's head shifted as you snuck another piece of orange past your lips. “Remember,” he said, “when we were in college, and I let you text girls on my Hinge?”
Your mouth sweetened into a smile at the memory. “It was only because I let you text the guy who'd given me his number.”
“He was so lame—he clearly just wanted you to go see that new Stephen King movie so he could hold your hand.” You could feel him roll his eyes in the dark, though his voice remained syrupy with sleep.
You held back a snort. “That's the point, hon. If I remember correctly, the pick-up lines I used on those girls actually worked.”
“Crazy.”
Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. You chewed on the next piece of fruit, swallowing it down before speaking again. “At least one of us has game.”
You felt the light pressure of his teeth against your shoulder, and you let out a surprised laugh. You didn't jerk away though—awfully used to your partner's strange language of affection—but you did push back against his forehead in lighthearted reprimand. “We talked about the biting.”
“Yeah, and you said you liked it.”
It was a good thing you didn't have fruit in your mouth. You warmed the slice of orange in your palm as you let the heat leave your cheeks and your neck. He could undoubtedly feel how flushed you were, and he seemed to preen at it.
“Gotcha,” he said smugly, and the smile on his lips molded against your skin as he left a kiss behind your ear. He nuzzled his nose there, too, fingers dancing along your side.
“I love you,” he said next. These words were quiet again. “I hate seeing you like this.”
You knew he meant the state he found you in—hunched over in the dark, eyes glazed over, and dread thrashing in your ears to fill the silence. The laughter that lit up your face just now had been his doing, his attempt at easing all of that burden.
You laid your head against his. “I love you, too.” You hated feeling this way, but some things had to be done. You had to see this one through, and you would.
“Don't run yourself ragged for this,” he said, as if reading your mind. “Can't let you lose yourself.”
The corners of your eyes prickled, your vision going blurry again. Your chewing slowed and you finished the last of the orange in your hands to clear the way for him to grab your fingers to intertwine them with his. He rocked your bodies slowly, dreamily—he was the gentle swaying of the waves beneath the raft you laid upon—and he was keeping you above water.
“Senior year of high school—” a miniscule break in his own voice, “—when college decisions came out… you didn't speak for so long, didn't eat. It was so quiet, and I—I didn't know how to help you.” Back then, the two of you were only labeled as best friends; you still hadn't decided if what you had back then was what you had now, but it was love in some form of the word and feeling. You supposed in every phase of knowing Ji Changmin, what you felt for him was love. “Can I help you now, please? How can I help you?”
You sucked in a breath and it came out trembling. “I'm just tired.”
“Yeah.”
“Just—that’s all. Just be here with me.”
You could feel his slight nod that turned into a tuck into your shoulder. Your pulse fluttered beneath the brush of his lips, his hands tightening around you. (I'm not going anywhere, not without you.)
In a night quickly dissolving into daylight, he held you and held you and held you.
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