Im deactivating my acc cause life too busy and I’m burying this site down my teenage memories box.
lol it’s been so hard irl now and I working 3 jobs at once and barely online anymore.
I want to thanks all my brilliant and magnificent creators of this site and all my moots and my followers. Thank you for making this site enjoyable for me for 9 years. wow 😮
Pairing: Coursemate! Haechan × Y/N (university setting)
Genre: Enemies-to-lovers, soulmate AU, not-so-slow-burn, music major vibes
Word count: ~5.5k
Warnings: Writing and drawing on skin, coffee, music equipment, sarcasm, “idiot” word, soulmate stuff…
Vibe: Two rival music students discover their anonymous soulmate messages were meant for each other all along, turning rivalry into love. 🎶✨
A/N: It’s been a few months… lol. I never really had the energy to write after finishing my last story. I still have two WIPs I want to release, but I’m debating whether it’s worth uploading since the plot’s messy and I’m stuck connecting the characters. So, I decided to start something new, this AU I’ve been loving to read. Writing this was refreshing, even if it’s a bit of a side-track from what I originally planned. Anyway… as long as it’s finally out of my drafts.
Happy Christmas, everyone! 🎄 Hope you’re having a lovely day, and may your socks stay warm for the rest of the winter. 🧦✨
In this world, the concept of a soulmate wasn't a vague spiritual feeling; it was ink and skin. Whatever marks you made on your own body, a reminder scrawled on a palm, a doodle on a thigh, a phone number on a wrist, appeared instantaneously on your soulmate's body in the exact same spot. It usually started around the age of eighteen, a chaotic transition into adulthood marked by sudden, phantom scribbles.
For you and Lee Donghyuck, the rivalry began long before you knew the ink connected you. It started Freshman year, Introduction to Sound Design. You had spent hours perfecting a mix, Donghyuck had walked in late, improvised a patch on a synthesizer that made the professor weep with joy, and then accidentally tripped over your power cord, erasing your unsaved project.
From that moment on, it was war. He was the chaos to your order, the prodigy to your practice, the loud, brash technicolor noise to your meticulously equalized silence. You were always vying for the same scholarships, the same studio time, and the same praise from the faculty.
But while you spent your days glaring at the back of Haechan's head in lecture halls, you spent your nights writing to a stranger. You didn't know his name, and he didn't know yours, a mutual agreement to keep the magic alive, or perhaps just a fear of reality ruining the fantasy. He was your escape.
He was the one person who understood the crushing weight of creative burnout, even if he expressed it through dramatic complaints about calculus rather than audio engineering. You hated Lee Donghyuck. You loved the boy in the ink. You just never imagined they could be the same person, or that the collision of these two worlds was inevitable.
—
The catalyst for that collision arrived on a humid Tuesday morning, a day that felt like every other mundane university day until it wasn't. The first thing you felt as consciousness returned was the familiar, phantom scratch of a ballpoint pen against your left inner wrist. It wasn’t yours, and yet the sensation was as intimate as a touch, a ghostly tickle that resonated through your nerves.
You groaned, slapping your alarm clock into silence and peering at your arm through bleary, sleep-crusted eyes. The ink was black, the handwriting scrawled and hurried, as if the person on the other end was rushing to finish a thought before a professor walked in or a bus reached its stop.
Calculus is the invention of the devil. Save me. You couldn't help the small, sleepy smile that tugged at your lips. Your soulmate was nothing if not dramatic. It was a trait you had grown fond of over the years, this unseen boy who carried his heart on his sleeve, quite literally.
You reached for a blue pen on your nightstand, you always kept a small jar of them there for these moments, and uncapped it with your teeth, the plastic clicking against your incisors.
Good morning to you too, Mr. Meltdown, you wrote back, the blue ink blooming on your skin and, presumably, his. If Calculus is the devil, what does that make 8 AM lectures? Surely there’s a special circle of hell for those.
You watched with bated breath as the response appeared almost instantly. The ink seemed to seep out of your pores, black and bold against your pale skin.
Purgatory. Definitely purgatory. Why are we here? Just to suffer?
You huffed a laugh and finally rolled out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. "Hang in there," you whispered to the empty air of your dorm room, knowing he couldn't hear you, but hoping he felt the warmth of the sentiment.
Northern Crest University (NCU) was a sprawling labyrinth of brick and glass, currently drowning in the humid haze of mid-September. The air smelled of damp earth and burnt espresso. You were a third-year Music Production major, which meant your life was a revolving door of soundproof rooms, expensive software crashing at the worst moments, and the unavoidable presence of Lee Donghyuck.
You were halfway to the Fine Arts building when a familiar hand clamped onto your shoulder. You jumped, nearly dropping your heavy laptop bag.
"Morning, sunshine! Or should I say, morning, person-who-clearly-hasn't-had-enough-coffee?"
You turned to see Minji, your closest friend and a fellow survivor of the Music Production program. She was already nursing a jumbo-sized latte, her eyes bright despite the early hour.
"Don't start," you muttered, though you leaned into her side as you walked. "The soulmate was having a crisis at 7 AM. Something about the inherent evil of derivatives."
Minji grinned, glancing at the ink peek-a-boo-ing from beneath your sleeve. "At least your soulmate is a math geek. Mine just leaves shopping lists on my calf. Yesterday I walked through the gym with 'buy more kale' written in cursive on my leg. It was humiliating."
"I'd take kale over Calculus rants," you sighed. "I have the Audio Engineering lab now, and I just know Donghyuck is going to be in one of his moods. He's been insufferable since he got that internship offer at the studio downtown."
Minji gave you a knowing look, the one she always used when you brought up his name, which was often. "You know, for someone you claim to loathe, you sure do spend a lot of time tracking his career milestones. Maybe you two should just get it over with and have a screaming match in the rain or something."
"I’d rather drop my MIDI controller into a bathtub," you retorted as you reached the doors of the lab. "I'll see you at lunch?"
"Try not to let him get under your skin too much," she called out with a wave, disappearing into the crowd of students. You returned her wave with a tired smile, but as soon as she was out of sight, a shadow loomed over you.
"Move it or lose it, slowpoke. Some of us have actual talent to display today," a voice chimed from behind you, dripping with mock-superiority.
You didn't even have to turn around. You knew that distinct, honey-soaked tenor anywhere. It was a voice that could hit a high C as easily as it could shatter your remaining patience.
Lee Donghyuck. Haechan to his friends, a nickname that meant "Full Sun," which you found ironic because he was usually the cloud blocking yours.
He breezed past you in the narrow hallway leading to the Audio Engineering lab, his leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, a pristine iced Americano in his hand. He walked backwards for a few steps, grinning at you with that mischievous, cat-like glint in his eyes that made half the campus swoon and the other half, specifically you, want to reach for the nearest heavy object.
"I have a name, Donghyuck, and I suggest you use it before I 'accidentally' delete your latest back tracks," you snapped, clutching your binder to your shield.
"I know your name," he winked, the sunlight from the hallway window catching the gold of his earrings. "But 'slowpoke' fits your morning vibe better. You look like you wrestled a tornado and lost. Rough night with the soulmate?"
You stiffened, your hand instinctively covering the blue and black ink on your wrist. "It’s called 'styling,' and my soulmate is none of your business. Get out of my way. If I’m late for Professor Lee’s lecture, I’m taking you down with me."
Donghyuck laughed, a bright, full sound that bounced off the lockers and echoed in the corridor. He spun around and fell into step beside you, his long strides making your brisk pace look like a desperate scramble. "Relax. Lee loves me. I’m his star student, remember? I can get you a hall pass."
"You're nobody's favorite," you muttered, though the lie tasted bitter.
The problem with Lee Donghyuck was that he was undeniably, frustratingly brilliant. His musicality was intuitive, his production skills were lightyears ahead of the curve, and he possessed a natural charisma that charmed the harshest critics. He was also loud, clingy, and delighted in pushing your buttons until you were vibrating with rage.
You entered the lab and sat at your usual workstation in the back corner. Donghyuck, naturally, slid into the seat directly next to you, despite the entire row of high-end Mac stations being completely empty.
"Personal space, Donghyuck. Look into it. It’s a revolutionary concept," you hissed, booting up your Logic Pro session.
"Doesn't exist in the industry, sweetheart," he quipped, spinning in his ergonomic chair. He leaned over, his shoulder brushing yours, scenting the air with expensive cologne and coffee. "Check your levels. You're peaking on the input. Your gain staging is a mess."
You glared at him, ready to argue, but when you looked at your monitor, the red clip lights were indeed blinking on your preamp. You adjusted the dial silently, hating that he could diagnose a technical error just by looking at a waveform.
As Professor Lee began his drone-like lecture on frequency spectrums and the physics of sound, you felt that familiar, distracting tickle on your forearm. You pulled your cardigan sleeve down, shielding your skin from Donghyuck’s prying, sharp eyes.
Guy next to me is breathing too loud. Is homicide justifiable in a court of law? Asking for a friend.
You bit your lip to suppress a giggle that threatened to disrupt the silent room. You glanced sideways at Donghyuck. He was currently spinning a silver pen between his fingers with practiced ease, staring intently at the whiteboard, looking for all the world like he was the perfect student.
You uncapped your pen under the safety of the desk.
Only if you hide the body well. Dig a deep hole, Mr. Math. Who is he?
The reply came with a frantic intensity that made your skin itch.
Some Music major. Thinks he's God's gift to audio interfaces. Drives me insane.
You froze. The irony was so thick it was suffocating. Your soulmate was stuck next to an arrogant music major, and you were stuck next to Lee Donghyuck. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
I feel your pain, you wrote back, the ink slightly shaky. I’m currently sitting next to the most annoying human being on the planet. He’s talented, sure, but he’s a menace to society.
Beside you, Donghyuck suddenly stiffened. He knocked his heavy metal water bottle off the desk, the hollow clang echoing like a gunshot against the floor. Several students turned to look.
"You okay?" you asked, feeling a strange surge of concern despite yourself.
He blinked, looking down at the rolling bottle with a startled expression, then back up at you. His usual cocky mask had slipped, revealing a flicker of something unsettled, something that looked almost like recognition. "Yeah. Just... muscle spasm. Weird. Must be the caffeine."
—
Midterms arrived with the subtlety of a freight train, turning the campus into a collective of sleep-deprived ghosts. The university library became your primary residence. It was 11 PM on a Thursday, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the hum of a hundred laptops, and you were buried under a mountain of textbooks on acoustic theory.
Your left arm was almost entirely covered in doodles.
Over the last few years, it had become a ritual. When the stress of exams or production deadlines got too high, your soulmate would draw. He didn't just write but he created art on his skin that migrated to yours.
Sometimes it was intricate geometric patterns, sometimes little caricatures of the faculty that were dangerously accurate. Tonight, it was musical notes. A complex, soaring melody wrapped around your wrist like a delicate, inky bracelet.
You traced the lines with your fingertip, feeling the faint raised texture of where the ink had dried. It was a beautiful, melancholic tune, one you could almost hear in your head.
"Still here? You surely can't beat my score again, even if you try your hardest."
You jumped, nearly knocking over your water bottle as you slammed your book shut. Donghyuck was standing there, leaning against the mahogany bookshelf. He looked exhausted; the dark circles under his eyes were prominent, and the usual spark in his gaze was dimmed by the weight of the semester. He was wearing a baggy grey hoodie and sweatpants, his hair a mess of unstyled curls. It was a rare, vulnerable look for the campus happy boy.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," you said, your voice a hushed whisper in the quiet library.
"Sorry, didn't mean that," he said, his tone unusually soft. He didn't tease. Instead, he slid into the chair opposite you and pushed one of two vending machine coffees toward you. "Hazelnut. Extra sugar. That's your trash taste, right?"
You stared at the warm can, stunned. "You actually remembered how I take my coffee?"
"I was getting one. The machine gave me a second one for free. Don't read into it, it’s just a glitch in the matrix. " He took a long sip of his own, wincing at the heat. He sat there for a moment, just watching the way the library lights reflected in your eyes. "So. The soulmate. He’s a regular Picasso, huh?"
You instinctively pulled your sleeve down, but you were too slow. Donghyuck had already seen the musical staff winding around your arm. "He draws when he's stressed," you admitted, finally popping the tab on the coffee. "It helps us both, I think."
"Does he know who you are?" Donghyuck asked, leaning forward. "Do you guys talk about... real stuff? Or is it just 'Calculus is hard' and 'My neighbor is a jerk'?"
His voice was like deep, mellow honey in the quiet night, the kind of sound that made you think you could fall asleep to it. It felt weird for him to be asking this, but then again, it was Donghyuck; whatever went on inside that brain of his was a total mystery.
"Sometimes it’s real," you said, feeling a strange urge to be honest with him. "He's funny. He's incredibly dramatic, and he hates mornings with a passion. We complain about the people who get under our skin. It’s like having a diary that talks back." You paused, looking at his tired expression.
"What about you? Does your soulmate send you cryptic messages, or are you too busy being Lee’s favourite to notice them?"
Donghyuck went quiet. The silence between you wasn't the usual sharp, competitive quiet; it was heavy, filled with unspoken things and the soft rustle of pages turning nearby.
"I notice them," Donghyuck said finally, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your bones. "Every single mark. Sometimes I think I know her better than I know myself, but then I see her in person and I realize... I don't think I've ever been more terrified of anyone in my life."
You looked up, caught off guard by the raw vulnerability in his tone. "Are you okay, Donghyuck?" you asked softly, the usual bite in your voice replaced by a genuine concern that surprised even you.
He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and stood up abruptly. The legs of his chair scraped against the hardwood floor with a jarring sound that shattered the quiet gravity of the moment. "Well, enjoy the caffeine. Don't stay up too late, Y/N. If you look like a zombie during the mix-down tomorrow, I'm not going to be the one to fix your phase issues."
He walked away before you could even murmur a thank you, his silhouette receding into the dark, towering stacks of the library. His pace was hurried, almost frantic, as if the air between you had suddenly become too thin for him to breathe. The heavy silence of the library rushed back to fill the void he left behind, leaving nothing but a lingering, cold draft in its wake.
Looking down at your arm, you felt a sharp, sudden pang of loss. The intricate melody you had been tracing, the one that had felt so alive just moments ago, stopped abruptly halfway through a measure. This unfinished musical thought felt like a physical weight on your skin, perfectly mirroring the unresolved tension tightening in your chest.
You grabbed your pen, your heart racing for a reason you couldn't explain, a frantic, staccato rhythm that seemed to echo the sudden emptiness in the room. Every nerve ending felt raw, electrified by the strange gravity of Donghyuck’s departure and the haunting stillness of the unfinished melody on your wrist.
Are you okay? You stopped drawing. Are you sleeping already ?.
You waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The coffee grew cold in your hand.
Finally, a response appeared, the handwriting shaky and faint, as if written by a hand that was trembling.
Just realized something. I think I’m in serious trouble.
What kind of trouble? you wrote, a sudden flare of panic tightening your chest. Are you hurt?
I’ve been an idiot, and I don't know if I can fix it.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that made your vision blur slightly. You stared at the black ink, waiting for more, for an explanation, for a sign that he wasn't about to disappear forever. He’d never sounded like this, never so defeated, so genuinely afraid. It wasn't the playful drama or the petty annoyance of a neighbor. You reached for your pen, your fingers trembling so hard you almost dropped it, but before you could press the nib to your skin, the library lights flickered.
The silence around you felt suffocating, and the cold draft Donghyuck had left in his wake seemed to settle permanently in your marrow. You wanted to scream at the ink to tell you more, to tell you how to help, but the skin remained hauntingly, terrifyingly still.
—
The next few days dissolved into an agonizing double-silence. Your soulmate didn't write a single word, leaving your skin cold and empty, while Donghyuck avoided you with a calculated precision that felt far heavier than his usual teasing.
He wasn't sitting next to you in Audio Engineering anymore. He didn't wait by the lockers to make a comment about your hair or your coffee. When you passed each other in the halls of the music building, he gave a tight, polite nod, the kind you give a singer, and kept walking. The silence he left behind was louder than his noise ever was.
"Did you two finally kill each other?" Minji asked, leaning against the hallway lockers as she watched Donghyuck disappear around a corner for the third time that morning without so much as a glance in your direction. "The silence is actually kind of haunting. It’s like someone hit the master mute button on the entire floor."
"He's just being weird," you muttered, clutching your textbook tighter.
"Weird doesn't cover it. He looks like he’re dealing with massive phase cancellation every time you walk into a room, like your presence just mutes his entire frequency," she replied, her brow furrowing. "Whatever happened in that library, it broke him."
You missed him. The realization hit you with the jarring force of a sudden feedback loop in the middle of the cafeteria. You missed the bright, abrasive edge of his laugh and the way he’d lean over to tweak your EQ without asking, his proximity a constant, grounding rhythm you’d taken for granted.
Meanwhile, your soulmate had gone completely radio silent. Your skin felt like a dead channel, static and hollow where there used to be a vibrant frequency. The blank space was a physical ache, a coldness that no amount of layers could fix.
"Okay, that's it. I can't do this," you muttered to yourself, shoving your tray away.
You finished your lunch and marched toward the music department's practice rooms. You had memorized his schedule long ago, partly to avoid him, and partly, you now realized, to know where he was. He had vocal practice in the basement rooms at 2 PM.
You found him in Practice Room 4. Through the small, reinforced window in the heavy door, you saw him sitting at the grand piano. His head was buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped. He wasn't playing. The room was deathly still.
You knocked once, didn't wait for an answer, and pushed the door open.
Donghyuck jumped, his head snapping up as if he'd been caught in a crime. "Y/N? What are you doing here? This room is reserved."
"Why are you ignoring me?" you demanded, slamming the door behind you. The soundproofing was so effective that the silence of the room became a vacuum, pulling the air from your lungs.
"I'm not ignoring you," he lied, his voice flat. He stood up and began shuffling some sheet music into a disorganized pile. "I'm busy. The department showcase is next week. I have to perfect my set."
"You are," you stepped closer, into the circle of light cast by the overhead lamp. "You haven't made a single 'short' joke in three days. You didn't steal my favorite pen. You didn't try to 'help' me with my vocal comping. What did I do, Donghyuck? Just tell me."
"You didn't do anything!" Donghyuck snapped, running a hand through his hair until it stood up in frustrated tufts. "God, you're so... you’re so incredibly stubborn. Can’t you just let it be?"
"Then what is it? Why are you acting like I’m a ghost?"
"It's complicated, okay? It’s more complicated than any mix we’ve ever worked on." He wouldn't meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on the piano keys. He was gripping the edge of the instrument so hard his knuckles were stark white.
You huffed, crossing your arms and feeling the familiar heat of an argument rising. "Fine. Be that way. Keep your secrets. I thought we were at least... friend."
Suddenly, you felt it. That familiar, electric itch on your inner arm. You looked down, your breath catching. It was happening right now.
I'm looking at her right now and I’m absolutely terrified. How do I tell her?
You froze. You watched the words forming on your skin in that scrawled, black ink, the handwriting you had known for years.
Then, slowly, you looked up at Donghyuck. He had turned away from you, his back facing you as he stared intently at a stack of sheet music, his posture stiff and defensive.
"Donghyuck," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Show me your hands."
"What? No. Get out, Y/N. I need to practice." He didn't move, his shoulders hunching as if he could hide within himself. He took a small step further away, towards the corner of the room, his stillness confirming every suspicion blooming in your mind.
"Show me your hands, Lee Donghyuck"
You step forward, fueled by a mixture of desperation and a sudden, crystalline clarity. You grabbed his right arm before he could retreat further into the shadows. He tried to pull away, a brief struggle ensuing, but you held on with everything you had, yanking his hand out and forcing him to face you.
There, clutched in his trembling fingers, was a black ballpoint pen.
And on his left wrist, in the unmistakable blue ink of your favorite pen, your ink, were the words you had written days ago: What kind of trouble?
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The air in the soundproof room felt like it had been replaced by pure electricity.
You looked from his wrist to his face. Donghyuck looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His face was flushing a deep, violent red that reached the tips of his ears.
"It's you," you breathed, the words barely audible. "All this time... the Calculus, the doodles, the dramatic rants..."
Donghyuck let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a balloon deflating. His shoulders slumped, the fight leaving him entirely. "Yeah. It's me. Mr. Dramatic, Mr. Meltdown, in the flesh. Take your pick."
"Why didn't you tell me the second you knew?" you asked, your voice rising in a mix of indignation and sheer, overwhelming disbelief. "In the library! When you sat there with those coffees, looking at me like you were giving up, you knew then, didn't you? You sat right across from me, watching me trace your ink, and you didn't say a word. You let me keep writing to a 'stranger' while you were right in front of me."
The realization hit you like a physical wave, the timeline of the past few days rearranging itself in your mind. Every lingering look and sudden departure now carried the weight of this secret. "You were going to let me go on thinking my soulmate was some mystery boy in a different university, while you continued to drive me crazy in the studio? How long were you planning on playing this game, Donghyuck? Were you ever going to tell me, or were you just going to wait until we graduated?"
"Because you hate me!" Donghyuck finally looked at you, his eyes brimming with a desperate kind of honesty. "Y/N, we’ve spent the past years at each other’s throats. I annoy you on purpose because it was the only way I knew how to be around you. If I told you I was your soulmate? I thought you'd be crushed. I thought you'd feel like the universe played a cruel joke on you."
"Disappointed? Why? " You stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time.
"Yes! You wanted some poetic, funny, and caring guy who lived his life. Not the guy who talks sarcasm and steals your hazelnut coffee." He gestured to himself with a bitter laugh. "I'm loud. I'm a lot to handle. I’m not the 'soulmate' people write books about."
You looked at the ink on your arm. I'm looking at her right now and I'm terrified.
The tension that had anchored your shoulders for the past years suddenly snapped, replaced by a wave of relief so intense it felt like drowning in warm water. Every biting remark, every competitive glare, and every sleepless night spent wondering who the boy in the ink was finally converged into a single, breathtaking point of clarity. It was him. It had always been him. The warmth spread from your chest to your fingertips, a perfect resonance that finally found its match in the boy standing before you.
"No, listen to me." You stepped back into his space, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him. You didn't grab his arm this time. Instead, you reached out and gently took the pen from his hand. You uncapped it, the click echoing in the silence.
He watched you, breathable and confused, as you took his left hand and turned it palm up. His skin was warm, his pulse fluttering rapidly against your thumb.
Right over his pulse point, directly below your old blue ink, you began to write in bold, black strokes.
I don't hate you.
You felt the phantom sensation on your own wrist as you wrote it on his. The connection was a loop, a closed circuit.
"I don't hate you," you said aloud, looking up through your lashes to meet his gaze. "I think you're annoying. I think you're way too loud for 9 AM. And you definitely owe me for three years of stolen coffee."
Donghyuck swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his eyes tracked your every movement.
"But," you continued, writing the next word with deliberate care. But. "I also think you're the only person in this entire university who actually pushes me to be better. You're the only one who sees when I’m struggling before I even realize it myself. And your melodies..." You reached up and traced the faded music notes he had drawn in the library, now mirrored on both of your skins. "They're the most beautiful things I've ever heard."
Donghyuck’s eyes softened, hope blooming in those dark depths like a slow-motion sunrise. "Really? You're not just saying that because the ink told you to?"
"The ink just gave me a way to say it," you whispered. You capped the pen and let it drop to the floor. "I missed you, Donghyuck. I missed the guy who writes to me at night, and I missed the guy who makes my life a mess during the day. I think... I think I need both of you."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob, and leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. The proximity was dizzying, the scent of him, cedar and warm honey, enveloping you.
"I missed you too. These last few days were the worst mix I’ve ever been a part of."
"So," you whispered, your heart hammering a rhythm that he could surely feel. "What happens now?"
Donghyuck pulled back just enough to look at you, that signature mischievous glint returning to his eyes, though it was tempered with a new, profound affection.
"Well, first, I think you owe me a very long apology for calling me a 'menace to society' on your forearm."
You laughed, a genuine, light sound, and shoved his shoulder. "I stand by what I said. You were tormenting me!"
"It was flirting!" he defended, grinning. "Very high-level, sophisticated flirting." He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. The ink on your wrists pressed together, a physical seal on the truth.
"Do you want to get dinner? Somewhere with actual tables and no vending machines?"
"Is this a date, Lee Donghyuck?" you teased, though you already knew the answer.
He beamed at you, like a sun finally breaking through the clouds. "It's destiny, Y/N. But yeah, it's a date. And since I'm the 'invention of the devil,' I’m paying."
—
Dating your soulmate was exactly as chaotic as you had imagined.
It was a strange, wonderful hybrid of your old rivalry and a new, deep intimacy. You still bickered over bpm and background vocals, but now the arguments usually ended with him pulling you into a corner of the studio for a kiss that tasted like victory.
It was two weeks later. You were back in the Audio Engineering lab, the familiar smell of ozone and electronics filling the air. Professor Lee was lecturing on the importance of spatial audio.
Donghyuck was sitting next to you, his thigh pressed firmly against yours under the long desk. He wasn't even pretending to take notes.
You felt that familiar, heart-stopping tickle of a pen on your inner arm, high up near the crook of your elbow where your sleeve hid the mark from the rest of the class.
You glanced down, shifting your arm slightly.
You look really pretty when you're concentrating on the compressor settings. It's making it impossible for me to focus on anything else.
You fought the heat rising to your cheeks, staring intently at the whiteboard. You reached down with your left hand, finding his knee under the table and giving it a sharp, playful squeeze.
He jumped slightly in his seat, let out a muffled "Oof," and quickly turned it into a fake cough to avoid the professor’s glare.
You uncapped your pen, writing discreetly on your own wrist.
Pay attention, Lee. If you fail this midterm, I’m telling everyone you actually like acoustic folk music.
You saw him look down at his wrist, a look of mock-horror crossing his face, followed by a wide, challenge-accepted smirk.
Make me.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile you were hiding was the brightest thing in the room. You wrote back one final message before returning to your notes.
Coffee after class. My treat this time.
Donghyuck read the words as they appeared on his skin, then leaned over, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
"It's a date," he whispered, his voice vibrating through you.
As the lecture continued, the ambient noise of the university began to thin out, the hum of the overhead vents, the distant clatter of the library, and the persistent rhythm of pens hitting paper all receded into a soft, distant static. In that soundproofed pocket of silence you had created together, the world felt less like a series of chaotic frequencies and more like a composition in progress.
You didn't know what the next track would sound like, or if the melody you’d been writing since eighteen would ever truly reach a final bar, but as you felt the warmth of his hand over yours, you realized that the resolution didn't matter. It was the resonance, the way your lives finally vibrated at the same frequency, that made the music worth hearing.
In the end, it wasn't the ink that defined them, but the choice to turn the noise of a rivalry into the harmony of a life lived together, one scrawled note at a time.
thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I didnt beta read this so I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
genre: soft fluff,, domestic chaos ??, friends-to-(maybe)-lovers
word count : 3.1k ?
warnings: cozy domesticity, soft chaos, excessive use of ikea furniture and that awkward falling in love with your neighbor energy
vibe : you’ve known mark lee since freshman year, hallway nod than bestie. but when he moves into the apartment across the hall and drags you into a furniture-building result in muscle-aching mess, things start shifting. you start to wonder if this is just neighborly kindness, or something much more dangerous. like feelings.
a/n : this was supposed to be a short drabble… idk what this is honestly 😭
i just wanted them to build a shelf but now it’s a short fic with muscle pain and dramatic reaction to leg massage . this was inspired by my last-minute OCD arranging mania. i spent the whole saturday cleaning and rearranging my furniture like a sims character in real life, and now i’m left with sore muscles and regrets.
anyway enjoy the delulu, i wrote this between muscle spasms and crying over cracked nails. also if u find a mark lee who builds furniture and massages your leg , pls tell him i’m free this weekend 😭 , enjoy the fic, stay hydrated, don’t trust IKEA screws. ok love u bye 💅🛠️🫶
You’d known Mark Lee since freshman year, not exactly best friends, but familiar in the way two tired students orbit the same academic hellscape. You shared a few electives, some tragically awkward group projects, and the occasional hallway nod that said, "We’re barely holding it together, huh?" Conversations between you never strayed far from the essentials: “Hey, when’s this due?” or “Are we even passing this class?” Just enough connection to remember his name, not enough to know his favorite coffee order.
So when you heard that he moved into the unit across the hall halfway through the semester, you didn’t expect fireworks or fate. At most, you predicted a few polite exchanges, maybe a borrowed screwdriver, maybe a smile when collecting mail at the same time. Maybe, just maybe, you were even looking forward to it. A little spark of curiosity never hurt anyone.
That spark turned into a full-blown emergency when Mark knocked on your door one fine Saturday morning. You had the day off, a rare treasure. The plan was simple: rot gloriously on your couch, binge the latest backstabbing k-drama, and maybe fall asleep with crumbs on your shirt. But the universe said, "Haha, no."
Because there he was, Mark Lee, standing at your door with panic in his eyes and desperation in his voice, looking less like your ex-classmate and more like Bob the Builder with a broken spirit.
“Hi…” he greeted, voice tentative, eyes darting around like he was afraid you’d slam the door.
“Uh, can you help me build my furniture? I asked the other guys but they’re either working or pretending to be. Jeno’s at practice, and Renjun said you’re good with… tools.” He gave you a sheepish smile, like he knew exactly how unconvincing he sounded.
Honestly, he looked like a lost puppy in a hardware store.
And you? Well, against your better judgment, and possibly your will to live, you sighed, stepped aside, and let chaos walk right in.
You regretted offering help the second you stepped inside his apartment.
Boxes were stacked like unstable Jenga towers. An unopened can of paint sat in the corner like a promise never kept. IKEA furniture parts were scattered across the floor, looking less like potential furniture and more like ancient ruins. And in the center of it all stood Mark, sweaty, overwhelmed, holding a screwdriver upside down as if preparing for battle, not a bookshelf.
Mark Lee was crouched in front of what was supposed to be a bookshelf, but currently looked more like a sad abstract art piece. He held a screwdriver, the wrong one, obviously, with the defeated look of someone who’d battled furniture and lost three times.
“Hey,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.
“So I think I built this upside down… three times.” You blinked at the Frankenstein shelf and then at him.
“Have you… read the manual?” you asked, already bracing for disappointment.
Mark lifted the instruction sheet, still upside down, and offered a sheepish grin.
“I did, but… apparently not well.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” That short-circuited him instantly.
He blinked, once, twice, like his internal system had glitched.
“W-what?” he stammered.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, pushing past him with a roll of your eyes.
“Move over. Let me fix it before this bookshelf becomes a safety hazard.”
You ended up spending the next six hours knee-deep in flat-pack chaos and mild existential dread. Between deciphering IKEA hieroglyphics, hammering rogue nails into place, and discovering that Mark couldn’t tell the difference between ivory and eggshell white, it became less of a building project and more of a bonding experience-slash-sitcom episode.
Somewhere between coats of paint, half of which mysteriously ended up in your hair, and Mark’s dramatic reading of the manual like it was Shakespeare, the awkward tension melted into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that left your stomach aching and your cheeks sore. The kind you hadn’t felt in a long time.
When the bookshelf finally stood upright, miraculously not leaning, or squeaking, Mark grinned and it almost knocked the breath out of you. His eyes lit up with the kind of boyish pride that should be illegal.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” he said, wiping sweat and possibly paint off his forehead.
“No, seriously. I think I’d be sleeping on cardboard tonight if you didn’t show up.”
You leaned back against the wall, newly smudged with streaks of off-white and fingerprints, arms crossed and barely hiding your smile.
“You still might be,” you replied, gesturing toward the mattress frame behind him.
“Your bed’s still missing, like, three screws and possibly a soul.”
He laughed, full and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and made your heart feel annoyingly warm. And then, just for a second, he looked at you. Really looked at you. Long enough for it to feel like time paused, just to make things weird for your heart.
“…You’re cool, Y/N,” he said softly, eyes lingering. “I’m really glad you live next door.”
Your heart did a full-blown Olympic backflip, tripped over itself, and then cartwheeled straight into locked territory.
You blamed it on the paint fumes. You had to. Anything else would’ve meant admitting the truth, That maybe, just maybe, Mark Lee was no longer just the guy from group projects.
After helping Mark turn his apartment into a Pinterest board, the universe decided you hadn’t suffered enough. That very night, your manager called, desperate, pleading, and emotionally manipulative, to ask if you could cover a last-minute night shift. Someone bailed, and apparently you were the chosen sacrificial lamb. You should’ve said no. You really should’ve. But instead, you dragged your furniture-abused body into work, and by hour three, your muscles were screaming louder than your soul.
You should’ve known they’d come back to haunt you. The soreness had started like a whisper, tight calves here, a dull ache in your thighs there. But by the time you were walking home that morning, it had evolved into full-blown mutiny. Every step felt like a betrayal. Your hamstrings throbbed like they were mourning their own existence. Your calves pulsed with the rage of a hundred gym classes you never signed up for. And your lower back? Dead. Absolutely gone. Probably chilling in another dimension.
You limped through your front door, collapsed into a dramatic heap, and promised your legs you’d never lift another bookshelf for a man again.
Probably.
Maybe.
...Okay, if Mark asked nicely, maybe one more.
A few days after the hazardous diy olympics in Mark’s apartment, you found a post-it note stuck to your front door. It was scribbled in familiar messy handwriting:
“Movie night @ my place. 7PM. Popcorn provided. Presence required. :) —Mark”
Below it, in a different pen and suspiciously neater, someone had added:
“Renjun says bring snacks.”
His place now looked like something off a rental ad for “wholesome urban escape” walls freshly painted, furniture no longer a death trap, soft fairy lights casting a gentle glow over the living room, and enough throw pillows to suggest he had either excellent interior taste or a strong Pinterest addiction.
No way this was Mark’s work.
You strongly suspected someone, Renjun, maybe had a hand in the decorating. That boy is known for his creative mind. Or one of his suspiciously stylish friends.
Or maybe a girlfriend. Someone with a Pinterest board, taste, and enough rage to color-code the bookshelf.
That thought alone made you did double, no triple thinking into accepting his invitation.
You had some hesitation at first, being in a room full of his friends?
Socializing? On purpose? And what about his girlfriend? Is he single? He’s in a relationship? Would it be awkward if I go?
But the moment you saw Renjun’s name, you relaxed. You knew him from a shared elective class last semester. He was smart, sarcastic, and the kind of person who always seemed ten seconds away from either solving a physics equation or starting a petty argument for fun. Acquaintance? Yes. Safe zone? Definitely.
So you said yes.
And that’s how you ended up seated in a living room surrounded by the rest of Mark’s friends. One by one, you began mentally dissecting their characters like in a sitcom you hadn’t signed up for but secretly loved.
Renjun was your safe bet, the kind of sarcastic genius with the face of an angel and the soul of a judgmental cat. Sharp-tongued, yes, but weirdly considerate too. The kind of guy who would absolutely roast you for using comic sans, then silently walk you home in the rain so you didn’t slip in your sneakers. You’d worked with him once in a group project. He carried the whole thing on his back while sipping bubble tea and side-eyeing everyone’s poorly aligned slides. Iconic, really.
Haechan, on the other hand… chaos incarnate. The moment you walked into Mark’s apartment, he stood up like a royal herald and declared at full volume,
“may I present to you, her highness, neighbour yn ! welcome in!”
You blinked. He winked. And just like that, you were trapped in the tornado that was created by Haechan. Loud, mischievous, and dangerously charming, he introduced himself with the confidence of a man who had never known shame and immediately told you Mark once cried during a dog food commercial. You didn’t know whether to laugh or leave. Probably both.
But still, under all the noise and teasing, you found yourself quietly thanking him. Because somehow, he made it easier to breathe. Easier not to feel like an outsider in a room full of inside jokes and history. You weren’t sure if it was the absurdity or the warmth underneath it, but whatever it was… it worked.
In the midst of Haechan chaos, there is Jeno, the popular university's main soccer player. He is quite funny, effortlessly polite, and always somehow holding a snack. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was either a one-liner that made everyone wheeze or something incredibly practical like, “That candle’s about to catch the curtain.”
And next is Jaemin, He has a pretty face, prettier smile, and absolutely no shame. He was lounging on the armrest like it was a throne, judging everyone’s snack choices and occasionally complimenting your skin. He called you “bestie” five minutes after meeting you and offered to add you to his skincare group chat. You said yes. Obviously. His skin looked pampered, Period.
And then, of course, there was Mark.
The one who invited you. The one whose smile made you nervous. the one laughter is so infectious and charming, and somehow made you feel like this chaotic group of boys wasn’t so scary after all.
The boys had settled across the living room in chaotic harmony, like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow still fit. The L-shaped couch groaned under the weight of bodies, snack bags on the coffee table , and energy louder than the TV itself. Jeno was already halfway through a bag of chips, lounging like a model off-duty, while Jaemin, legs perched dramatically on the armrest, sat like a decorative statue blessed with judgmental eyebrows and too much skincare knowledge.
Mark was on your right, lounging casually at the far end of the couch with a cushion tucked beneath one arm and a blanket draped around his waist like he lived in a Pinterest board. Meanwhile, Haechan sprawled across the floor in front of the coffee table, surrounded by popcorn crumbs and chaos. Renjun claimed the opposite end of the couch, locked in a heated debate about which movie to play, already calling the director “mid” before the title screen even loaded.
You, ever the guest but somehow not a stranger anymore, sat tucked into the lazy chair beside Mark. Your legs were curled slightly to the side, a burger-shaped plushie in your lap doubling as emotional support and leg buffer. You tried your best to look chill, calm and collected, like your spine wasn’t stiffening into an overly ripe pear and your hamstrings weren’t crying for mercy. But as the opening credits began to roll and the room dimmed into movie-mode, you shifted, just slightly, to stretch your legs into more comfortable position.
And that’s when it snap.
A sharp, traitorous cramps shot up your calf like betrayal in muscle form. You hissed softly under your breath, the kind of pain that made you question every life decision that led to IKEA furniture and impromptu night shifts.
“Fuck.”
The word slipped out of you before you could catch it, half whisper, half prayer. A sharp sting pulsed up your calf like your muscles were filing a formal complaint.
Mark noticed. Of course he did. He just an arm away.
He leaned in, voice low, soft as velvet and warm as honey against your ear. “Legs still sore?”
Lucky for you, the others either didn’t notice your silent suffering… or mercifully spared you the embarrassment.
Mark, however, noticed. Of course he did.
He chuckled softly, the sound brushing against your skin like warm static.
Then, without warning, hesitation, or a shred of social protocol, he shifted closer.
His hand slipped past the edge of the blanket, fingers brushing your calf like they’d done it before in a dream.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he gently lifted your sore leg onto his lap... and started massaging. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers pressing into tight knots of tension like he wasn’t just soothing a muscle, he was rewiring your nervous system from the outside in.
He moved slow and focused.
Like he was trying to untangle knots in your muscles and your brain.
Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like this was just something he did, massaging your sore muscles in the glow of fairy lights, while his friends argued about movie ratings in the background.
His hands were warm, steady. Firm but unhurried.
You froze at first contact.
Your body went stiff, your brain completely derailed, thoughts screeching into static. This wasn’t just kindness. This wasn’t normal. This was dangerous. This was how the main characters caught feelings and never recovered. You read enough novel to know this is not casual thing, it intimate.
You might’ve enjoyed it for a few blissful minutes, eyes half-lidded, breath caught somewhere between “ouch that hurt” and “that good?”
Until, from the floor, Haechan’s voice cut through the moment like a sharp blade.
“ummm ?? Hello?? Is this legal??”
You flinched. Mark didn’t.
Because of course he was too busy pretending this wasn’t turning into a public scandal.
Jeno’s head turned, eyes narrowing like he’d just detected the change in atmospheric pressure. Jaemin twisted around too, popcorn nearly flying. His expression morphed from entertained to scandalized in real time.
The room fell silent.
You could hear your existential crisis buzzing in the air like bad Wi-Fi. Lagging. Glitching. Dropping all your emotional signals at once.
The sound of crunching chips stopped. Even the background music from the TV faded into an awkward vacuum of judgment and stunned disbelief.
Four sets of eyes locked on you and Mark like you’d just committed a crime against bro code and public decency.
“Are we just gonna ignore the leg-on-lap situation?” Haechan asked, voice high and dramatic like he’d just walked in on a forbidden office affair.
Mark didn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She helped me with everything. Her legs are sore.”
“Your hands,” Jeno deadpanned, one brow arched, “are on her inner thigh.”
“They are not!” Mark hissed defensively, ears flushing a telltale pink.
Haechan, ever the voice of calm chaos, gave a solemn nod. “They’re getting there, bro. Like. Real estate’s been claimed.”
You could’ve combusted. Or dissolved. Or slipped into the couch cushions and requested a new life. If someone opened the window, you were 90% sure you’d evaporate on the spot. But Mark, god bless his soft boy stubbornness, he didn’t stop. He just kept going, cheeks pink, jaw set with gentle determination.
“She helped me build my whole apartment,” he muttered, focused on his task. “I think this is… the least I can do.”
You almost cried.
Instead, you buried your face into the nearest pillow and let out a silent scream that could shatter glass.
Renjun, looking utterly over it, sighed like who had seen too much.. “Just get married already,” he muttered, before resume his attention to the movie like this wasn’t the most unhinged domestic tension he’d witnessed in weeks.
Mark finally pulled his hand away after you smacked his arm with a flustered little slap, cheeks burning.
“I’m fine,” you lied, breathless. “Perfect, actually. Might go for a jog. Climb Everest. Who knows.”
He grinned, like he could see right through your nonsense, and gave your knee one last pat before tucking his hand sheepishly into the blanket again.
Your heart? that thing was still buffering. Stuck on loop.
Replaying the moment Mark Lee touched your leg like he hadn’t just rewritten your entire nervous system with his bare hands.
The rest of the movie blurred past in a fog. Explosions on screen, popcorn rustling, the occasional Haechan commentary, none of it registered. Your focus was shot, derailed somewhere between Mark’s hands and your rapidly developing crush.
When the credits rolled and the room buzzed back to life, you stood, stretched with a quiet groan, and politely excused yourself. Early lecture in the morning, you explained. Responsible student things.
You said your goodbyes, Jaemin extracting a promise for a future café trip like a girl bestie with an itinerary, and stepped toward the door.
Mark was already there. Lingering, like he’d been waiting.
Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to yours, then away again.
He opened the door for you, but didn’t quite meet your gaze. You turned to thank him, for the invite, and the impromptu massage, but he beat you to it.
“Thank you for joining us tonight,” he said, voice a little softer now that it was just the two of you by the door.
“And if, uh… if you’re free this weekend,” he added, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I was thinking of going to IKEA. I need a lamp. Or maybe like… adult supervision.”
You arched a brow, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “Let me guess, you want me to help build it?”
Mark’s smile was soft, lopsided, and dangerous in the way only shy boys with dimples could be.
“Maybe,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours. “Maybe I just… wanna hang out with you again.”
And just like that, your heart short-circuited again.
You didn’t know where this was going.
But you hoped it went somewhere warm, with less back pain, fewer cracked nails, and instruction manuals that made sense.
And if the universe was feeling generous, maybe even somewhere dangerously close to love.
thank you so much for taking the time to read it and I didn't have time to beta prof this so I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist
Vibe : A torn ligament, a traitorous puddle, and one dramatic fall later, yn finds herself in wrist rehab, dragged to the gym by her overly concerned brother. She expected sore muscles and awkward stretching, not Jeno, the quiet, kind helper who makes healing feel like less of a chore and more like… something worth showing up for. a/n : Sorry if the gym scene sounds hella vague… I’ve never stepped foot in a gym 💀 The only gym in my life is Gym Jungkook, and even Jeno stresses me out with those arms. Sometimes I genuinely feel like taking a bite out of his bicep. Just a lil chomp. Lemme know your thoughts before I embarrass myself even more 😩🏋️♂️💚
Accidents can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere. Yours just happened to be during the last week of the semester, right before summer break. Of course.
You were walking to class, avoiding a small puddle near the university’s main entrance, when somehow, physics failed you. One bad step and you stumbled over your own foot, crashed onto the pavement, and instinctively threw out your left hand to break the fall.
Wrong move.
The pain was instant and intense. A sharp, searing kind that made your vision blur for a second. You sat there on the pavement, clutching your wrist, trying not to cry. Or scream. Or both. Lucky for your dignity, no one was around to witness your ungraceful fall from grace, just you, gravity, and that one traitorous puddle.
Gritting your teeth, you pulled out your phone with your good hand and shakily tapped on Mark’s contact. Your thumb trembled. Your pride was already bruised. Your wrist? Probably worse.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Mark,” you breathed, trying to sound calm. You did not succeed.
“What happened?”
“I think I broke myself,” you muttered, swallowing a wince.
“…Did you fall again?”
“Pavement attacked me.” He sighed so loud you could practically hear his soul leaving his body.
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
And he did, like he was auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie, tires screeching and all. You didn’t even make it into the car before he started his rant.
“You’re singlehandedly aging me a decade, you know that?”
“Hello to you too.”
“I let you walk to class and you try to fight the sidewalk?”
“It started it.”
“You keep this up and I’m installing airbags on your shoes.”
By the time he got you to the hospital, he’d already named your injury: The Noodle Arm Incident.
And sadly, it stuck.
At the hospital, after a long wait and a whole lot of poking, the doctor gave you the bad news: torn ligament in your left wrist. No surgery, thank god, but at least a month of rest and light physical therapy. Your entire summer break? Canceled.
Mark, ever the problem-solver slash honorary parent, took it upon himself to personally enroll you at his friend’s gym.
Which brings us to your first day at the gym, three weeks post-injury, wrist still wrapped but starting to feel more like your own again.
You were sitting in the passenger seat of Mark’s car, nervously staring at the gym sign through the windshield like it might explode.
“I don’t wanna go in,” you mumbled.
“You’re not being drafted to war,” he deadpanned. “You're doing wrist curls, not combat training.”
“Says the guy with two functioning wrists.”
Mark sighed dramatically but softened. “Look, I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t trust them. And Jeno’s cool. He’s chill. Just follow his lead and don’t try to lift a car on day one.”
You scoffed. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
But he still waited at the entrance with you, hands on your shoulders like a proud dad. “You got this. Just don’t fall in the gym, okay?”
You smacked his arm with your good hand and walked in.
The gym smelled like rubber mats and metal. Music thumped gently in the background, not loud enough to drown your thoughts. You stood there awkwardly, unsure where to go, when someone approached from the free weights section.
“You’re Mark’s sister?" he asked, voice low but kind.
You turned, and there he was. Jeno. You’d see him in passing a few times, all arms and quiet energy, the type who never skipped leg day or chest day. He looked effortlessly cool, even in a plain black tank and sweats.
You nodded. “Yeah, first time here, for wrist rehab. Also... I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He smiled, eyes soft. “That’s okay. I’ll help.”
And help he did. He adjusted your form gently, made sure you didn’t overextend your wrist, explained things patiently like he wasn’t rushing to get back to his own routine. It could’ve felt awkward, but somehow it didn’t. Not with him.
He didn’t treat you like you were fragile,just careful. Respectful. Kind.
That day marked the beginning of a slow, unexpected rhythm. You started coming in regularly. Sometimes you’d spot him already there, nodding a quiet hello. Other times, he’d show up mid-session, offer you a spare water bottle, or casually walk you through a new machine like it was no big deal.
One day, after a longer-than-usual workout, both of you sat on the floor, legs stretched out, breathing heavy.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked.
You blinked. “Now?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You earned it.”
The post-gym meal was nothing fancy, grilled chicken rice bowls at a quiet corner shop, but somehow, it felt like the most comforting thing you’d had in a while.
Maybe it was the way Jeno listened when you spoke, genuinely and without distraction, like every word mattered. He shared stories about gymming with his best friend Jaemin, how college stress led him to find peace through lifting weights.
In return, you told him your noodle arm origin story, how a puddle and a poor judgment of balance led to your wrist betraying you. He laughed, not mockingly, but with that low, breathy kind of laugh that made your chest flutter and your face burn a little. It felt like the beginning of something soft, and slowly unfolding.
Weeks passed, and gym time slowly became something more than just rehab. Your wrist healed beautifully, no longer wrapped or aching, and your routine shifted into full-body sets instead of just babying your left side. You were stronger now, not just in your wrist, but in the way you carried yourself. More confident.
And through it all, Jeno was there. Most sessions, you'd find him already waiting, towel slung over his shoulder, greeting you with a soft smile like it was the best part of his day. Maybe it was.
You’d train side by side, exchanging quiet encouragements, spotting each other during tougher sets, sharing water bottles when you forgot yours. It wasn’t just healing your body anymore, it felt like healing your spirit too. One rep, one smile, one shared silence at a time.
He’d walk you to your car sometimes, even if his session wasn’t done yet. You started to notice the way his hand would hover near your lower back when you walked through crowded spaces. The way he always knew when to push you, and when to let you rest.
And one evening, after your usual session together, both of you sweaty, tired, and sharing a quiet moment after workout for the day , you noticed something. As you were getting ready to head toward your car, Jeno didn’t follow. Instead, he turned back toward the gym, wiping his neck with his towel.
“You’re going again?” you asked, confused.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, a little sheepish.
“Jaemin’s coming. I usually gym with him in the evenings.”
You blinked. “Wait… so I’m... your warm-up?”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. I mean… kind of? Not really. I just... didn’t want to stop gymming with you.”
Your brows lifted slightly, a quiet beat passing between you.
He looked at you then, more earnest than you’d ever seen him. “I like this. Us. Working out together. Even if I’ve gotta do double sessions, it’s worth it.”
There was a strange little flutter in your chest. A pause in your breath. Maybe it was the endorphins. Or maybe... it wasn’t.
You smiled, eyes soft. “You’re insane.”
He grinned back. “A little bit. But for a good reason.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was hard to hide. “So you’d rather suffer through two gym sessions than skip one with me?”
He shrugged, casual, like he hadn’t just thrown your heart into a somersault. “I mean, yeah. Kinda hard to go back to leg day with Jaemin after laughing through planks with you.”
You laughed quietly, trying to ignore the way your heart felt too big in your chest. “You laugh through planks?”
“With you, apparently.”
There was something in his tone. Not teasing. Not playful. Just... honest. And it made the silence stretch, not awkward, but full. Full of things unspoken. Like how you’d started looking forward to gym days not for progress, but for him. Like how you caught yourself scanning the room for him before your workouts even began. Like how his presence made the air feel lighter.
You tucked your towel into your bag, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.
“Well,” you said, gently, “don’t let Jaemin outlift me.”
He smiled, but it was softer this time. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
You looked at him then, and he looked right back. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just there—open and present. And in that quiet moment, with post-workout sweat still cooling on your skin and the scent of gym mats lingering faintly in the air, you knew.
“So,” you started, slinging your bag over your shoulder, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was doing jumping jacks. “Second gym session of the night. You sure your muscles won’t file a complaint?”
Jeno chuckled, falling into step beside you as you both walked toward the exit again. “They might. But Jaemin talks more than he lifts, so I’ll be fine.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg him for a chatterbox.”
“Oh, he narrates everything,” Jeno said with a soft grin. “Last week he gave a TED Talk about protein intake while bench pressing.”
You laughed, loud enough that a couple of gym-goers looked over. But Jeno just smiled like he didn’t care. Like maybe that laugh was the best thing he’d heard all day.
At the entrance, you paused. He stopped too.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Do you wanna come with us? It’s nothing serious. Just legs and Jaemin’s bad playlist.”
You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, you want to but because your heart suddenly felt too full. Like if you said yes, you were saying yes to something more than just squats. But before you could overthink it, you saw the way he was looking at you. Not expecting. Not pushing. Just... hopeful.
You smiled. “Nah. I’ll let you suffer with Jaemin solo tonight. But maybe… after?”
He tilted his head. “After?”
“Bubble tea. If your legs still function.”
Jeno grinned, and this time, there was something different in it. Something a little giddy. “Deal.”
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and gently bumped your pinky with his. Just a touch. Just a quiet promise.
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” he said, walking backward now, still smiling.
You watched him go, that flutter in your chest blooming into something steady. Something warm. You weren’t sure what this was becoming, but whatever it was, it felt good.
It felt like something that had been waiting to happen all along.
thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist
Vibe : haechan ran through the rain after finals just to catch a game session , and ended up with a 39.4 degree fever and a blocked nose. yn, his unlucky roommate, spends her day off nursing him back to life and sanity. It’s chaotic, exhausting... and maybe a little bit sweet in the end.
The rain came down like grief-thick, endless, humming against windows and rooftops like the world was trying to cry out everything finals had wrung from your bones.
You’d barely collapsed face-first into your bed, hoping to sleep away the academic carnage, when the front door slammed open like a thunderclap.
A soaked figure exploded into the apartment, trailing puddles and chaos in his wake, like some tragic Shakespearean fool who fought nature and lost.
And, of course, it was Haechan.
Your beloved, stupid housemate. Drenched to the bone. Hoodie plastered to his skin like betrayal, sneakers squelching with every dramatic step as he announced his arrival like a war hero returning from battle.
You didn't even lift your head from the couch.
“Why are you wet?” you called out, deadpan, too emotionally bankrupt to deal with his nonsense.
“I had to run!” he shouted, breathless, triumphant, utterly insane. “My ranked game session started in ten minutes!”
You rolled over just enough to glare. “You ran through a monsoon. For pixels.”
“They’re competitive pixels. It was my post-finals treat!”
“Your immune system is not going to treat you.”
But he waved you off, water still dripping from his sleeves, tracking a trail of regret all the way to his bedroom. You made a mental note to let natural selection do its thing.
But nature works fast.
By the next morning, your phone buzzed with a single dramatic message:
“I’m dying. Bring water. And love. Mostly water.”
And when you dragged yourself out of bed and into the living room, what you found was not a man, but a melting popsicle of blankets and tissues. Haechan lay half-buried on the couch, nose red, cheeks flushed, fever blazing high enough you could feel the heat radiating from him like he was auditioning for the role of ‘Human Stove.’
He looked up at you with the wheezy pride of someone who made a dumb decision and refused to regret it.
“It’s not that bad,” he said, voice sounding like a kazoo underwater. “I’m thriving.”
“You’re fermenting,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Your fever could boil soup.”
He sniffled violently. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You ran through a thunderstorm to play League, Haechan.”
“It was a team game.”
He gasped, actually gasped—like you’d slapped him with a wet sock.
“How dare—”
But his righteous wail was immediately swallowed by a rapid-fire sneezing fit that sounded like a dying trumpet and shook the tissue box on his chest.
You didn’t even flinch. Just calmly handed him another tissue like this was your normal Thursday.
A beat passes, and silence drapes over you both like a second comforter. Just as sleep begins to pull him under, you hear it—soft, barely audible.
“Thanks, yn... If I die, you get my gaming chair.”
You slapped a cold compress on his forehead, no gentleness spared, and when he whimpered, you rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket around him.
You were supposed to be doing nothing today. Catching up on sleep. Watching trashy variety shows. But no,your birdbrain roommate had turned your one peaceful day off into a medical emergency wrapped in fleece.
Still, when his hand twitched slightly and he shifted to lean into your touch, something inside you softened. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the way his lashes fluttered every time you checked his temperature. Maybe it was because you were hopeless.
You spent the day beside him, nursing him like some reluctant Florence Nightingale with a grudge. You cooked him porridge while he dramatically insisted he was “withering.” You force-fed him vitamin C and wiped his sweat away while he tried to flirt between coughs.
At one point, you caught him staring at you with that hazy, fever-glazed look, quiet, almost reverent.
"You have nice hands," he murmured, like it was a secret.
You froze mid-spoon.
"And a nice heart," he added, lips chapped and clumsy.
"And maybe a nice face, but I can’t really see you clearly.”
You blinked.
He blinked.
Then promptly sneezed into a tissue with the force of a hurricane.
“Moment ruined,” you muttered.
“I regret nothing,” he mumbled, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips like he hadn’t just nearly given himself pneumonia for a ranked match.
By early evening, he finally fell into a deep sleep. The rain outside had softened into a gentle hush, like the sky was finally letting go. You sat beside him beside the couch, half-dozing, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist as if guarding him from any more of his own decisions. His fever had finally dipped. His breathing had slowed. And in that quiet, something delicate bloomed in the silence.
Later, just as the world was starting to settle into the night, you felt him stir. His eyes fluttered open, slow and dazed, landing on you with a softness that felt new. He looked at the blanket wrapped around him. By the way your head had tilted slightly off the couch. At your hand, still resting gently against his.
“Y/N,” he whispered, voice rough like sandpaper but gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Thanks for today.”
You didn’t answer,too tired, too close to falling asleep yourself.
But he kept speaking, his words barely above breath, fragile like paper.
“Stay close. Even when I’m not dying next time.”
You could’ve made a joke. Could’ve called him a dramatic little gremlin. Could’ve rolled your eyes.
Instead, you laced your fingers with his, and didn’t let go.
And outside, the rain finally stopped.
thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist
🌻 - I Like You , A Little Bit More Than I Should - L.HC
Pairing : bff!haechan x bff!yn
genre : fluff, slow burn???
warnings: heartache? late night drive....
vibe : Late-night drive with your best friend, Haechan — he makes you spill your hidden thoughts into the quiet night, every word wrapped in bathed breath.
a/n: I got inspired by I Like You by Post Malone! 🎶 Please give it a listen—it’ll make this so much better! Hehe 😆✨ .
Feel free to give feedback 💕
The night air was crisp, the kind that made you want to wrap yourself in a hoodie and never leave the comfort of a warm space. The road ahead stretched empty, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, and the hum of the engine blended into the faint melody playing from the car speakers.
"Ooh, girl, I like you, I do…" 🎶
You glanced to your right, where Heachan sat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His fingers tapped absentmindedly to the rhythm of the song, and for some reason, it made your chest tighten.
This wasn’t the first time you’d gone on a late-night drive together. It was your thing, the two of you, the quiet roads, music playing softly in the background, and no real destination. Just the comfort of each other’s presence.
He let out a small chuckle, breaking the silence. “You’re quiet tonight.”
You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know we had to fill the silence all the time.”
Heachan smirked. “Nah, but usually you have something to say.”
"Hey, I've been thinkin' lately" 🎶
You rolled your eyes, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands and tucking them under your chin. “…..Just thinking.”
He glanced at you for a moment before looking back at the road. “About what?”
You hesitated, watching the way the passing lights cast shadows on his face. “About us.”
His fingers stopped tapping.
You didn’t mean to say it out loud. The words had just… slipped. But now they were hanging in the air between you, too heavy to ignore.
Heachan let out a breath, his grip on the wheel tightening slightly. “Yeah?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the engine and the song from the radio. Then, without a word, he took a turn off the main road, driving towards a quiet hilltop where you’d parked more times than you could count.
When he finally put the car in park, he leaned back against his seat, staring ahead at the city lights below.
“You ever wonder why we do this?” he asked. His voice was softer now. Less teasing. More real.
Your fingers tightened around the sleeves of your hoodie. “What do you mean?”
"I just want you, I just want you" 🎶
“This,” he gestured vaguely, “the late-night drives, the way we just get each other, the way I always wanna be around you.” He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. “It’s not just friends, Y/N. You know that, right?”
Your heart pounded.
“I…” You exhaled, shaking your head as you smiled a little. “I was hoping you’d say it first.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “So, you do like me.”
“Shut up.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands, but he was already laughing, the warm, familiar sound filling the car.
“God, finally,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I was gonna lose my mind if I had to pretend for another day.”
You peeked at him from between your fingers. “You were pretending?”
“Well,” he shrugged, “I tried. But I suck at it. I like you, Y/N. Probably too much.”
"I like you" 🎶
The warmth in your chest spread, and without thinking, you reached over, lacing your fingers with his. His hand squeezed yours gently, like he’d been waiting for this.
"I wanna be your girlfriend, baby" 🎶
“Guess we should stop pretending, then,” you murmured.
Heachan smiled, giving your hand another squeeze before bringing it to his lips in a dramatic, playful gesture. “Finally, you admit I’m irresistible.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away.
The city lights twinkled below, the car filled with quiet music and something even warmer—something real. Something that had been there all along.
And this time, neither of you ran from it.
thank you so much for taking the time to read it and I didn't have time to beta prof this so I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻 📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist
[10.37 pm] - Jaemin
The neon signs hummed a quiet symphony, their flickering light spilling like liquid dreams onto the rain-kissed streets. Jaemin adjusted his jacket, the oversized fabric draping like armor as he glanced back at his member, the glow of the constellation’s shadow illuminated the shadowed cityscape.
Tonight, the rhythm of the streets was his to command, but beneath his composed exterior, his heart waged a silent war. His pulse wasn’t racing from the music, it was from the sight of her—Y/N.
She lingered by a food cart, her laughter drifting through the night like a haunting melody. The glow of the neon lights painted her in hues of fire and twilight, and Jaemin felt the fissures in his resolve deepen with every stolen glance.
“Late again, Renjun?” Jeno’s voice cut through the haze, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Renjun scoffed, tugging at the brim of his bucket hat. “Art takes time, my guy.”
Haechan snorted, folding his arms. “Art? More like excuses.”
“And yet I’m still better dressed than you,” Renjun sass back, earning chuckles from the group.
Mark shook his head, his voice light. “Alright, alright. Save the fire for the stage.”
The crew melted into the crowd, their presence a ripple in the city’s vibrant pulse. Jaemin hung back, his gaze sharp but restless. The bassline thrummed in his chest, yet his thoughts strayed to her, tethered like a kite caught on a wire.
By a flickering lamppost, a street artist worked with frenetic energy, colors clashing and blending in chaotic harmony. Jaemin crouched beside them, his mind drifting further into the labyrinth of Y/N’s laughter.
“Ever tried it?” the artist asked, their hands smeared with vibrant shades.
“Not yet,” Jaemin replied softly, his lips curling in a faint smile. “Maybe one day.”
“Better start before it’s too late,” they murmured, their gaze never leaving the canvas.
The moment stretched thin, suspended in the quiet hum of the city. Then her voice pierced through, unraveling the fragile calm.
“Jaemin.”
His name fell from her lips like a sigh, soft yet laced with gravity. He turned slowly, his heart sinking. She stood a few steps away, her expression unreadable, her presence undeniable.
“Still haunting these streets?” she asked, her tone caught between curiosity and reproach.
“Some things don’t change,” he replied, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within.
Her gaze flickered, searching his. “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” he admitted, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them.
Before the silence could stretch further, Mark’s voice boomed from the stage. “Alright, everyone! Let’s turn this place into a masterpiece, you know the drill!”
The crowd erupted as the beat dropped. Jeno’s sharp moves cut through the air, followed by Renjun’s seamless flow. Haechan’s voice soared, charging the atmosphere with electricity, while Chenle and Jisung ignited the crowd with their playful energy.
Jaemin stepped into the circle, his movements deliberate and precise, each step heavy with unspoken emotion. The cheers swelled around him, but his focus remained fractured, her gaze a weight he couldn’t shake.
As the final beat echoed, the crowd roared its approval. Jaemin stood, his breath steady, his heart anything but.
“Still got it,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Mark clapped him on the back, his grin wide. “Always, bro.”
The night pressed on, vibrant and unrelenting, but Jaemin felt the ache of unfinished stories, the fragments of a connection still lingering in the air. For him, this wasn’t just another day ,it was a tapestry of yearning, stitched together under the city’s unyielding glow.
Every odyssey begins with a quiet spark—an unseen compass pulling the soul toward horizons only the heart can chart.
────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────
✨ about me ✨
hi! i'm hyu (I'm just a girl)
— i write fanfics for fun and escape
— studied but my DNA still not connected properly
— english is not my first language, so sorry for some typos
— love k-pop, cats (only my cat lol), and quiet days
— i write slow-burn, toothache fluffy, and sometimes chaos
— broke but still buying cute stuff
— mood goes up and down, but i try my best 💪
thanks for reading my stories 💛
Hours passed, though it was hard to tell how long you drifted in and out of sleep. The music eventually softened, replaced by the occasional clink of bottles and murmured goodbyes. You stirred, half-conscious, when you heard faint footsteps approach your door again.
A soft knock.
“Come in,” you rasped, your voice barely audible.
The door creaked open, and Haechan appeared, looking slightly disheveled but still effortlessly cool. His leather jacket was gone, and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead.
“You’re awake,” he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. He carried a glass of water in one hand and what looked like a bowl of instant noodles in the other.
“What’s that?” you asked, sitting up a little too quickly. A wave of dizziness hit you, and you groaned, leaning back against the headboard.
“Food. You haven’t eaten, right?” He set the water and bowl on your nightstand, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Before you start, no, I didn’t cook it. Your kitchen’s a mess, and I’m not risking my life for your stove.”
Despite your grogginess, you chuckled. “Fair.”
“Drink this first,” he said, handing you the glass again. You obeyed without complaint this time, your throat grateful for the cool water.
As you set the glass down, he grabbed the bowl and handed it to you, chopsticks perched neatly on the edge. “It’s just ramen, but it’s hot. Should help.”
“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking the bowl.
He shrugged, but there was something softer in his expression now. “It’s no big deal.”
For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence as you ate. You could hear the faint sounds of your roommate cleaning up in the living room, but it felt like another world compared to the quiet sanctuary of your room.
“You didn’t have to stay,” you said after a while, breaking the silence.
Haechan raised an eyebrow. “And leave you to choke on your own misery? Nah. Besides, the party’s over. Nothing else to do.”
“Still,” you murmured, looking down at your bowl. “It’s… nice. Thank you.”
He smirked, leaning a little closer. “You keep saying that, I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You rolled your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck wasn’t from your fever. “Don’t push your luck.”
He laughed softly, the sound surprisingly warm. “Fine, fine. But for the record, I’m not as bad as people think.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you teased, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward.
“Well, you’ve seen me feed the sick and defend their honor against bad music. I’d say that’s a good start,” he quipped, standing up and stretching.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, hero. What’s next? You gonna tuck me in, too?”
Haechan tilted his head, considering it for a moment. “Only if you say please.”
“Goodnight, Haechan,” you said pointedly, fighting back a smile.
He grinned, backing toward the door. “Night, princess. Don’t forget—finish the water.”
As he left, you couldn’t help but stare at the empty doorway, feeling oddly lighter despite your fever. Maybe Lee Haechan wasn’t such a bad person after all.
second part I guess ?! 🤷♀️ ,idk this feel a bit off 🤨
So any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
The thumping bass from the living room vibrated faintly through your bedroom walls. Your roommate’s so-called “small gathering” had morphed into a full-blown party, and while you would normally roll your eyes and bear it, tonight you didn’t have the energy.
Your eyelids were heavy, but you couldn’t sleep. Every now and then, laughter or a yell from the living room jarred you back to the reality of the chaos just outside your door.
And then, the creak of your bedroom door.
“Hey, bathroom’s over there!” you croaked, assuming it was another drunk guest wandering into the wrong room.
“Uh… my bad.”
You froze at the voice. It was low, smooth, with a slight rasp that sent a chill down your spine.
Before you could say anything else, he stepped into the room, the dim hallway light spilling over his figure. Dark jeans, a leather jacket, and tousled hair that somehow looked effortlessly perfect—it was unmistakably Haechan.
“You don’t look so good,” he said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the scene: the pile of tissues next to your bed, the barely touched glass of water, and the pale flush on your cheeks.
“Wow, thanks,” you muttered, your voice raspy from congestion. “Feel great, too.”
He ignored your sarcasm, crossing the room to your bedside. “You’re actually sick, huh?”
“No, I just thought I’d skip the party to work on my Oscar-worthy sick act,” you shot back weakly.
That earned you a smirk. “Cute,” he said, glancing at the glass of water. “When was the last time you drank anything?”
“I—” you started, then hesitated. Truthfully, you couldn’t remember.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Picking up the glass, he handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. “Drink. You sound like you’ve been chewing on sandpaper.”
You hesitated, unsure what was more disorienting: your fever or the fact that Haechan was sitting on the edge of your bed, looking at you with something bordering on concern.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” you mumbled, sipping the water just to get him off your back.
“No, but you need common sense,” he retorted. “You’re supposed to drink fluids when you’re sick. Basic stuff.”
You glared at him over the rim of the glass, but the corners of his mouth quirked upward.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes flicking over you again, lingering just long enough to make you self-conscious. “Why didn’t your roommate tell anyone you were dying back here?”
“I’m not dying,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “And because she’s busy playing hostess to half the city.”
Haechan snorted, his smirk deepening. “Figures.” He tapped his fingers on his knee, glancing toward the door where the muffled bass still thumped. “You want me to tell them to turn the music down?”
You blinked, taken aback by the offer. “You’d do that?”
He shrugged, looking almost bored. “Sure. I have… a way with people.”
The playful arrogance in his voice was hard to miss, and despite yourself, you smiled. “And what’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just trying to be nice for once.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Lee Haechan, nice? That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said with a mock-serious tone, though the glint in his eye betrayed him.
He stood, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets, but hesitated for a moment at the door. “Seriously, though. Get some rest. And drink that water. I’ll make sure your roommate doesn’t let anyone else stumble in here.”
“Why do you even care?” you asked, your voice soft.
He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk fading just a little. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving you with a faint flutter in your chest that you stubbornly blamed on the fever.
the first story is out! thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻
After years of being a reader on this platform, I’m finally taking a shot at writing my own short stories.
This is my first attempt, so I’m still figuring out the format and style. I’ll be sharing a few drafts soon, and I’d really appreciate any feedback you have. Thanks!
