synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you don’t expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively — waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesn’t understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until they’ve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece — through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The email had sounded simple enough when you first read it half-awake in bed that morning. Student accessibility services is assigning you as a peer aide for the spring semester. Flexible hours. Escorting between classes when needed. Organizational support. Occasional note-taking. The pay wasn’t terrible, and you needed another campus job anyway, so you accepted before really thinking about what it meant.
You regretted that decision a little when the counselor slid a thin folder across the desk and said, carefully, “He’s… not always easy with new people.”
The folder had almost nothing inside. Just a student profile and a class schedule.
Lee Chanyoung.
Preferred name: Anton.
Under accommodations, there was a longer list than you expected. Extended testing time. Alternative presentation formats. Excused absences during periods of overstimulation. Selective mutism.
“He usually communicates through typing,” the counselor explained. “Or writing. Sometimes verbally, but not often. Don’t pressure him to speak if he doesn’t want to.”
You nodded slowly.
“He’s very intelligent,” she added quickly, like she felt the need to defend him before you’d even met him. “He just struggles with certain social situations and transitions. Some aides have had difficulty because they expected him to respond in typical ways.”
Typical ways. You almost laughed.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Mostly help him navigate campus life. Keep him on schedule. Make sure he actually eats sometimes.” Her expression softened faintly. “He responds well to consistency.”
That part stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
Consistency.
By the time you found the humanities building, the campus had settled into that gray lull between morning and evening classes. Wet footprints marked the tiled floors from the rain outside, and the air smelled faintly like old books and coffee grounds. You checked the room number twice before knocking lightly against the open classroom door.
Nobody answered.
Inside, students packed their bags noisily while the professor erased the whiteboard. Near the back corner, separated from everyone else by two empty seats, sat a boy with pale headphones hanging around his neck and a cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was staring at his laptop screen with complete focus, fingers motionless over the keyboard as if he’d forgotten mid-thought what he intended to type.
You recognized him immediately without needing the student ID photo.
He was prettier than you expected.
Not handsome, exactly. Pretty in the way porcelain figures were pretty. Delicate wrists disappearing into oversized sleeves, soft mouth slightly parted in concentration, dark lashes low against his cheeks. His hair looked impossibly soft, falling over his eyes in uneven layers that almost hid his expression completely.
The room gradually emptied around him.
He didn’t move.
You approached carefully, suddenly hyperaware of your own footsteps. “Anton?”
His shoulders tightened immediately.
Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.
He looked up after a second, though not directly at you. His gaze stopped somewhere near your chin instead, uncertain and fleeting. Up close, he looked younger than a college student should’ve. There was something guarded about him, but not cold. More like someone constantly bracing for discomfort.
You offered your name gently. “I’m your student aide this semester.”
His expression didn’t change.
Then slowly, he reached for his phone.
The silence stretched long enough to become awkward before the screen lit up with typed words.
| You’re late.
You blinked. “Late?”
He turned the phone toward you properly this time.
| You were supposed to come at 2:40.
You checked the clock instinctively. It was 2:47.
“Oh.” Heat crawled up your neck. “Sorry. The office took longer than I thought.”
Anton stared at you for another quiet second before looking away again. Not dismissively. More like he’d already filed the interaction away somewhere in his head.
You noticed then that he had arranged everything on the desk with impossible precision. Laptop centered. Pens aligned parallel. Water bottle label facing outward. Even the edges of his papers stacked perfectly flush together.
Without warning, he stood.
You nearly stepped back from how sudden it was.
He slid his bag over one shoulder, then paused beside you awkwardly, fingers curling once against the strap. Waiting.
“For me?” you asked before thinking.
A tiny nod.
Right. Escorting between classes.
You followed him out into the hallway, trying not to make it obvious you were observing him already. He walked quietly, head lowered slightly, one hand tucked into his sleeve. Students brushed past in loud clusters, backpacks bumping into shoulders, sneakers squeaking against the floors. Every time someone came too close, Anton subtly shifted away before contact could happen.
He didn’t speak once. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to fill the silence or leave it alone.
“So… what’s your major?” you tried eventually.
Anton pulled out his phone again without stopping his pace.
| Composition and media studies.
“You like music?”
Another pause.
Then:
| I like beautiful things.
You glanced at him.
He remained completely serious.
Something about the answer caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because of how plainly he said it, like beauty was an objective category instead of a vague preference.
“What counts as beautiful?”
This time he took longer to respond. You could almost see the processing happening behind his eyes.
Finally, he typed:
| Certain voices.
| Clean piano sounds.
| Rain before it gets dirty.
| People with kind mouths.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before you could answer, a group of students burst through the stairwell doors laughing loudly. The sound ricocheted sharply through the narrow hallway. Anton flinched hard enough that you noticed immediately.
His hand caught your sleeve.
Not your wrist. Not your hand. Just the fabric near your elbow.
The contact seemed unconscious.
His fingers twisted lightly into the material while his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused and distant for a moment. You could feel how tense he’d suddenly become, every muscle drawn tight beneath layers of soft fabric.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly without thinking.
Anton blinked once.
Then slowly looked down.
Like he’d only just realized he was touching you.
He released your sleeve immediately, but not before his fingertips dragged against your arm through the fabric. Light. Careless. Intimate in a way he clearly didn’t understand.
A faint pink flush spread across the tops of his ears. Not embarrassment exactly. More like confusion.
Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time you reached the music building, rain had started again outside the tall windows, turning the campus silver-gray. Anton stopped near the entrance to his next class, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder while students filtered around both of you.
You waited for some kind of goodbye.
Instead, he stared briefly at the charm hanging from your bag. A tiny cat keychain.
His eyes lingered on it with open concentration.
Then he reached out suddenly and touched it with careful fingertips. Softly rubbing the plush fabric between his fingers once. Twice.
The movement was so absentmindedly gentle it startled you.
“It was from a friend,” you explained quietly.
Anton nodded faintly but didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed across the worn stitching near the ear before he finally withdrew his hand back into his sleeve.
Then he typed something quickly and turned the screen toward you.
| I don’t like most textures.
You looked at the message, then at him.
“But you like that one?”
A pause. Another small nod.
For the first time since meeting him, something in his posture loosened slightly around you. Not trust yet. Nothing that simple. But maybe curiosity.
The classroom door opened behind him.
Anton glanced toward the sound before looking back at you briefly, eyes flickering near yours but never fully meeting them.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand. Another message already typed before he turned away.
| You should arrive at 2:40 next time.
-
You spent the rest of the day thinking about him against your will.
Not in the embarrassing way your roommate immediately assumed when you mentioned meeting “a pretty quiet boy” during dinner, but in the persistent, nagging way people stayed in your head when you couldn’t fully understand them. Anton didn’t behave like anyone you knew. Every interaction with him felt slightly mistimed, like his responses existed half a step outside the rhythm everyone else moved to. He wasn’t rude. If anything, he seemed painfully aware of other people at all times. He just reacted differently, processing everything somewhere deeper and slower before deciding what to do with it.
You found yourself replaying small details while brushing your teeth that night. The way he’d described beautiful things with complete sincerity. The careful alignment of objects on his desk. The confused look on his face after grabbing your sleeve, like he genuinely hadn’t realized touching someone unexpectedly might mean something.
At exactly 2:38 the next afternoon, you walked into the humanities building carrying two coffees and an unreasonable amount of awareness about being on time.
Anton was already there. Of course he was.
He sat in the same corner seat from yesterday, laptop open, headphones on this time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving while students shuffled noisily around him. Even from across the room, he looked disconnected from everything else inside it, tucked into his own atmosphere entirely.
You approached quietly. “Hi.”
He looked up immediately.
Not at your eyes. Never your eyes. His gaze caught somewhere near your mouth before flickering away again. His headphones slipped down around his neck as he noticed the drink tray in your hands.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admitted, setting one coffee carefully beside his laptop, “so I guessed.”
Anton stared at the cup for several long seconds.
You suddenly wondered if maybe you’d broken some invisible routine and made a terrible mistake.
Then he reached out and turned the cup slowly until the logo faced away from him.
Only after adjusting it did he pick it up.
His fingers were slender, almost delicate-looking, silver rings glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights. You noticed his nails were neatly trimmed and slightly glossy, as if he buffed them absentmindedly.
He took one cautious sip.
Then another.
A pause.
His phone appeared in his hand a second later.
| Vanilla is acceptable.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Anton blinked at the sound, attention catching on your face immediately. Not startled exactly. Focused.
“You sound like you’re reviewing a product.”
He watched you type something into your own phone for class notifications while processing the joke several beats too late. You saw the exact moment understanding landed.
The corners of his mouth lifted faintly.
Tiny. Brief. But unmistakable.
It transformed his whole face.
Before you could comment on it, students started filing into the room more aggressively, conversations overlapping loudly enough that the atmosphere shifted from quiet to crowded within seconds. Anton’s posture changed almost immediately. His shoulders rose subtly. His hand tightened around the coffee cup. The soft crease forming between his brows looked more uncomfortable than irritated.
A boy dropped heavily into the seat beside him without noticing.
Anton froze.
Not metaphorically. Completely.
The student kept talking to his friend across the aisle, elbow spreading over the shared desk space while Anton sat perfectly rigid beside him, fingers curling tighter inside his sleeves.
You looked between them.
Then gently said, “Hey, I think he needs a little more room.”
The student blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
He shifted over carelessly.
Anton still didn’t relax.
His breathing had gone shallow enough that you noticed it immediately now that you were paying attention. You leaned down slightly toward him.
“Do you want to wait outside until class starts?”
For a second you thought he might ignore you completely.
Then his hand moved under the desk and lightly caught the edge of your cardigan sleeve.
The same way he had yesterday.
Small. Quiet. Automatic.
You waited while he gathered his things with stiff movements before leading him back into the hallway. The moment the classroom door shut behind you both, some of the tension visibly left his body.
You leaned against the wall beside him. “Does crowded noise bother you?”
Anton nodded once.
Rain pattered softly against the windows nearby. Students passed through the corridor in uneven waves, but it was quieter here, the sounds more spread out and manageable.
After a minute, Anton typed something.
| He smelled too strong.
You blinked.
“Oh.”
| And his coat kept touching mine.
The seriousness of his expression nearly made you smile again. Not because it was funny to him, but because he explained discomfort so literally. No exaggeration. No attempt to make himself sound easier or more reasonable.
Just facts.
“You don’t like being touched?”
Anton stared at the screen for a long moment after reading the question.
Then slowly typed:
| I don’t mind when I know it’s happening.
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard at the memory of his hand around your sleeve yesterday.
Before you could respond, the classroom door opened again. Students began settling down for lecture, voices quieter now.
Anton made no move to return inside.
“You still have class,” you reminded gently.
His gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.
Then his phone lit up.
| You come too.
“You want me to sit with you?”
A pause. Tiny nod.
Technically, student aides weren’t supposed to attend lectures unless necessary, but the way Anton stood there waiting made refusal feel strangely impossible. He shifted slightly closer while students continued walking around you both, the sleeve of his cardigan brushing your arm for half a second before he stepped away again.
You followed him back inside.
This time, Anton chose seats in the very back row.
You noticed he picked the one nearest the wall.
He sat down first, then hesitated oddly before placing his bag on the opposite side instead of between you. Like he’d considered creating distance and changed his mind halfway through.
Throughout the lecture, he barely looked at the professor. Instead, he typed constantly, notes impossibly organized across his laptop screen. Color-coded. Timestamped. Every heading perfectly aligned.
About twenty minutes in, you noticed movement beside you.
Anton had gone still again.
His fingers rested motionless over the keyboard while his attention fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The lecture hall lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone behind you kept clicking their pen repeatedly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Anton’s jaw tightened almost invisibly every time the sound repeated.
Without really thinking about it, you reached into your bag for your spare earbuds and placed them gently beside his laptop.
He looked down at them.
Then at you.
“They’re noise cancelling,” you whispered.
Anton stared for such a long time you thought maybe he wouldn’t take them.
Finally, he picked one up carefully between his fingers.
Not putting it in yet. Just feeling the smooth plastic surface.
His thumb brushed over it slowly.
Then, unexpectedly, he placed it back down and typed something instead.
| You notice too much.
You frowned slightly. “Is that bad?”
He read your lips while you spoke, eyes fixed there with quiet concentration.
Then he shook his head once.
A few minutes later, without warning, his shoulder tipped lightly against yours.
Not enough pressure to seem intentional.
Just there.
Warm through layers of fabric.
Anton continued typing with complete focus like he hadn’t noticed the contact at all.
You became aware of his shoulder long before you became aware of the lecture again.
Not because the touch itself was dramatic. It wasn’t. Anton barely leaned into you at all, just enough for the warmth of him to settle against your arm through the fabric of your sweater. But there was something dangerously intimate about how unconscious it seemed. He wasn’t testing boundaries or searching for reassurance. His body had simply decided you were easier to exist beside than everyone else in the room.
And apparently, that was that.
The professor’s voice blurred into background noise while rain streaked slowly down the windows. Anton kept typing steadily, expression soft with concentration. Every few minutes he paused to adjust something tiny: the angle of his pen, the brightness of his screen, the cuff of his cardigan slipping over his wrist. His movements were precise in a way that felt practiced rather than obsessive, like the world only stayed manageable if things remained arranged correctly.
The clicking pen behind you finally stopped.
Anton relaxed almost immediately afterward.
You weren’t sure why noticing that made your chest ache a little.
When class ended, students shoved chairs back noisily and crowded toward the exits in impatient waves. Anton didn’t move. He stayed seated beside you while the room emptied around him, fingers still resting on the keyboard even after the screen dimmed from inactivity.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
His eyes lifted toward you briefly before drifting away again.
Then he typed:
| There are too many transitions in one day.
You read the sentence twice.
It was such a strange way to describe exhaustion, but somehow it made perfect sense. You thought about how often people expected immediate adjustment from one thing to another without hesitation. Loud cafeteria to silent lecture hall. Crowded sidewalks to empty dorm rooms. Conversation to isolation. Most people did it automatically.
Anton probably felt every shift like stepping between different temperatures.
“That sounds tiring,” you said softly.
His gaze flickered back toward your face then, lingering there a fraction longer than usual. You got the unsettling feeling he wasn’t used to people responding like that. Not dismissing him. Not trying to correct or simplify what he meant.
Just accepting it.
Outside, the rain had worsened into a steady silver downpour. Students hurried across campus beneath umbrellas while water gathered along the sidewalks in shallow reflective puddles.
Anton stood beside the building entrance staring outside with visible hesitation.
“You don’t have an umbrella?” you guessed.
He shook his head once.
“You could’ve checked the weather.”
A pause.
Then his phone appeared.
| I did.
| It said 40%.
You stared at him for a second before laughing again despite yourself. Anton’s attention snapped toward the sound instantly, distracted from the rain.
“What?”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| Why do you keep doing that?
“Doing what?”
| Making that noise.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Laughing?”
He considered the word carefully, like matching it to memory.
Then:
| You laugh more quietly than most people.
Something about the observation felt far too intimate for someone you’d known less than two days.
Before you could answer, Anton stepped out into the rain without warning.
“Wait—”
Cold droplets immediately soaked into the dark fabric of his cardigan, dampening his hair within seconds. He didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he cared and didn’t know what to do about it. You hurried after him beneath your umbrella, catching up just as he crossed the sidewalk toward the arts building.
“Anton.”
He slowed.
“You’re getting soaked.”
He looked down at his sleeve like he’d only just noticed the rainwater spreading through it.
Then he typed while still walking.
| I like rain before people touch it.
You almost told him that made no sense before remembering who you were speaking to.
“What does that mean?”
Anton paused near the crosswalk, watching water rush along the curb in thin rippling streams.
For a while, he didn’t answer. Cars hissed past on wet pavement while students crowded beneath awnings nearby. You thought maybe he’d abandoned the thought entirely.
Then:
| Rain is clean when it first falls.
| Afterward it becomes campus rain.
You looked at him carefully.
His hair clung damply against his forehead now, soft dark strands curling slightly at the ends from the moisture. There was something vulnerable about him standing there in the middle of the gray afternoon looking entirely consumed by a thought no one else would ever have.
“You think about things strangely,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit hard.
Anton’s expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically. Just quieting.
His fingers stilled against his phone screen.
You opened your mouth quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
But he was already looking away from you.
Shit.
The walk to the arts building suddenly felt much longer.
Anton stayed half a step ahead the entire time, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again. You replayed your sentence over and over in your head, trying to figure out exactly where it had gone wrong. You hadn’t meant strange in a bad way. If anything, talking to him felt oddly refreshing compared to the exhausting predictability of everyone else.
But maybe he’d heard that before.
Maybe people had spent his entire life calling him strange.
By the time you reached the building entrance, guilt sat heavily in your stomach.
“Anton.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around fully.
“I’m sorry,” you said carefully. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”
Silence.
Rain hammered softly against the glass doors nearby.
Then Anton finally looked toward you, eyes lowering automatically before they could meet yours completely. Up close, you noticed faint water droplets caught in his lashes.
His phone lit up slowly.
| I know.
But he still looked hurt.
The realization unsettled you more than it should have.
You stood there awkwardly while students brushed past into the building around you. Anton readjusted the strap slipping off his shoulder with damp fingers, movements slower than usual now.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.
Close enough that your umbrella tilted awkwardly backward from the movement.
His hand appeared near your sleeve again.
Not grabbing this time.
Just touching the wet fabric lightly between two fingers.
“You’re cold,” you said quietly.
Anton blinked once, looking down at where rainwater darkened the cuff of your sweater too.
After a few seconds, he typed:
| You came into the rain anyway.
You weren’t sure why that sentence lingered so heavily in your chest afterward.
Maybe because he said things so plainly that they stopped sounding plain at all.
You came into the rain anyway.
Like it meant something.
Anton followed you silently into the arts building, water dripping softly from the ends of his sleeves onto the polished floors. The lobby buzzed with low conversation and distant piano scales echoing from somewhere upstairs, students moving between practice rooms carrying instrument cases and sheet music folders pressed against their chests. Compared to the rest of campus, the building felt strangely warm, almost sleepy, lit gold by old hanging lamps instead of harsh fluorescents.
Anton visibly relaxed the moment the doors shut behind you.
Not entirely. He never seemed entirely relaxed. But his shoulders lowered slightly, and his breathing evened out again beneath the soft hum of music drifting through the hallways.
“You have class here?” you asked.
Small nod.
“What kind?”
He typed one-handed while wringing rainwater absentmindedly from the cuff of his cardigan with the other.
| Composition lab.
That explained the major, at least partially. You tried imagining him making music and immediately could. Not performance. Nothing loud or attention-seeking. Something intricate and emotional and probably far too beautiful for most people to understand properly.
A girl passing through the lobby slowed suddenly when she noticed Anton.
“Chanyoung!”
He stiffened instantly.
She either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Professor Kim was asking where your revised arrangement went. Did you ever email it?”
Anton’s gaze dropped toward the floor.
Three seconds passed.
Five.
The girl’s smile faltered slightly as the silence stretched.
You watched panic build subtly beneath Anton’s expression, not dramatic enough for most people to catch. His fingers curled tightly into the soaked fabric hanging over his hands. His lips parted once without sound emerging.
He was trying.
Your chest tightened.
“He probably hasn’t had the chance yet,” you answered gently before the silence could become humiliating.
The girl blinked toward you like she’d forgotten other people existed. “Oh.”
Anton remained completely motionless beside you.
“Well…” She laughed awkwardly. “Tell him Professor Kim’s been emailing.”
Then she hurried off down the hallway.
The second she disappeared around the corner, Anton exhaled softly through his nose.
Not relief exactly. More like recovery.
You looked at him carefully. “You don’t like when people expect answers right away.”
His eyes shifted toward you. Then downward again.
After a moment, he typed:
| Sometimes words don’t arrive before the moment is over.
The sentence hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe for a second.
You wondered suddenly how many people mistook his silence for indifference when really it was delay. Like his emotions and thoughts existed behind glass slightly thicker than everyone else’s.
“That sounds frustrating,” you said quietly.
Anton stared at the phone screen after reading your response. His thumb hovered near the keyboard as if he intended to say more.
But instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
A nearby piano stumbled through the same wrong note three times in a row from one of the practice rooms upstairs.
Anton visibly winced.
“You can hear that from here?”
Tiny nod.
“That’s kind of impressive.”
Another wince at the fourth mistake.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached for your wrist.
Not dramatically. Not even fully.
His fingertips just settled there lightly, cool from the rain, before he began guiding you toward the staircase without explanation.
The contact shocked you enough that you followed automatically.
Anton climbed the stairs quietly, still holding your wrist with absentminded gentleness the entire way. Not possessive. Not nervous. Casual in the way someone might carry an object they’d already decided belonged beside them.
Meanwhile your heartbeat had become humiliating.
On the third floor, the hallway narrowed into rows of small soundproof practice rooms with rectangular windows set into each door. Music spilled unevenly through the walls anyway — violin scales, fragments of jazz piano, someone singing warmups badly enough to make Anton’s nose wrinkle slightly.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
He noticed immediately.
“What?”
Anton tilted his head faintly.
“You make expressions even when you don’t talk much.”
A pause.
Then he let go of your wrist abruptly like he’d only just remembered he was touching you at all.
The sudden absence of warmth felt strangely noticeable.
Anton stopped outside one of the practice room doors and pushed it open carefully. Inside sat a keyboard, two chairs, scattered sheet music, and little else. The room was dimmer than the hallway, insulated from most of the outside noise.
You stepped inside after him.
“This is yours?”
He nodded once, already moving toward the keyboard.
The room changed him somehow.
Not personality-wise. More like the tension he carried around campus loosened in specific places here. His movements became smoother, more instinctive. Comfortable.
Anton sat down on the bench and adjusted the sleeves falling over his hands before resting his fingers lightly against the keys.
Then he froze.
You waited quietly.
After a few seconds, he typed into his phone again without looking up.
| You can sit.
“Oh. Right.”
You settled into the chair nearby while rain tapped softly against the narrow window beside the piano. Anton remained still for another long moment, staring at the keys with intense concentration.
“You don’t have to play for me,” you said gently, suddenly worried he felt pressured.
He shook his head immediately.
Then finally, he played.
The first notes were so soft you almost missed them.
Not a melody at first. Just careful fragments unfolding slowly beneath his fingertips, delicate and thoughtful and strangely lonely. The sound filled the small room without overwhelming it, each note lingering long enough to feel intentional. Anton’s expression changed while he played. Not happier exactly, but clearer somehow. Like music translated things his body couldn’t organize into speech quickly enough.
You watched his hands move across the keyboard.
Beautiful hands, honestly.
Long fingers. Silver rings glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sleeves slipping down toward his knuckles every few seconds before he impatiently pushed them back again mid-song.
The music deepened gradually, weaving into something fuller and aching enough that your chest hurt unexpectedly listening to it.
Anton never looked at you once while he played.
But somehow it still felt like being let inside something private.
When the final note faded, silence settled gently back over the room.
You realized only then that you’d stopped moving entirely.
“That was really pretty,” you whispered.
Anton stayed motionless at the keyboard.
Then slowly:
| You keep using that word.
“Pretty?”
A tiny nod.
You smiled faintly. “Do you not like it?”
For the first time since meeting him, Anton actually looked close to nervous.
Not externally. You were just beginning to recognize the signs now — the slight tension in his jaw, fingers rubbing together beneath oversized sleeves, gaze fixed stubbornly on the piano keys.
Finally, he typed carefully.
| No one usually means it kindly.
Something inside you softened painfully at that.
The practice room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, the rain outside reduced to a dull silver murmur against the windows. Anton kept his eyes lowered toward the keyboard after showing you the message, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted saying it at all.
You thought about him walking across campus with his oversized cardigans and careful posture, about the glossy shine on his nails, the silver rings, the softness he didn’t bother hiding even though people probably noticed immediately. You could already imagine the kind of comments college boys made when someone didn’t fit neatly into whatever version of masculinity they found acceptable.
“You know I mean it kindly,” you said gently.
Anton didn’t respond right away.
His fingers drifted absentmindedly across a few silent piano keys without pressing hard enough to create sound. Thinking. Processing. You were beginning to realize he often needed silence the way other people needed conversation.
| I know now.
Now.
Not before.
Your chest tightened again.
Before you could answer, voices echoed loudly down the hallway outside the practice rooms. Several students passed by laughing, the sound muffled but sharp enough to pull Anton immediately out of whatever calm the piano had given him. His posture straightened. His hands stilled.
One of the voices paused near the door.
“Oh, he’s in there.”
Another laugh. “Of course he is.”
The doorknob rattled lightly.
Anton froze so suddenly it almost frightened you.
Not fear exactly. Anticipation. Like his body had learned to brace before his mind even caught up.
The door opened halfway before either of you could react. Two boys from what looked like an ensemble class leaned inside casually, both carrying instrument cases.
“There you are,” one of them said. “Kim keeps emailing about your arrangement.”
Anton’s gaze dropped instantly toward the floor.
Neither of them acknowledged you at first.
“You gonna answer him this year or what?” the other joked.
Silence.
You watched Anton’s fingers slowly curl into the sleeves covering his hands.
The first guy sighed awkwardly after a few seconds. “Right. Sorry.”
But he still lingered there waiting, clearly expecting some kind of response.
Anton’s throat moved faintly.
Nothing came out.
You could almost feel the pressure building inside the room.
“He said he’ll send it,” you interrupted quietly before the silence could turn cruel.
Both boys finally looked toward you.
The second one blinked. “Oh.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly but not enough, “Does he just not talk ever?”
The question landed heavily.
Anton remained perfectly still at the piano bench beside you, expression unreadable now in that way you were beginning to hate because it meant he’d withdrawn somewhere unreachable.
“He talks,” you answered before thinking. “Just not whenever people demand it.”
The room fell quiet.
One boy looked embarrassed immediately. The other shifted awkwardly against his instrument case strap.
“Right,” he muttered. “Whatever.”
They left a second later, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence rushed back in.
Anton still hadn’t moved.
You exhaled slowly, anger simmering hotter in your chest than it probably should have after only two days of knowing him. “They were being rude.”
Nothing.
“Anton?”
His hand moved toward his phone slowly.
Then stopped halfway there.
Instead, he pressed both sleeves against his mouth briefly, eyes fixed somewhere distant across the room. Processing again. You could see it happening now — the delayed impact arriving piece by piece after the interaction already ended.
When he finally typed, the message appeared slower than usual.
| They weren’t trying to be mean.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Anton stared at the screen after reading that.
Then:
| Most people become uncomfortable eventually.
The matter-of-factness of the sentence hurt more than self-pity would’ve.
Like he’d accepted it as inevitable.
“Well, I’m not uncomfortable.”
The room went very quiet.
Anton blinked once.
Then again.
You got the distinct feeling you’d said something unexpectedly important.
His attention lifted toward your face slowly, cautiously, eyes stopping just short of yours like always. For a second he looked almost disoriented, as if he didn’t know where to place the statement inside his understanding of people.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.
| Not yet.
The words startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Anton watched your reaction immediately, shoulders loosening just slightly at the sound.
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
A pause.
Then:
| You laugh when you aren’t upset anymore.
You stared at him.
Anton stared back in that indirect way he had, gaze hovering near your mouth while he read your expression carefully. Observing. Cataloging.
“You notice everything,” you murmured.
He processed that silently.
Then typed:
| Only things I need to remember.
The air in the room suddenly felt too warm.
Before you could recover, Anton stood from the piano bench in one smooth movement and crossed toward the stack of papers scattered near the music stand. He crouched to reorganize them with immediate focus, aligning the corners carefully against the floor before clipping them together.
You watched him for a second before kneeling automatically to help.
Anton went still beside you.
“What?” you asked.
His eyes flickered toward your hands gathering the loose sheets.
Then toward your knees pressed against the carpet beside him.
Finally:
| You don’t have to do that.
“It’s literally two papers.”
He kept s taring anyway.
Up close like this, you noticed how long his lashes were again. Ridiculously long, honestly. They cast faint shadows against his cheeks whenever he looked downward.
Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair away from his eyes.
The second your fingers touched him, Anton stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Actually stopped.
Your hand froze too.
His skin was cold from the rain. Soft.
You should’ve pulled away immediately.
Instead, both of you stayed there for one horribly suspended second, Anton staring at you with open confusion written across his face. Not discomfort. Something more startled than that, like his brain had failed to categorize what just happened.
Then, slowly, very carefully, he leaned forward.
Just slightly.
Into your hand.
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.
Anton didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on people when he did things like this. Or maybe he noticed reactions without understanding where they came from. Either way, the movement was small enough that another person might’ve missed it entirely — the faint tilt of his head against your palm, the way his eyes lowered halfway shut for a second like he was concentrating on the sensation.
Soft.
That was the first thought that hit you.
Not just physically. His entire presence felt soft in ways the world probably hadn’t handled gently.
Then realization flickered across his expression.
Anton pulled back immediately.
His hand came up halfway toward his face before stopping awkwardly in the air. You watched confusion move through him in real time, slow and visible behind his eyes as he tried to process the interaction after it had already happened.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, dropping your hand back into your lap. “I shouldn’t have just—”
Anton shook his head hard enough to interrupt you.
Not upset. Just overwhelmed.
He stared down at the papers scattered between you both, fingers tightening once around the edge of a music sheet before he typed something with abrupt intensity.
| Don’t apologize for touching me if it was kind.
The sentence settled heavily between you.
You looked at him carefully. “Has nobody ever told you there’s a difference?”
Anton frowned faintly.
“Between wanted touch and unwanted touch.”
He went still again.
Not frozen this time. Thinking.
You could practically watch him sorting through memories and information behind his eyes, reorganizing old experiences against the new wording. After a long silence, he typed slowly:
| People usually touch me accidentally.
Something about that answer made your chest ache.
You thought suddenly about crowded hallways brushing against him, strangers shoving past without warning, uncomfortable handshakes, impatient taps on the shoulder when he didn’t respond quickly enough. Touch that happened to him instead of for him.
And maybe because Anton processed emotions later than everyone else, maybe by the time discomfort fully arrived, the moment had already passed.
“That’s not the same thing,” you said quietly.
He read the sentence twice.
Then:
| You ask before doing things.
You almost pointed out that you hadn’t asked before touching his hair, but Anton continued typing before you could.
| Most people decide things for me first.
The practice room felt unbearably quiet after that.
Outside, someone played scales down the hallway while rain tapped steadily against the narrow windows. Anton gathered the rest of his papers into a neat stack again, movements slower now, attention split somewhere deeper inside himself.
“You think about people a lot, don’t you?” you asked softly.
He glanced toward you.
Then away.
A tiny shrug.
After a moment:
| I have to study people longer than other people study me.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
Because it was true, probably.
Most people would look at Anton once and make immediate assumptions. Quiet. Strange. Awkward. Difficult. Sensitive. Meanwhile he seemed to spend enormous amounts of energy trying to understand everyone around him properly while they rarely extended the same patience back.
Your eyes drifted toward the music sheets in his lap. The notes were impossibly neat, handwritten annotations arranged with color-coded precision along the margins.
“You really like organizing things.”
That earned the faintest reaction from him. Almost defensive.
| Things behave better when they’re organized.
You smiled slightly. “People don’t?”
Immediately, before even typing:
“No.”
The sound startled you both.
Anton’s eyes widened a fraction.
It was the first time you’d heard his voice.
Quiet wasn’t even the right word for it. His voice sounded soft in the same way fabric could be soft, low and airy from disuse, almost careful around the edges. Like speaking required more physical effort for him than most people realized.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then color rose slowly into Anton’s cheeks.
He looked away so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.
You tried not to react too strongly, suddenly aware that if you made a big deal out of it he might retreat completely.
But your heartbeat was going insane.
“You’re right,” you said gently, pretending your pulse wasn’t stumbling all over itself. “People are kind of impossible.”
Anton kept staring stubbornly at the floor.
The blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears now.
You bit back a smile.
“You have a nice voice.”
The reaction was immediate.
Anton’s shoulders drew up slightly, like the compliment physically struck him somewhere sensitive. He tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and focused aggressively on aligning the papers again even though they were already perfectly straight.
Interesting.
“You don’t like compliments?”
A pause.
Then, quietly this time, barely above a whisper:
“I don’t know.”
You almost melted directly into the carpet.
Anton seemed startled by his own answer too. His throat moved faintly afterward, like he was still adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of speaking aloud. But he didn’t fully shut down again. If anything, he looked more disoriented than distressed.
“You don’t know if you like compliments?”
Tiny shake of his head.
“Why not?”
He reached for his phone again, clearly more comfortable typing complicated thoughts than saying them.
| Sometimes people compliment me because they think I’m strange.
| Like observing an animal that learned something impressive.
Your expression must’ve changed because Anton immediately looked down again.
“I wasn’t doing that,” you said quietly.
He nodded before you even finished.
| I know.
That I know sounded different now too. More certain than earlier.
You sat there for another moment listening to the muffled music outside before your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder.
Work shift. Ten minutes.
“Shit,” you muttered, checking the screen. “I have to go.”
Anton’s attention lifted immediately.
“I forgot I’m covering someone at the library tonight.”
The atmosphere shifted so subtly you almost thought you imagined it.
Not disappointment exactly.
But something adjacent to it.
Anton looked toward the rain-streaked window automatically before typing:
| You don’t like leaving in the middle of things either.
You stared at him.
“No,” you admitted softly. “I guess I don’t.”
For a second he just watched you gather your bag and jacket. Or rather, watched your hands. Anton seemed to focus on hands often, you realized suddenly. Movements. Gestures. The physical shape of emotion instead of eye contact.
When you stood, he stood too.
Immediately.
Like it was obvious he should.
“You don’t have to walk me out,” you said.
Anton blinked once, confused.
Then:
| I know.
But he still followed you anyway.
The hallway outside the practice room had grown quieter by the time you left, most classes already in session. The muffled sounds of instruments still drifted through the walls in uneven fragments — piano chords from somewhere downstairs, a violin stopping and restarting the same passage over and over again, distant laughter echoing briefly before fading down another corridor.
Anton walked beside you without speaking.
Not awkwardly silent. Just present.
You were beginning to realize there was a difference with him.
Most silence between people felt empty because both parties waited for someone to fill it. Anton’s silence felt occupied already, crowded with observation and delayed thoughts and tiny details he seemed to absorb constantly without comment. Walking beside him made you hyperaware of your own movements in return — the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor, the shift of your bag strap on your shoulder, the warmth lingering in your palm from where he’d leaned into your touch earlier.
You tried very hard not to think about that too much.
At the stairwell landing, Anton stopped suddenly.
You nearly walked past him before turning back. “What?”
He looked distracted by something over your shoulder. Following his gaze, you noticed a girl descending the stairs carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale pink paper. Tiny white flowers peeked through the plastic.
Anton stared openly.
Not at the girl. At the flowers.
The intensity of his focus almost made you smile.
“You like those?”
His attention flicked back toward you, caught.
Then he nodded once.
“They’re just baby’s breath.”
Another small shake of his head this time. Incorrect.
Anton typed carefully while still watching the bouquet disappear downstairs.
| They look soft.
Of course that was his reason.
You wondered if he categorized the world entirely through sensory feeling. Soft. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. Wrong. Safe.
The realization made him seem somehow even more vulnerable.
As you continued downstairs, Anton drifted closer beside you whenever groups of students passed in the opposite direction. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his sleeve brushed your arm occasionally before he corrected the distance again. Like his body naturally sought proximity before his mind remembered it was supposed to maintain space.
By the first floor lobby, the rain outside had softened into a fine mist coating the windows silver.
You adjusted your bag strap. “I’ll see you tomorrow before your lecture?”
Anton nodded immediately.
Then hesitated.
You could tell by now when something was stuck inside him trying to become language.
His fingers moved once against the edge of his sleeve before he finally typed:
| You don’t have to keep talking when I stop responding.
“Oh.”
You frowned slightly. “Was I talking too much?”
He looked alarmed instantly and shook his head hard enough that damp strands of hair fell into his eyes again.
Quickly:
| No.
| Most people become uncomfortable with silence.
You stared at the screen.
Then at him.
“Do you?”
Anton seemed genuinely confused by the question.
| With silence?
“Yeah.”
A long pause.
| Silence is easier because nobody expects immediate versions of you.
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Immediate versions of you.
You thought suddenly about every rushed conversation you’d ever had, every moment people interrupted each other or filled pauses before anyone could truly think. Anton moved through interactions like someone translating feelings manually while everyone else operated automatically.
No wonder he got exhausted.
“You think really beautifully sometimes,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
Anton went still. Not tense. Just attentive in that startlingly complete way he had.
Then slowly, carefully, he typed:
| You say things to me like they aren’t dangerous.
The comment confused you for half a second before understanding arrived.
Compliments. Kindness. Gentleness.
Things he’d apparently learned to handle cautiously.
Your chest ached again.
“Well,” you said softly, “they aren’t dangerous.”
Anton looked at you for a very long time after that.
Not direct eye contact. You still weren’t sure he’d ever fully meet your eyes comfortably. But his attention stayed fixed near your face with unusual steadiness, expression unreadable beneath the soft fluorescent lobby lights.
Then someone entered the building loudly behind you both, the door slamming harder than necessary.
Anton startled.
Not dramatically, but enough that his hand caught the fabric of your sleeve again automatically.
The movement happened so naturally now that neither of you reacted immediately.
His fingers stayed there lightly curled against your wrist while he glanced back toward the entrance, orienting himself. You looked down at the contact for a second before lifting your eyes toward him again.
Anton followed your gaze belatedly.
A flush spread across his face almost instantly.
He released you carefully this time instead of jerking away.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
The second the word left his mouth, surprise crossed his expression again. Like he still wasn’t entirely deciding when speech happened.
You smiled a little despite yourself. “You don’t have to apologize every time you touch me.”
Anton stared.
You watched the sentence process in real time.
Slowly. Dangerously.
His lips parted slightly before closing again. He looked down toward his own hand like it had become unfamiliar to him somehow.
Then his phone appeared.
| I think about it afterward.
“What part?”
| Whether I was supposed to know something.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“About touching?”
Tiny nod.
The honesty of it nearly killed you.
You leaned against the wall slightly, trying to steady yourself before answering. “Most people attach meaning to physical affection.”
| Even small things?
“Yes.”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| That seems exhausting.
You laughed softly before you could help it. “It can be.”
Anton watched your face with quiet concentration.
| When you touch me it feels calm.
| So afterward I don’t understand why everyone makes those things complicated.
The entire world seemed to tilt sideways for one horrifying second.
Anton, meanwhile, looked completely sincere.
No flirting. No awareness of the effect he’d just had on you. He said things the way people described weather patterns — observationally, honestly, without understanding how intimate they sounded once spoken aloud.
You were absolutely doomed.
Before you could respond, Anton’s phone buzzed sharply in his hand. The sudden sound made him flinch slightly before checking the screen.
His expression shifted immediately.
“What is it?”
He turned the phone toward you.
A calendar notification.
Dinner — 6:00 PM
Underneath it, another smaller reminder:
Eat full meal. Not snacks.
You blinked.
Then looked at him slowly. “Did someone actually schedule meals into your phone?”
Anton took the phone back.
After a moment:
| I forget.
“You forget to eat?”
Tiny shrug.
| Other things are louder.
-
You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary after that.
Other things are louder.
Anton said sentences like they were simple facts, then left you standing there trying to recover from the weight of them afterward. You wondered if he had any idea how revealing he sounded sometimes, how easily little pieces of himself slipped into conversation before he could recognize them as personal.
Probably not.
“Have you eaten today?” you asked carefully.
Anton’s silence answered first.
You stared at him. “Anton.”
Another pause.
Finally:
| A banana.
“Since when?”
His eyes drifted upward slightly, thinking.
| Morning.
Your chest tightened in immediate irritation. “That’s not enough.”
He looked mildly confused by your tone, like your concern had arrived too intensely for him to categorize right away. You were beginning to notice that too — strong emotion seemed to make him pause longer, processing each word more carefully before deciding how to react.
“I mean…” You exhaled, softening your voice. “No wonder you’re tired.”
Anton leaned lightly against the wall beside you, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again while students passed through the lobby in scattered groups. He looked genuinely thoughtful now, considering your statement with unusual seriousness.
| I didn’t notice until you said it.
“That you were hungry?”
Small nod.
You weren’t sure why that made you sad.
Maybe because Anton seemed disconnected from his own body half the time, noticing discomfort only after it became impossible to ignore. Hunger. Overstimulation. Emotions. Everything arrived delayed.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag again, “you should eat before your next class.”
His gaze shifted toward the rain outside immediately.
Avoidance.
“You don’t want to go to the dining hall.”
Another tiny nod.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too unpredictable. You could practically map the reasons out yourself already.
“You could get takeout somewhere quieter.”
Anton didn’t answer.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re not going to, are you?”
| Eventually.
“That means no.”
Anton blinked slowly, caught.
The expression that crossed his face was so unintentionally cute you almost got angry about it.
Before you could stop yourself, you sighed and said, “Come on.”
He frowned faintly
“Where?”
“There’s a café behind the library that stays pretty empty around this time.”
You watched confusion spread across his expression in stages. Then surprise. Then something more hesitant underneath both.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
The soft sound of his voice caught you off guard again. It was still strange hearing him speak aloud after spending most of the past two days communicating through typed messages and silence. His voice felt intimate somehow. Fragile in a way people instinctively leaned closer to.
“I know,” you said gently. “I want to.”
Anton stared at you for a second too long after that. Then lowered his gaze first.
You were starting to suspect he did that whenever emotions became too large to process immediately.
The walk to the café was quieter than usual because the rain had driven most students indoors. Damp leaves clung to the sidewalks, the entire campus washed gray and silver beneath the evening sky. Anton stayed close beside you without seeming aware of it, occasionally brushing against your shoulder before drifting away again.
At one point, your umbrella tilted slightly from the wind.
Anton adjusted it for you automatically.
Not taking it from your hands. Just reaching up carefully to straighten the angle so the rain stopped hitting your sleeve.
The gesture was so natural it took you a second to even process it.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
He nodded once like the action required no acknowledgment.
The café sat tucked behind the library exactly as promised, warm yellow light glowing through fogged windows. Inside smelled like espresso and cinnamon with soft instrumental music low enough not to overwhelm the room. Only a few students occupied the scattered tables.
Anton stopped just inside the doorway.
You turned toward him. “Too much?”
He looked around carefully.
Then shook his head.
Relief loosened something in your chest.
While you ordered at the counter, Anton lingered several feet away studying the dessert display with complete concentration. Not the food itself, you realized after watching him for a moment.
The colors. The arrangement.
Tiny fruit tarts lined perfectly in rows beneath warm lighting. Frosted cakes decorated with edible flowers. Soft pink macarons stacked like polished stones.
Beautiful things.
You smiled to yourself before ordering.
When you carried the drinks and food back to the table, Anton immediately moved his phone and sleeves out of the way for you with careful precision. You set a sandwich in front of him.
His eyes widened slightly.
“That’s too much,” he murmured.
“It’s half a sandwich.”
“It’s large.”
“You had a banana six hours ago.”
Anton stared at the sandwich like you’d handed him a complicated assignment instead of food.
“You remembered.”
The words landed strangely soft between you.
“Of course I remembered.”
Something changed in his expression again. Small enough that another person probably wouldn’t notice. But you were starting to recognize these tiny shifts now — the way his shoulders loosened when he felt safe, the faint unfocusing of his eyes when emotions became difficult, the careful stillness whenever he was trying to hold onto something internally.
Anton picked up the sandwich obediently after a moment.
You expected him to eat delicately.
Instead, he took one bite and immediately closed his eyes.
Not dramatically. Just briefly.
Processing.
“It’s good?” you asked, amused.
After swallowing, he typed one-handed:
| The bread texture is correct.
You laughed so suddenly a nearby student glanced over.
Anton’s attention snapped immediately toward your face.
Again.
Always again.
He watched your reactions with such complete focus it made your stomach feel strange.
“What?”
His fingers stilled against his phone.
| You laugh differently now than yesterday.
“Oh?”
Tiny nod. Less careful.
You looked down at your drink for a second, suddenly embarrassed by how comfortable you’d already become around him. It had only been two days. Two very strange, emotionally days.
Across from you, Anton continued eating in small precise bites while occasionally glancing toward the rain streaking the café windows. His damp hair had finally begun drying, soft dark strands curling slightly near the ends.
Without warning, he spoke again.
“You touch people a lot?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
“What?”
Anton looked immediately concerned, like he’d skipped too many conversational steps again without realizing it.
“You…” He paused, visibly searching for the words. “Move close easily.”
“Oh.”
Heat crept into your face embarrassingly fast.
“I mean, not everyone.”
Anton processed that carefully while peeling the wrapper from his straw with meticulous attention.
“Only people you like?”
You stared at him across the tiny café table while he waited with complete sincerity for an answer, entirely unaware of how loaded the conversation had become.
“I guess so,” you admitted quietly.
Anton nodded once.
Then returned to eating like he hadn’t just destabilized your entire nervous system.
For a while, neither of you spoke again.
The café settled into a comfortable hush around you both, low music blending with the soft hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. Rainwater crawled slowly down the windows in thin uneven trails, turning the lights outside blurry and gold. Anton seemed calmer here than anywhere else you’d seen him on campus so far. Not fully relaxed — you were beginning to think that state barely existed for him — but settled enough that the constant tension in his shoulders had eased.
You watched him absentmindedly peel the paper sleeve from his straw into perfectly even strips.
Not fidgeting.
Organizing.
His sandwich sat precisely centered on the napkin between bites.
“You always do that?” you asked softly.
Anton glanced up.
“With objects.”
Then his eyes drifted toward the neat pile of paper strips beside his drink.
“Oh.”
He looked faintly embarrassed for the first time all evening.
“I’m making a mess,” he murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
You reached over before thinking and straightened one of the uneven paper pieces he’d missed. Anton went completely still watching your fingers brush the table.
The silence stretched.
“You don’t get irritated by things?”
The question caught you off guard. “What kind of things?”
He gestured vaguely toward the strips.
“The wrongness.”
You looked down at the table.
Then back at him slowly.
“I mean… sometimes.”
Anton waited.
“But not like you do, I think.”
He stared at your mouth while you spoke, expression thoughtful and slightly distant again. Processing. You were getting frighteningly good at recognizing when he’d gone inward like that.
After a moment, he typed:
| Most people say I overreact to discomfort.
The ache in your chest returned immediately.
You wondered how many parts of himself Anton had spent years apologizing for simply because other people experienced the world less intensely than he did.
“Well,” you said carefully, “if something genuinely feels overwhelming to you, then it’s overwhelming. Even if other people don’t understand it.”
Anton stopped moving entirely. Listening.
You saw the exact moment your words landed somewhere important.
His fingers tightened once around the edge of his sleeve before loosening again. Then he lowered his gaze toward the table almost abruptly, like he suddenly needed somewhere else to look.
“You say things softly,” he said after a while.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“What does that mean?”
Anton frowned faintly, searching.
“Like…” He paused again. “Like you don’t want them to hurt anyone.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly killed you on the spot.
You looked away first this time, pretending to focus on your drink so he wouldn’t notice how flustered you’d suddenly become.
Across from you, Anton continued studying you openly in that indirect way he had. Not eye contact exactly. Attention contact. Total and unnervingly observant.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
The reaction was immediate.
His shoulders tensed before he even checked the screen.
You watched his expression shift as he read the notification. Not upset. Just… burdened.
“What is it?”
Anton turned the phone toward you after a second.
Mom calling
He stared at the screen while it rang. Didn’t answer.
The vibration stopped after several seconds before immediately starting again.
“You should probably pick up,” you said gently.
Anton looked genuinely distressed by the idea.
“She worries if I don’t.”
“Then answer?”
Another ring.
He swallowed faintly before pressing accept and lifting the phone to his ear.
You looked away automatically to give him privacy, but silence stretched so long you eventually glanced back.
Anton hadn’t spoken.
He sat perfectly still listening to the voice on the other end while his thumb rubbed repeatedly against the edge of his sleeve beneath the table.
Then, very quietly:
“Yes.”
A pause.
“No.”
Another pause.
“I ate.”
Something in your chest twisted at how carefully he said each word, like speech over the phone required even more concentration than face-to-face conversation.
His mother’s voice carried faintly through the speaker, too muffled to understand.
Anton’s gaze drifted toward you unexpectedly.
Then away again.
“Yes,” he whispered after another long silence. “I’m with someone.”
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Whatever his mother said next made faint pink rise into his cheeks almost instantly.
“No,” he murmured quickly. “Not like that.”
You nearly inhaled your straw.
Anton looked absolutely horrified the second he realized you’d probably heard that.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “She’s my aide.”
The sentence shouldn’t have stung. It did anyway.
You hated yourself a little for that.
Another stretch of silence followed while Anton listened again, expression becoming more and more strained by the second. You could almost see the social exhaustion building in real time.
Then finally:
“I know.”
A beat.
“I’ll sleep.”
Another.
“Yes.”
And softer this time:
“Love you too.”
The call ended.
Anton immediately set the phone facedown against the table and exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding tension in his lungs the entire time.
You looked at him carefully. “You okay?”
He nodded automatically. Too quickly.
You didn’t call him out on it.
Instead, you stirred your drink quietly while Anton reorganized the paper sleeve strips again despite already arranging them perfectly. The café lights reflected softly against the silver rings on his fingers.
After a minute, he spoke without looking up.
“She asks if I’ve eaten every day.”
You smiled faintly. “Sounds like she knows you well.”
Anton’s expression shifted strangely.
“She remembers things even when I don’t tell her.”
The words lingered between you both.
Then, after another pause:
“You do that too.”
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
Before you could answer, Anton finally looked up fully enough that his eyes nearly met yours for half a second. It was the closest he’d gotten yet.
“She’ll think…” He stopped, visibly reorganizing the sentence mid-thought. “She’ll think you’re important.”
The café suddenly felt too warm again.
You stared at him across the table while he remained completely sincere, completely unaware of the effect he had when he spoke like this. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t testing anything. Anton just said honest things before understanding the emotional consequences attached to them.
And somehow that made it worse.
“What do you think?” you asked quietly before you could stop yourself.
The second the question left your mouth, Anton went still.
Slowly, carefully, his attention fixed near your face again while the entire café blurred strangely around you.
Then, after what felt like forever, he answered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I think…” He paused. “I noticed when you were gone.”
i’m not a princess. park wonbin. (+18) - one shot -
- non-idol wonbin x afab / female reader - written from prompt -
ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ
warnings/tags: sweet & caring wonbin, explicit sex descriptions & mainly smut, switch!wonbin, switch!reader, roommate, first time, needy!wb + reader, dirty talk, non-established relationship, rough sex, pervy!wb, aftercare, marking, oral (m receiving), body worshipping (reader), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, crying, slapping, creampie, cum play.
word count: 3.6k
ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ @cutebini (tmblr):
“can´t stop thinking about roommate wonbin who looks so inoffensive that you treats him like a girl, buy cute things for him, barely wear clothes at home and even cooks for you both
you keep bringing boys to the shared apartment thinking wonbin is to inocent to know what happens at your room, even defending him when sungchan says he looks like a pervert nerd
one night wonbin finaly comfrot you about this and when you say he looks like a cute princess when angry, he finaly decides to show you what hes been filling for months and he isn't even a little gentle while showing you this” ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
— lower case intended —
“bbin, sorry i am calling you this late but can you run a bath for me please?? i will be home in like 7 minutes.”
you pleaded on the phone to your long term roommate, park wonbin. he has always been the quiet and attentive guy on your life and you knew he would do these kind of stuff you would ask a…sister to do?
he had this calm and respectful aura exuding off of him that made you feel comfortable, so you dared to open up to him about the most personal things ever.
“sure. are you alone? can you get home safe?” he asked, because it was almost 2am and you were running late on your way back from work. since you were still studying during the day, you could only work nights in bartending and it constantly made people around you worry.
“yes, mum. i can, don’t worry!” you joked.
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
you got home around 10 past 2am. and started undressing at the door, shoes out on the shoe rack, tight denim jeans out, scrunchie being dramatically pulled out of your hair and a work uniform corset like piece of clothing was open, freeing you as soon as possible. when you took all of that out, what remained was a baggy t-shirt you stole from wonbin while doing laundry, some socks and your rebel hair. the hall wasn’t that big nor distant from your room, so you threw all of your stuff on your bed and undid your bra, also removing it.
you got closer to the bathroom area and found wonbin on the sofa next to it scrolling on his phone, headphones in. he felt your presence and looked up. you were oblivious on what went through his mind when he saw you, but he had to control himself a little more than the usual.
“heyyy~” you beamed and got closer to him in a small run. “i am home safe~” you sat next to him.
your boobs jiggling on the process, the shirt riding up exposing your underwear. but what bothered him, was other aspect that he could 100% feel when you got closer to him.
“you smell like booze and another man” he started like that, not yet removing his headset.
“okay, mum. i do because i work at a bar at nights and a lot of men go there. you know?” he scoffed and now took his headphones out, staring at you and resting them over his neck area.
“you do know i have also worked on this field before, right?” he pulled your arm and exposed a part of your lower arm where you had a fresh hickey.
“eyyy” you slapped his hand away and got embarrassed. he kind of got you.
“okay, sorry. i could have been a little less late, okay?” you got on your knees in the sofa and moved closer to him laying your hands on both sides of his face. “do you forgive me?”
he got a little pouty and said. “also, you always bring men to our home…do you think you can excel in life doing this constantly?”
well, you weren’t expecting him to point that out, but you still played along to hide your embarrassment. your body showed it tho, your nipples hardened from shock and your cheeks got a little crimson tone on it. you thanked the gods for the light being dim on the living room.
“i like to have my fun, but that doesn’t mean i slack off…” you looked away. “did you prepare my bath, cute angry princess?”
you ran one of your fingers on the middle of his furrowed eyebrows and kissed his cheek.
you could swear you saw him blush and his voice falter. “i- did, you can go inside and do it quickly, while the water is still warm.”
“thank you so much!” you kissed his other cheek. and got up turning your back on him on your way to the bathroom next to his room. when you got close to the door you removed your panties from under the oversized shirt; he still had his eyes on you…piercing on your features. it was so hard to live with you and to be there on moments like these all the time. he had to find ways and techniques to calm himself down constantly, because you saw him like a girl friend…
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
as soon as you removed your clothes you got into the warm bath water. “whaaaat? thank you, park wonbin~” you reacted to the sweetly scented with therapeutic salts water and its warmth, as if it was ran seconds ago. he prepared you a whole self care set up, like you always told him you did on a tiring day. “that’s my precious, bbin!”
while you were still dazed with your happy heart speaking louder than anything else, you got a call from your university friend, sungchan. this tall, hot, dark brown haired guy, you had slept with once during the first year, but then you mutually agreed not to go further and stay as friends, he became one of your best friends just like that.
“wassup, sungchan?” you started.
“hey, y/n!” silence on the line. “wait, why are you still awake?”
“i could ask you the same thing and why are you calling me at 2:20am?”
“i was just checking if you were home and wanted to ask if you were ready for tomorrow afternoon’s project briefing.”
“shit- no, i am not, but we can go through it at lunch. i can go there earlier, even though i am tired as fuck. thank you. channie.” you smiled through the phone.
“okay, you’re welcome. but are you sure your perverted ass roommate won’t be mad you didn’t have lunch with him?” he mocked.
“perverted? my princess wonbin? that’s nonsense.”
“that nerd is a pervert, i am telling you and he definitely knows what you do in your room with all the guys you bring in, just saying.”
“sungchan. i can’t believe you, he is so sweet with me and genuinely worries.”
“that doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t feel anything or isn’t attracted to you. he is not an ugly fellow himself.” you played back on his frustration earlier, but brushed it off, shrugging.
“look, i am taking a bath right now, so i have to got back to it while the water is warm, okay?”
he laughed on the other end of the line.
“he prepared you a bath? and you still think he doesn’t have a thing for you?”
“i am gonna hang up.”
“yes okay, but you guys have lived together for more than 3 years now. bye, y/n. see you tomorrow at 1pm.”
“bye, chan.”
you hang up the call and kept on bathing trying to get your head out of the stuff sungchan was saying on the phone. but you notice how you have been babying and girl friend maxing wonbin for years now, just because you thought it was fun and he never complained. he wore your cute matching slippers, yours had keroppi on it and his had hello kitty. he let you do make up on him when you were bored and he happened to be plopped out on the sofa; and he cooked for you, the best cooking you had ever tried next to your grandma, mum and dad’s. he was your best friend and you didn’t even notice, not until you ran all of it back in your head. as you thought back on it, you felt hotness creeping up on your cheeks and comfort on your heart…
“yeah, jung sungchan. he is handsome.”
you finished your bath and got into another one of wonbin’s shirts because you had completely forgotten picking up your clothes, before going into the bathroom on the other side of the hall; and wonbin had his clothes always sorted out for the next day in the morning after showering.
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
“bbin~ i am wearing your shirt because i forgot to pick my pajamas on the way in, okay?” you opened the bathroom door and he was still on the sofa, now with is eyes closed, phone and headphones on the table in front of it and his hands on his stomach, man spreading on the couch, half asleep. he opened one of his eyes before the other and then moved his head to look at you. he had his night wear on and you had just noticed. grey cotton pants with strings and a white tank top, his signature star necklace on and some black socks.
“oh?” he said, still sleepy. “forget it, why didn’t you got to sleep already?” you inquired.
“i don’t know, i just fell asleep.” you stood in front of him between the living room’s low table and the sofa. “is that my shirt?”
“yeah-“ you played with your hair, embarrassed, taking consciousness of how naked you are aside from THAT shirt. “i didn’t pick my clothes…before going in earlier”
“it’s okay, i will get another one now.” he smiled.
“thank you- my princess.” you hesitated, but you had to know how he would react to it…you were sure he could sense your nerves.
“princess? y/n…i am not a princess, you do know that, right?” his sleepy raspy voice mixed with his angry tone.
“yes, i just think it’s a fun nickname.”
“well…i don’t. have you imagined calling me that in public? that would be in the least uncomfortable.” he kept looking at you from below, but still angry and started getting up. “i’m going to bed.” he tried to finish the convo and avoid getting further on the topic so late, it’s past 3am already.
“wonbin…” you pulled on his arm. and now you were standing small in front of him. he was tall. “i’m sorry…”
he looked back, still frustrated.
“it’s been a while, y/n. almost 4 years and…you stay calling me princess and bringing “men” to our place.” he air quoted at the word: men.
“i-“ he didn’t let you reply yet.
“do you think i don’t know what you do in your room?…with each one of them?”
“bbin…” you felt like crying, he had never lashed out on you like this before. but yes, he had also never answered your call so late, or let alone got you a bath done at this hour. he probably had to stand up from bed to do so. you felt ungrateful in the least.
“no, y/n. i don’t think i can do this right now without sounding rude or worse.”
“wonbin, you’re not leaving right now…” he was already past your figure and half way through the room, almost on his door and you followed him. “i am sorry, okay? i won’t call you princess anymore.”
“it’s not the way you call me, it’s how you SEE me.” he shouted.
“you’re my roommate.” you started quietly.
“yes, a man, not a girl friend.” you reached for his arm again.
“yes, a caring man.” he held on your wrist pulling you to the door frame of his bedroom.
“you keep treating me like i would feel nothing seeing you walk around like this or when you kiss me and touch me.” he grabbed your waist roughly.
you gasped and, for once, had nothing on your arsenal for a coherent reply.
“i do feel things.” he closed his eyes in frustration. “a lot of them. and it’s hard to suppress it so you won’t feel uncomfortable around me.”
he tightened the grip around your wrist.
“ah, wonbin~” you slightly whimpered at his touch. “y/n…” you instinctively held onto him, one hand on his side, the other going up on his chest.
“you asked for this.” he said before kissing you hungrily and biting on your lips. his grip always tight as if he feared you would slip away. his hands wandered on your body and eventually found their way to your skin.
you trembled under his touch. he is hot, you thought. but you were now conscious about being so exposed in front of him. no longer a harmless presence in your eyes, but a hunter looking for its prey.
he ran his hand through your thigh moving it forward with his hand, palming it firmly, all the way up to your ass.
you moaned with the sudden movement and the cold air of the night spreading along your exposed body.
“moan for me, pretty. you can be as loud as you want with me.” he pulled you closer, his firm chest colliding with yours. his other hand going up to your neck and pressing you harder onto his lips, tongue sliding in unapologetically. your sweet taste and intoxicating scent invading his space in a very welcoming way.
“aren’t you my princess?” he questioned seriously. “am i not the one that treats you right?” you nodded furiously still in awe and starting to feel the wetness in between your legs.
“say it…talk to me” he slapped your ass leaving a stinging sensation. did he really know you were this freaky from listening to you with you previous partners, on the room on the other side of the hall?
“yes!…” you replied half responding to the aching feeling and half to him… “you’re the only one that treats me right.” your eyes tearing up from a mixture of mild pain and carnal heat and desire.
“today i will be bad and you can tell me later if you like it too, okay?” he said with a raspy voice and hazy eyes scanning over your exposed body…still hungry.
you just kept nodding ridiculously down bad for whatever he was doing and reserving for you as punishment, for calling him princess for over 3 years and a half. you deserved it and you were almost begging for it…just from how he gripped on you, how his lips fit so perfectly on your mouth and his tongue work maddens you…how good the sting from his big hand felt on you.
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
“come in.” he pulled you in, breaking the invisible barrier from the door frame of his bedroom. making you, now, a part of it.
“i’ll show you how i deal with my bad girl.”
he pushed you hard on the bed, that he had already layed in earlier, clearly, before he tended to your requests over the phone.
your body jiggled with the fall and you felt exposed and vulnerable once again under him. he pulled on his own shirt that covered your body, and took your figure in, wearing it better than he ever could, but he had to keep the rough act to make you understand how crazy you made him.
“so bad, you even steal from me…” he muttered under his breath and stood up pulling on the strings from his sweat pants. gaze intense over you and all you could manage to do was to stay on your elbows and press your thighs together to get some pressure on your core. he pulled down his pants and boxers all at once, removing them, and you saw it for the first time, bold and hard…his veiny dick. “it’s so big…” you let out unintentionally…blushing, weak, almost whispered.
he took his socks out and reached for the light on the nightstand behind you, hovering over your body and touching you to reach it and turn it on. “i wanna see your face while i ruin you.” he got up once again slamming the door shut just to get back to you in no time.
he raised your body from the bed, demanding you to open your legs based on his body language. you did as he asked and met his throbbing cock with your core…already wet, messy.
he swallowed hard while he picked you up and felt that wetness on his stomach.
he sat you both on the bed and without a warning he thrust on you, deep, angry, needy. you screamed with the suddenness of his full length burried on your pussy. he groaned. “you didn’t even put panties on” he panted. “nasty girl.” he slapped your butt once again. and you put your hands over his shoulders taking him in, raw, no love, no respect. just pure and unfiltered need and annoyance from both, you and him. “how dare you…?” you mouthed softer than intended, between moans and pleas.
“huh?” he thrust harder, quicker, always somewhat centimetres further into you.
“how dare you hide yourself from me?” you managed to let it out, bouncing on his lenght and pulling desperately on his hair.
“ahh~” you disarmed him for a bit, but he tried to keep his wit on. “i was always here, in front of you…available for you” he rasped the last part on your ear.
you felt all of the hairs on your body stand up and whined pulling his shirt up with your free hand, reaching for your breasts…aching for pressure and attention.
that brought wonbin’s attention to your beautiful nipples that could be observed through the thin layer of his shirt…one of his favourite shirts, on your scrumptious body.
he helped you raise the shirt and stared in your eyes, teary, overbearing with lust paired with his…dumbfounded, confused and hornier than ever. it was a new feeling for you. a new wonbin.
“fuck!” you were so close to losing yourself in him. he never stopped coldly driving into you, huffing…beautiful behind his unusual brutality. your slick around his dick making the most obscene noises and leaking out.
he brought his mouth to your other breast, sucking hard, squeezing it under his hand, bitting your nipple. inviting that one tear to roll down your face, just for him to lick a second later. “so pretty, crying for me like you never did for any other man.“
he repeated the same process on your other breast biting harder each time and suckling on the areola around your nipple, leaving deep hickeys everywhere and making you moan his name out. “ughh…park wonbin!!” you bounced less rhythmically, and arduously downward onto him until your legs gave out. “shit…you like it rough, y/n.” you cried and reached for your own stomach, feeling his hard penis from the outside. he got you so full you thought you were gonna burst.
you felt the warmth gathering on your core and the knot in your stomach nearly snapping as wonbin gave one last unforgiving slam into you that made your orgasm hit. “ahhh, you feel so good…i bet you always had to fake it until today.” you could not speak, only a long loud moan came out of your lips.
he pulled out fully, leaving you spasming on nothing, helpless. detached himself from your body and got on his knees on the bed.
“can you be a good girl for me?”
he raised your chin to be facing him, ruined already, and kept pumping on his shaft, close to your face, dripping on you.
you understood the message and licked his head, creamy. dragging your tongue around it slowly, still in the midst of your own orgasm. wonbin’s laboured breath confirmed it to you, how good you were doing. he got a handful of your hair and shoved his length into your mouth. gasping and fucking into your mouth ruthlessly seeking for his high. tears streaming down your face unapologetically, you dig your nails on his thighs as a response.
and it took him no time to cum, desperately pulling out and getting it all on your bruised chest. “beautiful.” his shirt on you, also stained.
ᯓ ★ … ★ ᯓ
once his cock stopped dripping over you, he let out a raspy whimper and cleaned you up with some wet wipes; from your pussy to your torso and mouth, carefully. he kissed your lips tenderly and cleaned himself up, picking up his pants to put on and pulled a new shirt from a drawer to replace the one you had been wearing.
he helped you get inside of his bed and layed right next to you with his hand around your small body and the other behind his head, after covering you both and tucking you in, perfectly.
“now who is the fragile little princess?” he smiled to himself.
“well- you aren’t for sure.” you brought one of your limbs over his tummy and dropped your head on his chest. “but i don’t think i am one either.”
ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ .ᯓ ★ - ★ ᯓ
decided to write from a prompt i found out here to try something new. i started getting some ideas as soon as i read it and tried to not overthink it and just write its entirety in a day and publish~ enjoy this freak ass show *cries*
Anton isn’t the kind of boyfriend who sweeps in loudly or makes big, dramatic declarations.
He’s the kind you almost don’t notice at first—until you realize he’s been taking care of you in a hundred quiet ways all along.
—
He talks softly, always.
Not because he’s unsure—but because he doesn’t like overwhelming you. When he says your name, it sounds gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.
“Hey… are you tired?” he’d ask, brushing his fingers lightly against your sleeve instead of grabbing your hand right away.
And when you nod, he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just quietly adjusts—walking a little slower, guiding you somewhere quieter, maybe offering, “Do you want to sit for a bit?”
—
Anton notices everything.
Not in a loud, observant way—but in the way he remembers.
How you take your coffee. The exact tone your voice gets when you’re stressed. The fact that you get colder than you admit.
So when you say, “I’m fine,”
He’ll tilt his head slightly, studying you for a second… then gently hold out his hoodie anyway.
“Just in case,” he says.
—
He’s not big on constant texting.
But when he does text, it’s always thoughtful.
“Did you eat?”
“Don’t forget your umbrella today.”
“I saw something that reminded me of you.”
And sometimes, late at night:
“Are you still awake?”
If you say yes, he’ll stay. Not necessarily talking much—just being there, sending small messages, soft check-ins, like quiet company through a screen.
—
Physical affection with Anton is… careful at first.
He hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to make sure you’re comfortable.
The first time he holds your hand, his fingers barely brush yours.
“Is this okay?” he asks softly.
But once he knows it is?
He doesn’t let go easily.
His grip is warm, steady, grounding. The kind that says I’m here without needing words.
—
He’s the type to rest his head lightly on yours when you’re sitting together.
Or gently fix your hair without pointing it out.
Or pull you a little closer when it’s crowded, his hand hovering at your back like he’s protecting you without making it obvious.
—
And when you’re upset…
Anton doesn’t overwhelm you with advice.
He sits next to you, quiet and patient.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
If you shake your head, he just nods.
“Okay… I’ll stay.”
And he does.
Maybe his hand finds yours. Maybe his thumb traces small, absent circles against your skin.
No pressure. No rushing.
Just… presence.
—
Sometimes, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, he looks at you a little longer than usual.
Soft eyes. Small smile.
Like he still can’t believe you’re actually there.
If you catch him, he gets a little flustered.
“…Sorry,” he murmurs.
But when you ask why he’s apologizing, he just shakes his head.
“I just… like looking at you.”
—
Anton doesn’t love loudly.
He loves gently. Consistently. Quietly.
In the way he remembers.
In the way he stays.
In the way his voice softens just a little more when he talks to you.
summary: popular idol jungwon becomes a regular at your cafe and begins to leave you notes of napkins filled with lyrics... about you?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The smell of ground coffee and cinnamon was comforting to you, it made you feel warm inside. And everyday you stepped into Dayglow Cafe to put your apron on, the smell alone made the alarm clocks in the morning completely worth it. The place was kind of a hole in the wall, tucked away from the inner city’s chaos, but still managed to have a decent flow of customers throughout the day. There were big arched windows to let the sunlight in, and soft lighting from rustic light fixtures that only turned on when the sun was low enough to be blocked by the buildings around you. Books lined the shelves and you prided yourself on having actually read each one -- sometimes you would add to the collection. The playlist of music in the background was a concoction of your favorite songs and some of your other friends. You each had a different style but somehow they blended together perfectly. Regulars came for the calm environment. And so does he.
You noticed him the first time he walked in. Not because he was flashy or was wearing cool clothes -- but because he wasn’t. He wore a baseball cap and a mask, a black hoodie pulled low and baggy jeans. You grew accustomed to his order: vanilla latte with two shots of espresso and cinnamon. Then he’d tuck himself into the back corner booth. Always the same seat facing away from the door, head down, earbuds in, notebook or laptop open. No one ever recognized him. But you knew who he was.
You had actually been a fan of his for years. And now, he was just here. Human, quiet, and alone. It was almost odd to see him in such a normal setting. In your setting.
Your hands worked quickly, making his drink while your friend stood behind the bar, taking the orders of the next in line. To finish up his order, you added in one pump of cinnamon sweetener and sprinkled cinnamon on the top, snapping the lid on the cup. He was in his assigned seat, typing away at something on his laptop screen, and you took a deep breath, nodding to yourself silently before stepping out behind the counter and walking in his direction.
You weren’t sure if he knew that you knew who he was. You never mentioned it and he never asked. The closest he ever got to addressing it was on his second visit.
“Will that be all for you?” you asked, tapping the screen in front of you and glancing up at him, trying with the will of 100 men to keep your cheeks from going up in flames from just talking to him.
“Yeah, but, uh,” he looked up at you, hesitant. “Would you mind not calling it out loud when it’s finished?”
You smiled to hide the confusion you were feeling upon his request. “Sure, would you rather have me bring it up to your table?”
“Is that possible?”
“Of course!” Anything for you. “I can have it out for you in about 5 minutes.”
Looking back, the request was a completely reasonable one. ‘Jungwon’ was not the most common name in Korean, so repeatedly calling it out everyday would start to gather attention.
So here you were, walking carefully over to his little corner, drink in hand and a smile to match.
“Here you go, Jungwon,” you said, and placed the cup on the table in front of him along with a plastic straw still in its wrapper.
He gave you a small smile in return. “Thank you.”
For the first few weeks of his routinely visits, you played it cool. No lingering stares, no small talk. Just the drink and a grin and customer service. But, like, come on. It would be impossible to not watch him at least sometimes.
You learned that he liked to face the window when it rained, and that he liked to tap his fingers along to the music mindlessly, and that he liked to drink his drink as fast as possible so that the ice didn’t melt and water it down. You learned that he was polite, which is something you kind of already knew but it was different when you were experiencing it first hand. He always said please and thank you, always threw away the straw wrapper and empty coffee cup, always wiped away any condensation left on the table.
Around the third week of his frequent attendance, he forgot to put a mask on before coming to the counter and both of you just… paused. He’d blinked like a deer caught in headlights when he realized his mistake and you saw him mentally start formulating an escape plan.
But then you said, “Vanilla latter with two shots of espresso and cinnamon?” before he even started to order, like nothing was different. He smiled -- genuinely -- and you both let it go.
It stayed like that, quiet, easy. Until one Tuesday evening when Dayglow was nearly empty and a golden light spilled through the windows like honey. He approached the counter. You looked up from wiping down the espresso machine and found him standing there. His backpack was over his shoulders and it seemed like he was on his way out. His hands were stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie, rocking on the balls of his feet like he was debating turning back around.
“Everything okay?” you asked, and he peered up at you from under the mask.
“Yeah, I just wanted to say thank you.”
“For what?” you asked, curious.
“For not making it weird. Most people either freak out or ask for pictures.” You could tell there was a hint of a smile hiding behind his mask, just from his eyes. “You don’t do that either.”
You shrugged, trying to seem casual and just told him the truth. “I figured you wouldn’t come back if I did.”
He laughed. “That’s true.” There was a gentle pause before he added, “The cinnamon thing… You add more than most places. I like that.”
He was just too cute. “Well, cinnamon is the best part, isn’t it? I wanna keep the customers happy.”
That made him nod. “It’s nice.”
“It’s nice to know you like it enough to come back for three weeks straight,” you joked a little, glancing down at the rag in your hand and setting it aside. When you looked up, his eyes were on the floor, shifting his weight.
“I guess I just like the quiet here,” he said. Then after a second, “It’s been a long month.”
You didn’t ask for more. Didn’t need to. You couldn’t even imagine the amount of tired he must feel from both the physical and mental fatigue of being in the spotlight all the time.
“Some people come here to talk,” you started, “and some come here not to.”
He glanced up at you again. You could tell he knew that you understood him.
“You’ve got a seat here whenever you need one. And as much cinnamon as you want.”
His eyes crinkled and he bowed his head. “I should go.”
“Have a good night,” you offered softly.
He paused before turning. “You too.”
And then he left.
For a month, his usual presence left Dayglow empty. You were a little concerned at first but it only took a couple minutes on any social media / entertainment platform to find out he was preparing for a comeback.
Promotions, rehearsals, dance practice, studio time, interviews, travel.
You saw clips of him everywhere.
Sharper clothes, brighter colors, louder crowds. You had forgotten his usual scene. Outside of the walls of this small coffee shop, he was an entertainer after all. And a good one at that. He looked so different on screen. Not unfamiliar, just… on. Like a performance. Like a switch. You had gotten used to seeing him tucked into that corner booth, hoodie up, sipping cinnamon-dusted coffee.
You watched a couple clips of their comeback before turning your phone off and turning to look at his empty seat. Maybe you were just a crazy fan. He didn’t owe you anything, but it didn’t feel right to not see him there.
Exactly 3 weeks later, he came back.
You came in for your closing shift around noon, a couple minutes late, and rushed behind the counter to put your apron on. The cafe was quiet as usual -- not empty, just mellow -- and the steady hiss of steaming milk blended into the music humming through the overhead speakers. You were halfway through tying the strings behind your back when your friend, already behind the bar, leaned in and said, low, but amused, “Guess who’s back.”
Your heart gave a little jolt.
You didn’t have to guess, glancing over your shoulder so fast it probably gave you whiplash. Sure enough, there he was. Same corner, same quiet presence. No flashy clothes. He had his laptop open in front of him and a hand resting on his chin like nothing had happened.
“He’s been here for a minute but hasn’t ordered anything,” your friend added, taking the strings from your hands and finishing tying the apron for you.
You heard her but your mind was locked on him. He looked tired. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. Now that Enhypen’s comeback promotion season was over, he was able to rest. Though it looked like he needed a lot more than just rest.
“I know his order,” you said, moving quickly to the espresso machine and making his drink with muscle memory. No one else in the cafe knew who he was, including your friends. You hadn’t noticed it at first, but Jungwon only ordered when you were at the register. It was nearly impossible not to look into it, especially when it would be an absolute dream to have your idol be interested in you. But you would just tell yourself it was just because you already knew who he was so he thought it was safer. That was the most logical reason.
With almost giddy steps, you walked over to his booth, drink in one hand, plastic straw in the other. He didn’t notice you approaching. His head was tilted slightly towards the window, brows drawn together like he was somewhere far away despite being right in front of you. The light coming from outside hit just enough of his face for you to see the dark circles beneath his eyes, not hidden by makeup.
“Jungwon,” you called to him quietly, making sure your voice wasn’t heard by anyone but him.
His posture stiffened and his eyes flicked towards you immediately, like the sound of his name had tugged him back towards the present. He blinked once, slow, as if he needed a second to recalibrate, and then his gaze softened when it landed on you.
You set the drink and straw down on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t want to bother you while you were…wherever you were just now.” Your tone was light.
“I didn’t order yet,” he said, voice quiet and slightly hoarse, tired from all the performing.
“Didn’t need to. I have it memorized.”
He moved the mask on his face beneath his chin to take a sip of the coffee. “Thank you.”
With his face uncovered, you could fully see the small smile he was giving you and mirrored it. It made you happy he was comfortable enough to do that around you.
“You look tired,” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you had the chance to reel them back in.
He gave you a breathy laugh. “I am.”
You bit the inside of your cheek and hesitated before saying, “I watched your comeback. And all your stage performances.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours again, something unreadable swimming behind them.
“You looked good,” you complimented him to make up for your previous tired comment, and then quickly added, “Everyone thought so too.”
“Thank you,” his words were quiet and you took it as a sign to leave, bowing slightly and turning on your heels. “Do you mind…” he stopped you, “if I ask your name?”
You held your breath. Yang Jungwon wanted to know your name? Trying not to appear too excited, you looked back at him. “Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Y/N.”
He said your name like he was trying it out, seeing how it felt to say it out loud. There was a pause after, like neither of you knew what was supposed to come next. Mentally, you were dying at the sound of your name coming from his mouth, but you had no idea what he was thinking. To avoid making anything more awkward than it might already be, you went into customer-service mode.
“Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
The next day, he came back again, absolutely rocking a pair of grey sweats. You saw him outside before he even rang the bell opening the door and smiled, taking over the register so he could order.
“Hi, Y/N.”
It felt like you got sucker punched. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening and just stared at him. “G-good morning.” God, you idiot. The stutter is too much, really.
His smile reached his eyes immediately. “Can I have an iced vanilla latte with-”
“Two shots of espresso cinnamon, yes, of course,” you finished for him hurriedly and tapped the screen of the register, trying to act like your hands weren’t shaking.
This time he laughed. “Are you okay?”
“Mhm,” you couldn’t even talk, mind still reeling about him greeting you with your name. He remembered your name. And he used it. Mind you, this is the same guy that just performed in front of thousands of people chanting his name.
He paid and before he could say anything you spoke first.
“I’ll bring it to your table,” you managed to spit out, stepping away from the counter before he could say anything else that might make your brain short-circuit again. Actually, you bet he could say absolutely anything right now and it would make you melt.
As you worked, you could feel his presence emanating from the booth. Not in a heavy, distracting way. More like static. Like he was just a frequency away from being in reality. He wasn’t doing anything abnormal, just sitting there and looking at notes and waiting for his coffee, but your heart wouldn’t stop hammering in your chest. You gave yourself a second to breathe while pouring the espresso, and then another second while dusting the top with cinnamon.
You walked carefully over to his table and he looked up before you even got there.
“I like the song that’s playing right now,” he said. “Did you pick it?”
You tuned in to the music in the background, recognizing the acoustic melody immediately. It was one of the songs he had posted about liking years ago and being the avid fangirl you were (and still are), you listened to it.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” you placed the drink down, reaching for a straw from your apron pocked to lay on the table as well.
“Mine too,” he agreed, fingers accidentally brushing yours when he went to unwrap the straw. Should you tell him you knew that already?
You bowed, thinking you should make your way back behind the counter when he stopped you.
“Do you have a pen I could borrow?
“Of course,” you dipped your hand into another apron pocket, brandishing your favorite pen. Giving up your favorite pen to the Yang Jungwon would be a worthy cause in anyone’s book.
“Thanks, Y/N.”
Contain yourself.
“Any day, Jungwon.”
You returned to the safety that was the cafe storage pantry, fanning yourself with your hands and taking deep breaths, your thoughts focused on one thing and one thing only.
Yang Jungwon, Yang Jungwon, Yang Jungwon.
What a man, what a man, what a man.
No one else in the cafe knew they were drinking coffee next to a worldwide icon.
Slowly, you peeked your head around the corner, eyes falling on him and the pen in his hand, scribbling into his notebook. He could keep the pen for all you cared, but if he gave it back, you were going to find a way to frame it.
It was nearing closing and you pretended to clean the counter. Again. For the fourth time. You were the only employee left and every closing duty had already been finished, you just needed to lock up. So you kept yourself occupied with busy-work, walking in circles in the pantry, tapping nonsense into the register before deleting it, looking at Jungwon, disinfecting tables, staring at Jungwon… Since he was the only customer that didn’t come up to the register when he needed something, you had gone to check on him two more times after giving him his first drink. Both times, he’d just look up with a small smile, say he was all good, and go right back to his notebook. He was content, focused, maybe even at peace.
You didn’t go over again, concerned that you were disturbing him or looked too much like a fangirl. However much you wished you could be sitting across from him, staring at him work unblinking in case you’d miss something, you could not, under any circumstances, let him see you that way.
Around 8:40, he started packing up. You did your best to keep your eyes away from him, pretending to be busy stacking plastic cups and lids, when you heard footsteps approaching. There he was again, standing at the counter with your pen in hand, mask under his chin. The last two customers in the store had just left so he wasn’t concerned about hiding. You liked that he could take it off around you.
“Hey,” he said softly, placing the pen down. “Thanks again.”
You reached for it, noticing something else underneath it. A folded napkin.
He didn’t say anything about it. Your eyes met and he held your gaze for maybe a half second too long and smiled. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
Maybe you were crazy, but he said it like he meant it.
You nodded, afraid your voice might betray you. “Goodnight, Jungwon.”
The bell over the door chimed as he stepped out. The breeze from outside filtered in for just a moment, cool and grounding. You waited until he was out of sight and ran over to the door, hurriedly flipping the open sign to say “we’re closed” and then ran back to the counter, grabbing at the napkin.
It looked ordinary enough, folded in half twice, just like someone might do out of habit. You picked it up gently like it would crumble in your hands if you were too rough. Your fingers trembled as you unfolded it.
His handwriting was small and neat -- the kind you’d expect from someone who wrote lyrics for a living.
This is my favorite verse from that song, I thought you might like it too
“You are the quiet I look for in the noise”
~J
You fell to your knees in the middle of the cafe, just holding it, reading the words over and over again. You weren’t sure how long you sat there dumbfounded. The lyric echoed in your head. His favorite verse. That he gave to you. A gift? Maybe? You weren’t sure what it was -- not exactly. But you knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t just a barista-customer thing. It couldn’t be.
You rose to your feet slowly, folding the napkin up and tucking it into your back pocket. No longer did you need to frame your pen, this was the main attraction. You turned off the lights, locked the door behind you, and walked home with a smile that wouldn’t fade.
When you gave him his drink the next time he sat down, you slipped your own napkin underneath it. There was no way you were going to be able to stand next to him when he read it so you left almost instantly, missing the way he watched you walk back to your position. From behind the pastry display, you glanced up at him cautiously as he unfolded your own note, his eyes scanning your penmanship.
I like that verse too, this is my favorite-
“Even in a crowded room, I would only look at you”
~Y/N
Your heart pounded in your throat, waiting for his reaction.
He read it twice. You knew he did, because he paused -- hands still, no sip of his coffee, no glance out the window like he usually did -- just his eyes on the napkin. His eyes flicked back to it after the first pass like he wasn’t sure he read it right the first time.
You tried to look like you weren’t watching him, pretending to straighten the different flavored sweeteners on the shelves like your life depended on it. Your peripheral vision was working overtime.
He didn’t smile right away, which made you more nervous than the actual act of giving him the note. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed loosely, napkin still held between his fingers. And then he looked at you.
Your breath caught, trying with all your might to persuade your muscles to keep moving.
He folded the napkin once, then again, and carefully tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. You could see a soft, hidden smile reach his eyes before he stood up and started walking towards the counter.
Internal panic rushed through your veins, almost causing you to drop a jar of honey. When he reached you, he didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned his forearms gently against the wood. Then, “That’s not from the same song.”
His voice was low. Amused. Knowing.
You froze, halfway through opening a drawer for no reason at all. “No, it’s not.”
“I know the song though.”
You turned to him fully, hands hiding behind your back so your fingers could fidget without him seeing. “I figured you might. I think we have similar music tastes.”
“I think we might.” There was a beat, one of those seconds where time seemed to suspend itself. “You picked a good line.”
You shrugged like it was nothing even though your heart was doing backflips. “You started it.”
He laughed a little, you would recognize the sound anywhere. “I did, didn’t I?” His eyes flickered down for the briefest second, like he was remembering what he had written in his note to you. “I didn’t think you would respond.”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” you admitted. “But… it’s kind of fun.”
This time you could easily see the smile under his mask. “Good, I like it too.” He paused, like a hesitation, before asking, “Do you do that a lot?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Leave notes for people.”
You couldn't help but chuckle. Only for you. “Only for my favorite customers.”
He nodded, playing along. “So… I’m one of the favorites?”
“Do you want to be?”
He ducked his head, almost in a boyish manner, looking at you through twinkling eyes. “Can I be?”
“Of course,” you obliged. He earned that title the first time he walked through those doors.
His head tilted with appreciation and he pushed off his elbows to stand up fully. “Oh, one more thing, can I borrow a pen again?”
Did you wait and hope and pray all shift to see if he would leave you another note? Yes, any sane person would do the same thing. You were torn between wanting him to leave so you could see if he wrote you something, but also wanting him to stay so you could just stare at him for as long as possible. When did you get so lucky?
He’d left the cafe like he always did -- a soft “Goodnight, Y/N,” as casual as a sigh -- and slid your pen back to you. And once again, there was a napkin folded beneath it.
You waited a full five minutes after he left before allowing yourself to read it, emotionally preparing for what he had left inside for you to find.
Another one of my favorites-
“Looked into your eyes and found my favorite eye color”
~J
Again and again, you read the note. A sound escaped you -- part laugh, part sigh, part overwhelmed squeal -- and you clutched the napkin to your chest like it was made of gold. Because wasn’t it? Another gift for you?
You struggled to find a way to respond. This didn’t seem like just friendly lyric exchanges, right? It wasn’t just you looking too hard into it, right? Your next words needed to match his energy, but what exactly was he giving you?
He read it twice, maybe three times? You couldn’t tell.
“But for you, I would”
~Y/N
Perhaps you had been a little too direct? Your pulse was visible in your wrist as you had a meltdown watching him. You really, really, really tried not to stare, but it was impossible. Even with a hoodie and mask covering his face, it was him. You watched him fold your napkin, just as carefully as the last, and put it inside of his pocket.
He didn’t come to the counter that night for an exchange of good-byes. Just gave you a wave on his way out.
You came in for your shift after taking the weekend off and was happy to be back, welcomed in by the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. Almost by habit, your eyes wandered to his booth, but he wasn’t there.
“Looking for your friend?” Your coworker asked and you hit her arm.
“No, of course not.”
“He already left.”
Aaaaand your heart sank. He had come before your shift started and left before you even had the chance to see him. The thought of him sitting in his seat, not ordering and waiting for you to make his drink and never getting it, was ruining your day.
“Are you serious??”
Your friend only shrugged. “He wasn’t here for that long.”
“But he was here.” You dragged your hands across your face. Shift ruined.
With begrudging movements, you fulfilled your role as barista, mind stuck on him. You took the weekend off because of family matters, but that also meant that you hadn’t seen him for two whole days. Today made it three. You should be thankful it was only three days. You recognized you had been spoiled.
The mop in your hands glided across the floor, leaving shiny tile behind you. Slowly, you inched towards the back of the shop, covering the floor next to his booth in suds last when something caught your eye. A napkin. Folded neatly and tucked into the curve of the booth’s cushions. The way you dropped everything and lunged for it was honestly shameful.
“My memory asks about you all the time”
~J
You stood there, reading the line repeatedly. This was the first lyric you didn’t recognize. A warmth spread through your body at the thought of him writing you a note even when you weren’t there, leaving it somewhere intentional for you to find it. You wondered if he meant what he wrote.
The following day, he comes in in the evening, sitting quietly in his usual booth, not ordering right away. Your mind goes haywire when you see him, excited to know you're in the same room again for the first time in days. You bring his drink over and he thanks you softly.
“Do you want to sit for a minute?” he asked, almost carefully.
Your breath caught in your throat. “With you?”
He nodded, a little, shy smile spreading on his face underneath the mask. “Yeah, I mean, if you don’t mind.”
You glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the wall and frowned in disappointment. “I don’t have a break for another 20 minutes. Will you stay that long?”
“I’ll wait.”
You felt your cheeks flush and turned away quickly to hide them. The next 20 minutes were the longest 20 minutes of your life. You kept shooting glances in his direction longingly, wanting nothing more than to sit down with him. He continued working, staying in his own world, blissfully unaware of the pining you were doing behind the scenes.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady the rapid beat of your heart as the timer on the register beeped softly, signaling your break had begun. Your hands were still slightly shaky as you wiped them on your apron, trying to seem casual. When you glanced up, you caught him already looking your way -- like he knew you were coming over any minute now.
He didn’t look away either, that was the part that got you. Most people would have averted their gaze, pretended they weren’t watching. But not him. Jungwon kept his eyes locked on you.
You swallowed the nerves and untied your apron, hanging it on the small hook just out of sight of the customers and walked over to his booth. He sat up straighter when you reached the edge of the table, closing his notebook.
“Hey,” he said.
You smiled back. “Mind if I sit?”
He shook his head immediately, sliding his drink slightly to the side as if to make more room for you, even though there was already plenty. “Not at all.”
You slid into the seat across from him, pulse thudding like it didn’t get the memo of acting cool. For a moment, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, it was almost natural? Then he slipped his mask down.
Your eyes widened and you instinctually looked around. He caught your movement and laughed.
“It’s okay, I can’t drink coffee with a mask on.”
You felt a little stupid and shook your head smiling. “Right, of course.”
He tilted his head, watching you. “You look different without the apron.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “I’m a changed woman, what can I say?”
He smiled, this time you could see it fully. “Less barista, more mystery girl who leaves me lyrics?”
You returned the grin. “You started that.”
“And you kept it up,” he countered. There was a quiet challenge in his voice.
“I had to. You can’t just quote a lyric from one of my favorite songs and expect me not to respond.”
“I did good then?” He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, looking at you. Without the mask on, you didn’t know how you were supposed to have an intelligent conversation.
You nodded. “You got lucky.”
“Or maybe,” he said, fiddling with his straw, “I just pay attention.”
Your grin faltered for a moment, trying to process whether it meant what it sounded like and raised an eyebrow. “You pay attention to your baristas that closely?”
“Only the ones who fight back with lyrics,” he said with a shrug, like he wasn’t teasing you right now. He was teasing right? Flirting even?
You tried to look unimpressed. It didn’t work. “Do you do this at every coffee shop you go to?”
Your question was laced with ulterior motives.
He shook his head slowly, eyes unwavering, still on you. “No, this is the only one I go to.”
“O-oh.”
His answer landed heavier than you expected it to. You tried to hold his gaze but it felt like standing too close to a flame.
“Did you find the note I left? It wasn’t here when I got here earlier. I was hoping you were the one that grabbed it.”
There was no way to tell him you had added his note to the rest of your sacred napkin collection without sounding weird so you just said, “I did.”
His lips curved, not a full smile, but enough that it felt like a secret you’d been invited into. “Good.”
You traced your fingertip along the edge of the table, staring down at the faint grain of the wood because looking at him too was too difficult. He was too pretty.
“I didn’t recognize the lyric,” you admitted, almost afraid he would be disappointed and think you didn’t have similar music tastes afterall.
“I know,” he said gently. “It wasn’t one.”
Your head snapped up at that, eyes widening. “It wasn’t?”
He shook his head once, slow and deliberate, still holding your gaze. “That one was mine.”
The weight of his words began to settle in. He had gone from trading lyrics with you, to giving you one of his own. A flirtatious one at that.
“Wow,” you fumbled, searching for words to appease the awkwardness you were suddenly feeling. “You should become a song writer, maybe even an entertainer.” Your words were teasing, joking with him about something only the two of you shared in this cafe -- his identity.
His eyes crinkled in amusement, like you’d caught him but he didn’t mind. “Yeah?” He played along. “Think I’d be any good at it?”
“The best.”
You saw a flash of something cross his face, an emotion you couldn’t place.
“You really think so?” he asked, and even though it was a playful question, there was something earnest tucked beneath it, like he actually wanted to hear your answer. Like he actually cared.
You looked at him with an expression that let him know you meant it. “Yeah, I really do.”
He blinked once, then looked down at his drink as if he needed a second to recover. “Careful,” he murmured, tapping the edge of the plastic cup. “Or you’re gonna end up in one of my songs.”
Your heart practically slammed into your ribs. How could you respond to that without sounding over the moon? “Is that a threat?”
His smile curved. “Depends,” he said. “Are you scared of being written about?”
You tried to play it cool, leaning forward to meet him in the middle of the table. “Not if the lyrics are good.”
He raised an eyebrow, gaze flickering toward you with something bordering on mischief. “They’d be good.”
Any coherent thought left your head and you looked away, not able to hold eye contact anymore. It wouldn’t be delusional to say he was flirting right? You glanced down, pretending to smooth a wrinkle on your sleeve, anything to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck and burning your ears. “Well, then I guess I’ll take my chances.”
Jungwon let out a soft chuckle, and then, for a moment, he was quiet. His thumb idly traced the condensation ring his cup had left on the table. You watched the way his smile lingered even after the laugh faded.
“I don’t think I’ve ever done this before,” his words were quiet.
You stared. “Do what?”
“Keep going back somewhere for coffee, or talk this much with someone that’s not in the industry, or ask someone to sit with me.”
His words were sincere and it made you hesitate to answer, not sure how. You could’ve brushed it off with a “lucky me” or some self-deprecating quip about how you didn’t know why he was talking to you either -- but you didn’t want to.
“I’m glad you did,” you said, just as quietly, meeting his eyes. “Seriously, it’s nice to know that you like coming here to hide. The door is always open for you.”
His gaze stayed steady on you, and then, a light nod. “Thank you.”
The conversation turned lighter, you asked about what he was working on every time he came in, what it was like performing, if he had a favorite food, why he liked dancing -- and he answered every question. He would ask you questions about working at Dayglow and what you did when you weren’t on shift, he was curious about whether you were in school and what you were studying when it wasn’t the summer season. The shift was nice, it was like talking to a friend.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Your break’s almost up.”
You let out a breath, half a laugh. “Were you keeping track?”
“No,” he denied, then with a smile, “I was counting down.”
You made a face, and gave him a playful side-eye. “Careful, I might just have to write a song about you first.”
His laugh followed you all the way back behind the counter.
The cafe was busier than usual towards closing. There was an event at one of the venues nearby and once it was over, people started gravitating to Dayglow. You frowned a little and threw a glance at Jungwon, catching his eye as people continuously flowed in. There was an exchange of smiles and you mouthed an apology at the fact your once quiet refuge was bustling with activity. He shook his head but smiled.
You were stuck behind the counter, taking order after order and occasionally rotating with your coworkers to make the drink instead. Muscle memory was handy when you had to make each drink quickly, calling out names and smiling as they came up to take their order from your hand.
“Have a nice night!” you called after them as they left, blowing out a deep sigh and tiredly looking back to his booth. He wasn’t there. Disappointment plastered across your face. With the crowd, you hadn’t seen him leave.
Hurriedly, you looked at the clock. There was still 15 minutes left of your shift.
“Hey,” you slide up behind one of your coworkers. “Did you see the guy in that booth over there leave?”
“Hmm?” she turned and looked to where you were pointing. “Oh, him? Yeah, like 30 seconds ago.”
“What??” You whipped towards the door, now even more sad that you had just missed each other.
“What’s with you two anyway?” she persisted, nudging your arm. “You spent your break over there instead of in the back.”
“We’re just friends,” you said, brushing her off.
“Is he cute at least?”
You nodded, no words were necessary. If only she knew.
The last couple minutes of your shift were a bore. You were tired and there was no eye candy for you to look forward to. It wasn’t until you were headed towards the back to grab your bag that you saw it. A napkin. Folded neatly and tucked just barely beneath the napkin holder at his usual booth -- so subtly it could have gone unnoticed all night. Your heart did an embarrassing somersault as you walked over and picked it up.
Didn’t want to say good-bye in front of your coworkers. Maybe this can make up for it?
~J
Tucked inside was a code. Upon further inspection, you realized it was an entry ID for Enhypen’s upcoming fansigning event. Your eyes widened and you clutched the napkin, eyes frantically searching the store like he would still be nearby, watching. But he wasn’t. It was just you, the napkin, a gift, and a seat still holding the ghost of his presence.
You slid the note carefully into your bag, being extra careful as this one contained a ticket to the fansign. It didn’t even matter if you were scheduled to work that day, you were calling off.
The two of you had fallen into a new routine. You would always sit with him on your breaks, you would tell him your schedule for the next couple of days so he knew what time to come in -- and he always did.
He sat in his booth, sometimes scribbling lyrics, messing around with a studio file on his laptop, sometimes sketching little figures in the margins of his notes, sometimes just waiting, half distracted until he heard the quiet timer announce your break and would look up to find you. It became the best part of your day easily. He started branching out to try other items on the menu that you recommended, just to get you to taste-test them first. He would look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention -- eyes soft, curious, like he was trying to memorize you.
And you were memorizing him too. Not the idol persona you already knew -- the quiet, hidden one. His habits, his laugh, the way he covered his mouth when smiling or when he was shy, how he would blow his hair out of his eyes when he was focusing. Your connection was building. You were trying not to look too much into it. But it was hard not to.
Not when his eyes lingered on you after you walked back to the counter. Not when he’s says “See you tomorrow?” with that almost-smile, like he was asking a question and making a promise, all at once. And not when every time he left, he would leave a folded napkin behind for you.
One day, you had the opening shift instead of closing, running around the cafe getting it ready to open right at 10am when your phone buzzed. Curiously, you looked down seeing a link to a thread on Weverse. The title caught your attention and you dropped the cleaning rag in your hands to open it.
Anyone know who this is? Saw him at Dayglow Cafe and he looks like an idol ^^
Your heart sank when you saw the picture attached, recognizing Jungwon instantly. You scroll through the comments. They were full of speculation, enthusiasm, curiosity, people were tagging other fan accounts or guessing names. But it was unmistakably him, sitting in his regular booth, working on his laptop, sipping a vanilla and cinnamon latte.
You felt hurt for him. That quiet, hidden world you had been lucky to provide for him was suddenly shattered and laid bare for everyone.
Naturally, it was busier today. Everyone wanted the chance to see him, to sit in his booth. You hated how the booth wasn’t his anymore, filled with fans taking selfies where he once sat.
The pattern continued for weeks, even after his company had taken down any post relevant to his attendance at Dayglow. Sure, it was good for business, but that wasn’t important to you. You missed him and the way he would smile when you slid him his drink or when you sat down next to him.
On your breaks, you would make yourself his drink to enjoy by yourself, like the smell would draw him in. You didn’t want to admit that every time the door would jingle, you hoped it was him. Maybe today was the day he would come back? Was that selfish of you?
You didn’t get another napkin during that period. You didn’t get a life update from him during breaks. The only way to stay connected with his well-being was by tuning in to his livestreams or entertainment shows. But those didn’t really help. The version you had memorized wasn’t the Jungwon the world talked about online. And now that the world had found that version too… he was gone.
You couldn’t blame him.
But it didn’t stop the ache every time someone asked, “Is this the booth he sat in?” or took a photo of the chair he used like it was some kind of landmark.
The first time you heard it, it didn’t register. It was only the background music afterall.
“What a romantic,” your coworker sighed, steaming milk next to you and nodding along to the song playing.
“What?”
“Jungwon.”
The name made you pause. “What?”
“His new single,” she laughed at your reaction. “Come on, Y/N. And you call yourself a fan.”
After tuning out the background chatter of customers, you were surprised you didn’t recognize his voice in the speakers sooner.
You said vanilla felt like home
Our conversations brewed slow
Sugar on your fingers, song in your sigh
Leaving lyrics like breadcrumbs and I memorized every line
Warmth in your silence, cinnamon in your grin
Finding peace where the noise should have been
A folded napkin said more than I could ever say in a booth
I like my coffee with you
I crave it more than caffeine
Now that I know you exist, how do I not want you
You couldn’t keep listening. You had to hide. You needed to collapse or go to the ER or literally anything that would give you space. Something about checking inventory in the back left your mouth as you excused yourself, slipping into the stockroom and shutting the door gently behind you, pressing your back to it and sinking to the floor.
Your fingers trembled as you searched the song up on your phone. I like My Coffee with You. Knees pulled to your chest, phone glowing in your hand.
He remembered everything. Every drink, every break, every lyric on a napkin. He had written a song about you. Like, he actually did it.
You weren’t sure what you were feeling. Confusion? Over-the-moon enthusiasm?
Then your eyes lit up and you quickly typed something else into the search bar -- Enhypen fansign event -- and scanned the screen for the date.
3 days.
Going was the obvious move. It was a chance to see him. He had personally invited you. Nerves be damned.
So here you were. Dressed up in an outfit that totally didn’t take you 2 hours to pick and hair done in something other than the ponytail you wore to work everyday. It was something new for him.
You had never been to one of these before, only seen clips online of lucky fans interacting with idols they looked up to. Nothing could have prepared you for how surreal it felt, standing in a line of fans, wristband snug on your arm, holding a copy of the comeback album you had bought on the way here in hands that wouldn’t stop sweating.
The minute he walked onto the stage, you were helpless, eyes glued to him like you were in withdrawal and craved his attention. His lyrics replayed in your head over and over like some kind of emotional self harm.
Now that I know you exist, how do I not want you?
Was he going to act normal? Pretend you were just another fan? Maybe that’s what you were. Maybe you were crossing lines and it wasn’t actually about you. Maybe it was just good song material, nothing actually serious. The thought made you stutter in your steps. Was showing up a mistake? If he wanted to see you, he knew where to find you, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he didn’t want to see you.
No, Y/N. Grow a pair.
Your heart thudded harder as the line moved forward.
Heeseung was first and you shared a smile with him.
“Hi!” he greeted you happily and you slid your album towards him. “What’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you replied, refusing to look over in Jungwon’s direction. It was too late to run now.
“Pretty name,” he commented and you laughed. He pushed the album back towards you. “Do you have a favorite member?”
“Jungwon,” your words were instant.
“Ouch, what about me?”
“I like you too,” you teased. But you were here for Jungwon.
The conversation was funny because Heeseung knew nothing about you but you knew everything about him. Outside of the persona he presented as an idol, you got to know him from Jungwon as well. During breaks, he would share tales and pictures of each member, revealing stories and making you laugh.
Next was Sunghoon, then Jake… then Jungwon.
You took a deep breath, heart pounding like a drum in your chest, and moved forward. When you raised your eyes to look at him, he was already looking at you. He had been watching you from the moment he heard you introduce yourself to Jake, listening to your conversation and just praying time would move faster and talk to you again.
“Y/N,” he said, voice low but clear, like he’d been waiting for this.
You felt the world narrow down to just the two of you, everything else falling away.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he added, fingers playing with the sharpie in his hand, not looking away from you.
You smiled, trying to steady your voice. “I wanted to see you again.”
“Did you…” he hesitated, but then shyly asked, “Did you hear the song?”
Your breath caught and you revealed the albums in your hands. Not just their comeback album, but his single as well.
“I did.”
He took each album carefully, signing the comeback album first. “What did you think?”
His question hung in the air between you, quieter than everything else in the room and yet somehow heavier. You could tell he wasn’t just asking if you liked it. He was asking if you understood it. If you had heard yourself in it.
“It was pretty,” you said and nodded, trying to meet his gaze but failing. “Really. One of my new favorites.”
His eyes softened, though you didn’t see, and his hands found yours. At first, you panicked, looking at him with a questioning stare before remembering this was normal at fansigning events. This felt different though. There was something else in his touch. Unspoken.
“It was about you,” it was so quiet you knew you were the only one who could have heard his words.
It’s not like you didn’t know, but hearing him say it outloud made it real.
“I’m sorry about the picture,” you spoke. “If I saw who took it, they would be banned from Dayglow for life.”
He smiled, just barely. His thumbs brushed over the backs of your hands. It was a sweet feeling.
“I’m sorry for disappearing. I just didn’t want to risk anything or make it worse.”
You shook your head. “Stop it, I didn’t say that because I wanted you to apologize. I just… missed you.”
He looked down, unreadable expression on his face. Then he let go of your hands to pick up your copy of his solo album, uncapping the sharpie again. He paused, thinking, then started writing, too long for it to just be his signature.
When he handed it back, your eyes fell to his words immediately.
For the girl who makes coffee taste like home
Wait for me after this?
~Jungwon
Your breath was sucked from your lungs. The noise around you -- fans chatting, camera shutters clicking, the low hum of staff voice -- faded to static. All you saw was his handwriting. It was the first time he left you a note and signed it with his name. His full name. Like he was no longer hiding. And then his question? Wait for me after this?
You looked up slowly. His eyes watched you, nervous and hopefully, quietly bracing for your reaction like it mattered more than any crowd, any chart, any stage. Your lips parted but before you could speak, the staff was gently urging you to move alone. Jungwon looked like he wanted to say more, like he would stand up and follow you, but all he could do was grab your hand once more -- tight -- and whispered, “Please wait.”
And you nodded because you would. Of course you would.
His shoulders eased at that, tension slipping away with the barest exhale. Then his lips quirked up -- not the practiced, camera-ready smile you’d seen a thousand times before, but the one you remembered from the booth in the back of Dayglow. The one that only ever seemed to be for you.
You clutched the albums to your chest, moving along but not wanting to. Even when you sat in front of Jay, even when he had to turn his attention to the next fan, you felt the weight of that look still resting on you.
You weren’t sure where to go or how long to wait.
The staff had ushered you out with the rest of the fans once the event wrapped up. You had caught Jungwon’s eye before he left the stage and exchanged looks, a reminder that you would see each other again soon. So here you were, standing awkwardly near the venue’s side exit, fingers fidgeting with the corner of your jacket.
You were trying to think about his lyrics again, or the way he whispered your name again for the first time in weeks, or how his hands had felt wrapped around yours for those few suspended seconds.
A few fans lingered nearby, hoping for a glimpse, but security kept them moving. You got pushed along with them, not sure how you were supposed to fight back without sounding crazy. “No! I’m supposed to meet Jungwon here! He told me to wait for him!” No one’s gonna believe that.
You ended up around the block, trying to make it obvious where you were if he was to exit from the building and stared at your shoes, debating whether to stay longer or just chalk it up to wishful thinking. But the signed album in your bag kept you rooted where you were. He asked you to wait. So you would. It was the least you could do for somebody that wrote you a song, right?
10 minutes. Then-
“Y/N?”
You turned.
He was already moving towards you from the shadow of the building. He wore new clothes, a dark sweater and baggy jeans combo paired with a bucket hat and mask. He was trying to be inconspicuous but you recognized him immediately.
It took a minute to register that he was actually there, not a daydream stitched together from lingering eyes and napkin notes.
“I thought you left,” he said, eyes searching yours, relief bleeding into his words.
“I got kicked out,” you tried to say lightly.
You both stood there, two people who had been dancing around something for so long, and now it was here. No cafe counter, no corner booth, no fansign table between you.
He huffed a small laugh, the kind that sounded more like an exhale of tension than anything else. “I should’ve seen that coming.” He scanned your face and stepped closer. “I was going to sneak out sooner but the managers were hovering.”
“It’s okay,” you said. “I waited. Are you sure you don’t have anywhere else you need to be?”
“I want to be here,” he said resolutely.
Sincerity covered every word. It wasn’t the carefully measured tone he used in interviews or the guarded charm of the idol he had to display. This was just him. Just Jungwon.
Your lips tugged up in a smile involuntarily. “Okay,” you said, finger furling and unfurling the hem of your sleeve, nervous energy buzzing under your skin.
For a minute, he didn’t do anything. Just looked down at you, like he was drinking you in. Like he was memorizing you all over again. His eyes dipped down to your bag again, to the place where the corner of his single album still stuck out, and he shook his head with a small smile.
“You really came,” he murmured almost to himself. Then to you, “You look different.”
You glanced down at yourself, at the clothes you stressed over. “It’s not my work uniform. I figured I should dress up for the occasion.”
“For me?” he clarified with his eyebrows raised and you punched his arm playfully. He laughed, rubbing the spot where you’d made contact though it clearly didn’t hurt. “I’m just saying, you never looked like this behind the counter.”
You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t realise there was a dress code I was supposed to follow.”
“There isn’t. I like the apron and coffee stained shirt.”
You groaned. “Oh my goodness stop.”
“It’s poetic,” he teased and stepped closer. Once he was close enough to reach out, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his fingers around your wrist, like he had to make sure you wouldn't disappear. “Let’s go somewhere else, so I can take the mask off.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but he didn’t need one. In no universe would you ever say no. You let him pull you by your wrist, following willingly, down the quiet side street where the venue lights faded into soft shadows.
“Have you eaten?”
You shook your head and he grinned.
“Me neither. Can I take you out to eat?”
“Is this a date?” you asked inquisitively, praying he’d say yes.
“If I said it was, would you come with me?”
“That’s a ridiculous question. Of course.”
He slowed a little, just enough to fall into step beside you instead of leading you. His fingers loosen on your wrist until they slide down to lace with yours instead. Your heart jumped so hard you almost tripped over your own feet.
“Then yeah,” he said simply. “It’s a date.”
For a few steps, neither of you spoke. He guided you out of the narrow street to where the city opened up ahead. Neon signs flickered over late-night restaurants, quiet enough that nobody paid the two of you any attention.
“Anywhere you want,” he said, squeezing your hand once. “Pick a place.”
You hesitate, looking to him for help. “Where can we go where you’ll be okay? You should be able to eat comfortably.”
You saw his eyes squint in a smile. Cute. He looked like he was weighing a couple options and then nodded slightly toward the end of the street.
“There’s a spot a couple blocks from here that our manager took us to last year. It’s super lowkey. Kind of ugly from the outside though.”
“Perfect,” you said, already smiling. “I love ugly restaurants.”
He laughed softly. “I know. You told me once. You said the sketchier the outside, the better the food.”
Your steps faltered just a little, surprised he remembered something so random. But you shouldn’t be. Jungwon had always listened to you like that and it was something you always appreciated.
“That was like, week two of knowing you,” you said, still shocked. “I barely remember saying it.”
“I do. I remember a lot of things.”
You didn’t respond. How could you? Something about the way he said it made your throat feel tight. He tugged you forward gently, keeping your fingers woven with his until the neon lights thinned out, replaced by the soft yellow glow of a little diner squished between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore.
It did look ugly from the outside. Paint chipped on the sign, a crooked “OPEN” light buzzed in the window.
“I’m sold,” you said.
“I knew you would be.”
He pulled the door open for you and ducked inside after you, keeping his head low until you both slid into a booth in the far back. He sat facing the wall with his back to the restaurant and pulled off his mask. You watched him take a full breath without the restriction of the fabric. On the exhale, he locked eyes with you and laughed.
“What?” you asked, your voice soft with curiosity.
“It’s just…weird. You’re sitting with me, on a date.”
On a date.
“I think it’s weirder for me than for you.”
“Why’s that?”
Do you tell him about the poster of his face you hung up in your room 5 years ago? Or that you used to keep his photocards in your phone case? There’s no way.
So you shrugged. “Because you’re Yang Jungwon, kind of a kpop icon.”
“But you’re Y/N.”
Exactly. But he didn’t mean it the same way you did. He said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world -- like your name carried the same weight to him that his did to you.
“What does that mean?” you asked, trying to sound teasing but it came out shaky.
“It means,” he said, leaning on his elbows towards you and tilting his head. “That you’re not just some girl. You’re… you.” His eyes flicked down to your hands on the table, where they were picking at your nailbeds nervously. “The one that knows how to make my favorite coffee, and writes me lyrics on napkins and waits for me when I ask her to.”
You swallowed hard, pulse fluttering in your throat. Just when you opened your mouth, the waitress came over.
She acknowledged Jungwon with a smile but nothing more. He was right about it being lowkey.
“Do you want to split something?” Jungwon asked you, opening the menu for you.
Dream after dream was just coming true for you today, wasn’t it?
“S-sure.” Damn stutter.
You got an order of sundubu-jjigae, a soft tofu stew with beef and kimchi, one of your favorites.
The food arrived quickly, the steam rising to blur the atmosphere between you. Jungwon picks up a spoon first and gently stirs the pot, careful not to splash. His brow furrows just slightly -- a look you recognize from the cafe when he was deep in thought over something he wasn’t quite ready to say.
You take a spoonful of rice and dip it into the soup, letting it soak. “Can I ask you something?” His knee brushed yours under the table and you tried to ignore it.
He hummed, taking a spoonful of his own and blowing on it to cool it down.
“Did you… mean it?” you paused before clarifying. “You know, the song you wrote.”
The spoon stops halfway to his lips. He doesn’t move for a second, like your question pinned him there. The steam between you curls and swirls, softening the edges of his face but not the hardness of his gaze.
He set the spoon down slowly while your fingers tightened on your own. “I don’t write things I don’t mean,” he said slowly, bucket hat casting a shadow over his eyes. “Every line in that song came from somewhere real.”
Your pulse knocked once, hard. “But-”
“I didn’t know how else to say it.” He offers a nervous laugh. “It’s easier to put it in music than to just… tell you.
“So when you sang ‘I like my coffee with you’...”
His lips twitch in a small smile. “I meant you. I like you”
You exhale shakily. Something in your chest is fluttering uncontrollably and you wonder if he can hear it over the soft clatter of utensils in the restaurant around you. You didn’t know how to respond, so you just looked at him. His eyes were waiting. Watching. Not demanding anything, but hoping.
“I wasn’t sure,” you said. “I didn’t know if I was just… projecting. Like maybe I wanted it to be about me so I convinced myself that it was?”
“Y/N, do you remember one of the first days I came into the cafe I ordered the same drink like 5 times? You got so annoyed but I was just trying to find reasons to keep talking to you.”
You looked at him horrified. “I can assure you I’ve never once been annoyed with you.”
Jungwon smiled in a teasing manner. “You looked annoyed. You’d push the cup toward me without looking up, like you were trying not to roll your eyes.”
“I was nervous,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. “Like I didn’t know how I was supposed to act around you.”
“If I wanted someone to treat me like an idol then I wouldn’t have been hiding in the corner. I just wanted you to treat me like… a person.” His gaze catches yours again. “Like you always did.”
You were melting.
“I meant the song,” he repeated. “All of it. Every single word. I like you. The person that writes beautiful lyrics on napkins, remembers my coffee order, smells like vanilla and cinnamon, the person that waits for me…”
His words hit your chest, your ribs, your breath.
“I like you too.”
It felt a little silly to say something like that in front of him when you were sure you had made it obvious. But to Jungwon, he showed relief, like he too wasn’t sure if his feelings were reciprocated. Then he grinned, sheepishly.
“Thank goodness,” he said and ducked his head slightly. He looked shy in a way you hadn’t seen before. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him bite his lip. “I was trying to play it cool,” he laughed. “But I think I rehearsed this moment, like, twenty different ways.”
You giggled, over the moon that he not only liked you back, but that he practiced this moment. “And this was the version you went with?”
“Surely you know nothing ever goes the way you think it will, right? I had Jay pretend to be you but he was absolutely terrible.”
“Jay?? You told them about me?”
“Well… yeah. Should I not have?”
“No, I just…” you contemplated. “Did they know who I was earlier today?”
“I don’t think so? They don’t know what you look like, I don’t have a picture of you.”
The sentence made your mind spin. He said it like he wanted to have a picture, like he wanted to have you in his phone.
“Oh, well I guess it would probably be a little weird to just have a random barista showing up in your camera roll, right?”
His brows knot tightly and he shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
You made eye contact and he cleared his throat. You changed the subject. “So… what did you tell Jay then? How did that even come up?”
He grinned, like he was grateful for the shift, but also like he was excited to talk about it. “I told him there was a really pretty girl at the cafe I liked who wrote better lyrics than me and makes the best coffee.”
Your face exploded in red.
“And he made fun of me for like an hour before helping me rehearse. He was absolutely awful at it.”
You laughed, picking up your spoon again to take a bite. “I kind of want to see his version now.”
“No you don’t,” he said with mock seriousness. “He told me I should pretend to spill coffee over myself and say something dramatic like, ‘I’ll never recover from your espresso eyes.”
You nearly choked on the spoonful of soup you had just put in our mouth. “Oh wow, what a flirt.”
“He also said I should drop dramatically to my knees and cry out, ‘Where have you bean?”
“Well I’m glad you didn’t go with that version,” you said, the two of you now giggling together over the food.
“Did you like this one better?” he asked, and you nodded. “Good. I don’t think I could have handled espresso puns and rejection in the same night.”
“You wouldn’t have been rejected,” you corrected him, almost looking at him like he was crazy.
“Really?” he looked at you, seriously wanting the answer to the question.
“Yeah. Jungwon, half the streams on your single are probably me.”
“Ehhh,” he said, denying your claim, even as a smile took over his expression. “Half??”
“Don’t make me regret telling you,” you said, a little defensive.
He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning like an idiot. “Okay, okay, I’m honored. Truly. My most loyal fan.”
You hid your face with your hands in embarrassment until he leaned forward and pried them away, holding them in his.
“I guess I owe Jay-hyung a dinner. He bet you’d say yes.”
You laughed, tightening your hold on his hands to let him know you wanted to be there. “You can thank him for me. But not for the espresso puns.”
“Oh definitely not.”
You enjoyed the rest of the food, diverging the conversation into other subject, not pertaining to the two of you. It was nice to catch up on everything that had happened in the month he had to hide from the cafe. It was a familiar rhythm to fall back to. It was getting late, the soup had gone lukewarm, the rest of the restaurant was emptying, but neither of you cared. You stayed there until he got a text from one of his members, telling him he needed to start heading back soon. So he said he would drop you off at your apartment first. With the streets almost empty, he kept his mask off, tucked under his chin.
“Not to bring up the elephant in the room,” Jungwon said cautiously, peering at you from under his hat, “but we should probably talk about where we’re going to go from here.”
His fingers were intertwined with yours, a feeling you didn’t think you were ever going to get used to. He backtracked slightly.
“I’m not saying that to freak you out, I just don’t want you to feel like I’m leading you into something messy without talking about it.”
“Messy?” you tilted your head up at him.
He exhaled, looking forward as you walked down the street. “Schedules, fans, the way my life works… There’s always someone watching. I mean, you were there for the cafe drama. But if we’re… this” -- he motioned vaguely between your joined hands -- “I want to be fair to you. I want to do what you want to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, if we were to officially start dating,” the way he made eye contact with you when he said it was exciting, “then we should decide whether to make it private or public. Us, I mean.”
You nodded, understanding what he was implying, steps slowing without meaning to until he stopped the two of you completely.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he added softly, turning to face you. “This isn’t just about me anymore.”
You looked at him, really taking him in. His hair falling over his eyes from under the hat, the faint pink dusting his cheeks. “What would you want?”
He hesitated, looking down at your hands. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to keep it ours. Something private and safe. But the other part of me wants to stop pretending I’m just some creepy customer at your cafe.”
You laughed but he looked at you like he was serious. “Well, neither of those options are easy, are they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’d rather decide together than have it decided for us.”
You smiled softly at him. He was being so sincere, it was endearing. “You’ve been thinking a lot about this, haven’t you?”
He let out a sheepish laugh, glancing away. “I’m giving myself away…”
“I think…” you pondered for a second, and observed his reaction, “I’d like to keep it private for now. At least until we know what we’re doing. I want to be with you without all the noise in the background.”
Jungwon’s shoulders softened at your words, relief flickering in his eyes. “Private, then,” he echoed. “As long as it means I still get to hold your hand like this, I’m okay with it.”
You moved without thinking, stepping forward until you could wrap him in a hug. “Thank you for asking me, that was really sweet.”
His arms snaked around your waist and your back, tucking his head beside yours. “I want to get this right,” he said softly.
Your heart fluttered and you pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Well I think you’re doing a great job.” His eyes were full of warmth and anticipation you’re sure you were mirroring. Almost instinctually, you reached up to cup your hands around his face and stand on your tippytoes, gently pressing your lips to his forehead. “Does this mean we’re officially together?” you asked.
Jungwon smiled, his breath a little shaky and leaned down, catching your lips in a soft, tentative kiss. Your brain short circuited upon contact, leaving you like a dumb, smiling idiot when he pulled away.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice low. “You are officially my girlfriend.”
✦ pairing: park sunghoon as your roommate who you have a crush on
✦ word count: 1, 426
✦ warning: suggestive and mentions of drinking
✦ summary: taking care of your drunk roommate turned into something else
You paused your kdrama as you heard the doorbell ring late at night. You frowned, wondering who could be at the door this late at night, turning the TV off before getting up from the couch.
You walked to the door and opened the door cautiously just to see Jake, Sunghoon's best friend, with a very drunk looking Sunghoon clinging onto him.
"Hey Jake," You greeted, noticing the unsteady state of Sunghoon. You took in his flushed state as he could barely stand without Jake supporting him.
"We had a bit too much to drink and Sunghoon...well, he's pretty out of it so I came to drop this guy off,” Jake smiled, gripping onto Sunghoon's waist, trying to keep him upright.
"I can see that,” You chuckled lightly and stepped forward to help support Sunghoon, who was swaying a bit on his feet. "Here, let me take him to his room. Thanks for bringing him back, Jake.” Jake nodded, a bit relieved.
"No problem," he said, "I just hope he doesn't cause too much trouble." You smiled as you led Sunghoon to his room as he stumbled.
You were used to taking care of your roommates when they were drunk, but there was something about taking care of Sunghoon that felt a bit different.
Once you guys reached his room, you gently eased him onto his bed. He immediately flopped backwards, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed expression on his face.
You stood there for a moment, taking in his dishevelled appearance and the way his eyes, usually so reserved and shy, were now clouded with the effects of alcohol.
"You really went overboard with it tonight, huh?," You said, a hint of amusement in your voice, ruffling his hair a bit.
Sunghoon let out a lazy grumble, not quite able to form words. He closed his eyes for a moment, and you took the opportunity to brush the hair out of his face. You couldn't help but notice how handsome he looked, even in his current dishevelled state.
You held out a glass of water, hoping it would help sober him up a bit. "Here, drink some water," you helped him sit up gently. But instead of taking the glass, he just stared at you, his gaze a bit dazed. He took the glass from your hand and placed it on the nightstand and suddenly reached out, his hand finding its way around your waist.
With a swift movement, he pulled you onto his lap. You were caught off guard by the sudden movement, your breath hitching as you found yourself straddling him on the bed. His grip on your waist was firm, and you could feel the warmth of his chest against you.
"S-Sunghoon," You stammered, your cheeks flushed with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. "What are you doing?”
He looked up at you, his gaze slightly less hazy than before. He was still quite groggy, but there was a hint of awareness in his eyes now, and what seemed like a sly smile appeared on his face. You were caught off guard by the unexpected action, your face heating up in response.
You had never seen him act this way as he was always shy and reserved, so now you were shocked at how comfortable he seemed to be with you. His smile widened, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.
You couldn't help but feel a shiver run down your spine as you realized that you were in a very compromising position. This dude was drunk and clearly had other plans than to sleep it off.
Your mind raced, trying to process what was happening. You were always attracted to Sunghoon, but never in a million years did you expect him to be this forward, especially in his current state.
His hand moved to cup your chin, gently tilting your face upwards, to meet his gaze. "You're so pretty," he mumbled, the words slurring slightly as they left his lips. He gently traced your bottom lip with his thumb.
"You're drunk," You managed to say, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to stop freaking out internally.
"Maybe," he admitted, "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate your beauty, right?,” You felt like your heart was gonna break out of your ribcage as it was beating so fast.
You swallowed hard, your cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. You looked around to find something to divert his attention when you saw that glass of water.
"You should really drink the water," You offered, trying to get out of his lap, but he tightened his grip around your waist. You had never seen this side of him before.
"Later," he mumbled, his focus solely on you. His eyes flickered down to your lips,"I'd rather have you right now.”
He closed the distance between them, his lips brushing against yours teasingly. Your mind went blank, all thoughts dissolving as he grabbed your cheeks, and the kiss deepened. His hands roamed over your back and waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you two. His tongue traced your bottom lip, seeking entry. He took advantage of your parted lips, gently pushing his tongue into your mouth, his tongue exploring more.
“You taste even better than I imagined," He murmured as he pulled away, his fingers tracing your lips with his finger as your brain tried to process what just happened.
“He imagined what I might taste like?,” You thought, your brain almost short circuiting and your body still on fire due to the heat of the moment.
You had given away your very first kiss to your very drunk roommate who would probably regret everything in the morning and move to a different planet just so he doesn't have to face you.
You were brought out of your stance as you felt Sunghoon bury his head in the crook of your neck, placing light kisses on the skin.
You were so torn between the thrill of the moment and the guilt that was starting to surface. You knew you shouldn't be doing this, not when he was drunk and was making decisions he might regret. But the way he was looking at you, you couldn't bring yourself to push him off.
"Sunghoon, We shouldn't... you're drunk," You whispered, with a hesitant tone.
"I'm not that drunk," He murmured, pulling away from your neck and placing a small peck on your lips.
“You'll regret this in the morning,” You brushed his hair out of his face.
“I won't…please let me have you…,” He tugged on the hem of your shirt, wanting it off, looking at you for permission.
“It'll be like taking advantage of you...I can't do that,” You pushed his hand away.
"Please... you're not taking advantage of me... I'm perfectly in my senses.. I know exactly what I'm doing and I want you. I wanted to do this for so long,” Your eyes widened in shock upon hearing his words as you immediately got off of his lap, your cheeks flushing as red as a tomato.
“No, you're not.You should go to sleep,” You mumbled as he smiled lazily, looking at your flustered reaction, reaching out to grab your wrist again.
“No no no no, you're going to bed,” You said, gently pushing him back on the bed so he would lie down.
“Oh, come on now,” He pulled you closer to him, grabbing your wrist as you hovered over him, staring at his perfect face.
You stared at him for a bit before your eyes fell on his plush looking lips. His lips were so close to yours that you could feel his warm breath hit your skin. He rejoiced internally as he watched you stare at him.
“He is drunk,” You thought as you looked at his flushed state before removing his hand from your wrist and pulling the blanket over him, making him sulk in disappointment.
"But I don't want to go to bed... I want you,” He was almost on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
You gave him one last peck on his forehead before tucking him in like you planned before and quickly leaving the room, much to his disappointment.
He groaned softly, tossing and turning in his bed, trying to force himself to sleep, but the memory of your kiss still lingered in his mind. He stared at the door, frustrated that he couldn't have more, and resigned himself to a long, restless night.
