Kaylee.

SKZ-obsessed millennial (i.e. 1980s born). Learning to write, preferring to read. Born in Singapore. Based in Australia.

[kayleefriedchicken]

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Masterlist A disorganised dump of all the stories I have written.

Requests [Closed] Until I am able to write well enough that I won't butcher your vision or ideas, I am not comfortable opening up my request box.

Take a Chance on Me A list of prompts or plots I came up with but think myself ill-equipped to write. Please feel free to use any of these, as long as you tag me because I would love to see your interpretation of these ideas running in my head.

[baby-yongbok]

damned if I do, damned if I don't

Hwang Hyunjin x afab!reader

⤷ WC - 6.3k ⤷ Angst + Fluff| Fantasy| Mythology → Masterlist

You’ve spent your whole life hiding. Wards carved into every surface, Coals burning in every corner, rules you never break to protect yourself from something older than you—something born of gods and monsters. And he still got in.

You were careful. The sigils are burned into every inch of wood you inhabit, you rarely leave the house, you follow every instruction that was left for you. And somehow he still got in.

The city was loud before he did, but it’s been quiet ever since. There’s something about him, something that mutes the noise and paranoia that was born into your bones.

Hyunjin is everything you told yourself you’d never get. Everything you watch humans bask in from your fire escape. “More incense?” The heavy metal of your loft door clinks shut behind him. He slips his shoes off, no jacket, he’s never cold. 

“Mm, this one is cleansing.” You slip into sight, a cloud of sage wafting after you. You have coal burning in every corner. Always in every corner. “I thought you’d gotten used to it?”

His feet slide lazily over the dingy marble floor, hands already reaching for you. You slip into his hold, palms planted on his chest, the cold metal of his necklace bites into your skin. Familiar. 

“I am. Just wondering where you get all this stuff.” You smile and he kisses it, then the corner of your mouth, your nose, then your lips again. 

“I’m a very loyal customer.” Hyunjin hums, burying his face in your neck when you hug him. He takes a breath, deep and slow. You smell like myrrh and lavender. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. The silver strands slip through your fingers like silk.

“Very loyal.” He murmurs, lips brushing over your pulse. “What were you doing?”

You try to pull back and he pulls you closer, fingers pressing into your waist. You laugh, just a huff of breath. “I was cleaning up.”

“You’re always cleaning.” 

“And you’re always needy.” He feigns offense, pulling back to look you in your eyes. “You are.”

“Am not.” There’s no bite to his argument. He lets you go reluctantly, lacing his fingers through yours while you step away. “Take a break with me.”

You scoff, taking your hand away to fix the scarf on your head. He watches you, eyes tracing the earth tone pattern down your back. It’s heavy with tresses he’s never seen. “A break means—”

He cuts you off, “It means you sit here,” He plops down onto your sofa. “And let me distract you.” You’re pulled down into him before you can protest, a breathy laugh clashes with his. Your thighs clumsily frame his. 

He’s kissing you before you can properly complain. Tongue ghosting over the seam of your lips, asking you to part them just for him. You’ve never had this with anyone else but him. His hands wander, wide palms flat against the plush dip of your hips, then up over your arms. 

“See?” He mumbles, kissing the corner of your mouth and peppering over your jaw. “You’re good at taking breaks.” You melt into him. Into his touch, the brush of his lips kissing over freckles he’s named over the year that you’ve tangled yourselves into each other. 

Your fingers splay over his shoulders, slide down to his chest. Your nails bite into his skin through the fabric, and the cold of his chain bites into your palm. Again. You hum a sound, half moan and half curious.

“Do you always wear this necklace?” You mutter, mindless words slipping the filter in your hazy head. Hyunjin’s movement falters, just for a second, one quick but loud second. 

“Mmhm.” His teeth graze your shoulder then kiss the pressure away. He sits back, looks up at you. “Why does my necklace matter right now?” He smiles, so you do too.

“It doesn’t.” But you still glance at it—dark plain stone on a thin frayed cord. Nothing remarkable. “Just never noticed it.” 

Hyunjin taps a crooked finger under your chin, his gaze holds yours and you forget all about the silver chain. “Maybe you’re too focused on me.” His smile numbs the buzz of thought in an instant. 

“Maybe.” You kiss him this time, slow and deep, fingers slipping into the silver strands tickling his shoulders. Hyunjin smiles into it, hands cupping your cheeks like holding you in place could get him more of you. 

Sage wafts from your left, your right, one of your coals has burned out by the window. You feel it, like someone left a door open. You pull back, “I have to—” Hyunjin shushes you with another kiss. You pull back again, smiling, “My coal went out.”

“Let it.” The couch dips, he sits up, shifting you in his lap. “The coal isn’t kissing you.”

His lips press into the sweet spot beneath your ear, you tilt your head for him before you can think otherwise. His tongue presses firm against your skin, the wet drag sates your worry. You moan, melt into him, chest to chest, breath fast with—

“Ah!” You pull back with a hiss, Hyunjin curses heavy under his breath. “What the hell…” something burned you, a quick and deep shock of heat. You lay a hand to the center of your chest, over your amulet, small and tucked into your collar. 

“That must’ve been mine.” He mutters, moving to tuck the silver pendant into his collar and—you pause.

“Wasn’t that just stone?” It’s no more than a whisper, but Hyunjin pauses like you screamed it. “Your necklace was stone, your chain—”

He cuts in, “What does it look like to you?” He’s serious now. Breath still heavy, heart racing for reasons he doesn’t want to have to admit. “Do you see stone?”

“I—I did, but now…” You look down at it, silver with glimmering azurite in the center. “Now I don’t.” You reach for it, squinting at the symbol carved over shimmering stone when Hyunjin tucks it away.

Your eyes snap to his, “It’s always been silver.” His tone is flat but his eyes, his eyes shine like the stone. They pull, numb the confusion. You find yourself leaning in again, like a sailor to a siren. “Okay?”

“Mm…” You feel the heat of him, his breath on your lips—but you look down again, towards the necklace, and he notices. 

“Focus.” You can’t. You can’t shake the sight of the amulet, stone then silver, dark then shimmering blue. Another coal ashes in the far corner, your mind buzzes, it’s like a draft is clearing the fog. Adding feeling where numbness has settled. Hyunjin kisses you.

His hand comes up to the back of your neck, your scarf slips back an inch. 

“Hyunjin.” You murmur, pushing back—he doesn’t let you. He kisses you harder, deeper, it melts you. It melts you but it feels wrong. He moves you, fast enough to blur what you’re thinking into ink stains behind your eyes. He lays you down, presses one palm to the arm of your sofa and a forearm into the pillow by your head. his knee settles between your thighs and you bare down mindlessly. Mindlessly. 

The necklace was stone. It was. You see it behind your eyes. Plain stone on worn cord. Cold and simple. 

Hyunjin’s lips wander one way while your mind goes the other. You can’t unsee it. You move with him, grind down over the clothed firm muscle of his thigh and dig your nails in where his forearm flexes just the way you like. But you can’t unsee it. 

So, you open your eyes. Hyunjin feels it, he pulls back, looks at you, and you see it again. 

Silver, intricately framing a shimmering blue. There’s a symbol carved into it, worn down as if it’s made into the stone. You’ve seen it before. An olive tree. You’ve seen it in—your blood runs cold. 

Another coal ashes across the room. 

“Is that an olive tree...” Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. Hyunjin hears you, you know he did because he froze. “Get off of me.”

He doesn’t. His eyes flick to your terrified ones, panic seeping in. “I need you to listen to me.” He’s gentle, like he’s talking to a scared kitten and not a divine enemy. “Just give me a second to—”

“Get the hell off of me.” You push him, forearm to his chest and legs kicking into the cushion. He moves before you fight too hard, before you can feel anymore trapped than you already do. 

You stumble three steps back, chest heaving. “Listen to me, I can explain.” Hyunjin’s knees are still pressing into your sofa, his hand balled into a fist against a pillow. 

“It was stone. It was nothing and now you have Athena’s amulet hanging from your fucking neck.” The words tumble out, you take another step back and nearly trip over the carpet. Hyunjin’s eyes close at the mention of the goddess, the one you’ve grown up trying to avoid. 

The air feels sharp in your lungs, too cold.

“I was going to tell you, I just… I don’t want it to go like this, can you please sit.” For the first time since you met him guilt shaded his irises. It pulls you, but not hard enough.

”Why are you wearing Athena’s amulet?” You hold his gaze, you see the defeat. You see the moment he accepts the fate of it all. 

”It’s for the gods’ hunters.” Your pulse is roaring now, hands shaking. “They’re meant to conceal your true being. Create a mirage.”

You know that. You just hoped he’d lie, or come up with something that doesn’t crush you whole like he has now. 

“It does the same thing yours does.” Those words are the stinging confirmation you’d hoped you wouldn’t get. Your hand presses over the amulet tucked into your shirt.

”You know what I am.” He stares for a second, like he can will everything not to break with silence.

”I know who you are. Yeah.” His voice breaks on the last word. You look away, anywhere but at him. 

“And who are you?” You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. You want to scream at him, tell him to leave. Hit him for every day that he’s lied to your face.

Hyunjin stands from the sofa, slowly, like the air is too thick to move. “I’m a mistake.” You look at him, he’s grateful for it. “I’m what happens when the goddess of control and wisdom abandons what makes her powerful. I’m what happens when you trick power.”

Hyunjin holds out his arms, presenting himself to you. The late afternoon sun frames him in a moment of cold irony. “Son of Athena.” His arms fall to his sides. “A walking embarrassment.”

You stare at him, at the frown that bends the lips you’ve kissed nearly every night for the last year. At the silver hair that makes more sense than it needs to. “Your father is Hephaestus, then.” 

Hyunjin shakes his head, gaze finally falling to something that can’t see through him. “His attempt to have her failed. But a demon lord? They rarely fail.” 

”So you’re…”

”Half god. Half demon. Hated by both, accepted by no one.” 

You scoff, shaking your head “Don’t try to make me feel sorry for you.” His eyes find yours again, he sees the anger, the betrayal bright and brown. 

“That’s not what this is.” He steps towards you, slow, careful.

“When were you going to do it?” That question stops him cold. ”When were you going to kill me?” Your voice betrays you mid-sentence, breaking for a second before you force yourself back together.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t you dare say that you weren’t going to.” Your feet against the cold marble punctuates your disdain. You step closer. “Don’t you dare tell me that your mother, that monster of a goddess, didn’t send you to kill me. Don’t you dare lie to me again, Hyunjin.”

You don’t know when you started yelling. You don’t know when you took another step, but you have. Your eyes burn, your mouth’s dry. Hyunjin swallows across from you, watching you.

”I was meant to bring Athena your head.” The sentence sounds wrong. Too mundane, too simple coming from his tongue. A tear slips from your eye and you let it. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

Hyunjin looks human. More than you could ever say he did before, more than you’re sure the mirage of the amulet is capable of. He looks horrified, gutted, ashamed. 

“What’s your plan, huh?” Your voice is strained, “You come and fuck me, wait for me to fall asleep in your arms so you can—“

“Stop.”

”No, you’re right, you’ve had every night this year to do it. It must be something more grand, right? What is it?” Hyunjin closes the space between you in two steps, you replace it in an instant. “Don’t”

“Do you really think that I stuck around for a year waiting to cut your fucking head off?” The question hung between you like the lie hung around his neck. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. I still am. But you were supposed to be a monster. You were supposed to be this thing that—that I could look in the eyes and end. You were supposed to be Medusa's daughter.”

The name stains the air. You hold his gaze.

“I am.” It’s a weak admission.

“No, you’re you. You’re careful, and beautiful and sweet. You feed bumblebees and love jellybeans. You are not the monster my mother promised I would find.” You’re shaking, he sees it. It takes everything he has not to try and hold you. “I agreed to kill this ugly dangerous thing…and instead, I found you.” 

It's too much. It hits you, harsh and unforgiving—this man, the only one you’ve ever allowed to know you. The only one you’ve ever trusted enough to let past the sigils and powdered stones, is the monster that you’ve been hiding from. What you’ve checked for under your bed for years has been in it for months.

“No.” You shake your head, lips parting without sound, then shake your head again. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t—”

“You don’t get to give me a speech about the humanity you meant to take from me.” Hyunjin’s fists ball at his sides, you point a finger at him, he lets you. “You have come here every single day knowing that I’m going to die and you’re the one waiting to do it.” 

Tears fall freely now. Your throat burns.

“I was never going to do it, not after everything, not after staying.”

“I don’t believe you.” That breaks something in him. Something comes loose, you see it, you want to care. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move. “Can we please just talk…”

“You either get out or you kill me right now.” Your gazes meet, hold. “Either way, I can’t stand in front of you any longer.”

Hyunjin swallows, standing still for a beat too long before he raises his hands just barely, not even above the waist. Just enough to show you that he's got it, he surrenders. He takes a slow step forward, then another. You look past him. 

He doesn't touch you when he passes, doesn't brush against you, doesn't try to feel something he knows will cut him. He just goes. He slips on his shoes, pulls the heavy metal knob, fingers brushing the sigils marked dark into brick—then he steps out. 

He's gone, and you feel it in an instant. The house corrects itself. The walls feel the shake in your hands, the hesitation in your breath. The coals that had ashed reignite, hotter and brighter. The wards marked in dark ink by the door sink into the bricks. The salt along the wall pulls itself into a neat line. 

The wards listened to your instincts. And for a year, you were wrong. Now they know better.

Hours blur as you redraw sigils. There hasn’t been a second of respite since Hyunjin walked out. Not a second that you haven't thought about the fate you invited inside. You've broken your mortar and pestle, grinding stones until it was unusable. You've turned ashes into black salt and shut your blinds. 

It doesn't feel like enough. 

You'd cried long enough to collect your own tears in a vial full to the cork. You sat it on your altar and asked for clarity, for guidance. You asked Medusa, your mother, to show you the answers you couldn't find yourself. You let the candles burn themselves into thick pools of wax. You haven't moved since. 

Hours have hummed and echoed. The city breathes in pulses, but you are still. 

He lied. Lied to your face for a year, made love to you as if it was allowed. Your head is loud when it tells you that you've failed. Your heart whispers that you trusted, but it all feels the same.

Rest never comes, you sit on your bed hugging your knees to your chest. Your scarf is slipping off, and you let it. The hair underneath is coiled tight into ash gray locs. It's always felt too vulnerable to let them loose. You let the scarf fall, you feel your hair against your bare arms. Your own lie. The one you can't send away. 

Hyunjin has wandered in miserable circles for hours. Dragging his feet around a city that doesn't see him the way you do. The way you did. 

He failed. Not his mother, not the gods—you. He failed you, failed himself. He was going to tell you, he really was, but there was never a right moment. He could never bring himself to corrupt the peace he found with you. Look where that's gotten him. 

It's the middle of the night when his feet carry him right back to the start. To your apartment. He stares, he knows better, you don't want to see him. You don't trust him. 

He steps in anyway. Calls the elevator, rides it up to your floor like muscle memory. Every step echoes, the lights flicker and he ignores it. The symbols on your door are darker now. Fresh. He knows what that means—you've seen a monster. 

He doesn't reach for the knob, he knows better, but still, the door reacts. The sigils traced into the metal hiss, smoke curls as they sink into themselves, pushing itself further and further inside. The salt line along the threshold vibrates, twinkling like a hazard. 

Hyunjin watches, shattered. His hand lifts before he can stop it, hovering inches from the door.

The sigils flare hotter. He pulls back like the metal burned him. Now he understands what he's done—he's lost you. 

You've petrified yourself. Your legs are numb from how you've folded them, the pain burned away hours ago. Your entire body feels the same now. 

The night has swallowed the streets, your space is dark save for the glow of the coals that you've replaced. They're running on the last of themselves. 

The clock changes again, the bell by the window blows in the wind, the candle on your altar shines low. The…candle on your altar. Your head turns slow, eyes fuzzy when they land on the flickering flame. That candle, the one you offered your mother when asking for a sign, went out hours ago. 

The bell rings louder. You undo yourself, feet tingling against the cold marble. You step into the main room, the bell by the closed windows blows. The bell, by the closed window. 

Your feet stick with every slow step. The bell keeps ringing. Not wildly, just enough to scrape along your nerves. The coals along the wall glow brighter with each step you take, like the house itself is holding its breath. The window is still shut. The blinds are drawn tight. The bell tied above the window moulding trembles again, metal arching away from the wall. Your wards don’t do that for nothing.

Your stomach twists. Athena’s hunters don’t knock.

You reach the window slowly, fingers hovering above the cord of the blinds. Your pulse thunders in your ears. For a second you just stand there, staring at the thin strip of darkness between the slats. You imagine it—a stranger standing outside. A blade. A bow. Hyunjin kneeling somewhere far away, begging for his mother's forgiveness while someone else finishes the job he couldn’t. Your hand tightens around the cord. The wards brace with you.

“Fine,” you whisper, voice rough. “Come on then.”

You yank the blinds upward. The slats snap open with a sharp clatter. A shadow moves, not lunging, not attacking. Turning. Hyunjin’s head whips toward the window. For a second neither of you move.

He’s sitting on the fire escape railing, one foot braced against the metal ladder, shoulders tense like he’s been ready to spring all night. His eyes scan your face first—fast, frantic—before flicking past you, checking the room behind you like he expects something else to be there.

Then his gaze settles back on you. 

He freezes. Like a man caught somewhere he knows he doesn’t belong. The streetlight below paints his hair pale silver. His jaw tightens when he realizes you’ve seen him. He doesn’t move toward the window. Doesn’t speak. He just stays there on the fire escape.

“You—” The word dies in your throat. Hyunjin straightens slightly, like he’s making himself smaller on the narrow strip of metal outside.

“I wasn’t coming in,” he says quietly. His voice barely carries through the glass.

Your hand tightens on the edge of the window frame. “Then why are you here?”

His eyes flick down to the street for a second before returning to yours. “Making sure no one else does.”

The bell trembles again, chiming softly between you. Your wards hum under your skin, restless, uncertain. Hyunjin glances at the sigil burned into the frame from the outside and lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“They’re working,” he says. “That’s good.” You stare at him. At the way he’s positioned himself facing the street instead of the window. At the way he hasn’t even tried the latch.

“You’re setting them off.”

“I know.” He doesn’t apologize. He just shifts his weight slightly on the railing, eyes already moving back to the dark street below. 

“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he says after a moment, “just...” Your fingers hover over the window latch. You shouldn't open it, you know that. You don't want him here, he isn't safe. “Just let me watch for the night, I'll be gone as soon as the sun comes up.” he looks back at you, eyes holding yours from the other side of the glass.

“No.” You flip the latch, open the window too fast to be welcoming. “I'm not letting you sit here and plot.”

“I'm not plotting.”

“I don't believe you, why would I believe you.”

Hyunjin's jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. “Because I haven't killed you.” 

You let out a hollow laugh. “Not yet.” 

Hyunjin scoffs, turning back towards the night. “For someone who thinks I’m here to murder you, you opened the window pretty fast.”

Your fingers curl against the frame. “Don’t flatter yourself. If you try anything, the wards will tear you apart before you get two steps in.”

“Good.” His voice is sharp now. “They should.” He shifts off the railing. The fire escape groans softly under his weight as he steps closer to the window. You feel it immediately. The wards along the frame hum low, heat creeping through the frame where your hand rests.

“Stop right there.” Hyunjin does. He’s only a step closer, but it feels like the air between you tightened.

“I’m not crossing the threshold,” he says. “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax.”

“Then stop acting like I’m waiting for the right moment to gut you.”

“You said yourself that was the plan.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, “Yeah. It was.” The words land heavy between you. “You were supposed to be something else,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Something easy to kill.”

“And I guess I disappointed you.”

“You did the opposite.” Your laugh is sharp.

“Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better? You only almost murdered me because I turned out to be charming?” Hyunjin steps closer again before he can stop himself. The sigils along the windowframe flare hot. He freezes instantly. For a moment neither of you breathe. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“I stayed because I didn’t want you to die.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“Don’t you dare pretend that makes this noble.” Your voice cracks, anger spilling through it. “You came into my home. You slept in my bed. You let me—”

The words choke off. Hyunjin’s face twists. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

“You knew the whole time what you were supposed to do.”

“And I didn’t do it.”

“You were going to.”

“Maybe,” he snaps, finally losing the careful edge he’d been holding. “At the beginning, maybe I was.”

The admission hits the air like a dropped blade. Your stomach twists. “Gods, you really are unbelievable,” you whisper.

Hyunjin drags a hand through his hair, pacing one step along the fire escape before stopping again in front of the window. “You think this is easy for me?” he says, voice rising now. “You think I planned any of this?”

“You planned to bring my head to your mother.”

“And instead I spent a year falling in love with you.” Silence slams into the space between you. The wards quiet. Hyunjin looks like he regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. But he doesn’t take them back.

“You didn't.” You say it quickly, as if to break your fall. Hyunjin doesn't fight you. “You don't love me, don't say that again. Don't lie to me again.”

His eyes flash, like this is where he draws the line. “I would never lie about loving you.” 

“No,” you say again, louder now, backing away from the window. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

The wards hum uncertainly along the frame. The coals flicker in their tins. “You don’t get to come back here and say something like that like it fixes anything.”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer. He just watches you. Arms hanging by his sides. “You lied to me for a year,” you continue, voice shaking now. “You let me trust you.”

Your voice breaks. The wards flicker. “I don’t want your love,” you say, even as tears spill down your face. “You don’t get to give that to me now.”

Hyunjin huffs a humorless laugh, “Too late.”

Your eyes stay on his, wide and desperate. “Don't.”

“I already did.” The words hit you like a slap. Like ice to heat.

“Stop it!” you shout, stumbling another step back. “Just stop—” The bell by the window rings sharply. Hyunjin moves, not fast. Not like an attack. Just one step toward the window. The sigils along the frame flare. Smoke curls from the carved lines, bright and angry.

“Hyunjin,” you warn. He doesn’t stop.

The moment his hand touches the frame, the wards strike. Heat flashes across the frame. Hyunjin sucks in a sharp breath as the sigils burn against his palm, light biting into his skin like teeth.

“Don’t—” you gasp. He pushes anyway. The wards scream, Hyunjin grunts like he isn't being lit alive. Salt along the threshold scatters violently, the bell clanging against the glass as the sigils fight him back.

For a second the amulet at his throat flares bright blue. Then it falters. The mirage slips, just for a heartbeat. The air around him distorts, like heat rising from stone. Something dark follows him, pressing against the edges of his shape—the shadow of wings burned to bone, a sharp glow to his silver hair, a flicker of liquid hell in his irises. 

Your breath catches.

Hyunjin grits his teeth and forces himself through. His skin is angry red when his feet hit the marble floor. Burns rise along his arms, neck and hands. He staggers once, but he doesn’t fall.

The sigils along the room flicker wildly, unsure now, their light sputtering. The coals go out in every corner. Leaving you in nothing but his moonlit shadow. Hyunjin straightens slowly. Up close, you can see the strain in his face, the way the amulet at his throat cracks and settles as it tries to rebuild the illusion.

He looks at you like none of that mattered. “I love you,” he says again, voice rough.

You stare at him. At the way the wards dim around the room. At the damage he’s taken just to stand before you and say it again. Your laugh breaks out before you can stop it. It’s sharp. Wrong.

“That’s insane.” Hyunjin’s expression doesn’t change. “You love me?” you repeat, voice shaking now. “You were sent here to cut off my head.” His hands ball into fists at his sides.

“You knew that the entire time,” you continue, taking another step back like the distance might steady you. “You knew who I was. You knew what I was.” Your voice cracks. “And you still let me fall in love with you.” The words land harder than you expect.

For a second, the fire in his eyes shows it's again, resisting. “You don’t get to say that you love me now,” you whisper. “Not after that.”

“I didn’t plan it,” he says quietly.

“That doesn’t make it better!” The wards pulse weakly along the walls, responding to the spike of your voice. The silence that follows throbs, the bell settles. “You should have killed me,” you say suddenly. The room goes still. Hyunjin’s head snaps up.

“No—”You cut him off.

“If that was your mission, you should have done it the first night,” Your cheeks are wet with the words. “Before I trusted you. Before I thought I loved you.”

Your voice breaks again. Hyunjin takes a step toward you. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” you fire back. “It would have been cleaner.”

Hyunjin watches you like you've pointed a knife at his chest—“You just couldn’t finish the job.”—and plunged it. Something in him breaks.

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did?” you shout. Silence stretches for half a breath. Then Hyunjin laughs once, bitter and hollow.

“You really want to know?” Your stomach twists. “Fine.”

He takes another step toward you. The wards hum, but don’t strike again. “I lied to her.”

You blink. “What?”

“I lied to Athena.” He says it louder this time. “The first time she asked about you, I told her I hadn’t found anything. The second time I said you’d already moved cities.”

Hyunjin’s eyes lock on yours. “The third time I told her that I thought you were dead.” The room goes very, very quiet.

“You—”

“She knew I was lying,” he cuts in. “Of course she knew. She’s Athena.” A humorless smile twists his mouth.

“But I kept doing it anyway.” Your chest tightens. “Every time she asked, I bought you another month. Another week. Another day.”

You stare at him. “You could die for that,” you whisper.

Hyunjin shrugs slightly, like the thought barely matters. “Probably.”

Your stomach drops. “Why?” The question comes out before you can stop it. Hyunjin’s expression shifts—not softer, but rawer.

“Because she’s the only person who was ever supposed to love me.” The words hang heavy between you. “And she never did.”

He gestures vaguely toward the door. “But you did.” Your throat tightens. “And I decided that was worth it,” he continues quietly. 

“Worth the lies. Worth the scorn. Worth whatever she does to me when she finally stops asking and starts punishing.” He meets your eyes again.

“I’d rather be hated by the gods,” he says, voice steady now, “than to never be loved by you.” Silence floods the room. The wards around you dim, confused by the storm of emotion twisting through the space.

“You don’t mean that.” Your voice betrays you, doubting itself.

“If you believed that I'd be dead.” He gestures to the coals, the symbols on the walls. “These are strong enough to kill me. I know they are. I know you. You know I love you, and the fact that I'm standing here means that you love me too.”

There's a ghost of rejection. A quick flicker of a fight before you just can't. The coals ash themselves. The bell settles. And Hyunjin takes a step closer. 

“Even if I know that…” you start, swallowing your emotions before they undo you. “we can't pretend that someone else isn't going to try and kill me. Hell, they'll kill both of us.”

He takes another step. “Let them come.” And another, “Let them try.”

Your hands are shaking, reaching just barely towards him. “I don't want this to hurt anymore. I don't want to keep running. I can't, I can't keep hiding, Hyunjin.”

“Hey, hey.” He closes the space, hands meeting your wanting ones. “Nothing's gonna hurt you, you hear me?”

You give into him. Into the pull. He wraps strong arms around you, one hand bracing your head to his chest. You sob, unravel at every exposed seam. 

“Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.” He whispers it in a chant, like if he says it enough it'll bleed into your bones beside the fear. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

You sink down to your knees and he goes with you. When you pull back you see him, beyond the mirage. Silver hair bright as stars and pieces of hell clinging in the places darkness finds him. Eyes as sharp as knives, looking right into yours. 

For a moment you can’t breathe. Not because he’s monstrous. Because he’s still him. Hyunjin watches your face carefully, like he’s bracing for the moment you recoil. You don’t. Your hand lifts instead, trembling, hovering near his cheek before finally touching him. His eyes close.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper. Hyunjin lets out a slow breath.

“You should be.”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “But I’m not.” His hand tightens around yours.

“If the gods come for you,” he says quietly, “they’ll have to go through me first.”

You shake your head weakly. “Hyunjin—”

“I mean it.” His eyes open again, burning with something fierce and steady. “If loving you gets me killed, at least I’ll die knowing someone finally saw me.”

Your breath shudders out of you. The last of the fight drains from your body. You fall forward into him again, and he holds you like he’s always wanted to be. Your sobs quiet slowly against his chest, his hand moving gently over your back, his voice low in your ear until the shaking in your hands finally fades. Minutes pass before either of you move. When you pull away again, the room feels different. Quieter. Softer. You’re the one who stands first. Your hand reaches for his. “Come on,” you say quietly.

He follows you without question. The bedroom feels smaller somehow, more intimate than it ever has before. You sit on the edge of the bed and he settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. For a moment you just look at each other. Then you lean forward. Your lips find his, a flicker of hesitation in your breath before giving in.

Hyunjin makes a thankful sound, his hand lifts gently to your cheek, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. The kiss is soft at first. Careful. A quiet apology pressed between your lips. Your fingers slide over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. The cold of his cracked amulet biting into your palm. Familiar.

His other hand slips into your hair, catching in the locs he’s never touched before. He pauses for a heartbeat, thumb brushing softly along the strands. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Your own amulet warms at the words, something it’s never done. Then—a sound breaks the stillness. Both of you turn. Across the room your altar glows. The candles that had burned themselves into pools of wax breathe again, their flames rising from nothing in thin flickering lines. The vial you filled with tears sits empty now, the glass dry to the bottom. 

She heard you. This is your sign.

Hyunjin watches you, watches the moment sink into your worried bones and bring something lighter to the surface. The thin flames shrink one by one, you watch them as if you’re seeing your mother walk away from the room. As if she’s saying ‘you’re safe here’.

The amulet at your throat warms again, shining an emerald against your skin. The stone at the center of your necklace pulses once—faint, like a heartbeat. “Hey…” he whispers. Hyunjin’s gaze drops, you turn back to him, and when he sees you he freezes. 

The mirage slips. Not fully, just a fracture. Just enough for him to finally see you. The air around you chills, there’s a faint shimmer of scales along your collarbone, shadow of serpents where your hair should be. All dead. Your eyes are what stun him, endless pools of jade and gold. He can’t look away, petrified by the sight of you. All of you.

Then it’s gone. The illusion snaps back into place. Silence floods the space between you. Hyunjin is still holding you. Still close. He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. There’s no fear. No disgust. 

His hand comes up and cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. Then his fingers move slowly through your hair, careful with the strands. The locs slide through his fingers, he’s careful with them. 

You breathe, allow yourself to melt. To be seen. He kisses you again, this time deeper. Not desperate—just certain. Like something broken between you is slowly being mended. The room around you grows warmer, quieter, the night settling gently against the windows.

Your amulets touch, warm against your skin. Your mirage slips away with his, and this time, you both lean into the burn. 

a/n: Oh, I'm nervous! If you read until the end then thank you time one thousand. This is a fic that I actually just wrote for myself. I wrote it for fun and practice but I love it so much that I figured why not and after having the wonderful, sweet, and absolutely brilliant @skzophreniic read it and hype me up a bit I've finally found the courage to post it! Fantasy is not my usual so go easy on me.

❥Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕

❥ Taglist is will be re-done soon!

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[kayleefriedchicken]

Luz ( @pnutbutter-n-j-elyy ) kindly designed this for me and I printed it on rompers for my best friend's rainbow baby (not sure she'd want her baby's photo on Tumblr so I've emoji-ed it, LOL). Look how nice it turned out, and I cannot begin to describe my best friend's happiness when she first received these.

Heading back home now with so many lovely memories from Singapore. 🖤🖤🖤

[kayleefriedchicken]

My childhood friend discovered SKZ while recovering from giving birth to a stillborn. She was a wreck and it was hell watching her go through things from all the way in AU. So I sent some songs to her and got her hooked to a point she started her own playlist and went on to research them. Listening to SKZ was a huge part of her recovery and I'd like to think I played a part in that. Now she just gave birth to her first girl and I cannot wait to go back to SG next week so we can yap about the boys together and I can spoil her rainbow baby (and the older kids, who am I kidding?).

So you guys, where can I find SKZ merch for babies???

[thepinkpanther83]

Secret Santa, Double Trouble

Story Prompt: “Secret Santa” [NSFW]

“Raphael x Fem!Reader x Michelangelo” (Sunset Duo x Fem!Reader)

(Cover Art by ThePinkPanther83)

🧺 Prompt: Secret Santa – This can be anything from a gift swap to a secret admirer. Turtle tots, turtles with tots, or even tots finding out about turtles. Anything. ‘Tis the season of giving, and all ideas are welcome!

CW: Here there be cloaca's! Oral sex male and female receiving, thigh riding, penis in vagina sex, unprotected sex, cum swallowing. Not T-Cest! 🤣

💌 Author’s Note: This fic was written for @thelaundrybitch’s December TMNT Writing Challenge, “Secret Santa”, marking my seventh month participating in her fun prompts. Laundry, thank you, as always, for continuing to challenge and menace us with ideas that refuse to be small. And to everyone who clicked on, read, and stuck around, thank you endlessly. Your support, comments, and enthusiasm mean more to me than I can ever properly put into words. I hope this little holiday chaos made you smile. 💚🐢🎄 ~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

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❤️🎁🧡 Summary: December in the lair means tangled lights, half-finished decorations, and Michelangelo fully embracing holiday chaos. When a Secret Santa gift exchange begins, you start receiving presents that feel a little too thoughtful… and a little too personal. The only problem? You’re pretty sure they’re not coming from just one turtle. What starts as playful mystery slowly turns into something deeper, as unspoken feelings surface beneath the glow of Christmas lights and the hum of the city above. Sometimes, the best surprises come in pairs.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Secret Santa, Double Trouble

The lair, as usual in this time of the year, smelled like pine needles, pizza grease, and piss poor decision-making.

That was your first clue that something had gone very wrong.

You stood on a step stool in the middle of the living space, arms raised, wrestling with a string of Christmas lights that had somehow knotted themselves into a glowing, spiteful mess. Half the bulbs blinked. The other half were aggressively green.

Below you, Michelangelo laid back on his shell, holding up the extension cord like it was some sort of sacred artifact.

“Okay, don’t panic,” he said, far too cheerfully. “This happens every year.”

“This happens every year because you refuse to wrap the lights properly,” you shot back, tugging at a stubborn knot. “I swear, Mikey, these things were straight when I grabbed them.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” he replied gravely. “Christmas lights are sentient. Vengeful. Honestly, this is on Donnie for not inventing self-untangling bulbs yet.”

“Wow,” you said. “Bold words from someone who taped a candy cane with duct tape to the microwave and called it ‘festive.’”

Mikey gasped, sitting up so fast he nearly yanked the cord from the wall. “Excuse you. That was conceptual décor.”

You laughed despite yourself, but this was how it always went. You could be mid-complaint, mid-task, mid-why do I now live with four mutant turtles crisis, and Mikey would say something ridiculous, and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.

He popped up beside you a second later, chin resting on your shoulder as he peered up at the lights. “You know,” he murmured, “if you fall, I will absolutely catch you. Very heroically. Possibly with a fancy spin.”

“You are not spinning with me in your arms,” you said, though you didn’t move away from him.

“Chicken.”

From the couch by your side, Raphael watched the whole exchange in silence, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that fooled no one who really knew him. His eyes tracked the wobble of the stool. The way Mikey hovered too close. The way your balance shifted when you laughed at his jokes.

“Careful,” Raph said at last, his voice low. “Stool’s crooked.”

You glanced over at him. “It is not.”

“It is,” he replied calmly. “Left leg’s shorter.”

Mikey frowned. “How do you even notice that?”

Raph shrugged. “I look.”

Before you could argue, Raph’s hand was on the stool, steadying it with quiet certainty. The movement was small, casual, protective in a way he’d never want to call attention to.

Your breath eased without you realizing it had tightened.

“See?” Mikey said smugly. “Team effort. Christmas miracle.”

Raph shot him a look. “You’re still not in charge of decorations.”

“Temporary setback,” Mikey said. “The night is young.”

You finally freed the lights with a victorious tug, holding them up like a trophy. “Ha! Behold. Order from chaos.”

Mikey grinned at you like you’d just hung the star on top of the tree at Rockefeller Center yourself.

Raph’s mouth twitched… just barely.

Somewhere between the blinking lights, the laughter, and the way both brothers’ attention stayed locked on you, the lair felt warmer than it had a moment ago.

Christmas, it seemed, had officially begun.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a frenzy of holiday prep. Leo orchestrated the tree trimming with military precision, barking orders like a general while Donnie tinkered with a gadget that promised to make the ornaments levitate… spoiler, it short-circuited and sent fake snow exploding across the floor. You and Mikey mopped up the mess, giggling as Raph grumbled from the sidelines, occasionally handing over tools with a grunt that passed for encouragement.

By evening, the lair transformed. Strings of lights draped the concrete walls, casting a soft glow over the mismatched furniture. A lopsided tree stood proud in the corner, topped with a cardboard box star Mikey had fashioned from a pizza box and tinfoil painted with yellow highlighters. The air hummed with the scent of Splinter's eggnog, spiked just enough for you to still handle easily, and the faint twang of holiday tunes piping from Donnie's jury-rigged speakers.

Everyone gathered in the main room, sprawled on cushions and the worn couch. Splinter perched on his favorite armchair, a serene smile creasing his face as his whiskers twitched, he surveyed his sons and their human companion. You squeezed between Mikey and Raph on the couch, feeling the solid warmth of Raph's plastron against your side and Mikey's playful nudge with his elbow.

Donnie cleared his throat, standing at the center like a professor about to unveil a theorem. He held a battered Santa hat in one hand and a stack of folded papers in the other. “Alright, family,” he began, adjusting his glasses with a flourish. “To add some structure to our festivities, and because Mikey begged for it… We're doing a Secret Santa exchange this year.”

Mikey whooped, pumping his fist in the air. “Yes! Secret Santa! This is gonna be epic!” He bounced in his seat, nearly jostling you into Raph's lap.

Raph snorted and crossed his arms tight over his plastron. “Secret Santa? What are we, kids? Pass.”

Donnie ignored him, plowing ahead with the enthusiasm of someone who'd spent the afternoon coding the name-drawing algorithm. “The rules are simple, anonymous draws, thoughtful gifts only, no prank items or last-minute pizza vouchers. Budget's twenty bucks max, sourced from our collective funds, handmade presents are a bonus. No revealing your identity until the big reveal on Christmas Eve night. We'll draw names now and have until then to shop or craft.”

He shook the Santa hat, the papers inside rustling like conspiratorial whispers. One by one, everyone reached in, Splinter first, his draw met with a nod of quiet approval; Leo next, unfazed as ever; then you, pulling a slip that read 'Michelangelo' in Donnie's neat scrawl. Mikey for you? Easy. You already had ideas bubbling, something fun, personal, maybe a custom skateboard decal with a cheeky holiday twist. But you thought it would be nice to get each brother a gift also, either way.

Mikey dove in headfirst, literally, his hand vanishing up to the forearm. He emerged triumphant, clutching his paper like it held the codes to the universe. “Oh man, this is perfect! I'm gonna nail this. Thoughtful, anonymous, mind-blowing. My giftee's gonna freak… in a good way!” His eyes sparkled with manic energy, already plotting. “Do we have glitter? Finger paints? Oh, wait… is edible underwear too much?”

You elbowed him. “Mikey, thoughtful. Not... whatever that is.”

He winked at you. “Thoughtful and fun, sweetheart. You'll see.”

Leo chuckled, folding his draw away. “Just don't turn it into a circus, Mikey.”

“Circus? This is holiday magic!” Mikey countered, launching into an impromptu list, pros and cons of gift-wrapping techniques, debates on whether mistletoe counted as décor or sabotage. He was all in, gears turning visibly behind those bright baby blue eyes, turning a simple exchange into a full-blown operation.

Raph rolled his eyes. “This is stupid. Buncha grown men playin' with names in a hat. I'm out.” He shifted, his thigh pressing firmer against yours as if anchoring himself against the tide of cheer.

Donnie arched a brow, holding out the hat. “Come on, Raph. It's a tradition. Builds camaraderie.”

“Yeah, right. Camaraderie, my ass.” But Raph's gaze flicked to you, then away, jaw tightening. The room waited, the air thick with unspoken challenge. Splinter sipped his eggnog, watching with that knowing glint.

With a huff that echoed off the walls, Raph snatched the hat and yanked out the last paper. He unfolded it slowly, green eyes narrowing at the name. “Fine. Whatever.” He crumpled it in his fist.

Mikey leaned over you to slap Raph's shoulder. “That's the spirit, bro! Secret Santa squad, assemble!”

Raph shoved him away. “Touch me again, and you're drawin' your own name next year.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through you as the group dissolved into chatter. Donnie recapped the rules one more time for good measure, Mikey brainstorming out loud about 'epic reveals,' and Raph... well, Raph just sat there, solid and brooding, his presence a quiet promise amid the holiday chaos.

The next few days passed in a flurry of secretive activity. Mikey had taken to sneaking around the lair with a suspiciously large duffel bag, dodging questions with exaggerated winks and finger guns. Meanwhile, Raph had been unusually quiet, more so than usual, spending long hours in his room, or the dojo, or even just disappearing into the city without a word.

But back in that moment, right after the draw, Mikey's mind had raced ahead like a freight train on holiday express. As Raph crumpled his paper and shoved him away, Mikey flopped back onto the couch, a grin splitting his face wide. Oh. Oh, this is how I win Christmas. He'd pulled your name, just pure luck, or maybe holiday fate, and now he had the perfect shot. Gifts that would make you blush, laugh, maybe even pull him into a mistletoe ambush. No more of Raph's brooding shadow stealing the spotlight. This was his arena, fun, flirty, unforgettable. He'd craft something epic, drop hints like snowflakes, and by reveal time, you'd be seeing stars, orange ones, specifically.

Raph, on the other hand, played it cool in front of everyone. “Yeah, right. Camaraderie, my ass,” he'd muttered earlier, but that was all bluster. The paper in his fist burned with Leo's name… fearless leader, eternal pain in his ass. Thoughtful gift? For Leo? He'd grab some fancy sword polish or a meditation scroll, or whatever. But as the chatter died down and the group scattered, Raph lingered on the couch, your warmth still ghosting his side. He didn't care. Not about some dumb exchange. Not about Mikey turning it into a clown show. Except... he did. The way your eyes lit up, pulling your draw, the laugh that bubbled out when Mikey hyped his plans, it twisted something in his gut. Alone later that night, slamming through a heavy bag in the dojo until his knuckles ached, Raph admitted it to the empty air. He cared. Too damn much. And if Mikey was gunning for you with whatever goofy surprise he cooked up, Raph wasn't about to sit back. Leo's gift was mandatory. But you? You'd get something from him too… anonymous, under the radar. Something real. Something that said what his words never could. He'd hit the city, find materials, and make it himself. No way was he letting his baby brother outshine him.

Neither brother clocked the overlap, of course. Mikey holed up in the kitchen, sketching wild ideas on napkins, scented candles shaped like shells, a playlist of cheesy carols mixed with surf rock, convinced he had the inside track. Raph vanished into shadowed alleys up top, scavenging leather scraps and a small carving tool from a forgotten junk shop, his mind fixed on crafting without a trace leading back. Splinter noticed the tension, a subtle arch of his brow over tea, but said nothing. Leo drilled katas with extra focus, Donnie buried himself in lab tweaks. You navigated the lair's sudden cloak-and-dagger vibe, wrapping Mikey's gift in secret, a glow-in-the-dark skate grip etched with turtle power symbols, while wondering at the hush that followed Raph like a storm cloud.

It started innocently enough, two days before Christmas Eve. You returned from a quick supply run topside, arms laden with tinsel and a fresh stack of holiday DVDs, to find a small package waiting on your bed. No tag, no note, just red wrapping paper tied with a plain white string, tucked against your pillow as if it belonged there. Your heart skipped a beat, curiosity buzzing as you shut your door.

You peeled back the paper carefully, revealing a small wooden box. Inside was a handmade bracelet. It was simple, sturdy leather with a single charm, a tiny, intricately carved turtle shell. The edges were rough-hewn, like it'd been shaped by callused hands in a rush of focus, the leather worn soft from what felt like real use. It fit perfectly when you slipped it on, the weight grounding, the shell charm cool against your wrist. A Secret Santa drop? Early? You glanced around the empty room, half-expecting Mikey to pop out with jazz hands, but nothing. Just the faint scent of oil and city grit clinging to the box, and a warmth that settled deep inside you, untraceable. You smiled, tracing the carving with your thumb, unaware of the green-eyed shadow slipping away, mission accomplished… for now.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of something sliding under your door. A small bundle, a bright orange envelope with little doodles of Christmas trees and skateboards along the edges, and attached to it by a thin ribbon, a quirky keychain. The charm dangled playfully, a miniature skateboard etched with a grinning turtle face, painted in bold orange and green, the kind of handmade trinket that screamed Mikey's chaotic creativity. You scooped it up, fingers brushing the smooth edges, a giggle escaping as you imagined him hunched over it late at night, tongue poking out in concentration.

When you opened the envelope, the handwriting was unmistakably Mikey's, all loopy, energetic, and punctuated with little hearts.

"Yo, Angelcakes! Secret Santa’s got NOTHIN’ on me. Meet me at the skate ramp after breakfast. Wear something cozy. And bring that sweet smile of yours. ;) Your FAVORITE Turtle."

You could practically hear his voice as you read it, the playful lilt, the way he’d wink if he were standing there. The bracelet from last night still sat snug on your wrist, the shell charm catching the dim light. Two gifts? Wait… was Mikey your Secret Santa? But then who left the bracelet?  

Down in the kitchen, Mikey was already in full holiday chaos mode, flipping pancakes shaped like snowmen while singing Jingle Bell Rock off-key. He spun when you walked in, spatula in hand. "Mornin’, sunshine! You get my note?" His grin was wide, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before you could answer, Raph’s voice cut in from the doorway, gruff and dry. "Yeah, we all got your note. Loud and clear." He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place, but his gaze flicked to your wrist for half a second, then away.

Mikey gasped, pointing the spatula at Raph. "You peeked?! Bro, that’s against the rules!"

Raph rolled his eyes. "Didn’t peek. Just heard you scribblin’ like a maniac at 3 AM."

Mikey shook his head in disappointment, dramatically. "My artistic process is sacred, Raph."

You bit back a laugh, watching them bicker, the bracelet warm against your skin.

Raph pushed off the doorframe, snagging a pancake off the stack. "Whatever. Just don’t blow up the lair with whatever ‘surprise’ you got planned." He took a bite, chewed, then paused. "...These are actually decent."  

Mikey beamed. "A Christmas miracle!"

The keychain now dangled from your fingers, its tiny skateboard wheels glinting under the kitchen lights. Mikey’s note burned in your pocket, a promise of whatever wild adventure he had brewing at the skate ramp. But the bracelet... it didn’t match his vibe. Too rugged, too deliberate. Your mind spun with possibilities as you grabbed a plate, piling on a snowman pancake that Mikey slid your way with a flourish.

“Dig in, beautiful. Fuel for the fun ahead!” Mikey said, his voice dripping with that infectious energy. He leaned on the counter, watching you take the first bite, his blue eyes locked on your face like he was gauging every chew for approval.

Raph snorted from his spot at the table, demolishing his stolen pancake in two bites. “Fun. Right. Just don’t drag her into one of your wipeout disasters, Mikey.” His tone was gruff, but there was an edge to it, like he was staking some invisible claim. His gaze dipped to the bracelet again, brief, sharp, before he shoved a fork into another flapjack.

The morning blurred into holiday prep after that. Donnie enlisting your help to debug twinkling lights that kept shorting out, Leo overseeing the tree’s final ornaments with military precision, and Splinter meditating through the noise with a serene expression. Mikey vanished mid-morning, only to reappear with armfuls of garland, winking at you every time your paths crossed. Raph stuck to the shadows, hauling boxes of decorations without a word, his muscles flexing under the strain as he knocked Mikey’s makeshift star off the tree with a sneer and wedged a proper star on the tree top.

Hours later, as the lair settled into a lazy afternoon lull, you wandered into the common area. The TV hummed with some old Christmas special, forgotten popcorn scattered on the couch. There, on the coffee table amid the clutter, sat another package, small, wrapped in festive paper dotted with snowflakes, your name scrawled across the top in bold, looping letters that screamed Mikey’s handiwork. No envelope this time, just the gift, waiting like it had been placed there with purpose.

You picked it up, the paper crinkling softly, and glanced around. Mikey lounged on the arm of the couch, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes snapped up the second your fingers touched the wrapper. He straightened, barely containing the bounce in his posture, like a puppy eyeing a treat.

“What’s this?” you asked, turning it over. The weight felt light, teasing, something fun, no doubt.

Mikey shrugged, all casual innocence, but his grin betrayed him. “Dunno, sunshine. Secret Santa magic? Open it! C’mon, I’m dyin’ here.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, blue eyes wide and gleaming with barely suppressed excitement.

You tore into the paper, revealing a soft bundle, a pair of fuzzy socks, striped in orange and green, with little turtle faces peeking from the cuffs. A laugh bubbled out of you as you held them up, the fabric plush against your palms.

“Whoa, these are adorable! Wonder who these could be from...” You trailed off, shooting Mikey a knowing look.

He threw his hands up, feigning shock. “No idea! But man, that Secret Santa’s got style. Total artist. Bet it’s someone who knows you inside and out… like, knows you’d rock these while zooming down the ramp later.” His voice pitched higher, the act over the top. “Wow, just wow. This person must really get you. Like, favorite turtle levels of get you.”

From the corner, where he’d been sharpening his sais with methodical scrapes, Raph’s head lifted. His green eyes narrowed, locking onto the socks, then flicking to Mikey’s beaming face. His scowl deepened, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he filed it away, the eager watch, the hammed-up surprise, the way Mikey’s gaze lingered on you like he’d already won. Raph’s grip tightened on the whetstone, the scrape turning sharper. He didn’t say a word, just watched, brooding silence coiling like a spring. If Mikey thought he was the only one playing this game, he had another think coming.

You slipped the socks into your pocket, still chuckling. “Well, whoever it is, they’re on a roll. First the bracelet, then the keychain, now this? Christmas is getting mysterious.” The words hung in the air, innocent to you, but Mikey’s grin faltered for a split second… bracelet? He recovered fast, launching into a rant about how epic the reveal party would be, but Raph’s stare burned from the shadows, plotting his next move in the quiet war neither of you knew was brewing.

The tension simmered under the surface like a pot left too long on the stove. Mikey’s gifts were bright, loud, impossible to ignore, just like him. The socks, the keychain, the way he’d “accidentally” bump into you with mistletoe held just above your heads, grinning like a madman.

Raph, on the other hand, was a shadow. His gifts appeared like ghosts, small, quiet, always when you least expected them. A thermos of hot cocoa left by your bedside after a late-night training session with Leo, still steaming. A worn copy of your favorite book from your childhood, tucked into your bag with a dog-eared page marking your favorite passage from when you were a kid. No notes, no fanfare. Just... there.

Mikey noticed, of course.

“Dude,” he stage-whispered to Raph one evening, elbow deep in wrapping paper, “I see what you’re doing, bro, but you’ve got nothin’ on me. You gotta commit. Where’s the flair? The drama? The romance?”

Raph didn’t even look up from sharpening his sai. “Ain’t about flair. It’s about meaning.”

Mikey tisked. “Meaning?! Bro, meaning is built on flair! You can’t just-”

“Watch me.”

And so the battle raged on.

A few days blurred by in a whirlwind of holiday frenzy, the lair decked out in twinkling lights that Donnie swore were “energy-efficient,” Leo’s impromptu carol sing-alongs that devolved into laughter, and Splinter’s quiet stories by the fire pit that wrapped everyone in a blanket of nostalgia. Mikey’s antics kept the energy high; he rigged a whoopee cushion under Raph’s weight bench, earning a chase through the tunnels that ended in breathless giggles. But beneath the chaos, those secret deliveries kept coming, each one pulling at the threads of curiosity in your chest.

It was late one evening, after a group movie night where Mikey hogged the popcorn and Raph sat just close enough that his arm brushed yours during the scary parts, that you retreated to your room. The day had been long, helping Mikey test out holiday-themed skate tricks that mostly ended in spectacular falls, and exhaustion tugged at your limbs. You kicked off your shoes, flopping onto the bed with a sigh, only to notice a package propped against the wall near your door. It hadn’t been there when you’d left that morning.

Simple wrapping, brown paper, tied with plain twine, no frills or doodles. Your name was etched on the front in careful block letters, the kind of handwriting that looked deliberate, unhurried. You sat up, heart skipping a beat as you untied the string. The paper unfolded to reveal a folded bundle of soft fabric, deep red wool, knit with even stitches that spoke of hours spent in focus. A sweater, sized just right for you, the neckline wide enough to slip over your shoulders without snagging, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands on chilly nights. You ran your fingers over it, feeling the warmth already seeping through, and lifted it to your face. It smelled faintly of leather and smoke, like the workshop where the guys tinkered away their frustrations.

This wasn’t flashy. No jokes, no orange and green colors screaming for attention. But it knew you, the way you shivered in the lair’s drafty corners, how you’d mentioned once, offhand, craving something cozy to burrow into during winter late nights. The fit would hug your curves just so, the red a bold echo of Raph’s bandana, protective and fierce. You slipped it on, the wool settling against your skin like an embrace, soft and enveloping. It hit deeper than the other gifts, stirring something warm and aching in your chest, a quiet intimacy that made your breath stall momentarily.

You stood, smoothing it down, and caught your reflection in the small mirror. It looked right, like it belonged. The bracelet’s rugged charm, the cocoa’s thoughtful heat, the book’s personal touch... and now this. Your pulse quickened, fingers tracing the knit pattern, a subtle shell motif along the hem, hidden unless you looked closely. Raph? The thought sent a flush up your neck, imagining his large hands working the needles, brows furrowed in concentration, all that raw strength turned to something so tender.

Down the hall, muffled voices drifted, Mikey’s laughter cutting through Raph’s low grumble. You smiled to yourself, pulling the sweater tighter, the mystery wrapping around you as snugly as the gift itself. Christmas Eve loomed, and with it, the reveal. Whatever came next, this one lingered, a silent promise etched in every stitch.

You stood there for a long moment, the sweater's warmth seeping into your skin, chasing away the chill of the lair's stone walls. But as you traced the subtle shell pattern along the hem, a puzzle piece clicked into place. The gifts... they didn't align. Mikey's were explosions of color and chaos, the keychain dangling with its goofy pizza charm, the socks patterned with cartoon turtles doing holiday flips, each one arriving with a flourish, like a small surprise party you couldn't miss. Bright, bold, impossible to forget.

The mystery gifts, though? They whispered. The bracelet's rough-hewn wood and leather, sturdy against your wrist. The thermos, appearing after you'd complained about the cold, its lid etched with faint initials that looked like yours. The book, slipped in silently, pages worn from what felt like repeated reads. And now this sweater, knit with a precision that screamed quiet nights alone, needles clicking in rhythm with thoughts.

The timing, too, never overlapping, always spaced just right, like two different hands at work. Mikey's dropped during the day, amid laughter and spills in the kitchen. These others materialized in the quiet hours, when the lair hushed and shadows stretched long. Your heart raced as the realization settled. This wasn't one Secret Santa. Rules were bending, maybe shattering. Donnie's whole anonymity schtick? Only one Secret Santa per person. Someone was ignoring it, going rogue for you. The thought sent a thrill through you, mixed with a flutter of nerves. Who would risk that? And why? Your instincts screamed, Raph.

You folded the sweater carefully, tucking it away, but the questions buzzed like holiday lights flickering to life. Down the hall, the brothers' voices rose again, Mikey's animated chatter about a "surprise midnight snack run," Raph's gruff retort cutting through. You smiled, slipping out to join them, the mystery pulling you closer to the fire.

The next morning dawned with Mikey's energy cranked to eleven. He burst into the common area, arms loaded with a suspiciously wrapped bundle that jingled like wind chimes in a storm. "Rise and shine, bros! Or should I say, rise and unwrap?" He thrust the package at you with a wink, his blue eyes sparkling under the fringe of his mask. Inside, a set of handmade ornaments, each painted with inside jokes from your adventures, one showing you and him mid-skate crash, another with tiny figures tangled in Christmas lights, just like that first tangled mess. "For the tree," he declared, helping you hang them with exaggerated flair, his shell brushing against you as he reached high. "See? Personal touches. Makes the whole lair feel like our holiday spot."

His attention ramped up from there, stealing glances at you during breakfast, draping an arm around your shoulders while critiquing Leo's pancake stack, even challenging you to a mistletoe dodge game that ended with him "accidentally" pinning you against the wall, grinning down with that infectious charm. "Oops. Guess I win this round." Every move screamed effort, playful but pointed, drawing you into his orbit like a comet's tail.

Raph watched from his corner, jaw set, green eyes narrowing as Mikey preened. He didn't say a word about the ornaments, but when you shivered later during a group game of charades, Splinter chuckling at Donnie's dramatic falls, Raph was there. A blanket materialized over your lap, his callused hand steadying it without a glance your way. "Drafty in here," he muttered, voice low and rough, but his presence loomed solid, a wall against the chill. During afternoon training, he paired with you unasked, correcting your stance with firm grips on your hips, his breath warm against your ear. "Like that. Keeps ya balanced." No grand gestures, just him, close, watchful, his bulk a quiet shield that made your pulse stutter.

The air between the brothers thickened, whispered barbs hanging like fog. Mikey shot Raph sidelong looks during dinner, his foot nudging yours under the table while boasting about his latest "epic gift idea." Raph's fork scraped his plate harder than necessary, his knee brushing yours in response, a subtle claim, possessive in its restraint. They didn't clash outright, not with the lair buzzing around them, but the tension hummed, electric and heavy, like the quiet before a storm.

You felt it all, caught in the crossfire of their rivalry. Wanted, god, so wanted, their attentions weaving around you like vines, pulling tight. Mikey's light, teasing pull made you laugh, eased the holiday whirl. Raph's steady anchor grounded you, stirred something deeper, raw. Conflicted? Absolutely. Each glance from Mikey sparked butterflies; each quiet act from Raph ignited a slow burn. As Christmas Eve crept closer, the reveal party loomed, and you wondered if the secrets would unravel or tangle you further in their web.

The night before Christmas Eve, the lair was alive with last-minute preparations. Leo had somehow convinced everyone to participate in a "family talent show," which mostly involved Donnie demonstrating his latest invention (a "holiday hologram projector" that kept glitching into terrifying demonic faces) and Splinter performing an ancient ninja dance that left everyone in awe. Mikey, of course, had planned something spectacular, a one-turtle acrobatic routine set to a remix of Carol of the Bells that he swore would "blow your mind, babe."

Raph, however, was missing.

You noticed it halfway through Donnie’s malfunctioning hologram display, scanning the room for his familiar scowl. He wasn’t lurking in the shadows, arms crossed, rolling his eyes at Mikey’s antics. He wasn’t even brooding in the corner, sharpening his sais like usual. The absence prickled at you, an itch you couldn’t ignore.

Mikey noticed your wandering attention and sidled up, still catching his breath from his backflip finale. "Looking for someone?" he teased, nudging your shoulder.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just wondering where Raph disappeared to."

Mikey’s grin faltered. "Aw, don’t worry, Angelcakes. Big bro’s probably off doing something super mysterious." He wiggled his fingers dramatically. "Or maybe he’s just scared of my unstoppable holiday spirit."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Still, the curiosity nagged at you.

Later, when the festivities wound down and the others drifted off to bed, you found yourself wandering the tunnels, the red sweater you were reasonably sure Raph had gifted you wrapped snugly around you. The lair was quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of Donnie’s machines and the occasional drip of water from the pipes.

Then you heard it.

A low, rhythmic thud from the dojo.

You followed the sound, your footsteps silent against the stone. Peeking through the half-open door, you saw him.

Raph.

Shirtless, gearless, sweat glistening on his plastron, fists wrapped in tape as he pounded into a heavy bag with controlled, brutal strikes. His breathing was steady, his expression focused, but there was something else there, too.

Pain. Or frustration. Maybe both, etched into the lines of his face, deeper than the usual scowl. His muscles flexed with each punch, green skin taut over ridges of power, the air thick with the scent of sweat and exertion. You hesitated in the doorway, the sweater's wool soft against your arms, but something pulled you forward. The need to bridge that gap, to touch whatever storm brewed inside him.

You pushed the door open wider, the creak announcing you. Raph's head snapped up, fists pausing mid-swing. His eyes locked on yours, dark, intense, flickering with surprise that softened into something warmer, unguarded when they took you in from head to toe and noticed you in the red sweater. He straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his taped hand, chest heaving.

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice rumbled low, gravelly from the effort. He didn't move to cover up or grab a towel, just stood there, under the dim dojo lights.

You shook your head, stepping closer, the cool floor grounding you. "Noticed you bailed on the show. Everything okay?"

He grunted, turning back to the bag but not hitting it, fingers flexing against the leather. "Needed to clear my head. Mikey's circus was givin' me a headache." He was quiet for a moment, then quieter, almost reluctant he said, "And... other stuff."

The air between you thickened, charged like the moments before a fight. You closed the distance, your hand brushing his arm, solid, warm, slick with sweat. He tensed but didn't move, his gaze dropping to your touch, then lifting to meet your eyes. Up close, you could see the flecks of gold in the green, the way his breathing deepened.

"This sweater," you said softly, tugging at the collar. "It's... It's perfect. Feels like you made it for me." Heart pounding, you waited, the words hanging.

Raph's jaw worked, a muscle ticking. He reached out, his rough fingers grazing your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His hand cupped your face, tilting it up, and he leaned in, slow, deliberate, his plastron brushing your chest. The heat of him enveloped you, his scent earthy and masculine, stirring something deep in your body.

Your lips parted, breath mingling with his, the world narrowing to the space between you. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable in a way that twisted your gut. "I..." he started, voice a husky whisper, forehead nearly touching yours. "You drive me crazy, y'know that? All this holiday crap, and all I can think about is…"

He stopped, eyes squeezing shut for a second, then pulled back just enough to break the spell. His hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. "Forget it. It's nothin'. Just... get some rest. Big day tomorrow." He turned away, grabbing a towel to wipe down, shoulders rigid, the almost-confession lingering like smoke.

You stood there, lips tingling from the near-miss, a flush creeping up your neck. The rejection stung, but beneath it, the spark of what he'd almost said burned bright. You nodded, slipping out without another word, the dojo door clicking shut behind you. Sleep came fitfully, dreams tangled with green eyes and unspoken promises.

The next day dawned crisp and buzzing, Christmas Eve sunlight filtering through the lair's grates like golden confetti through the tunnels. The common area thrummed with final prep, Leo barking orders for the feast, Donnie troubleshooting his hologram fix, Splinter meditating in serene ignorance. Mikey, ever the whirlwind, cornered you by the kitchen counter, a sprig of mistletoe dangling from his finger like a dare.

"C'mon, babe," he grinned, blue eyes twinkling as he backed you against the fridge, the toe of his boot nudging yours. "One little peck for luck? Secret Santa's got nothin' on this tradition." His voice dropped playful, but laced with intent, hand hovering near your waist. The lair's chatter faded, his warmth pressing close, hinting at the reveal he'd been building toward. "Or hey, maybe I'll spill who your Secret Santa is right now…"

A shadow fell over you both. Raph loomed in the doorway, arms crossed, glare sharp as a sai. "Mikey. Back off. We got work to do." His tone brooked no argument, eyes flicking to you, possessive, stormy, before locking on his brother.

Mikey straightened, grin slipping into a sneer, but the challenge sparked in his eyes. "Whoa, easy, Raphie. Just holiday cheer. Right, Angel?" He shot you a wink, but the air crackled, the brothers exchanging a loaded glance, unspoken barbs flying, rivalry coiling tight.

You caught it all, the undercurrent slamming into place like a puzzle locking. The gifts, the attentions, the way they orbited you without colliding… until now. Mikey's flirtation wasn't just play; Raph's interventions weren't just brotherly. They were competing. For you. The realization hit like a warm wave, flushing your skin, stirring a conflicted thrill low in your belly. Wanted by both, pulled between fire and flash, as the Eve's festivities ramped up around you.

The tension between the brothers was now a living thing, crackling in the air like static before a storm. Mikey, ever the showman, had taken to "accidentally" brushing against you at every opportunity, his fingers lingering when he passed you a mug of hot cocoa, his shoulder bumping yours during movie night, his laughter warm and close in your ear. Each touch was a challenge, a dare to Raph, who watched with a simmering intensity.

Raph, on the other hand, had shifted tactics. No more lurking. Now, he inserted himself, his presence a wall of heat at your back when Mikey got too close, his low growl of "Move, Mikey," when his brother tried to slide into the seat beside you. His gifts had grown bolder, too, a hand-carved wooden hairpin left on your pillow, the edges smoothed to perfection, the design unmistakably his. A note tucked into your jacket pocket, Stay warm. Stay safe. Simple, direct, so Raph.

Christmas Eve arrived in a flurry of snowflakes drifting through the sewer tunnel grates, the lair was transformed into a twinkling wonderland of lights and laughter. The family gathered for the feast, Splinter at the head of the table, Donnie’s holograms finally working (mostly), Leo leading a toast to family and brotherhood.

His voice carried steady and sincere, the clink of mugs echoing through the room as everyone raised their drinks, hot cider for you, something stronger for the brothers. The warmth of the feast settled down in your bones, plates piled high with Donnie's experimental holiday pizza (topped with cranberry sauce and mozzarella that somehow worked) and Mikey's chaotic vanilla cookie assortment. Laughter bubbled up, Splinter's eyes crinkling with quiet pride, but beneath the cheer, that electric tension hummed, pulling your gaze between the two brothers at the table.

Mikey sat to your left, his knee brushing yours under the tablecloth, a deliberate press that sent a spark up your thigh. He caught your eye, flashing that trademark grin, his knuckles drumming a playful rhythm on the wood. Raph, on your right, mirrored the contact but with more weight, his arm a solid barrier, his thigh firmly against yours, grounding and unyielding. Every shift of his body radiated heat, his arm occasionally grazing yours as he reached for seconds.

As the meal wound down, Leo cleared his throat, standing with a flourish. "Alright, fellas. Time for the main event, Secret Santa reveals. No more hiding in the shadows." He nodded to the stack of wrapped gifts piled in the center, each one tagged anonymously. The room buzzed with anticipation, Donnie fiddling with a timer on his tablet to keep things orderly.

Your heart kicked up, the pieces you'd been collecting all week slotting into place. The colorful chaos from Mikey, the mistletoe bomb that exploded confetti in your hair, the playlist of cheesy love songs slipped into your phone. The quiet anchors from Raph, the thermos of spiked eggnog left steaming on your nightstand, the carved hairpin that fit your hair like it was measured by his hands. Two Santas, two styles, two brothers circling you like predators in a shared territory.

The reveals started tame, Donnie unveiling a gadget blueprint from Leo, Splinter receiving a rare tea blend from Donnie. Then it was Mikey's turn to hand out his gift. But when the brightly wrapped package with exploding glitter landed in your lap, the one you'd suspected was his all along, the room's energy shifted. You unwrapped it slowly, revealing a custom sketchpad filled with your likeness in fantastical poses, each page a burst of color and affection.

"Whoa, Mikey," Leo chuckled, but your eyes flicked to Raph, whose jaw tightened imperceptibly.

Next came the simpler package, slid across the table by a large hand. Inside, a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with a subtle emblem, pages already marked with quotes that mirrored your late-night talks. His gaze met yours briefly, intense and flickering, before dropping.

Enough. The tension coiled too tight, demanding release. You set the journal down, standing with a smile that masked the flutter in your chest. "Okay, guys. Cards on the table." The room quieted, all eyes on you. Mikey leaned forward, intrigued; Raph's posture stiffened, ready for impact.

"I've got two Secret Santas here," you said, playful but direct, holding up the gifts like evidence. "One's all fireworks and fun, glitter bombs and doodles that make me blush. The other's... steady. Things that fit just right, like they see me, really see me." You paused for a moment, letting it sink in, your voice dropping a notch. "So, which one of you has been breaking the rules?"

Mikey's laugh rang out, bright and unashamed. He threw his hands up, orange mask crinkling with his grin. "Nahh, Angel! Pulled your name fair and square." He winked, leaning back with zero regret, his eyes dancing over you like he'd won the game already.

Raph shifted, his chair scraping the floor. He didn't look at Mikey, just you, those green eyes stormy, reluctant words grinding out. "Yeah. It’s me." A huff escaped him, fist clenching on the table. "Didn't pull your name. Was s'posed to just be Leo. But... couldn't just watch Mikey hog all the shots. You deserve better than his clown show."

The confirmation hung heavy, and there it was, the glares. Mikey turned to Raph, eyes sharpening into something fiercer, a flash of betrayal in his blue eyes. "Hog? Bro, I'm givin' her the fun she needs. Not your brooding stare-downs." Raph's response was a low snarl, plastron puffing slightly, the air between them thickening with years of rivalry now laced with this new, personal edge. They were competing for you, outright, no more shadows.

You held up a hand, stepping between their stares, your pulse racing with a mix of exasperation and that forbidden thrill. "Hey. Stop." Your voice cut through, firm but soft. "I never asked you to compete. Not like this. Gifts, touches, all of it... I like you both. For different reasons. But turning it into a fight? That's not the holiday spirit I signed up for."

The words landed, diffusing the immediate spark. Mikey deflated, rubbing his neck with a sheepish grin. "Fair point, babe. But... can ya blame a guy for tryin'?" Raph just grunted, looking away.

Leo cleared his throat awkwardly, steering everyone back to the gifts, but the dynamic had shifted. No more secrets, just raw truths.

The rest of the evening passed in a tense but controlled détente. Mikey kept his playful touches light, more for your comfort rather than to avoid provoking Raph, and Raph didn’t growl again, but his presence at your side didn’t waver, a silent claim etched into the space between you. By the time the last gift was unwrapped and Splinter had retired with a warning glance at his sons, the lair hummed with a quiet, restless energy.

Then, as you moved to help clear the table, Mikey caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "Hey, Angel," he murmured, pulling you toward the doorway leading to the tunnels, his blue eyes lit with mischief. "Gotta show ya somethin’. Just you. No big bro interruptions." His thumb traced a teasing circle on your skin, his grin lopsided. "Trust me. It's worth it."

Raph’s shadow fell over you both before you could answer. He stepped in close, his plastron brushing your back, a solid, possessive heat at your spine. His voice rumbled low, barely above a growl. "She ain’t goin’ anywhere alone with you, Mikey."

Mikey’s grin fell away, his fingers twining with yours in open challenge. "That’s for her to decide, bro."

The air crackled, the brothers’ stares locked in a battle older than you. Your pulse hammered, torn between Mikey’s playful pull and Raph’s grounding weight. The choice loomed, but not here, not like this, not with an audience nearby.

You squeezed Mikey’s hand once, then gently pulled free, stepping back to press against Raph’s chest whose arm curled instinctively around your waist. "Later," you told Mikey softly. "Tonight’s about family." His frown faltered for a split second before bouncing back with a forced smile, but the glint in his eyes said this wasn’t over. Raph’s grip tightened, his chin came down to rest atop your head.

"I ain’t backin’ down, Raph. Just sayin’." Mikey said then they were back to glaring daggers at each other again.

Raph’s palm flattening against your stomach, pulling you flush against him in a possessive claim. The heat of his body seeped through your shirt, his breath hot against your hair, a low rumble vibrating from his chest that you felt more than heard. Mikey’s eyes narrowed, his fingers flexing as if itching to yank you back, the playful spark in his gaze now gone, hardening into something sharper, more primal. The lair’s festive glow seemed to dim, the string lights casting long shadows that mirrored the tension coiling between them.

Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant hum of pipes doing their jobs. Mikey’s shoulders slumped a fraction, vulnerability cracking through his bravado, his blue eyes flicking from you to Raph, disgruntled hurt flashing before he masked it with a scoff. Raph didn’t budge, his grip unyielding, but you caught the subtle tremor in his hand, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding back a storm. They were brothers, bound by blood and battles, but this? This was territory neither had mapped, and it left them raw, exposed in the aftermath of their confessions.

You twisted slightly in Raph’s hold, enough to face them both, your hands coming up to rest on their arms, one on Mikey’s wrist, still warm from where he’d held yours, the other on Raph’s forearm, solid as stone. “Enough,” you said, voice steady despite the wild thump of your heart. The words hung there, drawing their stares to you, Mikey’s curious and Raph’s guarded. “I liked both your gifts. The wild ones that made me laugh, the ones that felt like a party just for me. And the quiet ones, the ones that wrapped around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. They’re both perfect because they’re from the two of you.”

Mikey tilted his head, a slow blink processing your words, while Raph’s brow furrowed deeper, resistance etched in every line of his face. You pressed on, squeezing their arms gently. “I like both of you. Mikey, your energy, the way you light up a room and make everything feel alive. Raph, your strength, how you make me feel safe, seen in ways words don’t touch. But no one’s asked what I want. You’ve been so busy competing over me like I’m a prize that you didn’t stop to think that maybe… I want you both. Together. No more competing, no more nasty glares. Just... us.”

Mikey connected the dots first, his eyes widening as realization dawned, a confused smile creeping onto his face. “Wait... like, sharing? Me and Raph? With you?” He glanced at his brother, testing the waters, the disgruntlement easing into curious possibility. No jealousy flared; instead, his thumb brushed your skin again, lighter now, more exploratory.

Raph was still resistant, his body tensing slightly, a low grumpy growl building in his throat. “That ain’t... We don’t...” But his words faltered as he met your eyes, then Mikey’s, the vulnerability you’d glimpsed earlier surfacing fully. His hand on your stomach softened, fingers splaying wider, not as possessive. The snarl faded, replaced by a reluctant nod, his green eyes darkening with a mix of hesitation and heat. “If that’s what you want... fine. But I’m only sharin’ if it means avoiding hurtin’ you.”

The shift rippled through them, rivalry shifting into something new. Mikey stepped closer, his hand finding your hip, sandwiching you between their warmth. Raph’s chin dipped, his lips brushing your temple in a rare, tender press.

The contact lingered, warm and grounding, sending a shiver down your spine as Mikey’s hand settled on your hip, his fingers tracing idle patterns that sparked heat low in your belly. Sandwiched between them, their bodies pressed close, Raph’s solid chest at your back, Mikey’s leaner frame in front, you felt the dual rhythm of their breaths syncing with yours, the air thick with the scent of pine from the decorations and the faint, musky edge of their arousal mingling.

Mikey broke the quiet first, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, eyes locked on yours with that familiar mischief now edged with sincerity. “Okay, so... if we’re doin’ this, we gotta talk rules. No hoggin’, no sneakin’ off without the other knowin’. And if somethin’ feels off, we say it straight up. I ain’t losin’ my bro over this, but I sure as hell ain’t backin’ down from makin’ you feel good either.” His free hand lifted to cup your cheek, thumb grazing your lower lip.

Raph shifted behind you, his arm tightening just enough to remind you of his presence, the vibration of his agreement rumbling against your skin. “Yeah. Boundaries. I touch you, he touches you, fine. But no pushin’ too far without checkin’ in. And feelings...” He paused, the word rough in his throat, his hand sliding up to rest over your heart, feeling its rapid beat. “I care about you. More than I let on. This rivalry? It came from that fear of losin’ you to him. But if sharin’ means keepin’ you happy, without the hurt... I’m in.” His voice cracked slightly on the admission, vulnerability raw as he nuzzled your hair, the gesture intimate, his breath fanning your ear.

You nodded, heart swelling at their honesty, your hands covering theirs where they touched you, one squeezing Mikey’s at your hip, the other pressing Raph’s to your chest. “I feel the same. You both make me feel wanted, alive in ways I didn’t expect. Mikey, your playfulness brightens my day; Raph, your protectiveness makes me feel cherished. Jealousy might creep in, but we talk it out. No secrets, no fights. And physically... we take it slow, explore what works for all of us.” The words flowed easier than you thought, the heat building as Mikey’s fingers explored more, brushing the curve of your waist, while Raph’s hand ventured south, palm warm against your abdomen, both testing the new waters with careful intent.

Mikey’s smile returned, softer but no less heated, as he leaned in to steal a quick peck on your lips, light and teasing. “Deal. Now, boundaries set, let’s see how this plays out.” Raph grunted in agreement, his own lips finding the nape of your neck for a brief, firm kiss that made your knees weaken, his teeth grazing just enough to hint at the passion simmering beneath.

The tension eased into a charged calm, their touches withdrawing reluctantly as you stepped away, the connection lingering like an invisible thread. “C’mon,” you said, voice breathy, linking arms with both of them, Mikey on one side, Raph on the other. “Secret Santa’s not over. Let’s get back before Leo sends a search party.”

They exchanged a look over your head, not a glare this time but a nod of understanding, the rivalry tempered into alliance. Mikey chuckled, squeezing your arm. “Lead the way, Angel. But after this? We got more talkin’ to do... in private.” Raph’s hand brushed your lower back as you walked, a silent echo of agreement, the promise of what awaited hanging heavy in the festive air as you returned to the common area, the glow of lights welcoming you back to the ongoing exchanges.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter, gifts, and the occasional lingering glance between the three of you. By the time the last of the presents were unwrapped and the lair began to quiet down, the three of you found yourselves lingering near the entrance to your room. The others had drifted off, Donnie to tinker with his latest gadget gifted to him. Leo to meditate, Splinter to his quarters, leaving just the three of you in the dim glow of the holiday lights.

Mikey leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as he watched you and Raph. “So,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Now what?”

Raph shifted beside you, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining with a quiet possessiveness. “Now we talk,” he rumbled, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “Figure out what this looks like.”

Mikey pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you in a few easy strides. His hands came up to rest on your hips, his fingers warm even through the fabric of your sweater. “And then?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing.

Raph’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, but there was no territorial snarl. Instead, his other hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Then we see where this takes us,” he said, his voice rough but sincere.

You looked between them, heart pounding in your chest. Mikey’s blue eyes were bright with something heated. Raph’s green gaze was intense, unwavering, the fire in them burning just as hot.

The air between you thickened, charged with unspoken promises, until Raph broke the silence with a low grunt. He tugged your hand gently, leading you toward your room's door, his broad frame brushing against yours. Mikey fell into step on your other side, his fingers grazing your arm. No words were needed; the mutual nod from earlier sealed it. You pushed the door open, the soft click echoing as the three of you slipped inside, the door shutting behind you with a decisive thud that muffled the distant holiday music from the common area.

Your room felt smaller with them in it, the bed unmade from earlier, fairy lights strung along the walls casting a warm, intimate glow. Raph released your hand only to turn you toward him, his calloused palms cupping your face as he leaned down. His lips met yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, firm but tender, tasting of the faint salt from the evening's snacks and something uniquely him, rough and grounding. You melted into it, your hands sliding up his plastron to grip his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath.

Mikey watched for a moment, his eyes widening like he was mentally gathering his courage. Then stepped in close behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder as he nuzzled your neck. “Room for one more?” he murmured, voice playful yet edged with hunger. You nodded against Raph's mouth, and Mikey’s lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, pressing soft kisses that trailed down to your collarbone. The dual attention sent sparks racing through you, Raph's tongue now slipping past your lips to deepen the kiss, exploring with careful strokes while Mikey's hands roamed your sides, thumbs circling your hips.

It stayed sweet like that for a moment, Raph's kiss turning languid, his thumbs brushing your cheeks; Mikey's embraces light, his body swaying you gently between them. But the tenderness cracked as Raph's hands dropped to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his growing arousal pressing hard against your stomach through his gear. You felt Mikey too, his own hardness nudging your ass as he ground subtly, a soft groan escaping him. The kiss with Raph broke with a wet smack, both of you breathing heavy, and Mikey spun you halfway to capture your lips next, his mouth eager, tongue darting in with playful flicks that made you moan into his mouth.

Raph pressed in from behind, his mouth on your neck, sucking lightly to leave a faint mark. His hands worked under your sweater, palms flat against your bare skin, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they hardened under his touch. Mikey broke the kiss to yank your sweater over your head, tossing it aside, his eyes raking over you hungrily before he dipped down to latch onto one of your nipples, sucking hard while Raph kneaded the other. You arched between them, fingers tangling in Mikey's bandana tails as pleasure coiled tight within you.

“On your knees, Angel,” Mikey whispered against your skin, voice dropping to a soft, yet filthy rasp as he straightened, already tugging at his belt. Raph rumbled agreement, his hands guiding you down firmly. The cool floor met your knees as you knelt, the two of them towering over you, their eyes locked on yours with shared intent. No rivalry, just raw want. Mikey moved first, shucking his shorts down his hips, without preamble, his tail lifting slightly as his cloaca parted, his thick cock emerging slick and hard, the purplish length curving upward, tip already beading with precum. He then stared at you expectantly.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slow from base to tip, feeling the heat and the subtle ridges along his shaft. It was different from what you were used to, but in a fascinating way. He hissed, hips bucking into your grip as you stroked him. Raph followed suit, his own clothes came off, and in no time, his tail flexed as his cock slid free from its vent, longer, and thicker, with veins prominent under the smooth skin. You leaned in, taking Raph into your mouth first, tongue swirling around the head to taste the salty drip, sucking him deep while your hand pumped Mikey faster. Raph's hand fisted in your hair, pulling you closer as he groaned low, “Fuck, yeah... just like that.”

Mikey's fingers traced your jaw, encouraging, his cock twitching in your stroking fist. “Switch for me,” he urged after a minute, voice strained. You pulled off Raph with a pop, lips shiny, and turned to Mikey, engulfing him in wet heat, bobbing your head as your free hand now jerked Raph in rhythm. They stood close, shoulders brushing, breaths mingling above you as they watched you, the sounds of your mouth working them over, slurps and moans, filling the room. Mikey's hand replaced Raph's in your hair, guiding you, their cocks throbbing under your attention, slick with your saliva.

You alternated like that, sucking one as deep as you were able to handle with their impressive girths, while stroking the other, knees shifting on the floor as arousal soaked your panties. Raph's grunts grew rougher, Mikey's praises filthier, “Suck it harder, babe, take it all,” building the heat until your jaw ached sweetly, their tips bumping your cheeks as you switched again, determined to give them equal devotion in this new union.

The air in the room was now thick with the scent of musk and arousal, the only sounds the wet slide of your lips around their cocks and their ragged breathing. Mikey’s fingers tightened in your hair, his hips giving an involuntary thrust as you hollowed your cheeks around him, swallowing him deeper. His cock twitched against your tongue, his breath hitching as he fought to keep still.

"Damn, Angel, you’re so good at this," Mikey groaned, his voice rough with need. His free hand found your shoulder, squeezing as if to steady himself. "But I ain’t gonna last too long if you keep goin’ like that."

Raph grunted in agreement, his own cock slick and heavy in your hand, his hips rolling into your grip. "She’s got a mouth made for ruinin’ a guy," he rumbled, his thumb brushing your cheek where it stretched around Mikey’s length. "But I ain’t lettin’ her do all the work."

Before you could react, Raph’s hands were guiding you to stand. Your legs wobbled slightly, but he steadied you, his palm warm against your back as he guided you toward the bed. Mikey followed close behind, his fingers trailing down your spine before giving your ass a playful smack.

"Here’s where the fun really starts, babe," Mikey purred, his voice dripping with intent.

Raph didn’t waste time. The moment your knees hit the mattress, he was turning you onto your back, his massive frame looming over you as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and panties. With a sharp tug, the fabric gave way, leaving you bare beneath him. His gaze darkened as he took you in, his tongue dragging over his teeth.

"Beautiful. And all mine," he breathed, the words possessive, final.

But Mikey wasn’t having it. He climbed onto the bed beside you, his hand sliding up your thigh as he leaned in to nip at your earlobe. "Ours," he corrected, his breath hot against your skin. "Ain’t that right, Angel?"

You barely had time to nod before Raph’s mouth was on you, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous line up your slit before circling your clit. Your back arched off the mattress at the sudden contact. Raph's tongue flattened against your pussy, lapping broad strokes from your entrance to your clit, his rough hands pinning your thighs wide open. He sucked your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, drawing a sharp moan from your throat as pleasure jolted through you.

Mikey's mouth crashed onto yours, capturing the sound, his tongue thrusting deep to tangle with yours in a messy, hungry kiss. He swallowed your gasps, one hand cupping your breast to pinch your nipple, rolling it until it peaked hard. His other arm braced beside your head, his body pressing close, cock still rigid against your side.

Raph grumbled against your folds, the vibration humming into your core, but he felt your focus split, your hips bucking toward Mikey's grinding weight. Jealous heat flared in his chest; he wanted all of you on him. Breaking away with a slick pop, he rose up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on you. "C'mere," he rasped, voice thick, hauling you upright by your arms until you straddled his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of one of his thick thighs.

The scales on his thigh were cool and textured under your soaked pussy, a stark contrast to the heat building inside you. You ground down instinctively, sliding your wet lips along the firm muscle, the friction sending sparks up your spine. Raph's hands gripped your hips, guiding your rolls, his cock throbbing against your outer thigh, untouched but straining.

Mikey knelt behind you, his chest to your back, lips finding yours again over your shoulder. The kiss was sloppy, teeth nipping your lower lip as his hands roamed your sides, one dipping to circle your clit while you rode Raph's thigh. "That's it, grind on him, Angel," Mikey murmured into your mouth, his fingers slicking through your arousal. "Get that pussy nice and ready."

The slide of your folds over Raph's scaled skin grew frantic, your clit catching on the ridges with each pass, building pressure low in your belly. Raph's breath came in harsh pants, his grip bruising as he felt your juices smear across his thigh, the sight and feel of your arousal making his cock pulse harder. "Fuck, you're drippin' all over me," he groaned, the words guttural. He couldn't take it anymore, the way your pussy clenched against him drove him wild.

With a swift shift, Raph lifted you slightly, one hand fisting his cock to notch the thick head at your entrance. He pushed up in one controlled thrust, stretching your walls around his girth. The burn was intense, a sweet ache as he filled you inch by inch, your pussy fluttering to accommodate him. You cried out into Mikey's mouth, breaking the kiss, nails digging into Raph's shoulders.

Raph bottomed out with a shuddering exhale, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezing shut in pure bliss. "So tight... squeezin' me so perfect," he muttered, holding still to let you adjust, though his hips twitched with the effort. Mikey pressed kisses along your neck, his hand still teasing your clit to ease the stretch, his own cock nudging your ass from behind as the three of you locked together in this heated tangle.

Mikey shifted behind you, his cock pressing insistently against the curve of your ass, but the way Raph's thick length throbbed deep inside your pussy made it clear who had the lead right now. A flicker of impatience crossed Mikey's face, he wasn't one to sit on the sidelines for long. He pulled back just enough to rise up on his knees, then planted his feet on the mattress for leverage, towering over you both.

"Hey, don't forget about me, Angel," Mikey said, his voice husky with a teasing edge as he gripped the base of his cock, guiding the swollen head toward your lips. Your mouth parted on a gasp from Raph's subtle roll of his hips, and Mikey took the opening, sliding past your teeth with a slow push. The salty tang of his pre-cum coated your tongue as he filled your mouth, stretching your jaw around his girth.

Raph's hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up, shallow at first, pulling out halfway before sinking back in, each drag igniting fresh sparks along your inner walls as you slid along his ridges. The rhythm built a steady burn, your pussy clenching greedily around him, juices leaking down to slick his cloaca. "That's it, take it," Raph growled, his voice rough as he watched Mikey's cock disappear between your lips, the sight fueling his pace.

Mikey's fingers threaded into your hair, cradling the back of your head with a firm hold, urging you forward. "Open up wider, babe… just like that," he coaxed, his hips inching deeper, the veined shaft bumping the roof of your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking hard as your tongue swirled around the underside, drawing a sharp hiss from him. "Fuck, yeah... deeper, you can do it. Relax your throat for me."

You bobbed your head in time with Raph's thrusts, the dual sensations overwhelming, Raph's cock pounding into you, hitting that spot that made your toes curl, while Mikey guided your head’s movements, his praises spilling out in breathless bursts. "Good girl, swallow around me... oh, shit, your mouth's so hot." His free hand traced your jaw, thumb brushing where his length stretched you, encouraging you to take more.

Raph picked up speed, his powerful thighs flexing under you as he fucked up into your pussy with wet, slapping sounds echoing in the room. Each plunge stretched you further, the sweet burn fading into pure ecstasy, your walls fluttering erratically around his length. Sweat beaded around his neck, and slid down onto his plastron, dripping onto your chest as he leaned in, nipping at your shoulder. "She's squeezin' me so good... gonna make me lose it," he rasped, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, twisting just enough to send jolts straight to your clit.

Mikey's breaths grew ragged, his grip tightening as he fed you more of his cock, the tip nudging the back of your throat. "Breathe through your nose, Angel… yeah, just like that. Take every inch... you're killin' me here." You gagged softly but pushed on, saliva dripping down your chin, mixing with the mess between your legs. The fullness in both ends had you moaning around him, the vibrations making his hips jerk.

The mattress creaked under the force of Raph's drives, your body rocking between them. Pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, the edge of release hovering as they used you in tandem, their rivalry melted into shared rhythm.

The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, your muffled moans around Mikey's cock, and the brothers' ragged breathing. Raph's thrusts became more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he neared his peak. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his voice a rough growl.

"Gonna fill you up, Sweetheart... take every last drop," he grunted, his cock swelling inside you, the veins pulsing against your walls. You came then, unable to hold out any longer.

Mikey wasn't far behind. His grip in your hair tightened as he fucked your mouth with shallow, desperate thrusts, his balls drawing up tight inside his slit. "Shit… gonna cum, babe. Swallow it all for me," he gasped, his voice breaking as his cock twitched violently against your tongue.

Raph came first, a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he thrust up into you one last time, his cock jerking as thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy, the warmth spreading through your core. His hips stuttered, grinding deep as he emptied himself inside of you, his fingers trembling where they gripped your hips.

Mikey followed seconds later, his release hitting the back of your throat in hot, salty spurts. You swallowed around him, milking him with your lips and tongue until he shuddered, his cock softening slightly when he finally pulled back with a wet pop.

"Damn, Angel..." Mikey panted, his fingers brushing your swollen lips. "You're too good at that."

Raph was still buried inside you, his cock twitching as the last of his cum spilled out around him. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven. "You took us both so fuckin' well," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction.

You were a mess between them, breathless, trembling, and utterly spent. Mikey grinned lazily, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Guess we can make this work after all."

Raph huffed in agreement. "Yeah... guess we can."

The lair had fallen into a peaceful hush, the twinkling Christmas lights strung across the walls casting a soft, multicolored glow over everything. Outside, fat snowflakes drifted lazily in the night sky, blanketing the quiet city in white. The world above felt distant, muffled by the underground sanctuary, leaving only the warmth of tangled limbs and shared breaths in the air.

You lay nestled between Raphael and Michelangelo on the wide mattress, your body still humming from the intensity of what had just transpired. Raph's solid frame pressed against your side, his arm draped possessively over your waist, his plastron rising and falling steadily against your shoulder. Mikey spooned you from behind, his lighter touch tracing lazy patterns on your hip, his tail lazily flopped on the bed behind him. The scent of sweat and sex lingered faintly, but it was overshadowed now by the cozy scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the common room and the faint vanilla from earlier cookie baking.

Mikey nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin with a contented sigh. "Y'know, Angel," he murmured, his voice sleepy and playful, "that Secret Santa thing? Totally rigged from the start. But hey, I'm not complainin'. Best draw I ever got." He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you, light and teasing as always.

Raph grunted in agreement, his fingers flexing slightly against your skin, pulling you a fraction closer. "Yeah, well... worked out alright." His words were gruff, but there was a rare softness in them, a promise woven into the quiet rumble of his chest. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there as if sealing the moment.

You smiled, your hand finding Mikey's over your hip, intertwining fingers with him in a simple, grounding touch. The air hummed with unspoken futures, lazy mornings tangled like this, shared glances across the lair, the kind of bond that defied labels but felt right in every fiber. In the glow of the lights and the whisper of snow outside, it was clear, this was just the beginning of something warm, wild, and entirely yours.

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[kayleefriedchicken]

Another one I'm reblogging for later reading. I've been crashing out over TMNT lately and have found so many good writers to feed my obsession.

[heartonmyshell]

Can you do a 2007 Raph x collage psychology student reader

After Leo leaves, Reader just moved from Florida to New York for college to become a therapist, but still keeps in touch with her family by calling every few days. She meets Raph by accident a week moving into her dorm, and after spending some time together, they eventually start dating (her roommate knows about him, but they just don't really care, lol).

Two months into the relationship, Reader gets a call from her parents that a family member she doesn't know died, and even though she doesn't really care, she still wants to be there to support them, and when Reader tells Raph about the situation he pretends to take it well but is worried she's not going to come back even though she says she will. So when she does come back a few days later, she spends the next couple days with him to make him feel better.

A/N: This ended up a bit longer than I originally intended, but I really wanted to properly set up Raph and the reader’s relationship and display his insecurities regarding Leo leaving and how that affected him.

I hope you enjoy! 💖

I’m Not Going Anywhere (angst)

❤️ 2007 Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Angst, some brief violence, blood and injury, hurt/comfort, and abandonment issues. All characters are aged-up.

The move from Florida to New York was jarring. The skyline swallows the stars, the cold air bites harder than you expected, and the city never stops buzzing. You traded palm trees and predictability for subway maps and a cramped dorm room. But although it’s only been a week, it already feels more like home than Florida ever did.

You moved away for college to study psychology, finally pursuing your dream of helping people untangle the knots in their heads. You miss your family, and you had promised to call at least every couple of days. Your mom always sounds a little too cheerful, your dad distracted in the background. They mean well.

They just don’t quite understand why psychology, why New York, why now. And you try not to feel the weight of their confusion pressing behind every “we’re proud of you.”

Then one night, on the way back from a late study group, it happens. You’re still memorizing the streets and directions, and you end up taking a wrong turn trying to find the quickest route back to your dorm, earbuds in and your thoughts drifting. You almost don’t notice the guy in the alley—until a sharp, desperate cry cuts through your music.

You yank your earbuds out. You hear heavy breathing, the scuff of shoes on asphalt, and a low, threatening voice: “Just give us the wallet, old man. And the watch. Don’t make this difficult.” Peeking around the dumpster that marks the alley’s entrance, your blood runs cold.

Two large, brutish men have a third, much older man pinned against the brick wall. His face is pale with terror, his hands raised in surrender. Your own hands begin to tremble. This is it. The New York horror story every out-of-towner is warned about. Your first instinct, a primal scream in your gut, is to run. To turn and sprint back to the well-lit street, dial 911, and forget you ever saw anything.

The man’s fearful eyes meet yours for a fleeting second over the shoulder of one of his assailants, a silent plea that roots you to the spot. The future therapist in you, the part that wants to help, wars with the terrified Florida girl who is way out of her depth. Before you can settle on a choice, it’s made for you.

There’s a metallic clang from above, like a dropped wrench on a fire escape. The two thugs look up, annoyed. “What the hell was that?” one of them growls.

Someone drops from the darkness above, landing in a low crouch, clad in armor. “You heard him,” a voice rumbles, low and gravelly, distorted by the helmet. “Don’t make this difficult.”

The thugs are momentarily stunned. Then one of them scoffs, pulling out a knife. “And who are you supposed to be? Some kinda bargain-bin Batman?”

The armored figure doesn’t answer with words; he moves. An elbow connects with the first thug’s jaw with a sickening crack. A metal-gauntleted fist slams into the second one’s stomach, doubling him over with a gasp. In less than ten seconds, both men are groaning on the ground, disarmed and incapacitated, the fight over before it truly began.

The armored vigilante turns to the old man, who is staring, slack-jawed. “Go. Get out of here.” The command is rough, impatient. The old man doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles away, disappearing into the night.

Then, the helmeted head turns to you.

You’re still frozen at the alley’s edge, your bag held to your chest like a shield. The heavy helmet tilts down, and you feel the weight of an unseen gaze sweep over you, assessing. You see your own wide-eyed, terrified reflection warped in the visor. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to come for you next, another loose end to be dealt with.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice rumbles. It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact, laced with annoyance.

Your brain, which had shut down completely, reboots with a jolt. “I … I took a wrong turn,” you stammer, the words barely a whisper. Your knuckles are white where you’re clutching your bag strap.

He takes a half-step towards you, and you flinch, pressing yourself back against the grimy brick of the building behind you. “Go home,” he grunts, gesturing dismissively towards the street. “And forget you saw anything.”

He grabs the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder, preparing to haul himself up. He’s leaving. Just like that. The encounter is over. All you have to do is turn around and walk away. Go back to your dorm, lock the door, and pretend this was a nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and stress.

But you don’t move.

“Wait,” you call out, your voice steadier than you expect.

He freezes, one boot on the first rung of the ladder. He doesn’t turn around, but you can feel his entire body tense.

“You’re hurt,” you add, your observational skills kicking in despite the shock. You can see a wound on his arm, something that must have happened in the brief scuffle.

“I’m fine,” he bites out, the words clipped.

“It’s bleeding,” you insist, taking a cautious step forward. You point toward the gash on his bicep, where blood is slowly seeping through a tear in the fabric under his armor. “You can’t just leave that. It’ll get infected.”

He takes a step down from the ladder, and then another, until he’s standing in the alley again, looming over you. “What part of ‘go home’ did you not understand? Are you deaf, or just stupid?”

The insult stings, a sharp jab to your already frayed nerves, but you force yourself to stand your ground. You meet the visor of his helmet, refusing to be cowed. “Neither,” you say, your voice remarkably even. You hold up your hands in a placating gesture, letting your bag slide down one arm. “I’m a student. I … I have a first-aid kit in my bag. For emergencies. It’ll take two minutes.”

You watch as the helmet tilts down to look at the gash on his bicep, then back up at you. Through the distorted reflection, you can just make out the hard set of your own jaw. He’s weighing his options: the risk of infection versus the risk of trusting a complete stranger.

Finally, he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Fine,” he rasps. He points a finger upward, toward the roof. “Up there where no one can see us.”

You nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, not with fear anymore, but with a strange, jittery adrenaline. He turns and begins to climb the fire escape with a fluid, powerful grace, even with his injury. He moves with a silence that seems impossible for someone his size, his armored boots making only the softest of metallic sounds on the rungs.

You follow. Your hands are slick with nervous sweat as you grip the cold metal. The climb feels treacherous, your bag bumping awkwardly against your back. You don’t look down. You focus only on the rung in front of you and the broad, armored back of the strange vigilante above you.

When you finally heave yourself over the ledge onto the flat, gravel-strewn roof, you pause, hands on your knees as you catch your breath. He’s already standing by a low ventilation unit, his back to the sprawling cityscape. He watches you, his posture rigid. The helmet is still on, hiding everything.

“Well?” he prompts impatiently. “You wanted to play doctor. Get on with it.”

You slide your bag off your shoulders and kneel on the gritty rooftop, unzipping it with trembling fingers. You pull out the small, red nylon case of your first-aid kit. Your hands are shaking as you open it, revealing antiseptic wipes, gauze pads, and rolls of tape.

“You’re going to have to take that part of the armor off,” you state, looking at the pauldron covering his bicep. “And you’ll have to take off the helmet if—”

“No,” the voice rumbles, the single word sharp and final, cutting through the quiet. He takes a step back, putting distance between you. “The helmet stays on.”

You bite your lip, feeling a fresh wave of trepidation; you’ve pushed too far. But your logic, the student-in-training part of you, won’t let it go. “What if you have a head injury, and—”

“I don’t have a head injury,” he snaps, gesturing to his bleeding arm. “The problem’s here. Now are you gonna help or are you just gonna stand there making stupid demands?”

The insult lands, but it’s laced with something else. Like a frantic, cornered energy. He’s not just being difficult; he’s scared.

You don’t know of what.

“Okay,” you concede softly. “The helmet stays on. But the pauldron has to come off. I can’t get to the wound otherwise.”

He hesitates for another long moment. Then, with a grunt of resignation, he reaches up with his good hand. There’s a series of soft clicks and snaps as he unfastens the piece of armor covering his bicep, pulling it free before dropping it. He then works at the torn sleeve of the garment underneath, ripping it further to expose the gash properly.

And you stop breathing.

Your brain simply cannot process what you’re seeing. Under the dim glow of the distant city lights, the skin of his arm is not any of the tones you were expecting: it’s green.

For a second, you think it’s a full-body suit, some kind of advanced costume. But you see the texture of the skin itself, which has a smooth, almost leathery quality, with faint, subtle patterns like a reptile. And he’s massive, his bicep thick with a dense, powerful muscle unlike any you’ve ever seen on a human.

He notices your hesitation, your frozen posture. “What?” he growls, his voice low. “Gonna run screaming now?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor. He’s waiting for you to recoil, to confirm whatever fears he has about being seen. The part of you that wants to help—the part that is your entire reason for being in this city—overrides the part that is struggling with reality.

“No,” you say, your voice a little shaky. You clear your throat and force yourself to move. “No, I’m not.” You reach into your kit and pull out an antiseptic wipe. Your fingers tremble as you tear the packet open. “This is probably going to sting.”

He just grunts in response, watching your every move.

You take a deep breath to steady your hands and gently press the wipe to the edges of the cut. He flinches, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t pull away. You work with a focused silence, cleaning the wound as best you can.

“Why?” he asks suddenly.

You pause, looking up at the helmet. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

You grab a sterile gauze pad and press it firmly against the gash to staunch the bleeding. “You saved that man. You got hurt doing it. Seems like a fair trade.”

He’s silent for a long time as you work, taping the gauze into place. Your hands are steady now, your purpose clear. When you’re done, you gently pat the bandage.

“There,” you say. “You should get that looked at by an actual doctor, but it’s clean and covered for now.”

He looks down at his bandaged arm. He seems … surprised. As if he didn’t actually expect you to go through with it.

“What’s your name?” you ask, the question popping out before you can stop it.

He tenses again. “Why?”

“Because I can’t keep calling you ‘the armored vigilante’ in my head forever,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

A strange sound comes from the helmet; you take a second to identify it as a rough, choked-off chuckle. “Raph,” he says.

You offer a small smile and tell him your name.

“Right,” Raph says, standing up abruptly. He picks up his discarded pauldron, looking at it for a moment before deciding to just carry it. “Remember, you never saw me. Don’t come looking for trouble.”

He turns and stalks to the edge of the roof without a backward glance. With the same impossible grace as before, he swings over the side and disappears down the fire escape, his movements swift and silent.

You’re left alone on the roof, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your arms. Your mind is a whirlwind of green skin, a gravelly voice, and a single, reluctantly given name. You look down at your hands. A small smear of drying blood is on one of your fingers. His blood—the only proof that any of this was real.

After cleaning your hands, you slowly pack up your first-aid kit, moving on autopilot. Then you tuck it carefully into your bag before making your own, much slower, descent back to the world you thought you knew.

The memory of that night replays in your mind for days. You do your coursework; you attend lectures on behavioral theory; you text your family that yes, you’re eating enough vegetables. But a part of your brain is always on that rooftop.

A week later, you climb the fire escape again. It’s a foolish impulse, one that the logical part of your brain screams against. He told you to stay away. But the therapist-in-training part, the part that saw a flicker of profound loneliness behind that helmet, is stronger.

Your heart beats a nervous drum against your ribs as you reach the roof—but you find it empty. You sit for a while, watching the traffic as you work on some essays or read, and then you go home. You do this for three nights.

On the fourth, he’s there.

He’s not in his armor, just dark pants and a hoodie, the hood pulled low. He’s leaning against the same ventilation unit. As you approach, he doesn’t turn, but you know he heard you.

“Thought I told you to forget you saw anything,” he rumbles.

“You also told me your name,” you counter softly, stopping a respectful distance away. “Kind of a mixed message.”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he turns his head just enough for you to see the strong line of his jaw in the shadows. “You’re stubborn.”

“I’m told it’s one of my defining traits,” you reply, a small smile touching your lips.

And that’s how it begins.

You meet on that rooftop, maybe once or twice a week. The conversations are stilted at first. You talk about your classes, the culture shock of moving from Florida, the pressure you feel from your family. He listens, though he rarely talks about himself.

About a month into your strange rooftop rendezvous, he finally trusts you enough. You’re talking about a frustrating professor when he reaches up and pulls his hood back. You’d prepared yourself, but it’s still a shock. His skin is green, his head bald and reptilian, his eyes a startlingly intense amber. You even see the peek of a plastron and—is that a shell?!

He’s a turtle. A giant humanoid turtle!

He’s waiting for you to scream, to run, to do anything but what you do—which is meeting his gaze and giving him a small, genuine smile. “Hi, Raph,” you say, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The tension drains out of his shoulders in a visible wave. He gives a short, disbelieving huff of air through his nostrils. From that night on, the hood and armor stay off when you’re together.

Your late-night disappearances don’t go unnoticed. Your roommate, Chloe, a born-and-bred New Yorker with zero patience for nonsense, corners you one evening as you’re trying to sneak out.

“Alright, spill,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re not in a cult, are you? Because my mom’s cousin joined a cult and the first sign was him sneaking out at all hours to ‘commune with the moon goddess’ in Central Park. So if you’re doing that, just tell me.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky. “No, definitely not communing with any goddesses.” You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip. You’ve kept this part of your life entirely separate, a secret world on the rooftops. But Chloe is your friend, and the lying is getting exhausting. “Look,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “It’s a guy. But it’s … complicated.”

“Complicated how?” she asks, her gaze sharpening. “Is he married? In a gang? Both?”

“No! God, no.” You lean against the wall, trying to find the words. “He’s just really shy. And he prefers … nighttime.”

As if summoned by your words, a soft, distinct tap-tap-tap sounds on your dorm room window. Chloe’s eyes widen and she swivels her head towards the sound. You close your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. Of course.

She stalks over to the window, yanking back the curtain. On the fire escape, illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, is Raph. He’s in his hoodie, but there’s no hiding the massive, three-fingered hand resting on the windowpane, or the sheer bulk of his frame. He sees Chloe, his eyes going wide, and he immediately pulls back, ready to bolt.

You rush to the window, sliding it open a crack. “Raph, it’s okay! It’s okay, this is Chloe. My roommate.”

She just stares. She takes in the green skin, the edge of the shell visible under his hoodie, the general impossibility of him. Her expression is utterly blank. You brace yourself for the screaming, the fainting.

Instead, she lets the curtain fall, turns back to you, and crosses her arms again. She’s silent for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, she asks, in a perfectly level tone, “So, is he why we’re suddenly out of frozen pizzas?”

The sheer, anticlimactic normalcy of the question sends a wave of hysterical relief through you. “Um. Yes?”

She nods once, as if this explains everything. “Fine. Whatever. Just tell your giant turtle boyfriend to use the front door from now on.” She uncrosses her arms and walks back to her desk, picking up her textbook as if nothing has happened.

And just like that, the biggest secret of your life is out, met not with panic but the resigned sigh of a city girl who’s apparently seen too much to be fazed by mutant reptiles.

New York, you decide, is even weirder than you thought.

You glance back out the window, where Raph still lingers on the fire escape, clearly caught between fight, flight, and full-on identity crisis. “You good?” you whisper.

His eyes flick between you and the curtain Chloe just dropped, and he mutters, “Didn’t think I’d be meetin’ your roommate like that.”

You stifle a laugh. “Yeah, well, she’s more chill than she looks.”

“She just called me your boyfriend,” he says, and there’s something new in his voice—half teasing, half stunned. His gaze locks with yours, and for a second, all the noise of the city fades.

Your stomach does a little flip. The way he says boyfriend, like it’s foreign on his tongue, like he doesn’t quite know if he’s joking or serious, makes your heart thud hard against your ribs.

You meet his gaze, searching his expression. “Well,” you murmur, “you do keep showing up at my window like a lovesick raccoon.”

That gets a low chuckle out of him, gravelly and amused. “I’m way cooler than a raccoon.”

“Debatable,” you say, smiling now. “You eat all my food, lurk in the dark, and have mysterious night habits. Sounds pretty raccoon to me.”

His head dips slightly, maybe in defeat, maybe to hide a grin. “Fine. But a buff raccoon.”

You lean on the window frame, looking at him. “A terrifying, buff raccoon who apparently gets flustered when Chloe calls him her roommate’s boyfriend.”

That earns a dramatic groan as he lifts a hand to his face. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

That hangs in the air between you for a beat. Then Raph shifts his weight, shoulders squaring, eyes warmer now. “So … still up for a run across the rooftops?”

You grin and reach for your jacket. “Always.”

Now, you’re two months into a relationship with Raph.

And over these past months, the pieces of his life have slowly slotted into place for you. You’ve met his family: Splinter, his father, calm and commanding, with a quiet strength that fills every room. Donnie, his tech-genius brother, whose mind moves at lightning speed. And Mikey, the youngest, a whirlwind of bright energy who immediately declared you his new favorite human.

And then there’s the missing piece, the ghost that haunts their home: his older brother, Leo.

You’ve learned about him in fragments, pieced together from Raph’s late-night rants. Leo had left months ago for a training mission in Central America. His departure left a gaping wound in the family, a fracture in their dynamic. And for Raph, it’s a wound that festers with a unique blend of resentment, grief, and a profound sense of abandonment.

Raph feels the weight of leadership now and the sting of his brother—his rival, the family’s rock—choosing to leave them behind. You understand now that much of his anger is just a shield for that deep, aching hurt.

You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, a psychology textbook open in your lap. But your attention is fixed on the old sci-fi movie playing on the TV. Raph is on the floor, his head resting against your knees, completely relaxed for once. This is your new normal, and you love it.

Then your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you. You glance at the screen; it’s your mom.

“Hey, Mom,” you say, keeping your voice low as Raph’s gaze flits to you.

Her voice on the other end is strained, artificially bright in that way she gets when she’s delivering bad news. “Hi, sweetheart. So, um, I’m calling because … well, your Great-Aunt Carol passed away last night.”

You blink. Great-Aunt Carol? You vaguely remember a stooped, stern-faced woman from a family reunion when you were six, one who smelled like mothballs and gave you a piece of hard candy that tasted like soap. You haven’t seen or thought of her since.

“Oh,” you say, unsure of what else to offer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The funeral is on Friday,” your mom continues, her voice cracking slightly. “I know it’s a long way, honey, and with your studies … but your father and I would really love it if you could be here. For support.”

You don’t care about the funeral, not really. But you hear the wobble in your mom’s voice, the plea behind the words. She wants her daughter. “Of course, Mom,” you say without hesitation. “I’ll book a flight. I’ll be there.”

After you hang up, Raph pushes himself up into a sitting position, turning to face you. His relaxed posture is gone, replaced by a subtle tension in his shoulders. “Everything okay?”

You close your textbook and set it aside. “A great-aunt of mine died. The funeral’s in a few days back in Florida. My parents want me to come home.”

“Oh,” he says, the word flat. “Right. Family’s important. You should go.”

His response is perfect. It’s exactly what a supportive boyfriend should say. But you’re fluent in Raph, and you see the flicker of something else in his eyes. It’s the same look whenever the conversation turns to Leo.

“I’ll only be gone for a few days,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. “Just for the weekend, really. I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grunts, not quite meeting your eyes. He stands up, a sudden, restless energy about him. “It’s fine. Go. Do your thing.” He turns away from you and pretends to be interested in a rack of weapons against the wall.

You know he’s not fine—because you know that ‘leaving’ is a loaded word with him. You get up and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and pressing your cheek against his shell. “Raph,” you say softly. “I promise I’m coming back.”

He lets out a shaky breath, placing one of his hands over yours. “I know,” he says again, his voice a low rumble. But he doesn’t sound convinced; he sounds like a little boy trying to be brave.

The next few days are a blur of travel and stilted social obligations.

The funeral is as awkward as you imagined. You stand beside your grieving parents, holding their hands, offering tissues, and accepting condolences from relatives whose names you can’t remember for a woman you barely knew. You feel like an actor in a play you haven’t rehearsed.

You text Raph sporadically. ‘Landed safely.’ ‘Funeral was today.’ ‘How are you?’

He gives clipped, monosyllabic replies. ‘Good.’ ‘K.’ ‘Fine.’

It’s like talking to a brick wall, and it makes your heart ache. He’s closing himself off, retreating behind his anger because it’s safer than admitting he’s scared.

On Sunday evening, true to your word, you’re back in New York. The cab ride from the airport feels impossibly long. You don’t even bother going back to your dorm. You pay the driver and head straight for the lair.

You slip inside, your overnight bag still slung over your shoulder. It’s quiet. The main living area is empty, save for Mikey’s scattered comic books. You find Raph in the dojo, sitting on the floor, his back to the door. He’s not meditating. He’s just … sitting. The stillness from him is more worrying than any of his rages.

“I told you I’d be back,” you say gently.

His head whips around. His eyes widen, a storm of disbelief, relief, and something incredibly vulnerable washing over his face. He’s on his feet in a second, closing the distance between you in three long strides. He doesn’t say a word, just cups your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones as if to confirm you’re real.

“You’re back,” he breathes, the words full of emotion.

“I’m back,” you confirm, leaning into his touch. “I promised, didn’t I?”

He finally lets himself pull you against his plastron, his arms wrapping around you securely, protectively. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he rests his head against yours. “I was worried,” he admits, the confession a low, gravelly whisper. His eyes finally drop from yours to the floor. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say, sliding your arms around his neck. “Not when you’ve lost people before. Not when you’re still scared it could happen again.”

His arms tighten just a little, holding you like you might still disappear if he lets go. “I kept thinking you’d get down there, see how simple things used to be, and realize you don’t need all this,” he mutters. “All the crap that comes with bein’ with me.”

Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice. You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I don’t want ‘easy,’ Raph. I want you. This. All of it.”

His expression falters, the fierce mask slipping for a moment. There’s something wide and uncertain in his gaze, something wounded and desperate for reassurance. You cradle his jaw in your hand, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “You don’t scare me. This life doesn’t scare me. But the idea of not being here with you? That does.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring the words, letting them sink in deep. When he opens them again, the storm has settled a little. Still there, but quieter.

“I missed you,” he finally says.

You smile softly. “I missed you too.”

He steps back and grabs your bag with one hand like it weighs nothing, gesturing toward the common room. “C’mon. You look dead on your feet. Let’s get you settled.”

“I’m not going to bed yet,” you reply, following him. “You’ve been sulking for three days. I think you owe me some quality time.”

That gets a grunt, but the corner of his mouth lifts just a little. “What, like a movie night?”

“You pick the cheesiest, most ridiculous movie you own,” you say, “and I get to use your shoulder as a pillow.”

“Deal,” he says, and the word is so immediate, so relieved, that you know you made the right choice.

You don’t go back to your dorm that night.

The next morning, you wake to the distant sounds of clattering and energetic yelling from the kitchen. You find Raph already there, leaning against a counter with a mug in his hands, watching Mikey attempt to flip a pancake the size of a manhole cover. Donnie is at the table, tinkering with some gadget and pointedly ignoring the culinary chaos.

“Morning,” Raph says, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.

Mikey, mid-flip, spots you and beams. “She’s alive! Dude, I thought you were gonna sleep forever. Want a pizza-sized pancake?” He gestures with his spatula to the monstrosity in the pan, which looks suspiciously lumpy.

“I think I’ll stick to coffee for now,” you say with a laugh, accepting the mug Raph offers you, and you lean against the counter next to him.

Later, you find him in the dojo, working out his remaining frustrations on a heavily worn punching bag. He moves with a brutal grace, every muscle in his powerful arms and shoulders coiled and released with explosive force. You don’t interrupt, just lean against the doorframe and watch until he finally stops, panting, his skin slick with a light sweat.

He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and finally says what’s been sitting between you. “Hey. I, uh … I was a jerk when you were gone.”

You push off the frame and walk over, picking up a water bottle from a nearby bench before holding it out to him. “You were scared,” you counter gently. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”

He takes the bottle, his fingers brushing yours. He avoids your gaze, looking down at the scuffed floor mats. “Yeah, but I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you agree softly. “But I understand why.” You reach up and place a hand on his cheek, turning his face toward you. “So I forgive you. On one condition.”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “What’s that?”

“You let me win our next game of air hockey.”

He lets out a genuine laugh. “Not a chance.” He leans down and captures your lips. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own.

The next day feels lighter.

You spend the afternoon on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap as you try to explain the fundamentals of cognitive-behavioral therapy to him using his favorite movie characters as examples. By evening, you feel the last of Raph’s anxious energy finally dissipate. So you tell him you have to go back to your dorm for clean clothes and textbooks.

He doesn’t retreat or tense up. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, but he’s already grabbing his hoodie.

“I know. I want to.”

When you reach your dorm, you pause and look at the glittering expanse of the city out of your kitchen window. “It’s weird,” you muse. “When I first moved here, this all felt so big and scary. It felt … lonely.”

Raph comes to stand beside you, following your gaze out to the city lights. “And now?” he asks, his voice low.

You turn your head to look at him. You think of the weight of his arm around you on the couch, the steady beat of his heart. The feel of his lips on yours. You smile and take his hand. “Now,” you say, lacing your fingers with his, “because of you, it feels like home.”

[heartonmyshell]

Now reposted over on AO3! ❤️

[kayleefriedchicken]

Reblogging to read in my free time. I love me some angsty angst, and if it's featuring my favourite turtle? SAY NO MORE.

[astraystayyh]

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

“Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

-

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he… Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

[kayleefriedchicken]

I came back to this on the eve of new year, and ushered in 2026 swooning, sobbing, raging and falling in love all over again. This has got to be one of my favourite Chan fics (not only because it was born out of my vision, but because it's just so damn good) and I implore you to read this. Thank you, Sahar, I hope you're doing well and Happy New Year!

[jisunggy]

Mindy, my love! I'd like to request for something with the following prompts:

- Bang Chan

- Enemies to Lovers + Mafia A/U

- No. 22 : "Who did this to you?"

Y/N is an investigative reporter who has had several run-ins with SKZ but she has never had to report them, because whatever they do isn't related to the stories she writes about - corrupt politicians who use their position to sexually abuse people around them. And yet, she still dislikes Bang Chan because they have a history together, sorta - bad boy in school vs top student vibes, so they'd always been at loggerheads. As adults, they've gone their separate ways where she's on a mission to take down corruption while he is leading an organised crime ring.

Thank you for even considering this, Mindy!

BABE!? THIS IDEA THREW ME FOR SUCH A WHIRLWIND!? IN THE BEST WAY, OF COURSE. But I think I did it justice (hopefully). Hope you like it! Shout out to my new, amazing beta reader! Love you lots and thank you for bearing with me lol 🫶

tw: cursing, mention of illegal activity (human trafficking, abuse, kidnapping)

The fence shouldn’t have been that easy to climb.

That’s the first thing you think as you swing your legs over the top of the chain-link fence and land softly on the other side, boots crunching against gravel that hasn’t been disturbed in days, weeks maybe.

Perhaps you should be a little more concerned that a place with so many secrets has been left so unguarded. But regardless, you press on, driven by the need to finally uncover the truth, whatever the cost.

The warehouse looms ahead like an abandoned graveyard on the edge of the city, windows boarded up, signage stripped clean as if anonymity could absolve what happens inside.

You adjust the strap of your bag across your chest and bravely move closer, keeping to the shadows, making little sound.

Moonlight barely reaches the ground, clouds swallowing it whole. Perfect circumstances for people who don’t want to be seen, which means it's perfect for you.

You know the rumors. Everyone does. Girls disappearing. Paper trails vanishing. Tips that dry up the second they get serious. This place has come up twice in the last month during investigation. The same address, different informants, although both without evidence. Still, you can't ignore any possibilities when you're so desperate for a lead.

It's a pit stop, they said. Somewhere girls are held and prepped before they’re…well…

You just need proof.

The side door hangs crooked on its hinges, rusted and yet somehow greasy. You push, senses sharpening as it begins to open.

The warehouse groans in defiance as the outside wind rushes past the heavy steel door, making the whole structure shudder and teeter with uncertainty. The space is wide and empty…too empty. Whoever set this up clearly wanted to avoid suspicion.

No rooms. No machinery. Just a few old splintered crates stacked against the walls and the lingering, oppressive sense that something dreadful happened here.

This whole place feels…wrong.

Not just the stench of mold and the stale bite of decay. There's something rotten lingering in the air, something inhuman that clings to your lungs with every breath.

Just the thought of what these walls have witnessed – the abuse that's happened here – makes your skin crawl. It’s soaked into the concrete, oozing from the cracks in the floor, and written into the cobwebs.

Your foot brushes against something on the ground by accident.

A small shoe. Pink. Cheap. With plastic straps around the heel and teddy bear clips on the front.

Your stomach drops.

You pull out your camera, photographing it quickly, methodically from different angles. This could be evidence. Context. Perhaps confirmation? The missing girls were said to be from the ages of four to sixteen. Could this shoe belong to one of them?

You straighten up and put the camera back in your bag, heavy thoughts littering your mind and temporarily blurring your surroundings.

Suddenly, a strong hand clamps around your wrist. Hard. You open your mouth to fight, to curse, to scream–

But another hand covers it, leaving you unable to make a sound.

You’re yanked backwards so harshly your shoulder starts to ache, stumbling as you’re dragged into the shadows behind the crates.

Panic spikes as you thrash, elbow jerking back, heel scraping uselessly against the concrete, anything you can to fight back. An arm bands around your waist, pinning you flush to a broad chest, and holding you effortlessly still.

Then a recognizable voice, low and controlled, ghosts across your ear…

“Don’t. Move.”

Your body obeys before your brain catches up.

A back door swings open, banging against the wall and nearly falling off its broken hinges.

Subtle torchlight spills into the warehouse as two men walk in. One big and broad, built like hired muscle, and the other a bit smaller and more lean, but his aura even more threatening.

Their voices echo easily in the empty space.

“Boss wants them moved faster,” the smaller one says. “No more sitting on inventory. We move them in two days or less.”

“Two days, are you fucking serious?” the bigger replies audaciously. “You're practically cutting my prep time in half!”

Your stomach twists.

The hand over your mouth doesn’t move, but the man behind you has gone perfectly still, breath slow and measured at your ear.

You carefully slide one hand into your bag. His arm tightens slightly around your waist as a warning, but you don’t look down. You don’t rush. Your thumb searches for the familiar button on the side of your recorder.

Click~

The men keep talking, oblivious.

“Look, you want your cut of the profits or not? Things are getting too sloppy. The cops are on our tail. We move faster and cleaner starting now. No discussion.”

The bigger guy is clearly annoyed. “Whatever. My routes are always clean. Boss is just paranoid because we have a bigger load this time.”

“Law enforcement is getting too close for comfort. We should move the cargo while we have the upper hand,” the smaller orders coolly. “Start with the smallest and most valuable. Do your job right or else.”

“Fine. We'll do shit your way. But you fuckers better have my money.”

Their footsteps retreat outside, through the door you entered. It slams shut again, leaving silence to crash back down, heavy with what you've just heard.

One tense minute passes. Then another. The man at your back is waiting to make sure the coast is clear before he releases you.

Finally, the hand drops from your mouth and you can suck in a proper breath. The arm around your waist loosens just enough for you to drop forward out of his grasp. You spin around instantly, heart hammering.

Chan.

Of course, it’s him.

“Thought I told you not to grab me like that after last time,” you snap, adjusting the strap of your bag across your chest with a sharp tug.

He doesn’t apologize. He just looks at you, brown eyes sharp and calculating as they scan your body.

“Thought I told you to stop walking into places where people get killed,” he counters quietly.

“I’m an investigative reporter, in case you forgot. It’s literally my job.”

“This,” he gestures to the grandeur of the warehouse and scoffs, “is not your job.”

The finality in his tone makes your spine stiffen. “Excuse me?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. “I’m telling you right now. Let this one go.”

You laugh, short and breathy. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. This,” you pull the recorder from your bag and hold it up between you, red light still blinking, “is the first real lead I’ve gotten in a month. I’m not letting it go.”

His eyes flick to the recorder, then back to your face. There's something unreadable in the midst of his expression, although if you had to guess, it comes from a place of territorial toxicity. Chan has always been like that, even in school. He doesn't share and he doesn't accept help from anyone.

“You don’t realize what you’re up against,” he says, shaking his head.

“And you care, why?”

“Because you’re interfering.”

“With your business or theirs?”

His gaze hardens. “With something that was already in motion, and now you've gone and fucked it all up. I could have gotten a lot closer to taking them down if I didn't have to save your ass, again.”

“You did not save me!”

“Oh yeah?” He furrows his brow, peering down at you, shadows painted across his porcelain skin. “Then what do you call me pulling you out of sight at the last minute?”

“I’ve always been lucky.”

“I think you meant to say thank you. Now leave, trespasser.”

You step closer, refusing to give up ground. His eyes flick over your face for a fraction of a second before an amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's quickly suppressed, but lasts just long enough to remind you that as much as he wants you to leave, he likes it when you fight back.

“From where I’m standing, we’re both trespassers here—”

“Careful, you’re almost making me enjoy this.”

“—which means you don’t get to tell me when to leave.”

“Yes, well, from where I’m standing,” he replies, sauntering around you so you have to pivot to keep him in sight, stopping with a sharp click of his heels, “you’re a few bad decisions away from a body bag, and I’m not cleaning up after you. This ends with me taking them down.” He tilts his head, mock-saluting with a wink. “Alone.”

You freeze for a fraction of a second, heart skipping at the casual danger in his words, but your jaw tightens and you meet his gaze anyway, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He heads toward the center of the warehouse, angling for the back door the men just came through a few minutes ago.

You follow without hesitation, head held high.

“Go home, ___,” he says without turning or slowing.

“You're not scaring me off, Chan.”

Your steps quicken, effortful as you struggle to match his long stride.

He stops abruptly.

You crash into his back face-first, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs for a moment, but he doesn’t even budge an inch, solid as stone even under the force of your collision.

Chan suddenly spins on his heel and harshly steps into your space.

Instinctively, you take a step back. Then stop yourself, planting your feet and lifting your chin in defiance. He’s already close enough that retreat feels pointless, and you refuse to let yourself be intimidated by the same boy who once ruled the hallways of your secondary school.

“What do I have to do to make you go away?” he demands.

You swallow, forcing yourself not to look away. His brown eyes are locked on yours, so dark they're almost black, freckled with inky speckles that seem to shift when the light hits them just right. These are the eyes the city whispers about, infamous for the way they watch without missing anything. You’ve known them longer than most, back during lackluster school days when they watched you for different reasons entirely. Even after all this time, standing this close, being under them never gets easier.

“This is my investigation,” you urge, steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You will not take it from me.”

“And this is my world,” he says warningly. “You don’t belong in it.”

“I’m not leaving until I find those missing girls,” you reply firmly, holding your ground even as the space between you disappears entirely. “You can’t make me.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair, fingers raking down the back of his neck. His thumb brushes over his jaw as he bites his lip, and for a fleeting second, he nods as if accepting some kind of challenge.

“You're cute when you're stubborn. But seriously, you shouldn’t be chasing this. People have disappeared for less.”

“Girls are disappearing, Chan. That’s the whole damn point.”

“You think this ends with an article?” he suddenly snaps, seemingly done caring about secrets and quiet. “A front page story? Is that what you're after? Cuz I got plenty of those, and I won't even make you beg for ‘em.”

“Shut up, Chan.”

You push past his shoulder, shoving him aside with more force than he expected, refusing to answer. His tone, clipped and disregarding, grates against your nerves, and the sharpness of it only fuels your irritation.

“These guys aren’t amateurs, ___,” he says, voice growing in exasperation as he trudges after you. “They’re not rattled by your preppy, little headlines. Magazines and badges aren’t built to take them down. My guys are already on the inside. It's the only way to shut this operation down for good.”

You tune him out and keep moving, heavy boots echoing on the concrete between his words.

“___? Hey! Are you even listening to me?”

He’s faster than you anticipate. His hand clamps around your wrist before you can get very far, spinning you around with a strength that leaves you momentarily off balance.

“Let go of me!” You thrash instinctively, twisting your wrist, pulling your arm, trying to break free the only way you know how.

But your movements are quick, frantic, and driven by adrenaline more than strategy. While his are precise, calculated, and every measured shift of muscle and balance is intentional.

It doesn't matter how much you swing at him. He adjusts on instinct.

In one smooth motion, he steps in close and changes his grip, turning your momentum against you. A strong arm slides around your torso, pinning your back to his chest, his elbow locking just beneath your ribs in a place that leaves your upper body nearly immobile.

His stance widens, every inch of him steady in a way that tells you this isn’t his first fight – or his hundredth.

You struggle harder, heels scraping against the concrete, foot jerking back in a sharp attempt to kick him in the shin.

He doesn’t even grunt with effort.

“Stop struggling,” he mutters lowly, voice laced with amusement each time you try and fail to match his strength.

You don’t listen.

So he tightens his hold. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear exactly how outmatched you are. Your movements slow despite yourself, chest breathing faster as the reality sinks in: He knows how to do this. You don’t.

“You’re never gonna get out of this unless you calm down,” he says quietly into your ear. “Only gonna hurt yourself.”

The words don’t register at first due to the adrenaline screaming through you, your limbs jerking on instinct alone, but his hold doesn’t budge. One of your arms is wrenched behind your back at an angle that makes resistance futile, the other pinned firmly to your chest. You’re locked in place, suspended in panic with no way to break free of him.

Then you feel a growing pressure to the center of your gut.

It's not striking; it's just there. A constant, deliberate pressure. A silent way for him to tell you, his elbow could knock the air from your lungs in a millisecond if he wanted to.

“Better,” he whispers the praise only after you've calmed your body. “Now, listen to me. Shift your weight to your left. Slowly.”

You hesitate for a second, pride flaring before eventually following his lead. You lean where he tells you to and immediately feel the angle of his grip change.

“Yeah, just like that.” His whisper dips a little lower than you were ready for, portraying a flicker of satisfaction in the way you listen to him. “Now step back into me. Don’t pull – twist all the way around. And then in one movement, push your hand against my chest and push yourself away.”

Not that you enjoy being taught by someone who learned how to avoid the law from the Mafia, but you have to admit, his tactics work. You're free within a matter of seconds, and you don't believe he let you go on purpose.

As you stumble from his arms, heart hammering, and lungs finally able to pull in a full breath, you turn to strike back. But his gaze isn’t on your face anymore.

It’s on your arm.

Your sleeve has ridden up in the struggle, fabric bunched near your elbow. Midnight light spills over the exposed skin and over the discolored line carved into your forearm. The scar is deep, slightly raised, the kind that doesn’t come from an accident, and it brands a story into your body you can never erase.

Chan steps closer immediately, fingers hovering mid-reach before he catches himself. You jerk your arm away before he can touch the scar, tugging your sleeve down, but it's too late. He's seen it. And he's not happy.

“Who did that to you?”

His question is quiet, almost monotonous. But the look on his face is anything but. Something lethal flashes in his eyes, stripped of any charm or restraint. If you didn't know any better, you would suspect he’s already weighing how much blood it will take to settle the score.

For the first time since you met in school, you truly feel it. Not the swagger, not the flirtation, but the real danger of him, raw and unfiltered, and it sends a chill straight down your spine.

“None of your business.”

“You're hurt.”

“It doesn’t involve you.”

“It does now.”

“Why?”

“Because no one has the right to put their hands on you.”

The room falls quiet. And immediately, you sense the danger in his presence isn’t aimed at you at all. It's turned outward, toward whoever put that scar on your arm.

Suddenly, he feels impossibly present in your world, in a way he never has before. He's close – perhaps a bit too close – and the space between you begins to shrink and time itself slows around him.

It hits you then, in a way you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to notice before…

Chan doesn’t actually dislike you, and maybe he never did. Every sharp glance, every tease, every bicker, every warning he's ever thrown at you, the more you consider it the more you realize they all have something in common:

He’s protective. Fiercely. And as that realization sinks in, your chest tightens, your heart drumming just a little bit louder and your blood pumping just a little bit faster. You've never had this awareness that he’s there for you, but he is, isn't he? Even when the rest of the world isn’t.

“I’m fine,” you insist, forcing your voice to be calm. “I didn’t need saving then, and I don’t need it now.”

“What do you need?”

You pause, jaw tightening as the word weighs on your tongue. Your eyes flick away for a fraction of a second before you meet his gaze, a new resolve burning brighter than before.

“Revenge.”

Chan doesn’t push, doesn’t demand you tell him anything more. He's not the type to wait for permission anyway. Something has already shifted in his eyes, a determination to help you get what you need.

That familiar, sharp control is still there, but beneath it now is something else.

Anger.

For a moment, you just stare at each other. Then his gaze softens, just barely, and a crooked smile tugs at his lips. There’s something dangerous in it, almost like he’s thrilled by your fire, your justice, the way you want to make them pay. For someone harbouring a pure, unfiltered desire to protect you, he's maybe just a little too eager to help you recklessly destroy people.

“Alright. You win.” He turns and starts toward the back door, stopping only briefly to glance over his shoulder and ask, “Are you coming, or what?”

“What?”

“Let's go catch the bad guys.”

Your brow lifts in suspicion, but your feet are already starting to catch up with him. “The Mafia boss wants to partner up with an investigative reporter?”

“No. But I've never been one to refuse someone their right to revenge.” His smile disappears, voice dropping, “Let’s take those bastards down.”

::

general taglist: @nightmarenyxx @jiyuunni @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @velvetmoonlght @dearbisky @hwangjoanna @jeonginnieswifey @ayedomino-08 @firstdivisiongirl @mikachux3

[kayleefriedchicken]

Mindy went ahead and interpreted my prompt perfectly the way I envisioned, and had the AUDACITY to make it even better. Reblogging for repeated reading.

[cb97percent]

𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚝: 𝙽𝙾𝚅𝙰 · 「𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕」

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 8.3k (~35 min. read)

⚠ — Age gap (older reader), virginity loss, first times, breeding & lactation kink (see masterlist for more)

➥ If someone told you a couple of weeks ago that you would be losing your virginity to some pretty boy half your age, you would die laughing.

HOST PROFILE ※ Legal name: Chris [*Crispy -Ji] Bang [me all night long💋 -Lix] ※ Host code: NOVA ※ Attracts: Loverboy aficionados [Don't come after my shit, it's 'Heartthrob' for you -Hyun] ※ Characteristics: Natural flirt [*Horny, -The Real Boss], sexy dork [You a dork alright, -Jeong], college crush vibes [Wtf is college, you were born in the Renaissance -Seung], knows what he’s doing but acts shy [Have some backbone mf, if u sexy u sexy -Bin] ※ Why patrons love him: Dude’s just super swoon material. [Heh, thank you ^^ -Chris]

“SURPRISE!!!”

You clasped your chest at the threshold of your apartment, thinking you were for sure having a heart attack. With all due fucking respect, there was a reason you told your beloved trio of friends you didn’t like surprise parties. It had nothing to do with being a hipster-level snob—you just did not enjoy getting jumpscared, period.

“Happy birthday, sweetie!”

Then again, you had to give it to them. A surprise party was indeed a surprise when it happened an entire week before your actual birthday. Still taking deep breaths to calm your crazed heartbeat, you reciprocated their hugs with a blank stare and muttered something that sounded like a thank you. You didn’t know exactly how much time had passed until you sat down on your couch to open your gifts.

A watch. A box of all your favorite snacks. A bottle of Pisang Ambon freshly brought from Kim’s recent Amsterdam trip. And a red envelope harboring something like an invitation.

“What the hell is… Back Door?”

“It’s a point we’re trying to make,” Marina responded before taking a huge sip from her wine. “And possibly the key to relieving years’ worth of pent-up stress you don’t even realize you have.”

“Relieving stress? Is this supposed to be a spa?” you looked at the envelope. “A little eccentric name choice if you ask me.”

“Not exactly,” Jess slapped a shit-eating grin on her face. “Remember your little revelation at Kim’s party?”

Oh good fucking grief… Kim’s party. 

The boss bitch herself had gone all out to announce to everyone on the hemisphere that she had made junior partner at the firm you were working together, and the guest list was almost exclusively composed of all the hotties she knew. You and Jess were just lounging on the couch when some dude with a huge sleeve tattoo, disheveled hair, and baggy clothes on walked into the room, immediately grabbing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. 

But Jess the most.

“Like, hot damn, man,” she immediately started eyefucking the guy. “How many shots will it take for you to finally get rid of that shirt and give me some spank bank material?”

“You wanna sleep with him that much?”

“As if,” she deadpanned. “He has a girlfriend. I just want a clearer mental image for when I cum to the thought of this guy.”

“Oh, that’s what spank bank means?”

Jess turned to you with creased brows and asked you the one question she wasn’t supposed to ask you.

“Sweetie, you do masturbate, right?”

Oh, shit.

How to explain this fucking situation and not come across as an extraterrestrial being… 

“Tsch, duh. I mean… Who–Who doesn’t?”

“Really?” she squinted her eyes more. “How do you do it?”

Masturbation. Something very natural for an average person, but your worst enemy. Whenever you mentioned that you never tried touching yourself, most people acted like you just told them you hated puppies or something. It wasn’t like you had anything against it; you just never experienced a sexual frustration so dire that it needed to be sated.

“Woman…”

“Fine! I’ve never done it before.”

“Seriously?” Jess basically yelled as if she wasn’t expecting this answer in the slightest. “Like… Ever?”

“No, once. What do you think never means?”

The expression on her face changed from incredulous to somewhat concerned, and she came closer to you as if she was about to reveal a secret.

“Sweetie, are you… Are you a virgin?”

You thought she was going to judge you for still being untouched at this age, but her eyes were nothing but compassionate. As though she was about to scream ‘Show me where the bullies are’ and beat the shit out of some people on your behalf. When you nodded, she didn’t drag the conversation—just squeezed your hand, grabbed another bottle of wine for the both of you, and changed the subject seemingly for a more convenient time to be discussed.

“I promise you this is an incredibly professional place. I’ve done a lot of research for this,” Kim reassured you after giving you the whole spiel about what the red envelope place was supposed to be. “This host in particular has stellar testimonials.”

“What’s he recommended for? How well he fucks?” 

“You would think so,” Marina continued. “but people actually praise him for what a genuinely sweet guy he is.”

“A sweet guy?” you cocked a brow. “So you’re telling me this is not to get my V-card swiped?”

“No, bitch, it’s because you keep making excuses not to meet people. Not everything’s about sex, you know?”

When Jess hit you with that much bluntness, you didn’t really know what to refute that with because it was true. Every time they told you a friend of theirs was interested in you, every time someone just walked up to you at a bar to initiate a conversation, you always had a reason to refuse them. You told people that you weren’t interested in a relationship, that you didn’t have time for someone else, that you were just waiting for a friend at that bar, but the matter of the fact was you knew. You knew it was going to be a meaningless encounter. You knew they were going to ask for sex eventually, and they were going to freak out when they learned that… 

You know…

“I–I have my reasons. My career—”

“With all due respect, I’m gonna have to stop you right there with your bullshit,” Jess firmly interrupted you. “One bad apple does not define the entire bunch in the basket, you realize that, right?”

In theory, you did. In practice, hell to the no and all men could fuck right off.

It was years ago when you first started college. You did fall under someone’s spell pretty hard. He was very charming. Funny. Sexy. He made you feel a certain type of way for the first time. You even thought you could experience some of your other firsts with him in the long run. 

‘In the long run’ being the keyword. 

You didn’t want to get intimate with him when he wanted. From your perspective, he had nothing to lose; this was probably just going to be another hit-and-run for him. Call it old-fashioned or whatever, but you wanted your firsts to be meaningful. Preferably with someone you had sort of a connection with. Someone who cared about you. Someone patient. Someone who wouldn’t make this a scarring memory for the rest of your life.

The night you said a firm ‘No’ was the last day he talked to you. Credit where credit is due—he did give you a first. Your very first heartbreak. Just the very next day, you saw him making out with someone else at some party, and that was the day you said a heartfelt fuck you to everything even remotely related to love affairs.

Sex. Why did everything always have to be about sex?

You couldn’t really calculate that your aversion would last for years, but it did. Even after college. Even during law school. Even when you started your first job. You didn’t really care much for it, though. Your career took up almost all the space in your life, so you didn’t have much time for anything else as it was. But only after these three ladies at your firm approached you at lunch one day and basically adopted you into their little circle did you realize you were living in a completely different dimension.

You insisted you weren’t going to let anyone touch you unless you felt something for them, but the paradox here was that you were keeping everyone at an arm’s length. Several arms, for that matter.

“So, you think some random person should pop my cherry instead…”

“No! Oh god no, this isn’t about that,” Kim instantly shook her head. “You have to admit, you blow off everyone who tries to approach you. We just want you to see that the non-asshole genre of guys also exists.”

“Think of it as a blind date you’re gonna have a guaranteed good time with,” Marina enthusiastically added. “Everything’s going to be on your terms, and if you feel uncomfortable at any point, you can always leave. You don’t have to get intimate whatsoever.”

How adamant must you have been in your rejection of potential happiness because of your fears that your closest friends felt the need to arrange this pseudo-date for you? And you actually thought it was to get you laid? You genuinely felt bad for a second there for assuming the worst, and played with the envelope in your hand.

“Can I get store credit for it if I do?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, sweetie,” Jess couldn’t help her smile and unlocked her phone to show you a picture. “Just look at this and tell me the guy isn’t incredibly cute. He’s so your type!”

You grabbed the phone to look at the photograph of your date who allegedly had superpowers to change your world and almost fell off the couch. There was absolutely no fucking way he was real. Broad shoulders, incredibly pretty smile, and an aura of absolute class radiating off the screen. The man looked like a goddamn prince.

“I’m–I’m supposed to spend an evening with this guy?”

“And he’s going to be at your beck and call,” Kim hugged you from behind the couch. “You just do you and have a good time!”

On a normal day, this would have flustered you. The fact that this appointment took place on Valentine’s Day flustered you infinity times more. 

That evening, you walked into the club having no clue what was in store for you or what you were going to say. You just grabbed the champagne glass offered to you upon entrance and sat down on a couch in the lounge area as if you were in some therapist’s waiting room. Somebody would eventually tell you that the doctor would see you now, right?

“Good evening.”

Hooooly shit!

Oh, he was real. He was real alright, and he was insanely good-looking in person. The way his buttoned-up blazer was tightly wrapped around his figure left very little to the imagination considering the amount of skin he was showing as if… he wasn’t wearing anything inside. 

And this man was supposed to accompany you?

“My name is Chris, and I’ll be your host tonight.”

You looked up at him all stunned with your lips slightly parted, and eventually took the hand he extended for you to hold. When you got up, he kissed your hand to greet you, and you felt like you had to say something in return. Something level-headed. Something that showed elegance.

“I have absolutely no idea how this works and I’m awkward as fuck. I wholeheartedly apologize.”

You didn’t have any control over your words whatsoever—they completely forced themselves out of your lips. After a momentary silence, this dazzling man standing tall in front of you erupted into such a heartfelt laughter that you felt a piece of your worries as well as your heart melt away.

“Oh, I just know we’re gonna have an amazing time tonight,” he offered his arm for you to lock yours with. “Shall we?”

You linked your arm on autopilot and walked next to him into a hallway. It wasn’t much different than a hotel corridor. Four rooms on either side with identical doors. The numbers on them weren’t consecutive. He swiped a card on the lock of Room 1003 and gestured for you to walk in first into the extremely cozy-looking room with peaches and shades of warm beiges everywhere. The choice of the soft palette eased your restlessness a little bit and you made your way towards the dinner table for two, clearly waiting for you two to sit down.

“May I ask what brings you here tonight?” he started pouring the chilled wine into your glass.

“This was supposed to be a gift.”

“A Valentine’s gift?”

“Not exactly,” you fidgeted in your seat. “Today uh… Today’s actually my birthday.”

“Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day?”

You nodded. It was obvious you were going to nod a lot today. It was somewhat fine out in the lounge area, but now that you were alone with this ethereal being, your nervousness suddenly skyrocketed. What were words, where did your hands usually go, and why the fuck were you feeling like your feelings were written all over your face in bold fonts made of fire?

“Well, um… Do I get something like a manual for this? What–What am I supposed to do?”

“Anything you ask for,” Chris responded in a serene but deep tone. “We can spend one night in heaven. Or hell if that’s what you prefer. Nothing’s off limits. You just need to name it.”

It was an act. You always knew when it was an act. That was both the blessing and the curse of being a forever third wheel to your friends. You had way too much time on your hands to observe people. On the other hand, this was a service people fucking paid for—it was supposed to be an act.

If a genie appeared and said it could grant any and every wish, most people would use it to their advantage. Shapeshift it into the things they had always desired and finally satisfy their curiosities maybe.

But you weren’t most people.

“Look, I uh… Can I just ask for one thing?”

“Please. Anything.”

You placed your fork back on your plate and took a moment to pick your words carefully. This may have been a paid service, but that didn’t automatically give you the right to be rude.

“This is probably not gonna make any sense to you,” you examined the salad bowl a little too intently and finally lifted your eyes to meet his gaze, “but please don’t pretend to be someone you’re not tonight.”

You watched the little smile on his lips getting wiped out in slow motion. The expression on his face was a little hard to read. Was he offended? Mad? Confused? While you were on the brink of regretting all your life choices so far, all that echoed in your host’s mind was, Huh…

Chris was used to this being the other way around. Not that he ever complained—that was the product sold here after all. Fantasies. Over the years, he had developed such an intricate toolbox that he could whip out a trick that would cater to anything that was asked of him. He would create this enchanting dimension just for two people to grant a night that wouldn’t be easily forgettable.

No one ever popped that magic bubble right upon arrival.

“Are you sure? I’ve been told my default mode was an absolute dork who curses a lot.”

He was smiling, but the shade was much much different than the sultry dark reds he welcomed you with. This was sunset orange. This was ocean aqua. And he smelled like iodine all of a sudden. His posture visibly relaxed, and you relaxed along with him.

“I’ll take dorks over suave players any day of the week, otherwise this is going to feel like a dissertation defense to me,” you pushed your glass to him for a refill. “I’d be much more comfortable if we dropped the act.” 

“Well, you asked for it. No takebacks,” he pointed his finger at you and served your drink. “So what would you like to do? We can watch a movie.”

“Suuuure, how about we change into PJs and stuff while we’re at it, huh?” you sarcastically chuckled.

“I mean that’s my uniform, so I’d say hell yeah,” Chris shrugged and took a bite from his food. You inspected his face to figure out how serious he really was.

“Wait, you don’t… You don’t actually have pajamas in this place, do you?”

He gracefully wiped his mouth, stood up, and walked to a closet nearby. You were bewildered out of your mind when you saw what was inside.

“I have silk and cotton pajamas, and also sweatshirts and hoodies,” he pointed at the shelves. “Just tell me what your preference is.”

You burst into a hysterical laughter fit. When your girls told you everything would be on your terms, you didn’t really expect it to be this literal.

“How about we talk first?” you made a counteroffer.

“Sure thing!”

This was supposed to simulate a date. A first date on your end. Your first date ever. What the fuck did people even do on first dates? What were the topics discussed, appropriate questions to ask, and—

“So, what do you do for a living?” he reached for his glass again and saved you from racking your brains out trying to fill in the audio feed of the room.

“I’m a lawyer.”

You flinched in your place when Chris spurted his drink out of genuine bafflement and let out an involuntary exclamation.

“The FUCK?!”

The three seconds that passed by in silence dragged on forever until the full comprehension of what he just said hit him in full force.

“Oh my god, I’m–I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

Your laughter rippled throughout the room, immediately softening his features since you didn’t seem to have taken offense at the vulgar exclamation.

“It’s okay!” you reassured him, still laughing while cutting the food on your plate. “You wouldn’t guess that in a million years, huh?”

“I honestly wouldn’t,” he drooped his shoulders and let himself lean back. “Then… Then how…?”

“...am I this awkward when I argue for a living?” you completed his sentence as you were used to the sentence pattern after years of practice. “That’s my job. Those skills aren’t exactly transferable to interpersonal relationships for me. Less so for romantic ones.”

He was looking at you with mouth still agape but eventually broke into a wide smile.

“If you don’t mind me saying this, that’s fucking fascinating,” he took a sip from his glass to refresh his brain. “Well? Got any questions for me?”

Of course you did. Were those dimples a family heirloom for example? Did he know his accent laced his dorkiness with a tinge of sexiness? Was he aware he was the first guy in a long while you weren’t scared shitless to be around?

“Why do they call you Nova?” you opted for a much different question instead.

“It’s when a star suddenly brightens in the sky,” he explained matter-of-factly, then sheepishly laughed to himself. “Well, that’s just the way I prefer it because it sounds meaningful. My crew actually gave me that name as short for Casanova.”

“I can see why,” you broke into a fond smile, admiring the features of this total ladies’ man. “How did you decide to work here?”

“I don’t just work here,” he responded. “I’m one of the owners of this club.”

“Seriously?!” it was your turn to be flabbergasted this time. “How did you even come up with this idea for a business?”

“I’ve always liked entertaining people. I figured why not do this for a living?”

Well, who were you to judge? Not everybody became severely crippled in social situations. And they most certainly did not load that much meaning into getting physical with someone. Still, you couldn’t help asking genuinely out of curiosity.

“Doesn’t it feel empty at times?” your voice came out somewhat small. “I–I’m not judging! It’s just that… Every night… Like, with different people… how do you…? In your regular life, I mean…”

“Are you trying to ask me whether I can still enjoy sex when I do this for a living?” 

His warm smile evolved into a little chuckle when you nodded looking at your fingers.

“This is my job. And it’s about perspective. I approach this as collecting people,” he replied after swallowing his bite. “I really like listening to their stories if they are willing to tell them. Not every night ends with sex, nor should it. Sometimes people need company more than an escort that shows them a good time.”

A people collector, huh? In all honesty, you were expecting a testosterone-loaded answer, something along the lines of ‘Duh, I didn’t build this stamina for nothing,’ clumsily decorated with a smug grin, which would be your cue to leave. But Chris…

He was a pleasant surprise, to say the least.

“If you don’t mind me saying this, that’s just fascinating,” you echoed his earlier comment back to him, which prompted his dimples to grow deeper.

“Believe it or not, these skills aren’t exactly transferable to romantic relationships for me, either.”

“How come?”

“Being a host is much different than being in a relationship. People tend to confuse it more often than you think,” he opened his arms and gestured to the general direction of the room. “Here you can ask me to be whoever, but when we go home I can’t keep being who you expect me to be. It’s not really fair.”

Wasn’t that the celebrity syndrome if you thought about it? People would put someone on a pedestal thinking they were this flawless being, admired the version of them they built up in their head, then get disappointed as fuck when they realized they were worshipping a human being capable of making mistakes all along.

“Have you ever… you know, with a patron…?”

“Gone home?”

“I was actually going to say fallen in love.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, no to both,” he leisurely uttered and refilled both your glasses.

You picked up your refreshed glass and brought it to your lips, averting your eyes from him in the meantime. “I guess that would be counterproductive for your business.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t think twice about my business if I met someone who swept me off my feet. Managerial roles exist, you know?”

It could be due to the cold wine you were downing, but you felt your cheeks getting warm.

“Then lucky for you this isn’t exactly an ideal place to meet someone like that,” you played with the edge of your linen napkin. “Since you need to be who they want you to be and all that.”

“You’re right,” he heaved a deep sigh and fixated his gaze on you. “It would be futile to wait for someone who will ask me to be my dork self to show up.”

You blushed harder when you looked up at him. He had the ghost of a smile on his face, but even that much was so beautiful. Your eyes darted to the fingers he was softly tapping on the table. He had nice hands. He had nicer eyes. He had the nicest soul, and he was starting to get to your head. You watched him reach for a remote behind him, and when he pressed a button, the soft melodies of a slow jam began to fill the room.

“Can I have this dance?”

Your hand reached out to his on its own, and once you established skin-to-skin contact, you felt yourself get up in slow motion. It wasn’t really a conscious decision; more like someone was controlling your movements and you were just watching it happen.

“You’re not used to letting go of control at all, are you?” he teasingly asked as you were swaying to the calm beats of the song.

“How… Why did you—?”

“Your posture tells your partner how to move,” he tapped on your tense shoulders. “Would you allow me to take the lead?”

Only then did you realize you were actually stiff as a rock. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to relax.

“Let’s just enjoy this,” he flashed one of his soothing smiles again.

Dancing. A socially acceptable activity even in public, but even that much was the most intimate you had ever been with someone. Chris was trying to keep a reasonable distance between you. It was easy for your sake, but it was hard as fuck at the same time because all he could think about was kissing you.

In a momentary lapse of sanity, you managed to keep eye contact with him. He had galaxies in his gentle eyes, and you watched a thousand novas going off in them every time the candlelight on the table flickered in his irises. You were feeling your existence melt away. His nose brushed against yours when he leaned in closer. It tickled you. Your gaze inadvertently darted to his moist lips, and you realized you were dying to know what they felt like.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

When he verbalized your exact thoughts back at you, the possibility of him reading minds scared the crap out of you, and your movements came to an abrupt stop.

“Did I say that out loud?” he immediately started panicking. “Shit, I’m–I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

A dork. But a very adorable one nevertheless, tugging at your heartstrings for whatever reason. When your laughter died down, you got closer to his face the tiniest measure. He accepted your invitation. It felt like a lifetime had passed when your lips finally touched. 

He tasted like the vanilla ice cream and the strawberries he ate not too long ago. His lips were the softest thing you ever felt on your skin. So full, perfect texture. His tongue reached for yours at an unrushed pace and started dancing to the rhythm he was dancing with you. Slow. Languid. Warm. Seductive. Dangerously electric.

Everything you could possibly ask for your first kiss to be.

“How do you feel?” he asked once he managed to step away from you.

I’m dying, you wanted to say, I’m dying in your arms.

“Is my heart supposed to be racing?” you answered with your eyes still closed.

“Very much,” he softly chuckled. “That means I’m turning you on.”

Turning you on. This much. With a damn kiss. Barely touching you. Your heart was about to jump out of your chest, what the heck did he mean by simply turning you on?!

“There’s um… There’s something I need to tell you,” you hesitantly spoke.

“Yes?”

“I uh… I haven’t… I mean I don’t know…”

You felt his warm touch on your cheek. He was fondly smiling at you.

“I’m aware.”

“You are?” 

“We need such information to cater to our patrons properly.” 

Oh, of course. Part of you was relieved that he wasn’t able to deduce that simply by the fire billboard flashing on your face, but that didn’t mean you still weren’t going to be the first case of death by mortification.

“It’s not just that,” you continued. “I don’t know what an— I–I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” he held your hands and placed little pecks on them. “Please be comfortable with me.”

You were on the brink of making a decision, so if you weren’t going to tell him now, then when? You cleared your throat and finally blurted it out.

“I’ve never had an orgasm before.”

“Oh…” he momentarily paused, then his features relaxed like a lightbulb went off in his head. “Oh, you mean like… except for… like, when you’re alone…”

“I haven’t even touched myself.”

“Really?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Is there… a reason? If you don’t mind me asking of course,” he quickly added not to overstep any boundaries.

“I just don’t know how,” you shrugged.

“To masturbate, you mean?”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen porn or anything. I just…” you trailed off. “I can’t really picture myself with the people I see on the screen.”

“Well, haven’t you been curious at all?”

“Of course I have.”

Suddenly, his expression changed like he just cracked a case. His surprised gaze replaced itself with an infinitely compassionate one.

“It’s waiting for the right person thing, isn’t it?”

“Avoiding the wrong person is more like it,” you corrected him with a broken smile.

“I understand,” he brushed your hair behind your ears and switched to his cheery tone again. “We can spend the rest of the night chatting. It wasn’t a joke, by the way, I do have an extensive movie collect—”

“But you’re a little too good to be a mistake.”

Chris expected many things, all of which ended with you concluding the night right then and there, but this?

Not even in his wildest dreams.

“You–You mean…?”

“I want to,” you smiled at him for a change. It felt like you had reversed roles in a matter of seconds because it was him who seemed to be visibly flustered this time around.

“I wouldn’t want you to regret this. After all, I’m just an esc—”

“I’m a big girl capable of making her own decisions,” you interrupted him and put your hands on his shoulders. “You feel right to me.”

You could see how endeared he was, but that lasted maybe only a couple of seconds. His smile shapeshifted into a mischievous grin solely targeted at flustering you.

“So you’re giving me the honor of finishing you for the first time?”

Your jaw dropped at how shamelessly he said that with his whole chest, and the first thing your instincts told you was to slap him on his biceps really hard. Chris immediately buried his face in the crook of your neck, very pleased with his teasing attempt, and laughed against your skin. You were riddled with a warm and fuzzy feeling from head to toe.

“We’ll take it slow,” he held the tip of your chin and got closer to your face with every word. “So slow I may frustrate you a little bit.”

You could feel his smile on your lips, but it didn’t stay there for too long when he started losing himself and deepening the kiss more and more. You grabbed his hands and slid them down to your waist.

“Is it okay?”

“You don’t have to ask for permission for everything,” you encouraged him.

“But I do,” he insisted. “I need to know you’re comfortable.”

You just kissed him in response. What else could you do but keep kissing him so that he knew how much you really wanted this?

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered against your skin with his eyes closed. “I kinda can’t believe we’re about to do this.”

You inadvertently giggled. The last time you checked, this man was an escort who slept with people for a living. Why would he even get this excited over the prospect of sex?

“What are you talking about? You do this all the time.”

“I haven’t been lucky enough to host someone who asked for me before,” he spoke earnestly. “It doesn’t feel like you’re a patron.”

Your heart swelled a couple of times its size in your chest. You shook your head to alleviate the emotions flooding you and attempted to change the atmosphere.

“So tell me, what are dorks like in bed?”

“Very horny pleasers,” he responded with a straight face and pulled you in for a kiss again. 

You let him guide you to the bedroom while his lips were still glued to yours. Once you reached the edge of the bed, he broke the kiss and slowly turned you around to unzip the back zipper of your dress. His thumbs brushed against your shoulder blades and you felt his lips on your neck.

“Take my clothes off, too,” he whispered into your ear.

You faced him again and started unbuttoning his blazer, lowkey wondering whether your suspicions were true. When you loosened the last button and exposed his torso, you gulped so loudly that there was no way he didn’t notice it. 

He really wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and that view was nothing short of magnificent. 

His fingers traveled to your shoulders, and he slowly dragged your straps down to put you both on equal grounds from the waist up.

“May I?” he pulled you closer from your waist.

“Yes to everything. Don’t ask.”

He started massaging your breasts ever so softly and laid you down on the bed to place kisses on them. Then he put your hand on his waistband to signal you to take it off. As you dragged down the zipper of his pants, he rid you of your dress. It was just you in your underwear now. He rested his back against the headboard and shifted your body to seat you in his lap, your back against his chest.

“Comfortable?”

“Mhm.”

His hand slid down your thighs and started caressing them, sneakily making its way towards your clothed pussy staining the layer of fabric it was covered by.

“I need to get you wet first before we actually fuck.”

He felt it. He felt how hard you throbbed under his touch when he used that word.

And he absolutely loved it.

“Do you like it when I call it fucking?”

“I do.”

“Do you like it when I talk dirty to you?” his other hand reached for your breast as he kept whispering into your ear. “Does it turn you on?”

“It tightens knots in my stomach,” you wiggled in your place. “Just what are you doing to me?”

“I’m loving you,” he kissed your temple. “I want you to enjoy me.”

It could be because your eyes were closed, but the impact of his voice on you quadrupled all of a sudden. It was smooth like satin and deep like a chasm, and you had no choice but to surrender to it.

“Look up,” he touched your chin to prompt you to open your eyes. “We look a little too good, don’t you reckon?”

When you finally snapped them open, you were greeted by the sight of you spread out in his lap half naked and one of his hands sliding behind the lace hiding you from him in the mirror on the ceiling. A part of you wanted to keep looking, but another part of you was absolutely mortified.

“It’s okay,” he hugged you tighter. “I’m right here.”

He delicately brushed three of his fingers against your pussy lips, then pressed them on your clit. You felt them moving in a circular motion.

“Is the pressure okay?”

You wanted to say yes, but you forgot how to talk. You just let him keep rubbing you tenderly like he was petting you.

“How does it feel? Tell me.”

“It’s… strange,” you managed to utter. “I mean… It–It feels good, but I’m… I’m very lightheaded.”

“It’s alright. I got you.”

As he continued his ministrations, you sank into his chest more. The only sound you were able to produce was your soft moans, absolute music to his ears.

“I’m… I feel something tightening,” you squeezed his hand tightly while heavily panting. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Where?”

“Where you’re… Where you’re touching.”

This was the last situation Chris thought he would find himself endeared, but there he was. He watched you in the mirror with an extremely fond smile on his face.

“Yes, you’re about to cum,” he kissed your temple again. “I’m gonna finish you, and it’s gonna feel fucking fantastic.”

Finishing you. That was what he called your climax. He might as well have called it murdering you because your first ever orgasm felt like ripping out your own flesh to get out of your body. You thought you were going to be launched all the way up to the stratosphere, but he tightly wrapped one arm around your waist as if to keep you grounded. To tell you that he was right there with you and he wasn’t going to let you go astray. When your consciousness started coming back to you, all you could feel was his little kisses all over your face.

“Shall we find out what else you like?”

He lay you down on the soft mattress and took the opportunity of you still being high off your orgasm to completely strip you. He could finally see you as you were. Bare. Yourself. The contraction of your inner walls about to die down. He descended between your legs and pecked your thighs to make his way up. To your lips. Then your folds. He was beyond satisfied to witness the sheen of gloss covering you because of him from that up close.

“Can I lick you?”

“Where?!” you plopped up on your elbows in panic.

“Right here,” he placed a kiss on your pussy.

You were so embarrassed that you let yourself fall back into the bed and nodded after pressing your hands on your eyes. He kind of wished he could tell you how cute he thought your shyness was. 

When he closed those perfect lips of his on your still buzzing clit and started gently sucking on it, you instantly arched towards him.

“What is this?!”

He contently hummed, and you heard his soft chuckle against you.

“It’s just me pleasuring you. Just enjoy it.”

You didn’t know whether you should be concerned or not; something was spreading from your core to the rest of your body. It was a very unfamiliar feeling. His fresh iodine scent was enveloping you, and when you closed your eyes, it felt like a cool ocean wave was washing over you. It felt good.

It felt really good.

“Your taste is unreal,” he spoke against your cunt soaked with a mixture of his spit and your arousal. “Hold my hands.”

He increased his pace and the pressure on your clit. When you mustered enough courage to open your eyes, you looked up in the mirror to watch him going to town on you, and it was such an earthshattering view that it charred itself behind your eyelids forever. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning against your cunt with every suck. You squeezed his hands tighter as you felt the buildup inside you peaking again. It was satisfying. Like scratching an itch. And you were about to combust.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he tenderly pecked your glistening folds. “It might feel more intense this time.”

“GOD!!!”

He did tell you it could feel more intense. You felt the words hit your ears, but you could never ever prepare yourself for this. When he hit the home run with rapid laps on your swollen clit, you felt like dying, violently thrashing under him with excessive pleasure. 

“And?” he climbed over your body and brought his face closer to yours.

“Fantastic,” you burst into a peal of involuntary laughter, drowned in kisses while coming down.

“Now onto more of the good stuff,” he looked into your eyes. “You said you didn’t picture yourself with the people in the porn you watched.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t exactly say you didn’t like the things you’ve seen.”

Busted. You were really hoping that little detail slipped past him, but unfortunately…

“Did you?” he insisted with a playful smile.

You were beet red, trying to look at somewhere that wasn’t him, but it wasn’t that easy when he had you trapped under his frame.

“It’s okay. Everything you tell me is forever between us,” he lightly stroked your cheek with the back of his hand. “Tell me so I can satisfy you better. What did you see that you liked?”

You had never talked to anyone about such things before. Not even during drunk ladies’ nights, let alone with a partner in your bed. He followed your gaze wherever it tried to escape and you eventually caved.

“Okay, uh… It wasn’t porn. It was… it was a movie.”

“Mhm?” he started playing with your hair.

“There was um… there was this couple.”

“Mhm?”

“They were… married.”

“And?”

“And they decided to… to try for a kid.” 

“You want us to try for a kid, baby?”

Who the fuck talks like that?!!!

He said that so damn brazenly that you didn’t even know how to respond to him. It wasn’t only what he said, but the way he said it, and how he chose to fucking address you.

“Oh, GOD, not… Not uh… not exactly.”

“Then tell me,” he brushed his nose against yours. 

You swallowed in an attempt to soothe your dry throat, but it didn’t help much.

“They didn’t show it on the screen, but… the man said… he said…”

“Yes?”

“He said how beautiful his wife’s… tits were going to be once… once she got pregnant.”

“Because they’re going get bigger?”

He felt it again. He felt how hard you throbbed against his rock hard cock this time.

“Y–Yes.”

“Would you let me taste your milk, too?”

He ghosted his lips against your breasts. You almost passed out anticipating that kiss on your sensitive skin, involuntarily moaning when he closed his mouth on your nipple. His warm tongue swirled around the hardened flesh as he sucked on it.

“They’ll be really sensitive you know,” he spoke very softly. “Rumor has it I may even make you cum from that. Would you let me make you cum from that?”

He was doing it again, whispering a bunch of audacious words to fluster you, to tease you, and you had less than zero idea why it was doing things to your insides.

“What if you squirted your milk on my cock? What if both of us mixed together tasted incredible?” he filled his lungs to the brim with your scent. “And what if you let me taste our flavor from these lips?”

When you closed your eyes, you could feel his sentences touching all over your body. You were feeling weaker with every word. Warmer. Wetter.

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to satisfy you,” he confessed in hushed tones as if giving you a secret. “It’s not an act. I mean it.”

You sneaked your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you.

“Can we… Can we now…?”

“You want to?”

“Yes.”

“You know what that means, though, right?” he asked somewhat seriously. “You’re gonna be mine. For good.”

It was crazy. The things you were feeling, that you wanted to do were completely batshit crazy, but nothing about that night was within the realm of reason anyway. You kissed him a little too enthusiastically than you intended.

“When you’re about to cum,” you looked dead into his eyes, “I don’t want you to pull out.”

‘Shocked’ didn’t even begin to describe the expression on his face. Something glinted in his eyes. Something delirious. It was so obvious what you just said excited him beyond control, but he was trying so hard to restrain it.

“Are you… Are you seri—?”

“Yes.”

And when you uttered the one word he was secretly hoping to hear, Chris lost his entire shit.

“God, let me fucking breed you.”

He unleashed himself on your lips, and it was nothing like the kisses you had shared so far. So damn intense. Like he was trying to inhale you whole. You wished he kept cursing like that for the rest of the night because by god nothing could be that sexy.

“Tell me when you want me to go deeper, okay baby?” 

You watched him align himself with your entrance and began fucking into you with very shallow thrusts. Even when he met resistance, he could feel your drenched walls clenching around him.

“You feel so fucking good, it’s insane” he moaned breathlessly. “Look how perfectly you fit around me.” 

You didn’t even know where to touch him. You wanted to feel every inch of him. All over you. With wild abandon.

“How does it feel inside?”

“I’m so dizzy,” you clung to his arms, way too consumed with your hunger for him.

“I’ll fill you up so good it’s gonna gush out of you, you know,” his movements started quickening.

“Breed me,” you sank your fingertips deeper into his skin. “Fuck, breed me!!!”

“First time you cursed,” he smiled in pure rapture. “Say it again. Say what you want me to do.”

“Fuck me deeper.”

“Good girl,” he lifted your legs up and angled himself towards his new target. 

He dove deep into your lips as his thrusts started becoming deeper. The drops of sweat were dripping from his forehead on your chest while he was paving his way into you. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper until you felt something snap and finally break free, immediately inducing an arson all over your body.

It felt fucking spectacular inside you.

“This is only our first time. We have so many nights ahead of us,” he kissed your forehead. “You’re gonna learn how to take your man. I’ll teach you.”

“Faster,” you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist. “Go faster. I’m so—”

“But you’re already taking me so well, aren’t you?”

The way he talked to you like that… He knew what he was doing to you, and you fucking loved every bit of it.

“I wanna keep loving you like this,” he picked up his pace and started fucking into you with unmatched fervor. “Just let me.”

And it was the last straw when he began stimulating your clit with his thumb.

“I’m–I’m fucking cumming!!!”

You violently arched into him as he held you and fucked you through your orgasm. His muffled grunts sounded delicious in your mouth. You felt amazing. You felt loved.

And you didn’t feel like this was enough.

“I want to… Want…” your hands reached for his crotch.

“Wanna taste me, too?”

“Y–Yes.”

He immediately obliged and laid down on his back to watch you blow him. He tasted like you. The second you took him in the warmth of your mouth, he started moaning your name so deep from his throat that you couldn’t help clenching. It felt so good to satisfy him, watching him crumble under you like that.

“Like that. Just like that. I’m–I’m so close.”

He attempted to pull away so that he could spill elsewhere, but you didn’t stop.

“Baby, please. I’m not… I’m not gonna last.”

Baby. He called you baby again. When he was in your mouth. When you were sucking his soul out of him. The urge to make him cum got very real very fast all of a sudden.

“If you— Fuck, if you keep going I can’t… I can’t…”

You replicated the trick he did for you and began moaning against his cock. It took only mere seconds until he fucking exploded inside your mouth with very loud groans. Thick, bitter liquid shooting down your throat like that should have felt nasty maybe, but it felt like an act of love instead. It shouldn’t have, but it did. 

When he finally calmed down, he pulled you into a tight embrace and kissed your face off. He could taste himself on your tongue. You thought the layer of regret would start to surface then. You thought you would be yelling at yourself what the fuck you were thinking losing your virginity to an escort, but as far as you were concerned, you lost it to some dorky star shining blindingly bright. 

And you couldn’t feel happier about it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fucking fantastic,” you flashed a fucked out smile to him. “I’ve had a great time tonight.”

He reciprocated the curls on your lips and started playing with your hair again.

“Would it… be okay if we… spent more time together?”

“If this is your way of inviting me back here, I’ll have you know this place is not exactly wallet-friendly.”

“I’m actually inviting you out,” he shifted his gaze from your hair to your eyes. “Dorks can cook really well, too, you know.”

He was not insinuating what you thought he was insinuating because there was absolutely no fucking way—

“Are you…? What are you…?”

“I was hoping for a little more than a patron-host relationship.”

Stunned. Speechless. Floored, even. You forgot all the words in your vocabulary, just blinking at him with mouth agape.

“I’d understand if you don’t want to. I mean who would want to go on a date with an escort, right?”  he briefly averted his gaze. His hand reached to caress your face when he mustered the courage to look at you again. “But I was going to regret it if I didn’t shoot my shot. You wanna… see where this goes?”

As a tiny bit of your wits came back to you, you insisted on holding his gaze this time. 

“Why would you do that for me?”

“I’m doing it for me. I wanted to get to know the woman who asked me to drop the act,” his thumb brushed against your lips. “I don’t feel like letting this go yet.”

Funny, wasn’t it? You had avoided every advance ever for fear of being left high and dry, scared of not being wanted after giving someone what they were really after. The day you decided to say fuck it to everything, with an escort no less, he was asking you whether you wanted to see… where this would go.

Life was sometimes just one big ironic bitch, wasn’t it?

“I think I’d like that,” you replied to him, “but no sex until after the fifth date. I’m not that easy.”

He burst into a giggling fit, immediately followed by kisses all over your face.

“Can I have this dance again?” he asked lovingly, the stars in his eyes shooting into yours as if they were coming back home.

✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.

「© 2022-2024, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

[kayleefriedchicken]

This got me feeling things. I really love such tropes, thank you for writing this.

[jisunggy]

the way you used to sound

-> You and Jisung were inseparable best friends bound by music and a shared dream of college, until he abandoned you without explanation. Eight years later, he's back in your small town, trying to pick up where he left off. When he's assigned to volunteer at the music school you built from scratch, you're forced to relearn each other, and maybe, find harmony again.

Jisung x fem!reader

slice of life, angst, slow burn, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, small town!au, fluff

23.6K

Warnings: mentions of injury and loss of hearing, cursing, kissing, family pressure and toxic dynamics, debt and manipulation, abandonment, angst but a happy ending

this is for @hannieslittlerockstar thank you for always being such a remarkable and comforting friend to me <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The corner of your coloring page is not listening.

The teacher made it look so easy. A little glue on this side, a little glue on that side. Stick it to the construction paper. An easy art project, then snack time, right?

Wrong.

The glue is barely sticky. The corner is already ripping. And to make things worse, the paper is yellow. Yellow!? Come on, yellow isn’t even your third favorite color. Who likes yellow? Pink is way better.

Today is not a good day. 

You didn’t even want to come to kindergarten. There are no friends here, and your chair has an old sticker stuck to the back that's half-ripped, crusty, and definitely not pink. The seat is cold against your legs, the board is too far away, and the teacher smells like old raisins. 

And if that wasn’t bad enough, this stupid paper still won’t stick, no matter how hard you press on it! It hates you! 

“I'm not doing it!” you whine, throwing the glue stick onto the floor. It rolls under your neighbor’s chair, but you’re too grumpy to care.

That’s when a shadow falls over your desk.

You look up and see a boy with messy brown hair, a smudge of dirt on his cheek under a crooked bandaid, and a crayon tucked behind his ear. He sits down right next to you in your chair like he owns half of it, bumping your shoulder as if there’s plenty of room when there absolutely isn’t.

“Hi,” he says, opening his mouth way too wide when he talks.

“Hi,” you reply slowly, giving him a confused wave. “You know, this is my chair.” 

“We can share it!” he says gleefully. 

“But I don't want to…” 

He doesn't bother hearing your mumbled response. Instead, he pulls a glue stick from his pocket and rubs it over the curling corner of your page. It's the purple kind, so you know it's good. Not whatever clear crap the teacher gave you. With both hands, he presses the edges down until they stick like magic. 

“There,” he says proudly, grinning at his work. “Now it won’t fly off.” 

“Wow.” You blink at him, suddenly unworried about him occupying your chair. “You’re really good at glue sticks.”

“Yeah. I’ve had a lot of practice. I went to a different kindergarten before this one, and they had a huge bucket of glue sticks. Like twenty or something.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Glue sticks aren’t even my favorite.”

“They’re not?”

“Nope. I like dinosaurs and drums.” He nods, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s your favorite?”

You think for a second. “I like Squishmallows and pink castles.” 

“Castles aren’t pink,” he says, frowning.

“Princess castles are pink.” 

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. Princess castles are pink,” he agrees with a friendly nod. “But regular castles are gray.”

“I don’t really like regular castles,” you explain. 

“Me neither.”

There’s a pause. Then you tug at his sleeve to make him look at you again. “Why did you sit in my chair?”

He leans in a little, a shy but confident smile on his lips. “Do you wanna be friends? I’ll share my glue stick.”

You glance down at your paper, now flat and glued for the perfect A+. “Okay. We can be friends. My name is ___.”

“My name is Jisung.”

“I like your name.”

“I like your name too,” he smiles, all teeth and squinted eyes. “Hey! At recess, do you wanna see my dinosaur sticker collection? I have twenty-four stickers. That’s a lot, but I’m getting more. Mom said I could get another pack of stickers if I make a friend at school.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you shrug. 

You're not really into dinosaurs, but you do like stickers. And even though he's only being your friend to get more dinosaur stickers, at least you can say there's one person at school you like talking to. 

“Is pink your favorite color?”

“Uh huh.” 

“I have a pink triceratops. You can have it if you want. Since we’re friends now.”

Your eyes go wide. “For real?”

“Yeah!”

“Thanks, Jisung.” Your heart does a little jump inside your chest, but you're not sure exactly why. It's the first time it's done that. 

All of a sudden, kindergarten doesn’t feel so awful.

Your cold chair doesn’t bother you as much, and Jisung helps you peel the ugly sticker off the back (he's really good at peeling stickers). The yellow paper doesn’t make you want to cry anymore. The teacher still smells like raisins, but you actually kind of like raisins. 

And you like having a friend like Jisung, even though he does things you don't fully understand. 

Like he digs at least one hole in the sandbox every recess. 

And he always puts his new dinosaur stickers on random places on his body. 

And he likes to hit stuff with rulers or pencils or anything he can use as drum sticks. 

And he doesn't like animal crackers. 

But on the other hand, there are a lot of things you do like about him.  

Like how he always asks you how deep his sandbox hole should be before he digs, because you're the “sandbox captain.” 

And how he always gives you his pink dinosaur stickers even if they're his favorite type of dinosaur. 

And how he always squishes into your chair during free time and plays you the newest song he made with his pencils. 

And how he always gives you his animal crackers during snack time. 

And not once all year long – not even once – did he let you walk alone. 

He made it very clear from the start that if he had to grow up, he was going to grow up with you. 

And he did! 

Growing up with Jisung felt like running downhill laughing, fast, a little risky, and impossible to stop once it started. But perhaps the greatest fun you've ever had. 

Every grade felt new and different, but somehow it always circled back to the two of you. 

You had years when you got lucky and ended up in the same class, desks side by side because the universe understood how it was supposed to be. You'd whisper during quiet time, doodle on each other’s worksheets, and share answers like your lives depended on it.

And then there was that one year. The one when the school made a terrible mistake and put you in opposite corners of the classroom. 

You tried to be normal about it. You really did. But the texts started before the first bell even rang, and the paper airplanes got more creative by the day. One time, Jisung managed to fold an entire origami dinosaur out of a pink envelope that landed perfectly in your lap.

By October, the teacher had moved him to the desk beside yours for everyone’s sanity. 

Jisung grew to be chaotic and charming in equal measure, and you cherished every moment of him. 

The year he got his first drum set, you helped him put it together piece by piece without waking his parents. That morning, the house shook with every beat he made. 

By Spring, he had a guitar too. Not because he needed it. Just because he wanted to learn how to play something that could sing with him.

You got your own guitar the year after. Not because you were trying to copy him, but because his music sounded lonely, and you wanted to create a melody that could keep him company. 

He taught you the basics, his fingers guiding yours over the strings. His patience, which was never his strong suit, surprisingly endless when it came to you.

Your friendship was already strong, anchored in years of inside jokes, scraped knees, and promises whispered between textbooks. But music found its way into the middle of it and changed everything.

Not suddenly. Not all at once.

But slowly, like a thread being pulled through your hearts. 

At first, it was just a shared hobby. Then it became late nights writing lyrics under porch lights, sharing headphones on long bus rides, scribbling chords in the margins of each other's notes. 

And somewhere in the middle of all that sound, something shifted.

You started to hear him differently. 

Because music didn’t just give your friendship a purpose. It gave it weight. It gave it a future. It gave you both something bigger to believe in, something you could build, chase, and dream. 

You didn't talk about that shift out loud. It lived in the quiet moments, in how his harmonies always found yours without trying, in how you wrote better lyrics when he was around, and in how his smile always lingered longer after you played.

Music turned your bond into something deeper. Something permanent.

And if love was anywhere in your lives at the time, it was probably hiding between the verses, unbeknownst to either of you. 

Unspoken yet undeniable. 

And then came the year he let it slip that he had a crush. His first ever crush. 

“Just tell me!” you whined, hanging off his arm as you walked. “You owe me a name at least.” 

“I owe you nothing. This information is classified.”

“I gave you half my cookie at lunch.” 

“And I will carry the memory of that sacrifice in my heart forever,” he said with a hand over his chest. 

“Jisung.”

“Yes?” 

“I’ll give you my limited edition strawberry milk guitar pick. The shiny one.”

He was visibly tempted. But stood his ground. “That’s cruel. How dare you weaponize our friendship.”

“Then tell me!” 

“Nope. Taking this one to the grave.”

You crossed your arms, putting a foot of space between the two of you now. “You like watching me suffer.”

“A little,” he teased, grinning. 

“Is it someone I know?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh my god, that means yes!” 

“I didn’t say that,” he corrected you a bit too quickly. 

“You didn’t not say it.” 

“You could guess a hundred names and still not get it.”

You grabbed hold of his arm again, leaning in close with a sly smile. “Challenge accepted.”

For a second, he actually looked like he might have been enjoying your insistence. His smile faded just a little. Warm eyes dropped to your arm linked with his. 

“It’s really not that deep, I promise.”

Trying to get a secret out of Jisung was like unwrapping a present with a hundred layers of paper. You knew there was something inside, something important, but it always took forever to get to. And if he didn't want you to reach the inside, you never would. 

Eventually, you accepted that he was never going to tell you. And while that quietly bruised your pride, you had to respect his boundaries. Even when you so urgently wanted to be privy to everything about him. 

Not knowing his first crush hurt even more because you were there for all his other firsts. 

The first time he tried debate club. Lasted exactly one meeting and declared it “too much eye contact.”

The first time he tried basketball. He was gone by week three, citing “unnecessary sweating” and “weird locker room energy.” Sports were never his thing anyway. 

So, you made him a different offer…

“Why don't we make our own club?” 

“We can do that!?” 

“Yeah, our school lets us choose our own extracurriculars, and they don't have to be something provided by the school. We can make our own club out of anything. All we have to do is prove to the school that it's beneficial to our mind or body,” you explain with air quotes. “Didn't you read the school handbook?” 

“Of course not.” 

And you remember that day so clearly. The day the school approved your and Jisung's Guitar Club. He talked about it for hours, eyes shining, voice full of that rare kind of excitement he only got when he stumbled into something right. 

You grew up next to him, with him, around him. He was your constant. Your loudest cheerleader and softest place to land. You swore you'd never forget any of it. And you haven't.

But the years start to blur together, every laugh, every club meeting, every song shared in secret. All the little pieces of growing up tangle together until it's hard to tell where one year ended and the next began. 

Kindergarten feels like a lifetime ago. You’re not playing with glue sticks and dinosaur stickers anymore. Crayons have been traded for chords, lunchroom chatter for quiet walks with your guitars slung across your backs. 

Now, there’s talk of college applications and deadlines, scholarships and majors. Everyone’s worried about their future, about money, about what comes next. The air feels heavier in the hallways lately, like there’s something closing in.

But not for you. 

Because you have Jisung. And Jisung has you.

You made a promise to each other. A promise to chase music together, side by side, no matter what. While everyone else scrambles to figure out where they’re going, you already know. 

You’ve got your guitar, your songs, and him.

You don’t need much else.

You and Jisung are inseparable best friends bound by a shared dream of music. A rhythm that’s always been in sync. A harmony that's never needed tuning.

And if you know anything for sure in this crazy world, it’s this:

You’re charging the future head-on. Together. 

(8 years later) 

You stack the sheet music unevenly by instrument, difficulty level, and how likely each student is to completely panic before the performance.  

It’s almost Fall Festival weekend, and your music school is on the books for providing the “charm” for your small town showcase (again). Which means a dozen kids on mismatched instruments, two barely rehearsed songs, one nervous soloist, and your last shred of patience.

You sigh, placing a final page into the “rewrite” pile. Then you grab the overflowing trash bin from beside the piano and hoist it over your shoulder – your final chore for the day before you can go home and crash. 

The side door creaks as you push it open with your hip, stepping out into the warm afternoon. It’s one of those still days. Sun high, cicadas buzzing in the trees, and that ever-present humidity clinging to the air that only this town can deliver in late September.

Here, the air always smells a little like moss and catfish and old smoke. It’s the kind of small Southern town where people tan like it’s their job, wear tank tops year round, and call a little dirt on your cheek “character.” No one really cares about anything, and nights are reserved for bonfires by the lake and fireworks someone definitely got through illegal means. 

That's your town. You love it for what it is. And even though you considered leaving at one point in your life, somehow you knew deep down that you would always end up staying here. 

You round the corner toward the dumpster, muttering to yourself about whether third graders really need confetti to play the tambourine. 

Swinging the trash bag over the rim of the dumpster, you glance across the street as naturally as one does when the only other sight is an alleyway dead end and a stray cat. 

Across the street, just beyond the row of rusted newspaper boxes and half-dead hanging ferns, stands a figure. He's leaning casually against a brick wall beside the old bookstore. Head down. Hands holding open a paperback. Casual. Unbothered. Like his cut off graphic t-shirt, black choker, and black skinny jeans don’t stick out like a sore thumb against the humble background. 

Odd.

He lifts his head, profile reflecting in the setting sun, a sharp jawline creating shadows across his neck and collarbone. Fluffy brown hair. Distant eyes. Small waist. Tan skin. And a laid-back-nothing-matters attitude that high school you would have gone crazy for. 

Your heart jolts before your eyes even recognize him. 

His name hits you like a bullet. Sudden, sharp, and from nowhere in particular.

And just like that, your brain flickers through life like an old projector, casting grainy memories across your mind. One rolls, then another, and another. You try to stop them, try to blink them away, but they come too fast. Too many. Too vivid.

Laughter by the lake. Fingers ghosting guitar strings. A pink dinosaur sticker in your palm.

You’re not ready to remember, but your heart doesn’t ask for permission. 

He hasn’t seen you. He’s not even looking in your direction, just watching the sidewalk and the occasional car pass by. 

Your fingers tighten around the sleeves of your sweater. It's ridiculous, really, how fast everything in your body reacts. The way your heart races as if running. The way your pulse stumbles. The way your body temperature spikes. 

You turn around. 

Fast.

Yanking open the side door again, you duck back inside, the bell above it jangling like it’s laughing. 

You lean against the wall, holding a hand to your diaphragm as you attempt to settle the chaos inside. How is it that after all these years, a simple sighting has you breathing so sporadically? 

Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe the stress of the Fall Festival is finally catching up with you. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him. Some stranger with the same tilt to his shoulders and lazy way of leaning like gravity owes him a favor. 

Because it couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t come back here. Not after everything.

It's just someone who looks an awful lot like him, it has to be. 

Still, your curiosity betrays you. 

You inch toward the front window of the studio, careful not to let your shoes squeak against the floor lest he hear them from all the way across the street. Peeking between the blinds, your eyes scan the sidewalk.

There he is.

At the counter of the bookstore, sliding a worn paperback across the counter. He pays with cash, mumbles something polite, and tucks the book into his bag slung across his shoulder.  

Then he turns.

Not toward you – thank god – but down the street, toward Midtown. Toward the same cracked sidewalks and corner stores that watched him leave all those years ago. 

You watch him go until he disappears around the block. 

There’s no denying it. That was him.

The way he moved, the shape of his shoulders, the soft slump in his walk – although carrying a kind of tiredness he didn't used to carry.  

He's back in town.

But for what?

Your fingers curl around the window frame as you squint past the smudge of your own reflection. His silhouette is already gone, swallowed by the curve of the street and the lull of traffic. You half expect your memory to play tricks on you. To say it was all just a misfire, a momentary mistake. 

But your heart knows better. The way it dropped when you saw him was evidence enough. 

You thought he wasn’t supposed to come back. Not after you buried that heartbreak time and time again, finally deep enough that you could build a brand new life on top of it. 

What business does he have coming back now? After all this time? 

Will he be here long enough for you to run into him? If you do, what will you say? Should you try to avoid him? Let things happen naturally? Act coy? Act friendly? Like the last eight years never happened? 

Frantic energy crawls beneath your skin, leaving you itchy with unease. Claustrophobia tightens its grip around your ribs. You don’t trust your body or mind when it comes to him. There’s no telling what you might say or do if you actually ran into him. Whether you’d freeze, lash out, or fall apart completely.

It’s been a while since your old friend Anxiety came knocking. Things had finally quieted down in your head after hardening your heart and rebranding your soul. The chaos dulled, and the ache became manageable. 

But now? It’s a mess again. A loud, spiraling storm that reminds you exactly how it felt in those college years of being blind sided and abandoned, left to figure out life and loss on your own without your best friend. 

You’d learned how to cope back then. You had no other choice but to piece together a new life from the wreckage and build it strong enough to stand on your own. 

Yet, here comes the bitterness, right on schedule. You didn’t expect it to hit this hard. Didn’t expect to feel this petty, this angry, this hurt. You thought you were past all that.

Apparently not.

Because now you’re imagining what you’d say if you ran into him again. The things you’d scream, or maybe the things you’d quietly confess just to make him feel even a fraction of what you did. 

And what burns the most? It’s not just the anger. It’s the grief you never processed, still humming underneath it all. The fact that, after all this time, just the sight of him is enough to wreck you.

He still gets to you more than you want to admit. But it's not good for you. He's not good for you. He may be your childhood best friend, but he's also a liar and a coward. You have to remind yourself that no matter how well you knew him before, he's not the same person he was at seventeen. 

And you're not either. 

You're much colder. Thanks to him. 

:: 

You’re already running late when you slip into the back of the community center, lungs stinging from sprinting across the parking lot in this hellish midday heat.  

Most seats are filled, but the faces are familiar. Karla, the town hairdresser, gives you a wave – she's doing the kids' hair and outfits for the show. Felix, the town baker, offers you a warm smile – he's in charge of refreshments and treats. 

It's a good group of good people who want to put on a good Festival for the town. That's why, even though they may be a little rough around the edges, you give your best effort to make up for the things you lack, so you can contribute. 

Unfortunately, there are no closer seats, so you slip into one on the side and pull out your notepad to jot down anything you're likely to forget.

The Committee Lead is already at the front, giving direction and context for the Festival. It's a few weeks away, and while a lot has been done, this town wouldn't be your hometown without some last-minute scrambling. 

You’re halfway through jotting down a to-do list for your school when Felix bumps your arm gently.

You glance up to find the Committee Lead watching you with raised eyebrows, patiently waiting for a response.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t hear. What was that?” 

She offers a warm smile, knowingly merciful and without pity. You've seen that smile a lot since the incident, but this town never makes you feel small or helpless. Just another reason you stayed.

“We’ll need all acts finalized by Friday so we can print signage,” she says louder but just as kindly. “That means rehearsals need to stay on track. Do you have an update on the kids’ music performance?”

“Oh, yes! We’re solid,” you reply. “The kids are ready for another run-through this afternoon. The solos are confirmed. Just need a bit more practice.” 

“Perfect. We’re expecting a bigger tourist turnout this year, so we’ve added extra volunteers to support the performance teams. Put them to good use. I’ll go down the list now…”

That’s when the back door swings open.

And the energy shifts.

You don’t need to look to know who it is. The change is sudden and electric, the chill from the doors swinging open hits your back and sends shivers up your spine. 

He steps into the room a beat behind the silence, lifting his hand in a casual wave, apologizing for being late. Like he has every right to be here.

Your pen freezes. 

“Ah, there he is,” the Lead says brightly. “Most of you probably remember Han Jisung. His parents used to be on the committee, and his grandfather ran the old bookstore before he passed away. Jisung just moved back, and we’re thrilled to welcome another musical mind to the team. He’ll be assisting with the youth performance group.”

And just like that, your old friend Anxiety pays another visit. 

No. This can't be real. 

Some joke about “correcting his big city habits” sparks a few laughs around the room, and someone from the back pipes up with, “Isn’t that the same kid who used to beatbox in the church parking lot?”

He laughs, a little sheepish but cocky as ever. “Guilty.”

That laugh is too dangerous, too familiar, too easy. It doesn’t belong in this room, not beside everything you worked hard to build without him. 

The Lead turns back to you. “___, you’ll be his point of contact. He’ll start helping at your school today.” 

Your head snaps up. “Wait, today?”

“Yeah,” she says matter-of-factly. “The kids have rehearsals this afternoon, right?” 

“Yep…they certainly do.” 

You feel Jisung’s gaze attempting to lure you in, but you look away before direct eye contact can be made. 

The Committee Lead thanks him for something and blah blah blah. Jisung says something about growing up here and being more involved again and wanting to give back – you tune it all out. 

Your heart has flatlined, a static ring in your ear as the rest of the room drifts into a muffled background.  

That voice. That stupid, gentle, boyish voice. Even after all these years, it’s just as warm and sharp as you remember. The only difference being it's dropped about three octaves. 

You lift your gaze slowly to get a full, close-up look at him for the first time. 

There he is. Han Jisung. Standing amidst the people of your town, like he never left them. Like he never left you. 

His hair is a little shorter than you remember. His shoulders broader. Legs longer. But the way he squeezes his eyes shut when he laughs and rubs the back of his neck while he talks…some things don’t change.

His eyes meet yours.

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze. Regret? Hope? You don't know. You don’t want to know.

You just want to leave.

But you don’t. Because you're not seventeen anymore. And the last time you ran from something painful, it nearly ruined you.

So, you press your lips together, nod once in his general direction to offer a polite recognition, and look away.  

:: 

(8 years ago) 

You’re not supposed to be here. 

Technically, you’re supposed to be in third-period English, listening to an explanation of symbolism using a book you never finished reading. But when Jisung texted, you didn’t hesitate. You never do, not when it comes to him.  

So here you are, brushing past low-hanging branches and stepping over prickly bushes and sun-bleached beer cans, until the woods part and the clearing unfolds in front of you like a movie. 

The pier looks like it’s one strong wind away from collapsing into the lake. The planks beneath you groan with every weight shift, weather-warped and softened from years of storms and lazy summers. Weeds sprout through the gaps, curling around your ankles like they’re trying to reclaim the place. Someone spray-painted a crooked heart near the edge, a little faded now, because the love stories here don’t last long. 

That's your town. You love it for what it is. 

But what you really love about your town is that Han Jisung lives in it. 

He's already here, lying back with his arms behind his head, the toes of his beat-up sneakers tapping softly to some rhythm in his mind, and his rebuilt acoustic lying beside him. The shadows of the overhanging trees create shapes across his cheek, the pinchable one with “character.” 

He hears your footsteps and leans his head back to look at you upside down, smile never wavering. 

“You made it!” Not that he ever doubted you would.

You step out onto the creaky wood of the boardwalk, careful where you place your feet, because the whole thing is holding itself together out of habit – but you like to imagine it's holding out for the two of you. Because you need a place like this to escape. 

You sit. Not just on the boardwalk, but right next to him. Because where Jisung is has always felt like where you’re supposed to be. 

The lake ripples quietly underneath you, sunlight catching on the water like shattered glass. You hang your leg off the edge of the pier, bare toes dipping into the warm, spring water.

It’s peaceful here. Still, quiet, and forgotten by everyone except the two of you. The kind of place that feels like it only exists when you're in it together. You like it that way. 

Jisung sits up, brushing a leaf from his hoodie sleeve and settling his guitar into his lap. You swing your six-string over your shoulder with the same practiced ease, plucking the pick from between the strings without even thinking about it.

“Do you remember the new harmony we made last time?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” but then you question yourself. “I think so.” 

At the same time, you and Jisung strum.

But the sound clangs, off-key and uneven. You wince at the horrid sound, but Jisung just chuckles. 

“That’s not quite it,” he teases, standing and crossing the short distance between you. 

Before you can protest, he places himself behind you, presence warm at your back. His hand reaches around, careful but sure as it guides your fingers to the right fret. His calloused fingertips brush yours as they steady on the correct chord, and then gently, he presses your fingertips into the strings.

“Like this. Try it now.” 

Your pulse stutters as you strum. The air carries your music from the hollow instrument to the edge of the lake and beyond, a balanced and soothing sound that seems to gather little animals and bugs all around. 

“You got it now,” he says quietly, smiling when he looks at you. “Easy peasy lemon squeezey, right?” 

You turn your head slightly, and all of a sudden, you're much closer than you thought you would be. Close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to notice the small scar on his bottom lip from where he bit it earlier. But you don't move away immediately; because as soon as you notice the lack of distance between your faces, your muscles lock up, and all you can do is wait for him to either inch closer or run away. 

His hand twitches when he removes it from your hand, almost tripping backward when he stands up, clearing his throat as if nothing happened.

But your sensitive skin and the pounding in your chest say otherwise. 

“Let's try again,” he suggests, readying his guitar. 

Now, when you strum together, the sound dances across the lake in perfect harmony, lending its beauty to the quiet lakeside and gathering nature. 

Jisung smiles. Not the usual cheeky one he throws around at school, but the kind that’s soft in the corners and reserved just for you. 

You might have noticed it, if you paid attention. But when you play music, it becomes all of you. Encapsulating and all encompassing. 

Your fingers move like they were born to do this. The music is already inside you; the guitar is just the way it gets out. Sometimes your eyes flutter shut, sometimes you bite your lip without realizing, and sometimes you hum under your breath, as if the song is pulling itself out of you piece by piece.

Jisung tells himself to focus on the chords, on the rhythm, on the lyrics he wants to write. But every time, without fail, he ends up watching your hands. Not in a weird way. Just...in awe.

He’s seen you do this a hundred times before, but it still gets him. The way the sunset somehow makes your hair even more beautiful. The way your voice seems to ride on the wind to reach his ears. The way your music fills the air and makes everything else – school, parents, college applications, the future – fade into nothing. 

Right now, his thoughts are bombarded with too much background noise. And he just wants to be with you instead, so maybe you can make it all go away. 

He likes the sound of your voice when you talk, but it’s different when you sing.

It’s not just beautiful.

It’s honest.

And when you're beside him like this, pouring yourself into the strings, laughing quietly when you hit a wrong note, trying again without ever getting frustrated, he forgets why he was stressed in the first place. 

He glances at your eyes. You're looking at the water now, completely unaware that you've stopped his world without even trying.

Jisung clears his throat and looks down at his own guitar instead.

"Good warm-up," he says, pretending to tune a string that doesn’t need tuning. “So, what do you want to write today?”

“I don't know…I kinda like this eerie, almost sad sound we started with. You know, kinda like this…” You pick a few half-formed chords, and then he jumps in with you. 

“Oh, yeah, I really like that,” he sighs, copying your chord progression with ease. “It's heartbroken. Like the song wants to confess something, but knows it'll change things. The song is aching to say the truth, but it knows in the end, the truth will only break its heart.” 

You try not to read into the way he says things. The way his voice goes soft at the end. You try not to read into a lot of things when it comes to Jisung. But sometimes, it's difficult not to hide his words in your heart. 

The pieces of a song start to fall into place with each slow and longing strum. He hums along like he’s trying to catch it midair. It’s always been like this with you two – one of you finds the melody, the other finds the meaning. 

“Yeah, I like this vibe a lot,” he says suddenly, sitting up and grabbing a crumpled notebook from his bag, the same one he's been writing in for the last year. “I think the lyrics should have a sense of desperation or something maybe.” 

“Like what?”

“Like…” he thinks for a moment, “wanting more than you’re supposed to. Like chasing things that you know you'll never catch but chasing them anyway.” 

“Sounds like unrequited love.”

He shrugs. “Or just regular life.”

“Should we both write our own lyrics and then share them with each other? Like we did that one time?” you ask, nudging his knee lightly with yours.

Jisung pauses for half a second too long. Just enough for you to notice.

He shrugs again, but it’s tighter this time. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds cool.”

Cool. He says it like he’s trying to muffle something. Like maybe the noise in his head is louder than he’s letting on. 

You watch as he flips open the crumpled notebook and props it on his knee. His pen hovers over the page but doesn’t move yet. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, a habit you’ve seen a hundred times, usually when he’s trying to act chill and failing.

“You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah,” he says quickly, eyes on the paper. “Just thinking about how to start the chorus.” 

But you’re not so sure.

Because he’s quiet in the way Jisung rarely is, and it makes something twist in your gut. Something about him feels off. 

You strum your guitar softly while he starts to write, your mind matching lyrics with the right chords. It’s easier to focus on the strings than the boy beside you suddenly holding his breath.

And you don’t know what he’s writing. But for the first time, you wonder if maybe it’s about someone else, and you start to feel something akin to anxiety creeping in. 

Perhaps you shouldn’t use this moment to your advantage. That would be unfair. He asked you to write something that matches the vibe of the song, not something that pulls from the very thing you’ve been hiding since you met him. 

But when you try to think of lyrics of unrequited love, of wanting something you’re not allowed to want, he’s the only thing that comes to mind. 

The song fits him too well. Or maybe he fits the song.

His boyishly handsome charm and the way it sneaks up on you, like summer freckles or your favorite song on shuffle. His brown hair that ruffles in the breeze, a little messy, a little too long, but it suits him best. His carefree nature and forgetful tendencies, and yet somehow he remembers the lyrics to a song you hummed once during a car ride to the grocery store. 

He’s clueless in the cute ways, a little reckless in the harmless ways, and sometimes you wonder if he’ll ever understand just how deeply he matters to you. 

The truth is, the music inside you, every chord, every word, every feeling you’ve never said aloud, is mostly him. And he doesn’t even know it.

The easy way he laughs. The way he always taps his foot in class. The way he notices when you’re quiet but never pushes when you don’t want to explain. The way he’s never once said what you wanted to hear and always says what you need to hear. 

He’s the echo in your melody, the reason you even picked up a guitar in the first place. So how are you supposed to write about anything else?

You know you should keep it vague. Keep it safe. But the truth is already humming under your skin, desperate to be sung. 

And deep down, you know if anyone ever deserved to be turned into a song, it’s him.  

“Okay…” you say once you have a verse in mind, “can I go first?” 

“Sure.” 

You nod and start playing. A few soft chords. A haunting progression that sounds a lot like something breaking quietly in the background. And then you sing the lyrics, matching the chords with your voice, heart spilling out… 

I love you in the silence, in the space you’ll never see,

In the words I never say, when you're sitting next to me, 

You laugh like we're just kids, like the world’s still wide and free, 

While I’m loving you in secret, where your heart won’t look for me. 

You barely look at him when you sing. You just keep your eyes on the strings, letting your fingers guide you. Your voice is soft but steady, carried by the gentle hush of the lake and the creaking of the old pier beneath you.

But he’s not looking at the water.

He’s looking at you.

Jisung goes still the moment the first line leaves your mouth. His foot stops tapping. His pen slips slightly in his hand, forgotten halfway through a thought. The easy rhythm he always carries with him, the one that lives in his fingers, stutters.

And when you sing the third line, his brows pull together just a little as something inside him shifts and he tries to keep it from showing. 

By the time you sing the last line, his throat is working around a swallow. His fingers are tightening around the edge of his notebook, knuckles pale, but he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move.

You strum the final chord and let it fade. The silence that follows is thick and aching, waiting for something to break it.

But Jisung doesn’t speak. Not right away.

He just stares at you like he’s hearing you for the first time. Like he’s finally understanding something he should’ve seen a long time ago. 

When he finally does say something, his voice is too soft for teasing.

“Did…did you just write that?”

You nod.

And for a second, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you with soft eyes, chest rising and falling a little too fast, caught between staying silent and asking a question he’s terrified to know the answer to.

“It's, uhh, it's really good,” he clears his throat, pushing down whatever may have been tempting him. 

“What did you write?” 

“The chorus, or what could be the chorus, I guess.”

“Let's hear it.” 

Although he's unsure, he begins humming along with the first few strums of his guitar, steadily picking up the tempo as it naturally leads into the main part of the song… 

I’m packing up pieces, but you don’t even know,

‘Cause I smile like always and keep it all low,

If I tell you I’m leaving, I’m afraid you’ll see through, 

The hardest part isn't leaving my childhood behind, 

It’s losing you. 

You freeze.

Not in a dramatic way. Your hands don’t drop from your guitar, your breath doesn’t hitch loud enough to hear, or some other cheesy reaction. But inside, everything just...stills.

Because those words, those exact words. They aren't random. He chose them with careful intentionality. 

They aren't just poetic or clever or vague enough to pass as metaphor. They're personal. They're him. They're his experiences and his feelings. 

You blink, eyes locked on his fingers as they move across the strings, but it’s not the chords you’re focused on anymore. 

It’s the way he won’t face you. 

He used to look at you when he sang. Grinning, nudging, checking to see if you're on the same rhythm, sticking his tongue out at you between verses. 

But not now.

His eyes are fixed somewhere just beyond the lake, on a random piece of wood, anywhere but your face. His voice is barely a whisper, suggesting that if he raises it any more, it might crack. 

“Did you just write that?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods. 

“It’s really sad.”

He doesn’t answer, not with words. But you see it. The shift in his expression, the way his jaw tenses, and his mouth pulls slightly to the side as he fights his own emotions. 

“Jisung,” you say gently, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes go glassy. Not in the sweet, sentimental way like when he cries during Pixar movies or when his guitar string snaps. 

This is different.

He turns his face away quickly, reaching down to pluck a piece of grass pushing through the boards of the pier. He tosses it into the lake like it means nothing, downplaying the moment like he always does. Then, as if rewinding time, he smooths his expression back into something flat, something neutral, and finally turns back to you. 

But you’ve already seen it.

You’ve known Jisung long enough to recognize when he’s lying.

“Come on, there’s obviously something bothering you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Everything’s fine. Just wanted the lyrics to match the vibe we chose.” 

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever it is, I’m always here for you. I’m on your side no matter what.”

He nods, blinking quickly, his eyes rimmed red. Still, no tears fall. He won’t let them.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But there’s nothing going on. I’m just...really feeling this song.”

And maybe that’s not a complete lie.

But you can't help but think the song is only half of the truth here. 

You study him for a long moment, unsure what to say next. The last thing you want to do is push too hard and make him retreat further behind carefully built walls. 

So you just nod.

You pluck at your guitar strings a little, not really playing anything, just giving your hands something to do. The silence stretches between you again, softer now. Not as tense, but not exactly comfortable either.

Jisung wipes his eyes and reaches for his notebook, flipping to a clean page with slightly trembling fingers. He taps his pen against the spiral binding, like he’s deciding something. Then he glances at you, and for a second, he looks like he might say it. Whatever it is. 

His lips part. His eyes hold yours. And your heart skips, caught in the anticipation. 

But then he closes the notebook and sets it aside.

Instead, he smiles. That crooked, boyish smile that always looks a little brighter than he probably feels.

“I think the bridge should be a little louder,” he says. “Something that punches through the heaviness. What do you think?” 

And just like that, the moment passes.

“Sounds like just what the song needs.” 

You smile back, but there’s a weight in your chest now. A knot that wasn’t there before. Because whatever it is that he’s hiding…it matters. It matters a whole lot to him, which means it matters a hella lot to you. 

But he’s not ready to share it with you. Not yet anyway. 

If Jisung doesn't want you to know what's under those hundred layers of wrapping paper, then you won't know until he's ready. 

So you nod again and adjust your guitar. And together, you keep playing until the sun falls behind the lakeside, and you can barely see your fingers for the light of the moon.

:: 

(Present day) 

Jisung has walked this same road a hundred times. 

So, why does the pavement feel different now? Sure, it's been redone in places, patched up potholes and filled in sinkholes. He didn't stay seventeen, so it's a little silly to think the town would have frozen in time. 

But still, his hometown road is more than the rocks he used to kick down the sidewalk in tenth grade. Isn't it? It's odd to think he used to take this route every afternoon, considering nothing looks the same. 

The rusty gas station he used to frequent before school is gone, replaced with a fast food joint. The tree he used to climb and do his homework in has been cut down. It probably got too tall for the powerlines. 

That (allegedly) haunted house with the chipped paint has been redone. And the old souvenir shop’s big glass window has been filled in with brick. He wonders if those rumors of burglars scared the shop owner into finally getting some better security. 

For every familiar-unfamiliar step, what really gets his anxiety going is the thought of where this road is taking him. 

It’s been almost a decade since he saw you, the last impression he left being that of a coward.   

He never told you why he left. His stupid, adolescent brain thought silence was easier than expecting you to understand everything that had gone wrong all at once.

Still…you deserved more than silence. 

What did you say about him after he left? Did you tell your friends he was selfish, or did you just stop talking about him altogether? Maybe you cried. Maybe you refused to cry. 

He wonders if you opened your college acceptance letter with your parents. Or if you moved into the dorms with someone else by your side. He should’ve been there. That was the plan after all. 

Late night study sessions, instant ramen, shared playlists, a thousand little things that could’ve been yours together. He missed all of it.

He missed you.

You’re in all of his best memories. And even though time has passed and life has changed, you’ve always remained golden in his mind, basked in the light of how things used to be.

Your memories of him probably look a lot different. Abandonment has a way of rewriting even the happiest things. 

He doesn’t know what he’ll say when he sees you. Maybe he should’ve planned something. Maybe winging it is reckless. All he knows is that pretending nothing happened would be worse. 

He can’t act like he didn’t disappear. 

He's been a ghost for the last eight years. Does he even have the right to act human now? 

After all, there’s a high probability you won't be interested in listening to him at all. But he hopes you will. Even if you don’t forgive him, just seeing you again is a start. 

Your name is on a hanging sign out front, seemingly only there to spark a feeling of uncertainty and insubordination in his chest, as if he has any right to be here. 

Despite his uneasy nerves, Jisung steps into the music building, clutching the strap of his guitar a little too tightly across his chest. It's his only acoustic left after selling most of his equipment. He just…couldn't get rid of it. Not this one.

You’re already here, across the room, kneeling by a storage bin and coaxing a knot out of a mess of cords. The way your hands move, steady and practiced, makes Jisung wonder how many times you’ve done that without anyone around to help.

He hovers in the doorway for a second too long, then clears his throat. 

“Hey.”

No response.

“Hi?” The greeting comes out thinner than he meant it because suddenly his mouth feels far too dry. 

Damn it, he knew he should have thought this through better. Should he call you by your first name? No, that's too familiar. Boss? No, that's too stiff. Your last name? No, that just sounds stupid.

By the time he's done thinking himself in circles, he's probably lost his only chance for a smooth re-introduction. 

He sighs, defeated. “I suppose, I should have expected the silent treatment, huh?” 

You just keep working, laser-focused, like he’s not even in the room. 

“I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to me.” He takes a small step inside, slower this time, unsure whether to speak again or just shut up and wait for the kids to get here. “I guess, is it totally weird for me to say…I mean, what I've wanted to say for eight years is…I'm sorry. And I’ve missed you.” 

You finally stand up straight, turning around only to nearly jump out of your skin with a loud gasp. 

“Oh my god! What– when did you come in? Don't scare me like that!” 

“But I was…you didn't hear…huh?” he stutters, pointing at the door, then you, then himself in confusion. 

You spot the doorway above his head and let out a quiet huff, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you drag a chair across the floor.

Propping it beneath the frame, you climb up, stretching to free a bell that’s been muted by its chain snagging on the hinge. 

“It's fine,” you sigh, stepping down. “Just make at least some noise when you come in from now on, will ya?” 

“Uh, y-yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” 

“I know. Come on,” you gesture for him to follow, so he frantically grabs the chair, hauling it with him as he shuffles along. 

“The music hall is in the back. That's where we hold rehearsals, and you can work on your own stuff during downtime if you want. Mini fridge is in the break room, extra equipment is in storage, and the dumpster is through the side door in the alleyway – make sure you take the trash out when it's full. Rehearsals are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 4:00pm. Be early.” You stop and turn around suddenly. “Any questions?” 

“No, ma’am,” he says, nearly fumbling the chair. 

“Don’t call me ma’am.” You step forward, taking it from him before he drops it and setting it down neatly against the wall. “We’re the same age, remember?”

“Right,” he says slowly, a hint of sentimentality in his tone. “I remember.”

“And you remember my name.” Something flickers across your face when your voice unconsciously begins to soften. "Don't you?” 

A warning in your eyes tells him you’re bracing yourself for the answer. Perhaps for the hurt if he’s forgotten. Or for what it might stir in you to hear him say it after so long. 

“___.” 

The sound of it, after eight years of silence, scrapes over your heart more than your ears. Your reaction is small. Inconspicuous. But his eyes are fixed on you, and he sees it. 

A much too recognizable habit picking at your cuticles. A habit he thought he’d forgotten about until now. Up until now, you've appeared unfazed, calm, cool, distant. But that tiny tell gives you away…

You’re just as unsettled to see him again as he is to see you.

You follow his line of sight to your hand before hiding it behind your back, and instead nodding at the beat up instrument on his back. 

“You brought your guitar.” 

“Yeah, I didn't know if I was expected to bring anything, but I figured, better safe than sorry, you know?” he replies, running a hand up and down the strap before realizing he's just rubbing his chest and that probably looks strange. 

“I didn't know you still played.” 

“To be honest, I haven't in a really long time. But I want to again.” 

“Well, here's your chance. You can play for rehearsal today.” You hand him the sheet music, but he just stares at it, a lack of confidence shot across his features. “You do remember how to read sheet music, right?” 

“Oh yeah, for sure. No problemo,” he attempts to say casually. 

“Good. The kids will be here in a few minutes, so let's set up their stands and instruments in the music hall.” 

That's it? Jisung was hoping for a little bit longer with just you. To give him time to get his words out and perhaps apologize for the last eight years. Explain some things. Fix some things. But it looks like you're not interested in salvaging anything from the wreckage of your past friendship. 

While he's thankful you don't look at him like a complete stranger, the old warmth he once knew is gone. When he catches his reflection in your eyes, all you see is a relic of a past you’ve buried and an unwelcome volunteer. 

The two of you silently set up the room, finishing mere moments before the kids come skipping in two by two. 

They're reckless and wild, with a stress-inducing energy. But you remain graceful and composed, guiding them to their spots as if with a magic wand. Jisung lingers at the edge of the room, watching the way they're wistfully drawn to your every movement, admiring your every smile, eager for your every direction. 

He realizes, with a tightness building in his chest, that he's no different. 

“Alright, alright guys, listen up!” You sing, captivating the room’s attention with a rhythmic clap of your hands. “Eyes on who?” 

“Eyes on you!” all the kids answer in a mess of voices. 

“I want to introduce you to someone. This is Mr. Han, and he's going to help us practice for the Fall Festival.” 

Jisung steps away from the wall, lifting his guitar in a small wave before giving the third graders a casual two-finger salute. 

“Is he your boyfriend?” one of the kids pipes up. 

You don’t even flinch, keeping your tone light and unsuspecting. “Nope. Just a friend.” The word sounds unfamiliar, as hurtful as that is, but you keep a steady posture and continue, “He’s going to play for your singing rehearsals today, so let’s be nice and make him feel welcome, okay?” 

“Mr. Han, are you married?” 

Jisung coughs, startled by the innocent question he probably should have been expecting from a choir of eight year olds. “Uh, no,” he says, voice catching just slightly. “Not married.” 

Another little voice pipes up, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

His ears flush pink as he tries to keep from glancing at you. “Nope, no girlfriend either. It's just me.” 

“Are you gay? My mom said I have to be nice to gay people.” 

“Okay, enough questions,” you cut in before Jisung could fumble for a response. With another clap of your hands, you force cheer into your voice and instruct them to move on. “It’s rehearsal time. Grab your music folders and find your spots, please.” 

Amidst shuffling feet and possessive whining over who had the “good” music folder, your gaze drifts without intention toward Jisung. You catch him mid-breath, cheeks puffed out as he slowly exhales through pursed lips.

He spies you watching him and immediately straightens up. “I’m not gay,” he mouths with an exaggerated earnestness. 

And before you can stop yourself, your lips curve into the first genuine smile you’ve given him since he came back to town.

It’s not the same smile he remembers. It’s older now, touched by years of self-discipline, self-sufficiency, and self-defense. A smile that has learned its value alone and how to fend for itself. 

But the way you roll your eyes immediately afterward – that’s the same as it ever was. That same eye roll you used to throw his way when you were teenagers, the one he thought he might never get the chance to be the recipient of again. He forgot how much he liked making you roll your eyes like that. 

He finds himself a chair as the kids find their spots. You, at the front of the choir with your arms raised to direct, and him, sitting a few feet away on a stool with his guitar on his lap. 

You begin counting the beat as the kids’ voices begin molding together, his guitar in the background. 

“Sorry!” 

He quickly apologizes when what sounds like a dying mule comes out of his guitar instead of a G, fumbling to find the right placement of his fingers again. 

You shake your head as if to shake it off and keep the kids on beat with your direction instead. 

“Sorry. Sorry! So sorry…” the apologies continue as he struggles to read the next note. That's a minor chord, right? Or is that supposed to be a major? Wait, what count is he on now? What does that symbol mean again? 

Eventually, you walk over to him, kindly holding out your hands to take the instrument with a gentle smile. “I can take over from here. Why don't you watch this first practice, and play next time?” 

Just punch him in the face; it would hurt less. 

He thought he’d be happy to hear his guitar again. To think that a piece of scuffed wood with replaced strings was such a huge part of his childhood. That acoustic meant everything to him. It was his ultimate joy in life, his reason for trying, his passion and his fulfillment. 

But watching you now…he should have known it was never the guitar. 

It was you. 

You play with the same unshakable passion you had at seventeen, only now the sound has become sharper and clearer. Every note effortless, your fingers dancing along the fretboard in ways he doesn’t even remember learning. 

Have you really gotten this good without him? Or….have you gotten this good despite him? 

You're a musician. The exact thing you always said you would be. 

And what is he? A chemical engineer who hasn’t touched his prized guitar in almost a decade. A man who once promised his best friend they’d chase a dream together, then left her to chase it alone. 

He didn’t just leave music behind. He left you behind. And yet, somehow, you managed to obtain everything you said you would and more. 

You never needed him. And you don't need him now. 

Seeing you grown up and independent, the gut-wrenching guilt deepens as Jisung sees all the work you poured into your future without him. He's not just sorry for shattering your childhood dreams, he's broken knowing that he made your path to achieving your dreams that much harder by walking away. 

He feels smaller than ever, overwhelmed by the need to make things right and the realization that he may never be able to. 

:: 

The last of the kids tumble out with a noisy goodbye, leaving the room finally quiet after a grueling hour of messy rehearsal.

Quiet, finally, but leftover chaos litters the room. Chairs out of line. Sheet music scattered. Crayons cracked underfoot. Tambourines abandoned in the corner. It’s the kind of disaster you’re used to usually cleaning up alone, in a steady rhythm you’ve perfected and protected over the years. 

“Here, let me help,” Jisung says quickly. He’s been waiting all day for this chance and immediately jumps on the first thing he sees. He grabs the nearest stool and marches it across the room.

“No, wait. That one goes into storage for the weekend.” You catch him before he can wedge it against the back wall and take it from his hands. 

“Right, of course.” He rubs the back of his neck and spins, unsure eyes darting over the mess. “Uh, I’ll…put the instruments away!”

“Not yet, I have to clean those after the kids used them.”

“Oh. Okay, then music sheets! I’ll stack them up for you.”

“Jisung, you don’t have to–”

“I want to.” He’s already scooping papers into a messy pile, half-crouched, crumbling edges because his movements are too big, too quick, and making more chaos than order. “Seriously, I can see why you asked for a volunteer. Trying to play and keep them on track? That’s rough. But once I get back into the swing of it, I swear, I’ll make this easier on you. You can count on me–”

“I didn’t ask for a volunteer,” you snap before you can stop yourself, yanking the music out of his hands. “And these aren’t stacked. They each go in a different child’s folder.”

“Oh.” He blinks, but then immediately grabs them again. “Then just show me where they go, and I’ll—”

“It's fine, I got it,” you cut him off, pulling harder, but he doesn't let go. 

“No, seriously, I want to help.” 

“I can do it myself–” 

“I know, but just let me–” 

“Jisung, stop!” Your voice spikes right as the sheets tear down the middle, one half trapped in his grip, the other in yours. The rip echoes throughout the room, followed by a deafening suspension as you stare at the destroyed music. 

Jisung freezes for only a second before he's stuttering for a solution. 

“Hold on, I can fix this. I'll get some tape–” 

“Look what you’ve done!” you explode, shaking the ripped sheet. “I spent months writing these by hand!”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

“You can’t just waltz in here and start touching things and moving things! This is my school! My music! My students! My life! You don’t get to show up after eight years and act like you belong here!” 

Even the hum of the fluorescent lights feels sharp in the silence that follows. For the first time, you realize, you yelled at him.

The room stills. 

Jisung swallows, brushing his hand over the back of his neck while you pick at your cuticle until it bleeds.

With a bitten lip and stiff steps, you walk to the wall, press your back against it, and slide down until your butt thumps on the ground, your legs falling limply in front of you. 

The fight drains from your shoulders, leaving you small and slouched, your face pale and tired in the dimming light of the evening. There’s a heaviness clinging to you, a weariness that makes you look older than you are, and Jisung’s chest aches with the certainty that it’s his fault. That his being here is piling more weight onto you instead of lifting any of the burdens he left behind.

“I'm sorry…” Jisung whispers, almost afraid to make any sound at all. “I shouldn't have assumed you would want to see me again after…I can back out. No hard feelings.” 

You pause, eyes not quite meeting his. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think you did,” he replies, more bitter than he meant, and instantly regrets it. He rubs a hand over his face and exhales. “Sorry. That came out wrong.” 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just…after eight years, I had accepted that I was never going to see you again. And now, in the span of one afternoon, you’re back in my life, volunteering at my music school, playing your guitar for my kids, stacking papers…” You let out a shaky exhale. “I’m just really overwhelmed right now. Not sure if I should be happy to see you again or mad at you. I want to hug you and also slap you in the face, but I'm not sure which one to do first.” 

Jisung lets out a nervous, almost strangled laugh. “Do I get a vote?”  

You roll your eyes, head tipping back against the wall with a heavy sigh that scrapes out of you more as playful annoyance than defeat. 

Jisung hovers awkwardly for a moment, then scampers across the room to collect a roll of tape. When he returns, he stops directly in front of you, fiddling with the plastic tape dispenser for a moment. 

“Can I?” he asks, voice low and hesitant, as he gestures to the patch of floor beside you.

Your gaze flicks up at him, weary but sharp, and for a beat he looks like he might take your silence as a no. But then you give the smallest nod.

Relief spreads across his face. He lowers himself down carefully, like sitting beside you is fragile work. The cool wall presses into his back as he settles, shoulders close but not touching yours. His hands fumble with the tape, the sound of it peeling breaks the thick quiet. 

“I know I don't belong here anymore. What life I had here with you, I tore apart.” He opens his hand, and you hand over your half of the music sheet. “And I know I don't deserve a second chance to make things right, and no matter how hard I try, it can never be the same as it was, but if you'll let me…” He holds out the page again, now patched together imperfectly but readable, “I want to at least try to make up for the way I left things between us.” 

You stare down at it. The paper looks like it’s been through war. Tape crisscrossing each and every way, your handwriting pulled crooked, the notes breaking mid-line where the tear was. If anyone played it out loud, the song would stumble right in the middle.

Your throat tightens, but you glance up, guarded, not cold. “Why now?”

“Because I finally grew up. And I realized how many people I hurt by running away instead of being honest. With them. With you.” He takes a breath, and continues a bit softer. “I’m not here to make things harder for you. I just…when I decided to move back, I told myself I would dive head first, you know. Town hall meetings, volunteering, community service. I haven't always been the best at letting myself be known, but I thought maybe, I should do better this go around.” 

You stand, brushing dust from your butt, and finally look him in the eye. “Well. At least you got your wish. Volunteer work, right?”

“Yeah.” He almost laughs, but it comes out more like a sigh. “I did.”

The tension doesn’t disappear, but it eases. Less sharp, more tired. You nod toward his guitar case left by the stool. “You’re rusty, but it’ll come back if you keep playing.”

His lips twitch into a wry half-smile. “That’s being generous.”

“I’m being practical. We need music. The kids deserve someone who can actually keep a beat.”

The words aren’t cruel, but they land deep in his gut. He stands up tall, accepting the surprise responsibility you've offered him. “I’ll get there. I promise.”

You brush past him on your way to the kid's music folders, shoulders barely grazing.

For a moment, he just watches you – reminded of how, once upon a time, he knew every genre of your silence. Now, he’s lost in it.

Still, he lingers long enough to say, “I meant it, earlier. I missed you. I missed being seventeen with you.”

You pause, still facing away. Then you turn back, slowly.

“I was too angry to miss you. For a long time. But eventually…I was glad I wasn’t seventeen anymore.”

“Because I ruined your childhood.”

“No.” Your voice hardens, sure of itself. “You hurt me, yes. But you didn't ruin anything. I still went to college. I still built a music school. I did everything I wanted without you by my side. So don’t give yourself so much credit, Han Jisung. You didn’t ruin me. You were just part of what made me who I am. And then you disappeared.”

“Simple as that?” he asks, voice rough.

“Maybe it was simple for you,” you admit, chest tightening, “but it was never simple for me.” 

He steps closer, desperate. “There were things I couldn’t tell you back then. Things that forced me to leave. It wasn’t just me giving up on us, you need to know that.” 

“I get that,” you say, gently. “Life happens. Plans change. But…” You falter, inhaling, steadying yourself before asking the one question you've imagined asking him for years. “Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye?”

:: 

(8 years ago) 

Homeroom is grey and droopy, your eyes fixed on your winning raindrop as it races to the window sill. Leftover drizzle from the night before is thankfully entertaining enough to keep you awake. You didn't get much sleep thanks to the excessive number of lightning strikes that kept your room lit up all night. 

Of course, Jisung would be running late on a day like this. 

Background noise doesn't bother you. The buzzing of low chatter, chairs scraping, someone dropping a pencil. None of it really registers until your teacher walks in and clears her throat.

“Before we begin, just a quick announcement,” she says with empathy. “For those of you asking, Han Jisung won’t be returning to school. His family has moved unexpectedly for undisclosed reasons. Please, out of respect for your classmate, do not speculate or spread untrue rumors. If you're close enough to text or call him, then you can do so. That being said, I know he was close with some of you. If anyone needs to talk, my door is open…” 

The words hit like thunder, numbing your hearing as everything fades into the background. 

Jisung moved? Without telling you? Without saying goodbye? That doesn't sound like him at all. Just yesterday, you were writing songs together at the pier and sharing lyrics and secret glances. And all of a sudden…he's gone? 

What about your plans? What about college applications, scholarships, music? He wouldn't just abandon all that. Jisung isn't the type to run away and he's certainly not the type to lie to you. This doesn't make sense. 

You try to raise your hand, but the teacher is already moving on, and she won't accept any more questions on the matter. 

With zero hesitation, you stand up, nearly knocking your chair over.

“Where are you going?” the teacher calls after you, but you’re already out the door, backpack bouncing against your side as you take the stairs two at a time. 

You don’t stop running, through the hall, down the front steps, out the front door, and across the street. When your lungs start to burn, you just run harder. 

All the way to his house, right up to his door, and you throw your weight on the handle. But it's locked. 

“Han Jisung!? You get out here right now! Jisung!? The fuck are you!?” 

You start pounding on it like you're trying to break the door down. No answer. 

Around the side of the house, the curtains to his bedroom are gone. The porch light is off. The flower pots are tipped over, and the driveway is empty. The inside is completely bare save for a few stray wires and a single abandoned pair of shoes. 

He really is gone. 

You nearly trip over the curb as you begin to run again, this time toward the pier. 

But when you reach it, all that’s left is a shattered skeleton of what it once was. Last night’s storm ripped through it like paper. Driftwood and broken branches scattered everywhere. A few crooked poles still stick out of the sand, like bones, but there's not a trace of life. Or of him. 

With panicked tears now threatening to fall, you reach for your phone and call him. 

“Hi, you've reached the voicemail box of Han Jisung. If you're my parents, I'm at the church. If you're my tutor, I'm at the library. If this is ___, you already know where I am, idiot. If you're none of those people, why are you even calling me?” 

You redial. It rings and rings. 

“Hi, you've reached the voicemail box of Han Ji–” 

“Damn it, Jisung!” 

You hang up and decide to text. 

[y/n] “Where the hell are you???” 

[y/n] “Did you seriously leave town?? Where did you go??” 

[y/n] “Why won't you answer me!?” 

[y/n] “Please just tell me what’s going on. You're scaring me…” 

[y/n] “Ji?” 

Your thread says each message was delivered. But no matter how long you wait, they're never read. 

Your knees land in the dirt, no doubt now stained from the mud. The wind whips at your hair as left over mist from the lake leaves your skin damp and cold. 

It's unclear how long you stayed like that, waiting for your phone to buzz or ring or die. But by the time you decide to head home, the sky has darkened and you can’t feel your fingers anymore.

You're not sure how to process it, and it doesn't help that everyone wants to talk to you about it. For the next few days, you can count on one hand how many times you voluntarily speak out loud. There's just not much to say when the person you used to spend all your words on is suddenly gone. 

Days pass. Then weeks. Months. People eventually stop asking how you’re doing. Your classmates come around to accept this new, quiet version of you. Your other friends tell you maybe it’s for the best. Your parents avoid the topic altogether. 

He’s really gone. Your best friend. Vanished with no explanation or closure. Gone, and you didn’t even get to say goodbye. 

Whether you truly worked through the grieving process is questionable at best. But about six months after Jisung walked out of your life, some version of yourself began to resurface.

You pulled out your guitar and, for the first time that semester, managed to write a song in guitar club. Although now it’s just you sitting alone in the music department. At least the school hadn't seemed fit to take that away from you too.

There had to be a lesson buried somewhere in all of this. Some meaning you were supposed to uncover in the wreckage. If only you’d been able to figure out what it was.

In the end, what you were left with instead was nothing more than a broken heart, an unfinished chord progression, and a harmony that was always missing its second voice.

So, you learned how to sing solos. 

::  

(Present day) 

At first, it feels unnatural to see Jisung outside of your memories. For years, he was a ghost, a shadow of the past living in the deep, deep corners of your mind. Just someone you used to know. 

But now he’s everywhere! At the grocery store, where he lingers over produce like he’s forgotten how small town pricing works. At the gym, where you catch glimpses of him on the treadmill, nodding along to music in his earbuds. On your evening walks, when he waves across the street like you’re nothing more than old neighbors who subtly argue about the property line. 

And the strangest part? He doesn’t just pass through these spaces. He stays. 

He asks about the cashier’s family, hangs out after workouts to chat with the regulars, carries boxes at the community shelter, shows up at the same fundraisers and local events you do. Jisung isn’t hiding; in fact, he's jumping into the deep end. He’s building something here, planting himself back into the soil and soaking up as much sunlight as possible. 

Even from a decent distance, you can tell this is not the same Jisung you grew up with. Which both scares and intrigues you. 

Past Jisung avoided crowded places, whined when he was told to help at church fundraisers, and sneaked away to make beats in the parking lot instead. 

Present Jisung put his name down to bring a dessert to the Men’s Monthly Ministry Meeting. 

Past Jisung skipped school on a regular basis, never wanted a real job, and complained when his parents made him go to school early for morning tutoring. 

Present Jisung started working at the local bookstore and shows up at 6am on the dot every day to help bring in book deliveries, so the older owner doesn't have to carry the boxes. 

At first, it grates you. Every wave from across the street, every casual “hey” at the grocery store, every time he sits next to you at community meetings, feels like he’s chiseling his way into a life you’ve carefully arranged without him. 

You didn't expect this Jisung, and you certainly didn't give him permission to make you smile on multiple occasions. 

But as the days pass, something shifts. He’s not just your broken past anymore. He’s becoming woven into the rhythm of this town in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

And slowly, you realize you don’t hate seeing him. The sting is still there, stronger some days than others. But it dulls, little by little. 

Every time he shows up ten minutes early to music rehearsals to help you untangle chords. 

Every time he puts an extra dollar in the tip jar at the farmer's market when he thinks no one is looking. 

Every time he gives recommendations for books at his job, when high school you could have sworn he only knew how to read comics. 

Somehow, at some point, while he was away from you…he grew up. And goddamit, he grew up well. Without you. There's no denying it, even though it hurts a little to admit, and you're not sure exactly why. 

Your routine has no choice but to make room for him. Until all you feel is the strange weight of adjusting to a world where Jisung isn’t just a memory. He’s here. And maybe…he's not leaving this time. 

But two months of charity work and music rehearsals aren't enough to erase eight years of solidly laid walls. You're still guarded, even when you thank him or laugh at his puns or wave back on the street. 

You can't allow yourself to fully embrace his presence, even if you wanted to. There's still something painful poking at the back of your head, pressing on your knees, staining your jeans with mud, and freezing your fingers. 

When Jisung shows up at the music school, you’re halfway through arranging the (finally) finished sheet music into neat folders. The sound of the door opening makes you glance up, brows knitting in surprise. 

He steps in, guitar on his back and a smile on his face, looking ready and pumped to get started. 

“Okay, I know you said I needed one more practice day before I played for the kids, but hear me out,” he says, sitting on his stool and swinging his guitar around to his lap. “I spent all last night working on that chord progression, and I think I finally got it down.” 

Before you can even reply, his fingers begin plucking at the strings. 

“The kids don’t have rehearsals today,” you say, turning your body toward him. 

He freezes mid play, clearly thrown. “But we always have rehearsals on Saturday at 4pm.” 

“Today is Sunday,” you correct, trying not to smile. 

“Oh, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, rubbing over the back of his neck. “Sorry, I guess all my days have been running together lately.” 

“I'm not surprised, I mean, considering how much you're doing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

You shrug, going back to your folders and restacking them just to let your hands do something while you talk. “Well, I just mean, you've been involved in a lot of town things since you got back. Dessert drives, festival preparations, community meetings, music practice. Even I would get my days mixed up sometimes if I was trying to put that much into my schedule.” 

Jisung lays his arms over his guitar, sinking a bit into the stool. “Should I not be doing so much? Do I…bother you?” 

“No, I didn't say that.” Your answer comes faster than you mean it to, too sharp in its urgency and too earnest for casualties. 

When you turn toward him quickly, the sudden movement makes your hair shift across your shoulder. Your eyes meet his, steady at first, then softening because you just realized how much weight your words carried. 

There’s a flicker there, something unspoken and fragile between you two, like the brief reflection of light on lake water before it disappears again. He can’t name it, but it steals the breath from his lungs and sets his heart stumbling into a quicker rhythm.

“Umm,” you break eye contact after several moments and return to your folders, although now you're just tracing the lines of the paper with your finger for no reason. “What I meant was, I see you a lot around town at a lot of things and…it's nice. You seem to really be becoming a part of the town again, and the town really likes having you back.” 

“You're a part of the town too.” He points out carefully. “Do you like having me back?” 

“Not having to teach rhythm all by myself is nice. And the kids like you.” 

“Just the kids like me?” 

The tone of his voice captures your attention in an immediate way. There's an underlying question hidden in his words, one you could ignore if you desperately wanted to. But the moment you allow your eyes to land on his once more, you're caught in his trance, his expression. 

His eyes hold you there, steady and unflinching as the silence stretches for too many moments. The air feels thick to breathe, and you can physically see how it makes his chest rise and fall more dramatically than usual. The weight of your answer is bound to shift the fragile balance you’ve been so carefully maintaining since he returned. 

Your throat tightens, but you force the words out anyway, soft but sure, a confession disguised in simplicity.

“The whole town likes you.” 

It’s the first time you’ve said anything about him being back since the day he’d walked into your music school. Two months. Fourteen rehearsal days. That’s how long it’s taken for Jisung to hear a genuine word from you, and when it comes, it lands with more force than you realize. He soaks up the syllables like it’s a language he’s been waiting years to relearn, and the corners of his mouth curve upward, so when your gaze drops to his lips, you can see just how much it means to him. 

He speaks, soft and sweet. “I like the town too.” Then he clears his throat and asks, “Anything I can do to help even though it's not rehearsal day?” 

You break yourself away from his eyes, considering. “You should practice the song. It’d be nice if you could play the accompaniment while I direct the kids during the Festival. That way I don’t have to try to play and wave my arms around at the same time.”

“I’ll practice till my fingers bleed,” he promises with a stiff salute. 

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but don’t argue. He settles with the guitar near the window, sunlight catching on the instrument’s scratched surface. The first strum is hesitant, but soon the melody begins to take shape. 

Meanwhile, you return to your tasks stacking chairs, cleaning props, organizing music. But your ear keeps tuning to him. The notes are still rough and unpolished, but there’s something warm and familiar about hearing him play. Without thinking, you start humming along, soft at first and then growing in volume. 

The guitar rests lightly in Jisung’s lap, his fingers moving intently over the strings, but his attention isn’t really on the music. 

It’s on you. 

You’re bent over your stack of folders, sorting and humming without realizing it, the quiet thread of your voice weaving itself into the notes he plays. Your brow furrows as you pause to shift a paper, lips still moving to the melody under your breath, almost like you’re breathing the song instead of singing it. 

Jisung’s fingers slow on the strings, softer, quieter, just so he can match you, just so he can keep playing without disturbing the little world you’ve built for yourself. 

There’s something achingly familiar about the way you don’t notice the strands of hair falling in your face, the way your knee bounces absentmindedly, the way your voice warms the room without needing permission. His chest feels tight and light at the same time, a mix of nostalgia and something new, something lovely. 

He tells himself he’s only keeping the rhythm for you, that he’s just following your hum so the kids will have something steady later. But his gaze lingers too long, his heart trips too often, and he knows this moment is much more than that.

Jisung doesn’t remember when his fingers stopped following the chords and started drifting, but it doesn’t matter. The guitar is only an excuse now – something that lets him sit here without looking like he’s staring too much. You don’t even notice, humming along as you work, your voice so soft and unassuming, he can almost make-believe that it’s meant only for him.

He can’t look away from you. The afternoon light hits your hair in a way that makes every strand glow, and he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not the kind of beauty people dress up for or take pictures of, but the kind that can only be seen when you're in the moment. 

There’s a gentleness in your concentration, a warmth in the way your lips move with his tune, and he knows if he misses this moment, he’ll never forgive himself.

He’s not sure what he did to deserve this seat across from you, to be allowed into the quiet rhythm of your life again, but he clings to it like he's never clinged to anything before. You start to hum a little louder, and he swears the walls themselves lean in to listen. Your voice has always had that pull, that gravity, but today it sounds different. Today, it sounds like magic, and he’s lucky enough to be the one hearing it. 

Then he stumbles on a chord.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, quickly trying to correct the mistake while also pulling himself back to reality before you notice how enchanted he's become with you. 

“Hold on, you're at the part where the song switches to an E Minor, right?” You walk over. “Here, I can show you.” 

Before he can catch a breath, you place yourself behind him, presence warm at his back. Your hand reaches around, careful but sure as it guides his fingers to the right fret. Your calloused fingertips brush his as they steady on the correct chord, and then gently, you press his fingertips into the strings. 

“Like this. Try it now.” 

With a shaky strum, he lets his pick fall across the instrument, the sound only amplifying the deja vu trembling through his bones. 

He shifts slightly, and when he looks up, your eyes catch. You’re close…closer than you’ve been in years. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough to feel his pulse through his wrist, close enough for your heart to race in reply. 

For a suspended moment, neither of you move. The weight of unspoken thoughts hums in the air, threaded into the chord still vibrating under his fingers.

Finally, you step back, clearing your throat, “Better.” 

“Y-Yeah, thanks for the tip.” 

He tests the chord again, and this time it rings true. Perhaps it's not the time to comment on the closeness or how something that felt like a spark just shocked him through his chest – so he just lets the music fill the awkward silence between you two and hides the moment away in his heart.  

When he finishes practicing and you’ve finished putting away your last kid’s folder, he sets the guitar down carefully and gets your attention with a casual, “Hey, would you want to get some food? We can take it to that bench in the park and then maybe walk the Circle together? Like old times?” 

Eight years. Two months. And fourteen rehearsals. 

It feels like the tiniest crack in the wall that’s been standing between you. Just wide enough to let in a breath of fresh air. 

“Yeah. I'd like that.” 

:: 

Despite the familiarity of paper take-out containers balanced on your laps, laughter tucked into the silences whenever you pass each other napkins, and Jisung spilling his soda on the ground five seconds after sitting down, there's still something strangely unfamiliar about the boy next to you. 

He's not the same Jisung you grew up with, that much is certain. But he's not totally different. Of course, you're not the same as you were in high school either. However, the longer you chat and the more relaxed the atmosphere becomes, the more you realize how well your characters still click. 

His humor still fits yours and his interests, too. Turns out his Japanese heavy goth rock phase was around the same time as yours during college. 

After eating, neither of you are ready to end the night, so you find yourselves wandering through the park. The street lamps glow dimly along the path, cicadas hum in the trees, and the town feels softer somehow under the veil of evening. 

Jisung still walks with his hands in his pockets, a habit you once found endearing…and still do apparently. 

“Remember when we used to skip class and hide out at the pier?” Jisung says with a grin, like he can still taste the moss in the air. “I wonder if that heart is still spray-painted on the edge or if it's been washed away by now.” 

You stop walking for a moment, eyes cast down. “The pier’s gone.”

His head snaps around, feet nearly stumbling. “What? How?” 

“It was destroyed in a storm after you left. Waves took most of it out. What was left, they cleared from the area.” 

The disappointment flickers sharp and fast across his face. He looks away. “I guess I thought it would always be there. I never even imagined it might have gotten torn down.” 

You shrug. “A lot of things have changed. Do you remember the old Chinese place?” 

“Yeah, the one that used to sneak us two extra boxes of takeout when we showed up late.” 

“It’s a bank now. And the old arcade is a gym.”

He lets out a low laugh, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Feels like I missed everything.”

“Places change,” you murmur, softer now. “And people do too.” The implication sits heavy in the air between you, your gaze fixed on the gravel path as you drag your feet.

“You didn't change much.” After a beat, he risks adding, “You still went to college for music. Your passion is still as strong as ever.” 

“Well, I didn’t have you anymore, but I wasn’t going to lose my passion too. So, I locked in. Four years of music law and then two years of agonizing intern work. But I don’t regret it.” 

“I wish I’d studied music.”

That confession makes you really look at him, study him. “Then why leave? Why abandon it?” Why abandon me? 

He stiffens, the words catching in his throat before he forces them out. “I had to.”

“No.” Your tone sharpens, controlled but cutting when your feet stop in the middle of the path. “You always have a choice.”

“I didn’t,” he sighs, turning around to face you. 

“Then please, explain that to me.” 

Jisung drags a hand across the back of his neck, inhaling deeply like he’s gathering courage. His voice is rough when he speaks again. 

“Everything?” 

“Everything.” 

And then he tells you about a loan shark. About how his parents were scammed, how everything they owned disappeared overnight, how his father decided the only way to protect them was to start over entirely – new town, new names, no trace left behind. That’s why you couldn’t find him. Why he simply vanished. Why he couldn't contact you. 

He tells you about his degree in engineering, how it ate him alive. He admits everything without leaving out a single detail, bitterness edging every word. He tells you how he got a job that paid well, but left him in the darkest place he’s ever known. About how he stayed in that place until his parents were back on their feet. And then he crashed. Therapy, unemployment, rock bottom. Eight years of absolute hell… 

He pauses, searching your face, afraid of what he might find there, “...and then I thought maybe I could start over again. But do it right this time. Go back, face what I ran from. Invest in the things I actually care about. Music, people, community…you.”

“Me?” 

He takes a step closer, tentative but sure, eyes burning with a kind of desperate sincerity. “I want to pursue you, ___. Properly, this time. No running away, no lies. I know I can’t erase the past, but I can try to make up for it. I want to earn back what I lost. If you’ll let me…I want to do this right. With you.”

The night stills. The cicadas, the street lamps, the sound of your own heartbeat in your ear. It all presses in, leaving his words hanging in the air like they might shatter if you breathe too hard. 

And for the first time since he came back, Jisung doesn’t look like the boy who left you. He looks like a man who's come back to stay. 

::

Since you own the music school, it's the perfect place to have anxiety attacks because you know for certain no one will be there at 1am on a Monday. 

Okay, an anxiety attack is a bit extreme, but you are definitely freaking out. For one, Jisung just asked to pursue you, the romantics involved being clearly implied by the look in his eyes. 

But that's not even the part that has you crashing out right now. 

“Properly, this time.” 

This time? Does that mean there was another time he attempted to pursue you improperly? You don't remember anything happening when you were younger. He had his first crush on someone, but that was just about the only time you ever even saw a glimpse of him being romantically interested in anyone. And you still don't even know who it was!? 

Never once growing up did he ever give even the slightest hint that he felt anything remotely close to more than a friendship with you. More times than not, he was teasing you for being sentimental, not harboring secret feelings. 

And yet, the way he looked at you tonight…the way he said your name makes you think he's not developing feelings in the moment, but rather finally revealing what's been growing inside his heart all this time. 

You still have yet to give him an answer as to if you're okay with him pursuing you or not. Some part of you loves him, regardless of everything, because some part of you is still lousy and sentimental. 

Sure, after being the one always holding up your friendship with him during high school, there's a part of you that wants to see him put effort in. See him be the chaser. 

But will you be okay with that? Will you be able to emotionally watch him openly pursue you as a man pursuing a woman? You're not in high school anymore; things like this hold a little more significance. 

He's back, and you're happy about that, but to be honest, you're still not totally sure if you forgive him. You understand his reasoning and situation now that he's told you about it. But you're still finding it difficult to forgive him for the eight years you spent in the dark, internally hating him. 

Because of him, you moved into your dorms alone. Because of him, you felt subconscious making new friends, constantly anxious they might ditch. Because of him, you always suspected all your closest friends of leaving even when they showed no signs and had no reason to leave. Because of him, your insecurities ruined multiple chances at having romantic relationships with guys in college. Because of him, you lost one of the best things to ever happen to you. Because of him, you've written more sad songs than happy ones. 

You're not sure if fighting all that is even worth it. You justified him leaving for as long as you could before you just couldn't anymore. And the moment you couldn't fight for him, your heart fought against him. Now that he's back, do you honestly believe he has a shot at taming your heart? 

Or do you honestly want him to have a shot? 

You’re not sleeping tonight. Might as well accept it. 

The air is cool when you cut through the park, allowing your thoughts and feelings to sort themselves out with each soft crunch of the gravel beneath your footsteps. It’s too late for anyone else to be out here, so it's nice to just walk, even though you were literally just out here walking with Jisung. 

But then you hear it: the low hum of guitar strings drifting through the night, carried on the breeze.

Your chest tightens instantly. You’d know that sound anywhere.

Despite previously wanting to be alone, as soon as you realize you have the chance to see him again, you follow it. 

He's on one of the benches under a lamp post, hunched forward with the guitar balanced on his knee, fingers moving with cautious rhythm, like he’s still testing how much of the old muscle memory has returned. 

“Hey,” you say, “Long time no see.” 

His head snaps up, surprise flashing in his eyes before they soften. “The longest two hours ever.” 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Not really.” 

“Me neither. Did you go home just to grab your guitar and come back out here?” 

“Maybe.” There’s a light pause, but it's not uncomfortable. In fact, you kind of like how his eyes bounce from the ground back up at you. Then he tilts his head toward the empty spot on the bench beside him. “Would you like to join me? You can correct my strumming.”

You hesitate only a moment before sitting down. “Sure. But your strumming is fine. You just needed to get back into the feel of it.”

“Playing this guitar should be like riding a bike,” he says with a small laugh, strumming a few chords in demonstration. “But I still need practice.” 

Your eyes drop to the instrument. “I never thought I'd see that guitar again to be honest.” 

“Yeah?” His smile widens. “I can’t believe you recognized it.”

“It still has that pink dinosaur sticker on the side,” you murmur, brushing your fingers lightly across the worn edge of the decal. “I remember when I put that there.”

“I remember that too. You thought I wouldn’t notice.”

“But you did.”

“Immediately.”

“But you didn’t take it off.”

“Of course not,” he says simply, his eyes flicking up to yours. “Because you put it there.”

The words are magnetic between you, somehow drawing you to sit closer without moving a single inch. 

“I can’t believe you still have this guitar,” you say, trying not to break the moment.

“It’s the only one I have left. I sold all my other ones for extra cash. But…I couldn’t sell her.”

“The town must be rubbing off on you,” you say gently. “You sound more like the way you used to sound.”

“Yeah?” His lips twitch into a hopeful smile. “It’s not the town that's rubbing off on me.” 

Your heart flutters, obvious and loud, pulling you into him even further. It's terrifying, but you don't want to fight it. 

“What song is that? I don’t recognize it.”

He looks down at his fingers, then back at you with hesitation. “I wrote it a few months after I left while I was thinking about you.”

“You wrote a song about me?” 

He nods once, resolute. “Do you want to hear it?”

You swallow. “Sure.”

His voice is quiet when he begins, almost like he’s afraid the night itself might listen in, not wanting anyone or anything else to witness this moment he has with you. 

Are you happy out there?

Even if I'm not by your side, I hope you live happily, 

I'm so glad to see you in my dream,

In my dream, hope you smile with me even for a moment,

So that even without you,

I can feel, 

Please be happy out there forever,

Hope you always shine with that pretty smile…

The lyrics float around you until you start to feel weightless as they leave his lips. His voice is scratchy but honest, each word carrying the weight of years spent apart. When he reaches the end, he strums the final chord and lets it fade into the distance. 

You find yourself frozen, unblinking, completely enraptured when he looks at you. 

The final note fades, leaving the air heavy with a silence that feels louder than the music was. Neither of you move, your eyes locked with the hope that if you don't blink, maybe the moment doesn't have to end. 

It’s only for the briefest second that Jisung’s gaze falters, slipping down to your lips before dragging itself back up again as if to ask for permission. 

And then he leans in. Slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm when he exhales in anticipation. 

But you pull back.

The moment collapses. Jisung freezes, his hand still hovering above the guitar like he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t defend himself. He just watches you, guilt folded into the lines of his face.

“Sorry.” 

You look at him again, your pulse hammering. And in that instant, you know. He’s in love with you. He's been in love with you for god knows how long. 

And god help you, some part of you somehow loves him too. But it’s tangled in heartbreak and abandonment and all the years he wasn’t there. 

You suck in a breath and stand, too stiff to hide. “It’s getting late. We should probably go. The park is technically closed anyway.”

“Uh, right.” He pushes himself up as well and swings his guitar onto his back. “Can I walk you home?” 

“If you want to.” 

“I want to.” 

The walk back is quiet, filled with a fragile tension and delicate feelings. You’re thankful your place isn’t far, although some traitorous part of you wishes it were, just to linger beside him a little longer. 

When you reach your door, you turn to say goodnight, but he speaks first.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice raw, “for leaning in. I got caught up in the moment, and I shouldn’t have assumed you were okay with it.”

“It's okay.” You're not condemning, just…uncertain, weighted with butterflies rather than rejection.

But Jisung doesn’t hear it that way.

You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his hand drags across the back of his neck like he’s bracing for impact, in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours anymore – he's overthinking. Thinking that he overstepped, that he ruined whatever good thing was between you, that he lost his chance. 

He exhales shakily and starts to leave, “Goodnight, then.” 

“Jisung.” 

He pauses and turns around, eyes and ears fixed on you. “Yeah?”

“…Try.”

“Try?”

“Try to pursue me.”

He freezes, the hope in his expression so subtle you almost miss it. But it's there, and it's starting to grow. “Really?”

“Just…go easy on me. The last guy I liked disappeared for eight years.” 

He can’t help the stupid, lopsided smile that tugs at his lips as he backs away, sauntering and swaying like a love struck idiot. And before you can stop yourself, you’re smiling too, just as helpless and just as foolish. For a moment, it feels like the simplest thing in the world, like you're seventeen. 

His voice is quiet as he tucks his hands into his pockets and nods. “I will. Goodnight, ___.”

“Goodnight, Jisung.”

:: 

If Jisung ever did try to pursue you before, it was with the clumsy eagerness of a boy. But now? Every move he makes is deliberate and steady, laced with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and is willing to work to achieve it. 

He brings you coffee in the mornings, carries your bags, lingers after rehearsal, helps clean up, perfects arrangements long after the kids have gone home. And those same kids adore him, especially when he pulls out his guitar. 

But what catches your eye the most isn’t just the way he treats you. It’s the way he treats the town. He’s not only pursuing you; he’s weaving himself back into the fabric of this place, one act of service at a time. And somehow, that’s the most attractive part.

You notice yourself moving slower when it’s time to pack up, stretching out the minutes just to keep him near for a moment longer. At red lights and crosswalks, your eyes search for him before you realize what you’re doing. At town hall meetings, you listen half to the agenda and half for the sound of his laugh. And always, always, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks when you catch him looking at you like that. 

Disarming. Like you’re the only person in the room worth holding his gaze. It isn’t fleeting or casual. It lingers, long and unashamed, as though he’s just waiting for you to lock eyes with him for a mere second. It’s the kind of look that leaves you flustered, vulnerable, and seen all at once. With a single look, Jisung has somehow managed to make you feel as though every part of you is worth adoring.

There’s heat in his eyes, a tenderness disguised in a hint of hunger. God, there's something about his eyes. 

They soften when you smile, light up when you laugh, and darken with something deeper when the world falls quiet between you. And he never hides them; everyone in town knows the way he looks at you. 

It’s happened often enough now that the awkwardness has dulled, leaving behind something potential. His inability to let a day pass without admiring you in some way has become endearing. You feel flattered that he’s working so hard to prove himself someone you could lean on, confide in, laugh and cry with…someone you could love.

What he doesn’t realize is just how much he’s already undone you. If he knew how easily he sends your pulse racing, how often your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your chest, then maybe – just maybe – he’d go easier on you. 

But Jisung doesn’t go easy on you, because he doesn't yet realize just how much of your walls he's managed to break through in such a short time. 

And now, you're standing in the middle of the crowd at the annual Fall Festival Pre-Party Bonfire (yes, it's a real thing. Your town literally cannot find enough excuses to do bonfires by the lake), and you can't help but look for him. 

Jisung is here somewhere, apparently last seen chatting up Felix, the local baker, about a sweet he saw in the bakery window a few days ago. 

Music thumps heavy through the night, bass rattling up your bones. Voices tumble over each other as jokes are shouted across the fire, someone sings off-key near the speaker, the crackle of logs splinters in the flames. 

And you can’t separate one thread from another. 

It’s always like this in crowds. Your right ear catches bits and pieces, your left ear nothing. So everything blends into a wall of sound, while you’ve learned to smile, laugh at the right time, and nod when someone else does. It’s easier than asking them to repeat themselves four times and then explaining that you still didn't hear them correctly. 

It's a good thing most people in the town know of your struggle and understand to a degree. It's mainly the older generation, the ones who were here when it all happened. The ones who knew your family and saw you grow up. 

But the town has changed and new people have moved in and old people have moved on. In the end, it's easier to just focus on one conversation and claim an inability to multitask or hear things coming up behind you. 

You tend to keep a low profile and try to keep from becoming overwhelmed with too much audible stimulus. But when a stranger’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, you flinch hard, pulse skittering. 

You spin, wide-eyed. His face is twisted, brows knotted, lips curled in irritation.

“So, what? You just gonna ignore me all night? That’s real cute, ___.”

“Jay?” You blink, confused at first and then tense when you recognize the town drunkard staring down at you. “What do you mean? I didn’t even know you were here.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” His voice is sharp, cutting through the bass. “I’ve said hi to you three times already. You looked right past me every time.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve been here before. A different night, but the same scene. Jay with a drink in his hand, leaning too close at the bar, at the grocery store, outside the diner. Always pushing, always mistaking politeness for invitation. And every time, you turned him down, firm but careful, because you knew how ugly his disappointment could get.

Only tonight, it’s uglier than ever. 

“I didn’t hear you,” you insist, but your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Honest.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, leaning closer so you catch the alcohol heavy on his breath. “Oh, right. You didn’t hear me. That’s the new excuse now? You’ve been brushing me off for years. Thought maybe you’d finally quit acting like I don’t exist, but nope. Same shitty story. Same shitty ___.” 

“For the last time, I’m not brushing you off,” you say, stumbling back a step as he pushes closer. “I'm just not interested.” 

“I do everything right! I put myself out there, I say the right thing, I buy you drinks. And you just keep shooting me down. Or worse, you say nothing. Just silence! Do you have any idea what that feels like?” His eyes flash, his voice slurring more as he starts shouting. 

“Jay…” You put a hand to his chest to hold him back, inside your fight or flight response starting to kick in. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

He sneers, shaking his head. “You always have some reason, don't you? Too drunk, too busy, too focused, too…whatever. But it was never really that. It’s me. Isn't it? You never wanted me, did you? You said you wanted sex–” 

“Sex was never on the table, Jay. I never said that. You made it up.” 

He grabs your wrist, holding you in place. His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s desperate and tight. 

“Stop lying!” His voice cracks, all bitterness and hurt twisted together. “You just keep making ME the joke! You should be the joke for once!” 

You try to yank your wrist free, but his grip only tightens. Pain shoots up your arm, sharp enough to make your breath catch.

“Jay – stop. You’re hurting me.”

He leans closer, jaw set, eyes glassy with heavy liquor. “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, ___. You’ve been stringing me along for years. Smiling just enough to keep me coming back, then shutting me down every damn time.”

“I never flirted with you, Jay,” you snap, voice shaking with equal parts anger and fear.

“Yes, you did,” he bites back, the words slurred but insistent. “Every time you turned me down, you were teasing me. Everyone sees it. You just think you’re too good for me, for any of us, don’t you?”

“Let me go,” you say, low and steady. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

His fingers dig harder into your wrist. “That’s all you ever do, isn’t it? Pretend it’s a game. Pretend I never meant anything to you.”

“Let me go – ah!” you repeat, louder this time, but Jay only shakes his head, his grip bruising.

Before he can spit out another word, another hand lands on top of his, firm to match the voice that follows. 

“Back. Off.”

You freeze. 

Jisung.

He’s already there, slipping between you and Jay like a wall, his hand prying at Jay’s wrist until your arm is free. He keeps you behind him with a shift of his body, shoulders squared, the firelight throwing sharp lines across his tense jaw.

“She said she's not interested.” Jisung’s voice is calm but sharp, each word confident but laced with aggression. “You don’t get to touch her like that.”

Jay staggers back half a step, his drunkenness flaring. “What, you her bodyguard or something?”

“Sure,” Jisung says, not missing a beat. “Let’s call it that.”

Jay barks out a laugh, ugly and humorless. “Always knew you were a pathetic music boy. Chasing after what isn’t yours.”

“Funny. From where I’m standing, you’re the only one doing the chasing. And she’s never once wanted you.”

The words land like a slap. Jay’s face twists, red and mean. You open your mouth to warn Jisung, but it’s too late. Jay’s fist flies, knuckles cracking against Jisung’s mouth.

The crowd erupts, voices shouting now that there's been actual damage, bodies surging forward to pull Jay back. He’s dragged toward the parking lot, still swearing, still thrashing, until someone shoves him in the direction of his house. 

Someone else hurries over to ask if you're okay, but you hardly notice anything else around you. 

Because Jisung is standing in front of you now, blood on his lip, chest rising and falling as he struggles to steady himself, trying so hard to look calm for you.

Instinctively, you reach out, brushing a hand along his jaw, tilting his face gently toward you. Your eyes catch the glint of shimmering red at the corner of his mouth, and your heart clenches. 

“What were you thinking?” you ask, voice low but urgent, hovering just above a whisper.

His tongue darts out to test the split in his lip, and a sharp hiss escapes him. He rubs it quickly with the back of his hand, trying to hide the sting. 

“I’m fine,” he says, although you can see the stubborn flare of pain in his eyes.

“No, you’re not,” you murmur, letting go of his jaw and slipping your hand into his to guide him. “Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up properly.”

And you don’t wait for him to argue. You tug him through the party, away from the shouting and the firelight, into the shadows where the noise dulls and the world feels smaller. 

Inside the community lake house, the party feels far away. The music is nothing but a muffled throb through the walls, replaced by the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore and the faint crackle of lingering fire embers. Your pulse is still thudding, and even though adrenaline buzzes in your veins, you can’t ignore the tiny tremor in his hand as you lead him to the bathroom. 

The bathroom is small, lit only by a soft candle. 

Jisung stands by the counter where you tell him, no questions asked. His lip is bleeding, though not badly. Still, the sight makes you nervous. You pull a tissue from your pocket and run it under some warm water before stepping closer. 

He flinches at the sting when you dab the cut. Then he huffs out a laugh, low and quiet.

“You still carry around tissues?”

“Only for emergencies,” you murmur, keeping your focus on his mouth. “I teach kids after all.”

A faint smile flickers across his face, but it falters when it stretches too wide, making his split lip pull painfully.

“Careful,” you urge him gently, your eyes tracing his features as the moment hangs between you. 

The candlelight flickers in the small bathroom, casting warm shadows across his face. You step closer to see the cut properly in the dark, tilting your head for a better angle. 

He lets you, consciously keeping himself from also tilting his head when you lean in. You work slowly, dabbing the tissue with gentle precision and cleaning up stray blood from beneath his mouth. 

But your wandering eyes can’t seem to pay attention to what they're supposed to. From his lips to his gaze that shimmers faintly in the candlelight, you’re trapped in the space with him, pulled closer with each shallow breath.

Have his lips always been this pretty pink? Or is that the blood rushing to his skin? 

Your body feels magnetized to him, like an invisible thread tugging from the center of your chest straight into his. You’re only inches away, yet every part of you yearns to close that narrow gap, to sink into his warmth, to be sheltered by him, and at the same time, ruined by him completely.  

Has his chest always been that broad? Or are you just craving a safe hug since being threatened? 

Jisung catches it – the way your gaze flickers, hesitant but undeniable, from his lips to his chest, then back up to his eyes. You’re fighting yourself, and he can see it in the way your fingers tighten around the tissue, in the way you look at his lips a bit too fondly for simply cleaning a cut. 

And it floors him. 

The thought that you want him, even if only right now, even if only because he stood up for you, hits him like a ton of bricks. His pulse drums loud in his ears, every muscle taut with the effort not to grab you by the waist and pull you flush against him. 

For the first time, hope burns bright and raw in his veins, almost too much to bear. With every moment you spend memorizing the shape of his mouth and the firmness of his chest, he allows himself to think that he must be doing at least something right. 

You manage to tear yourself from his gravity just long enough to toss the used tissue aside and reach for a fresh one, the steady trickle of water filling the sink as you force your hands to stay busy. 

“I saw him try to talk to you. But you didn't even turn your head. At first, I thought maybe you were mad at him, or just really done with people.”

Your hands still for a moment, but you don’t answer. Your eyes glance up to meet his in the soft candle light. 

“Were you serious?” he asks, voice low. “You really didn’t hear him?”

“Mm,” you answer. “A year after you left…I started hearing this weird muffling in my left ear. It wasn’t painful, but it didn’t go away. So, I got it checked. Then I got an MRI.”

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly as he leans forward, listening intensely. 

“They found an acoustic neuroma pushing the left side of my brain pretty far back. It was benign and slow-growing, but it had to come out.”

You pause, letting that sit, watching the way his eyes search yours as though living the moment by your side. 

“Two days after my college sophomore finals, I went into surgery. They got the tumor out, but I lost hearing in that ear permanently. And the tumor had been wrapped around my facial nerve…they had to cut and sew it back together.”

His jaw tightens. His hand curls on the counter for lack of wrapping around you. 

“I had partial facial paralysis for a time. No pain receptors on the left side. Couldn’t smile right. Couldn’t cry from my left eye. Still can’t. Most of my muscle movement has come back now, but it’s…never going to be what it was.”

The words fall heavy in the small room, hovering there until you move again, a tiny shrug. 

“God,” Jisung breathes, voice cracking. “I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” Your voice is calm, not blaming. “You weren’t there.”

His gaze drops to the floor, shame flickering across his face like a shadow.

“I should have been.”

You don’t reply. Because yes, he should have been. Had everything gone the way it was supposed to, he would have been. But you lived for so long in should have been’s, that even the thought of holding that grudge for any longer is exhausting. 

When he speaks again, his voice carries a type of softness and pity you've heard far too often. 

“And you still pursued music…”

“I know that face. Please don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for myself.”

“Why?”

“Because even though I’m pursuing you, there’s no way in hell I could ever deserve you.” 

The room stills. You’re both staring at each other now, caught in the weight of it. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull in your chest again, the dangerous one that could very easily abandon any and all sense of reason. 

You clear your throat, clutching the tissue in your hand as you walk past him with hurried steps. “I think your lip is fine now. Just try not to open your mouth too wide. You might reopen it.” 

“___.”

You stop at the doorframe, turning back.

He slides away from the counter and comes to you, close enough now that you feel the warmth of him. His fingers twitch nervously at his sides before he reaches out to hold your hands. 

“I haven’t officially apologized to you for the way I left…” He pauses, searching for words. “And I don’t think there’s a single apology out there that will make up for it. But I want to say it anyway.”

You say nothing. You let him speak.

“I was scared. My parents were scrambling, my life was falling apart, and when things got hard, I didn’t reach out. Instead, I chose to disappear. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve the silence or the confusion or the way I ditched our plans. I still think about it. A lot. What it must’ve felt like from your side.”

His throat works around a swallow when your fingers fold around his too. 

“I abandoned you. And I can’t take that back, no matter how much I wish I could. You were my best friend and the girl I was in love with, and I left without a word. I’m so sorry. I know I don’t get to ask for anything. But I hope you’ll let me show you that I’m not that scared kid anymore. I’ll never walk away from you like that again. And I won't let you go through anything alone ever again. I'm gonna be here for you from now on. I promise.” 

The words linger for a moment of fragile vulnerability. He breathes in like he wants to say more, but it leaves him in a shaky exhale instead.

Without even thinking, you rise onto your toes, drawn to him, ready to close that tiny space that’s been tormenting you all night. But just as your lips hover close to his, something explodes outside. A sudden hiss and crackle of something igniting, followed by a choir of shouts and laughter. You both jolt, breaking apart as the sound grows louder.

When you step out onto the porch, the night sky blooms with sparks of color. Fireworks burst over the lake, reflecting on the rippling water, painting the crowd’s cheers in flashes of red, green, and gold. Jisung stands beside you, quiet, the soft glow catching on his profile. 

While his attention is fixed on the bursts of color painting the night sky, you shift closer, rising onto your toes just enough to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. It’s fleeting, just a whisper of contact, but it's enough to make his head snap toward you. His grin blooms beautiful and boyish, until the cut on his lip protests, pulling his expression into a wince.

A warm laugh slips from you, unable to be contained, and he shakes his head like he’s embarrassed. But his eyes give his heart away. 

He extends his hand toward you, palm open, and you take it without hesitation, fingers weaving through his. The fireworks roar louder, scattering the sky with light and color. But his gaze keeps flicking back to you, stealing glances at your every gasp and awe. 

And for the first time in years, as you stand here with him beneath the crackling stars, feeling his pulse quicken each time you smile at him, something steady and safe settles within you. 

:: 

The week leading up to the Fall Festival is a blur of final practices and last-minute preparations. The whole town seems to come alive with colorful streamers being strung up, kids darting around with sticky fingers from kettle corn, shop windows painted with bright letters announcing Fall-themed sales. 

Everything is coming together. 

Well, almost everything… 

Every afternoon, after work, Jisung vanishes. No explanation, just a small smile and a hushed, “I’m working on something. It's a secret.”

By the third day, you stopped asking. But the curiosity still gnaws at you.

One time, you attempted to follow him undetectably, but you ended up losing him around the block when the crosswalk light turned red right as you approached it. 

The night of the festival arrives with warm spirits, lively music, and kids in homemade costumes. The nostalgia hits you strong as the town square transforms into a Fall paradise. 

Strings of golden lights zigzag overhead, booths line the edges with food and trinkets, and the stage glows faintly blue under makeshift spotlights. Music pulses from the speakers, the crowd buzzing with anticipation to see their kids play and sing to welcome in the new season. 

You’re half-busy wrangling students from the music school when you hear the mic on stage suddenly turn on. 

Jisung is on stage. Alone. A guitar slung across his chest, hair messy from the humid evening, and eyes straight on you. 

He steps up to the mic, taps the thing to make sure it's on, and clears his throat. 

“I know you guys were expecting the kids, but I hope you don't mind an opening act. I'm not as good as they are, but I'll give it my best shot.” 

The crowd obviously loves him, even a small one like this. It's just the town folk, his neighbors, the bookstore owner, the barber, the baker. But he holds the stage as if it was a hundred thousand screaming fans, and he only cares about one. 

“This song is for someone I owe a lot to. Someone I hurt more than anyone else. I don’t deserve it, but I hope someday, I can make it up to her. Maybe this song can be a start.” 

And then he begins to sing, melting your heart with each strum. 

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh oh

I’ll wish you back, whoa oh

Sometimes I’m gonna get hurt,

But I’ll call you until you come back,

Let’s go back to those times, our day

To how it was, turn everything back, back, back,

You were my story,

Your words come to mind endlessly,

Just by being able to look back at it,

Like a photo that will be engraved deeply in my heart,

I’ll gather my memories one by one and cherish them in my heart,

Your scent became the wind and flew far away,

But I’ll remember it forever,

I just want you to stay with me all day,

All day,

So baby, love me again if it’s okay,

Is that okay? 

His voice floats through the square, flying effortlessly above the noise of the crowd until it reaches who it’s really meant for.

You. 

Every note, every lyric, every intention, sung as though he’s not performing for the town, but for you alone. The crowd may still cheer and sway along, but it all fades into a dull, blurred background. In this moment, Jisung sings only for you.

His guitar hums with a sound you know by heart. His fingers glide over the strings with that same effortless passion and confidence that once seemed lost to time. 

But now, it’s back. 

This is the sound that carried you through your youth, the sound that stitched itself into your dearest memories. And hearing it again, exactly the way it used to be, makes something inside you unravel. You never thought your heart could feel this way again. Yet, here it is, so full it begins to ache. 

Applause erupts around you, but you can’t bring yourself to join. Your hands won’t move, your feet won’t budge. You can only stand frozen in place, staring at him as though the entire world has stopped, as though your heart might split wide open right here in the middle of the street.

A small tug at your sleeve pulls you halfway back to reality. One of the children peers up at you with bright, expectant eyes, clutching their instrument nervously, waiting for you to lead them on. 

As the cheers begin to die down, Jisung leans toward the mic again. 

“I think the real stars of this festival deserve their turn now, what do y'all think?” he asks warmly, and the crowd cheers louder in reply. 

The children explode with excitement, rushing forward as he gestures them onto the stage. You follow them up, ushering them into their places, making sure instruments are where they need to be, mic stands are in place. But your focus fractures when Jisung moves closer. 

His hand brushes against yours in a fleeting, deliberate touch. Your head lifts toward him instinctively, and in that single heartbeat, your eyes meet his. 

Just one look. One quiet, unspoken confession, hidden in plain sight, but understood only by the two of you.

And suddenly, it’s like you're seventeen again. Like when you and Jisung spoke entire conversations through eyes that carried all the truth your voices never dared to say. For the first time since his return, he feels like himself again. And it’s because you’re looking at him the way you used to.

You force yourself to turn away and be with the children, steadying them as they begin. Their small voices rise, sweet and slightly off-key, but pure in a way that only makes the moment more beautiful. 

The crowd claps along, encouraging their little ones with shouts and whistles. Jisung plays on the side, his guitar the perfect accompaniment to the children's song, and it makes you feel warm even in the Fall breeze. 

Even from up here, Jisung doesn’t hear the children right away. He hears you, your voice soft and sweet as you guide them, your hands gently directing their voices, your smile warm enough to melt through every anxious crease in their little brows. 

The kids look at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and Jisung can’t blame them. You always had that gift, the ability to make people feel safe enough to try, brave enough to keep going, loved enough to shine.

Jisung was perhaps the first person to ever be offered that gift by you. And even though he screwed it up, he wants to believe that he now has a chance at getting it back. 

The music is sweet, simple, a little uneven in rhythm, but Jisung swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. Not because of the song itself, but because of you. Because of the way you beam at every child, clapping along even when they falter, quietly mouthing the words to keep them on track. Your presence fills the stage, and his heart. 

That's when he feels it again, that tightening in his chest, that dangerous swell that nearly steals his breath. He’s supposed to be listening to the kids, to their little victory in pulling through a performance they've practiced months for. 

But all he can do is watch you. 

Reality hits him suddenly and inevitably. He’s not falling for you again. He never stopped. Even after all these years, all this distance, somehow you’re still the center of every song he’s ever played, every hope he’s ever held, every thing he's ever wanted. 

Jisung catches himself smiling, stupid and probably way too obvious, but he doesn’t care. Because looking at you right now, laughing when a child plays a note too early and gently guiding them back to the right place, he could fight the whole world just for the chance to stay with you in this square, in this town, in this life. 

It's safe to say the Festival is a huge success. The kids drink up every last bit of attention and praise they can get, the food is served steaming and delicious, and the people are together in a way only small town folk can be. 

Later, after the stage is cleared and the crowd has moved on, Jisung finds you. 

His hands clutch the strap of his guitar with a nervousness you didn't expect once the performance was over, but there's a tremor in his fingers that implies he’s still got one last show.  

He smiles at you, soft and almost shy as he offers you his hand. “Come with me?” he asks, voice quiet, clearly trying to sneak you away from everything else. “I want to show you something.” 

For a moment, you just stare at him, enchanted by the way the Fall lights paint his features gold, softening the sharpness of his features and making him look both familiar and brand new all at once. There’s something in his tone, in the way he holds himself, not demanding or assuming, just hoping. Hoping you'll give him this chance. 

“Okay,” you breathe, taking his hand and allowing him to lead you far away from the crowd. 

You follow him down a path lit faintly by candles inside paper lanterns. Their glow flickers on the dirt, casting soft halos of light that guide the way. The path winds past the last of the festival booths, slipping away from the chatter of the streets until the rest of town fades into the distance. 

But Jisung doesn’t stop there. His fingers are intertwined securely with yours and every so often he gives a gentle squeeze, as if to remind you that you’re safe, that he’s not letting go.

“Where are we going?” you ask with a childlike giggle. 

He only glances over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips as he quickens his pace. “Trust me.”

The lanterns lead you deeper through the trees. Then suddenly, the path opens into a clearing, and at the end of the clearing… 

The pier.

But not the broken, rotting boards you remember from the last time you were here. This pier stretches strong and sure far into the lake, its frame rebuilt with firm care. Lanterns line the wooden rails, their glow spilling across the surface of the water like little reflections of shimmering stars. Along the shore, clusters of flowers bloom, their colors vivid even in the lantern’s light, softening the edges of the scene with touches of colorful life.

Jisung bends down, plucks one of the flowers, and presses it gently into your hand.

It feels like something from a dream.

You stop at the edge of the boards, tears already stinging your eyes. “You fixed it?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of your hand, walks down the length of the pier until he stands at its very end. There, he turns back to you, his guitar cradled in his arms, his eyes solely on yours. 

And then, he begins to play.

I’m getting anxious, can’t think straight, 

I’ll give you an armful of cosmos flowers because I love you,

I wanna place myself in a spot next to you,

I’ll hug you,

Don’t know if it was the wind, or the feeling of my affection that stirred the air, 

It goes high above the sky into the universe, 

I’ll hold you tight and say I’ve always been waiting for this moment, 

I can't hold it in any longer, 

Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes, 

Love is so intuitive while everything else changes, 

The start of a typical romance, 

Even though I know it all, I deeply fall into you and get my hopes up again, 

The moment I first saw you, it was meant to be, 

For me, it’s always been you, 

A pointless war of nerves is a waste of time, 

For me, it’s always been you, 

I’ve seen it all before but I keep freezing up, 

Guess I’m not used to love, 

I know it’s pain, but I really want it so bad. 

The melody is sweet but painful, the kind that burns as it melts into your bones. His voice cracks halfway through, but he doesn’t stop. He pours his everything into it. All his regret, hope…love. You take a step closer, your hands flying over your mouth. The pier doesn't creak beneath your feet anymore. As you make your way to him, it's steady and trustworthy. 

He blinks at you then, eyes just as wet, chest rising and falling with each line he sings. 

Your vision blurs as more tears begin to form, now dripping down your cheek relentlessly. You don't even realize you've begun to run until you're about to crash into his arms. 

His guitar cuts off right before you collide with him. He swings it onto his back, his arms catching you just in time.

Your kiss is not tentative or unsure or hesitant. It’s healing, all-consuming, the kind of kiss born from years of silence and longing that's finally breaking free. The world tilts as Jisung lifts you off your feet, arms locked around your waist. You cling to him, arms looped tightly around his neck as he spins you once, twice, three times. 

His laughter bubbles against your lips, boyish giggles muffled and sweet, meant only for you. The lake splashes beneath the pier, lantern light streaking across the water, and it feels like the whole world is dancing with you both. Your smile keeps breaking the kiss, but he only chases it, kissing you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy and breathless and completely drunk on him. 

When your feet finally find the wooden boards again, it feels like ripping your heart apart to let even an inch of space exist between you. He presses his forehead to yours, unable to stop himself from stealing another kiss. And another. And another. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your skin as he kisses you again and again, over and over until he’s kissed every part of you he can. “I’ve always loved you, ___. Even apart, even when I couldn’t say it, I never stopped. I’ll never stop.” 

And when his mouth finds yours again, his kiss is different. No longer desperate, but certain, sealing the promise he's waited far too long to make. 

You cradle his jaw and whisper back the words he’s waited eight years to hear, “I love you too, Jisung.” 

The moment your lips meet his is like an exhale after holding his breath for his entire life. Every heartbeat, every sleepless night spent wondering if he’d lost you forever, dissolves in an instant. Relief floods him so sharply it nearly buckles his knees, because you’re here, kissing him back, clinging to him like you’ve been waiting just as long.

It feels like he's finally come home. Like every wrong turn in his life has led him back to this single, perfect moment.

And in this kiss, Jisung knows with absolute certainty, he doesn’t have to wonder anymore. 

With his promise in every lingering kiss, you finally let yourself believe, trusting in him and in the future you'll make with him. And it resonates in your chest like a song you’ve known all along, like the way you used to sound. 

:: 

[kayleefriedchicken]

Bookmarking for future reading. Mindy writes such lovely stories, so this deserves my full attention.

[kathaelipwse]

Strings of You ✦ “she was used to being invisible—until he looked at her like she hung the stars.”

pairings ꒰ bang chan × fem! reader ꒱

word count ꒰ ~ 15.9k ꒱

genre ꒰ slowburn romance, angst, fluff, slice of life, college au → married au ꒱

warnings ✶ angst, bullying, hurt/comfort, insecurity, toxic friendships, emotional panic, soft spicy scenes later (obsessive whipped chan energy), marriage fluff (1k-ish words at the end), food mention, swearing, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

✧ in which ⌇ reader is the quiet girl always used by others, with only 3 true friends. enter chan—the loud, popular, outgoing captain of the soccer team. opposite worlds collide when he chooses to know her, to protect her, to love her slowly and entirely. from hidden doodles and secret coffee dates, to public stands and confessions, to a lifetime later where he’s still whipped as her husband—this is their story.

author’s note ꒰ hi loves! ꒱ I know, I haven’t posted in a long time and this fic had been on my mind so here it goes ♡ it’s shorter in comparison to my other fics and I plan on posting a txt fic by this weekend (spoiler: it’s a fan × idol, soobin's). also, the inbox is open for requests—send me all your ideas and thoughts, I’d love to hear them!

You existed in the spaces between things.

You existed in the quiet sigh you released when Mr. Harrison asked, for the third time this week, if you could please help him organize the papers. You existed in the thin, nearly-invisible line where your notes ended and a classmate’s hurried transcription began—notes that would be returned to you with barely a nod, if at all. You were dependable, a fixed point in the chaotic school day, but you were never truly seen. To them, you were an extension of a task, a resource to be used and forgotten. It was a familiar, dull ache that settled in your bones, a quiet resentment that you refused to let surface. You were a good person, you told yourself, and good people did these things. You smiled, you nodded, you said, “Of course,” and you watched the world move on without you.

Your friends, Mira, Asha, and Dev, were the only ones who saw the pattern. They adored you fiercely, and their love was a blanket that you could hide under when the cold indifference of others became too much.

"Eat, you're too nice for your own good," Dev would say at lunch, shoving his container of fries toward you. It was his way of feeding you warmth, of acknowledging the quiet exhaustion that lived in your eyes.

You'd laugh it off, batting his hand away with a gentle smile. “It’s fine, Dev, really. I don’t mind.” But you did. You minded the way the world seemed to take and just take from you, leaving you with a hollow space inside. You minded being the invisible one, the girl whose name was only spoken when a favor was needed.

From across the cafeteria, you could see the sun. His name was Christopher Bahng. He was the nucleus of the entire school, surrounded by a constant, buzzing orbit of friends and admirers. His laugh was a loud, joyous sound that echoed off the walls. The soccer team chanted his name, their voices a triumphant symphony, and he would grin, his face bright with an easy, unburdened confidence that you had never known. He moved with a loud grace that seemed to defy the ordinary rules of physics, and you watched him from the quiet corners of your world, a world of half-eaten sandwiches and neatly organized papers. You were the moon, he was the sun. The thought made you feel both small and safe, as if the immense distance between you was a protective force. He was too bright, too brilliant for someone who spent her life in the shadows.

But the universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

He saw you.

It wasn't when you were helping with the papers, or when you were lending your notes. It was after everyone had left the lunch tables, leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled napkins, empty water bottles, and discarded wrappers. It was a mess that nobody, least of all the captain of the soccer team, would ever think to touch. But you saw it, and the sight of it, left to fester, was a small wrong that you felt compelled to make right.

You moved quietly, your hands working with a practiced, almost automatic rhythm. You collected the trash, your eyes downcast, a quiet, mournful ghost gliding through the empty space. Christopher, however, was still there, leaning against a locker, talking to a few remaining friends. He wasn’t watching the conversation; he was watching you.

The question formed in his mind, sharp and insistent. Why is she always cleaning up when no one else cares? It was a small, almost insignificant action, yet it was the first time he had truly noticed you as a person, and not just as another face in the crowd. Your quiet, unassuming dependability was an anomaly to him, a stark contrast to the loud, demanding world he lived in.

He said something to his friends, a quick goodbye, his eyes never leaving your back. A nervous energy hummed in his veins, an unknown curiosity that he couldn't explain. He watched you finish your task, your shoulders a little slumped, and then you were gone, melting back into the silent hallways.

The next day, it happened. The first real interaction.

The bell had just rung, and the classroom was a chaotic sea of chatter and motion. You were packing your backpack, trying to shrink into the corner of your desk, when you saw it. A pen, a simple black pen with a silver clip, had rolled off Christopher's desk and lay forgotten on the floor. It was nothing, a small object that he probably had ten of, but a small part of you felt a pull to return it. It was what you did. You were the one who made things right.

You walked over, the noise of the room seeming to grow louder with every step. You picked up the pen, your hand trembling slightly, and you tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, his face a bright, warm surprise that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the din. You held the pen out to him, your eyes fixed on his chin, unable to meet his gaze.

A slow smile, different from his usual brilliant one, spread across his face. It was a gentler, more genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. He took the pen from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thanks," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Didn't think anyone noticed."

The words hit you with the force of a tidal wave. They were so simple, so small, but they were the words you had been waiting to hear your entire life. Someone noticed. You couldn't handle the weight of that sincerity. You simply nodded awkwardly, your face flaming, and fled the classroom before you could overthink it.

You were halfway down the hallway, your heart still pounding, when you heard Mira's voice behind you. "Ohhh, the captain noticed you."

You scoffed, the sound shaky. "Don't be ridiculous. He's just being polite." The lie felt sour on your tongue. You wanted to believe it, you needed to believe it, because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

Across the hall, Christopher leaned against a locker, a small smile on his face. He replayed the moment in his mind, your shy smile, the way you had looked at him before you ran. He sensed something genuine about you, something quiet and unassuming and utterly real, and it was a stark contrast to the endless demands for his attention that he was so used to. He couldn’t explain why he was so curious. He didn't know your name, but he knew your hands were gentle and your heart was honest. And thus, curiosity, a strange and insistent feeling, planted the first seed in his mind.

That night, lying in bed, you replayed the moment in your mind. The brush of his fingers, the look in his eyes, the simple words that had meant so much. You told yourself it was nothing, that he was just being nice, that you were overthinking it. But a small, hopeful part of you, a part you had long forgotten, couldn't help but wonder. Was it possible that you, the invisible one, had finally been seen? And in a different part of town, Christopher lay awake, his mind replaying the moment, his chest filled with a strange, new feeling he couldn't quite name...

--- x ---

You were a walking library, a mobile fortress of books held together by sheer hope and the delicate balance of your chin resting precariously on the top one. It was a strategy born from a desire to carry everything in one trip and avoid a second interaction with the gruff librarian. Your arms ached under the weight of the novels and research materials, but you were so close. Just a few more feet and you would be free.

Then, the world tilted.

A loud, familiar laugh cut through the hallway noise, followed by the clatter of cleats and the energetic chatter of the soccer team. In the seconds before impact, you knew exactly who it was. The sun, Christopher Bahng, was heading your way, too absorbed in his conversation to notice the human pile of paper in his path.

You braced yourself, but it was no use. The collision was a soft thud followed by a loud, echoing crash as your fortress came tumbling down. Books scattered everywhere, their spines splayed open, pages fluttering like startled birds. You felt a flash of mortified panic, a heat that rushed to your face as you knelt immediately, desperate to gather your life before anyone could notice the quiet girl who had just caused a scene.

"Oh no—sorry, sorry!" a voice exclaimed, and you didn't even have to look up to know it was him. "Let me help."

He was kneeling on the cold floor beside you, his presence filling the space with an energy you were not used to. His voice was soft, genuinely apologetic, and for a moment, you forgot to be embarrassed. Your hands, however, were still frantic, darting from book to book. Your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the same worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was a small, fleeting contact, but it felt like an electric shock. The touch was warm and solid, and you quickly pulled your hand away, muttering, "It's fine, don't worry." You focused on grabbing the remaining books, not daring to look at him. You could feel his eyes on you, his frown as he noticed your avoidance, the way you were trying to shrink in on yourself. The silence was louder than the laughter and chatter that surrounded you, and you couldn't stand it. You gathered your books, clutched them to your chest, and stood, muttering another quick "Thanks," before hurrying away, your cheeks still burning.

Christopher watched you go, his brow furrowed. He had been expecting a scolding, a sigh of annoyance, a loud protest. But all he got was a quiet apology and a hasty retreat. At soccer practice later, his friends noticed his distracted air.

"What's with you, Chris? Why'd you bother with her? She's weird," one of them said, laughing.

Christopher snapped back without thinking. "She's not weird. She's just… different." The words hung in the air, a defense he hadn't planned on, and he realized with a jolt that he meant them. She was different. Unlike everyone else, she didn't want his attention or his apologies. She wanted to be left alone, and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

His curiosity grew into a conscious effort. He started noticing where you sat in class. You were always at the edge, the last desk in the last row, a sentinel guarding your own quiet solitude. He saw you scribbling notes with a meticulous hand, and when you thought no one was looking, you would doodle. Your pen would move across the page, creating intricate patterns and small, detailed sketches that seemed to tell an entire story.

One day, he couldn't take it anymore. You were alone, as usual, doodling while you waited for the next class to start. He walked over, his heart pounding a little too fast, and stood by your desk. "You like drawing?" he asked, his voice low.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was so simple, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You quickly covered your notebook with your arm. "It's nothing," you stammered. "Just… passing time."

He smiled, a gentle, understanding expression. "Well, it looks cool. A lot better than my stick figures."

You looked up at him, a flicker of surprise in your eyes. He wasn't teasing you. His smile was warm, and his gaze was sincere. The tension in your shoulders lessened, and a small, unexpected laugh escaped you—your first laugh around him. It was a soft, melodious sound, and Christopher felt his heart stutter in his chest. His cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through him as he realized, with a sense of pure, innocent panic, God, why is her laugh so cute?

You immediately regretted laughing. You brushed it off as him being nice, a simple gesture from a genuinely kind person. He was, after all, Christopher Bahng, the sun, and you were just… you.

But you were wrong. Across the room, Mira noticed him looking over at you often now, a different look in his eyes than the one he used for everyone else. "You sure he's not staring?" she asked you later.

"No," you insisted, scoffing at the thought. "Guys like him don't look at girls like me." You had built your walls high, and you had no intention of letting them fall.

That night, alone in his room, Christopher sat at his desk. He wasn't thinking about soccer practice or the upcoming game. He was thinking about you, about your shy smile and that quiet, unexpected laugh. He opened his notebook, the one filled with messy song lyrics and ideas, and found himself copying your doodle from memory, your intricate patterns filling the margin. He didn't even realize he was smiling at it, a genuine, content grin that only appeared when no one else was watching. The invisible girl was becoming more visible to him every single day. And he, the sun, was drawing her world into his.

Your friends were your shield, your protectors, and the first line of defense against a world that you had learned to navigate with quiet caution. They had watched the subtle shifts in Christopher's behavior—the lingering glances, the soft smiles, the way he seemed to gravitate to your orbit—and their suspicions had reached a boiling point. They were not malicious, just fiercely protective. They had seen too many people take advantage of you. They had seen the way your light dimmed each time someone took without giving, each time your kindness was mistaken for weakness. Their love for you was a wall, and now, someone was trying to breach it. They were not going to let him pass without a fight.

One afternoon, Asha decided to act on it. She was blunt and brave in a way you couldn't be, armed with a fierce loyalty that left no room for subtlety. She found Christopher by the vending machines, his attention momentarily absorbed in choosing a drink. Dev stood by her side, a silent, unyielding presence, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture radiating a quiet but firm disapproval.

"What's your deal with her?" Asha began, her voice low and direct, meant to be heard only by the three of them. "Is this some bet? Some joke?"

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick with accusation. Christopher, who had been humming a song under his breath, froze. The easy, friendly warmth that had been a permanent fixture on his face for weeks vanished, replaced by a coldness that made his eyes go flat. He had expected this. He knew people would talk, would assume the worst, but hearing it directly from your friends—from the people who loved you—stung him more than he could have anticipated. It was an accusation that went deeper than just him; it was an insult to you, and he felt a flash of white-hot anger at the thought.

"What? No," he said, the words sharp with frustration. "Why would you even think that?"

Dev stepped forward, his voice a low rumble, the words a painful confirmation of your deepest insecurities. "You're the soccer captain, Christopher. You're… you. People like you don't notice people like her unless it's for fun. Or unless you need something from her." It wasn't just a warning. It was a statement about the way the world worked, about the rigid social hierarchy that kept everyone in their place. It was a line drawn in the sand, one you had always instinctively known not to cross.

Christopher's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. He hated the way they were categorizing you, as if you were some quiet, insignificant project he had stumbled upon, a new toy to entertain him. He had spent his life navigating a world of people who wanted something from him—his influence, his attention, his popularity. You were the first person who seemed to want nothing at all, the first one who saw him as just another person, and it was a relief he hadn't known he was craving. He hated that they couldn't see that.

"She's not a joke," he said, his voice firm and unwavering, each word a stone-cold promise. "She's… someone I actually want to know."

Asha and Dev exchanged a look, half-suspicious, half-surprised. The sincerity in his tone was hard to dismiss. He saw their hesitation and pushed on, an almost desperate urgency in his voice. "She means a lot more than you think. Even if she doesn't realize it." With that, he turned and walked away, the weight of his words hanging in the tense, silent air.

Later that afternoon, Asha reported back to you, her voice a mix of disbelief and grudging respect. You were organizing your locker, your head down, trying to disappear into the familiar rhythm of the school day. "He didn't deny it," she said, her eyes wide. "He's serious."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hummingbird beat that made it hard to breathe. Your hands, which had been neatly stacking books, froze. "Please," you scoffed, your voice shaky, a desperate attempt to sound nonchalant. "Christopher Bahng? No. Don't play with me." The thought was absurd, a ridiculous fantasy that you refused to entertain. You had spent so long building your walls, reinforcing the idea that you were not someone who could be seen, let alone wanted, by a boy like him. The idea that he might genuinely be interested was more terrifying than the thought that he was just playing a cruel joke. At least with a joke, you knew the end was coming. But a genuine connection? That was a vulnerability you didn't know how to handle. But the seed of doubt Asha had planted, a tiny, persistent thing, shook the foundation of your well-guarded walls.

Meanwhile, Christopher was restless. The confrontation with your friends had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was used to people wanting things from him, but their assumption that he would use you for a joke was a new kind of low. He hated that they saw him that way, and he hated even more that they saw you as someone who could be so easily dismissed. The anger simmered in his chest, a constant, low-level burn that he couldn't shake.

At practice, his frustration bubbled over. His friends, oblivious to the confrontation and the emotional weight he was carrying, teased him relentlessly. "Got a new project, Captain?" one of them would say, nudging him in the ribs. "What's the goal with this one, anyway?"

"She's not a project. Shut up," Christopher snapped, his voice venomous, his eyes dark with a rage that was entirely disproportionate to the comment. His sudden, brutal anger shocked them, and they fell silent, their confused stares a new kind of pressure. He realized then that he was more protective of you than he thought. The thought of anyone seeing you as a joke, as a project, filled him with a quiet, simmering rage that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He needed to show them. He needed to show the world. And more importantly, he needed to show you.

The next day at lunch, you noticed it immediately. The noise of the cafeteria, the blur of faces—it all seemed to quiet as you saw him. He was walking toward your table, not with a soccer player's confident swagger, but with an almost hesitant, purposeful stride. He didn’t sit with his teammates. He sat with you and your friends, sliding into the empty spot next to Dev, a subtle but monumental shift in the social landscape of the entire school.

He started small, a gentle infiltration into your world. He joked with Dev about soccer drills, the two of them a surprisingly easy pair. He learned Mira's favorite song, humming a few bars to get a genuine smile out of her. He even engaged in Asha's sarcastic banter, his own wit a match for her sharp tongue. He was trying to show your friends, I'm not here to hurt her. His eyes, however, kept finding yours, and in them, you saw a sincerity that you were terrified to believe.

You watched him, your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Why me? you thought. Out of everyone here, out of all the people who would fall at his feet, why me? You kept your gaze fixed on your plate, your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. His presence was a constant, unsettling force, a reminder that the quiet, predictable life you had built for yourself was now in danger of being torn apart.

Christopher, on the other hand, had a different thought. He saw you, sitting there, your shoulders a little tense, your eyes still holding that beautiful, quiet sadness. He saw the way you listened to your friends, the way your small smiles were so genuine. He saw you as you truly were, stripped of the pretense and performance that defined the world around him. He was exhausted by the constant need to be perfect, to be the charismatic leader everyone expected him to be. And in your quiet existence, he found a profound sense of peace.

In his mind, the answer was simple, the most honest truth he had ever known. Because you’re real. And that's all I've ever wanted.

The universe, in its own strange way, seemed to be conspiring to bring you together. The sky, a bruised tapestry of purple and grey, opened up with a torrential downpour, a sudden and violent wash of rain that canceled soccer practice and stranded Christopher inside the school's quiet sanctuary. You, however, had nowhere to be but the library. The storm was a symphony that muted the frantic energy of the hallways, and the rain-lashed windows provided a perfect backdrop for your sketching. It was your element, a world of quiet contemplation where you could exist without the demanding, watchful eyes of others.

You were completely lost in your own world, a world of intricate lines and gentle curves. Your pen moved across the paper with a practiced, almost subconscious grace, the tip leaving a delicate trail of graphite in its wake. The rain hammered against the glass, a rhythmic drumbeat that lulled you into a meditative state. You didn't even hear him approach, his usual loud, confident stride replaced with a careful, quiet grace that you had never known he possessed.

He simply pulled up a chair and sat near you, the silence between you a soft, comfortable blanket that was a stark contrast to the storm outside. He was not the loud, boisterous captain of the soccer team you knew from the hallways. He was just Christopher, a boy with damp hair that clung to his forehead and a restless energy that seemed to quiet the moment he sat down. He wasn't reaching for you, or demanding anything from you. He was just… there.

"Show me?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble that was barely audible over the sound of the rain.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was a simple one, but it felt impossibly heavy, weighted with all the unspoken things that had passed between you. It was one thing for your friends to see your doodles, but for him, the sun, to ask? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, nervous beat that made your hands tremble. The act of sharing your art was an act of profound vulnerability, a laying bare of your inner world. You hesitated, the walls you had so carefully constructed threatening to crumble. But something in his gaze, a quiet sincerity that you were beginning to recognize, made you give in. You flipped the page reluctantly, revealing a detailed sketch of an old, gnarled tree, its roots twisting like a forgotten symphony and its branches reaching into a dark, stormy sky.

He stared, genuinely amazed. He didn't just glance at it; he truly looked at it, his eyes tracing every line, every shadow, every intricate detail you had poured your soul into. The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was an appreciative, thoughtful silence, not an awkward, painful one. "This is… beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper of pure awe.

You laughed, a nervous, almost self-deprecating sound. "It's just lines on paper." The words were a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the vulnerability you felt. You weren't a great artist, just a girl with a sketchbook and a lot of quiet hours to fill. You didn't want him to think it was more than it was.

He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on your drawing. "No," he said, and his voice was so firm, so sure, that you believed him. "It's not just lines. It's you. Quiet, but… it says so much." His words were a mirror, and you saw yourself reflected in them in a way you had never done before. He wasn't seeing just the drawing; he was seeing the emotions behind it—the loneliness, the resilience, the quiet strength.

His words made your cheeks warm with a blush that you couldn't control. You looked away, your gaze fixed on the rain streaming down the window, a desperate attempt to hide the raw emotion on your face.

He seemed to sense your discomfort because he didn't push. Instead, he pulled out his own notebook, the one you had so briefly seen on the day of the book collision. He flipped it open to a page filled with messy, frantic song lyrics, words scribbled in the margins, and an energy that was palpable. "Don't laugh," he said, a genuine nervousness in his voice that made him sound so much younger, so much more vulnerable than you had ever thought possible. "It's rough."

You took the notebook, your fingers brushing his as he passed it to you, a now familiar shiver running down your arm. You read the lyrics softly, and your eyes widened as you read his words. They were raw and honest and filled with a quiet melancholy that was so completely at odds with the loud, charismatic person he presented to the world. They were filled with loneliness and the pressure to be someone he wasn't, to constantly perform. You looked at the words and you looked at him, your gaze filled with a new kind of understanding. "This… this is you, isn't it?"

He nodded, a vulnerable, almost shy expression on his face. "Yeah. No one else sees this stuff."

And in that moment, the world shifted. You realized you were seeing a side of him that no one else had—the boy who wrote poetry and music in the quiet moments between soccer games and loud laughter. He was more than the loud, bright sun. He was a universe of his own, filled with a quiet, introspective sadness you recognized. He had given you a glimpse of it, a silent invitation into his world, and in turn, he had shown you that he truly saw yours.

He relaxed around you, the conversation flowing as naturally as the rain outside. He talked about music, about late-night walks, about the quiet pressure he felt to be perfect all the time. He talked about the loneliness that came with being everyone's idol, the constant feeling that people loved the idea of him, but never the real person. You listened without judgment, a quiet, non-demanding presence that he seemed to crave. He didn't have to be anything for you. He could just be Christopher.

A comfortable silence fell between you, a heavy, warm quiet that was a far cry from the awkward silences you were used to. The air was thick with unsaid things, with the growing weight of your shared vulnerabilities. It felt like a safe space, an emotional bunker you had both unknowingly built.

He broke the silence, his voice a low, almost surprised whisper. "You’re easy to talk to. Like I don’t have to perform."

You smiled softly, the feeling a foreign but welcome one. "Maybe that's because I don't expect anything."

He caught himself staring at you again, his pulse quickening as he realized how much he craved your quiet presence. His eyes, dark and searching, held yours for a moment, and you felt your own breath catch in your throat. He wasn't just looking at you; he was studying you, as if committing every detail to memory.

He leaned in, his voice barely audible, as if he were saying a secret to himself. "Yeah… that’s why I like being here."

You didn't catch it. The words were a whisper, and your mind was too busy unraveling the mess of emotions you were feeling to pay attention. But across the room, tucked away behind a row of bookshelves, Mira saw the way he was looking at you. She saw the genuine warmth in his eyes, the soft smile on his face, the quiet intensity of his gaze. And she knew, without a doubt, that he wasn't just being polite. He was falling. And you, oblivious and caught in your own walls, had no idea.

The afternoon sun, a tired and golden light, slanted through the tall classroom windows, casting long, dusty stripes across the desks. It was the last period of the day, a collective, heavy silence that had settled over the entire class like a thick blanket. The low, incessant hum of the air conditioning was the only thing keeping most of you from falling completely asleep. Your pen had slowed to a near halt, your notes a jumble of half-finished thoughts and a series of geometric shapes that were slowly turning into something more intricate—a castle of polygons, a fortress built from your own fatigue. You were tired, the day's constant, quiet performance of being “fine” weighing you down in a way that felt physical.

Mr. Peterson, your math teacher, was a kind man who had a penchant for terrible puns. He had just finished explaining a particularly complex algebraic equation when he paused, a mischievous glint in his eye that you recognized with a tired sigh. “Now, remember,” he said, drawing out the words in a slow, dramatic fashion, “an angle is acute when it’s so… little.” He paused for a beat knowing he was giving the most useless and known information out ther, but with a hopeful smile on his face, waiting for a laugh that never came.

A collective, exhausted silence followed. A few people offered a courtesy chuckle, a polite gesture from a class that was too tired to do anything else. But for the most part, the joke landed with a thud, a hollow, echoing sound in the quiet room. You, however, had your own brand of quiet humor, one born from a lifetime of internal monologues. Without thinking, the words slipped out, a soft, self-deprecating murmur under your breath that was meant only for yourself. “Well, at least the numbers and angles are more balanced than my life.”

Next to you, Mira snorted, a sharp, surprised sound that she quickly tried to stifle with a hand over her mouth. But from a few rows ahead, a sound so explosive and unexpected it made the entire class jump erupted from the back of the room. It was Christopher Bahng, and he was laughing. Not his usual loud, boisterous, soccer captain laugh, but a genuine, unrestrained sound that started as a choked gasp and ended in a full-throated, joyous roar. His laugh was a waterfall of pure, unadulterated amusement, and it seemed to break the very silence of the room.

Every single person turned, their eyes wide with shock. Christopher never laughed like that. He was a constant source of effortless cool, a controlled smile always in place, but this was different. He was laughing so hard that tears were starting to well in the corners of his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to contain it. He felt the heat rise to his ears, the flush of embarrassment spreading across his neck, and he quickly tried to quiet down, pressing a hand over his mouth, his chest still heaving with silent giggles.

You, meanwhile, felt a wave of mortification wash over you. Your joke was meant for you and Mira. It was a joke for the invisible, a shared moment of dark humor that was meant to exist only in the shadows. It was not meant for the sun. You felt your face burn as you looked at him, your voice barely a whisper. “…It wasn’t that funny.”

He shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. His eyes, when they finally met yours, were sparkling with a light you had never seen before—a light of pure, unvarnished delight. "No—it was," he managed, his voice still thick with laughter. "It was. You’re funny. Like… stupid funny."

The words were so sincere, so honest in their clunky delivery, that they left you speechless. He wasn’t mocking you. He was genuinely, truly, hilariously impressed. You hid your face in your hands, the embarrassment almost unbearable. It wasn't just that he had laughed; it was that he had laughed at your joke, a joke that was so inherently you, so personal and quiet. It was the most seen you had ever felt.

For the rest of the day, the image of your laughing face was burned into his mind. He found himself grinning at random moments, a warmth spreading through his chest every time the memory of your whispered joke and your startled, embarrassed laugh replayed in his head. The weight of his world seemed to lift, replaced by a simple, joyous lightness. He was so used to hearing jokes that were loud and obvious, jokes that were meant to be heard and appreciated by a crowd. But your joke was a quiet whisper, a small, perfect thing that only he had been able to catch.

At soccer practice, his focus was gone. He missed a simple pass, something he never did, and the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds, his teammate yelling in frustration. Christopher barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, lost in a quiet classroom with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows. He couldn't concentrate. He was usually so precise, his movements sharp and calculated, but today he felt clumsy, his feet tangled in a way he couldn't explain.

His teammate, sensing something was wrong, came over, his expression concerned. "Yo, what's with you, Chris? You've been off all day."

Christopher shook his head, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.” But in his mind, it wasn't the heat or the drills or the pressure that had him distracted. It was the sound of your laugh, a quiet, unexpected melody that he couldn’t get out of his head. He replayed the entire conversation, the way you had looked at him, the way your eyes had widened when he called you "stupid funny."

That night, he was restless, unable to focus on his homework. He couldn't shake the memory of your joke, the way it had broken through his composure. It wasn't just funny; it was real, and it was a glimpse into your world that he desperately wanted to know more about. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over his contact list, before finally landing on Mira's name.

He texted her, a simple, direct question. “What kind of jokes does she usually make?”

The reply came back almost instantly, a string of emojis and a knowing, teasing line. “Oh, so the Captain is interested, huh?”

He groaned aloud, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn't. He knew there was no going back. The seed of curiosity had blossomed into a full-blown obsession, a need to know you, to see you, to hear your quiet wit. He wanted to hear you laugh again, and he knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he was the reason for it.

The next day, he sat by your group again at lunch. You saw him coming, and you knew exactly what he was doing. You rolled your eyes, a half-playful, half-serious gesture. “Why are you here again?”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned forward, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “Waiting for my daily dumb joke.”

You stared at him, your defenses crumbling. You had no witty comeback, no sarcastic retort. You were completely disarmed by his directness, by the way he was so shamelessly, openly, and playfully invading your space. You stared back, your expression a mixture of surprise and confusion, and for a fleeting moment, he was flustered, the tables turned on him.

From across the table, Dev muttered, shaking his head with a resigned smile. “God, he’s whipped already.”

Christopher laughed, the sound easy and genuine, but deep down, a profound and startling realization settled over him. He wasn't just curious about you anymore. The crush he had been fighting, the attraction he had been denying—it was all so much bigger than he had ever thought. He was in too deep. And with a silent sense of relief and quiet panic, he realized that he was falling.

The easy, comfortable silence between you and Christopher became something else entirely. It became a public, unspoken language that those who were paying attention could read with alarming clarity. What started as quiet moments in the library and whispered jokes in the back of the classroom had blossomed into something more tangible, a physical orbit you couldn't seem to escape, nor did you truly want to.

It started with small things, so subtle you almost didn't register them as new. You would be gathering your books at the end of class, your shoulders already aching from the day’s weight, and he would simply be there, leaning against the doorframe as if he’d been waiting for you all along. His presence was a subtle shift in the air, a warmth that you felt before you even saw him. "Heading to the library?" he'd ask, his hands in his pockets, a casual smile on his face that was anything but. You would shake your head, muttering, "Just to my locker." He would shrug, his grin widening, and say, "Cool. I’ll walk with you." He made it sound like a happy coincidence, a convenient overlap in your schedules, but you knew, with a quiet, certain part of your heart, that it was a deliberate choice to insert himself into your world. His presence was a warm blanket you didn’t know you were cold without, and you had grown to crave the quiet rhythm of his stride beside yours, the comfortable way he would fill the silence with the sound of his voice, talking about music, about late-night walks, about the mundane pressures of his life.

One afternoon, your arms were heavy with a stack of textbooks that felt particularly unforgiving. The weight was a physical manifestation of your exhaustion, the kind that made your shoulders ache and your knuckles white. He saw you struggling from across the hall and jogged over, his hands reaching for the books without a moment of hesitation. "Here," he said, his voice soft, as if you were a fragile thing that could break. "Let me help."

You flinched back, your grip on the books tightening so much your fingers went numb. The thought of him carrying your things, of the two of you walking together, was too much. It was too visible, too blatant a display of… something you couldn't even name. You couldn't handle the inevitable stares and whispers, the way their curious, judgmental eyes would follow you both. "No, it’s fine," you protested, your voice a little shaky. "I’ve got it."

He stopped, his brow furrowed in confusion. A fleeting look of hurt crossed his face before he masked it with a light, teasing smile. "What? You think I’ll drop them?" he joked, trying to lighten the tension.

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on a spot on the floor just past his shoulder. The words came out in a rush, a quiet admission of your deepest fear. "No… I just don’t want people staring."

The easy smile on his face faltered, replaced by a quiet understanding that was more devastating than any anger. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the crowded hallway, and he saw it. He saw the subtle, knowing looks, the small groups of people whose eyes followed your every move, like a flock of vultures circling a single, vulnerable bird. He saw the hushed conversations, the way they would suddenly fall silent as you passed. He saw it all, and it made him angry, a hot, protective rage that he had to swallow down. He lowered his hand, the offer of help rescinded, and simply walked beside you in silence, his presence a solid, unyielding wall against their prying eyes. Because you were right. People were staring.

The whispers started small, a low, buzzing static in the background of your life that slowly began to crescendo. You heard them in the hallways, in the crowded cafeteria, and in the worst place of all—the bathroom. You were washing your hands, your gaze fixed on your reflection, the tired girl with the kind eyes staring back at you. Two girls walked in, their voices pitched low, their words a knife twisting in your chest.

“Did you see Christopher with her?” one of them whispered, her voice laced with a mixture of envy and disbelief. “I just… don’t get it. Like, why her? She’s so…” a long, cruel pause, a searching for the right word. “…plain.”

The word, when it came, was a poison in the air. It was spoken with such casual cruelty, such a careless lack of concern for the person it was describing. "I mean, she’s nice and all, but she just… blends in."

The other girl laughed, a brittle, sharp sound. "He’s just being nice, you know? He’s the Captain. He’s always being polite. She’s probably just reading too much into it."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. You felt your chest tighten, a familiar, agonizing pain that you had spent your life trying to ignore. You had always known you were plain, that you were the type of person who blended in. But hearing it spoken aloud, in connection with him, in connection with the quiet, hopeful thing that was growing between you—that hurt in a way nothing else ever had. You kept your head down, not daring to move, not wanting them to know you had heard.

That night, lying in bed, you texted Mira, the words a raw, honest confession that felt like a betrayal to the fragile hope in your heart. “It’s not real,” you wrote, the words a desperate plea for her to agree. “He’s… just bored.”

Mira’s reply was almost instant, her words a lifeline in the suffocating darkness of your self-doubt. “You think he’d waste this much time if he didn’t care? You think he’s bored enough to learn about your weird doodles and listen to you talk about old books? He’s not bored. He’s into you. Seriously.” Her words were meant to be a comfort, but they only fueled your insecurity. The logic was sound, you knew it was, but a part of you couldn't accept it. It was too easy for Christopher Bang, the sun, to get bored. To him, you were a puzzle, a quiet mystery, and once he solved you, he would move on. You struggled to believe that you could be enough, that you could be the real thing he was looking for.

Meanwhile, Christopher was fighting his own battles. His world was full of noise and constant feedback, and it was hard for him to tune it out. His teammates, who were used to his laser focus and unwavering dedication to the game, were getting frustrated. They saw the distraction in his eyes, the way he would miss a pass or be a beat too slow. They didn’t understand, and their frustration turned into a quiet, resentful curiosity.

“What’s with you and that girl?” one of his friends asked him in the locker room after practice, his voice a low, teasing whisper, his eyes a cold, judgmental assessment. “Bet she’s just using you for clout.”

The words were so disgusting, so far from the truth of who you were, that Christopher felt a hot, blinding flash of anger. He spun around, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes a storm of furious protectiveness. “She’d never,” he snapped, the words a harsh hiss. “Don’t talk about her in that manner.” His sudden, venomous anger shocked them all into silence. They had never seen him so protective, so quick to anger. It was a clear, unmistakable line in the sand, a stark declaration that you were no longer a topic for their locker room jokes.

The next day, you noticed he was quieter. The usual easy banter was gone, replaced by a simmering tension in his shoulders that you instinctively felt. He seemed heavier, the light that usually followed him dimmed by a shadow you couldn’t quite place. You waited until lunch, until his friends had walked away to get their food, and leaned forward, your voice soft with genuine concern. “Did something happen?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting yours with a profound weariness. “Nah,” he said, the word a forced casualness. “Just… don’t listen to what people say, okay?”

His gaze was so intense, so full of unspoken things, that your heart stirred in your chest. His protectiveness, raw and simple, was a powerful thing. He was fighting for you, in a way that you had never thought anyone would. But the insecurity, the fear that you were just a phase, that you were just a quiet girl he would eventually grow bored of, lingered. The whispers still echoed in your ears, the words ‘plain’ and ‘bored’ a constant, nagging refrain.

That night, lying awake in bed, Christopher’s mind was not on his team or the upcoming finals. It was on you, and on the quiet, fragile thing he was trying to protect. He thought about the fear in your eyes when you asked him not to stare, the way you had flinched away from him. He realized, with a sudden, bone-deep clarity, that he wasn’t just crushing on you. It wasn't just a crush. It was more. He didn't just want to know you; he wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to be happy, and he wanted to be the person who could make you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in your life. The weight of that realization, the sheer vulnerability of it all, terrified him more than the soccer finals ever could. He was in too deep. And he wasn't sure he wanted to get out.

The goodbye was a soft, gentle thing, a quiet moment in the chaotic blur of the school parking lot. You stood beside your friends, trying to smile, trying to act like this was just a normal departure. Christopher was surrounded by his team, their cheers and excited chatter a loud testament to the final game. It was a regional championship, the biggest game of his uni-life, a chance for his team to make history. He deserved to be focused, to be free of any distractions, and you were determined to not be one.

“Win for us, Captain,” you said, your voice a little shaky, a false brightness to it that you hoped he wouldn't notice. You tried to project a calm, unwavering confidence that you were far from feeling.

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you would cling to for the next few days. He reached out and ruffled your hair, a small, familiar gesture that made your heart flutter. "For you," he said, his eyes finding yours, holding your gaze for a moment longer than they should have. "Always." The word was a promise, a quiet vow that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then he was gone, a blur of red and white as he climbed onto the bus. You watched the bus drive away, the exhaust a faint cloud in the humid air, and as it disappeared around the corner, a hollow, empty space bloomed in your chest. It was a physical ache, a profound sense of loss that felt both familiar and new. You were a planet without its sun, and you were already beginning to feel the cold.

At first, everything was normal. The halls were still crowded, the classes still mundane, the lunches still loud. But as the days bled into one another, his absence became a tangible thing, a vacuum in your world that sucked all the light out of the room. The noise seemed louder, the stares more pointed. The whispers, which had been a low hum, now felt like a crescendo, a venomous chorus that followed you everywhere.

The popular girls, who had been silenced by his presence, were now emboldened. Their whispers were louder, their glances more direct. You overheard them in the lunchroom, their voices sharp and cruel. "She thinks she's special just because he talks to her." The words, so stupidly simple, lodged themselves in your brain, an echo of your own deepest fears. You felt a wave of nausea, the familiar self-doubt a bitter taste in your mouth.

His friends on the team, not as kind or as mature as Christopher, saw an opportunity. They didn't understand the bond between you two. To them, you were a distraction, a quiet girl who had somehow taken up too much of their Captain's time. They would sneer as you passed, their voices dripping with contempt. "He's bored of you already," one of them said as he walked by you in the hallway, the words a cold knife in your back.

You shrank into yourself, the familiar weight of your quietness a shield you wrapped around yourself. You brushed off the comments, pretended not to hear the whispers. You could handle this. You had always handled this. It was a part of your life, the quiet dismissal, the unseen labor. But your friends, your three fierce protectors, noticed the way your shoulders had begun to slump, the way you would subtly change your route to avoid a hallway, the way your smiles no longer reached your eyes.

Mira, her jaw clenched with a simmering fury, grabbed your arm one day in the cafeteria. "Say something to Christopher," she insisted, her voice low and urgent.

You shook your head violently, a wave of panic rising in your chest. "No. He doesn't need this. Not when he's away." You thought of him, focused and determined, his eyes on the prize. The last thing he needed was your petty high school drama. You were a minor distraction, a footnote in his life. You could handle this on your own. It was a fierce, desperate kind of pride that made you refuse to reach out.

But the bullying escalated. The snide comments turned into malicious acts. An "accidental" spill of water on your notes in the library, your meticulous handwriting a blurry, ruined mess that made your heart ache with every illegible word. A shoulder check in the hallway that sent you stumbling, your books scattering across the floor like a second collision. One girl cornered you by the lockers, her face a mask of bitter jealousy. "He'll drop you the second finals are over," she hissed, her voice a low, ugly sneer. "He just likes the chase. You're not special."

You swallowed the tears that burned in your throat, gripping the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink, your knuckles white. You looked at your reflection, at the girl with the tired eyes, and you whispered the words that had been your mantra your entire life. "It's fine. I'm used to this. I can handle it." But your friends, standing outside the door, knew better. They exchanged worried looks, their hearts breaking for you. They knew you were breaking.

Dev, the quietest of the three, spoke the words that they were all thinking. "She won't tell him. So we will."

They huddled together, their phones a small circle of light in the dim hallway. They drafted a message to Christopher, the words a careful, concise explanation of everything that was happening. They hesitated, their fingers hovering over the send button. They didn’t want to be the ones to ruin his concentration, to distract him from his dream. But Mira, her face set in a determined scowl, pressed the button. It wasn't about the finals anymore. It was about you.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, Christopher’s team was celebrating a hard-won victory. The cheers were loud, the music was blaring, and the air was thick with the triumphant smell of sweat and adrenaline. He held the trophy in his hands, but it felt hollow. Something was missing. He pulled out his phone, a little annoyed, and saw a text from Mira. He read the first line, then the second, and his chest dropped with a sick, twisting panic. "She's not saying anything, but they're destroying her here. She's getting bullied."

He reread the words three times, his mind refusing to accept them. The elation of victory vanished, replaced by a cold, numbing fear. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his hands began to tremble. His whole world, which had been so bright and so focused on this victory, came crashing down around him. He didn’t think. He didn't process the cheers or the congratulations. He just knew he had to get back to you.

"I have to go back," he muttered, his voice hoarse, the words barely audible over the music.

A teammate, overhearing him, grabbed his arm. "Are you crazy? The finals—the media's waiting for you!"

Christopher pulled his arm away, his eyes wild with a fear that was deeper than any he had ever felt on the field. "She's more important," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "Always." He turned and ran, leaving behind the victory, the celebration, and the stunned faces of his teammates. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Please… please let her be okay. He was running on pure adrenaline, a desperate, undeniable need to get back to the only person who mattered. He would leave the trophy behind, leave the cheers, leave the victory—it all meant nothing without you.

The world had shrunk to the size of a single desk. The classroom, once a place of quiet refuge, was now a suffocating space filled with the low hum of whispered poison. You sat there, pretending to take notes, your pen moving across the page with a practiced, automatic rhythm. But the words on the paper were a meaningless blur, and the page might as well have been blank. Your mind was a frantic cacophony of fear and humiliation, replaying every cruel comment, every sneer, every dismissive glance you had endured in the last two days. It was a vicious cycle of remembered pain, a silent torture that left you feeling like a ghost in your own body.

You had become a target, a quiet scapegoat for a jealousy you never asked for. The girls who had been silenced by Christopher’s presence were now emboldened, their words a constant, nagging refrain of your own deepest insecurities. "She thinks she’s special," one would whisper as you passed, the words a low hiss in the crowded hallway. "He's just bored," another would mutter, her eyes a cold, judgmental assessment that cut you deeper than any physical blow. You tried to be invisible again, to shrink back into the shadows you had so painstakingly crawled out of, but it was no use. The quiet space you had carved out for yourself was gone.

A crumpled paper ball hit your desk with a soft thud, a silent act of aggression. You didn't flinch. You didn't dare. You just stared at it, a knot of pure misery tightening in your stomach. When you finally looked, a quick, furtive glance, you saw the words scrawled in an angry, jagged handwriting: Not worth his time. The phrase was a dagger, a cold confirmation of your worst fears. Your chest tightened, a sharp, searing pain that felt like a physical wound. You clenched your pen tighter, your knuckles white, fighting the hot, humiliating tears that threatened to spill over and betray the quiet composure you were so desperately clinging to. You felt so utterly alone, so impossibly exposed, as if the entire room could see the words on that paper ball, could see the fragile state of your heart.

Suddenly, a wave of gasps rippled through the room. The quiet, monotonous drone of the teacher's voice stuttered to a halt. A hush fell over the classroom, a stunned, collective silence that was so profound it felt like the world had stopped spinning. The air crackled with a strange, frantic energy. You looked up, your eyes wide with confusion, and that's when you saw him.

He was standing in the doorway, a living, breathing anachronism in the orderly world of the classroom. He was still in his soccer jersey, sweat-soaked and rumpled from a game you had heard had ended in a triumphant victory. The jersey was a brilliant red, but it looked faded and dirty from the road. His hair was a mess, his face pale and drawn, and his chest heaved with the heavy, uneven breaths of a man who had run a thousand miles to get here. He looked less like the undefeated captain of the soccer team and more like a lost boy who had just run through a storm, fighting against every obstacle just to stand in this room.

His eyes, frantic and wild, scanned the room. They passed over the shocked faces of his teammates, the stunned silence of the popular girls, the confused expression on the teacher's face. They were searching, a desperate, frantic search for a single face, and when they finally landed on you, your heart stopped. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the chaos and the noise of the room fading into a distant, buzzing static. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were the only person in the world who existed to him.

"Y/N," he said, and the sound of your name, spoken by him for the first time, was a soft, ragged whisper in the heavy silence. The sound of it, the way it rolled off his tongue, was a beautiful, disorienting thing. It was so simple, and yet it held all the weight of the universe.

You froze, a shot of pure panic shooting through you. He was here. He was supposed to be celebrating. He was supposed to be a million miles away, enjoying his victory, basking in the glow of the media. This was a nightmare. This was all your fault. You stammered, the words getting caught in your throat. "W-what are you doing here? Your finals—"

He didn't listen. He didn't even hear you. He was already striding forward, his boots a loud, heavy drumbeat against the linoleum floor. He ignored the stunned silence, the disbelieving stares, the murmurs of his teammates. His gaze never left you. He reached your desk and knelt, his hands gripping your shoulders, his touch firm and grounding. He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, his eyes searching your face for any sign of a wound. "Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, a raw rumble of emotion that made every hair on your arms stand up. "Tell me."

You shook your head furiously, the tears you had been fighting so hard to suppress finally breaking free and running hot and fast down your cheeks. "No, no—you shouldn't be here," you insisted, the words a desperate, broken plea. "This is my fault—I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t you dare blame yourself," he cut you off, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before. He didn’t give you another moment to protest, another second to pull away. He pulled you from your chair and into his arms, crushing you against his chest in a tight, desperate hug. His touch was so strong, so protective, so utterly real.

Gasps erupted around the room. It was the moment that broke the spell, the moment that shattered the silence. The whispers were no longer quiet, but loud and venomous.

One of the popular girls, her face a mask of bitter jealousy and confusion, found her voice. "Chan, what are you doing?! Think about your image! You just won!"

His teammates, still stunned, shook their heads in disbelief. "She's no one, man," one of them said, his voice laced with disgust, as if he were talking about a stray dog. "Remember who you are!"

Christopher’s arms tightened around your trembling body, holding you in a fierce, unyielding grip. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in as if you were an antidote to the poison in the room. He didn’t respond to the protests, to the outrage. He simply looked up, his head still low, and glared at them. His eyes were not the easy, confident gaze of the Captain they knew. They were the cold, unwavering stare of a lion protecting his cub.

"She’s not no one," he snapped, the words a thunderclap in the room. His voice was laced with a raw, undeniable fury that made every single person in the room flinch and take a step back. "She’s everything. And if you can’t respect her—you don’t respect me."

Silence crashed over the room, a profound stillness that was more terrifying than any noise. His words hung in the air, a final, unyielding declaration. You buried your face deeper in his chest, trembling harder. The solid warmth of his body was a fragile fortress against the sudden, devastating weight of his words. You had never been chosen before. Not like this. Not so loudly, not so unapologetically. You were terrified, but you were also safe.

"They’ll hate you for this," you whispered, the words a broken sob against his chest. "You’ll regret it."

He lowered his head, his lips pressing against your hair, his words a low, fierce murmur meant only for you. "The only regret I’d have is not protecting you."

And in that moment, in the middle of a stunned classroom, with everyone watching, you finally believed him. He had chosen you. And for the first time in your life, you felt like you mattered. You were not a side character, a background player. You were the main event. And he had just told the world exactly why. He had left his victory behind, and come running. For you.

The classroom was a battlefield, and you were the sole casualty. After the explosion of that afternoon, a sudden, blinding storm of raw emotion, the school buzzed with a low, electrified energy. The whispers were no longer just whispers; they were a frantic, unyielding chorus of questions. Everyone wanted to know. Why her? Why would Christopher, the golden boy, the soccer captain, throw away his victory, his image, for the quiet girl who no one ever noticed? You felt a crushing, unbearable weight on your chest, convinced that you had single-handedly ruined his life. The shame was a physical thing, a hot flush that rose from your stomach to your cheeks every time you heard your name.

You avoided everyone. You walked with your head down, your hands clenched into fists, a desperate, silent prayer on your lips that no one would acknowledge you. You changed your routes, you ate lunch in the library, you lingered in the bathroom until the last possible second. But the walls had ears, and the rumors followed you like a cloud of poison. In the hallways, you could hear them. “I saw it with my own eyes,” a girl would whisper, her voice dripping with disbelief. “He snapped for her? What’s so special about her?” The words were a bitter pill, confirming every single one of your insecurities. You felt the hollow ache in your stomach deepen with every passing minute.

Lunch the next day was a particularly painful ordeal. You sat tucked away in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, a single plate of food a sad, lonely testament to your solitude. You were a planet without an orbit, a moon with no sun. You tried to read, to lose yourself in the quiet world of your book, but the words were a meaningless jumble. The whispers were louder here, a constant, buzzing commentary that made your skin crawl. You heard your name again, a name that had once been so private, now a common currency on the lips of strangers. Your hands trembled, and you dug your nails into your palms, trying to ground yourself.

Then, the murmurs stopped. A sudden, jarring silence fell over the room, a collective intake of breath that was more powerful than any noise. You looked up from your book, your heart lurching with a terrible premonition, and saw him. He was walking toward your table, a resolute, unyielding force. He ignored the stunned stares, the gaping mouths, the quiet, judgmental assessment of the entire cafeteria. He was still in his worn soccer hoodie, his shoulders broad and a tense line to his jaw, and he slid into the chair directly across from you, his presence a loud, unmistakable declaration.

Your chest tightened with a fresh wave of panic. You leaned forward, your voice a desperate, urgent whisper. "What are you doing? Don't make it worse." You couldn't bear to look at the faces watching you, the silent judgments that you knew were burning into your back.

He reached across the table and covered your hand with his, his touch warm and firm. "I don’t care what they think," he said, his voice low and unwavering, meant only for your ears.

You looked down, unable to meet his gaze. The tears you had been holding back for days burned in your throat. "You should," you whispered, the words choked with a quiet, defeated resignation. Your heart ached, not for yourself, but for him. He was losing his friends, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard for. And it was all because of you.

His chest ached at your defeated tone. He saw the way you were trying to shrink into yourself, to become invisible again, and a fresh wave of anger pulsed through him. He had faced down a raging crowd, he had thrown away a victory, but the raw, unadulterated pain in your voice was more terrifying than any of it. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to look at him, to see that none of it mattered, but he held back, his hand a gentle, steady presence on yours. He knew he couldn't push you too hard, too fast.

That night, alone in your room, you avoided his texts. You sat in the dark, your phone a beacon of light on your nightstand, its screen lighting up with a quiet persistence that broke your heart. The messages were so simple, so painfully sincere. "Are you okay?" "Please talk to me." "Don't shut me out." You couldn't respond. The shame was too great. The fear of being a burden on him, of taking any more from him than you already had, was a paralyzing, unbearable weight. You curled up in bed, crying silently into your pillow, a deep, mournful sob that shook your entire body. You were so alone. You had never been chosen before, and you were convinced that you had ruined the one person who had ever chosen you.

The next day, he cornered you. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were leaving class, your head down, trying to escape the room before he could find you, but he was waiting for you, his back against the wall, his arms crossed. The hallway was empty, the quiet a sudden, unnerving thing. He looked at you, his eyes raw with a mix of frustration and profound sadness.

"Why are you running from me?" he asked, the words a low, painful plea.

You flinched, your body tensing, a thousand excuses dying on your tongue. You finally looked at him, and you saw the deep ache in his eyes, a pain that mirrored your own. You couldn't lie. You had to tell him the truth. You whispered, the words catching in your throat, "Because I don't want to be your downfall."

His heart cracked. The words were a dagger, a testament to the quiet cruelty he had seen over the last few days. He had expected anger, frustration, but not this—this bone-deep resignation, this conviction that you were the one to blame. He took a step forward, his hands reaching out to cup your face gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. His touch was so soft, so careful, as if he were holding something precious and fragile. He forced you to look at him, to see the sincerity, the love, the deep, abiding truth in his gaze.

"You're not my downfall," he said, his voice a low, fierce murmur that was meant only for you. "You’re the only reason I stand tall."

You gasped softly, a little broken sound that you couldn’t suppress. His eyes, dark and unwavering, were so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. You were lost in his sincerity, in the warmth of his hands, in the raw honesty of his expression. You were just a girl who had always existed in the shadows, and he was the one who had come running, a bright and powerful force, just to bring you out into the light. The silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words, with the crushing weight of everything you had gone through, everything he had sacrificed.

Finally, you pulled back, the trembling in your body a thing you couldn't control. "Please," you whispered, "just… give me time."

He exhaled, a pained but understanding sound, and nodded, his hands falling slowly from your face. "I'll wait," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "For however long you need."

From then on, he didn’t push. He stayed close but quiet, a silent, unwavering presence in your life. He walked you home, his footsteps a gentle, steady rhythm behind you. He studied beside you in the library, his quiet, focused presence a comfort you were slowly growing used to. He was a shadow, a silent guardian, a soft whisper that said, "I'm here," without ever having to say the words. And as the days turned into weeks, you began to realize that his silence, his quiet, unyielding presence, spoke louder and more truthfully than anyone else’s words ever did. He was your quiet constant, and the world finally felt a little less lonely.

Months passed like the turning pages of a book you couldn't put down, each one a testament to a truth you were still too terrified to believe. The awkward silence that had once defined your interactions, the tense anticipation, the paralyzing fear—it all melted away, replaced by a comfortable rhythm of shared, stolen moments. Your world, once a quiet, monochromatic place, was now filled with vibrant color. It was in the hushed study sessions in the library, the late-afternoon walks home when the sun bled into the horizon, and the secret, lingering smiles you exchanged when no one else was looking.

He was no longer just Christopher, the soccer captain. He was Chris, the boy who liked to listen to old records on his scratched-up vinyl player, the one who found solace in the quiet of a shared space. He was the boy who would gently push a loose strand of hair from your face when you were focused on an essay, and the one who made you feel seen in a way you had only ever dreamed of. The way he would notice the smallest things—a new drawing in the margin of your notebook, the subtle change in your mood, the small, shy smile that would only appear when you were truly happy—felt like a secret language meant only for you.

The change wasn’t just in your world; it was in his as well. He seamlessly integrated himself into your quiet orbit, a sun that had found a home in the shadows. He helped Dev with soccer drills, a patient mentor who never made him feel inferior. He would join Mira’s musical banter, surprising her with his knowledge of obscure artists and effortlessly singing along to her favorite songs. He even laughed at Asha’s biting sarcasm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he delivered a witty retort. Your friends, once so wary and protective, had slowly but surely accepted him. They saw what you saw—a boy who was so much more than his public persona, a boy who treated you with a quiet, unwavering reverence that made their initial suspicions seem like a long-forgotten memory.

You felt lighter, safer, as if the crushing weight you had carried for so long had finally been lifted. For the first time, you felt a sense of belonging, not just in your friend group, but in the world at large. The constant background noise of insecurity, of feeling like you were an afterthought, had faded into a soft hum. But with that lightness came a terrifying new fear. The fear of what would happen if you let yourself believe it was real. You had spent so long building your walls, convincing yourself that you were unworthy of this kind of attention, that the very idea of it was a dangerous, fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. You were terrified that if you let him in, truly let him in, you would scare him away and be left with nothing but the broken pieces of a dream.

One evening, as the semester wound down, he found you on the school rooftop, your usual quiet spot. The sky was a deep, velvet blue, sprinkled with the first shy stars of the night. The cool evening air was a welcome contrast to the humid heat of the day. You were sitting on the ground, your knees pulled to your chest, your gaze fixed on the quiet, sprawling cityscape below. He sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence was comfortable, a silent conversation you had perfected over the past few months.

You broke it first, your voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Bet the captain of the soccer team doesn’t usually waste time stargazing.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your heart do a nervous little flip. He didn't look at the stars; he looked at you, a soft, unwavering gaze that made your cheeks feel warm. “Only when it’s with you,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the night.

Your chest fluttered, a wild, frantic thing, but you hid it with a small, nervous scoff. "Don't be cheesy, Christopher," you said, your voice a little shaky. The name felt strange on your tongue now, a formal remnant of a person you barely knew. You had started thinking of him as Chan, and sometimes, in the quiet solitude of your own thoughts, as Chris.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it was different. It was thick with a tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You could feel his knee touching yours, a gentle, solid presence. He was fiddling with his bracelet, a nervous habit you had come to recognize as a sign of his vulnerability. Your heart began to race, a frantic drumbeat in your chest.

"Can I tell you something?" he whispered, his voice so low and raw that it sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced at him, a nervous energy humming in your veins. You were so used to keeping your emotions locked away, to being the quiet one, that his sudden vulnerability felt like an earthquake. "You're scaring me," you whispered back, a nervous laugh catching in your throat.

He chuckled softly, a sound filled with a hint of pained truth. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower. “Then maybe you’ll take me seriously.” He turned to face you fully, and in the faint glow of the city lights, you could see the raw honesty in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then the words, the words that would change everything, spilled from him, trembling and sincere.

"I like you," he confessed, the three words a world-shattering sound. He leaned in just a little, his eyes searching yours for a sign of… something. “More than I should. More than I planned. I like you, Y/N.”

The use of your name, your real name, the one he had never spoken directly to you before, hit you with a force you couldn’t have anticipated. It was a formal declaration, a stake planted in the ground, and it made the air feel thin and hot. You stared at him, wide-eyed, a panicked denial already forming on your lips.

"No… no, you don't. Not me. You can't—"

He cut you off, his voice now rough with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger. "Why not you, Y/N?" he demanded, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch so gentle it was a contradiction to the fierce frustration in his eyes. "Tell me. Is it because you're quiet? Because people think you're plain? Because they've been using you your whole life?" The last part was a quiet, pained whisper, a testament to what he had seen, what he had understood. "That’s why I like you. You're real. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and everything I never knew I needed."

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked your eyes. You had no defenses left. All your carefully constructed walls, all the quiet self-deprecating thoughts, all the years of feeling invisible—they were crumbling to dust under the weight of his sincerity. You felt a soft sob catch in your throat, a quiet, broken sound that echoed the ache in your chest. You had never believed you were worthy of something so real, so honest, so profound.

He saw your tears and his gaze softened, his thumbs gently wiping a single tear from your cheek. He leaned closer, his voice a low, rough murmur. “Someone like me has only ever wanted someone like you,” he said, the words so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. He wasn't a hero, a captain, a sun. He was just a boy, and you were just a girl. And in that moment, in the soft, hushed privacy of the night, nothing else mattered.

A quiet, broken laugh escaped you through your tears, and you buried your face in your hands, the embarrassment of your emotions a fleeting thing against the overwhelming wave of happiness and disbelief. He pulled your hands down gently, his touch a careful, steady presence. He was grinning nervously, his eyes filled with a hope that made your own heart ache.

"So?" he whispered, his voice filled with a hopeful anticipation. “Do I get a chance?”

The question hung in the air, a final, monumental decision. You looked at him, at his hopeful, sincere eyes, and you knew. The fear was still there, a tiny, nervous thing, but it was nothing compared to the blossoming warmth in your chest.

After a long, breathless silence, you whispered, "…Yes. But don't regret it."

A profound sense of relief washed over his face, and he exhaled, a long, shaky breath that was both pained and relieved. He pulled you into a crushing hug, a gentle but firm embrace that made your heart feel safe for the first time in your life. You buried your face in his chest, your own hands clutching his shirt, and a soft sob of pure, unadulterated relief escaped you.

"Regret?" he murmured, his voice muffled in your hair, his arms tightening around you. “The only regret would be if I never asked.”

The confession on the rooftop had been a dam breaking, a release of a lifetime of suppressed emotion. But in the days and weeks that followed, your relationship with Chan wasn't a loud, public affair. It was quiet, private, and tender, a secret garden you cultivated away from the prying eyes and judgmental whispers of the school. You didn’t need grand gestures or public displays of affection. Your love language was one of hushed moments, soft touches, and whispered truths.

Your first "date" wasn’t a planned event. It was simply a continuation of a familiar ritual—walking home together. The only difference was the nervous, electrified energy that hummed between you. Your shoulders brushed with an almost agonizing lightness, a silent communication of your newfound status. He nervously cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the pavement, a blush creeping up his neck. "So… is this a date?" he asked, the question so simple and raw that it made your chest ache with affection.

You looked at him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. The captain of the soccer team, the confident sun of the school, was so endearingly flustered. You couldn’t resist teasing him. "If you want it to be," you said, your voice a soft murmur. His ears burned red, a sign of his charming embarrassment. He looked at you, a soft, unwavering sincerity in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself for a leap of faith. "Then yes," he said, the words a little shaky but firm. "It is."

Your friends noticed the difference immediately. It wasn't in the way you held hands or kissed; it was in the way Christopher looked at you. Mira whispered it to Asha one afternoon, her voice filled with a profound wonder. “He looks at her like she’s the only star in the sky.” The boys on his team, too, noticed the change. He was still the fierce, dedicated captain, but a newfound softness had settled into his features. His grin, once wide and boisterous, was now a private, tender smile reserved just for you.

Your world became a series of small, perfect moments. You'd sneak out for late-night coffee shop visits, the air thick with the smell of espresso and the quiet murmur of conversation. He would scribble lyrics on napkins, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to put his whirlwind of emotions into words. When he got too serious, too lost in his own head, you would gently take his hand and doodle on his skin with a small pen. Your little sketches of cats and stars and constellations would bloom across his knuckles and the back of his hand, a quiet protest against his intense focus. He would pretend to grumble, a playful frown on his face. "I'm the captain, you know. People take me seriously." You would laugh, the sound a light, melodic thing he had come to adore. "Not when you've got cats and stars all over your skin," you'd tease. But you knew he kept the doodles, refusing to wash them away, a silent promise that you were a part of him now.

At soccer practice, his teammates would groan in frustration. "Bro, focus!" one of them would yell, after he missed a pass he should have easily made. He would glance at the stands, distracted, and his grin would widen as he saw you sitting there, a silent, unwavering presence, a small wave of your hand a promise of a future you were slowly learning to believe in. "I am focused," he would shout back, his eyes twinkling. It was true. You were his focus now, the one thing that mattered.

After practice, he would run to you first, sweaty hug and all. You'd wrinkle your nose in mock disgust. "Gross, you smell like turf." He would smirk, his breath a little ragged, his eyes full of a playful tenderness. "Still hugging me though."

On weekends, you'd study together in the library, the quiet so thick you could almost taste it. He would be poring over a textbook, his face a mask of concentration, and you would find yourself just staring at him, mesmerized by the quiet beauty of his profile. The way his brow would furrow in thought, the way a loose strand of hair would fall over his forehead, the perfect, gentle curve of his lips. He would catch you staring and your cheeks would burn, your heart racing with a familiar panic. "What? You had something on your face!" you'd stammer, your voice a little too loud in the silent room. He would chuckle, his eyes warm and knowing. "Yeah, sure. On my face."

Slowly, his quiet, unwavering devotion began to earn your trust. It was an unspoken, fragile thing, a promise that he wasn't going anywhere. One night, huddled on a bench in the park, the streetlights a warm, golden glow against the dark sky, you finally confessed. "I kept waiting for you to get bored," you whispered, the words a raw, honest admission of your deepest fear. He frowned deeply, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. He gripped your hand, his touch firm and reassuring, as if he were trying to physically burn the words into your memory. "Bored? I could spend a lifetime and still not get enough. You're the most fascinating person I've ever met." His words made you cry, the tears a hot, silent stream of relief and gratitude. He wiped them away with his thumbs, his touch a tender, gentle thing.

He leaned in, his gaze fixed on your mouth. The kiss was gentle, trembling, and almost shy. It was a question and an answer all at once, a silent confirmation of everything you had built, everything you had whispered in the quiet of the night. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath a warm, steady rhythm against your cheek. "I'm yours," he murmured, the words a vow. "Completely."

From then on, he became your loudest protector. The gossip still existed, a constant, buzzing irritation in the background, but he shut it down instantly. When his teammates or friends would start to say something cruel or insensitive, he would simply look at them, his eyes hard and unwavering, and they would quiet down immediately. And when people would ask what was so special about you, the quiet, unremarkable girl who had somehow managed to capture the sun, he would only smile, a tender, knowing grin that reached his eyes. "Everything."

---x---

Fifteen years. A lifetime ago, you were just a girl with a stack of books and a quiet heart, and he was the sun, a force of nature who seemed to exist on a different plane entirely. Now, fifteen years later, the world had settled, and the vast, intimidating universe had shrunk to the space between you. The boy who had once run across a field just to make sure you were okay was now the man who still woke up before you every morning, a soft, unwavering smile on his face as he watched you sleep. His gaze wasn't just loving; it was a profound, quiet worship, a silent testimony to the miracle of your existence.

It was a familiar, constant ritual. You'd groan, your voice thick with sleep, a pillow clutched to your face. “Stop staring. It’s creepy.”

He would simply grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The lines on his face were new, a testament to the years of shared laughter and late-night talks, but his grin was the same as the one that had made your heart stutter on the school rooftop all those years ago. “Sorry, can’t help being proud I married you,” he’d whisper, his voice a low, husky sound that was just for you. He’d lean in and press a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as if to imprint the feeling of you being right there, next to him, forever.

He still insisted on cooking breakfast. The sounds of him in the kitchen—the clatter of pans, the gentle sizzle of oil—were the soundtrack to your mornings. And just like fifteen years ago, he’d still manage to burn the eggs. The smoke alarm would chirp a nervous little protest, and you’d get up, your hair a messy halo, to find him pouting in front of the stove. “Captain, you can’t even flip an omelet,” you’d tease, laughing softly as you took over, your movements practiced and easy. He would hug you from behind, his arms a warm, solid presence around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. He’d nuzzle his face into your neck, a familiar, comforting gesture. “Still whipped for you though,” he’d whisper, the words a low, happy rumble against your skin.

Your home wasn't a grand, perfect space. It was a lived-in canvas, a testament to your shared life. The walls were filled with doodles—not just the intricate sketches you made, but also his. He’d frame your sketches and place them beside his neatly handwritten lyrics, a silent testament to how he saw you. In a small, lacquered box on his nightstand, he still kept the old, crinkled napkins from your first coffee dates, a secret treasure he’d pull out on quiet nights when he wanted to remember where it all began. The house was a quiet echo of the quiet love you had built.

Sometimes, a song would come on the radio, a forgotten tune from a high school dance, and he’d pull you into his arms. The music would be low, but the laughter between you would be high, a chorus of joy that filled every corner of your home. He still wrote songs, but now, he didn't have to search for inspiration. You were in every lyric, a muse for his melodies, a quiet presence that defined his every note.

When you were working too hard, hunched over a drawing tablet with a deadline looming, he’d pout dramatically. His voice would be a theatrical whine that still made you laugh. “What about your husband? Neglected and starving.”

“You literally ate five minutes ago,” you’d say, a grin on your face as you threw a pillow at him. He would catch it, his grin wide, and he’d kiss you until you gave in, the gentle press of his lips a soft plea that you never had the strength to deny.

Your friends, now a tight-knit family of their own, still visited often. They’d watch the two of you, a quiet, knowing wonder in their eyes. "He’s still obsessed with you after all these years," Mira would say, her voice a mix of humor and sincere awe.

Chan would simply shrug, a proud, contented smirk on his face. “Of course. I told you—she’s everything.” He wasn’t a loud, boastful man, but when it came to you, a quiet, confident pride would settle over him.

On your anniversaries, he still planned chaotic but heartfelt surprises. A picnic with a wobbly blanket and a basket of burned food, a rooftop dinner where the constellations were the only light, homemade gifts that were more sentiment than artistry. You’d laugh at his corny speeches, but you’d always cry too, the tears a hot, silent stream of gratitude for a love that had grown so deep it had become a part of you.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, a flicker of that old insecurity would creep into his eyes. “Am I enough for you?” he’d whisper, the question a vulnerability you still found breathtaking. You would cup his face in your hands, your touch as tender and sure as his had been on the school rooftop. “You’ve always been more than enough.”

Your nights were filled with soft, sacred intimacy, a gentle obsession, an endless affection. He worshiped your body like it was sacred, his voice a low, reverent murmur against your skin. “Mine. Always mine,” he’d whisper, the words a possessive, loving vow. And then, the morning after, he’d be back to being goofy, burning pancakes, his hair a mess, and his eyes filled with a love so pure and honest it made your chest ache.

Even after fifteen years, he refused to let you carry any burden alone. If someone, even a stranger, tried to use you or take advantage of your quiet nature, he’d step in immediately, his gaze hardening with a familiar protectiveness. You’d tease him, a soft, loving smile on your face. “Still my bodyguard, huh?”

He’d smirk, kissing your forehead, the gesture a silent promise. “Still your biggest fan too.”

Their love was slow, steady, a quiet, deep-burning fire. He had never stopped trying to show you how adored you were, and in every single one of his words, his actions, his glances, you felt it. And when people would ask what his greatest achievement was, what he was most proud of, Chan would always smile, his eyes finding yours across the room. “Her. Always her.”

THE END

[kayleefriedchicken]

So, SO beautiful. Give this a read, everyone!

[valkyriexo]

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾Late night thoughts 008☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“I look at her and I remember why I never even want to look at anyone else.” Dad!Chan x Reader

Notice : I’m currently on hiatus from writing. If you’re seeing this—congrats! That means my queue is working. 💌

“Daddy, it’s melting!” your son wailed, chocolate already dripping in thick globs from the side of his cone and down his tiny wrist.

Chan crouched in a panic, trying to grab a napkin from the stand. “Okay, okay, don’t cry, bud—look! I got it, I got it—here, here—wipe your hands first, not your shirt—no—don’t—ah—okay, we’re already sticky.”

You watched from a bench a few yards away, sipping your iced drink as the summer heat warmed your skin. You could see the chaos unfold in real time. Your husband’s backwards baseball cap slipping slightly as he bent forward, the front of his gray T-shirt already marked with what looked like chocolate and maybe a bit of strawberry swirl. Your son, Kai, on the verge of a meltdown.

“You’re okay, Kai,” Chan murmured as he grabbed another napkin, gently swiping at the mess dripping down his son’s fingers. “Let’s fix this, yeah? Deep breaths.”

Kai sniffled dramatically, fat tears welling in his eyes. "But daddy its UGLY NOW!" He held up the sagging, tragically tilted cone .

Chan bit back a laugh, lips twitching as he cupped the back of Kai’s head. “It still tastes the same, promise.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, baby,” Chan said, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Even ugly ice cream’s still ice cream.”

That’s when she appeared, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path, a high ponytail swaying behind her like a flag of confidence. Her voice, sugary and smooth.

“Oh my gosh,” she gushed. “Is he yours?”

Chan turned, still kneeling with a napkin in one hand and a chocolate-covered toddler in the other. “Uh—yeah. He’s mine.”

She stepped closer, smile wide, sunglasses perched on her head. Her eyes roamed boldly, from the curve of Chan’s shoulders to the line of his jaw, and then down again, lingering way too long for it to be casual.

“He’s so cute,” she said with a coo. “I just love seeing dads out with their kids. It’s, like, so rare.”

Chan stood slowly, adjusting Kai on his hip. “Ah… thanks.” His voice was polite, but you knew that nervous chuckle. He was trying to be nice.

“You’re doing amazing,” the girl continued, glancing pointedly at the way Chan’s hand cradled Kai’s back. “Really. Most guys would be tapping out by now. But you’re still, like, calm. Gentle. It’s refreshing.”

Chan gave a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s not that hard if you love the kid.”

He bounced Kai lightly in his arms, and your son let out a little huff, melting cone forgotten for the moment.

The girl tilted her head, smile slow and deliberate. “Honestly? If I saw more guys like you at the park, I’d be here every weekend. You’re kind of… the whole package.”

Chan blinked. “Uh… that’s—thanks?”

She took his half-smile as a green light. “You’re so chill. And sweet. And, like…” she let her eyes travel, slowly, far too slowly, from his biceps to his jaw. “God, you’re seriously hot.”

Chan shifted on his feet, bouncing Kai lightly to distract him from another meltdown. “I really just came for ice cream—”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” she cut in, laughing. “Honestly, if I’d known dads like you existed, I would’ve hung around the playground more often.”

Chan chuckled nervously, trying to deflect. “Yeah, uh… not sure that’s a compliment you want to say out loud.”

But she only stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve got this... warm protector thing going on, y’know? It’s really attractive. Some girls are into bad boys. Me? I like the good ones. The kind that make a mess for their kids without complaining. The kind that know how to hold a baby and look like you.”

Chan blinked again, stunned.

Kai whined again. “Daddyyyyyyyyyy, it’s still melting!!”

“I know, bud, I’m trying—don’t panic—here, bite it from the side—no, not the cone, the ice cream, you’re just eating cone right now—okay…” Chan was now juggling napkins, a tilted cone, and a sticky-fingered child trying to climb up him like a squirrel.

And still, the girl wouldn’t leave.

“Do you always come to this park?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Because if you ever want company....I wouldn’t mind tagging along next time. I love kids. And I wouldn’t mind getting to know you either.”

Her eyes scanned him like he was on display.

“You’re honestly kind of perfect,” she said, eyes flicking over him like she couldn’t help herself. “Sweet, patient, good with kids... and really easy on the eyes.”

Chan gave a tight smile. “I appreciate it, but—”

“I mean it,” she cut in, stepping closer. “You’re the kind of man I could see myself with. Stable. Mature.”

Chan stepped back slightly, lifting his hand between them as a subtle warning. “Look, I’m flattered, but—”

She didn’t let him finish. “Don’t be modest. I’m not trying to make things weird. I just feel like we clicked. Here—” She fished a card from her purse and held it out. “Call me. Just saying, if you ever get tired of the hard stuff… I could be a little easier.”

She reached out again...this time, her fingers grazing the front of his shirt, straightening the collar like they were already something. And that’s when Chan’s hand shot up, gently but firmly catching her wrist mid-motion.

“Don’t.”

She blinked. “What—?”

“I’m married.” He held up his left hand slightly, the gold band glinting in the sunlight. “Happily.” His voice was quiet, but firm. There was no room to misunderstand it.

She opened her mouth again, maybe to laugh it off, but he kept going, eyes flicking to the simple gold ring on his hand, then back to her.

“My wife?” he said. “she’s... everything. She’s my peace, my best friend, my first thought every morning. She’s the reason I even know how to be this kind of dad.”

Kai squirmed in his arms, sticky fingers tugging at his shirt. “Daddyy” he mumbled, “I-I wana go to Mommy.”

Chan glanced down, his whole expression softening.

He crouched and gently set Kai down. “Alright, go ahead, baby.”

Without missing a beat, Kai took off across the grass, his little legs wobbling as he shouted, “Mommy!”

Chan watched him run to you...watched you light up as you opened your arms, pulling your son close with that smile that still knocked the air from his chest.

Then he looked back at the girl.

“I don’t need easier,” he said. “I’ve already got everything I could ever want. I look at her, and I remember why I never even want to look at anyone else.”

The girl stayed silent, unsure now, fingers still holding the number she had no chance of giving him.

“You don’t come close,” he said. “Not to her. Not even a little.” Then he let his eyes flick down to the slip of paper in her hand. “Keep the number,” he said coolly. “Might want to save it for someone who’s available.”

And with that, he turned his back on her completely.

He walked straight to you without looking back, like the girl had never even been there.

You looked up from helping Kai wipe his hands, your brow lifting slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Now it is,” Chan said softly, already sliding an arm around your waist. He pulled you in, eyes full of nothing but you.

And right there in the middle of the park...with your son humming to himself and the girl still frozen a few feet away...Chan leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Intentional. Like he wanted to remind the whole world who had his heart. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, just loud enough to carry:

“I love you, baby.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

Because you weren’t just his wife.

You were his person.

And no one else ever stood a chance.

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[kayleefriedchicken]

This is the perfect read this morning, especially after finding out the dude I'm sorta seeing was also seeing someone else. Love knowing this Chan exists somewhere.

[jisunggy]

Mindy!! Saw your requests open! If it's ok wld u write anything with han and jeongin? I've been feeling down lately and wld love this! Tysm! Love u!

Sorry it took me a billion years and a day to write this but thank you for your patience with me, this request was super cute I went full on roommate fluff mode for this one. I hope you're feeling better, darling 😚

-------------------------------------------------

You’re sick, and not in a dramatic, movie magic kind of way. No, you're achy, feverish, and wrapped in every blanket you own, marinating in self-pity. Your head feels foggy, your throat is sore, and your limbs ache every time you move. You haven’t left the couch all day.

The worst part? Whatever the hell this sickness is, hit on a weekend, which means Jeongin is home to witness your downfall front and center. (Thank god, Jisung's job keeps him busy on Saturdays.)

“You look like microwaved seaweed,” Jeongin says affectionately from the doorway.

Your relationship with Jeongin is like having a younger brother you didn’t ask for, but wouldn’t trade for the world.

He’s a little shit, honestly. He steals your leftovers from the fridge and pretends he didn’t. He changes the names on your streaming profiles to stupid stuff like "oscar the trash monster” or “poop” just to get a reaction. He blasts his music at exactly the wrong moments and always manages to "accidentally" leave his stuff in your room just so you have to walk all the way down the hall to return it.

He lives to be a menace. And he’s good at it.

And just when you think you've had enough, he brings you soup when you’re sick. Remembers how you like your coffee without asking. Texts your mom just to double check cold remedies. Puts your blankets in the dryer so they're extra warm and fluffy for you. Brings you socks and water so you stay cozy and hydrated.

Because under all that chaos, Jeongin cares in the way only someone who knows you to your bones can. He is fiercely loyal without needing to say it out loud. A built-in best friend. The annoying little brother you somehow didn't realize you needed. The one who makes fun of you relentlessly but would also kill anyone you asked him to without question.

You bicker, you shove, you roll your eyes, but you never doubt where you stand with him.

And that, in its own weird, wonderful way, is why you love him.

“But, like, cute seaweed. If seaweed had feelings,” he finishes, stepping into your room with a hot meal on a tray.

You manage a faint laugh, propping yourself up against your headboard. “That’s so sweet. Thank you for the backhanded affection.”

“I live to serve,” he grins, crossing the room to set the tray on your nightstand. It has soup, a cool glass of water, a tiny folded note that says ‘drink all of this or I’ll kick you’, and two slices of toasted bread with pressed in smiley faces.

Jeongin hovers, eyes scanning you for a second longer than necessary. “I called your mom to ask what she used to make you when you were sick. Don’t be mad.”

Your chest tightens a little, but not in the painful way. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He scratches the back of his neck, feigning indifference. “So you better be grateful.”

You reach out weakly to nudge his arm. “Thanks, bestie. I feel better already.”

He beams at you, that gentle, innocent, gummy smile you’d go to the end of the world to protect. For a second, the throbbing behind your eyes eases.

Then, just as you’re settling into that soft silence, he ruins it in the most endearing way possible.

“But seriously, if you die….” he leans forward dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead like he’s some sort of professional. “...I call dibs on your room. And your hoodie with the frogs on it.”

You snort weakly, too tired to argue. “You already steal that hoodie like every week.”

“I know,” he says, smug. “But you love me anyway so you'll give it to me, right?”

You roll your eyes. “No comment.”

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust off his sweatpants. “Anyway, eat the soup. I made it with my own two hands and three YouTube videos. If you don’t finish it, I’m telling your mom.”

“You’re such a snitch.”

“And you’re fragile right now, so I'm guaranteed to win in a fight.”

“I have to be sick for you to have a chance in a fight against me?”

“That's not what I–”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Shut up, you're delirious.”

You shake your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips as he heads toward the door.

But just before he disappears into the hallway, he pauses, glancing back with that quiet, sincere glint that only shows up in rare moments, when he forgets to be annoying.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says softly. “Okay?”

Your throat tightens again, but this time it has nothing to do with being sick.

“Okay,” you whisper back.

He nods once, then ruins it. Again.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back later to aggressively force vitamins into your body.”

And just like that, he’s gone, slippers smacking down the hallway.

You’re alone again, warm in more ways than one, heart held gently in the hands of the boy who drives you absolutely insane…and somehow always knows exactly what you need.

::

It’s later now. Quiet. The soup is gone, and you’re drifting halfway in that hazy place between being awake and being unconscious. You barely register the knock at your door, but it manages to bring you back to the land of the fully living.

It creaks open, and Jisung peeks in with gentle eyes. “Hey,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you mumble. “Come on in.”

He chuckles softly and walks over, kneeling beside your bed instead of sitting, arms folded on the mattress gently as he scans your position.

“You didn’t eat the bread smiley,” he points out.

“I felt bad beheading him. Jeongin worked really hard on it.”

“That’s valid. He texted me you weren’t feeling well, so I came home early to check on you.”

“You left work early?” you roll toward him, brows stitched together. “But you've got that thing coming up. That, uhh, thing you told me about that I’m forgetting right now because my brain is just fog.”

“My presentation,” he reminds you with a chuckle and a shrug. “But it's not more important than you.”

Your eyelids are heavy, but something in his tone tugs you out of the fog and sends a shiver through your limbs.

“Jisung…are you okay?”

“Me?” He huffs a small breath, smiling like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. “I’m fine. Just, when you’re not feeling well, everything else feels a little off.”

“Because I’m whiney when I'm sick?"

His voice dips low. “Because I care.”

There’s a beat of silence. The clock ticks softly in the background as his eyes stay softly locked on yours.

You want to ask what he means. You want to stay awake and make space for the words behind that sentence, but your body is too heavy and warm, your mind pulling you downward.

He doesn’t press. Just tucks the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders, brushing a bit of hair away from your forehead to check your temperature again.

“You look exhausted. Sleep well,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “I'll come back and check on you in a bit.”

“I haven’t been able to fall asleep.”

“Hm?”

You breathe in, repeating, “I can’t fall asleep. I’ve tried for hours.”

You expect him to nod, maybe murmur something sympathetic, then quietly leave so you can keep tossing and turning as usual. It wouldn’t be out of character. Jisung is thoughtful, but he gives space when he thinks people need it.

But instead, he moves. Not with hesitation, not with question. He moves naturally without asking, and instead of kneeling beside the bed like earlier, he climbs in next to you, slipping under the covers like this was always the plan. Like this wasn’t a decision so much as an inevitability.

You blink at him, surprised, but he’s already reaching for you gently as if he’s done this before. As if your bed might as well be his.

And that surprises you only slightly more than the fact that you don’t stop him.

“Jisung, you’re gonna get sick.”

“Worth it.”

He gently wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into himself with that quiet stubbornness you know all too well from living with him for the past year.

“Ji,” you protest, voice soft but tired. “Seriously, I’m gross. You don’t have to–”

“You’ll sleep faster if someone holds you,” he says, settling his chin lightly against the top of your head. “It’s scientifically proven. Maybe. Probably.”

You try to argue again, but the warmth of him so solid and calm and familiar is already making the ache in your body dull. You close your eyes, breathing him in.

“Are you sure this is okay?”

“I don’t mind,” he murmurs into your hair. “If I could take it from you, I would. In a heartbeat.”

“Ji…”

“I mean it.”

You shift just enough to glance up at him, his face lit by the evening sunset spilling through the curtains. His gaze is on you, steady and sure in a way that makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.

But you’re too tired to make sense of any of it. Too fever heavy to ask what you really want to know.

So you just snuggle closer, letting his warmth anchor you, hiding yourself in his chest and worn t-shirt.

And he holds you like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. Like he’s been waiting for an excuse to do this.

With Jisung holding you close, the restless buzzing in your limbs finally quiets. His steady warmth seeps into your skin, and each slow, even breath lulls you deeper until sleep finally overtakes your mind. For the first time, falling asleep feels effortless.

And when you wake up in the morning, there’s a warm, empty spot beside you and a tray of your favorite breakfast meal waiting on the nightstand with a note that says, “Didn't want to wake you. Eat it all and I promise I won't tease you about your little sleep over - Jeongin.”

::

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[kayleefriedchicken]

Why does Jeongin sound exactly like how I'd imagine he'd be as a brother? I love him already, the little menace.

And Jisung? What was that?! Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. What was that, Mindy? You made Jisung to be a character with a beautiful soul. Again. I don't think I can take much of this - the need to have this and all other versions of Jisung that you write in my life.

(P/S: Thanks for another heartwarming fic to binge on bad days. May you be blessed, always!)

[jeondesu]

THE ART OF FALLING ! pt 5.

── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ lee know x f!reader ˒˓ enemies to lovers 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. smau, college au, pure fluff, cursing, minho is a business major/reader is an art major, nagyung from fromis_9 as faceclaim, kys/kms jokes, crazy groupchat shenanigans, cute couple tingz <3

part 3 | part 4 𓂅

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — the end is here guys 🤩 it’s kinda bittersweet that it’s now finally complete but i enjoyed making this and i hope you all liked this as well ! also, there will be a new smau series coming vv sooonn :))

perm taglist: @justwonder113 @emilyywhyy @min-doesnt-know @alnex05 @velechi @leeknowslefteyebrow @kayleefriedchicken @jeonginsbaee @thelittletobsterthatcould @queenofdumbfuckery @met30rc1ty @geni-627 @amarecerasus @stayar1 @emma-your-goofy-girlfie @n4tr3ad5 @cowboylikemalika @obsessivemuso-withnofriends @skzfangirl143 @mmarusa @myfavoritedelusion @velvetskize @seungmyynie @trixiekaulitz @my-neurodivergent-world @yourgirljasmiin @xryusarax @natcap25 @bussdownflockiana @bahngerang @browniesandsunshine @jeonginslittledoll @beal-o @camryn-haitani @hansmic @rhys-cosmos | if you wanna be tagged in any of my future posts fill out this form here. ♡

[kayleefriedchicken]

Gotta love the way this ended. 🥰 Their friendship is sooo... ugh! Where can I find funny friends like them?! Did we ever find out who created the new group chat?

[jisunggy]

The Great Mindy having requests open?????? :0

This has absolutely nothing to do with my own affiliations of course, but being the younger sister of a member (maybe Seungmin) and having crush on Channie but being afraid to say anything because you don't want to mess with their friendship, but somehow happy ending?

Bro, in all seriousness, I did not mean to write this much for this request. But tada I'm in love Chan, so here you go 😍 3K later

-------------------------------------------------

The jar won’t budge. You’ve tried everything. Gripping it with your sleeve, tapping the lid against the counter, twisting until your palm burns. It doesn’t help that the kitchen is packed, laughter bouncing off the walls as the boys rummage through snacks and argue over who gets to pick the next movie.

You mutter a curse under your breath, tightening your grip again, only to feel it slip in your hand.

And then–

“Need help?”

You turn.

Chan’s already reaching for the jar, that easy smile on his face, voice warm because he’s known you forever. He doesn’t wait for you to hand it over, just gently takes the jar from your grip with a quick brush of fingers that leaves your skin prickling.

The kitchen is tight, and somehow that leaves him standing closer than he needs to. His shoulder bumps yours lightly as he pops the lid open like it was nothing. He doesn't even glance down at you, just places the jar on the counter and says, “There you go,” like he hasn’t just rearranged the entire chemistry of your bloodstream.

That’s all it takes.

A jar. A smile. A brush of fingers.

And suddenly you’re falling. Hard, hopeless, helpless.

You stare at him like a fool, heartbeat tripping over itself. You’ve known Chan for years, sure. Seungmin’s best friend, honorary big brother to your entire family. You’ve seen him in pajamas and grumbling about deadlines and frustrated over work.

But now?

Now your stomach is flipping and your throat’s closing up and your face is overheating, because that boy just opened a jar.

“Hyung,” Seungmin calls from the hallway. “Come help me with the HDMI again, it disconnected.”

Chan gives you a quick grin, pats your arm in the most devastatingly casual way imaginable, and walks off as if he's not leaving your world at a screeching halt.

You blink at the now open jar like it personally betrayed you.

That’s how it started.

Not with fireworks. Not with confessions. Not with some dramatic twist of fate.

Just a jar.

And the boy who opened it.

You try to get over it. Really, you do.

It was just a moment. A stupid, crowded kitchen moment. A jar and a smile. It didn’t mean anything.

Chan’s nice to everyone. That’s just who he is. You’ve seen him carry groceries for elderly neighbors, make ramen for the members when they’re sick, give Seungmin unsolicited shoulder massages just because he “looked tense.”

So what if he opened a jar for you? So what if he smiled at you like you were the only person in the room?

You roll your eyes at yourself. Pathetic.

And that should have been it. But then–

“Here,” Chan says, handing you your favorite drink from the convenience store. “You mentioned you were craving it last week.”

Last week. Like seven whole days ago. Don't most guys reset their brain every seven days?

You blink. “You remembered?”

He shrugs. “Of course.”

Of course. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to remember a throwaway comment from a dreary Wednesday afternoon. Like he's not guilty of sending your heart into orbit with a simple soda pop.

Later, you find out he gave up the last one from the fridge to Hyunjin and then went to another store across town to get one for you.

Who does that?

Jerks. That’s who. Jerks with warm eyes and the softest voice you’ve ever heard. Jerks with dimples who remember your drink order and always stand a little bit closer than they need to.

You try.

You honestly try to fall out of love.

You try when Seungmin groans and playfully says, “Ugh, not this song again,” while Chan’s humming in the living room.

You try when you remind yourself that Chan is older, busier, and more out of reach than any crush has a right to be.

You try when you catch your reflection after brushing your teeth and tell yourself it’s just a phase. It has to be.

Eventually, all of this will blow over and you'll go back to seeing Chan as the honorary big brother he's supposed to be.

But then–

“Careful, the floor’s slippery right there,” Chan says, placing a hand on your back so gently you almost don’t feel it. Except you do. Oh dear god, you do.

You wish he’d just knock it off. Be mean. Be forgetful. Stop being so damn attentive.

But he’s not.

He holds doors for you. He plays the guitar softly when he knows you’re trying to nap. He always saves the last slice of pizza for you even if you’re not there yet.

And every time you think, “This is fine. I’m over it. He's just a friend.”

He does something like…

“You looked tired today,” he murmurs, offering you a hoodie that still smells like him. “Here. You should rest. I'll wake you up later for food, okay?”

You bury your face in the fabric and scream into it once alone in your room. You definitely should give it back, but you keep it and wear it on a regular basis. Accidentally, in front of him a few times. But he doesn't seem bothered at all. He just smiles at you, giving a thumbs up from across the room.

The worst part?

You’re falling harder every day.

And he’s not even trying.

There’s no point anyway.

You tell yourself that every time you catch yourself looking too long, smiling too wide, caring too much. You’re off-limits. Seungmin made that abundantly clear years ago when he staked a "No Trespassing" sign in the middle of your love life.

“No dating my sister,” he said casually to the group, but with a voice like steel. “None of you. Ever. Anyone but her.”

You were seventeen then, and the idea of any of Seungmin’s friends seemed ridiculous. They were loud, annoying, constantly eating your snacks and clogging the bathroom.

But then you grew up.

And Chan got softer and confident in himself. And you started noticing little things.

The way he always paused his music when you walked into the room so you wouldn’t feel excluded. The way he leaned his head on his hand and really listened when you talked. The way he laughed at your jokes like they were genuinely the best thing he’d heard all day.

And then he opened a fucking jar.

And now?

Now you’re hopelessly, miserably, ridiculously in love with a guy you’re not allowed to want.

You could never do that to Seungmin. Never put him in that position. Not after everything, how much he trusts you, how protective he’s been, how his friendship with Chan has weathered years of schedules and stress and everything in between.

You wouldn’t mess that up. You just couldn’t.

So you roll your eyes when Chan teases you. Laugh when he flicks your forehead. Pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when he sings along to the radio in the car, voice low and gorgeous.

You draw invisible boundaries and then spend every waking moment tripping over them.

Because even though Chan’s never said a word, never crossed a line, never let on that he might feel something deeper, it feels like something’s there.

In the way he always waits for you to sit before he eats. In the way he checks if you’ve made it home safe, even when he’s halfway across the city. In the way his eyes linger for just a second too long when you look away.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s your brother’s best friend, and you’re the one girl Seungmin said no one could touch. Because if you were to reach out for him, you might lose them both.

And Chan?

Chan would never do that to Seungmin either.

So the dance continues. A jar. A hoodie. A thousand little things that mean nothing and everything to you.

And every time your heart aches a little more, you just whisper the truth to yourself like a prayer:

There’s no point. He probably just sees you as a little sister anyway.

That whole big brother’s best friend trope – he one with long stares, secret pining, and a forbidden kiss in the hallway – it only happens in K-dramas. Not in real life. And definitely not to you.

So that’s it. It’s official. Starting today, you’re going to be over Chan.

He’s just a friend. Just a—

Knock knock~

The soft rap of his knuckles against your doorframe makes you jolt like someone just fired a starter pistol.

You glance up. He’s standing there, hesitant, one hand still on the frame. His voice is quiet, careful.

“Hey, can we talk for a second?”

Your brain short-circuits.

No one comes into your room without permission. Not even the guys. Not even him. Seungmin made that rule early on and he made it loud.

But Chan’s here anyway, a little unsure and a little nervous.

You blink. “Uh…yeah. Sure.”

He steps inside slowly, eyes flicking once toward the hallway like he’s half expecting your brother to appear with a bat at any moment.

He closes the door behind him. Not all the way, just enough for privacy, but not enough to commit treason.

Your heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s shaking your ribs. You sit up straighter on your bed, tugging your sleeves down over your hands.

Chan looks shaky.

You’ve seen him handle music festivals, stadiums, live streams with a million people watching. But now his hands are tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, his eyes on the floor.

“I uh…I know I’m not supposed to be in here,” he says with a soft chuckle, almost like he’s trying to lighten the tension he definitely knows is thick in the air.

“Seungmin’s not home yet.”

“I know. I came early because,” he nods toward you, silently letting you fill in the reason. “I won’t stay long. I just needed to say something. To you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Because this is not part of the getting over him plan. This is not step one of letting him go. This is not how friends look at each other. This feels too tender and too intimate and too close to something special.

He lifts his head and meets your eyes, and there it is again. That soft, unreadable expression you’ve caught a few too many times. Gentle. Careful. The one you convinced yourself you've been imagining all this time.

“I know this might sound weird,” he says slowly, like he’s weighing each word before letting it out. “But lately, I feel like there’s something between us. Something shifted, and I just don't want to keep pretending it hasn't. Or…am I crazy?”

Your breath catches. “You’re not crazy.”

He takes one step closer. Just one. Barely enough to shrink the space between you. But it’s enough to make your heart skip a dangerous beat.

“If I’m being honest,” he murmurs low and secret, “I’ve been…noticing you for a while. It's hard not to when you're wearing my hoodie and looking at me like you're hoping I'll do something about it.” His eyes flicker down for a brief moment, then return to yours, steady and sincere. “I've wanted to.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain scrambles, trying to reconcile this moment with every time you told yourself to shove down any potentially inappropriate feelings. The way he looks at you…you've never felt more wanted in your entire life.

“You’re Seungmin’s best friend,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “I’m off limits.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” He rubs the back of his neck and sighs, “I told myself that same thing. Over and over. But that hasn’t made it any easier to stop caring.”

“Caring?”

“About you. In ways I probably shouldn’t.”

The room falls quiet.

It’s the kind of silence that hums with tension, with years of could-be’s and almosts. With every hoodie lent, every laugh shared, every glance that lasted too long.

“Just tell me if anything I'm feeling is even a little bit reciprocated? Or if I'm being way too hopeful right now?”

“Chan…”

A faint voice shouts from the living room and immediately silences both of you.

“Hyung? Where’d you go?”

Seungmin is home.

Chan flinches, almost imperceptibly, and lets out a quiet breath. Then he steps back, his eyes gentle, apologetic.

“I should go,” he says softly. He stops at the door and glances over his shoulder, a bit shy and a bit concerned. “I’ll keep hoping, until you tell me to stop.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving your heart spinning in the middle of the room.

You think about that moment far too much.

Replay it at night when you're staring at your ceiling. When you're brushing your teeth. When you're walking down aisles in the store and your brain just wanders.

"There's something between us."

"It's hard not to when you're wearing my hoodie and looking at me like you're hoping I'll do something about it.”

"I care about you. In ways I probably shouldn’t."

You remember every syllable. Every breath between them.

And the thing is, it helps. In the worst, best way.

Because now when you catch him eyeing you from across the room, gaze a little too soft, a little too lovely, you know you're not imagining it. Now when he laughs a second too long at your bad joke, or conveniently ends up sitting next to you every time the guys hang out, you know it’s not all in your head.

So yeah, it helps. It helps you fall even harder.

You try to be good. You really do.

You keep your smiles neutral. Your eyes distant. You say no when he offers to walk you to your car, even though you want to say yes. You avoid being alone with him because…well. You know yourself.

And you know what you might do given the chance.

Which is why fate laughs in your face.

It happens on a weekend trip with the guys at a cabin in the mountains. A "creative recharge" getaway, Seungmin calls it. You nearly declined, but he guilt-tripped you into coming, saying the place had a hot tub and plenty of Wi-Fi and you could hide in your room the whole time if you wanted. He didn't want to leave his sister alone all weekend when he had an extra seat in his car and you had nothing planned.

It’s all fun and games until the sleeping arrangements change last minute. A leaky pipe floods one of the rooms, so now two people need to double up.

“You’re with me,” Seungmin says casually, tossing you a blanket.

“Ew, I don't want to sleep in the same bed as you. Plus, you snore. Loud,” you grumble, rolling up the blanket with a pout.

Chan steps forward. “She can stay with me. I have the biggest room and the pull out couch anyway.”

You almost choke. “What?! No, wait, I can take the couch, really, it's not a problem–”

“Hyunjin already claimed it,” Seungmin replies, oblivious.

Chan just glances over from where he’s got his hands in his pockets (again), his voice low, unreadable. “I don’t mind. If she’s okay with it.”

You want to say no. You really do. But you freeze instead.

Because it’s already happening before you can blink. You’re already in the room with him, both of you standing there awkwardly, staring at the queen-sized bed like it’s got some horrible, magical spell.

“I’ll take the pull out couch,” he says finally. “Do you, umm, need any extra blankets, or–”

You cut him off, pulling the sheets back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just…just stay on your side.”

His lips twitch. “If you're sure.”

But the bed feels too small, the air too warm, the silence too thick. You both lie stiffly for hours, staring at the ceiling, not touching, not breathing.

And somewhere past midnight, you break.

“Chan?” you whisper, into the dark. “Are you asleep?”

He hums, barely a sound.

You hesitate. “Do you regret saying what you said? In my room?”

A pause.

“No. Do you?”

Another heartbeat as you gather the courage. “No.”

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

You roll over and look at him. He’s already facing you, eyes open, lips parted slightly like he’s been waiting.

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve tried. I'm done trying. I just want you.”

You swallow.

He looks at you through the dark, memorizing every line, every freckle, every detail. Every breath.

So you lean in. Slowly. Testing. Wanting.

And he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just waits for you to come to him with this quiet, aching softness that cracks something wide open in your chest.

Your lips brush his. Gentle. Barely there.

Then he inhales like he’s been dying to breathe you in for months, and kisses you back.

And just like that, you're gone.

No rules. No logic. Just the two of you in the quiet dark, finally letting go of everything but this.

The kiss deepens before you even realize it. Your hands threading into his hair, breath tangled, the warmth of his mouth like gravity pulling you closer with no way to fight back. His hand finds your waist, and your body instinctively shimmies its way under him.

He tucks you close to his chest, hovering protective and possessive above you, lips firm and tender and slow as they guide you deeper into whatever all consuming spell he's put on you.

It’s dizzying. Explosive. What feels like years of restraint collapsing all at once.

But you manage to pull back and breathe.

Your chest rises and falls as you blink at him, breathless and stunned.

“We…we can’t do this,” you whisper.

He’s still close, lips parted, eyelids heavy. “But–”

“But nothing.” You shake your head, voice trembling. “I’m not going to be what comes between you and Seungmin. You guys are best friends. He’s my brother. He wouldn't feel okay.”

“But I don’t feel okay having to stay away from you,” Chan says softly, and the way he says it makes your chest crack right down the center.

You squeeze your eyes shut to gather the strength to resist him, the ache settling in your bones. “Me neither. But, Chan…”

“Let me talk to Seungmin.”

Your eyes snap open. His gaze searches yours, desperate and gentle all at once.

“You would do that?”

“Of course,” he breathes, like it’s the easiest promise in the world. “I understand why it's important to you. And I don't want to go behind my friend's back either.”

He starts to lean in again, but you catch him, pressing your finger to his lips, stopping the kiss just shy of happening.

He stops, eyeing you for a moment, and then exhales instead, forehead resting on yours, lips mere inches from each other. Neither of you move.

“If…” you hesitate. “If Seungmin doesn’t kill you afterwards, come find me. And then we can talk about us?”

His lips curl into the softest smile you’ve ever seen, one that you wouldn't mind seeing in the morning sometime.

“When I talk to Seungmin, I won’t ask for permission,” he whispers, gliding across your lips. “I’ll just tell him the truth.”

And with that, he pulls back reluctantly, slowly, aching as he lets you go.

But the promise hangs in the air like static. Undeniable and unrelenting.

The moment isn’t over.

It’s just…paused.

For now.

::

taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cherriive @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @velvetmoonlight @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @spirit-of-a-b1tch @velvet-moonlght

[kayleefriedchicken]

Mindy, this one is so beautiful. I love brother's best friend tropes (as you know well) and this is another one that made my heart overflow with warmth and love. This Chan, this respectful beautiful gentlemanly Chan, he'll be the death of all of us. The ending is just perfect and, in my head, a beautiful twist awaits - like Seungmin already knowing and was just waiting for the day it happens, perhaps he'd expected one of the younger boys but is nevertheless glad it's Chan. Oh, sighhh.

[jisunggy]

OMG, Mindy opening requests?! Dream come true. I actually don't have a specific plot in mind - just Han Jisung as sassy, plus-sized reader's overprotective younger brother and a humourous drabble about her being 'smart but also stupid' because she's clueless about matters of the heart. Maybe one or more of his friends has a crush on her, but their flirtations just go way over her head? I don't know what I want, but Mindy always seems to know! Thank you, Mindyyy!

Wait, actually, I love this so much! Over protective brother Jisung is so fun to write!! Thanks for the request darling <3

-------------------------------------------------

Sometimes Jisung thinks the universe gave him a sister just to test his blood pressure on a daily basis. Like, he doesn't deal with enough of his own shit, he needs to have a sister too.

Don’t misunderstand, he loves you. Fiercely. Like, punch a guy in the throat if he makes you cry kind of love. He would do anything for you, fight anyone, buy anything, go anywhere.

You're the light of his life and some of the only blood family he has. Sure, you're his older sister, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel responsible for you, or that you need someone to care for you.

You're brilliant, top of your class, always got your nose in a book, always the first to figure out the answer when playing trivia. And you're so damn cute it actually hurts. Big cheeks, squishy curves, sweet smile, laugh that sounds like wind chimes. You're a walking heart emoji.

But when it comes to love?

Completely, utterly, hopelessly clueless.

Guys fumble over themselves to talk to you. Jisung's friends especially. He'll never forget the time he walked in on all of them discussing strategies about how they would approach you and ask you out.

And you're over here acting like they’re just being “nice” or “friendly.” Like, they treat you differently because you're Jisung's sister, not because they all secretly wish they could kiss you.

One time, Changbin literally carried your backpack all day and opened every single door for you on campus, like some kind of Victorian butler. And you? You just smiled and said, “Wow, you really like helping people. Have you considered volunteering at the library?”

Jisung almost screamed.

He tries not to be that brother. The “no dating until you’re thirty-five” overprotective one. But if you're gonna be this unaware, then someone has to screen the applicants. And since Jisung is apparently the only person in your life who's able to keep his eyes from crossing when he looks at you, he takes the job seriously.

“So,” he starts by pulling out a notebook and clicking his pen as if beginning a therapy session, “what are your standards for a future boyfriend?”

You blink at him over a mug of tea. “Huh?”

“I’m interviewing. For your future. What does he need to bring to the table exactly? You do have expectations for your future partner, right?”

“Yeah,” you answer slowly. “But why do we need to review them?”

Jisung leans forward on his knees, removing his glasses with a flick of his wrist and a serious brow. “Isn't it obvious?”

“Not really.”

“Because! We've got a lot of suitors and we need to make sure that we're picking the right one.”

“We?”

“Yes, we,” Jisung scoffs, as if this could go any other way. “Now, tell me what you want in your future boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes but humor him anyway. “Okay, um…he has to be able to protect me. Like, physically.”

Jisung sits back and crosses one leg over the other dramatically, writing in his notebook as he speaks, “Okay, so he needs to be able to take down a bear – or three bears. With nunchucks. While blindfolded.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Psycho.”

“What else, come on. I'm listening.”

“Fine,” you sit back as well, arms crossed, a humorous tone even though you decide to give genuine answers. “He needs to be emotionally mature. Like, he should be able to read how I feel and respond in a sensitive way.”

“Got it. He needs to monitor your mood like a human heart rate machine and respond with a customized emotional care package before you even say a word. Bonus points if he brings snacks?”

Your smile grows. “Only if they're my favorite snacks.”

“Excellent,” Jisung agrees, scribbling down more notes. “What else?”

“He should be someone I can play video games with, but also have deep conversations. Like, he should be silly and smart.”

“Mhm mhm,” Jisung nods and he writes.

“He needs to beat you at Mario Kart while breaking down the emotional symbolism of your favorite Studio Ghibli films in real time.”

“He doesn't have to love Studio Ghibli.”

“But those are your all time favorite movies.”

“He's allowed to have his own favorite movies.”

“No, he's not.”

You roll your eyes, but don't fight the giggles bubbling up. It's a well known fact that Jisung is your biggest supporter, and despite how overbearing and overprotective some people say he is, you actually love the way he cares so much.

“Keep going,” he waves you on with his pen in the air, because clearly you do not have enough standards yet.

“Okay, umm…he has to be someone who would pursue me. Even if things got hard. Like, really hard. Someone who wouldn’t back down, no matter the obstacle.”

Jisung pauses.

“What?” you ask.

“That one’s decent.”

“But not good enough?” you tease.

“Obviously not,” he shrugs. “Your future boyfriend has to do all of this while knowing that if he breaks your heart, I will become his worst nightmare. And I don't mean metaphorically. I will put him in a targeted dream incubation and torture his subconscious until he becomes psychologically scarred for the rest of his life.”

Jisung’s sure that one was going to derail you, but instead, you giggle and lean your chin on your hand, eyes playful and a little mischievous.

Then you say it.

The words that bring his internal gears to a screeching halt.

“What about Felix?”

Jisung freezes.

Because damn it.

Damn it!

Felix does know taekwondo. Black belt. Could probably take out a bear with one arm behind his back. There's no question he can protect you physically.

Felix is sunshine incarnate, raised with sisters. He literally made you a mixtape last month because you said you were stressed. He's emotionally in tune with practically every part of you.

He plays games with you all the time as your video game sensei. And you tell him things you don't even tell Jisung. He's one of your closest companions and you clearly trust him unconditionally.

Even more, despite Jisung constantly threatening to beat him up or emotionally disown him as a friend, Felix still smiles at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Jisung narrows his eyes. “That little punk.”

“So…he's good enough?”

“…Maybe. Why mention Felix though?”

You beam, smile reaching all the way to your ears as embarrassment floods your face. You don't have to say anything verbally. Your body language gives it all away.

You're already smitten with him.

Jisung groans and throws a pillow at you, falling back with a dramatic arm across his face.

This is it. This is the day he finally loses his sister to some man.

“Fine,” he says as if you need his permission to date someone anyway. “But if he messes this up, I’m legally obligated to put him in a headlock and pound him into the ground.”

“Duly noted,” you say, trying to keep your excitement at bay.

You hop over to sit next to your brother, offering him a sip of your tea, but he shoves it off, trying to play cool.

Because just like that, Jisung realizes, he's not going to be your number one protector forever.

::

general taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cherriive @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @velvetmoonlight @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @spirit-of-a-b1tch @velvet-moonlght

[kayleefriedchicken]

Mindy, WHAT?! How do you read me so well? I absolutely LOVED this. And I adore their relationship, then 'awww-ed' at the end when he realised he may not be reader's number one protector all the time once she has a partner. Love the way you wrote her, too. THANK YOU!

[linoxpudding]

Off Limits - Seo Changbin

summary: he confesses his feelings to you but you hesitate given your age difference— and after weeks of hidden feelings and secret pining you start secretly dating, sharing soft, private moments away from the spotlight

pairing: seo changbin x noona!reader

genre: angst, comfort, fluff, forbidden romance trope

word count: 5297 words

a/n: this is based on this request, the reader is almost a decade older than him, this one's for the noonas <3

Masterlist

*images are taken from pinterest*

~°~

The job came with a thick NDA, multiple rounds of interviews, and a rule so ironclad it was printed at the top of every email: 

Interactions with artists must remain strictly professional — no exceptions.

It was rule number one to stay professional. Always.

“No texting, no hanging out after hours, no dating — especially that last one,” your supervisor had said during your final onboarding session.

Your age, your experience, your grounded maturity were what made you a perfect candidate. You were supposed to be the steady one. The invisible support staff who got things done and kept boundaries.

So when you signed the contract, you didn’t even flinch. Because really, what was there to worry about?

They were idols — loud, talented, charming and young. Nearly a decade younger than you in some cases. You thought this would be easy. You’d seen enough of the industry to be unaffected. You were mature and too smart to even consider crossing a line. That’s what they liked about you. That’s why they hired you.

So you smiled and promised, “Of course. I’m here to work.”

And for a while, that was true. You became a ghost in the background like a quiet machine that made things run smoothly. Flights, rehearsals, call sheets, wardrobe runs — you were everywhere and nowhere. 

The boys were all kind and respectful, just as polished offstage as they were onstage. Every interaction was warm but brief consisting of a polite bow, a quick thank you, a shared laugh during group meals before everyone snapped back into work mode.

You liked that. The routine. The mutual respect. No one crossed lines. You were part of every successful show, every last-minute disaster averted. You saw it all.

And unbeknownst to you, Changbin saw you.

He noticed how you always had everything ready before anyone asked. How you moved like clockwork, fixing problems before they became problems. How you never looked at him the way fans or even staff sometimes did — never starstruck, never flustered. Just… calm. Distant. Professional.

Maybe it was the distance that pulled him in.

He started slowly. Nothing obvious. Just enough to inch his way into your radar.

Lingering a little longer after rehearsals. Offering you his coffee instead of the manager. Throwing jokes your way when you passed by, pretending it wasn’t for your laugh. At first, you thought he was just friendly — he was like that with everyone.

He was always respectful, polite. Always smiling. He offered to carry heavy bags when he didn’t need to. 

But then he started saying things like, “You didn’t eat again, did you?” or “Don’t overwork yourself, noona. I can tell when you’re pushing too hard.”

And that’s when you started noticing him.

The way his voice dropped when he spoke directly to you. The way his smile softened when you were nearby. The way your heart started skipping the tiniest beat whenever he looked your way.

You told yourself it was nothing. It was just a silly little crush. A fleeting moment of warmth in an otherwise exhausting job. He was just… sweet, observant and thoughtful.

And way too young.

So you buried it under professionalism. For weeks, months — you reminded yourself of the rules every day. 

You kept your distance. Avoided lingering in his space. Laughed a little less. Held your clipboard a little tighter. Pretended it didn’t sting when he looked disappointed.

But Changbin wasn’t playing games. And he didn’t back down.

It was your name he said first when he walked into a room. Your opinion he asked when choosing outfits. Your face he sought out in the crowd after each show, eyes scanning until he found your small nod of approval.

You weren’t supposed to matter like that.

You tried to logic your way out of it. 

It’s just admiration. You’re older. He wouldn’t fall for you. Don’t be that staff member. Don’t ruin this.

But the feelings crept in anyway. And the more you pushed them down, the more impossible they became to ignore.

*****************

On the other hand, Changbin was suffering.

Every word you said, every laugh that passed your lips, made him spiral just a little more. He’d liked you since the first time you scolded him gently for not sleeping enough—voice stern, but hands fussing over him like he mattered. Like someone had to care.

He was used to being looked up to — respected, admired, even babied by fans and teammates. But around you? He forgot how to talk. Forgot how to be. He turned into a blushing, nervous, walking contradiction. All muscle and swagger in front of cameras, but a blushing, breathless boy when you glanced his way.

He forgot how to be cool. Forgot how to form full sentences. Once, he dropped his protein bar because your hand brushed his wrist while passing him a note.

So when you’d started avoiding him like the plague — subtly at first — like skipping out of rooms a few seconds earlier. Passing off tasks involving him to someone else. Rewriting schedules just to make sure your paths didn’t cross too much.

He noticed 

He wasn’t stupid, he noticed the way your laughter stopped when he entered the room. The way your tone shifted from warm to clipped. The way you never quite met his eyes anymore, as if you were afraid of what they might give away — or what they might see reflected in his.

And it hurt.

He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, only that every inch you put between the two of you felt like a punishment he hadn’t earned. He’d stay up wondering if he imagined it all, the tension, the glances, the comfort he felt around you.

It was like every time he thought he was getting closer, you slipped further out of reach.

But no. That couldn’t be right.

He felt it. It was real. It had to be. And if he didn’t say something soon, he was afraid his heart wouldn’t survive the back and forth.

He was done waiting. Done wondering.

Because you made him feel things he never expected to feel — not in a world built on cameras and contracts. And no rule in the world could change that.

*****************

The next day, the studio was buzzing with post-recording chaos. You were crouched in a corner of the studio, scribbling notes and finalizing the van routes for tomorrow’s shoot. The room was loud with movement — the members packing up, cords being wrapped, conversations overlapping.

You felt him before you saw him. That weight in the air. The way your body tensed out of instinct.

“Hey,” Changbin said, stepping close, voice low and hesitant. “How are you?”

You glanced up briefly. “Fine.”

He blinked. “Just fine?”

You nodded, eyes dropping back to your clipboard. “Tired. Hectic day.”

There was a pause. Not a heavy one, just long enough to notice.

“…Are you avoiding me?”

Your fingers froze over the page.

You forced a scoff. “What? No.”

But you didn’t look at him.

He took a small step closer. “You haven’t talked to me all week unless you had to.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You always made time—before.”

You looked up then, a little sharper than you meant to. “Changbin, don’t make this a thing.”

“It is a thing,” he said quietly, hurt threaded through his voice. “You won’t even meet my eyes anymore. I don’t know how to get through to you anymore.” 

Your throat tightened. “I’m just trying to keep things professional.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when we were laughing backstage last month. When you brought me snacks because you knew I skipped dinner. When you stayed behind during soundcheck just to fix my in-ear volume—”

“That was work,” you cut in.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “No, it wasn’t. Not all of it.”

Before you could answer — before you could run — a voice called across the room.

“Binnie!” 

Chan called him, he was holding up a clipboard. “Let’s go over this one last time.”

Changbin looked torn, still staring at you. His jaw clenched. His shoulders set.

But after a beat, he stepped back. “I’ll find you later.”

And then he walked away. You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, gathered your stuff and left the room. 

*****************

Later that night, the building was nearly empty. Your desk was dimly lit by the last tired glow of your monitor, the silence broken only by the hum of the vending machine down the hall and the scratch of your pen checking off final tasks.

You shut your laptop and slipped into your coat, bag already slung over your shoulder, ready to go home. Your mind was still replaying the conversation from earlier today, you let out a sigh. You were glad this day was over.

But when you opened your office door, you nearly collided with him.

Leaning against the wall outside your office, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets — like he’d been waiting.

You stopped. “Changbin…”

“I said I’d find you.”

His expression wasn’t playful or bold. It was tired. Like he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

You stepped out, pulling your coat tighter, already too tired for this.

“If this is about earlier—”

“It is,” he said firmly. “It’s about everything. You avoiding me. The way you shut me out. The way you keep pretending we’re nothing. That this is nothing. You think I haven’t noticed?”

You exhaled harshly. “Changbin, stop.”

“No. I’m done stopping.” His voice cracked slightly, but his stare didn’t waver. “I’m done pretending.”

You froze. “Changbin…”

“I like you. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

You closed your eyes. “You’re not supposed to say that—”

“No. Just listen.”

He stepped forward, close enough for you to hear the catch in his breath.

“I’ve liked you for months. Every time you laugh, every time you scold me for skipping meals, every stupid thing I do just to get a smile out of you… it’s real for me.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “Are you out of your mind?! You’re— you’re almost a decade younger than me.”

“So what?” he shot back, eyes flashing. “It’s not like we met when I was eighteen! I’m twenty-five, for god’s sake. Do you think I don’t know what I want?”

You gaped at him, stunned by the intensity in his voice.

“I know who I am. I know how I feel. And I know that every time you walk into a room and pretend we’re nothing, it fucking hurts.”

You shook your head and tried to walk past. “This isn’t the time.”

He moved to block you — not aggressively, just enough to make you look at him.

You clenched your jaw. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because this is real life, Changbin,” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “This isn’t a K-drama. There are rules. Boundaries. Consequences.”

He looked at you, eyes storm-dark. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do!” you fired back. “I’m staff. You’re the artist. There’s a rule printed at the top of every goddamn company email — no dating the artists. It’s not just a suggestion, it’s my job on the line!”

The hallway rang with your voice, thick with frustration and guilt and the aching truth you’d been trying to suffocate for weeks.

He exhaled, stepping just a bit closer. His voice softened. “Look, I’m not asking you to throw your life away. I’m not asking you to risk your job or break every rule for me. I know how it works here. I read the rules. Every time I think about texting you, I remember the contract. But then I see you the next day and I wish I’d sent it anyway.”

“Do you know how fast they’d fire me if anyone found out I even thought about you like that?” you snapped. “They wouldn’t see you as the one who started it. They’d say I manipulated you. That I used my position to flirt with someone ten years younger than me? That I’m—”

“Stop,” he said. “You’re not some scandal waiting to happen. You’re the only person who treats me like I’m just me. Who sees past the stage lights and the cameras.”

Your chest ached.

He stepped forward, gaze steady. “If it ever came out—if the company found out—I wouldn’t let them touch you. I’d take the blame. I’d tell them it was me. Because it is, you’ve never once crossed the line. I was the one who fell for you. I was the one who waited—who hoped you'd notice.”

You blinked, stunned.

“I’d fight for you,” he said simply. “If it came down to it… I’d talk to them. I’d tell the truth. That you were the one who tried to do the right thing and I was the one who couldn’t stay away.”

He hesitated, then added softer, “But I’d be careful. We would. I’d never let it get that far. And I’d never let anyone hurt you—not the company, not the fans, not anyone.”

You closed your eyes. 

“Just three dates.” Changbin pleaded.

Your eyes snapped open and you looked at him.

“Three quiet, secret dates,” he said. “If after that you still think this is a mistake, I’ll walk away. I’ll act like it never happened. But if there’s even a part of you that feels what I feel… please, noona.”

Your breath hitched at the sound of it, the way he said noona, not playful, not flirty, but tender. Honest.

You wanted to say no. You should say no.

But instead, your voice betrayed you.

“…Three?”

He nodded. “Three.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted, voice trembling.

He reached out then, slowly, like he was afraid you'd pull away. But you didn’t.

“I am too,” he said. “But maybe...we can be scared together?”

And when you gave the faintest nod, barely more than a breath, he smiled. Not triumphant but relieved.

“I’ll make them count.”

Then, like a gentleman who knew not to press, he turned and walked away, letting you breathe.

You leaned against the wall, pulse hammering in your ears.

Three dates. That’s all.

And yet it already felt like the start of something you’d never be able to undo.

*****************

The next day during the shoot, the atmosphere was buzzing with controlled chaos. Cameras rolled, lights blazed, and you were coordinating everything behind the scenes, clipboard in hand and eyes sharp.

Changbin was nearby, casually leaning against the equipment cart, watching you with a quiet intensity.

You barely noticed at first.

But then, as you passed him the schedule for the next segment, his fingers brushed lightly against yours — just a second longer than necessary. You felt your cheeks heat up instantly.

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile — the kind that said, I’m here. I see you.

Later, when you paused to sip your water, he appeared beside you, nodding at the bottle.

“Don’t forget to hydrate, ma'am,” he said softly, eyes twinkling.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—Thanks.”

He gave a slight wink, then stepped back, disappearing into the crew like nothing had happened.

Throughout the day, you caught these little moments — a whispered comment just loud enough for you, a glance that lingered too long, a touch that was barely there.

And every time, you found yourself blushing, smiling when no one was looking.

You admired how careful he was — how he flirted like a secret code only you could decipher.

It made your heart race, and your mind spiral.

How did he get so good at this without anyone noticing?

*****************

The day after the shoot, the boys were officially off schedule for a week. A rare golden pocket of free time, and the dorm had erupted into lazy chaos — gaming, loud music, snacks on every surface, and Seungmin walking around with a face mask like he was in his own world.

Changbin should’ve felt relaxed.

He didn’t.

His mind was spinning through three separate date plans, backup options in case you bailed, and whether or not his hallway confession had been too much.

He was in the kitchen, pouring himself some water, when Hyunjin leaned over the counter with a smug little smile.

“So…” Hyunjin started, dragging out the vowel, “Noona, huh?”

Changbin froze.

“What about Y/N?” he asked, too fast. Too defensive.

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say which noona. You just told on yourself.”

Felix suddenly burst out laughing from across the room. “OH MY GOD you confessed?!”

“No one confessed,” Changbin muttered, face already pink.

“You sure?” Minho teased, biting into his apple with a smirk, “’Cause why are you so pink?

“I’m just… naturally this color.” Changbin muttered quickly.

Chan popped his head in, grinning wide. “Dwaekki alert! Look at you, blushing like a dweakki!”

“Shut up!” Changbin yelped, running from the room, hands over his face like it might hide the glow.

“You’re not slick, hyung. I see how you look at her like a love sick puppy.” Seungmin chimed in as he passed by.

“It’s not like that.”

Jisung popped his head out from the blanket pile on the couch. “So when are you asking her out?”

“I’m not—”

“Not what? Dating her? Yet?” Jeongin grinned. “You know we’ve been taking bets, right?”

Changbin groaned and shoved his face into his hands.

He wanted to tell them so badly. That you said yes. That he got three whole dates. That he was already planning the third one like a man about to propose.

But he also knew — if it didn’t work out, if the risk was too much for you to keep taking — he couldn’t stomach the thought of them looking at you differently.

So he just muttered, “It’s not what you think,” and grabbed a protein bar like it might protect him from further interrogation.

Chan’s grin widened. “Are you keeping something from us?”

“No!” Changbin defended quickly.

The others burst into laughter.

“You’re so busted!” Jeongin chuckled.

Felix chuckled, “Bro, you can’t hide it. Your face says it all.”

Changbin wanted the floor to swallow him up, the teasing didn’t stop.

“Oh my god, he’s BLUSHING,” Chan laughed. “Binnie, you okay? You need us to buy flowers or plan the proposal?”

“Do not involve yourselves,” Changbin grumbled.

“Too late,” Minho smirked. “We’re emotionally invested now. If you mess it up, we get joint custody of her.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Changbin shot back, surprisingly serious.

They all paused. And just like that, every single one of them knew. He wasn’t just crushing.

He meant it.

And while they still spent the rest of the night teasing him mercilessly, no one crossed the line. Not once.

Because behind all the jokes, they respected you. And they knew Changbin — when he loved, it was for real.

*****************

It was officially time for your first date, you were a nervous wreck. You planned to meet outside a nondescript café at a weird hour on a Tuesday — no other staff in sight, no fans, no eyes. He told you to wear something comfortable and warm. And while it sounded simple enough, somehow it had turned into a full-blown crisis in your apartment.

Your bed was a battlefield of sweaters, jeans, jackets, and outfits you hadn’t even remembered owning until today. You’d tried on six different combinations. Then went back to the first. Then tried again with a different scarf.

You weren’t dressing for a red carpet. You weren’t even dressing for work.

But something about this date made your stomach do flips.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Comfy and warm.

Okay. Simple sweater. Long coat. Jeans. Boots. Casual. Cute. Chill. Nothing that screamed “I spent forty-five minutes spiraling in front of a mirror and had an internal breakdown over knitwear.”

You grabbed your bag, took one last deep breath, and whispered to your reflection, “It’s just three dates. Be cool.”

Your heart whispered back  yet again: But what if it’s more?

You ignored it and headed out the door to meet the man who made you want to risk all your carefully drawn lines.

When you arrived at the meeting spot — a quiet, tucked-away café on a side street near the Han River — Changbin was already there, hood pulled low, scarf around his face, and holding two takeout cups.

The minute he spotted you, he straightened.

And beamed.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft and low.

You smiled shyly. “Hi.”

He handed you a cup. “Green tea. I wasn’t sure if you already had caffeine today.”

The fact that he remembered your sensitivity to coffee after 4 p.m.? Noted.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He nodded toward the street. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

You walked side by side for a while, shoulders brushing occasionally, silence soft and easy between you. He led you through a small park, then down a narrow path that opened up to a quiet stretch of the river — far from the couples and cyclists, hidden from the usual crowds.

A small blanket was already spread out on the grass.

“Wait—did you come here before to set this up?” you asked, blinking at the small pile of homemade sandwiches, some of your favourite snacks and hand warmers. 

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh... maybe.”

You laughed. “That’s... really sweet.”

“I wanted it to feel normal,” he said, glancing at you. “Like something we could just do. Without the noise.”

You sat down beside him, and for a while, you both just watched the river. Quiet. Present. The sky was turning cotton-candy pink, and the city lights were slowly blinking awake.

He passed you a sandwich. “I made it myself.”

You took a bite, then blinked.

It was unevenly cut, slightly messy, and had... a very generous amount of black pepper.

You coughed lightly and looked at him, amused. “Did you season this with, like... your whole heart and half the pepper grinder?”

Changbin winced. “Too much?”

You nodded slowly, chewing. “A little but it's okay.”

He looked horrified. “I swear it didn’t taste like that when I tested it—wait, does that mean you like it enough to keep eating it?”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop chewing.

He grinned, victorious.

Then he took a bite of his own sandwich and immediately froze.

His eyes went wide. He blinked. Once. Twice.

And then he exploded.

“NOONA—DON’T EAT THAT!” he gasped, as he fumbled for your sandwich like it was a bomb about to go off. “I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO MURDER YOU WITH PEPPER.”

You just blinked at him mid-chew, caught between laughing and choking. “It’s not that—”

“It’s a disaster!” he cried, waving his arms like a food safety officer. “I was measuring with my heart. My heart, noona. That was a mistake.”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore laughter burst out of you so hard you nearly dropped the sandwich.

“Oh my god, sit down, drama queen,” you wheezed. “It’s edible.”

“Barely,” he pouted, dramatically collapsing onto the blanket beside you. “I wanted to impress you, not ruin your taste buds.”

You took another bite, calmly. “Honestly, ten out of ten for effort. Negative two for spice control.”

He groaned. “I’m never cooking again.”

You both looked at each other and started laughing, and that laughter dissolved the last bits of awkwardness that had been clinging to your nerves all day.

Still, despite the extra pepper, it was perfect not because it was flawless, but because he’d made it himself. And you noticed he’d remembered all your favorite snacks too. The granola bar you always nibbled between call times. The exact brand of spicy chips you hoarded in the back of the van. Even your weird obsession with almond biscuits.

He didn’t just remember. He noticed. And your heart did somersaults.

You talked for hours. About everything except work. Childhood stories. Favorite scents. Regrets you never said out loud before. The whole time, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t rush, he just listened like no one ever had. Like every word was something he wanted to carry home and keep.

When he dropped you off at your apartment building, he didn’t even lean in. Just gave you the softest look and whispered, “Sleep well, noona.”

And even as he walked away…you couldn’t stop smiling.

*****************

He booked a private room at a planetarium for your second date.

You’d barely finished processing the word when he texted you the location. A literal planetarium. 

He said it was “research for a concept video,” and you rolled your eyes, but didn’t question it.

Because the minute you stepped inside the dim, dome-shaped room — all the chaos and rules and pretending melted away.

It was quiet. Soft galaxies shimmered across the ceiling, light dancing in slow spirals above your heads. The air was cool, still, and scented faintly with the citrusy cologne he always wore — the one you noticed but never mentioned.

Just the two of you. No titles. No cameras. No reminders that this wasn’t allowed.

He brought a small bag, and from it, he pulled out a tiny Bluetooth speaker.

“Trust me,” he said, already smirking at your raised eyebrow.

Then he hit play, it was one of his unreleased demos. A soft, emotional verse you’d never heard, it was a confession in lyrics.

You didn’t ask who it was about. He didn’t say. You didn’t need to.

You sat side by side in the dark, arms brushing, knees bumping. And when the artificial stars tilted above you, your head fell naturally onto his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

Just let out the softest breath like he’d been waiting for that moment longer than he’d ever admit.

Your heart was racing so loud you were convinced he could hear it over his own vocals.

When the song ended, neither of you spoke. You sat in the gentle dark, breathing the same quiet air, your pulse drumming against borrowed gravity.

Later, on the walk out to your separate cars, the night air felt colder than usual. Changbin walked slowly, like dragging his feet might delay the inevitable end.

Then he said in a low voice, “I wish I could take you on dates like this in the daylight.”

You stopped walking.

Your chest ached, because God, you wished that too. You wanted sunlight and loud laughter and crowded cafés. You wanted his hand in yours where people could see.

But you turned toward him, eyes gentle, voice soft.

“But I liked it,” you said. “Just us.”

He looked at you and something flickered in his eyes. Wonder. Relief. Maybe even love.

And he whispered, “Me too.”

*****************

It was raining softly the night of your third date.

The kind of drizzle that misted your coat and made the city glow golden. The air smelled like wet pavement and steamed dumplings from street vendors, and everything felt a little softer. A little quieter.

Perfect for staying in.

Changbin had offered his place — “We can watch something dumb and be comfy. No pressure. Just pajamas, movies and snacks.”

And after everything, after the stars and the quiet laughter and the way his voice cracked just a little when he said goodbye last time...you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

Luckily for you both, Hyunjin was out of town visiting his parents that weekend. Meaning there will be no awkward interruptions, no sudden bangs on the door, and no suspicious smirking from the world’s most dramatic roommate.

Just you and Changbin.

The apartment was cozy and clean in the way only someone who anxiously vacuumed before you arrived could manage.

You kicked your shoes off and padded in with fuzzy socks, arms full of snacks you insisted on bringing.

Changbin took one look at the grocery bag and teased, “You’re trying to bribe me with bbq chips, aren’t you?”

You grinned. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He was wearing a hoodie so soft-looking it should’ve been illegal. His hair was slightly tousled like he hadn’t finished drying it. And when he took your coat, his fingers brushed yours and stayed a moment longer than they needed to.

You settled into the couch together with a mountain of pillows, blankets, and a massive bowl of popcorn you both agreed was too salty but too late to fix.

The movie — some old cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s — was barely playing before you felt his arm stretch across the back of the couch.

You glanced sideways.

He wasn’t looking at you, not directly. But the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying to look chill.

You smirked and leaned your head back against his arm.

He shifted slightly closer and you took the chance to rest your head against his chest, your legs curled under you, and one of his hands gently brushing your arm in slow, absentminded motions.

It was quiet. Not the kind of silence that needed to be filled. The kind that felt like a heartbeat.

Halfway through the movie, he murmured, “You comfy enough?”

You nodded, nose slightly buried in his hoodie. “Mhm.”

His voice dropped a little. “Me too.”

As the credits rolled and the room dipped into low lamp light and leftover snack crumbs, he nudged you slightly, voice soft near your ear.

“So…” he said. “What’s the verdict?”

You blinked up at him, heart stuttering.

He smiled, nervous. “The three dates. Was it enough to convince you?”

You stretched slightly, still half-curled in his arms. Then, very casually, you said, “Hm. I think we should keep doing it.”

He stared at you for a few seconds.

Then he exploded.

“YAH—” he shouted, practically shaking you. “NOONA DON’T DO THAT TO ME, I ALMOST DIED—”

You shrieked, laughing, swatting his chest. “What?!”

“I thought you were gonna say no!” he groaned, flopping back dramatically against the cushions.

“You’re so dramatic,” you teased, burying your face into his hoodie.

He hugged you tighter. “You like that about me.”

You tilted your face upward slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. He was already looking at you. And everything that had been playful and teasing just a moment ago just stilled.

His smile softened, lips parting just barely as if to say something, but he hesitated.

You could feel the shift in the air. The way his thumb started brushing lightly against your arm. The way his breath slowed. The way your heart sped up.

“Can I…” his voice dropped, almost unsure.

Then steadier, with quiet conviction, he asked, “Can I please kiss you?”

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected the question to feel so heavy, so intimate.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just looked at him — the warmth in his eyes, the nervous hope swimming beneath the surface, the way he held you like you were something fragile and precious.

So instead of words, you leaned in.

He met you halfway.

And when his lips touched yours, it wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t overwhelming or rushed. It was gentle and soft, like everything finally made sense.

The kiss melted into the quiet warmth between you, his hand cupping your cheek, your fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie. 

When you pulled back, the world stayed still.

You looked at him, breath caught, cheeks warm, and whispered, “That was dangerous.”

Changbin pressed his forehead to yours, smiling, voice low and steady now. “But so worth the risk.”

You sighed, smiling. Maybe it wouldn’t always be easy. But if you were careful and you had him by your side. 

Then it was worth it. All of it.

----------------

Taglist:

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[kayleefriedchicken]

This. This was perfect and my dream fic come true - noona reader who's a staff, with persistent member who knows what he wants. And the fact the rest already knew and indirectly support it makes it even better. Thank you for writing this, and also to the requestor of this fic, for requesting this. It came out when I'm at my lowest and reading it brought me so much comfort.