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I reblog fics I love😋 Ilovemegumifushiguro Moots?👾👾

[mariyariririri]

Hellooo!!

If you’re wondering what fandoms and fics I have reblogged then its these

-JJK

-Love and Deepspace

-Cortis

-Kaiju no.8

I honestly forgot the others but i think i reblogged more than those fandomss heh

[hyuneskkami]

:ঌ FALLING IN LOVE... BUT ALSO ACTUALLY FALLING ⭑ A.KN ㅗ ໒:

📬 ❤︎ best friend!keonho 𝔁 f!reader ─── ৻ꪆ you trying to teach keonho to skateboard ends in him breaking not one, but both his pinky fingers.

❤︎ warnings+tags ─── ৻ꪆ high school au · non-idol au · best friends to lovers (aka the most goated trope EVER) · nicknames (‘pretty boy’, ‘sweetheart’) · implied punk!reader · one kiss in the end · ft. juhoon as their amazing senior, and also keonho’s parents <3

💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ oh keonho you absolute chud 😹😹 (i say this as i whine after hitting the exact same door frame every single day after waking up) who?? breaks?? BOTH their pinky fingers?? 4 days before their first concert ever lmfao?? 😭 /j (i do wish him a speedy recovery tho 🥹 my lil chud twin, get well soon 😁💞) · anyway somebody in youtube comments said he permanently has his pinky up for now (katseye ref) and i crode bc that’s so sad but also hella creative 💀 · also i used yesterday’s entire screentime to write this fic… i want to cry but also it was worth it (praying i get my devices fully back soon bruh)

❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 5.5k

𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚

❝ tracklist ❞  ─── lo$er=lo♡er—txt ❦ no celestial—le srfm ❦ misery business—paramore ❦ never stop me—i-dle ❦ lxxk 2 u—yena ❦ basket case—green day ❦ happy death day—xdinary heroes ❦ gives you hell—the all-american rejects ❦ shoot me—day6 ❦ black eye—vernon ❦ sk8er boi—avril lavigne ❦ bump bump—woodz ❦ favorite—isabel larosa ❦ 2 minus 1—svt ❦ glue song—beabadoobee ❦ there she goes—lauran hibberd

the heavy oak doors of the back exit of the high school building creaked just a little too loudly, making both of you freeze in unison. you held your breath, your fingers tightly gripping the worn griptape of your skateboard, while keonho stood right behind you, practically breathing down your neck because he was trying so hard to hide his tall frame behind yours.

“did anyone see?” he whispered, his voice pitching high with that familiar, dramatic anxiety he always got whenever he tried to break a rule.

you rolled your eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder. your heavy eyeliner flicked upward as you gave him a flat look. “keonho, if anyone saw us, it would be because you’re wearing the loudest neon green hoodie in existence. i told you to wear black.”

“but black absorbs heat, sweetheart, and i am a delicate flower who will melt under the midday sun,” he whined, instantly pouting his lower lip out in that specific way he knew always made you soften, even if you’d never admit it to his face. “besides, you’re the one who promised. you said today. right now. during third period history because mr. choi’s voice sounds like a lawnmower running out of gas.”

“i said i’d teach you how to skateboard, i didn’t say i’d act as a human shield for your giant ass,” you muttered, but a grin tugged at the corner of your lips anyway. you checked the empty courtyard one last time before pushing the door fully open and slipping out into the bright afternoon heat.

skateboarding and the entire gritty, loud, patches-on-denim punk aesthetic was pretty much your entire personality at this point. your school bag was practically held together by safety pins and band badges, your oversized plaid shirts were permanently frayed at the cuffs, and you spent more time looking at the concrete under your wheels than looking at the chalkboard. keonho, on the other hand, was the walking definition of a golden retriever who had somehow gotten tangled up in a ball of yarn. he was clumsy to a fault—tripping over flat surfaces, dropping his pens every five minutes, and somehow managing to bump into the same doorframe every single morning (you can confirm that, actually).

but he wanted to learn how to skate. mostly because he loved watching you do it, and partly because he had this romanticised vision of the two of you cruising down the streets together like some cool indie movie duo.

you walked over to the flat concrete stretch behind the old gym equipment shed—a spot hidden from the main windows where the ground was relatively smooth. you dropped your board with a satisfying clack, the skull-and-crossbones graphic on the bottom scratching slightly against the pavement.

“alright, pretty boy,” you said, crossing your arms and looking at him with an authoritative tilt of your head. “rule number one: keep your center of gravity low. if you stand up straight like a surfboard, you’re gonna eat dirt.”

“low center of gravity. got it. i am the concrete. i am one with the earth,” keonho muttered, doing a bizarre, stiff-legged squat that made him look less like a skater and more like a malfunctioning robot.

“stop doing that, you look insane,” you laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “just put your dominant foot forward. put it right over the front screws. yeah, like that. now push off gently with your other foot.”

keonho took a deep breath, his face contorting into an expression of intense, life-or-death concentration. he placed his left foot on the board. it shifted slightly. his eyes widened.

“wait, yn, it’s moving—why is it moving?”

“because it has wheels, keonho, that’s how physics works!” you shouted, laughing as you stepped closer to grab his hands. “just balance. look at me, don’t look at your feet.”

he gripped your hands like they were a lifeline, his palms warm against yours. for a second, his dark eyes locked onto yours, and the sudden closeness made your chest do a stupid, erratic flutter. he was smiling, that crooked, breathtaking smile that always made you forget for a split second that you were supposed to be the tough, unbothered cool girl of his dreams.

“i’m doing it,” he gasped, his feet wobbly on the board as it rolled forward at approximately two miles per hour. “look at me, i’m a natural. i’m literally tony hawk—”

and then, because the universe had a weird sense of humor and also because ahn keonho was inherently cursed, his back foot tried to find the tail of the board, missed completely, and caught on a tiny, microscopic pebble.

everything happened in a split-second blur of limbs and gravity.

keonho’s arms flailed wildly, his balance completely evaporating. in his panic, instead of letting go, he clamped his hands tighter around yours, pulling you right down into his chaotic descent. you didn’t even have time to yell. you just felt the sudden, violent—albeit familiar—rush of the ground coming up to meet you.

keonho hit the concrete first, falling awkwardly backward and sideways, throwing his hands out instinctively to break his fall—which was the absolute number one rule of what not to do when you crash. you pitched forward right over him, your knees slamming hard against the rough pavement, the fabric of your light blue uniform pants tearing open with a loud rip as the coarse ground chewed right into your skin.

for a long moment, there was just the sound of the skateboard rolling away until it hit a chain-link fence with a dull thud, and the heavy, synchronised panting of the two of you lying in a tangled heap on the floor.

“ow,” you groaned, wincing as a sharp sting radiated from both of your knees. you sat up slowly, looking down to see two huge, jagged tears in your pants, the skin underneath already bright red and oozing a tiny bit of blood mixed with dirt. “well, there goes my good pair of pants.”

but when you looked over at keonho to complain, he wasn’t moving. he was sitting up, cradling both of his hands against his chest, his face completely pale and his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer disbelief.

“yn,” he squeaked, his voice a full octave higher than usual. “yn, look at my fingers. why are they looking at me like that?”

you leaned closer, squinting at his hands, and immediately let out a sharp intake of breath. both of his pinky fingers were bent at a horrific, unnatural angle, sticking out sideways like two broken twigs. he had landed awkwardly on the outermost edges of his hands with all his weight.

you stared at his fingers. then, you looked at your bloody, torn knees. then, you looked back at his pale, horrified face.

and finally, because the situation was so utterly absurd, you started to giggle.

“are you... are you laughing at my impending death?” keonho gasped, though a hysterical bubble of laughter was already rising in his own chest.

“you fractured your pinkies!” you howled, pressing a hand over your mouth as the sheer ridiculousness of the sight washed over you. “both of them! at the exact same time! how are you even physically capable of doing that?! i’ve been skating for years and the most i’ve managed is a sprained ankle!”

“i told you i was a delicate flower!” he yelled back, though he was laughing so hard now that his shoulders were shaking, which only made his hands hurt more, causing him to wince and laugh simultaneously. “oh god, it hurts so bad, but look at them! they look like boomerangs! yn, i broke my hands trying to stand on a piece of wood!”

“we’re so stupid,” you groaned, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye as you carefully pushed yourself up, wincing as your scraped knees protested the movement. “come on, stand up. we need to get to the infirmary before you pass out out of… i don’t know what exactly.”

you managed to hoist him up, his tall frame leaning heavily against you as he kept his hands held up in the air like a praying mantis, terrified of touching anything. you hobbled together back toward the school building, a thoroughly pathetic sight—a girl with shredded pants and bloody knees, and a boy in a neon green hoodie holding his broken fingers up like trophies.

you didn’t even make it to the main building before you ran straight into juhoon.

kim juhoon was a senior, exactly one year older than you both, and he carried himself with the permanent aura of a tired middle-aged father who had three mortgages and a troubled teenage son (which, you supposed, keonho technically was). he was holding a stack of papers, probably running an errand for the student council, when he spotted the two of you limping across the lawn.

he stopped dead in his tracks. his eyes slowly traveled from your bloody knees, up to keonho’s raised, crooked pinkies, and finally to your guilty faces. juhoon let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“i leave you two alone for exactly forty-five minutes,” he said, his voice flat, filled with the practiced disappointment of a parent who isn’t even surprised anymore. “what did i say about skipping history? what did i explicitly say, yn?”

“that mr. choi would notice?” you mumbled, suddenly feeling very small.

“and what did you do?”

“we skipped,” keonho whined, shuffling his feet and trying to hide behind you again, which didn’t work at all since he was a head taller than you. “but juhoon-hyung, look! my fingers are broken! look at the angles! i think i’m going to need an amputation!”

juhoon stepped closer, took one look at keonho’s hands, and his stern expression cracked into a mixture of disgust and genuine concern. “jesus christ, keonho. how do you even manage this? did you fight a lawnmower?”

“he fell off my skateboard,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck.

“and you fell on top of him?” juhoon asked, gesturing to your knees.

“something like that.”

“unbelievable,” juhoon muttered, but he immediately dropped his papers onto a nearby bench and stepped into action. he grabbed keonho by the elbow, being careful not to jostle his hands, and put his other arm around your shoulder to help support your weight. “come on, you two idiots. let’s get to the infirmary before the principal sees you and adds suspension to your medical bills.”

as he led you down the hallway, he kept up a steady stream of playful scolding. “i swear, when you two finally get married, your wedding registry is just going to be a list of premium health insurance plans and bubble wrap. i’m not going to be the godfather of your kids because i refuse to watch them inherit this exact lack of survival instincts.”

your face flushed instantly at the word married, and you looked away, focusing very hard on the tiled floor. next to you, keonho let out a loud, dramatic whine. “hyung, don’t talk about our marriage right now, my pinkies are experiencing a mid-life crisis! they’re pointing north and south!”

“shut up and walk, keonho,” juhoon sighed, but there was a fond, amused smile on his face as he pushed open the door to the school infirmary.

the school nurse took one look at keonho’s hands and immediately reached for the landline phone on her desk to call an ambulance.

“i can set simple sprains, but those are completely fractured, possibly displaced,” she said briskly, already pulling out a roll of gauze and some antiseptic wipes. “he needs x-rays and proper splints immediately. and you,” she pointed at you, “sit on the cot. let’s clean those knees before you get an infection.”

juhoon stayed just long enough to ensure you both were being taken care of, shaking his head one last time. “i have to get back to class before they think i got kidnapped. yn, make sure he doesn’t try to high-five anyone on the way to the hospital. keonho, stop crying, you’re nearly six feet tall, and you’ve had worse injuries from slamming yourself to the walls of the swimming pool by mistake anyway.”

“i’m not crying, it’s just eye sweat!” keonho yelled after him as juhoon left the room.

the nurse quickly cleaned your knees, the sting of the alcohol wipe making you hiss through your teeth and grip the edges of the mattress. keonho, despite being in significantly more pain, spent the entire time watching you with wide, worried eyes.

“does it hurt bad, yn?” he asked softly, his voice dropping its dramatic edge for a second, replaced by something genuinely tender that made your heart do that stupid flip again.

“i’m fine, pretty boy. i’ve had worse scrapes than this just falling off curbs,” you muttered, looking down at your ruined pants. “you’re the one who needs to worry. you’re about to ride in a flashing-lights party wagon.”

“hey, at least we can cross off ambulance ride from our bucket list!”

“oh yeah, true.”

since the school couldn’t leave a student unattended and both of your parents were currently at work, the nurse declared that she would accompany keonho in the ambulance, and since you were already injured and involved, you were shoved right into the back with them.

the ride to the hospital was a chaotic mix of siren wails and keonho’s non-stop rambling. the paramedic in the back had given him a temporary ice pack to hold against his hands, but the movement of the vehicle kept jarring his fingers, making him whine loudly.

“yn, it hurts. it really, really hurts,” he complained, shifting restlessly on the gurney. his eyes were slightly glossy now, the initial adrenaline fully wearing off. “distract me. please. talk to me about literally anything. tell me about the chord progressions of that one clash song you love. tell me about why you hate mainstream radio. just talk please.”

the nurse gave you a look that clearly said please quiet him down, so you sighed, leaning forward from your seat next to the gurney. you reached out, intending to pat his arm, but because he was looking so thoroughly pathetic, you ended up just letting your hand rest against his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the neon green fabric.

“alright, alright, listen to me,” you said, keeping your voice low and steady. “did you know that the bassline in ‘london calling’ was actually improvised during the first studio take because the bassist forgot the original arrangement?”

“really?” keonho blinked, his focus immediately shifting to your face.

“yeah. and remember that gig we went to last month? the one where the lead singer accidentally kicked his own microphone stand into the crowd and hit a guy in a furry costume?”

keonho let out a weak, breathy laugh, his fingers twitching slightly against the ice pack. “yeah... yeah, i remember. the furry didn’t even get mad, he just started moshing harder.”

“yeah,” you smiled, your thumb unconsciously smoothing over the fabric of his sleeve. “and remember when you tried to buy that vintage leather jacket online and it arrived and it was literally sized for a chihuahua?”

“hey! the listing said ‘small’!” he retorted, though his face was breaking into a genuine grin now, the pain clearly pushed to the back of his mind as he focused entirely on the sound of your voice. “i gave it to cookie. he looked incredibly hardcore in it.”

“he looked terrifying, keonho.”

you kept talking, spinning ridiculous stories and reminding him of all the stupid things you’d done together over the past decade of being inseparable. by the time the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room entrance, keonho was so engaged in arguing with you about whether or not pineapples belonged on a pizza that he barely even noticed the paramedics wheeling him through the automatic sliding doors.

the hospital visit took hours. the doctors had to take multiple x-rays, confirm that both pinkies were indeed fractured (you didn’t need a degree and a white coat to conclude that, though), and then begin the tedious process of straightening them out and wrapping them in sturdy, rigid splints that made his hands look like he was permanently giving a clumsy, stiff-fingered salute.

you stayed by his side the entire time, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bed, your torn knees feeling stiff and itchy under the clean bandages the nurse had applied. keonho’s parents had been called, but they were stuck in a massive traffic jam on the highway after leaving their offices, leaving you as his sole guardian and entertainer.

“look at me,” keonho whispered hoarsely after the doctor finally finished wrapping his hands. he held up both of his arms, his pinkies sticking out stiffly like the antennae of a very confused insect. “how am i supposed to play video games, yn? how am i supposed to text you that i miss you when i’m bored in class?”

“you can use your thumbs like a normal person, you drama queen,” you laughed, leaning your head back against the wall. “and you shouldn’t be texting me in class anyway. look where skipping got us today.”

“it got us an adventure,” he retorted, pouting as he looked down at his lap. then, his voice softened, turning quiet and slightly hesitant. “thanks for staying with me. seriously. i know you don’t like hospitals.”

you looked at him, taking in the way his messy brown hair fell into his eyes, the slight redness around his nose, and the absolute vulnerability in his expression. the urge to reach out and pull him into a hug was so strong it made your palms ache. you felt that familiar, heavy warmth spreading through your chest—the one you’d been trying to ignore for years around him. you were completely, utterly head over heels for this clumsy idiot—your clumsy idiot.

“i wouldn’t leave you alone here,” you said softly, your usual tough exterior melting away entirely. “who else is going to make sure you don’t accidentally swallow a tongue depressor?”

he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “true. i am a liability, i guess.”

by the time the discharge paperwork was finally sorted out, the sun had long since set, painting the sky in deep shades of purple and navy. keonho’s parents had called to say they were finally near the house and told you both to just take the subway home since the station was right next to the hospital and led straight to your neighborhood.

walking out into the cool evening air, the atmosphere felt different. the rush of the school day was gone, replaced by the quiet, humming energy of the city at night. the subway station was packed with the usual evening rush-hour crowd—salarymen in suits, students from other schools, and shoppers all pushing their way toward the platforms. as soon as you stepped onto the crowded train, the sheer volume of people made you instantly alert.

keonho was standing next to you, looking incredibly vulnerable as he tried to navigate the sea of bodies without letting anyone bump into his freshly splinted hands. he was holding his arms close to his chest, his face tense with worry.

“don’t worry, i got you,” you muttered.

since you couldn’t hold his hand without risking hurting his fingers, you stepped up right behind him. you reached out and firmly grabbed the sturdy canvas belt loop at the back of his school pants.

keonho stiffened for a fraction of a second before he realised what you were doing. he looked back over his shoulder, a massive, delighted grin breaking across his face. “are you walking me like a dog, sweetheart?”

“what i’m doing is keeping you from straying away into the crowd and getting trampled by a businessman, shut up,” you hissed, your cheeks burning red as a few people nearby glanced at you with amused expressions. “just move when i move.”

“aye, aye, captain,” he chuckled.

as the train jolted forward, throwing everyone slightly off balance, keonho instinctively shifted his weight, using his broad shoulders and tall frame to create a small, protective pocket of space around you. he backed up just enough to shield you from the crowded rush, his body acting as a barrier against the rest of the carriage, while you kept your tight grip on his belt loop, anchoring him to you.

it was a ridiculous system, but as you stood there, feeling the steady warmth of his back against your front, the rhythmic clack-clack of the train tracks underneath, and the quiet security of him protecting you while you guided him, you wished the train ride would never end.

by the time you both walked through the front door of keonho’s house, you were both completely exhausted.

“we’re home!” keonho kicked his shoes off with a groan, immediately stumbling into the living room and face-planting directly onto the soft leather couch.

his parents were already there, his mom coming out of the kitchen with an apron on, and his dad sitting at the dining table with a newspaper. both of them looked up, taking in the sight of their son face-down on the cushions with his hands sticking out awkwardly, and you limping in behind him with bandage-wrapped knees and torn pants.

“oh, my goodness,” his mom gasped, though there was a distinct note of amusement in her voice as she walked over. “the nurse explained it on the phone, but seeing it is something else. keonho, how do you manage to break both?”

“it’s a talent, mom,” keonho muffled into the pillow. “an elite, specialised talent.”

his dad walked over, standing over the couch with his hands on his hips, looking down at his son before looking at you. “yn, thank you for bringing our disaster home. did you have to pay extra for the ambulance, or do they give you a frequent flyer discount at this point?”

“dad!” keonho whined, rolling over onto his back and pouting dramatically. “i’m a patient! i’m traumatised! i demand sympathy and sustenance!”

“you demand a lot of things for a boy who can’t even tie his own shoes right now,” his dad teased, laughing as he patted you on the shoulder. “go sit down, yn. you look beat. thank you for looking after him.”

you smiled, bowing slightly. “ah, it’s fine, mr. ahn. i was the one who brought the skateboard, so it’s kind of my fault anyway.”

“nonsense, he’s been tripping over his own feet since he was three,” his mom said gently, heading back to the kitchen. “i made dinner. yn, you’re staying, right? your mom already called and said she’s working late anyway.”

“yes, please. thank you,” you said, gratefully sinking into the armchair next to the couch.

when dinner was set on the table, the reality of keonho’s injury truly set in. he sat at the table, staring down at the bowl of rice and the various side dishes, then looked at his splinted pinkies, which prevented him from properly gripping his chopsticks without shooting sharp pains up his wrists.

he let out a heavy, pathetic sigh, looking over at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes. “yn…”

“do not look at me like that,” you said, already chewing on a piece of rolled omelette.

“i can’t use my hands…” he pouted, leaning his head close to your shoulder. “i’m gonna starve. i’m going to wither away right here in this dining room, and my ghost will haunt you and your really cool skateboard forever.”

“you’re so annoying,” you muttered, but you completely gave in, letting out a soft laugh as you picked up your spoon. you scooped up a perfect bite of rice, topped it with a piece of seasoned beef, and held it up to his mouth. “here. eat, you giant baby.”

keonho’s face lit up instantly. he leaned forward and took the bite, chewing happily with a triumphant expression that made his dad scoff from across the table.

“you’re spoiling him, yn,” his dad joked, shaking his head. “if you keep doing everything for him, he’s never going to learn how to survive.”

“she’s not spoiling me, dad, she loves me,” keonho mumbled around his food, his words careless and light, but they made your hand freeze for a split second before you quickly scooped up another bite to shove into his mouth to quiet him down.

“shut up and just chew, pretty boy,” you muttered, your ears burning hot.

across the table, his mom and dad exchanged a brief, knowing look, their lips curving into synchronised, secret smiles. they had watched the two of you grow up together, watched the way keonho’s eyes followed you around the room, and the way you always softened your tough exterior whenever he was around. they knew exactly what was going on, even if the two of you were still too stubborn to admit it.

after dinner, keonho’s parents suddenly announced they were heading out for a late-night walk and to run some errands down at the late-night mart.

“we might be a while,” his dad said, grabbing his jacket and giving keonho a heavy, highly suspicious wink that made keonho’s cheeks instantly turn a bright, embarrassed red. “take care of your hands, son. try not to break anything else while we’re gone. especially not yn’s patience.”

“dad, just leave!” keonho groaned, hiding his face in the collar of his hoodie.

his mom chuckled, gently pulling her husband out the front door. “we’ll be back in an hour or two. the snacks are in the pantry!”

as the front door clicked shut, leaving the house suddenly quiet, the atmosphere shifted instantly. the playful, loud family energy evaporated, leaving just the two of you sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the base of the couch.

the tv was playing in the background—you had flipped on an episode of haikyuu!!, the bright animation and squeaking sneakers providing a comfortable background noise.

you had a bag of potato chips sitting between your legs, carefully feeding keonho a chip every time he opened his mouth like a baby bird.

“you know,” you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the screen where hinata was pulling off a crazy spike after kageyama’s set. “today was a total disaster.”

“it wasn’t that bad,” keonho murmured. he shifted closer to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. without his usual dramatic whining, his voice was surprisingly low, thick with the quiet intimacy of the night. “i mean, yeah, my fingers hurt like hell… but i got to spend the whole day with you.”

“you spend every day with me,” you pointed out, though your heart was beginning to thump loudly against your ribs.

“it’s different,” he said. he turned his head to look at you, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering blue light of the television. “yn... when i was falling today, the only thing i was really thinking about wasn’t that the concrete was going to hurt. i was just worried that i was going to pull you down and hurt you, which i guess i ended up doing anyway. sorry.”

you stopped your hand halfway into the chip bag, your breath catching in your throat. “keonho…”

“and then when you laughed,” he continued, a soft, incredibly tender smile touching his lips, “i just thought... man, i am so completely in love with her. broken fingers and scraped knees and everything in between.”

the living room seemed to lose all its sound. the anime on the tv faded into a blur of colors. you stared at him, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he could hear it.

“are you... are you serious?” you whispered, your fingers trembling slightly against the plastic bag.

“i’m always serious about you, sweetheart,” he said softly, his usual playful demeanor completely gone, leaving only pure, unadulterated honesty. “i’ve liked you for so long. i like your stupid leather jackets, i like your loud music, and i like how you always take care of me even when i’m being an idiot—especially then. you don’t have to say anything back, i just... i really wanted you to know.”

you felt a tear prick the corner of your eye, a sudden rush of overwhelming warmth spilling through your chest. you dropped the bag of chips onto the floor, ignoring the way a few spilled out onto the rug.

“you’re such a dummy,” you choked out, a watery laugh escaping your lips as you reached up, carefully cupping his face with both of your hands, being mindful of his raised arms. “you think i’d stay in a boring hospital for hours for just anyone? you think i’d let anyone else call me sweetheart?”

keonho’s eyes widened, a sudden, brilliant spark of hope igniting in them. “yn…”

“i love you too, pretty boy,” you confessed, your voice steady and full of conviction. “i’ve loved you since you tried to protect me from a stray cat when we were seven and ended up getting scratched on the nose. you’re clumsy, you’re whiny, and you’re completely ridiculous, but you’re mine.”

keonho let out a breathless, joyful laugh, his entire face lighting up in a way that made him look absolutely beautiful. he leaned forward instinctively, his lips meeting yours in a sweet, clumsy, thoroughly perfect first kiss. it tasted like salt from the chips and the quiet warmth of the living room.

but because keonho was… keonho, as he tried to shift his weight closer to you, his rigid, splinted right pinky finger caught against the edge of the couch cushion.

“ow! ow, ow, ow!” he suddenly pulled back, hissing through his teeth and cradling his hand close to his chest, his face contorting into a pained grimace.

“oh my god—are you okay?!” you gasped, instantly panicking as you grabbed his wrists, trying to check the bandages. “did you bend it again? do we need to go back to the hospital?!”

you were practically vibrating with worry, your eyes wide as you checked the splint, only to hear a tiny, stifled sound come from his throat. you looked up. keonho was biting his lower lip, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief as a huge, teasing grin broke across his face.

“gotcha,” he giggled.

“you absolute jerk!” you yelled, your worry instantly evaporating into mock fury. you brought your hand down, hitting him firmly on the shoulder. “i thought you actually re-broke your hand! i was terrified, you asshole!”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” he laughed, winding his forearms around your waist—careful to keep his hands pointing outward—and pulling you tightly against his chest. “it just tickled a little, i swear! don’t be mad, sweetheart.”

“i hate you,” you mumbled, but you were already smiling, burying your face into the warmth of his neck.

“kiss me again to make it better?” he pleaded softly, his breath tickling your ear.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, rolling your eyes before leaning in to press your lips against his again. this time, it was slower, deeper, full of the quiet relief of finally knowing that you belonged to each other. his arms held you close, his stiff fingers resting safely against your back, completely out of harm’s way.

when you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless and grinning like fools.

you shifted around, pulling the heavy knitted throw blanket off the back of the couch and dragging it over both of you. keonho adjusted his position, lying back against the pillows and pulling you down with him, so your head was resting right against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

on the tv screen, the karasuno high school volleyball team was still shouting and celebrating a victory, the bright colors washing over the dark living room. you let your eyes flutter shut, the exhaustion of the chaotic day finally catching up to you, wrapped completely in keonho’s warmth.

“goodnight, pretty boy,” you whispered into his shirt.

“goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmured back, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

within minutes, the rhythmic sound of your synchronised breathing filled the space between the television dialogue, both of you fast asleep in a tangled, warm heap of bandages and soft blankets.

a long while later, the front door clicked open quietly. keonho’s parents stepped into the house, carrying a plastic bag from the convenience store. his mom walked into the living room first, stopping at the edge of the rug.

she looked at the two of you curled up together on the floor, your head on his chest, his splinted hands resting safely on top of the blanket, and a soft, incredibly fond smile spread across her face.

she walked over on her tiptoes, carefully pulling the edges of the blanket up to cover your shoulders completely, ensuring you both were warm against the late-night chill. she patted keonho’s leg gently, shook her head with a quiet chuckle, and turned off the tv before heading down the hall to bed, leaving the two of you snoring together in the quiet, peaceful dark.

© hyuneskkami ❦

[hyuneskkami]

❝ calling all yns ❞ ─── pt 2 ঌ @floatingin-yourdreams @coershyy @autumnbellflower @hiiiiiiiomomoko @camdenlou @cherryluvssss @fatalfairie @rie-diculous @ceuxnoirst @coconhovr @cvntycapricorn @futuristicxie @fayepz @cortismoon @ascxan @browniienextdoor @beljakovina @6rei-ji @woozarts @camdenlou @mirophobic @taelvvrzz @brazilianhere @prettym00nchild @matchawatchaz @katsukisser @delirioastral @missleebit @cortismysunshines

[lovhyeon]

˙⋆✮ so american! ANTHOLOGY

collection of my works written in the so american!AU

a highkey korean guy wanders into your parents' café, lost and in need of an American to show him around NYC. you had no clue it would turn into something worth turning everything you knew about idols & relationships upside down. — gorgeous graphic by my angel @thealuvsbangtanboys

★ MAIN STORYLINE ★

PART 1 — THREE MATCHAS... IT'S 9PM?

⸻You weren't expecting much when a tall, hoodie-clad stranger walked into your parents' café five minutes before closing. Just another New Yorker desperate for caffeine, right? Wrong. Seonghyeon is polite and effortlessly attractive and ordering five drinks at 9pm like a freaking psychopath.

His broken English is endearing. His dimples have you so down bad it's unholy. And when he actually shows up the next day—in Ralph Lauren and Prada sunglasses no less—you start to think maybe this random encounter isn't so random after all. Suddenly you're texting him, bantering about kidnapping safety, and holding tickets to some concert in Brooklyn you definitely weren't planning on attending.

What could possibly go wrong?

DRINK HERE

PART 2 — HI, THIS IS CORTIS.

⸻ He was in the group. Not a fan. Not a stage helper. He was it.

The same guy who stuttered over his English and not so smoothly got your number was now on stage under blinding lights, moving like he was born to be there. And suddenly, every casual conversation, every nervous laugh, every "hope to see u there lol" made sense in the worst possible way.

But then he texted. Then he showed up for boba. Then he let you drag him to a rooftop where the city lights blurred and his hands found your waist and nothing else mattered—not the fame, not the impossible timing, not the fact that you barely even knew him. Just the way he kissed you like you were the only real thing in this faux world.

Spoiler: you kissed him back.

DRINK HERE

PART 3 — WANT A COUPON OR A KISS?

⸻ Time moved different when you knew it was running out. Studio sessions felt shorter, conversations got heavier, and every casual touch started feeling like something you were supposed to remember. You had days with him—then hours, then minutes you weren't ready to let go of. Shopping for scarves turned into excuses to stay close, rooftop talks became confessions you both kept dancing around, and suddenly his last night in New York wasn't theoretical anymore.

You told yourself you'd be fine. That this was just a week, just some guy, just bad timing. But then the day came and you ended up rotting in bed in your duck pajamas missing the one person you told yourself not to miss.

Well, turns out moping works sometimes.

DRINK HERE

★ EST TO KST smau ★

⸻ a series of text threads and updates on how you and seonghyeon cope with your long distance... erm... whatevership... after you part

TYPE HERE

★ SPINOFFS ★

SANTA'S FAMILY GUY — 19.7k

⸻highkey korean guy you're lowkey in love with meets your family and surprise surprise... they fall in love with him too—or… where you jokingly invite seonghyeon over for Christmas and he happily books the flight.

GIFT HERE

SEVENTEEN CANDLES — 30.6K

⸻you've been dodging his calls for days, and seonghyeon is convinced he's done something wrong. what he doesn't know? you're currently on a flight to korea with a suitcase full of birthday surprises and a plan to show up at his door like you never left.

SURPRISE HERE

LITTLE THINGS — 8.2K

⸻what is the point of a boyfriend if you can't call him up whenever you can't sleep?

SURPRISE HERE

lovhyeon © 2026

[cosmiho]

STEADY HANDS ౨ৎ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒

SYNOPSIS : Martin has finally convinced you to let him teach you how to skateboard, but you're pretty sure the actual lesson is just an excuse for him to stay close holding you the entire time, not that you're complaining though.

WC : 2.6k

CONTAINS : reader can't skateboard, tiny mentions of injury, kissing, Martin is very touchy

PLAYLIST : Attention - Malcolm Todd; Don't let me down - The Beatles; Beaches - Beabadoobee; When it’s time - Green Day; Transform - Daniel Caesar, Charlotte Day Wilson; Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd

You don’t know how you let Martin talk you into this. Even thinking about it now, you’re fairly certain he used some form of mind control, or at the very least exploited every weakness you have when it came to him.

You’d both been sprawled across your bed, his head heavy and warm in your lap as your fingers stroked gently through his hair while some show played unwatched on your laptop.

Then he’d looked up at you with those ridiculous, impossibly soft puppy eyes he knew you couldn’t resist.

“Please let me teach you how to skateboard.” He said softly, your hands pausing briefly in his hair.

“Martin, we’ve been over this,” you sigh, shaking your head slightly.

"Have we?" He blinked innocently.

"Multiple times." You resumed your stroking, hoping the motion would lull him back into silence. “I’ve got no balance, I’d just fall over the entire time.”

“Baby, pleeeaaase.” He draws the words out, pushing himself to sit up straight as your hands fall uselessly to your lap. “I’ll be there the whole time to catch you, I promise.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You really did. It was the sensible option. The smart option. The option that would keep you safe from splatting onto the floor like a pancake.

But then his head tilted slightly, just enough to catch the light differently, and his hair was adorably mussed from where you'd been touching it, and his bottom lip pushed out in the smallest, most devastating pout you'd ever seen.

“Fine.” You’d sighed as he jumped up, throwing his arms in the air immediately to celebrate.

Now here you stand in this random skate park not too far from your house, about to face certain death while Martin stood in front of you giving you the most encouraging pep talk of the century.

“Sometimes you just have to accept the fall, babe, better to embrace it than get more hurt trying to avoid it.” He gestures casually like he was sharing profound wisdom, but you were absolutely going to avoid any possible chance of faceplanting the floor.

“I thought you said you’d catch me.” You cross your arms as you eye him up, watching the exact moment his brain catches up with his mouth, his eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before he recovers.

“Of course I will,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, avoiding eye contact. “Just saying in case.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed.

"I'll hold you the whole time if I have to!" He throws his hands up defensively, that lopsided grin sliding back into place.

And boy did he keep his promise.

You wobbled slightly as you stepped onto the board, a little fearful of it shooting out under you, and his arms were immediately out, his hands gripping your upper arms to allow you to find your balance.

"Tin, this doesn't feel safe." Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, eyes fixed on the board as it tilts with every micro-adjustment your shaking legs make.

"I'm here. You'll be fine." He says it with such casual confidence that you almost believe him. After what feels like an eternity, your body finally stops trembling and the board stills beneath you. When you look up, Martin's watching you with a small, proud smile that makes your stomach flip.

"I'm going to let you go now."

"Wha—"

His hands vanish from your arms. You lurch immediately, arms pinwheeling as you fight for balance until you finally find balance again, the boy in front of you just watches, grinning.

"Martin." Your voice could cut glass. "I'm going to kill you."

His smile only widens. "Sure, sure. Now it's time to move."

He steps forward, and suddenly his hands are on your waist, gently guiding you sideways. The board rolls beneath you, just inches, and you gasp, fingers digging into his forearms like they’re the only thing keeping you from certain death— which, to be fair, they are.

"Move?" you squeak, your voice pitching higher than normal. "Martin, I can barely stand still on this death trap, and you want me to move?"

His laugh is warm and infuriatingly charming, one that you’d appreciate more if you weren’t currently fighting for your life. "That's kind of the point of skateboarding, baby. Standing still is just... standing." His thumbs trace small, reassuring circles against your hips before he gives you an encouraging squeeze. "Just a tiny push. I've got you."

You take a shaky breath, looking down at your feet positioned awkwardly on the board, then back up at his patient, smiling face. Those damn eyes again.

"Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you forever."

“I wouldn’t mind that.” He gives you a charming smile, your eyes rolling in response before he starts spitting instructions at you. “First, bend your knees slightly, but not too much, just a little… Yeah, like that." His hands guide you into the correct position before squeezing your waist again. "Now when you push, keep your weight centered over the board. Don't lean back or forward."

You look down at your feet once more, then at the hard, unnerving concrete below. "What if I fall?"

"Then I catch you." His voice is sincere now, his eyes watching your face for any sign that you truly didn’t want to do this. "I promise. I'll be right here."

You hold his gaze for a long moment, searching for any hint of the usual mischief, any sign that he's about to pull the rug out from under you again. But all you find is warmth.

"Okay," you whisper, surprised to find you actually mean it.

His smile could literally outshine the sun, but you’re too focused on not dying to pay attention to that. "Okay. Now when you're ready, just a little push. Nothing fancy."

You grip his forearms tight enough to probably leave bruises and bend your knees the way he showed you. The board wobbles beneath you and your heart stutters, but Martin's hands steady you immediately.

"I'm here," he murmurs. "I've got you. Take your time."

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you push.

The board rolls forward, moving beneath your feet like it's supposed to, and for one glorious second you're doing it, you're actually skateboarding. Then your weight shifts wrong, your arms fly out, and you're tipping sideways with a yelp.

But Martin's there.

His arms lock around you, hauling you against his chest as your feet leave the board entirely. It clatters away across the concrete as you both stumble, his back foot sliding out from under him, and suddenly you're falling together—

You land in a heap on the ground, him somehow twisted beneath you, his hair a mess and a breathless laugh already escaping his lungs.

"See?" He grins up at you, utterly unbothered by the fact that you're both sprawled on scratchy skate park concrete. "Caught you."

"You're literally underneath me right now."

"Caught you with my body." He winks, and you hate how much you want to kiss him.

Instead you smack his chest, which only makes him laugh harder. "You're an idiot."

"Love you too." He reaches up, running his hand through his hair, and the motion is so achingly familiar that something in your chest goes soft and warm. "You did it, though. You moved."

"I moved for like one second before falling."

"That's more than you could do ten minutes ago." His hands find your waist again, thumbs tracing gentle patterns. "Progress is progress."

You want to argue, but you're suddenly very aware of the position you're in: sprawled across your boyfriend in the middle of a skate park, his body warm beneath yours, his hands resting comfortably on your hips like they belong there.

Which, you suppose, they do.

"Are you okay?" you ask quietly. "I landed on you pretty hard."

"I'm fantastic." His voice has gone softer too, his eyes roaming your face like he's memorising it. "Best fall I've ever taken."

"You're so cheesy."

"You love it."

You do. You really, really do.

"Can we try again?" The question surprises you both, you can see it in the way his eyebrows shoot up. "I think I can do better."

His grin returns, wider than before. "That's my girl."

He helps you up, retrieves the board, and positions you carefully back on it. This time when you push, you make it three feet before wobbling. The time after that, you actually remember to bend your knees and stay centered, and you roll nearly halfway across the flat section before losing your balance.

Martin catches you every single time, without fail.

By the time the sun starts sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you've lost count of how many times you've fallen. Your palms are scraped, your knees ache, and there's a bruise forming on your hip that you don't even remember getting.

You're also pretty sure you've never had this much fun in your entire life.

"Again," you say, already pushing yourself off Martin's chest before he's fully caught you from the last attempt.

He blinks, amused. "You're not tired?"

"Not at all." You hold out your hand expectantly. "Board."

He retrieves it with a grin that's been permanently fixed on his face for the past hour, placing it carefully in front of you. "You know, most people would've given up by now."

"Most people don't have a very cute personal catcher."

His cheeks go pink, visible even in the fading light. "Oh. I'm cute now?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." But he's already positioning you on the board, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. "Okay, this time try to keep your shoulders square with the board. You've been twisting slightly when you push off."

You nod, absorbing the instruction with extreme focus, then you push off.

The board rolls smoothly beneath you, you now growing familiar with its movements as you bend your knees, centre your weight, and make sure your shoulders are square just as he said.

Then you hit a tiny pebble.

The board stops dead but you don't.

You pitch forward with a yelp, fully prepared to taste concrete, but Martin's immediately there, as always, catching you around the waist and spinning you both in a clumsy circle that dissipates the momentum.

When you stop, you're pressed flush against him, both of you breathing hard, his face inches from yours.

"That was—" you start.

"Amazing," he finishes, and kisses you.

It's quick and slightly off-center because he's grinning too wide to make it work properly, but it sends warmth flooding through your chest anyway. He pulls back, beaming, then sets you on your feet and takes off running to grab the board again before you can even process what happened.

"You can’t just do that!" you call after him while still frozen in place.

He turns, walking back towards you with the board tucked under his arm and a cheeky grin on his face. "Yes I can!"

The next attempt ends with you both on the ground again after he catches you and overcorrects, sending you tumbling in a heap. He kisses your forehead apologetically before helping you up.

The attempt after that, you make it almost the entire length of the flat section before your foot slips. He catches you, dips you dramatically, and kisses the surprised laugh right out of your mouth.

By attempt number... honestly, you've lost count... you're both giggling more than actually skating, and his kisses have become less rewards and more punctuation marks between each fall.

"You're using this as an excuse to make out with me," you accuse, wobbling slightly as he sets you back on the board.

His eyes go wide with feigned innocence. "I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Okay, maybe." He leans in, stealing another quick kiss. "Is it working?"

You pretend to consider it. "Ask me again after I make it all the way across without falling."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Bet."

"I'm not—Martin, wait, that's not a challenge—"

But he's already stepping back, arms spread wide, giving you space. "Show me what you've got, baby. All the way across. I believe in you."

You stare at the stretch of concrete ahead. It looks much longer now than it did before. Longer and harder and would absolutely hurt if you went hurling onto it.

"Promise you'll catch me?"

"Promise."

You take a breath, bend your knees, square your shoulders, and push.

The board rolls and you're not thinking about anything. Not the ground. Not falling. Not Martin watching. Just realising you’re actually doing this stupid thing you never thought you could do.

Halfway. Your legs are screaming but you keep them bent.

Three-quarters. The end is right there. You can see where the smooth concrete ends.

And then you're rolling to a stop and you're across. You actually made it across.

You look up and Martin's already running at you full speed. You don't even have time to brace before he crashes into you, lifting you off the board and spinning you around. You're both laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

"I did it!" You gasp against his shoulder, the words muffled by his hoodie.

"You did it!" He sets you down just enough to kiss you properly: both feet on the ground, his hands cradling your face. His lips are warm and soft and this one lasts longer than all the others combined, like he's trying to pour every bit of pride and happiness he's feeling directly into you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both grinning like absolute idiots.

"Told you you could do it." His thumb traces over your cheekbone, his hair a total disaster from the wind and his hand endlessly brushing through it. He looks ridiculous. You love him so much it actually hurts.

"Okay," you admit, still catching your breath. "You were right."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Say that again?"

"No."

"Please?" He bats his eyelashes, that stupid puppy look making a comeback. "Just once more. For me."

You shove at his chest but you're smiling too hard for it to be convincing. "Don't push it."

He laughs and pulls you back in, tucking your head under his chin, and you let yourself sag against him, every muscle in your body aching.

"You know what this means right?" His voice rumbles against your ear.

"What?"

"We're gonna have to do this again. Can't let you lose your new skills."

You groan. Loudly. "I just did it once, that’s enough."

"Once is all it takes. You're hooked now. Skatepark every weekend. Maybe we'll get you your own board. Matching ones—"

"Martin."

"—with like, custom grip tape. What's your favourite colour? Wait, don't tell me, I should know this—"

"Martin."

He finally stops, looking down at you with that insufferable grin. "Yeah?"

"I'm not getting matching skateboards."

"Yet."

"Ever."

He kisses your forehead. "We'll see."

You should argue. You really should. But the sun's going down and you’re exhausted and he's warm and you just did something you genuinely didn't think you could do and maybe the idea of doing it again doesn't sound terrible.

"Fine," you mutter against his chest. "But I'm picking the grip tape."

His victory cheer echoes across the empty skatepark, bouncing off the ramps and bowls, and you're pretty sure every bird within a mile radius just took flight in alarm.

You're also pretty sure you wouldn't have it any other way.

[jjudawn]

ROCKSTAR’S MUSE

synopsis: you had initially thought martin edwards was your typical rockstar, collecting girls like they were trophies on a daily, but you soon realised how wrong you were.

word count: 4.3k

info+warnings: 90s!rockstar!martin x model!reader, typical rockstar behaviour, invasive press, flirting, skinship, kissing

To be a rockstar's girlfriend you needed to be many things: prepared for the intruding eyes of the public, ready for the endless girls throwing themselves at your boyfriend's feet, but most of all—if you wanted him completely obsessed—you needed to be cooler than him.

For a star like Martin Edwards, that was a tall order. Lead singer of his band, his face plastered across every magazine, his voice the anthem of a generation. He'd never publicly acknowledged a relationship, never shown interest in anyone. The endless fangirls bordering on stalkers made him paranoid—he'd rather be alone than risk letting a stranger in. He'd built his career on being untouchable, the kind of guy who left girls crying in their bedrooms, not the other way around.

Paris Fashion Week wasn't his scene at all. He'd almost skipped it, told his manager to shove the invitation somewhere unpleasant, but something pulled him there, a restless itch he couldn't explain, a feeling that he'd miss something important if he didn't go.

He came decked in black: scuffed combat boots, leather trousers that hugged his thighs, a faded CORTIS tour tee from two years ago. He looked bored, slouched in his front-row seat like he'd rather be anywhere else, fingers drumming against his knee as models glided by in designer gowns and sky-high heels. The music was too polished, the lights too bright, the whole affair too clean for his taste. He was about to get up and leave when you emerged.

You walked the runway like you owned it, wearing stunning floor-length gown in champagne silk that caught every light, a slit that went dangerously high, heels so sharp they could kill a man. You didn't smile, didn't wave, instead you moved like you were born for this, shoulders back, chin high, utterly untouchable.

His jaw went slack and his drumming fingers stilled. For the first time in years, Martin Edwards was speechless. His mind was hollow, entirely empty of any rational thought that would have been screaming at him to snap out of it before his reputation of being untouchable is completely destroyed. Instead there was one simple line repeating like a mantra.

He needed you. He needed you more than he'd ever needed anything.

You didn't look at him once. Your gaze swept over the front row like they were furniture, as though he was just another piece of decor, and that only made it worse.

At the end of the runway, you turned. For a split second, your eyes met his. You lifted one eyebrow by just a fraction—a flicker of curiosity, a silent question—before your expression smoothed back to perfect neutrality and you were gone, disappearing behind the velvet curtains.

He didn't even remember the rest of the show. He sat there like a statue, his mind replaying that single moment in an endless loop.

What he didn't know was that it had all been photographed. By morning, his slack-jawed, lovesick stare was splashed across every tabloid and newspaper in the country.

"ROCKSTAR RAVENOUS! Martin Edwards' Heart Snatched by Parisian Mystery Muse!" Screamed the front page of The Sun, complete with a grainy photo of his stunned face. "WHO IS THE SIREN IN HEELS?" Demanded the Daily Mail. Even the fashion magazines got in on it: Vogue ran a two-page spread speculating about the mysterious model who'd made the ‘Prince of Darkness’ lose his cool, complete with freeze-frames of that one eyebrow raise.

Martin sat in his hotel room the next evening staring at his own exposed face on every newsstand. The mask he'd worn for years—the untouchable, brooding rockstar—was gone. Everyone had seen him unravel in real time.

A slow grin spread across his face as he scanned the endless pages.

Good. Now you’d know exactly who was coming for you.

Two weeks later, you arrived back in New York following the event, doing everything in your power to try to forget the weird rockstar who stared at you like you'd personally ruined his life. You were in your penthouse apartment, a copy of Paper magazine with his lovesick face plastered across it on your marble coffee table. Your agent had been calling nonstop, thrilled about the publicity, already scheming about how to leverage it for your next campaign. 

Your phone suddenly began ringing and you almost ignored it entirely, tired of the constant need for people to speak to you, but something pushed you to pick up.

"Hello?"

A low voice, rough and amused, crackled through the receiver. "That was a hell of a walk. Almost made me forget my own name."

You instantly froze. You knew that voice—you’d heard it enough times on the radio, on MTV, blasting from cars in traffic. The voice of a generation, the voice of every teenage girl's bedroom wall.

"Martin Edwards," you said flatly, sinking onto your velvet chaise. "How the hell did you get my number?"

"You're a model," he replied, like that explainef everything. "I'm a rockstar. I have people."

"You have stalkers, you mean."

He laughed a genuine, surprised sound, not the polished chuckle he typically gives interviews. "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not a stalker, I'm just..." He paused and you bit your lip slightly, unsure on why the silence made you nervous. "Determined."

You should have hung up and slammed the phone down and called your doorman to make sure no one gets past the lobby. You knew exactly what this was: a rockstar with a new fixation, chasing the next shiny thing, bored of groupies and looking for a challenge.

"Listen, rockstar," you said, your voice dropping to something cold and sharp. "I don't do groupies, I don't do fans, and I definitely don't do men who think they can just call me up because they saw me on a runway."

Silence came from his end. Then, quietly: "I don't want a fan. I want you."

"You don't know me."

"Then let me."

You chewed your lip, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your apartment—the skyline glittered before you, the city that never sleeps hummed twenty floors below. You've dated musicians before and it's always a disaster: the cheating, the lies, the constant parade of women throwing themselves at them. Martin Edwards was the biggest of them all. A tabloid regular; a walking red flag in scuffed boots and leather.

Though there was a rawness in his voice that caught you off guard and made you pause.

"I'm busy," you answeref, though the slight smile you were attempting to suppress suggested differently.

"Friday. 8pm. I'll send a car."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say no."

You hung up before he could say anything else, but you made sure to write his number down on a scrap of paper incase he ever called again. Just in case.

Friday night arrived and you put on a silk black slip dress with barely there straps. The stretch of fabric falling just above your knee and you added strappy heels that made your legs look endless, folowed by a delicate necklace before you styled your hair loose and glossy.

You looked in the mirror and reminded yourself that you didn’t care what rockstar Martin Edwards thought of you, he was the same as every other male musician that latched onto women for a few weeks before getting bored.

You smoothed down the dress one last time, adjusting the thin straps on your shoulders before grabbing a small clutch, slipping your phone inside and taking a breath.

The town car waited outside your building, sleek and black, a driver holding the door open like this was completely normal. You slid into the leather backseat and watched the city blur past as he drove you downtown.

The jazz bar was hidden in the Village, tucked away behind an unmarked door you would have walked right past if the driver hadn't pointed it out. Inside, it was all exposed brick and dim amber light, a saxophone player in the corner crooning something slow and sad. The place was intimate, almost empty, a few couples scattered at tables alongside a bartender polishing glasses.

And there he was.

Martin Edwards sat in a corner booth, dressed down in a simple black sweater and dark jeans, his hair pushed back from his face. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in a restless rhythm, and when he saw you approach, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his drink.

"You came," he said, genuine surprise in his voice.

"You sent a car. It seemed rude to waste gas."

He grinned at your words. "I'll take it."

You slid into the booth across from him, crossing your legs, the slit of your dress falling open just slightly. 

"So," you said, leaning back. "What's your angle?"

"No angle."

"Bullshit."

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have an angle. I just saw you on that runway and couldn't stop thinking about you. That's it. That's the whole thing."

"You haven’t even asked for my name."

"I already know it's Y/N."

You tilted your head, studying him. He wasn't performing for you—not the way he performed on stage, not the way he performed in interviews. He was just here, nervous but trying.

"Okay," you said slowly. "One drink. If you bore me I'm gone."

"Deal."

You ended up staying until the bar closed. He didn't bore you. Instead he made you laugh whilst looking at you like you were the only person in the room, and when he walked you to your door at 3am, he didn't try to come in. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, memorising every detail of you with a slight smirk residing on his lips.

"Same time next week?" He asked, tilting his head just a fraction.

You should have said no and walked inside and forgotten this ever happened. Instead, you smiled. "Maybe."

Safe to say, Martin Edwards was a hard man to shake.

He had a way of appearing when you least expected him: a bouquet of peonies delivered to your apartment the morning after your first date, a handwritten note slipped under your door alongside it that revealed far more emotional depth than a rockstar of his realm should technically possess. He called you at odd hours from the road, his voice rough and tired, just to hear you say goodnight. He sent you playlists filled with unreleased songs he'd recorded himself that were burned onto discs, his voice cracking over stolen lyrics he'd rewritten just for you.

He was relentless, and worse, he was charming.

It started small with a dinner here and a walk there. He took you to dive bars and rooftop restaurants, to galleries and late-night diners. He never brought you to anything flashy, never paraded you around like a trophy. He kept you hidden, protected, his own private secret in a world that wanted to consume him.

You let him do it all because despite every instinct screaming at you to run, to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of dating a rockstar, Martin Edwards made it impossible to resist.

He remembered everything—your coffee order, your favourite movie, the way you liked your eggs in the morning. He learned the exact pressure of his hand on your lower back that made you shiver when he guided you through crowds. He learned the exact rhythm of your breathing when you fell asleep on his chest.

He was careful with you in a way you hadn't expected.

And slowly, without even realising it, you fell.

Within two months of knowing you Martin was already inviting you backstage to his shows, keeping you hidden and protected from the intruding crowd. It was at one of these shows when he had pulled you behind a pillar, the rest of the world becoming nonexistent as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you tightly against him, his forehead dropping to uour shoulder.

You hesitated for a moment before reaching your hand up and letting your fingers sift through his strands, the sigh of relief he let out showing you were doing the right thing. 

The two of you remained in that position much longer than what was considered normal, though neither of you cared, too swept up in the moment.

Eventually you heard him say something, his words muffled against your jacket.

“What?” You asked softly, a small smile resting on your lips. He lifted his head up, his hair standing up in multiple directions from all your ruffling, and he very much did not look like the hardcore rockstar many of his fans saw him to be.

"I said," he murmured, his voice rough, "I think I'm in trouble."

You raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"

"The kind where I can't stop thinking about you." He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as you felt your cheeks redden just slightly at the gesture. "The kind where I don't want to be on stage unless I know you're watching. The kind where I wake up and the first thing I do is reach for you, even when you're not there."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, your gaze softening at his words. "Martin—"

"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two months. I know you probably think I'm just some rockstar who gets bored easily and moves on to the next thing." He let out a breath, his forehead dropping back to your shoulder. "But you're not the next thing, you're the only thing for me."

You stood there, frozen, his body pressed against yours, his words echoing in your head. Two months was nothing, barely enough time to know someone properly and let alone fall for them.

But you already knew him. You knew the way he took his coffee, that he hummed when he was concentrating, even how his eyes lit up when he talked about a new song he was writing. You knew the shadows under his eyes when he hadn't slept, that his fingers tapped against every surface like he was always composing something. You knew he looked at you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were already in too deep.

"Martin," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back to his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Look at me."

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and he looked nervous. Martin Edwards, the man who commanded thousands of screaming fans night after night, looked nervous.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said quietly. "You're not going to lose me."

His breath caught. "You mean that?"

"I mean it."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something: doubt, hesitation, a lie; he found none.

He slowly moved forward and his lips brushed against yours so softly you could barely feel them, and you realised in that moment he was afraid you'd pull away.

You did nothing of the sort and instead leaned into him, your fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms tightened around your waist, and you felt the tension drain from his body as he melted into you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps whilst his eyes remained closed.

"Y/N," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

"I'm here," you said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your heart ache. It was raw and open and completely unguarded.

"I've never—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," you admitted. "But we can figure it out together."

He smiled then, his grin reaching his eyes and making him look younger and lighter than how he appeared on the many magazines you absolutely did not keep hidden in your bedside table. "Together?"

"Together."

He kissed you again, softer this time—if that were even possible, as though he was sealing a promise. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you felt like the only person in the world.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "I'm going to be so annoying now, you know that, right? The whole band is going to hate me. I'm not going to shut up about you."

You laughed, shoving his chest lightly. "You're already annoying."

"True." He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your hair. "But now I'm annoying and in love."

You could only smile against his shoulder at that, closing your eyes and letting the feel of him engulf your entire being.

From then on, Martin was yours and you were his, as hard as it was when you were constantly on opposite sides of the world. The distance was brutal: weeks apart, time zones that made calls nearly impossible, schedules that never seemed to align, but Martin made it work. He called you every night, no matter where he was or what time it was. He sent you handwritten letters filled with lyrics he'd scribbled in the margins of hotel notepads. He showed up at your apartment unannounced, exhausted and rumpled, just to hold you for a few hours before catching another flight.

You did the same for him. You flew across oceans to watch him perform, sitting in the shadows of the crowd, hidden beneath caps and sunglasses, just to see him do what he loved. You called him when you couldn't sleep, when the loneliness of your hotel room became too much and everything made you think of him.

It wasn't easy—there were nights you cried, overwhelmed by the distance, the secrecy, and the weight of loving someone the world wasn't supposed to know about, and there were nights Martin called you, his voice rough and raw, confessing how much he missed you followed by how much he hated being so far away.

But you always found your way back to each other, and every time you did, it was like no time had passed at all.

The public eventually found out, and it was entirely inevitable, to be completely honest. You'd been as careful as two people in the public eye could be, but you weren't as invisible or untouchable as you had thought. Eventually the paparazzi, relentless and all-seeing, caught a glimpse of what you'd been trying so hard to protect.

It started with a photo: the two of you in a hotel lobby in London, his hand intertwined with yours, your head tilted back in laughter as he whispered something in your ear. It was grainy, taken from too far away, but it was unmistakably the two of you.

The next morning, the image was everywhere.

"ROCKSTAR'S SECRET LOVE AFFAIR EXPOSED!" was printed on every newspaper in the country. Your face was plastered across every newsstand, every television screen, every gossip column. Your agent's phone rang off the hook for hours on end; stranngers on the street recognised you, whispering behind their hands, pointing and staring like you were a spectacle.

You'd known this day would come, you’d prepared for it, even braced yourself for it, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer weight of it: the invasion, the scrutiny, the sudden loss of privacy that came with being publicly linked to Martin Edwards.

You sat atop his bed in a London hotel room, the many magazines spread out in front of you as you sifted through one, your fingers tracing the grainy image of the two of you in the lobby. Your own face stared back at you, frozen in a moment of laughter, his hand wrapped around yours. It felt strange, seeing yourself reduced to a headline and a piece of gossip for strangers to consume without a care in the world about you as an actual person.

You heard the bathroom door creak open behind you, the air shifting as Martin emerged with his pyjamas sitting loose on his frame and his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He crossed the room in a few quiet steps, and before you could look up, his hands were on the magazine, gently pulling it from your grasp.

"Hey—" you started to protest, but he tossed it aside, not caring where it landed.

Then he climbed onto the bed, his weight settling over you as he lay on top of you, his body pressing yours into the mattress. He was warm and solid, still smelling like soap and steam, and you let out a breathless laugh as you tried to shove at his shoulders.

"Martin, you're too heavy," you complained, but you were giggling, your hands flattening against his chest. "Get off."

He didn't move. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "No," he murmured, the word muffled. "I'm staying here forever. This is my new home."

"Your new home is crushing me."

"Good, you're not going anywhere."

You laughed again, your fingers finding their way into his damp hair, threading through the damp strands. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm in love," he corrected, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his lips just grazing your chin. His eyes were soft and searching your own. "And I'm not letting a bunch of magazines ruin that."

Your smile faded slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. "Martin—"

"I know," he said quietly, cutting you off. "I know it's a lot. I know they're going to be everywhere now. I know they're going to try to tear us apart." He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I don't care about any of it, all I care about is you."

You stared at him, your heart swelling. "You really mean that?"

"I really mean it." He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I love you, Y/N, and I'm not going to let anyone take that away from us."

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, and he let out a soft sigh of relief against your skin. The magazines lay forgotten on the floor, their headlines screaming about secrets and scandals, but neither of you paid them any attention.

In that moment, there was only the two of you.

"You're still crushing me," you murmured after a moment, a smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, rolling off you just enough to pull you into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist. "Better?"

"Better."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the tension in his body slowly ease. 

Eventually, the fans and press got used to seeing the two of you together.

It took time: months of grainy photos and speculative articles, of whispers and pointed fingers and strangers dissecting your every move. But slowly, inevitably, the novelty began to fade. You weren't a mystery anymore, you were just Martin Edwards' girlfriend, and he was just your boyfriend, and the two of you were simply... together.

The tabloids still covered you, of course, they always would, but the tone shifted. The invasive headlines gave way to something almost affectionate. The speculation about breakups and cheating scandals was replaced by stories about your red carpet appearances, your joint holidays, the way Martin looked at you during interviews.

"CORTIS Frontman and Model Girlfriend: The Coolest Couple in Rock?" —NME

"Martin Edwards and Y/N Y/L/N: How They Became Music's Most Stylish Pair" —Vogue

"Rockstar Romance: Why Martin and Y/N Are Relationship Goals" —Rolling Stone

You'd laugh every time you saw a new headline, shoving the magazine in Martin's face. "Did you see this? We're 'relationship goals.'"

He'd grin, pulling you into his lap. "They're not wrong."

You'd roll your eyes, but you'd be smiling. "You have such a big ego."

"You love it."

And you did. You really did.

The fans embraced you too. At first, there had been the inevitable backlash: jealous comments, cruel speculation, girls who swore you weren't good enough for him. But you weathered it, never engaging, never stooping to their level. You showed up to shows, stood quietly by his side, and let your actions speak for themselves.

Slowly, the fans came around. They saw the way Martin looked at you like you'd hung the moon, and how you supported him by showing up even when you didn't have to. They saw the small moments: him holding your hand backstage, you fixing his collar before he went on stage, the private smiles you exchanged across crowded rooms.

Soon, you weren't just Martin Edwards' girlfriend. You were the girl who'd tamed the rockstar. The one who could walk a runway in couture and still stand in the pit at one of his shows despite the rowdy crowd. The one who never looked fazed, never seemed rattled, never let the cameras get to her.

You'd become a style icon in your own right, your red carpet looks dissected and praised. You'd become a fixture at award shows, a staple of magazine covers, a name that stood on its own. And through it all, Martin was right beside you, his hand always finding yours, his eyes always seeking you out in a crowd.

The press called you the coolest couple, the most stylish pair, the relationship goals of a generation, but to you, it was simpler than that. You were just two people who'd found each other in the chaos, and had held on dearly when everything tried to pull you apart.

You had each other and that was enough.

[cosmiho]

EARTH ANGEL ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.

W.C : 5.0k

CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff

PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;

"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"

"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.

"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”

Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."

”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.

Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.

“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.

"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.

"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.

He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"

You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.

"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."

His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."

He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.

"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.

You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."

Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.

"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."

You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.

He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.

He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.

"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.

"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"

"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

"What?" you say.

"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."

"You're always looking."

"Hard not to."

You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.

The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.

He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows. 

Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.

"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.

"I'm looking out the window."

"My face is not a window."

You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.

The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.

Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.

The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.

He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.

You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.

"What?" you ask.

He turns to look at you. "Nothing."

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."

He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.

"That's so corny."

"You love it."

Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.

Back to the Future.

You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.

Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.

"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.

"Mm."

"You're not watching."

"I'm watching you watch it."

You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.

"You're so weird," you say.

"You're just noticing?"

You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.

He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.

"Good?" you ask.

He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."

You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.

"You're staring," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.

"So?" he says.

You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

"Seonghyeon—"

He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.

You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.

His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.

He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi."

He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"

You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."

"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."

You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light. 

You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you came."

You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.

The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.

‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’

You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.

You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.

"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.

"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."

You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."

‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’

You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.

Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.

"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.

You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.

"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.

"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."

You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.

“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.

“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.

His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”

“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”

He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on. 

Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.

“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."

You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."

"I know."

"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."

"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You were so confident," you say.

He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."

The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.

You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.

His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.

"Mm?”

"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."

"I'm not feeling bad."

"You're pouting again."

You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."

"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."

You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.

"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.

"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."

The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.

"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.

You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

"Yeah?" you ask.

"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."

You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.

The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.

‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’

"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.

"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.

"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."

On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.

‘My darling dear, love you all the time’

You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.

"What?" you whisper.

He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.

“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”

Your heart stutters. 

On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.

It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.

His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.

‘I'm just a fool,’

The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.

His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.

When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.

‘A fool in love with you’

"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."

You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.

You lean in and kiss him again.

This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.

The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.

On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.

Neither of you notice.

His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.

"Seonghyeon," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"

"The movie's over."

He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"

"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"

He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.

"No," he says finally.

You blink. "No?"

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."

"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."

"I know."

"My dad will kill you."

"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.

But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.

"Five more minutes," you say.

His smile widens. "Ten."

"Seven."

"Deal."

He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"Baby," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You’re my density."

You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.

"And you’re mine," you say.

And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.

Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.

Some things are worth being late for.

[meluneira]

[cranialberry]

i want you, butterfly, i want you, sailor

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ sweet creature, when i run out of road, you bring me home

(SYN) — ᨳଓ. "Music feeds the soul, dude. Y'know what old Willie said about it? If music be the food of life, play on." Besides what little Shakespeare you had scrounged up from CliffsNotes.com over the years, you at least knew this much: you were going to die young. And if Kim Juhoon looked that charming in a black suit, you hoped he'd wear it to your funeral service too. Yeah, that specific image of him was the most comforting thought you managed to wring out of the week.

🍊 —— OR IN WHICH: in sickness and in health, and as all things go the way of all things, Juhoon’s always been convinced that you were the right person for him. So stay a little longer, okay? (w.c. 20k)

(TAGS) — ᨳଓ. situationship! juhoon x reader | childhood friends to lovers (??) | coming of age | time skips | ft. rock band cortis | dreamy drummer guy juhoon | reader has an MDD | teenage love | tension | so much yearning + mutual pining | pillow fights | juhoon’s a flirt | juhoon wants to take care of you | forced proximity at a party ( the 7 minutes in heaven trope but STRICTLY an sfw take) | reader has a boy toy @ the beginning (??) | kissing | skinship | grief/mourning | hurt/comfort/no comfort | angst | (heavier warnings) mentions of mental disorders | references to a chemical imbalance + panic attacks | implication of harm | heavy subjects (read at your own risk) | read alt text

Kim Juhoon was six years old when he experienced his first betrayal.

A dramatic statement, perhaps, and I wish I could tell you something you’d want to hear, but children, man.

His parents had promised him ice cream that day, and ice cream was the sole reason he even agreed to leave the house with them in the first place. This would explain how ever since the Kim family acquired an additional member, dentist appointments had become a recurring feature of life. As said, children, man. So when they parked in front of an unfamiliar lot and informed him they were actually there to meet the new neighbors, he felt the full weight of deception settle on his tiny pale shoulders. It really would be your own parents.

The betrayal occupied most of his attention at first. He made the walk to the front door in a kind of sulky procession, nursing his disappointment and contemplating, in exquisite detail, a future in which no adult ever earned his trust again. Juhoon considered them peculiar, forever insisting their children to be honest while reserving for themselves a more inventive relationship with the truth. But the neighbors opened the door, and unfortunately for his argument, they were lovely. 

Juhoon doesn’t remember exactly what he thought when he first saw you. He was only six, after all. Whatever revelation struck him was probably less conceivable than history would like to suggest. Still, memories can be very selective. 

Looking back, he still remembers that little girl standing in the doorway hiding behind her parents’ legs with dirt on her shoes. You looked both curious and prepared to run away. He remembers staring, too. Cute, he thought. Pretty, maybe. Whatever word a toddler would have used for something like that.

“What’s your name?” Juhoon asks you first, surprisingly. He’s known for not talking at all. . 

All you did was disappear back into the house, and Juhoon felt bewildered at first. Until now, every significant development in his life worked on this simple principle: You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, or whatever that book said. Apparently, Juhoon was now discovering a more humiliating variation of the rule, which was that you could also miss the ones you did take. 

He and his parents were ushered inside. Tea appeared somewhere in the conversation, as tea always seemed to when the grown ups gathered in one place for long enough. Juhoon took his place beside his mother on the couch, but his attention kept slipping loose and wandering through the house in search of you. 

His ears perk at the one mention, ‘our daughter’, he was sure you were what they were referring to. And one particular phrase was caught in the inside of his ear. Our daughter’s been having seizures lately.

Juhoon knew what a seizure was. A bit vaguely, but he did. His parents were physicians after all, so in their house, illness was never a mystery for long. His mother fixed children. His father fixed brains. At six years old, this was more or less how he understood medicine. The result was that he knew very little, but what he knew, he knew absolutely. 

Seizures were very bad. 

The realization made him twist uncomfortably in his seat until it sorted itself out, though not as heavily. A seed weighs almost nothing. 

So the first thing he learned about you was that something inside you occasionally misfired. The second would take much longer. Juhoon finds you later after he goes to the bathroom. You’re peeking out of a door and looking at him intently as if you’ve never seen another kid before. 

“I’m Juhoon.” He offered his hand. You looked at it for a moment, then stepped out and took it. 

“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

You let go and looked down. “I’m Y/n.” 

“I heard you’re sick.”

Your little shoulders lifted a bit. “The scary man calls it a… mech–... mechanical imbalance.”

“Chemical imbalance.” Juhoon corrected. 

“Yes. That’s right.” 

He considered this for a few seconds, then said, very seriously, 

“You look pretty balanced to me.”

You smiled, small and surprised. “Thanks.”

It was, in hindsight, an unremarkable beginning. But in the moment, it felt like the first loose thread of something he wouldn’t learn how to stop holding onto. That was the day Kim Juhoon met you. Maybe years later, when memory had sanded the edges off entire seasons of his life, he would have become several different men in turn. Still, he’ll remember this part and live long enough to tell the rest. 

──────── .✦

At nine, you were still the sort of child who could be persuaded by an idea. 

Juhoon had learned this about you early: if someone said let’s make something, you were likely to stay. If someone said draw this, fold that, stack these higher, and with just a few strings, a pencil, and paper, you would lean in with serious concentration as though you were the tiniest engineer to exist. 

That afternoon, the playground had turned into a temporary workshop. School had ended, but not so much the day. The in-between hours belonged to the children and their improvised industries. Pale blue sheets of paper lay everywhere, wrinkled by eager fingers, while the two of you and a few others tried to convert them into boats, or hats, or something that could float. 

You had been humming to yourself, and Juhoon watched your hands, which were always moving faster than everyone else’s. You taught a girl to flatten a crease with her thumb and announced, very confidently, that hers was wrong. 

Juhoon folded his paper back the way you had shown him and held it out for inspection. 

“Like this?” he asked.

You nodded and reached for the edge, your fingers nudging his dusted with pencil lead and the dry ghost-smell of grainy paper. “Now fold it here.”

Juhoon tried and tried, but the paper kept turning into the wrong shape in his hands. He made several attempts. Each one took him farther from whatever it was supposed to become at that point. Eventually, there was nothing left of his little stack of paper. 

He patted your shoulder, quick and careful. “I’m gonna get some more paper.” Then went off toward the nearest classroom to ask for the ones that had color in them. 

When he pattered his way back, he heard a loud laugh floating across the playground from the direction he had just left. 

“Haha! She’s moving like a fish!” 

A fish? That sounded interesting. Juhoon followed the sound of laughter toward its source, weaving through the little crowd as the circle kept growing. When he reached the front, he went very still.

A fish, they said. 

Juhoon imagined flapping arms. somebody making faces, maybe a new game. A few minutes ago, they had all been sitting about on the sand. Children had spent the better part of an hour arguing over their toys and whether a boat could still be called a boat if it sank immediately. 

“When is she gonna stop?” He hears someone ask from the crowd.

I don’t know.

The paper boats are everywhere now, strewn in every direction, some flattened and some untouched. You are on the ground in their midst, shaking violently. Those bright blue bits, the laughter he thought sounded fine just moments ago, they’d gone all wrong in his ears. It was a sour and awful tingling, and Juhoon wanted to throw up when he noticed your eyes were rolled back into your skull, and there’s–

“Spit!” Someone says, cheerfully. 

Yes, spit. You were salivating beyond control, and Juhoon calls your name because names are handles, aren’t they? He didn’t know what to do with his hands either, only that they had begun to tremble with an ugly little life of their own. 

Your hand claws at your chest just below the collarbone, gripping fabric, searching, pressing inward like something inside is trying to escape. Juhoon thinks, your heart has become a frightened animal, and it is trying to leave you.

He thinks a little more; stay with me. Hold it in, hold it in, hold it in. 

A boy steps forward, laughing under his breath as he prods at your shoulder, and Juhoon’s eyes flick over the others, only to confirm what he already feared. 

The papers fall from Juhoon’s arms as he pushes the boy out of the way in a burst of anger. He hears the scream of pain after, though it does nothing to pull him back from the rush in his head. 

“Y/n?” He crouched beside you and took hold of your shaking shoulders. Your eyes lifted to his face and caught there for one brief moment before they slid away again. Still, he could tell you were not entirely elsewhere. In the middle of all that he could not yet understand, he could only think of miracles. 

Eventually, the teacher came and took you away. But first she had to wrestle Juhoon loose from you one finger at a time, a task akin to separating two pages that’d gotten wet and dried together. The fibers protested, and so did he. When she succeeded, though, the world had never felt colder to him than it was. 

He could say he was but a child. At least that was the excuse available to him. Children are allowed impossible convictions. That the moon followed them home, or that they had the power to make it happen. But it wouldn’t make sense either to question the mass of this far-fetched thing, bright as a pin and stubborn as a weed splitting rock. It grew despite fear, and people might call it hope. Hope, but at just nine years old Juhoon knew that wouldn’t save anyone.

Later that week, Juhoon would find himself in the principal’s office for the very first time. His parents sat behind him on one side of the room. Across from them posed the boy he had shoved, a fresh white bandage wrapped around his forehead, and his parents stationed firmly at his side. He’d receive the sermon of his lifetime the second they went home, and knows it would be every bit as lengthy as promised. But there, trapped in that painful wooden chair, he would just have to take the blame. He wasn’t sorry, but he figured his sentiments, like all valuable things, would obviously have to cost something. 

That day marked the first time Juhoon witnessed it with his own eyes: the terrible fact that your body was capable of occasionally betraying you. So it was true. Hope served no use to him, at least not more than the stubbornness of his belief that your body belonged to you first. And for as long as Juhoon took his breaths, he would refuse to accept anything else. 

──────── .✦

“So like, just for the summer right?” 

You and Juhoon had taken the long way home, the road sunlit and mellow beneath the heat of early afternoon. Class had ended ahead of schedule because of some faculty meeting, and at first it had seemed like the sort of lucky interruption one ought to appreciate. With time, it was just one more small detour to the day. 

Juhoon walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, his uniform sleeves rolled up just enough you could see the tan line he’d been developing from all the hours of basketball practice under the sun. 

“For sure,” he said. “My dad said it’s for his start-up, so I guess we’ll be back right before school starts. 

You made a face at that. “Well, you better. Next school year is a fuck-up, I heard.”

Juhoon turned his head toward you. “Don’t curse like that.”

“We’re already twelve.” You pointed your finger at him then back at you. “And no one’s around. We’ll be fine.”

“The point is we still got time. Imagine being a senior.”

You made a thoughtful noise, squinting up at the sky and then hissing. “Feels surreal to think about. Hell, you think I’ll still be alive by then?” You shot off a little laugh and shook your head. 

“Hey.”

You looked at him innocently. “What?”

His pace slowed just a little, and so did yours, the two of you nearly stopping in the middle of the sidewalk as the wind brushed hot and lazy through the roadside trees.

“You good?” he had asked then.

You clicked your tongue and looked away. “Here we go again.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said a little too quickly and then softened with a shrug. “I’m fine Juhoon. Seriously. Take a joke.”

He huffed out a laugh despite his willingness to prod a little further, and more so to the way he wasn’t entirely convinced of that. 

“When did you get so sassy?”

“You never noticed?” You shot back, grinning now, the sound of it sending weightlessness to his chest enough to chase away the density that’d been growing on it. 

You both leaned a little closer to each other as you walked, the promise of a popsicle and a piggyback ride if your legs got tired still waiting somewhere ahead. And for the rest of that walk, it was easy to believe this was the summer that would never end for them. 

Before long, Juhoon swung open the little fence at the front of your house and held it aside for you. You both climbed the porch steps side by side, the wood creaking softly under your shoes, and by the time you reached the door, the smell of food had already found its way out of the kitchen and into the hall.

Inside, your mother looked from where she stood near the stove as you bent down to tug off your shoes while Juhoon did the same a step behind you. 

“Smells good over there, Auntie.” Juhoon peeked toward the kitchen with that careful sweetness everyone liked to eat up. 

Your mother smiled, though not fully turning away from her cooking. “You’re sweet Juhoon. Come eat, both of you.”

“Maybe a little later ma. I gotta make Ju help me with homework before he tries to escape.”

“You know I never do that.”

Your mother waved a hand from the kitchen as if to send you both on your way. “You kids go ahead, but come down when you’re hungry, yeah?”

“Okay mom!” You called back, and you sounded so okay that Juhoon let himself believe you were. 

Juhoon ended up doing your homework while you sat cross-legged beside him on the bed, busy with a pile of rubber bands and one of those little plastic looms that’d become the latest obsession at school. He wrote carefully, and when he concentrated a little more than usual, you’d notice how his brow furrowed too much and scrunch it back into place with your thumb.

Every few minutes, Juhoon would glance over and see another bright bracelet taking shape between your fingers in strange colors and neat loops. Good with your hands as always, he thought. In just a week after you started, you had made so many bracelets that Juhoon’s wrists were practically becoming a gallery for them. 

“Ju.”

“Yeah?” he answered, head bent over the worksheet in front of him.

“Made you something.”

Juhoon lifted his head, and there you were holding one of those little looms out toward him. This one was blue and orange. He noticed you always made him different ones. They’d never be the same colors twice, nor the same pattern. And when he asked why, you told him it was because no two things about Juhoon should ever be exactly the same, and you liked that about him. 

Before he could take it from you, you caught his arm on instinct and slid the bracelet over his hand yourself. The elastic tugged lightly against his skin before settling into place, and you held his hand up to inspect your work. You looked at the bracelet, then at Juhoon, only to find him already looking back. 

Juhoon blinked. “What?”

“Look at the bracelet, dumbass.”

So he does. He lowers his gaze, obedient more than anything. Looks at the bracelet, then back at you. “Looks pretty.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, and you gave him a sing-song ‘thank you’; then you let go of his arm and looked away. 

Juhoon let out the quietest and shakiest breath, and when you looked at him you saw that he had turned his face away too. The faint pressure of your fingers where you had held him hung around for just as long as the bracelet on his wrist did. So with a little more effort, he bent back over your homework and kept writing. 

You were almost asleep when you heard Juhoon call your name from behind you. You rolled over on the bed and found him sitting there with an orange in his hands, peeling it carefully over a scrap of tissue so the juice wouldn’t drip. 

“Want one?” he asked. 

Your eyes narrowed a little. “You got another?”

He lifted the fruit slightly, still working at the skin. “You can have this one. It’s almost unpeeled.”

You snorted and propped yourself up on one elbow. “I can peel my own oranges, y’know.”

“I know that.” He glanced up at you for a second, then back down at the orange. “Just let me peel it for you.”

“You’re always doing things for me, Ju.”

“I bet you like that, huh?” 

You don’t remember the first time you began to need Juhoon. He was so perfect to you. So steady and kind, that being cared for by him felt a little like making a wish at a shrine. So did you like it? Somewhat. But somewhere closer to the surface, in a place far less noble than the root, you wished he would stop. It was humiliating. 

Whether his concern came from pity or something else, you could never separate it from the shame that bloomed every time he was there to witness you as a flaw of nature. 

You wanted him close. You wanted him gone. Tragic that both of those wishes always came from the same place. 

“Not really.” It was a lie in the open.

“Ah.” Even then, Juhoon finished peeling the orange and held it out to you in neat little segments, and you took them. 

“Sorry,” he said next. Still, he fed you fruit. He’d tuck a slice between your lips and wipe the juice from the corners of your mouth. You didn’t answer, even after you both had gone downstairs to eat. There was nothing to be sorry for.

You’ll never know why you’re like this, and you would have preferred a better explanation. If there was anything else to blame besides the clinical little claim that it was simply in your brain chemistry, you would’ve taken it. But there isn’t. So you were left with the bitter knowledge that you were simply built to buckle under the pressure of being alive. 

The strangest part is that you’re aware of it all. The numbness is there. Your emotions have never been particularly obedient things. Your mind could spend days trapped inside a single unpleasant thought before losing the ability to focus on anything at all. 

Sleep doesn’t help either. People speak about it as though it were a repair mechanism, and eight hours of unconsciousness ought to return you to your factory settings. But it doesn’t. And food is either too much or not enough. There are sudden headaches, nausea, and an appetite that shifts with the tides of your mood. Sometimes you think your body and brain are conducting separate experiments on you. 

And a lot of the time, you’ll think of doing very bad things. Things you believe won’t leave you regretful. You don’t want them, and you don’t agree with them. You know better. There really was no villain to point at other than yourself.

Worst of all, you’d get these manic attacks. Those really ticked you. 

You try to find a pattern in them. A reason or a warning sign, some rule you can learn and obey to keep them away. But when they come, there is nothing to be done except wait. You really can’t explain how they feel. You’re twelve, for Christ’s sake. You’re not supposed to. 

But things can be normal, and you hold onto them for as long as they last. Like now, with nearly seven in the evening slipping by and Juhoon still not at his house. The television buzzes softly in the living room, the new Batman movie still playing to no one in particular while the two of you have long since sunk into the couch and dozed off. 

Your eyes are closed when Juhoon’s parents come by later to pick him up. You don’t open them then either, only feel the hush of movement near you, the brush of breath against your eyelids, and then the brief touch of a kiss pressed to your hair.

“See you in a month,” comes his voice. You hadn’t answered back then and pretended to be asleep still, because he’ll be back anyway. You were as certain as tomorrow. 

But you never really did see him after a month. Not in two months, or three. By the time the school year had begun to turn over into its second half, Juhoon still didn’t come back. 

You asked about him only after a good while of pretending not to care, and your parents told you his family’s stay had been extended. Something about his father’s startup doing better than expected. Later, you learned he’d been sent up north to some polished boarding school. You thought to yourself jokingly that perhaps he need not come back at all. Boarding school boys, after all, were a plague. 

Growing up without Juhoon for the first year and a half of it felt like trying to get around with a missing limb. He had filled so many roles in your life, as young as you both were. Something like a parent, something like a best friend, and something like an embarrassing little crush. 

Now it would be your girl friends sitting cross-legged across your bed painting each other’s nails in colors too bright, instead of Juhoon hunched there tuning his guitar like he had all the time in the world. It would be your parents, not him, who would talk you out of pursuing all those complicated thoughts. And later on, it would be some boy named Nicholas on your phone, someone not especially remarkable, just available, and you would call that enough for a while. You knew he was neither kind nor good. But you were young, and people like you are so often willing to stitch romance out of whatever flimsy scraps are nearest to hands. It made your life feel, for a little while, a little less bland.

You liked to think you were doing well for yourself. Whether that was true depended on the day. But you were still here, and at that age it felt like a miracle. You went to school. You remembered birthdays. You made plans for next week. From a distance, you looked pretty normal. The doctors seemed to think so, anyway. 

4 years have passed since then.

“So you just don’t care? At all?”

Hyein’s voice crackles faintly through the phone in disbelief, and you let your head sink back against the mattress, equally in disbelief at the little fan doing its useless work overhead. The room is so warm you’ve been nudging at your neckline for some relief. 

“He’s done me dirty more times than I can count, Hyein. I genuinely can’t bring myself to give a fuck anymore.”

Truthfully, you wished you had more backbone in this situation. But whether Nicholas was in fact flirting with some other girl behind your back, and this wouldn’t even be the first time, you couldn’t seem to coax yourself into feeling much of anything at all. He wasn’t your boyfriend anyway. Something adjacent to that maybe, but not that. 

“Why do you always take him back though?”

You let out a laugh with no joy in it. “It’s so boring out here, can’t you see? There is nothing to live for.”

“Jesus–okay, whatever. None of my business anyway. I’m just telling you.” You hear her sigh hard and run a hand through her hair. “And she saw them all touchy when you left too.”

You turn your face a little into the pillow, as if that might help you heart this any less clearly. “Thought you said it was none of your business.”

“Shit, sorry.”

Your mother appears in the doorway of your room and carefully peeps in. 

“Y/n dear, it’s time to come down. People are starting to come in.”

You’re still half-sprawled on your bed, phone in hand, one leg handing off the side, when you nod and wave her off. 

“Got it ma.”

When she leaves, you place your phone even closer to your ear. “Hey, I gotta go. The neighbors are coming in.”

“Got any cute ones? Phone then my way.”

You snort, pulling a face even though she couldn’t see it. “Absolutely none. Bye, I’ll talk to you later.”

You head downstairs and are met by faces you knew well enough to wave at. Midyear gatherings like this are customary in this neighborhood, the dinner of the year where everyone suddenly discovers they have time to spare and opinions to share. That used to be your cue to disappear upstairs while the adults settled into their long and complicated plans. But you’re old enough now to sit through it. Socialize, your mother told you. You try, really. It’s only that no one in the room feels quite close enough to your age to make the effort feel less like wandering. 

The last of the plates have just been set on the long table when you hear a loud knock on the door, accompanied by your mother’s call. 

“Y/n could you bring them in?”

You quickly wipe your hands and fix your top. “Alright.”

Scurrying through the hallway, you weave around children playing tag between grown-up legs, smile politely at the neighbors who stop you to ask how school has been, and answer each question with the same well-practiced kindness. Good. Busy. It’s been fine. By the time you reach the entrance, your expression’s set as you expect another familiar face. And when you open the door, you get one. Kind of. 

Kim Juhoon stands on the porch. The bastard actually came back. 

For a long moment, you can only stare. At him, most certainly. The little boy you knew had been stretched into someone much taller, broader, angular. His eyes are the same, but everything else isn’t. 

He smiles first, small and tentative. 

“Hey there.”

You don’t really speak for a while so Juhoon takes it to mean you probably don’t recognize him.

“Uhm, see I don’t know if you remember me but I was—“

“No—I remember you, yeah.” You shake your head and try to catch yourself. “Juhoon, right?”

Something in his face loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He blinks once, and if he was smiling now, this time he’s showing teeth. 

“That’s me.”

All the years that’ve gone by stand awkwardly between you, hands in their pockets pretending not to exist. Before either of you can think of what comes next though, another pair of footsteps climb onto the porch. 

“There you are!” 

His parents appear beside him a moment later, just as bright as you remember them. Before you can even think to say hello, his mother has already crossed the distance, wrapping you in a hug so immediate your body freezes from the contact. You return it on instinct, stiff for a second before your shoulders start to soften. When she finally lets go, both hands stay on your arms. 

“My goodness.” She breathes out as eyes you all over. “Look at you. You’ve grown so much, my love!”

Beside her, Juhoon rubs a hand down his face.

“Ma,” he says, reaching over to gently steer back by the shoulder. “You’re getting a little too close.”

“What?” She protests, swatting his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Then she looks between the two of you. “What’s with those faces? You two used to live in each other’s rooms. Now you’re standing here acting like strangers.” 

Well that certainly made things more awkward. Juhoon turns away and squeezes his eyes shut as the color climbs up the back of his neck in slow, undeniable surrender. You can’t help the small laugh that slips out of you. Not at him, but for him. From the corner of his eye, you catch him noticing. His shoulders loosen, if only a little. 

Your mother calls from somewhere deeper inside the house. “Y/n? Are they there?”

You answer with a quick “Yeah” and hope it travels farther than your embarrassment. At last, whatever strange little performance had taken over the doorway dissolves. You usher them inside one by one, taking coats as they’re shrugged off and hanging them on the coat rack. It gives your fingers something to do besides fidget.

You avoid looking at Juhoon. Or rather, you at least try. Your gaze would stop just short of him, catching instead on the line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt, his hands busy undoing the buttons of his coat. Every time your eyes threaten to climb higher they think better of themselves. 

At the table, the two of you end up across from one another by some small and evil conspiracy. You keep your hands busy though. Your fork, your napkin, the little glass of water sweating in your palm. It gives you something to do with the terrible electricity in your chest. Anything to keep from looking up too often. 

Meanwhile, Juhoon doesn’t even seem like he’s trying. He has at least enough shame to look away every once a while, but in the end his eyes return to you with the stubborn rhythm of a tide. He catches your mouth when you answer a question, takes note of what you said, notices when your hand reaches for your glass, or the small shifts of your expression whenever someone says anything funny. 

You’ve changed. Of course you have. Juhoon reads them in pieces whenever he looks at you. Your hair’s different. Your shoulders too. Then it’s the way you sit, the way you lift food to your mouth, the way your throat moves when you turn your head to listen. It’s the little things that add up. And the near-smiles. They come and go, but Juhoon takes note of the way they look. Nothing about you has become any less you, yet every glance he’s stolen so far has left him a little less rational than before. 

It’s not long before you finally look up to see him staring right back at you. He turns away immediately, but not before the smallest betraying color climbs his neck. He clears his throat and stabs at his food with unnecessary concentration, and you have to look down fast. Because if you keep looking any longer you’ll start to grin, and that would be a disaster of its own, wouldn’t it?

“Could somebody please get the dog to stop making that sound?” Your mother exclaims in the middle of dinner. You stood up at once, glad for the excuse to leave the table. Your family dog had been whining by the front yard for the better part of thirty minutes already, pacing in little frustrated circles and throwing itself against the fence. You slipped outside with a muttered promise to your mother that you’d handle it. 

“You’re so dramatic.” You told her in a whisper as you rubbed her ears to make her calm down. Behind you, the screen door opened with a quiet scrape.

“She wasn’t always this loud.”

You turn your head around, and just as you feared, Juhoon stands by the front door with his hands in his pockets, looking somehow both the same and not at all. Four years could do that. You glance back at the dog. 

“She’s grown now. Couldn’t obey if you told her anything.” 

His mouth twitched. “Sounds about right.” 

You climb onto the porch and settle on the top step where the dog can still keep you in sight. That is apparently all she wanted before folding onto the grass with a long, satisfied sigh, lowering her head between her paws, content that you hadn’t disappeared yet. Behind you, footsteps. Juhoon comes to stand beside the railing until he’s only an arm’s length away now. Between what space was left hung the accumulated ghosts of years worth of memories. From six, ten, and the exact age you’d both been when he left. 

He leaned one shoulder against the porch railing and looked out at the yard, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand beside you again.

“It’s been a minute,” he said. 

“A minute? Try four years.”

He winced and glanced at you from the corner of his eye.  “Yikes. Could you maybe let the grudge go.

“I’m not holding a grudge.”

“C’mon, I know you better than that.” The words slip out and come a little bit unnatural because they’re a few years out of date. Nonetheless, Juhoon reached into his pocket and held out a stick of gum as a peace offering. “Gum?”

You eyed it, then him. “No thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

He unwrapped it with his teeth and popped it into his mouth, then glanced at you again a little more carefully this time. 

“How’ve you been?” 

Such an ordinary question, it ought to have an ordinary answer. Instead, your mind turns over itself looking for one.

“Good. Great? Dunno, as good a life as this.”

“High praise.”

You snorted. “Did you want a more tragic answer?”

Juhoon shook his head and looked down at his feet, smiling to himself. “Maybe a more specific one. Still in the same school?”

“It’s the only school we got in this town.”

“Right, right. Forgot I used to live in the middle of nowhere.”

The dog, offended by how little either of you has been paying attention to her, wanders over and folds herself on the step across your shoes with a dramatic huff. You bend down and scratch absentmindedly behind her ears. 

“How ‘bout you? Good so far?” You finally dared to look at him and told yourself, yeah, he looked nice. Really nice, actually. This was the kind of cute neighbor Hyein wanted you to ‘phone her way’ you thought. 

Juhoon shrugged. “Yeah, I mean I got out of boarding school so that’s something.”

“I heard about that. Boarding school boys.”

He looks over, one side of his canine peaking. “Yeah?”

“Eugh.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from him. “Hey, that's rude. I came out of there pretty much the same.”

“Don’t even lie. I know that place turned you into some secret freak. You probably got secret societies. Your weird little rituals. Who knows? Maybe even a cult.”

“Jesus, Y/n.” He dragged a hand over his face with an exaggerated groan.  “Again with being so paranoid.”

“You know I can’t help it.” A soft smile forms in your face as you turn to look at him, and Juhoon stares. He can’t help himself. He’s spent the better part of the evening pulling himself away from you by the neck, reminding his eyes where they ought to go. He’s supposed to be respectful, for god’s sake.

Juhoon’s exhausted four years with things stacked behind his gums. There were so many things he wanted to say folded neat and sharp, that if he ever found you again, he could unfold them one by one and prove that he’d kept himself waiting for a moment as large as this. And here it was. 

He opened his mouth to start.

Closed it.

Opened it again and settled for a mere question. 

“Are you not gonna be mad at me?”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For leaving so suddenly.”

You looked down at the dog who thumped her tail a few times against the step, then back at him. “I wouldn’t be mad about something that wasn’t your choice to make, Ju.”

Juhoon let out a breath through his nose, relieved by that dear old nickname and in some ways grieving. He rolled the gum around in his mouth once, then pinched it out with two fingers and stuck it to the side of the step. 

“Still,” he said, quieter now. “If I were you, I think I’d be pretty mad.”

You gave him a small and helpless sigh. “Good thing you aren’t me.”

And thank God for that. Juhoon wasn’t anything at all like you. 

You picked at the edge of the porch step with your thumb while the dog shifted at your feet. “What’s the plan?”

“We moved back to the house. So after summer ends, it’s back to that school too. Back to normal.”

“Was it not normal up north?”

“I could argue against. For one, I couldn’t see–” Juhoon had to stop himself quickly and retaliate. “Yeah, it wasn’t normal at all.”

For the rest of summer break, you saw Juhoon more than once. A week later, your mother sent you over with a basket of fruit for his parents. Juhoon answered the door before either of them could and, after a brief greeting, led you upstairs to his room. It was there that you realized just how much he had changed.

His little kid bed had been replaced with a much larger bed frame, save for the growth spurt he’ll be undergoing for the next 3 years. His walls, the way you remembered them, were so plain and blue before. Now, you could barely see the paint through the posters and vinyls and–

“Oh, you play the drums now?” 

There was a whole drum set in the corner, tucked beside a very expensive-looking record player he had set up nearby. 

“Yeah. I took up drumming for a marching band.” 

“Cool.” 

While Juhoon knelt to search beneath his bed, you let yourself take another look around. He had started to resemble one of those 90s British rock boys. Could play the part with his seemingly newfound hobbies, too. 

“So why’d you take me up here?”

Juhoon stood up with a cardboard shoebox in his hand and crossed the room toward you. 

“Wanted to give you something.”

When he held it out, you leaned in to peek inside. Tapes. All tapes. 

“Tapes?”

Juhoon gave the box a little shake and let out an awkward grin. “It’s just some songs I put on tape a while back when I first heard them. You really need to listen to more music Y/n.”

You took the box from him and turned it over in your hands. The labels were written in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting. Song titles were lined up on the edges. A few artists you recognized. A few you didn’t.

“I’m perfectly fine with peace and quiet, but thank you.”

Juhoon let out a laugh and leaned back against his desk, folding his arms. “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I didn’t even know you were capable of this kind of epiphany. What, watched too much MTV?” 

“Music feeds the soul, dude. Y’know what old Willie said about it? If music be the food of life, play on.” 

You took a seat on his bed and laughed at the likeness he had to a man delivering wisdom from a mountaintop. “You mean William Shakespeare? That man’s a sham.” 

“Y/n, have you gone mad? That is one big disrespect to the arts.” 

“The disrespect was for you. Like you’ve ever even read a single Shakespeare piece. I bet you got that quote from CliffsNotes.” 

He scoffed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Maybe I’m the sham. Thou sodden witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows–”  

You choked on a laugh and hurled the pillow that struck Juhoon square in his face. The tape box lurched in your lap. And Juhoon caught himself against the desk before he could fall off. After that, the two of you collapsed into breathless, useless wheezing, enough to forget about this one misdeed of a life. 

──────── .✦

By the time school started, things were a little different.

You and Juhoon still lived in separate worlds most days. Different tables. Different people. DIfferent collections of inside jokes and complaints and things to do with your afternoons. Oddly enough, you found this distance quite comforting. Neither of you were children anymore, and time had begun to show itself to you in its ways. 

Juhoon, especially, seemed to have entered astoundingly into his state of adolescence. His clothes fit differently now. His features were sharper. His voice had dropped low enough that it sometimes startled you when he laughed. And there was something new in the way he paid attention to things. To people, passing remarks, you. 

And God help you, he had learned how to flirt. 

Or at least, he thought that making you flustered made for nice entertainment. He’d try it on you sometimes. And though you never gave him the satisfaction he so obviously wanted, you felt it. Every time. And in each of those times, you did your best to hide the fact that it reached farther in you than you wanted it to. 

Like today. 

“Can’t say I don’t miss this,” 

“Yeah, well you used to carry my bag back then, though. What happened?”

“Do you want me to carry your bag?”

“Chivalrous as ever.”

Juhoon had texted you the night before asking if you wanted to walk to school with him. You weren’t sure why. For one, he took his car with his friends every day going there. For one, he usually drove. Ever since getting his student license, he’d become inseparable from the little convoy of those loud boys who’d cause a ruckus in the parking lot each morning. For another, the two of you were old enough now to take the bus on your own. 

But perhaps he was feeling nostalgic. Or maybe the memories had gotten to him in one of its moods. Either way, you said yes. The morning air still carried some cool residue, and patches of sidewalk remained dark where the sprinklers had overreached in the early hours. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing in particular, and as you walked with Juhoon down the steps of your porch, you could almost believe you were nine again. In the pale half-light, the distance between childhood and adulthood seemed almost like a trick of perspective. 

“I sometimes see you walking to school.’+” He said after a while. “You don’t take the bus anymore?”

“I do take the bus.” You nudged a pebble with the toe of your shoe, watching it skip ahead of you. “And sometimes I miss the bus. So I walk.”

Juhoon’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Y’know I could just drive you, right? I take the car most days.”

“And have to sit through your rowdy band friends?” you scoffed. “I’m good Ju.”

“They’re not all that bad.”

“I’m sure they aren’t.”

Juhoon shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “It’s funny. Did you know Hyeon used to have a crush on you?”

You stare at him. “Who?”

“Eom Seonghyeon. He’s like a year below us. One of the guys. He said he thought you were pretty.” Juhoon understands. You are pretty, and Seonghyeon simply couldn’t help himself. Hyeon doesn’t know how Juhoon’s been living with that thought for longer than he can remember. 

“Yeah? What else did he say?”

His smile grew a bit strange. Smaller. “Said he stopped because you looked like you’d never talk to him. And that you always seemed a little sad.”

“Kid’s got a basic eye.” Juhoon laughs, but only because you did.

By the time you reach school, the sun’s fully out. Shoes scuff across the pavement, voices carry in bright, careless bursts, and people are either laughing to each other or scrambling to their lockers. Nicholas finds you first. 

“Y/n, come over here.”

You turn at the sound of your name and there he is, leaning through a little know of people. He looks well enough, annoyingly so. Juhoon hears the sound as well and turns his gaze leftward. 

“Nico.” You clicked your tongue as you got closer. “You look well. New hair? Is that why Jiah’s always got her hands on it?”

His expression shifts from offense to smug in the blink of an eye. “Hey you know she’s just a buddy. Listen, you got that math homework?”

You’re about to answer when another voice slides into the conversation, dry and amused. 

“Persistent as can be,” Juhoon says.

Nicholas turns toward the sound. It takes him less than a second to find Juhoon right beside you, and when he does, his smile frows thin.

“Kim Juhoon. Y’know, you used to be a whole lot shorter. I see you’ve changed.”

“And I see you haven’t. How’s that forehead?” 

The grin Nicholas has been wearing starts to crack as his eyebrows become more pinched. His jaw tightens.

“It’s been years. It’s fine.”

“A shame. Scars look cool, y’know. Gives you that cartoonish little high school jock look. Very Disney. I thought that was kind of your style.” 

Before either of them got any more escalated, you stepped in between the two. “Stop it you animals.” 

You look at Nicholas, who’s looking at Juhoon with fury. Then you look at Juhoon, who’s looking at you with a smirk and a look that could mean to ask you if whatever he said was funny. 

The smile you give him is small enough to deny later, but it finds him all the same. His own threatens to widen before he reins it in.

“I’ll see you around Ju. Good luck on that History test.” Then, you turn away with Nicholas.

Juhoon helplessly watches you go and arrives, against all reason, at a fascinating conclusion. Maybe he’s been doing this all wrong. Nicholas seems to be doing wonderfully with only half a conscience, so perhaps ego really is the nutrient of romance. Maybe Juhoon ought to start shoving freshmen into lockers, wear sunglasses and backward caps indoors, and become one of those aggressively symmetrical Disney jock prototypes he so loathed just to get you. 

Before he turns to leave, he laughs under his breath. No way in hell. 

—

At lunch, you both would seem like strangers.

From where you sat with your own group of friends, Juhoon sat three tables behind with his own. It’s look like you were two people whose lives had only briefly overlapped. You wouldn’t look at each other either. Not once. It is, frankly, an Oscar-worthy performance. 

But it would be so often where your phone would vibrate, and you’d hide it under the table on your lap to take a peek.

JuJu with no beat: is it just me or are the potatoes so damn dry today

12:08 P.M.

You: it’s just u. mine slap

12:09 P.M.

JuJu with no beat: shucks 

JuJu with no beat: pass me a couple ? 

12:10 P.M.

You: fuck no how would i even do that 

You: want me to frisbee some across the cafeteria? 

You: heads up

12:12 P.M.

JuJu with no beat: DO NOT no don’t even think abt it

JuJu with no beat: u could just come over and sit next to me

You: at this point just ask me to feed u some while ur at it

JuJu with no beat: could you?

You: no id rather eat drywall. leave me alone

12:14 P.M. 

JuJu with no beat: ok cuz i see ur boyfriend’s probably cracking the funniest jokes rn. glad to know he’s keeping u entertained

JuJu with no beat: maybe u should stop texting me and listen to him 

You: u talked to me first and nico is NOT my boyfriend

You: im not resorting to that kind of torture

JuJu with no beat: if hes not ur boyfriend why u always w him

JuJu with no beat: he’s always buggin ya

You: idk its complicated

You: u wouldnt get it

JuJu with no beat: hell yea i wouldnt

JuJu with no beat: the guy doesnt like me n everyone likes me

You: eat ur dry potatoes and fuck off my cell brah 

“Y/n?” Nicholas snaps his fingers once in front of your face. “Are you listening or what?”

You turn away from your phone and blink. “Hm?”

“I’ve been talking to you for, like, two whole minutes.”

“My sincerest apologies.” You tilt your head. “Which girl’s ass were we discussing again.

He lets out an exaggerated groan. “C’mon Y/n, don’t be like that. You know yours is my favorite, right?”

You snorted bitterly. Did he think that was romantic? “Really? I was worried I’d fallen in the rankings.” 

He watches you for another second before the grin returns, slower this time. “Hey. I heard the underside of the bleachers are empty this time of the day.”

“So what?”

His eyebrows lift. “You know what.”

 It seemed a fair exchange, all things considered. Besides, there were worse things than being believed in by a fool. 

You sigh through your nose. There’s no annoyance left in you anymore, because that requires an element of surprise, and Nicholas has long since exhausted that resource. You stood up, and Nicholas followed suit. Fine. You’ll let him have the illusion. You’ll borrow the comfort of this however cheaply it was purchased, and he’ll borrow whatever he thinks he’s touching. It seemed a fair exchange, all things considered. Besides, there were worse things than being believed in by a fool. 

His hand settles against the small of your back the entire way out, and you don’t stop him, no matter how much you want to pull it away. Across the cafeteria, Juhoon looked up just in time to see the gesture and almost spat out his food.  It left a sour taste in his mouth as the texture turned awful. 

No shade to Nicholas, but he could be everything a person ought to be. He could be generous and patient and funny and good. He could volunteer at shelters and call his mother every day, rescue drowning children, hell, achieve sainthood. And Juhoon, with all the pettiness you had made him capable of, would still think: Not enough. Never enough. Not for her. I knew her first. 

He couldn’t really intervene, though. You told him not to. So he chewed down his rice and prayed that all the things you said about that guy were true. And once he convinced himself enough, he gulped down the rest of his juice and got out. 

──────── .✦

You could make the argument that parties terrified you, which was true. You felt like a startled deer, and loud noises had a way of turning your bones inside out. But you liked going to them because everyone thought to collectively agree that for one night, homework and the next school year were concerns for another day. And with the right people to stand beside and exchange the occasional ‘can you believe this shit?’, you could pretend for just a few hours. 

It was nearing the end of another school year, and the field had transformed into its annual imitation of joy. Booths lined the walkways, things were being put up for sale, and there were enough sugary drinks to go around. But what everyone was really looking forward to was the music. 

And what better way to send the year off than with Juhoon behind the drums beneath the stage lights, sleeves rolled up, sweating up a storm and smiling like an idiot? Nothing. And evidently so, given you were witness to half the female student population erupting in screams every time he twirled his drumsticks. 

“That’s my boyfriend!” Someone screamed from behind you.

“That’s not your boyfriend.”

“Not with that attitude!” 

You had only meant to get drinks and come back. That was the plan. Then you turned back, and Hyein was gone. 

“Hyein?” you called, craning your neck. “Where’d you go?” No answer. 

The crowd had closed around you in the meantime with the motion of a dangerous trap. Shoulders struck shoulders. Hands brushed where they weren’t meant to. Someone’s breath found the back of your neck and the next second against the skin of your ear. Too many bodies, too little air. 

Your skin prickled as your thoughts went thin. You tried to force your way out, but there was no out to find. The crowd seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction, and every time you thought you’d found an opening, another person would step into it. 

Oh no. 

Oh no, no, no, no

“Hyein!” You called again, much louder this time, and heard the panic in your own voice. Where the fuck had she gone? 

A pair of hands settled on your shoulders from behind, and your body reacted in panic. Your mind was half gone by then, and you were already convinced you were one more breath away from peeling yourself out of your own skin, so you spun around and started swinging your arms.

“Whoa–hey, watch the hair! It’s me!” 

A voice came out laughing, and those same hands caught your wrists before you could accidentally hit something or someone. There stood Juhoon, flushed from the stage and still glowing, shirt damp at the collar, looking exactly like he had a few minutes ago when you’d managed to tear your eyes away from him. Your breathing, as well as your thumping chest, began to drag itself back into place. 

“You okay?” he asked, and his eyes flicked over your face, taking in the color in your cheeks with his palms. If anything, the gesture made you even more red. “You’re flushed.”

“Duh. Your performance got the whole set of girls flushed,” you say, and even you can hear how flimsy the joke is. 

Juhoon drops his hands from your face and squints. “You really mean that?”

You shook your head. “Of course not. I need an out, Ju. Right now.” 

“We can pass backstage,” he says at once, already angling his body toward the edge of the crowd. “C’mon.”

The backstage route turned out to be a secret passage smelling faintly of dust and the exhausted spirit of school-sanctioned cheer. Juhoon told you to hold onto his hand and not let go, glancing over his shoulder every few steps to make sure you were still there, which was funny because the deathly grip he had on your palm should have made it obvious to him. 

It was impossible not to feel a little giddy about it, being shepherded along by Juhoon with his ridiculous hair and stupidly nice-looking face. The classroom they ended up using as a lounge had been decorated to look like somebody’s idea of a good time. There were paper lanterns, bent streamers, and a whiteboard covered in names and doodles. One corner had a speaker set up for karaoke, another had a ring of chairs pushed into a circle, and the rest of the room was a collision of snack wrappers and soda bottles. 

You found a few of your friends there, though not Hyein. You still didn’t know where she’d gone. A few others from Juhoon’s orbit had claimed the back row for an argument. Juhoon was greeted, naturally. 

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence. Everybody act natural!” Martin yelled.

“Show-off!” Keonho retorted.

“Semantics semantics.” 

Juhoon lifted both hands in surrender, the picture of false innocence. “I have no idea what you’re all talking about.” 

You hear Hyein before you see her. 

“Found you,” she said, appearing at your side and looking like she’d run a mile. Her gaze skimmed over you from head to toe, quick and assessing. Then she shoved a plastic cup into your hand filled with water. 

“Where’d you go? I looked back and you were gone.”

Hyein’s brows shot up. “What do you mean, where did I go? I went to look for you I swear I almost had a panic attack.” 

“I almost had a panic attack! You and your little side quests.” 

Juhoon was still at your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the quarter inch of space between you. He smiled a small smile.

“That was supposed to be my good deed for the night.”

You glance at him and squint. “Making a lot of assumptions about your good deeds.” 

Before he can think of a comeback, someone from the back of the room lifts a deck of cards into the air. 

“Now that more people actually decided to come, we can play some competitive Go Fish!” 

“You do realize we already played Go Fish for an hour,” someone said. “An hour straight. You wanna do it again?”

“That’s a children’s game, isn’t it?”

“Oh fuck all of you.” Woojin said, wounded by the room’s lack of appreciation. 

“Just go home, man.”

“No. We still haven’t done Karaoke.” 

Juhoon tipped his head toward you, speaking low enough to be heard by your ears alone. 

“Better?”

You gave him a smile that could only be seen by him in return. “Back to normal.” 

Across the room, Woojin is still fighting for his life over the merits of his Go Fish idea when somebody snatched the microphone and started threatening him with it. Another person had climbed up onto a desk to announce, for reasons unknown, that if nobody kissed anybody before graduation, it would be a waste of youth. 

That naturally piqued everyone’s interest. 

“Gross,” Hyein muttered.

“Okay, but if we’re doing stupid shit, we should do them properly. Hey we got a bottle and some Truth or Dare cards. Spin the bottle, anyone?” 

The reactions were a variety of Yes, No, Absolutely not. But before anyone could agree to disagree in any meaningful way, chairs were already scraping across the floor, and people were starting to crowd into a circle. You stayed unnervingly still for a bit with a mind spaced out. 

“You coming?” Juhoon called out for you.

“Yeah yeah. Give me a minute.” 

And with the first spin of the bottle, everyone knew this was fucked. The game, as it turned out, was as indecent as can be, 

The first victim was Hyein, who was instructed to text her ex a haiku. She argued that she hadn’t written a poem since elementary school, to which someone said today might as well be her comeback. Woojin, somehow faring even worse, was sentenced to serenading Mr. Choi in the hallway. Then came Seonghyeon, who had his card saying he had to kiss the prettiest person in the room. Like a goddamn movie stereotype. 

“Ohoho careful Y/n. Y’know he used to have the biggest crush on y–” Martin was briefly cut off by Seonghyeon’s hand on his face.

“Shut up–piece of shit.”

Martin’s voice came out as little more than muffled suffering. “Mmph–”

“Die quietly.” He turned to you and immediately gave an apologetic bow. “Sorry Y/n.”

You couldn’t help but laugh and wave him off. “It’s all good.” 

Seonghyeon got up. “I’ll take the punishment.”

“Aww,” Keonho cooed. “Can’t find anyone pretty enough Sean?”

“Yeah. Hideous, hideous, hideous.” He pointed to three of his friends as he said it. 

Throughout the night, the bottle kept spinning. Truths became dares, dares became crimes. It was admittedly a fantastic time. The room wasn’t as loud as the field outside, and you haven’t been given any obnoxious dares yet. 

That is until Woojin picked up another card, and his expression seemed to change. That smile looked more evil than sincere.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be witnessing a seven minutes in heaven tonight.” 

Half the group cheered, the other half booed, and one girl started praying. For it to be her or not, you weren’t sure. 

“That is entrapment! No way in hell am I doing that with any of you monsters. I’m out.” Seonghyeon shoved himself to his feet in a dramatic outrage that made the rest of you laugh harder. Keonho had apparently latched onto his leg, and Seonghyeon had to pry him off before he could make his way out the door. 

“I pray it’s you Y/n. This bottle really seems to hate you.” Hyein says.

“You’d be dead wrong.”

You really should’ve held your breath back there, because Hyein had been dead right.

“Fuck.” You groaned under your breath. “Smells like feet in here.” 

“Yours or mine?” 

“Definetely not mine.”

Before you knew it, you and Juhoon had been shoved into the smallest supply closet as the final consequence of your losses. Keonho and Woojin could’ve picked a better spot. This was the cliche of all cliches. 

Juhoon shifted first, planting one hand against the shelf beside your head. “Wanna talk? We got 7 minutes.”

“Not really.” 

“So you wanna do something else?” Before he could lean any closer and tease further, you grabbed a handful of his hair and started pulling. “Ah—quit it! I was kidding!”

“You should be.” You say, laughing despite yourself as you let go and lean back against the wall. THe plastic shelf gives a little under your shoulder. “We can talk.”

“Alright, I’ll go first.” He rubs the back of his head and shifts from where he stands. “Be honest with me alright? And don’t think too much about it.”

“Can’t say that made any sense, but I’ll try. Shoot.” 

“Do you find Seonghyeon handsome?”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“What kind of a dumbass question is that?” You lifted a brow. 

“… A dumbass kind of question, I guess?”

You fold your arms and stare at the darkness with all the patience you can fake. After a bit of thought, you had come to a conclusion. “Conventionally, yeah Seonghyeon is handsome. Everyone else would think that.”

Juhoon squinted at you, then pushed himself off the shelf, adjusting his stance so he’s much closer. “Okay let me rephrase the question. So do you think Seonghyeon, who you think is handsome, is a date-able person by any means?”

You frowned and tilted your head. “Which means specifically Ju?”

“Your means.”

“That’s a kid.” You snort out. “Listen I don’t know how this question even came to you, but being aware of the fact that Seonghyeon used to have a crush on me and the other fact that I think he’s conventionally attractive isn’t gonna change the most important fact that I will probably never look at him that way.”

Juhoon let out a long breath and nodded, satisfied for reasons only he understood. “Alright. Good to know.”

“You prod too much man.”

“Let me ask another question.”

“Last question you’re gonna get tonight so you better think it through.”

He ignored the warning entirely. “Is Nicholas a date-able person by your means then?”

You wished he could see the disbelief in your eyes when he said that. “Are you serious?” No! God no.”

He makes a helpless little face. “I’m just saying—why are you two like, always paired up like that?”

“Nicholas is kind of dumb, Ju. No, seriously—he’s really dumb. He thinks he’s using me but he’s living a lie too.” Juhoon’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t know whether to be happy about it or not. At least he’s being given some clarity now. It’s a win in his books. 

“I’ve always wanted to explore the dating scene. Romance just looks so nice in the movies, doesn't it? So I figured if I was gonna mess around with anyone, it might as well be with some insincere guy I could use for the experience.” 

You continue, a lot quieter now. “I know he doesn’t really like me, and I don’t exactly like him either. But at least it feels less bad to waste time with someone who isn’t genuine than with someone who is. I mean if we stopped talking now, it wouldn’t mean anything.” 

Juhoon wants so badly to tell you he’s right here. That if wasting your time on someone genuine is what scares you, then let it be him. He’s willing. 

Instead, all that climbs out of his mouth is, “Ah, I see.” 

You study him for a second, finding the glowing reflection of eyes in the dark. “Why are you asking me this?”

Because it’s really about me.

“Just thought you’d pick up on a few things.” He waved the topic off. “Nevermind.”

“Sometimes you just sound… crazy to me.” 

“A minute left. You’re literally breathing down my neck.” 

“This supply closet’s so–” You kick on the door, “Tiny. I think I’m missing an eyelash.”

Juhoon tilts his head and hunches over. “Plucked it all out while we were in here?”

“No, my falsies dumbass.” 

“Oh.” A beat. “Let me have a look.” 

“In the dark? Be my guest.”

Juhoon took the challenge as though it could be won, but this might just be the dumbest possible excuse he’s made to stand far too close to you again. This time, in the dark. And you could feel him before you could properly see him. How warm he was, the faint hitch in his breathing, the small hesitation that came from one motion and the next. 

Inch by inch, closer by degrees, and the hand that found your jaw was warm. His thumb settles beneath your chin while the other hand cups your cheek, angling your face toward the thin strip of hallway light slipping under the door. He’d forgotten he was supposed to be looking for an eyelash. 

“I think,” He was close enough now that you could feel his breath fanning your face when he spoke. “I think it might be easier if you looked up.” 

Your eyes met his instead. “You seem very focused. On my eyelash, was it?”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “On the general vicinity, mmh.” 

Before either of you could react, the closet door shook violently beneath a barrage of fists. 

“7 minutes is up! Stop kissing in 3 2 1–” 

When the door opened, Juhoon jerked back so fast he nearly collided with the shelf, his hand falling away from your face like he’d been burned by the fact of having touched you. 

Everyone was outside looking, curious, expectant. You merely rolled your eyes and stepped out. 

“You wish. We were just talking.” You said as you shoved Woojin aside. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s Ju so red then?”

“Because it’s hot as balls in there.” He replied quickly, dragging a hand down his face looking horrified. 

“A shame.” 

Neither of you ever spoke of it again. And you certainly never mentioned how, in the sliver of light that reflected in his eyes back there, you caught them wandering just a little too far downward. RIght above your chin, just below your philtrum. 

──────── .✦

The first summer you spent with Juhoon after he returned was a busy one. He insisted you take him to every new place and landmark that had popped up in town while he was gone. When you asked him why it mattered so much, since he’d already seen them with his friends from school, he told you that seeing them with you would be an all new experience altogether. 

You didn’t really have much to argue after that. Your face, however, had plenty to say for itself. All those words painted red. 

You took him to a festival that afternoon, and in doing so, rode in his pickup for the first time. Juhoon looked unfairly nice behind the wheel, one hand lazily resting on it and the other tapping along to whatever song the radio had decided to butcher. Sometimes, it startled you how much he’d grown up. 

The festival had taken over the town square and spilled into the streets surrounding it. Colorful banners hung overhead in uneven rows, fluttering lazily beneath the June sun. Paper lanterns swayed gently above stalls selling skewers of grilled meat, candied fruit, and cups overflowing with shaved ice. Children chased bubbles around the fountain, armed with plastic swords and paper hats. Teenagers clustered around games with impossible prizes. And there was laughter everywhere. Juhoon took it all in one look and grinned. 

You both got shaved ice first, and after that Juhoon pulled you toward a tossing game, intent on proving that all those years of basketball had been good for something. He rolled up his sleeves, talked up his god-tier hand to eye coordination, and then missed the first two shots so badly you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

At least the third one went in. The man at the booth looked put out, in contrast with Juhoon’s smug expression. 

“God. Like I said.”

“That was one shot.” 

Juhoon tipped his chin up a little, still riding the high of his own victory. “One shot’s all it takes.”

The booth attendant finally handed over the prize: a giant stuffed dolphin, absurdly blue and far too big. Juhoon took it with both hands, gave the man a quick bow, and then immediately shoved it toward you. 

“For you.” 

You stared at him. “For me?”

He shrugged, trying for casualness. “I fuckin’ hate Dolphins. Devils of the deep, that’s what they all are.”

By the time the sun began to set, you and Juhoon had set off on his pickup toward a hill overlooking the town. He motioned for you to climb into the back where he’d spread out a blanket for the two of you to lie on and watch the rest of the sunset from. So you did, settling in with the giant dolphin as a pillow, while Juhoon finished the last of his shaved ice and the sky slowly bled into the night. 

“So how’s it going? Y’know, with the whole…”

“Huh?” You turned your head. “Oh you mean–?”

“Yeah, that.” Juhoon picked idly at the spoon in his hand. “You haven’t really been as open about it with me ever since I came back.” 

“You’ve become too cool, Juhoon. Agh, you and your suave band friends.” You snorted, and waved vaguely. “What’ll their drummer think of me once I tell him my doctor’s visits have never stopped at all?” 

“Stop bullshitting me man.” He sighed and sat up a little, resting his elbows on the edge of the truck bed. 

You turned away from him to look back up at the sky. “I’m fine. The doctors said I’m as stable as can be.”

It was weird to you, how persistent he was. So much so that sometimes you fear that one day he'll look at you too closely and discover everything that lay there. The slipping gears, the tiny teeth grinding where they shouldn’t. And maybe then, after he looked enough, he’d decide it was hideous.

No matter what he told you, you knew he’d changed. He was cooler now, more out of reach. Taller somehow, even when he was sitting down. You wanted to be known by him all over again so badly it was an illness of its own. And then there were other days where you wished he’d just leave again. 

You supposed you had always been a little in love with Juhoon, and a little embarrassed by it too. Because of this, you knew you were completely ruined. He was my ruins witness and my witness to ruin. Worse still, he never seemed to recoil from the sight. He touched you. He cared. Well, he said he did. As though these things were so easy, and that you hadn’t given him every reason not to. 

“You sure? You don’t seem too happy about that.” 

“Sure I am.” 

“Liar. But it’s ok. I know you well enough.”

You looked over and gave him a once over. “Want a ribbon for that?”

“No. And I know that whenever you say ‘I’m fine’ in that voice it either means you’re lying or you’re stalling.”

“Helpful.”

“And again, I know that if I keep pushing you'll get pissed at me.”

“Very helpful.”

“And I know,” you could hear the sound of a smile when he said it, which should have been impossible, “that you’ll tell me eventually.”

You picked at the seam of the stuffed dolphin fin and looked away from him. “You have better things to worry about, Ju.”

“No I don’t. What is it huh? You don’t like school? You need a makeover? Do you not feel like yourse–” 

‘It’s not that, Ju, it’s–” You cut him off and shove your face into your hands with a groan. 

The hill had gone dark, and the festival below had become a scatter of lights, warm and blurred from the distance. The fireworks would crack soon, so to tell him, it’d have to be now. 

“I want to be okay with who I am, Really. And sure, I’m scared of her. Shit, sometimes I think nobody's more afraid of me than me.” Beside you, Juhoon said nothing. He’d turned onto his side at some point, and you wanted to hide from the feeling of him looking. 

“But this is all I’ve got, right?” You shrugged. “This is the person I have to spend the rest of my life with.”

You swallowed a choke. “If I fake it, and people like what they see… then they don’t like me at all. That’s so scary to think about.” 

You pushed yourself up from the blanket and stared out into nothing in particular. The wind shifted. You could smell the grass. Sugar. Summer. 

“But nothing’s scarier than being me, Ju.” You smiled a little, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Nothing.” 

He was quiet long enough that you began regretting having said anything at all. With the residual drops of courage in your body, you pushed out the last of the truths that'd been gnawing at you all your life. 

“Sometimes I wish my brain just worked the way it was supposed to. Like, if I didn’t have these chemical defects I wouldn’t even think about half the things I do. Isn’t that crazy? I wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“What are you talking about?” 

No seriously, what was she talking about? And of course Juhoon knew in theory what you were talking about, but if he spoke now you probably would have brushed it off and told him not to worry, or that you didn’t want to hear any of it. 

But fine. You don’t want what ordinary people have to say? Let’s consult the so-called Gods, starting with Aristotle himself. His idea of being good had less to do with being perfect and more to do with customs and choices. Then being good must be like a muscle, right? Use it enough, and it’ll remember. Then the existentialists came along and preached that people are made by what they do with what they’re given.. You are what you choose, they’d insist, even if the choosing hurts. And you’ve got someone like Nietzsche who made a career out of asking this one question: “Well, what if suffering isn’t ‘the ’sign that you’ve failed?”

You don’t like the Gods? Fair enough. Then look to the dead. Van Gogh spent much of his life miserable and gave the world stars. Sylvia Plath left behind poems that people would only learn to weep over decades later. John Nash spent years fighting his own mind and still changed mathematics. 

Perhaps that was the common thread tying together Gods and ghosts alike. Aristotle with his mores. The existentialists with their freedom to insist. Nietzsche forever defying the universal morals. Van Gogh with his sunflowers. Plath with her bell jars. Though separated by centuries and burdened by vastly different tragedies to reach their conclusions, they all seemed to stumble toward the same end, and it was one of the few things Juhoon had managed to take away from them. That these things: righteousness, suffering, beauty, all of them began from the materials already at hand rather than some imaginary set one had been cheated out of. 

Which was why he found your fear so heartbreaking. There has never been another you waiting behind a curtain, Y/n. There is only this one. 

And not one among these figures had managed to produce evidence of a perfect blueprint for a human being no matter how revered they became. There was no original version unchanged by grief or loneliness. Not the philosophers, not the gods, not the poets, nor the dead. These were people. And what they left behind were lives that were anything but simple, with no suggestions of a pristine hidden self. Only the self itself. Super strange, yeah. But no less real for it. No less deserving of being lived. 

Before you could answer, it was his turn to cut you off. 

“Don’t do that.” He said. It didn’t sound all that angry. He seemed more sad, if ever. 

Suddenly, a loud bang split the air. A moment later, a bloom of color. Fireworks rose over the hill in splashes of red, blue, and gold spilling themselves across the sky, and when Juhoon turned at the sound of your gasp, you were looking up. He caught the colors in your eyes, and your mouth, so lately full of those terrible little verdicts, parted in wonder. 

Ah, Juhoon’s brain goes off, would it be so bad to want to kiss you under all this? Will we still have each other?

When the fireworks had finally died down and the sky settled back into darkness, your yawns grew harder and harder to disguise. Juhoon took the hint. So he folded up the blanket and tossed it into the backseat, banishing the stuffed dolphin alongside it despite your half-hearted protests. Then he ushered you to the passenger seat and drove home in easy silence. His playlist hummed through the stereo, and when Juhoon glanced over, he found you sitting with the window rolled down, chin resting against your hand. The wind played with your hair and streetlights came and went over your face like passing thoughts. 

Juhoon hopes the songs in the car can stand in for all the things he couldn’t find the right moment to say earlier. He hopes that, despite the wind rushing in through the open window, you could still hear it.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

“Does it scare you? When I… y’know.”

The question catches him off guard that he has to steal a brief glance in your direction before returning his attention to the road, though the answer had already reached him by then. 

“No.”

“Do I scare you?”

“You never scare me.”

You make me sad sometimes. You make me angry. But never scared. Never you. 

And Juhoon never second-guessed the thought. Not once in his life did he think he ever would. 

By the time Juhoon turned onto your street, the conversation had long since died out. The radio had become little more than another engine humming somewhere beneath the quiet. He glanced over when the car rolled to a stop outside your gate, and you were asleep. Your cheek had fallen against the window sometime during the drive home, leaving the faintest fog blooming and disappearing with each breath. He reached across and unbuckled your seatbelt carefully, before unbuckling his as well. Then, he stepped out into the cool air, rounded the hood, and opened your door as slowly as the hinges would allow.

With one arm behind your knees and the other around your back, he lifted you from the seat. You stirred immediately, and his heart launched into his throat. The walk to your front door felt considerably longer than usual. He slipped his shoes off by the entrance before carrying you upstairs one impossible careful step at a time. WHen he slipped across your room without a hitch, he could finally breathe properly again.

Juhoon crossed your bed and lowered you onto the mattress, and it was only when you barely stirred at all did his heart finally rest easy knowing you were fast asleep.  Now, standing in the quiet of a familiar bedroom, he looks down at the girl who had become the measure by which he’d learned every other kind of missing. The smile he lets himself have is small and hopeless.

So much, he whispered, barely louder than your breathing. You have absolutely no idea.

Then because he needed to leave, Juhoon turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the blanket a little higher over your shoulder, and let himself disappear as quietly as he’d come.

──────── .✦

Geez, did it hurt. 

The bulb above the mirror is dying. It flashes every few intervals, and you make a mental note to tell your dad he ought to replace it. But besides that, you sit on the cold tile floor holding the side of your stomach, and sitting on the floor with you is a lighter, a little blade, and some plaster. 

The flickering was horrible, but did you know what was worse? Hospital lights. Those things were fucking obscene. Too bright. Too white. Like being interrogated by the moon. Everytime you looked at yourself from a reflective surface you could see every pore and every line. You used to think they made them that way so there would be nothing to hide from the doctors. But tonight, you weren’t going to the hospital. At least not for another week. 

A few hours ago, you had gone through one of those seizures again. For what reason, you could only guess it was a biological one. Your parents, after holding you through it, said it might have been caused by changing hormones or sleep deprivation to your condition, but you didn’t care. You just wanted it to stop. To be rid of that terrible out-of-body feeling you could never get used to. And you wished you could abandon this coping mechanism entirely, but the method had proven itself somewhat effective at times. 

No matter how many times you resort to this, you only grew more convinced that nobody should have to do it. Nobody should be brave enough, or as desperate. Least of all you. 

Just then, your phone’s ringing got you out of your trance. You quickly finished applying the rest of the bandages and got up to answer the phone. When you saw the caller ID, it was Juhoon. 

“W’dya want?” You said as you put the phone to your ear, slowly bending down to tidy up your mess.

“I want you to meet me outside your front door in 30 minutes. Maybe pack some extra clothes while you’re at it.” 

“What? Why? Where are we going?”

“The lake. And no I’m not taking no for an answer if you’re wondering. Bye-bye.” 

“Ju wai–”

Before you could protest, Juhoon hung up. Once the line went dead, and after confirming that there were no suspicious remnants of your earlier misery clinging to you, you made a mad dash for your room. The next half hour was spent with a valiant effort to look at least marginally better than you did some minutes ago. 

When you got downstairs and saw Juhoon’s pick-up roll around at the perfect moment, you bid your mom goodbye and hurried out. 

“30 minutes? You fucking serious?” You climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Now I know you don’t get girls because then you’d know a girl could never get ready in 30 minutes.”

“You still made it didn’t you?” Juhoon shot back immediately, one hand on the wheel. “And you look great, so I’d say my estimate was pretty accurate.”

“Just shut up.”

“How can I when the Beatles are on?” He gave you a sheepish grin and turned the volume up before hitting gear. “Oh hey Jude, don’t make it bad! Take a sad song–!”.

For the rest of the drive, all you could do was laugh while Juhoon shouted every lyric from the radio, and you laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

“You know what? McCartney would’ve admired this passion.”

You laughed even harder. “McCartney would’ve hit you with his bass. 

The town rolled by outside the window, washed in afternoon light and a familiar feeling. A convenience store. The old pharmacy. Mrs. Han walking her terrifying Pomeranian. And all the while, your laugh kept bouncing around in Juhoon’s head. Clearer than the radio, softer than the road.. A real one. Now, Juhoon knows every version of your laugh. He lived long enough to witness them all. The fake one. The polite one. This was the one you’d save for him. 

By the time he pulled up near the lake, the pick-up slowed into a quiet little opening by the trees. It was a place that looked like it had been waiting all day for someone to find it. Juhoon barely turned off the engine before he was out, shutting the door behind him and jogging toward the dock. You were right behind him a second later, laughing already, your sandals half untied and your steps quick over the grass. 

The dock creaked under both of you when you reached it, old wood warm from the sun and rough beneath your feet. THe lake stretched out ahead, still in some places and glittering in others, the surface broken only by the occasional ripple from a fish or a breeze that found its way down through the trees. WIthout warning, Juhoon crouched and started yanking at his shoes.  

“Damn. You’re not even gonna sit first?” You asked.

He looked up at you from where he was bent. “Do you want to sit first?”

“Yeah.”

Seeing you teetering at the edge, he lunged for you at once. You shrieked, stumbling back in surprise, and nearly went over your own feet before he caught your wrist and steadied you with an easy reflex. His hand was warm against yours. His grip was light. His thumb stroked once over your skin as he looked at you, and you wanted him with a helpless ache. 

“Careful,” he said smiling.

You narrowed your eyes and hit on the side of his chest. “You almost pushed me over!”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

With a snark and a cheeky grin that should have warned him, you flipped both your positions around and shoved Juhoon right off the dock. He let out a startled yelp before the water swallowed him whole, and you sat down triumphantly, laughing so hard your shoulders shook as your feet skimmed above the lake. . You should have been more wary though, because the moment Juhoon resurfaced, he grabbed both your legs and yanked hard enough to drag you tumbling in after him. 

He smiled that terrible, beautiful smile of his and pointed at the water behind you. “There’s a fish.” 

You flinched without thinking, and Juhoon took the opening at once, splashing at you while you groaned and shoved at his shoulder. He laughed louder, then caught your wrist before you could push him away. His hand was warm even through all the cold water, and really, you’ve always thought of yourself as a practical person. Inept with the ability to put mind over body. But the body is often more honest than the mind. The body knows which hands to lean toward. And Juhoon’s are warm. 

The sun’s light had softened by the time you both decided to climb out of the water. Your clothes clung to you in dripping layers, your hair darkened and plastered to every patch of skin reachable. Juhoon shook himself off like a wet dog the moment he clambered back onto the dock with you. 

“C’mon.” He said, jerking his chin toward the bank. “There’s shade.”

The two of you crossed the grass with wet footprints trailing behind you. The ground was warm where the sun still reached it, but under the tree near the docks the air was cool and still. Its branches hung low enough to gather the last of the breeze, and the roots had made a small rise in the earth beneath it. Juhoon collapsed there first, leaning back against the trunk with a long sigh before you dropped down beside him too, knees brushing and dripping. 

You tipped your head back against the bark and turned to him. “I’ve probably already asked this a million times this summer,” you said, picking at the damp edge of your sleeve, “But why’d you bring me here?” 

Juhoon was stretched out beside you, one knee bent and an arm thrown over it. He cracked one eye open to look at you. “Dunno. I had a feeling you might have needed it. Heard your mom calling the house earlier. Said you had another rough moment.” 

It was a strong feeling alright. Juhoon always had an unsettling for looking at you and knowing, enough to make you suspect he was some kind of witch. Apparently, years apart had done nothing to cure him of that. 

You groaned and tipped your face upward again, staring through the leaves. “God, I don’t even wanna think about it. Makes my skin crawl.” 

“We don’t have to. Not right now.” He said, quieter now. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me why I saw Nicholas pacing around your house the other day?”

“You saw that? You should’ve called the cops on him.”

“What’s up with that?”

You huffed and looked back out at the lake. “I haven’t been texting him all summer. I don’t even know why he’s being nosy about it.” A snort escaped you. “One of my friends said he’s been hanging around some other girl for, like, almost a month now, so I don’t know what he wants. I’m not even his girlfriend.”

“So, you’re not hanging around him anymore? Ever?”

“I wouldn’t say ever. Maybe by the end of next year when we graduate I’ll finally drop him.”

“Why do you do this to yourself, Y/n? Seriously.”

“What? I already told you the reason.” 

“Yeah, it doesn’t make it any less horrible to hear.” 

You glanced at him with a straight face. “I thought you hated Nicholas.”

“I could care less about Nicholas. He’s a jerk with the personality of a wet turd, and all he cares about is girls and ass. It’s you.” When he said it, your smile faded. “This. You let that be somewhat enough.”

“It’s not enough, Ju.” You swallowed. “Nicholas is a shallow person and I know that I feel too much, I know that too—christ! Of course it’s not enough.” You rubbed a hand over your face, frustrated with yourself all over again. 

“Then why do you stick with him?” The answer was simple enough in the ugliest way possible. Simple enough to embarrass you.

“Because it’s easier,” you said finally, “For my conscience, I mean. It’s easier to fake it if I only have to get a little bit of something out of it. Intimacy? Closeness? Those things. I don’t know.”

Juhoon’s expression changed in tiny, almost invisible ways as you spoke. He was more hurt for you than at you. 

“You don’t want something real?” he asked. 

You let out a breath through your nose and looked away from him. “Where am I gonna find that?”

Juhoon hesitated, because the answer ought to have been obvious. When he finally answered, his voice was gentle. 

“WIth me.”

You went still as your chest took a leap too far, and Juhoon rushed on, words suddenly tripping over each other in a way that was very unlike him.

“I mean, I’ve—Y/n I’ve been here for ages. You know that. I’m not saying it like I woke up one day and decided I could just fix everything. I know that’s not how any of this works. But… I’m here. If you wanted something real, you could have it.” 

The lake breeze moved between the leaves overhead. A bird cried out somewhere farther down the bank. Your damp hair stuck to your cheek and you hated how suddenly close to tears you felt. Juhoon reached over then, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, and brushed the wet strands out of your face. 

“I’m a mess, Juhoon. I can't do that to you.” You said. 

“What’s the worst you can do?”

A whole lot, you think.

More than he can possibly understand. Poor Juhoon, standing there with his hands empty and his heart carried so openly it almost hurt to look at. 

Imagine spring as something stolen from beneath the stomach of a drought. Imagine the water isn’t actually imagined. Picture yourself a dry shell, and picture the water real. There is nothing to become but an animal. You wanted to do too much, you were a compass hand with nowhere to face but north, a pilgrim who wants a shrine to deem it holy and die reaching. Because once you touch it, you will remember how desperately you wanted to want to live. God, how badly you wanted to be made forward-facing by the world instead of always braced against it. 

So you’ll mess it up. You know you will. This wasn’t a self-pitying thought as much as it was just the truth. And then what? 

The old world again? Or maybe the pyre version of it. You’re either back to where you started or, in your particular case, halfway down in the fire. You wish this were easier to explain to people who have never lived with the sense that the self is, at best, always a little provisional. 

So when Juhoon asks you again with a face so earnest, what’s the worst you can do? You think, rather bleakly, that the worst thing you can do is the thing you’ve always been doing. 

You pose a new question in your mind: why the hell would it matter then?

And so you lean closer and tell him, brace yourself, I know I’m fucking terrible at this, before grabbing him by the collar and kissing him into the grass. Into seventeen years of pain and wishes. And when Juhoon kisses you back the way you feared, you decide then and there that if you were to burn, you might as well do so facing a beautiful sun. 

──────── .✦

Kissing Juhoon felt, for some reason, a little too much like what you’d always imagined it would be. You had spent enough time wondering about it in the small dead spaces of a day. Yes, you did imagine it. You’re just a girl and Juhoon’s a good looking guy, how could you not? The only problem was Juhoon himself, who seemed to have discovered the experience with all the greed of a starving mammal. He was eager, and it would’ve been funny to you if it weren’t also making you a little hazy. 

It was late into the night. Juhoon had stayed over after you begged him to help you with your homework again, and he had, to his credit, actually helped. Weeks worth of it actually. It was just that at some point he leaned in too close while explaining something, his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth barely a breath away from the side of your face. One thing had led to another, as these things tend to, and now…

“Ju–” You start pushing at his shoulders as he tries to lean in like he’s not already been given enough, now merely testing the boundaries of generosity. “Slow down man.” 

That gets him to pull back at once, all at once, like he’s been jerked by a wire. His hands hover uselessly for a second before he drags them away from you, looking properly concerned now, the easy grin gone off his face like someone snuffed it. 

“Did I hurt you?”

You’re still catching your breath, your pulse feels ridiculous, and your mouth tastes faintly of him and the room and the stupid fact of having been kissed at all. “No, I’m fine.”

He searches your face anyway, eyes flicking over you with a kind of panic that’s almost sweeter than the kiss itself. Your hair’s been knocked loose from where it was once held back, and one side of it has fallen half into your face. Looking at you now, Juhoon straightens a little and says, with a breathless sort of pride, 

“I’m pretty good, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“You want me to fuck off now?” He asks in disbelief. “After what you did to me and my hair?” 

“It was ruined when you got here,” you tell him, still trying not to smile too hard. “I don’t know what bone you have to pick with me.”

“Lots.”

Juhoon goes to sit back up in the desk chair and turns toward your table, gathering the scattered papers into a neater little stack in concentration. The top sheets keep slipping under his palm, so he smooths them flat, then another, his fingers moving with patience. You watch him through all of it, and apparently too obviously, because after a few seconds he glances over his shoulder with one brow lifted.

“You want somethin’?”

There’s a little crease still in his shirt from where you’d grabbed it earlier. His hair is worse than before, if that was even possible. You lean back against your pillows and pretend not to think about it. “Pretty sure I’ve taken too much from you already.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and turns the last page over. “That’s right. My brain cells, my paper, a kiss or two—actually, that was a whole thirty minutes, wasn’t it? Wow–”

“Shut up!” You throw a pillow at his face before he can keep going, and Juhoon catches it easily, one hand closing around the case before it can hit him. He looks at you like you’ve just declared war. 

“Oh, it’s like that?” He gets up with the pillow in hand and lunges for you before you can shriek anything useful. You scramble farther back on the bed already laughing, but he’s too quick and too pleased with himself, and in the next second he has you pinned in the most harmless way possible, pressing the pillow down over your face until you’re wheezing. He finally lets up just enough for you to yank the pillow from his hands and shove him back by the shoulder. Somehow that only makes the both of you laugh harder, until the two of you end up in a useless heap across your bed, one of his knees pressed against the mattress next to yours. 

“It’s fine,” he says breathlessly.. “Seriously. Pretty girls deserve pretty things.”

You turn your head just enough to look at him. “Is that your life’s philosophy?” 

“Hell yeah. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.” He stares back, waiting. 

 “Did you just quote Shakespeare on me?”

“Yes...” He shrugs one shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Why? You’re supposed to swoon.”

“I would. I just thought we were above that sorta thing.”

“Aw, who says so?” Juhoon pushes himself up with his elbows.

“Says everyone.”

He makes a contemplating face before leaning back on one hand.

“Yknow, you spend enough time around businessmen and politicians, and then believe the only worthwhile things are practical.” He shrugs. “That must be a miserable way to live.”

Juhoon looks at you more carefully now, really looks. His hand lifts almost absentmindedly, and he catches your chin with one finger, tipping your face up for you to stay there long enough to hear him. 

“Art isn’t practical. Music isn’t practical. Love certainly isn’t practical. Neither’s standing around watching sunsets. We fall in love with songs that don’t feed us and stories that don’t save us. Why do you think that is?”

Blinking in confusion, you try to give an honest answer. “... Because we’re human and to be human is to be stupid?”

Not quite the answer he had in mind. Still, Juhoon points at you like you’ve won some sort of argument.

“Correct. So forgive me,” he says, leaning a little closer again. “for being a common stupid human quoting Shakespeare. This stupid human’s got his sights on one thing.”

“Yeah?” You ask, all before your mouth goes completely dry. 

He tilts his head, as if to challenge you, because the answer is so obviously there. Before he leans in for another kiss, he whispers,

“Mmh. Quite a beautiful one, if I do say so myself.” 

──────── .✦

The doctor had been careful with her words. That was the first thing you noticed. 

You sat on the edge of a chair with your parents behind you, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles had gone white. The paper gown they made you change into kept snagging at your thighs whenever you moved.

Your mother, to the left of your backside, put one hand firmly on your shoulder like maybe she could keep you in place by the force of love alone. Beside her, your father sat rigidly with both hands braced on his lap, posture too straight and trying not to look too afraid. Across from you, the doctor had laid out your chart and kept tapping a tablet against her fingers whenever she thought no one was watching, But you were paying too much attention. 

To the doctor’s mouth, to the small pause before she spoke, to the careful way her eyes flicked to your parents before returning to you. It felt as though she was measuring how much of the truth you were able to take at once. 

“I’ve looked through all your results, tests, your sheets.” she said gently. “Taking into account the frequency increase in seizures, as well as your recent episodes, combined with the scans and the history we already have, these all suggest that your brain is under more strain than we’d like.”

Your father frowned. “Under strain, how?” 

The doctor continued, an explanation you didn’t want to have to hear yourself. “When the brain is under prolonged strain, the balance of signaling chemicals can become very disrupted. In people with MDD, the monoamine systems are more vulnerable than most. When you add her seizures, and possibly the lack of sleep, the whole thing can become harder to stabilize.” 

You couldn’t seem to feel much of anything at the moment. Maybe it was the medicine they had given you earlier dulling everything down to a numb, distant blur. Still, you kept thinking about your parents having to sit through all this and listen to every awful word. Your poor mother. Your exhausted father.

The doctor folded her hands. “That doesn’t mean your symptoms are imaginary. The brain and body are affecting each other in very real ways, Y/n. This isn’t just some sadness. MDD can change the way the nervous system regulates itself. It can affect the HPA axis, the thing that controls your stress hormones. And that can keep the body stuck in a state of exhaustion, over-alertness, or worst case, a shutdown.” 

Your mother cleared her throat. “So what does this mean for her?”

The doctor gave you all a sympathetic look. “It means we need to reduce the load on her system. Right now, she’s still able to manage in short bursts, but she won’t be able to sustain herself. All that’s been happening is taking a greater toll on her body, which tells us she’s been under more distress than she may have been able to communicate.” 

Us, us, us. You wondered who exactly she thought she was speaking for. She was the only doctor in the room, after all. But she sounded kind, and for that you were grateful. 

“So we’re recommending that after her senior year, she be admitted into a facility for a period of stabilization and monitoring.”

Your mother made a small sound beside you, and you could hear your father shift uncontrollably. When you looked at him from the reflective glass to your front, his face changed the way you never liked seeing. He wasn’t angry. Worse. He was scared. 

“For how long?” He asked.

“That depends on how she responds.” The doctor said, “A few months, possibly longer. At this stage, I’m concerned that if she’s sent directly into college without a period of stabilization, she may just deteriorate further.” 

You had been holding onto that so stubbornly. Graduation had been the thing on the horizon. The invisible lever to which your life could be flung forward. The idea that maybe, after the caps and photos and the questions of what you were gonna do next, you would get to go somewhere else and begin again. But there was no beginning again. Not soon. Though you had hope, and if you were being honest, you weren’t sure you had the strength for any of it anyway.

Your father spoke carefully. “Will she still be able to finish school?”

“Yes, graduation first. We wouldn’t interrupt that unless we had to. But after that, I would strongly recommend admission. This is the safest way to prevent any more risks of deterioration.”

The doctor must have noticed your face crumpled a little, and with a voice so steady, reassured you something she could. “I know this is a lot to take in right now, but the goal of treatment isn’t to isolate you. It’s to help bring these destabilized systems back into a range where you can function without having to constantly fight yourself. We can work with new medication, sleep regulation, and therapy to lower the risk. Your brain isn’t broken beyond repair, okay? But it’s asking for more support than you can give it alone right now.” 

You appreciated what little comfort she managed to give you, but besides that, you bit back your tears and remained quiet. Your father finally spoke. “What happens next?”

The doctor exhaled. “We’ll coordinate with her neurologist, finalize the admission plan, and make sure everything is in place whenever you’re ready. Until then, we’ll keep monitoring her activity. If anything happens, do contact us immediately.” 

After your parents spoke with the doctor a little longer, it was finally time to go home. The drive was quiet on the way back, but you kept catching their eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked terrified, more than you had ever seen them, and you understood that too. What were you supposed to do with the dreadful fact that this body which should have borne you onward had turned, instead, into the weight at your ankles? 

And when you got home, your mother went into your room with you, as she couldn’t bear to leave you alone. She looked at you then, her only child, her whole life’s work, and there was in her face the heavy, aching work of learning you anew. 

“Baby,” she whispered as you pulled the sheets up to your body. Her voice cracked on the word. “You didn’t tell us it was this bad.” 

You thought, with a grief so embarrassingly childish, Mama, take me back. Swallow me up and make me again. Return me to the dark. Nine months, one more time. Build me differently, Shuffle the compounds. Rearrange the stars. When I come into the world, I’ll remember to come out right. And when you look at me this time, you won’t have to be so sad. 

“I’m not…” You stopped. Started again. “I’m not trying to be difficult.” 

It was all in the room with you then. The guilt, the fear, and love itself, vast and helpless and with nowhere else to go. Your mother wept quietly by the bed, your father stood in the doorway and held himself still, and you drifted to sleep at last, carrying fear and shame and relief knotted so tightly together they might as well have been one thing. 

──────── .✦

By now, you had become something of an unwilling chemist.

Not a very good one, mind you. You just swallowed your pills with increasingly concerning names and hoped your brain would stop trying to kill your morale. The problem with introducing new medication was always that the body was at least a few steps behind. 

Which was how, at a quarter to twelve on a Wednesday morning, while your teacher was halfway through explaining something in Algebra class, you suddenly became intimately aware of your own stomach. 

There were signs: the dizziness, the metallic taste, the strange underwater feeling behind your eyes. But you’d grown so used to your body issuing threats it had no intention of carrying out that you just ignored it.

That was until you couldn’t. One second you were staring blankly at the chalkboard. Next, you vomited. 

“Oh my God.”

“Y/n!”

“Miss–”

“Someone help me carry her to the nurse!”

Before your vision blurred, you stared at the mess in front of you and, for reasons beyond your understanding, burst into tears. There were worse things in the world, surely. But humiliation made no distinction between the life-threatening and the merely unbearable. At that moment, with your stomach empty and your dignity somewhere near your shoes, you thought you’d rather die than endure this particular shame twice. 

The nurse’s office smelled much more homey than the hospital. By then, the nausea had passed. The school nurse handed you crackers and water and spoke in her soft voice.

“New medication?”

You nodded.

“Are you taking it with food?”

“Sometimes.”

“Young lady.”

“Well, not most of the time.”

She sighed. “Your body’s adjusting, alright? These things happen.”

You wanted to tell her that your body seemed to do a lot of things, but she already had enough problems. By one in the afternoon, you were back home after your parents picked you up. Your father had no choice but to go back to work. Your mother insisted on soup. You had insisted on instant death, but neither of you got what you wanted. Instead, you got ginger tea. Cruel world. 

Your mother left you alone to rest, but sleep was proving difficult as you buried yourself beneath your blankets replaying the scene for the nth time. Maybe twenty people had seen. Maybe thirty. Maybe by tomorrow there’d be rumors. Maybe  they’d say you were pregnant. Teenagers, after all, possessed the imagination of Renaissance painters, albeit their morals measuring adjacently to that of a raccoon’s. You groaned and shoved your face deeper into the pillow, and eventually fell asleep. 

Around four in the afternoon, you awoke to your blanket on the floor and the sound of someone calling you from the doorway. You rolled over and there was Juhoon, standing just outside your room in a T-shirt and still in his school slacks, two convenience store bags hanging from his hands. The sight of him looked so absurdly ordinary against the misery of your day that you almost thought you were dreaming. 

“I heard you died.” He said.

“What?”

“Minji cornered me during lunch. Said you threw up and got sent home.”

You groaned some more. “Jesus Christ.”

“Relax. You know how news spreads around here. People were saying you exploded.”

“Can I explode now?”

“No. I brought you some stuff. Gatorade. Some bread. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He stepped inside and set the bags down on your bedside table, then placed the back of his hand against your forehead. His palm was warm, and you closed your eyes. 

“Ju, I’m so cold.” 

There was earnestness in his expression, all traces of teasing gone. He dropped his backpack beside your desk, walked over to the window and rolled your blinds down. You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he came back to your bed and reached for the blanket on the floor, tucking it around your side carefully and snug. 

“Much better?” He asked quietly. You let out a soft mmh and nodded. 

He lowered himself onto the floor beside your bed and rested his head against the mattress, his face only a few inches from yours. From there he could see everything you wished he wouldn’t. The shadows beneath your eyes. The strange emptiness in your gaze, fixed somewhere far beyond the ceiling and the walls. 

Quietly, he shifted to retrieve his backpack. There was a rustle of notebooks and loose papers before he fished something round and bright from the depths. An orange, because some habits die hard. 

“You’re always bringing me those. Can’t you get, like, apples next time?” You watched him work open the peel. Thumb beneath the skin. Twist. Tear. Never rushing, and never making a mess if he could help it. 

“What’s the fun in eating something so hard? I can barely get a bite out of an apple.” 

“Is this like the Kim Juhoon motif then? Oranges?”

He smiled to himself as he carefully removed another strip of peel. “It’s more yours than mine.”

“Huh? 

Juhoon held up a section triumphantly. “I’ll tell you a little something about oranges. Read some stuff in a brochure once.”

The orange released another burst of fragrance as he split the skin. Sunlight and sugar and memories of elementary school lunches. 

“It’s a migrant fruit, did you know? Carried from South China and arrived in Europe by way of caliphates, then travelled west through Persia, and then the Arab horticulture straight into the Mediterranean. At the time, fresh fruit in a European winter was almost unheard of. So they took these fruits from under the sun and sold them in the marketplaces during December. This was like a luxury to them.”

He handed you a slice, and as you popped it into your mouth, he continued. “These were fruits born of subtropical light becoming symbols of Christmas, by the way. Weird right? ‘ 

His hands had gone slower now. “And in whatever century that was, a whole Dutch dynasty took its name from them. They became little seasonal miracles, these guys. And the peel…the peel’s part of it too. It protects the sweet parts. Makes you work for the center.” 

Juhoon looked down at the orange resting in his hands. At the bright pieces arranged like small half suns. And he smiled. “So to peel an orange like this is to participate in an old history of transport, and theft, and then preservation. And when it’s peeled, the sweetness may come with acid and all, but it's worth it because it tastes so good.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I’m talking about you.”

“You’re seriously comparing me to a fruit?” 

He laughed softly. “Something like that.” He peeled away the last stubborn thread of white and handed another piece to you. 

“That even if they’ve been uprooted, or spend their whole lives being carried too far from home, none of that makes them any less sweet. People used to wait a whole year for these things. To them, and to me now, these were the original golden gifts.”

You blinked. “What are you trying to say?” 

Juhoon leaned his cheek against the mattress again, brushing a hair from off your face as his eyes met yours. “I’m saying you were my golden gift, Y/n. 10 years ago, in this same house just a room or two away, I found mine. And it was you.” 

Outside, cars passed, birds sang, and the wind pulled leaves off their branches. But here, with the smell of citrus in the air and Juhoon seated beside your bed, orange peels piled carelessly on his lap, you found yourself wishing for something small and preposterous. Please. One day, let me forgive myself for all the things I am not. 

You envied narcissists sometimes. You know they weren’t the only people capable of loving themselves, surely they weren’t, but they can do something you can’t. To admire themselves with such conviction. To inhabit their skins so fittingly. 

How could you ever do that? Your soul can never yearn for another soul shaped like its own. So Juhoon saying that undid something in you. You kept thinking there must be a better narrative of yourself waiting just beyond the next day, but Juhoon kept trying to convince you that the better narrative was never the point. 

“What would I do without you?”

“Plenty of things.” He shrugged, “Trust me.”

“I don’t think I can even do one thing. I just want to sleep. Forever and ever and ever.”

He reached up and absentmindedly smoothed the blanket where it bunched around your shoulder. “Take a rest. Sleep. Not forever, but just for another eight hours. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

“And Y/n?”

You made a small sound. “Hmm?”

Juhoon swallowed once, and let the words scrap out of him. “Promise me you’ll keep on trying, yeah?” 

He placed a hand and rubbed the underside of your chin, lulling you almost to sleep. “Please–please Y/n. There are… there are things you haven’t done yet. There’s light you haven’t felt and dreams that haven’t crossed your mind, things I’ve yet to tell you about, more you’ve yet to know. Please let me.” 

You stared at him for a long time. How many times had he thought of this and never thought to let them out until now, you’ll never know. 

“I will. I promise.”

──────── .✦

“Get a grip, man. What’s wrong with you today?” 

Juhoon knew exactly what was wrong with him. He could’ve named it on the spot if his mouth hadn’t gone dry every time he tried. He’d missed so many beats over the last hour he’s surprised Martin and the others had ignored it for this long. 

He let out a long breath and dropped his sticks into his lap. “Nothing.” he muttered, rubbing both hands over his face.  

“Ya sure?” Keonho asked.

Seonghyeon snorted beside him. “You think he is?” 

Juhoon’s knee bounced beneath the drum stool, and his shirt clung damply to the small of his back. The gym felt too warm, the amps buzzed too loud, sweat had gathered in all the gross places, and he had that stupid bouquet of flowers shoved in his bag as well as a letter, folded and refolded so many times the corners barely held shape. 

Despite what it might’ve looked like, you still weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t given him a clear go-ahead yet, even if that first kiss had been more than enough to leave him privately optimistic. He respected that, tried not to push, told himself he’ll bring it up one day. Today was gonna be that day. He was going to ask you to homecoming, and if he had any luck left at all, maybe ask you to be his girlfriend right after. 

The only problem is he waited until there were only 2 days left before homecoming to do it. Idiot. 

“Let’s go again.” He shakes his head and lifts his sticks.

Martin whistles lowly. “Look who’s talking.” 

He didn’t know if you already had a date. You didn’t mention anyone, not even Nicholas, though Juhoon supposed it made sense. Nicholas was hanging out with a completely different crowd now. Still, the thought occasionally returned to bother him. What if somebody had already asked you? What if you said yes?

But enough of that. He shoved the lingering thoughts into a deep corner in his brain, spun a drumstick once between his fingers, and settled back into the stool. 3, 2, 1. 

—

When Juhoon spotted you at lunch, he almost didn’t recognize you. It wasn’t because you looked different, but because you were laughing. Not the polite sort or the little huff through your nose. This one reached him from three tables away. There was a looseness to you he’d never seen, and he should have just been happy for you. He was, mostly. 

You even came over to him on your way out of lunch and held out your leftover burger for him. 

Juhoon blinked at it. “You never give this stuff away.” And you never approach me at lunch, either. 

You shrugged, still smiling. “I can’t eat this in class, y’know.”

He took it from you slowly. “You can eat it later then.”

“You can,” you corrected, waving him off. “Wanna go home together?”

That startled him more than the burger did. He looked at you for a second too long until he finally replied,

“Uh–yeah. Yeah, I’ll wait outside your classroom.”

“Good.” You said, and then you were already backing away toward your next class, as bright and effortless as a thing he might not have the right to keep looking at if he kept staring like that. But Juhoon watched you go anyway. The burger sat heavy and warm in his hand. He looked down at it, then back up at the hallway where you had disappeared, and felt something in him settle into place. God. How had he forgotten you smiled with your eyes first?

People didn’t owe explanations for joy. Whatever had placed that brightness inside you belonged to you alone. Juhoon found, to his own surprise, that he didn’t need to understand it to be grateful for it. You looked alive and well, and that was enough.

Even the walk home felt different. You talked more than usual and filled the spaces between your footsteps. Mrs. Choi’s impossible homework, Martin getting detention for reasons both of you weren’t entirely surprised about, chemistry. Juhoon laughed in all the right places. By the time your gate came into view, his heartbeat skyrocketed.

Now. He’d do it now. Just ask. 

There’s something I wanted to tell you– No. Too dramatic.

Can I tell you something? Worse.

He opened his mouth. Now. Say it.

“...Hey.”

You looked over immediately. “Yeah?”

He froze. Every word he’d spent the entire walk arranging abandoned him without so much as a goodbye. Instead, what came out was:

“...Can I come over tomorrow?”

You blinked. Confusion crossed your face so briefly it almost escaped him. Then you smiled.

“Since when do you ask?”

Juhoon rubbed the back of his neck. “Since now.”

You nudged his shoulder as you stepped backward through the gate. “Must be something important.” He laughed at that. If only you knew. 

Before disappearing into your house, you turn back to look at him. “I’ll see you then!”

Juhoon stood there for another few seconds after the door shut. Coward. 

But he still has tomorrow. Tomorrow will come, and surely, by then, he’d have enough courage to ask you one last time. 

The question might be begged if one were inclined toward such things: why does he love her? What’s the pull, the proof, the sign? How many reasons does he need?

The truth is that he doesn’t need anything. No one does in the grand and strange scheme of love. Matter of fact, the truth is simple. 

That the sun will continue its fusion, the Earth will turn under the laws that hold it in place. That atoms will keep exchanging energy and matter will forever redistribute itself into new and temporary forms. Life will persist in these structures, the division of cells, lungs drawing breaths, tides answering the moon, and the universe expanding according to rules indifferent to man. Just how things should be. 

That maybe 2 days from now, Juhoon will appear at your front door in a neat suit and take you out to homecoming. Then to the theatre if ever the two of you get bored, and later to his car, where he knows his neat shirt will have been disheveled after a few secret kisses. By the end of it, the two of you will be fast asleep in your little twin bed. And Juhoon, half-dreaming even then, will promise himself he’ll wake first just to grant himself an hour of watching you breathe. 

Just how things should be. 

──────── .✦

The bathroom had that same awful light bulb again. It's funny, I used to think I'd have already let dad replace it right about now. It made everything look sick and yellow. But this time, standing beneath that same ugly light I felt something I hadn't felt in so long. I was as good as free. 

Relief. Or something close enough to fool me. 

I’m not religious by any means. Even then, I spent the majority of my life believing some ‘maker’ had followed an unfortunate set of instructions. There was maybe one point where I’d even gone looking for God myself to get some answers. I saw a poster of it on the street: “In the face of it all, turn to God.” So I did. And when I prayed, I had no idea who to address. A god, yes. But which one? There were too many to choose from, too many heavens, though none that seemed willing to answer by the time I tried. 

I really did beg to be saved. At the end of it all, when prayer had turned thin and ragged in my mouth, I might have been shouting at some spoiled and rotting angel instead. I don’t know. I only know I tried. A star burns its fiercest just before it explodes. I have always wondered whether stars knew they were beautiful. Or if, like so many things, they had undervalued their burning for something bad. 

The floor is so, so cold and filthy against my skin, but just beyond the edge of it, something bright seemed to be waiting. I saw it. It may not have been heaven but it was miracle enough. 

I am somebody’s daughter. Before I am anything else, I am that. I feel like it too. I know I am something dearly made. That is the first truth, and it hurts to know I am still my parents’ child. They loved me first, and I loved them all my life, in all the ugly, ordinary, necessary pieces that make a person. So I will take this feeling with me, in this life and the next. 

Juhoon. 

Dearest, poorest Juhoon. My obstinate swallow, you patient animal. You carry me so often at some point I forgot how heavy I must have felt to the world. You take all my acid and bitterness. You make me sweet, and I can never still quite believe my luck. What would I have done without you? 

At eighteen, I can now say I had made a somewhat significant realization. That my life has been held together by small and untrustworthy things. I could be hopeful and terrified in the same breath, tired and restless in the same hour, certain of one thing and then ashamed of being certain at all. This heart would start learning new hungers as my mind set traps or itself, and I lived inside all these shifting contradictions. 

Threaded through all that decay, there was a boy I’ve known since I was six. Juhoon looked, from an outward perspective, like just a breathing, walking, human thing. But he was harder to dismiss than the force of this planet that held us so. And whatever I felt for him didn’t grind itself against my ribs the way the rest of my feelings did. It was lit from within, a subterranean current threading through the bedrock of a world I’ve wanted to abandon for years. And as erosion continues its course, that'll be my narrow vein of truth. 

At eighteen, I was both the fulfillment and failure of every prediction ever made about myself. And when so much in me was sick with fear, what I felt for him seemed to be the purest mineral in my body. 

I want to thank them all. Perhaps they were the brightest things about me.

The pain went thin, and I must be drowning in a dream. I saw stars. then a scatter of pale dots, then nothing at all. People say there is fear at the end. I might have believed them once, but I had already spent eighteen years afraid of my own mind, and eternity seemed too large a thing to waste on the same old terror. 

It’s so often that people who brush up against death come away with a sharpened appreciation for life. It makes you wiser and more grateful. I wish I could claim that kind of transformation happened to me, but all I had was a very simple and honest thought on my way there: thank the gods. 

A punishment to some, a gift to others, and to many a favor. Seneca, oh Seneca, who once framed it so, which did you think this was for me? 

Surely, surely, I’d have counted for something.

──────── .✦

When Juhoon knocks thrice on the front door, it is your mother who gets there first. 

“Juhoon!” She greets him as bright as a flare. “Did you walk all the way here?”

“I’m just a few blocks away so I’m fine Auntie.” He resembles ‘fine’, but he’s not fine at all. Juhoon is actually very nervous. 

“Well Y/n’s upstairs if you wanted to see her.”

She doesn’t seem to notice his jittering. But if she did, she simply chose not to interfere with them. At least that was what Juhoon assumed. 

“Oh, and Juhoon?”

He turns to her as he’s halfway up the staircase. “Yes Auntie?”

“Good luck.” 

He goes still for a second too long and lets out a small, awkward laugh. His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands that have slowly wilted while in his car. They were 50 bucks, pretty expensive for a bouquet. 50 bucks worth of attempted language. 50 bucks of I thought about this. He looks composed enough too, hair straightened and all, clothes ironed. Effort, his father had said, women think the hottest thing you can be is a man with effort. How do you think I bagged your mom, huh?

He looks back at your mother again and gives a small nod in thanks, acknowledging her little blessing. And weirdly enough, he feels a slight upward pressure in his chest. He believed it to be the improbable sensation that the world has just tilted very slightly in his favor. 

When he reaches the upstairs landing, he hears music drifting from your room, like it’s been playing itself into space for a while now. Juhoon gathers a small amount of courage before barging in. He expects you, but you aren’t there. Instead, a player sits on your desk turning over a tape. Beside it, a box of cassettes resting half-open. He recognizes it as the box of tapes he handed you a few days after he came back to town, and the way he pretended it didn’t mean any more than it was. 

“Y/n?”

Juhoon sets the flowers down on your bed carefully then turns on his heel to leave. His eyes drift to the balcony first. That’s usually where you are. Book in hand and legs hanging off the edge of the railing. But the balcony was empty too, so he stepped back inside. He continues moving past familiar corners until he reaches the bathroom door. 

“Y/n?”

He knocks twice, then thrice. No answer. Whether he was allowed to or not, he twists the knob and pushes. 

“Y/n?”

You’re on the bathroom floor, your eyes have gone half-shut and strange, there’s a pill bottle that’s scattered on the tiles, and Juhoon prays with so much primal desperation that what’s coming out of your mouth isn’t foam. 

He thinks it over and over while he kneels down and drags you into his arms as your head goes heavy in his hands. Your skin has never been so cold. When he presses his ear to your chest, there is nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing. Nothing else. What have you done? 

“Hey–Y/n? Get up, please. This isn’t funny–hey–” 

He gathers you closer and shakes you with all the force he can muster up, but your head does nothing but loll in his hands. Juhoon presses himself against every part of you he can find. Your wrist against his fingers. His forehead against yours. His cheek against your mouth. His ear against your chest. A small proof, a pulse, a tremor or an accident. And what a hateful thing the silence was.

“You promised me something–oh, god, wake up!”

Juhoon screams for your mother with a tone so torn-up it barely sounded human. His breath comes wrong, ragged and uneven. When he finally lets go of the back of your head, there is red on his hand, a thin stain of blood. His heart is unbearable in his chest, hammering and hammering and beating itself raw as if it might still find another body to save.

God, if you have any decency left, he thought, be useful. There are flowers for her in her room. She has somewhere to go tomorrow. Her parents are right here, just down the hall. She’s 18. Only 18. She’s yet to actually live. 

God I know you invented miracles. I’m not asking for anything original. Just make another.

The rest of it is a blur, and Juhoon will remember it that way. Your mother’s footsteps hurrying up the stairs, her voice calling your name before she reaches the bathroom, ordinary and unsuspecting. It makes his stomach turn. THen the door swings open, and the sound she makes doesn’t resemble a scream so much as something being torn clean through. He thinks that he’s sorry. Sorry that she has to find you like this. Sorry that your father has to come running after her. A while later, your father appears, and it’s the first time Juhoon’s ever heard him stutter. 

He felt like he was nine again, looking back to the day where he’d first saw you in a state back in that playground. You’d been shaking then, except now, as he’s being pried off of you once more, you were completely still. 

At eighteen years old, Juhoon experiences his second betrayal, and promised it would be the last.

——

Juhoon makes it home with a patch of blood on his shirt and more blood in the lines of his hands, both of which have already dried. He crosses the bathroom in one unthinking line and reaches for the toilet just in time. When the lid is down, he bends over the bowl and vomits. He vomits until the first chewed up mush is gone, then the next, and the next. His hands slip on the seat and leave red where they touch, and he’s still bent over as he shakes and starts crying in short, useless bursts that don’t relieve much. So he tears the towel off the rack and shoves it into his mouth, bites down, and screams into it. 

He stands over the sink now with the towel balled in one fist and his mouth tasting of bile and something faintly sour. The water runs too long before he remembers to turn it off. When he does, it’s silent. Juhoon looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize anything noble in what is left. His face is blotched, his eyes too wide, and there’s red under his nails. He scrubs at one thumb and watches the smear stretch, thin as paint. 

What did I miss?

It’s cruel enough to imagine that just one ceiling below you, your mother was probably deciding whether there was enough rice left for dinner, or if the laundry could wait another day. Your father might already have been pulling into the driveway just as Juhoon had finally collected enough courage to ask you. But if I had asked you just a day earlier. 

How much of a life can one conversation postpone? He sinks into the floor and rests his elbows on his knees. His hands hang between them, dirty in the cracks where the skin folds. Juhoon stares at them until they become only hands again, only tools. Ones that proved useless just about an hour ago. He knows, with a kind of sick clarity, that you didn’t do this to him. No amount of wishing could make this sort of thing come from choice. But what have you done, Y/n? 

He prayed his parents hadn’t woken up from all this. So that tomorrow, when the news came down to him in somebody else’s mouth, he could be surprised in a much cleaner shirt and pretend the ache had only just arrived, because maybe that would delay his response. He could pull the shell tight over the soft parts and keep the noise in until night came again. Tonight, though, he has no shell. 

The next day, Juhoon doesn’t go to homecoming. He’ll imagine the gymnasium filling, yes. His phone spends the entire afternoon vibrating itself tired against the bedside table. Every few minutes, another name, another photograph, another question of where he’s gone. He doesn’t think to look. He’s showered twice, scrubbed until his skin stung. Somehow, the smell remains. 

The last thing he does that day is curl himself into the blanket, turn toward the wall and wonder of the possibility of becoming a ghost before evening. One that could evaporate for a month or two until he’s found some balance again. 

In the end he thinks nothing of the party. He didn’t have a partner to go with, after all. 

——

Today, Juhoon wears white. Everyone does. Your parents had requested it, and said black would have felt too gloomy. Still, everyone weeps. The change in color doesn’t do much, nor does the beautiful weather. Your friends are sitting together at the front holding each other. The rest of your classmates who came out of obligation, affection, confusion, or some indistinguishable mixture of the three remain quietly at the back, each pretending to have discovered something intensely interesting about the ground beneath their shoes. 

Juhoon sits right in the middle of James and his parents. He dons a porcelain suit that fits him too well, and he’s sweating balls underneath it. He hasn’t said much in the days leading up to this, not even when James would pat a hand on his back every once in a while. He offers Juhoon some hope, ‘it’ll be okay’. He doesn’t believe it, but nods each time anyway

After the funeral, Juhoon finds your mother crying in the corner, her grief turned inward and wearing her down. She is upset at the whole obscenity of this, but more than that, she’s haunted by the missing clothes from that night. The same ones you wore when they found you, ones she could no longer find after the mortuary visit. Juhoon sits with her. He pats her back while she cries onto his shoulder, and keeps one sinful secret to himself. Those clothes are gone, and he took them.

She doesn’t have to know. And if she ever does, he thinks he might run with them. Or maybe he’d cut them up into such small pieces that he’d be able to swallow them down one by one.  

She also won’t have to know that after that, on the nights when he is alone and brittle with feeling, he takes out those clothes from a box, holds them up to his face like some pathetic, feral thing, and breathes until the smell gets into him. He presses them against his skin. He lets them cover him. It’s disgusting, he knows that. It makes him feel like something hunched and wrong and creeping in the dark. He feels fucking insane with it. Hollowed clean through. So full of grief it’s become his own rotting organ. Though the scent keeps him from splitting open, the memory inside it even more so. 

But while Juhoon will busy himself with drowning in what little of you all this fabric still holds, there is a corpse feeding the same hunger to the things that have found their way through the cracks. 

The earth will come for you with its impatient mouths and nameless appetites. The little bugs will slip through the seams, into your sleeves, beneath your nails, expecting meat and nothing more. But there will be something else. An aftertaste they won’t know how to water down. It’ll be the residue of all the ways you’ve turned yourself inside out, and underneath it, him. Juhoon. Like a splinter in the radicle. The things in the ground would get their teeth into that first. They’d take one mouthful of Juhoon and suffocate. 

You were always never entirely yourself down there. In all the years you lived, you made sure of that.

And perhaps that’s what will drive them back. What you had taken with you to that wooden box was never something that could be broken down and therefore would’ve been too hard to chew. The bugs might weep, the moss will want to grow over you in envy. But whether it’s love or the ghost-shape of Juhoon’s soul in your bones, whichever it is, this world won’t be able to devour it. 

──────── .✦

A YEAR AND A HALF LATER…

At long last, Juhoon could breathe.

This was due to several factors. First, the term paper from hell had finally been submitted. Second, his shitty roommate (Martin) went home, something Juhoon regarded with the same gratitude ancient civilizations reserved for their successful harvests. Basically, he was fucking ecstatic. 

He’s in college now. One of the big leagues, whoop whoop. But being a college student to him sounded more like an incurable condition he’s come to find out. Most days were spent studying, panicking about studying, or recovering from the consequences of studying. Occasionally, Juhoon entertained the idea that he should’ve gone to a community College instead. Perhaps he would’ve slept more. Maybe he’d even develop new hobbies. 

Then again, moments like this made the thought difficult to hold onto. The semester was over. His grades were good. Martin washed his dishes before he left. Most importantly, Juhoon was going home. 

By the time he stepped off the plane, the airport was particularly crowded. Full of reunions, delays, and people dragging their entire worldly possessions behind them on wheels. Juhoon did the same after claiming his suitcase from the baggage area, and got a call from his dad saying he was parked by the north entrance. 

“Grew any taller?” His father said it the moment Juhoon emerged from the gate. He reached over to ruffle Juhoon's hair, then relieved him of one of his bags to put it in the trunk.

“Maybe.” Juhoon shoved his own suitcase in before slamming the door shut. “Or perhaps you’re just shrinking. That’s pretty common at your age, huh? Spine compression.” 

His father barked out a laugh. “Two years in that school and you’re suddenly a doctor?”

“Nope. Just observant.”

“Observant with my tuition money.”

“Technically, your tuition money made me observant.”

“See?” His father pointed at him with a grin as they both got in the front. “Smart mouth. That’s what I’m paying for.”

On the drive home, Juhoon’s father updated him on the latest developments in town. His mom’s new flower shop was thriving. The old school had been renovated. One of his cousins got married. Most importantly, his father acquired a massage chair. Juhoon quietly fistbumped the air at that last news. Then, his father asks him why he hasn’t been visiting much in the last year. 

“I’m really busy dad. I’m a sophomore now so it’s like purgatory. Next year? Hell.” There were other reasons. Reasons with a name and a face and memories attached to them. He isn’t particularly interested in discussing or even thinking about it. 

“Well, at least you're home. Welcome back, kid.” As they pull up to the driveway, Juhoon thinks, welcome back, kid. 

The house has changed very little, which could either be comforting or depressing depending on how Juhoon chooses to look at it. His room, especially. All his things are the way he left them: His drum set he couldn’t bring, the posters he’d been too nervous to peel off the walls for fear of tearing, his fancy record player, the picture frames. It gave him a small, embarrassing rush of nostalgia. Enough, apparently, to make him text his friends and plan something for the afternoon. 

——

“Alright 8 ball Messiah, eat my shit.” The thirteen sat near the corner pocket with an almost insulting angle. Martin lined it up, took two quick taps fo the cue, and sent it into the pocket. One. The twelve followed. Ten the fifteen.

 Keonho let out a low whistle. “Show off.” 

The pool hall was lively at this hour, but not so crowded that they had to shout over one another. The five of them had claimed a table in the far corner, with pizza boxes perched on a chair and the lazy, companionable gravity of friends who had come together mostly to watch one another fail. Company, for another. 

“Watch this,” Martin said, and chalked his cue again, too aggressively, the blue dust gathering on his fingers. 

“No,” Keonho said. “I don’t think I will.” Martin ignored him and lined up for a shot at the nine. He took his time, exaggeratedly so, and the ball rolled. It kissed the pocket, then, with almost malicious tenderness, spun back and settled right on the lip. There was a beat of silence before Seonghyeon folded over in a fit of laughter. 

“Ju,” Keonho said, jabbing him lightly with the cue. “You playing or just brooding?” Juhoon looked up from the green felt and the small universe of striped and solid balls laid out under the low, amber light. He gave Keonho a lazy shake of the head.

“I’m getting drinks,” he said. “Be right back.” He set his cue aside and crossed the hall toward the bar, weaving through the warm noise of the place. The bar itself was sticky at the elbows and dim at the edges, and when he ordered first, he took a seat and waited there. He was just starting to wonder if he should’ve asked for water instead when a familiar voice slid in beside him.

“Been a while,” James said, leaning against the bar.. “I’m sure you've been pretending it hasn’t..”

“It’s only been, what, a year?”

“Pretty long, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t feel like it when the semester’s eating your ass off.”

“Gross. But back to that, Martin says you always try to spend your free weeks there. And then you were abroad for Christmas, so that was another no-show.”

Juhoon shrugged. “Plane tickets in this economy, dude.”

“Don’t lie to me.” James replied. “Your dad’s basically made of money.”

To which Juhoon snorted, but James didn’t let it go. He asked again, quieter. “Have you… visited? At all?”

“No.”

“Not once after the funeral?”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “No.”

James watched him for a second. He expected that answer but still hated being right. “You should go. At least once, y’know? Just to… figure your shit out. It’ll help.” 

Juhoon kept his eyes on the drinks, on the slant of condensation gathering along the cups, and the useless shine of cold glass. “I know.”

It was just his luck when he got home that evening too, though his mother looked a bit too hesitant to say it.

“I visited Ms. L/n’s house this afternoon.” She said, “They have a bakery now, did you know?”

He leaned back against his chair, still half in the night and half out of it. “I didn’t. How’ve they been?” 

“Good.” She glanced at him, then away, as though trying not to make a performance of this. “I told them you’d just come back from college, and they said if you’re ever free tomorrow, they need help getting some stuff out of the house.” 

When Juhoon's head lifted, her expression was gentle. “Only if you want to, honey.”

Juhoon looked down at his plate, then out the window. The evening had gone blue at the bounds. For reasons he knew all too well, and perhaps out of some old, stubborn loyalty to the past, he agreed. Tomorrow, then. And tomorrow, he would go.

“Tell them I’ll be there.”

Juhoon couldn’t sleep that night. He turned over in bed until the sheets felt worked raw, got up again and again for no reason at all except that lying down had become unbearable. This restlessness could usually be attributed to the long, feverish aftermath of studying too hard. Tonight though, it was fear. Plain and unhelpful. 

——

Juhoon had thought of this house in fragments over the course of the two years since he left, and it was smaller than he remembered. The windows were still clean. The paint on the siding had been redone in a shade warmer than before. When he stepped past the gate, the front yard filled itself with more flowers. Their colors crowded the narrow path in soft, overfull bunches, brushing against one another as if they were sharing secrets of Juhoon's arrival. It was still the same house, and it wasn’t. 

He made it up the porch steps, swallowed around the dry little knot in his throat, and rubbed his hands against his jeans before ringing the doorbell. Then he waited, breathing in small careful increments, until at last the door opened and a familiar face greeted him.

“Juhoon!” Ms. L/n was as sweet as he remembered. She went ahead and gave him a little hug, and Juhoon couldn’t help but hug back. “Come in, come in. You can keep your shoes on dear.”

“My husband's at work right now, so thank you for stopping by. I know you just came back from university and you must be tired.”

“It’s no problem Auntie. Glad to be back.”

“I hope you’re not too homesick over there.” 

Leave it to the past to keep these seed-shaped instincts intact. The stairs were familiar beneath his feet, worn smooth by all the times he’d gone up them before and all the earlier selves he’s dragged along. He’d done this a hundred times over, maybe even more, and the way up became its own haunting of all the other times he’d come here always bearing a gift. Always something to give. 

The hallway they cross is prosaic enough to make his chest tighten, all up until Ms. L/n stops at a door he remembers too well. When she opens it with careful hands, she glances back at Juhoon, who has to take in the sight of it all at once and do his best not to choke on the feeling. 

“I couldn’t bring myself to change her room for a long time.” She said quietly. “I was obsessed with keeping everything exactly as it was. If I didn’t, it felt like I was giving up on her.”

She smiled faintly, though it did not reach far. “My husband and I did couples therapy. They said it was especially helpful for parents who had lost a child. At one point, the therapist told us we were keeping too many of her things that we might need to let some of it go. I remember thinking that sounded a little absurd.” 

Her voice lowered a little as she continued. “But we've come to terms with that. They were right. It wasn’t helping either of us to hold on to everything.”

When she glanced back at Juhoon, her intent almost seemed apologetic. Less to herself, more to him. “When I heard from your mother that you’d just come back from college, I thought… well, you were a dear friend of Y/n’s. The closest we know. I figured you’d be the first person we’d let look around. See if there’s anything you’d like to keep for yourself before we go through the rest. Who knows, you might find some closure in there.” 

Juhoon stood very still for a moment, then dipped his head, polite as ever, even though his chest had gone tight in that miserable, familiar way. “Thank you, Auntie.”

“I’ll be down in the kitchen whenever you’re done here.” she said, already turning toward the door. “Take your time.” 

When the door closes behind him at last, he is finally left to face it. Juhoon can’t decide what’s worse: that everything looks exactly as it did before, or the fact that he remembers it all so well he was able to make that observation in the first place.  Everything's stuck in place so much so that he could have drawn this scene in the dark.

Juhoon's first stop was your desk with a cardboard box he recognizes sitting atop. The tapes were still inside waiting uselessly, but he didn’t touch them. They were never his to reclaim, though only his to make, and he made them for you. Even if you were no longer here to hear them, they remain as the little relics they always were. And he wished helplessly that you had listened to every single one. That you had worried them to pieces in your mind when you had the chance, overthought them into strange shapes, loved them until they became excruciating to hear, the way he felt when he chose them one by one. To be wounded by them, if only a little. To have heard him. 

He walks over to your closet next, and when he opens it, is struck by the sense that he’s wandered into something private. A few of your clothes have been taken out already, he notices. Though one particular lavender dress remains untouched. It hangs by itself, suspended in the middle of all that newfound space. He stares at it as his memory leans in to whisper. Back then, you told him your homecoming dress would be this exact color. The dots connect themselves, and he realizes this must be the one you were referring to. 

Juhoon slips the dress carefully from its hanger. It’s lighter than he expected. The fabric gathers over his forearms, and his thumb wanders over the seams. Then he lifts it closer, and inhales. The scent has mostly gone. It smells of cotton and cedar from the closet. But beneath all that, perhaps imagined, there is something so unmistakably of you. Shampoo. Laundry detergent. Soap. Juhoon closes his eyes and lets himself imagine. 

You, standing in front of your bedroom mirror, turning once just to see how the skirt moved. Asking your mother if the earrings were too much. Wondering if lavender made you look washed out. Wondering, because you always wondered. He had been so certain the color would suit you. He imagined telling you so after pretending to think about it first. He rehearses these possibilities, then stops himself right on his tracks. 

He sets the dress down on the bed. As he does, something farther inside the closet catches his eye. A bouquet. The petals are now brittle and have long surrendered most of their color. They curl and warp until they resemble paper, but the wrapping remains intact. Juhoon doesn’t have to wonder where it came from because he remembers leaving them on your bed that night.

God, I need to fucking leave. Juhoon can only stand being in this room for so long before his memory starts to become persuasive, and he might eventually turn psycho. As of now, it takes the lavender dress and supplies the girl who ought to have been wearing it. It sets flowers into your hands and watches you fuss over a vase. It has you kneeling beside that box of tapes, smiling to yourself after discovering he hadn’t labeled any of them. The future is extravagant that way, and maybe that was the true scale of loss. It contains infinitely more than the past ever managed in all its time. Juhoon knows he’s lost a long time ago, but apparently that wasn’t the end of it. 

He spends the next hour performing an examination of a once ordinary life. There are polaroids that catch it in fractions of a millisecond, journals filled with futures written in present tense, novels with ticket stubs left between their pages because you had every intention of coming back to them. At one point, almost without thinking, he brings the sleeve of your sweater to his face. Smell is the sense most resistant to time, which is why albeit embarrassingly, he tries to search for something. Nothing. When he reaches the door, his knees give out before the rest of him does, and so Juhoon slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wood. 

Missing you can’t be the entire answer. People miss each other every day and still go on with their lives. Long distance relationships, military deployments, immigration, death. Human beings possess an alarming talent for adapting, so why this? 

Juhoon doesn’t understand, and perhaps he might never understand until he seeks out the source. 

When he turns to leave the room, he takes nothing. It felt like the right thing to do. They mean one thing here, but they'd mean another in his house or his dorm. Context matters, and it's changing. A clay pot displayed beneath museum glass tells a different story than one found in the earth where it broke. And Juhoon can’t bear to excavate you, so he leaves empty-handed and accepts that having witnessed this place as it was is the only keepsake he’ll ever need.  

Downstairs, your mother looks up when he approaches, her expression still carrying that careful apology from earlier. “Anything worth taking?”

There wasn’t anything I could take, Juhoon thinks to answer. Instead, he gives her the warmest smile he can manage.

“More than I expected.” 

Her shoulders ease a fraction, though her eyes remain tired.

“I need to go and think some things through.” he says after a moment. 

“What things?”

“... I’m still figuring that out.” He lets out a small breath, and gives her a sure look. “Thank you again, Auntie. I’ll visit soon.” This time, the promise didn’t hurt to make.

Juhoon steps outside, and the sun’s holding steady just as much as the day keeps on, moving itself toward whatever infinity waits at its far edge. He goes through the familiar with a heaviness he can’t quite set down. A pathwalk he knows by heart. A few blocks. An opening in the land that seems, at first, too small to be called a clearing at all. He passes the graves one by one and bows as he goes, respect given in the simplest language he has. 

And then, at last, there’s a little break in the field tucked away at the corner of everything. He knows this place. He knows it even with the absurdity of having been here only once, even with the certainty he had carried away from it then that he wouldn’t return. But he’s here now proving himself wrong, and it felt good. 

To track back a little, once upon a time that was a year and a half ago to be specific, you were buried at the ragged edge of spring, when the last scraps of snow still clung desperately to the earth, dissolving by slow degrees into the dark soil of this very garden your mother loved enough to kneel in for hours without noticing the ache in her joints. By the next morning, the world had gone on being beautiful again. The birds returned, the sun lay warm across the house, and your room was exactly as you left it. Unbeknownst to anyone, it would stay that way for the rest of time up until now. 

Juhoon knows, though you only told him once, that you hated spring. Your puppy from your childhood died in spring as well, and you called it a badly timed season for grief. The air was warming just as the house was thawing itself out. In the garden, flowers kept opening their throats until the scent turned syrup-thick and mocking. Even now, the smell needles at him. You would’ve hated going among these buds, pretty or not. 

He wondered if you had gone the same way you lived. Sad, or maybe sadder. People always reach for reasons after that fact, don’t they? How dumb. 

Against all reason, he hopes he’s wrong about everything. He hopes the last moment didn’t resemble the thousands that came before it. He hopes whatever waited beyond that impossible decision was kinder than the life that delivered you there. That, if the act itself couldn’t be called kind, it was at least merciful. That something inside you wound so tightly for so long finally let loose. He hopes you looked behind yourself and found that your life had been full after all. Hope, despite his disbelief in its usefulness, and despite his attempts to rip it out of its roots. Hope, hope, hope. The damned word, the only one left to him now, and there is nothing left to do with it except keep it alive. 

When Juhoon glances to the side, he finds a tree your mother told him about earlier, one you had insisted she planted a while ago. Until now, it has kept watch over you. It gathered rain before it could reach your stone, lent its shade to the midday rays, and every so often surrendered a handful of leaves to the wind. Only when he looks closer does he notice the fruit. Small suns suspended among the branches. Oranges. 

How funny. You couldn’t let me have one visit without getting the last word. Is this how you haunt people? 

He’s strangely amused at this dramatic sense of symbolism. So this is where you’ve been hiding all your little metaphors. Juhoon lowers his head and laughs before he can help it, then shakes it off with a small helpless motion and looks back up at the tree. He steps closer, and the bark scrapes under his palm when he reaches for the fruit, twists it loose from the branch, and holds it in his hand for one brief second before the peel starts to come away beneath his thumbs. He does it the way he’s always done it over the years. For himself, for you, for no real difference at all. Rind curling down in strips, white thread clinging to his fingers, and the smell of citrus opening in the air like something alive. By the time he gets to the flesh, he bites hard, juice spilling at once over his mouth.

It’s kind of humiliating, being this primitive over a fruit. Juhoon understands what he’s doing, and it’s to possess in the oldest possible sense. Now he’s not especially hungry, but touch has never been enough for some kinds of wanting, and taste is the only thing he thinks of. So he bites down hard enough and feels he’s crossed a border. He hates the shame of the impulse. Hates the animal part of it. Hates that it resembles love, and most of all, how much relief it gives him. 

The fruits of your labor. He thinks you wouldn’t mind, not after all the things he’s only just learned to see.

Live your life. Live it angrily, live it not wanting to live, live out of spite. It doesn’t matter. Live just to live. Live because you can live. Live because you spend time, and live because you can never save it. Live because in the end and as the beginning, there is nothing you have done but that. A life, in the grand scheme of all lives, has never needed to be justified to be worth the trouble of having, just as the love that brought all lives into being was never justified by anything beyond the fact that it was love. 

Isn’t it astonishing, every now and then, to wake up inside yourself? Does it not make you happy to think that you are conclusively free? You may be bound by physics, morality, and the ordinary maintenance required by your body. But your actions are hinges, and your dreams can change the course of a day or a year, or the world as we know it. You are free. As free as not merely having the privilege of choosing, but holding the burden and ecstasy of understanding that your choices matter too. And no matter how often people like to say they are being carried forward by time, you are, albeit small, actually carrying every last bit of it with you. 

And what a peculiar leverage to entrust to creatures who forget their keys and cry over ballads, and do all these horrible things. 

What a strange privilege. What a terrible, beautiful freedom. 

You tell a person you love them. You board a train and leave. You say yes and, every so often, you say no. You loosen your grip. You permit yourself to change. You awaken, and you rest, both never for long because this has always been such restless work. It means you are also a force of your own. It’s frightening to discover just how wonderful that is. 

You have to understand that these are, in the end, just different names for that same magnificent act of being alive. 

So Juhoon thinks, calmly and surely, that he will carry on. In spite of everything, and in spite of himself, he knows he still has his time. So he will spend it all down to the edge, the seam, and the thin shining end of the brightest nickel in his pocket. And when his account’s finally come due and he’s bidded home at last, he’ll look over his shoulder and find the conclusion’s much simpler than he fears: Some achievements, a handful of proofs that he was once a man named Juhoon, you, and a small number of others. The rest can keep to themselves. 

It’s a small tally, and it is enough. 

A life is fortunate if it asks for nothing more. A room, a body, a few names, and a hand to hold. As Juhoon walks on home once more, leftover fruit peels in his pocket and a restful smile on his face, he thinks, finally, that maybe he could live with that. 

_________

i finally made a perm taglist guys are you proud of me (pls lmk if u wanna be added!): @reysblr @schatjze @pinkiwinkiminki @marsgirltyshi @hyuneskkami @nayamk6 @ava-io @itsredxctedstan @jjuhyeons

boom first fic after my hiatus is it bearable 😭 I was so nervous bc I didn’t know if angst was the right way to start off after my leave 💀 but this will forever be close to my heart for multiple reasons and i hope this won’t be read the wrong way 💔 and for another, this fic is in no way something to romanticize or look up to. I’ve been wanting to write this for the sole purpose of looking into my own feelings and experiences and that’s another story not for the books 😅 but to those who are struggling with something similar i hope hope hope you’re waking up each morning and thinking of trying your best again 🥹 i love u so much 💟 thank u for being here 🌱

[mariyariririri]

This is so well written but bro i was not prepared for that💔💔

[bamiees]

static on the stereo

pairing: guitarist ! martin x singer ! reader genre: 2000s garage band au, slow burn, bandmates to lovers, fluff, angst, tension wc: 3.2k-3.5k words synopsis: in 2006, your band is six kids with cheap guitars, bruised knuckles, and impossible dreams. ¡¡NOT PROOFREAD!!

the basement reeked of dust, sweat, and burnt out extension cords, it always did.

the old yellow lamp in the corner flickered like it was on its last breath, throwing shaky light across the concrete floor while cables curled around everywhere like sleeping snakes.

this was home, not literally, but close enough.

"again," james said, tapping his drumsticks together.

juhoon groaned from behind his bass. "we've played this song eight times already."

"nine," keonho corrected, adjusting his keyboard.

seonghyeon sat cross-legged on the floor with his guitar, scribbling notes into a ripped notebook.

and then there was martin, leaning against the amp, he was quiet, and silently watching, he was always watching.

you stood at the mic, fingers curled around it like you could squeeze the nerves out of yourself.

"from the bridge," you said.

james counted in.

one, two, three, four.

the room exploded.

guitar feedback screamed through the speakers, juhoon's bass rumbled under it like thunder, james crashed into the drums like he was trying to break them, and your voice cut through the noise.

raw, messy, real.

martin's guitar slid into the chorus like liquid silver.

he played like breathing, like it cost him nothing, you hated that, love it too.

when the song ended, james threw his sticks in the air. "that was disgusting."

you frowned. "like, bad disgusting?"

he grinned. "no, good disgusting."

martin smirked. it was tiny, barely there, but enough.

you caught it, and your stomach betrayed you, again.

"you rushed the second verse," martin said.

your eyes narrowed.

"there it is."

"there what is?"

"you being so annoying."

he crossed his arms. "you asked."

"i didn't ask for nothing."

"you looked at me."

"that doesn't count."

"it does."

juhoon laughed. "you two flirt like divorced parents."

"we are not flirting," you and martin said at the exact same time.

james nearly fell of his stool laughing. martin looked away first, that should've felt like victory, instead it just felt… weird. like heat crawling up your neck.

the band was called velvet riot, a name james came up with at 2 am while eating instant ramen.

nobody, and i mean nobody liked it, but nobody had better so it stayed.

by fall of 2006, you were playing local shows around seoul, tiny underground venues with sticky floors and crowds packed shoulder to shoulder.

it wasn't beautiful, half the time the sound system sucked, sometimes people threw napkins, once someone had thrown soup, but people listened, and that's what mattered.

tonight's venue was cramped and boiling hot, you adjusted your eyeliner in the cracked mirror backstage.

"you nervous?" seonghyeon asked.

"always."

"that's good."

"how?"

"if you stop being nervous, it means you stopped caring."

you hummed.

martin walked in, guitar slung over his shoulder. he was wearing black skinny jeans, band tee, messy blond hair falling into his eyes, he looked annoying cool without trying.

"five minutes," he said.

your eyes met in the mirror, static, always static.

"you ready?" he asked.

you swallowed. "yeah."

he stared for a second longer, then, "your eyeliner's smudged."

you glared. "then don't look at me."

he stepped closer, your breathing stopped, his thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the smudge, quick, simple, but your heart slammed like james' kick drum.

"there," martin said softly, and walked out.

you stood frozen.

seonghyeon stared.

"…what?"

"i hate him."

"sure you do."

the show was chaos, perfect chaos.

the crowd screamed lyrics back at you, sweat dripped down your neck, lights burned hot.

martin stood to your right, guitar low against his hips, eyes half-lidded in concentration.

during your final chorus of your newest song, he looked at you. like really looked at you.

and for one dangerous second, everything else disappeared.

not the crowd, not the lights, just him, and that look, like he was hearing you for the first time.

after the set, the venue owner shoved forty bucks into james' hand.

"big money," juhoon said.

"we're so rich," keonho deadpanned.

you laughed, stepping outside into the cool night air, the city buzzed around you, cars, streetlights, rain thretening.

martin joined you.

"you were good tonight."

that caught you off guard, because martin didn't hand out compliments like candy.

"…thanks."

he nodded.

silence stretched, not awkward, just full.

"why'd you start singing?" he asked.

you looked up at the neon signs.

"because it was the only thing that really made sense."

martin watched you.

"yeah."

"what about you?"

"same."

something about that answer made your chest ache, because you understood it way too much.

and maybe that was the dangerous part.

not that martin was attractive, not that he made your stomach flip, but that he understood you, like he could hear the parts of your body nobody else could, and that was worse, way worse.

rain started falling, soft at first, then harder.

you both laughed and ran back toward the van, soaked within seconds.

martin grabbed your wrist when you slipped on the pavement, his hand stayed there, warm, firm.

your face inches apart, rain dripping from his hair, his eyes on your mouth, your pulse a riot, for one second, two, three, then james leaned out the van window.

"GET A ROOM."

you yanked away, martin climbed in like nothing happened.

you sat beside him, heart rattling like loose change in a dryer.

and the worst part? he looked completely calm, like he hadn't almost kissed you, like you hadn't wanted him to.

badly. outside, rain battered the windows. inside, velvet riot drove into the dark with cheap gear and bigger dreams.

and beside you, martin tapped a rhythm against his knee.

the van smelled like old fries, wet denim, and someone's broken optimism.

james was driving like the road owed him tons of money. juhoon was arguing with keonho about whether distorted bass "counts as music or a plea for help," and seonghyeon had fallen asleep with his guitar still strapped across his chest like a loyal pet refusing to leave its owner.

you sat pressed against the window, martin sat beside you, too close for comfort, not close enough to be anything else.

the rain had stopped, but the world still looked smeared, like someone had dragged a thumb across it.

martin's knee slightly bounced, tapping patterns on the floorboard. you noticed it again, you always noticed it.

"you keep doing that," you said quietly.

"doing what?"

"that." you pointed toward his leg.

he glanced down. "oh, i didn't notice."

"yeah, well i did."

then, softer, "it helps me think."

you hummed like you didn't care, but you really did. because you were learning him i fragments, not stories, not sentences, just… patterns.

james swerved slightly and shouted, "WE'RE GETTING FOOD OR I DIE."

"you're already dead inside," juhoon said.

"i will crash this van," james said, looking at juhoon from the rearview mirror.

somehow, you all ended up at a 24-hour diner glowing like a tired spaceship on the side of the highway.

red booths, sticky menus, coffee that tasted like burnt hope and regret.

you slid into a seat across from martin, he didn't look up from peeling the label off the glass.

"so," james said, grinning. "we just played our best show yet."

"we played in a room that smelled like mildew," juhoon corrected.

"and we were awesome," james insisted.

"you threw a drumstick at a drunk guy," keonho added.

"he deserved it."

martin finally spoke. "we need a better setlist."

the table groaned in unison.

"of course you say that," you said.

he looked at you. "it's true."

"that's not my fault."

"it's annoying."

"it's efficient."

"you're efficient," james echoed mockingly. "like a human spreadsheet."

martin didn't react, he just looked at you again, like he was waiting for something, like he always was, and you hated how much you wanted to give it to him.

later, the others went outside arguing about snacks and the best restaurants to dine in at.

you stayed behind, so did martin, of course he did.

the diner hummed softly around you, old radio in the corner playing something broken and soft.

you traced your finger along the condensation on your glass.

"you wrote something new," martin said suddenly.

your eyes flickered up.

"what?"

"during soundcheck. you were humming."

you froze. "you were listening?"

"i'm always listening."

that should've been normal, but the way he said it made your chest tighten.

"…it's not finished," you admitted.

"sing it."

"no."

"why?"

"because it's not good yet."

martin leaned back in his seat. "that's not a reason."

"it is for me."

silence stretched.

then he said, "play it anyway."

you frowned. "no."

he didn't push, that was worse. instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small, battered cassette player.

your eyebrows shot up.

"where did you get that relic?"

"thrift store."

"you're actually a 40 year old man stuck inside a teenager's body."

he ignored that, and pressed play.

a low, crackling instrumental filled the booth. guitar, simple, bare bones.

your breath caught.

"that's yours," you said.

"yeah."

"when did you?"

"last week."

you stared at him, he didn't look embarrassed, he just looked… steady, like this was normal, like making music for you was just another wednesday.

"you didn't tell me," you said.

"you would've overthought it."

"that's not--"

"it is."

you hated that he was right, the instrumental looped again, soft, patient, like it was waiting for you voice.

martin slid a napkin toward you. "try it."

but your hands were already moving, words came out messy at first, then steadier, like your voice recognized before your mind did.

a song about static signals, about trying to reach someone through noise, about missing something you couldn't name.

when you finished, your throat felt tight, the booth was quiet, too quiet.

martin stared at the table for a long second. then, "yeah."

that was it, just that, but something in his tone cracked open something in you, not dramatic, not loud, just real.

outside, the others were arguing about fried.

while inside, the air between you and martin felt different. not heavier, not lighter, just… charged, like a wire pulled too tight.

you stood first.

"i'm going back to the van."

martin nodded, you turned and then--

"hey."

you paused, didn't look back just yet.

"your song," he said.

"…yeah?"

"it sounds like you're trying not to fall apart."

you swallowed. "that's not what it is."

a beat, then his voice, quieter, "maybe not."

you finally looked at him, he was watching you, like always, but softer now and less distance, more something you couldn't name.

"i'll fix it," you said, even though you didn't know what "fix" meant.

martin stood as well.

"no," he said.

"don't."

that confused you.

"what?"

"don't fix it."

a paused, then he added, "it's already good."

that hit much more harder than it should've, because martin didn't lie, not even a little.

when you got back to the van, james immediately yelled, "YOU GUYS WERE GONE FOR SO LONG."

"suspicious," juhoon said.

you climbed into the van without answering, martin followed, and sat beside you again in the same seat, same silence, but now it felt different, like something had shifted and nobody had named it yet.

outside, the diner shrank in the rearview mirror.

inside, james turned up the radio, a stretched out rock song played through static.

and martin tapped the rhythm again on his knee. but this time, you matched it, just slightly, just barely, and he noticed.

his fingers paused for half a second, then resumed.

by winter, velvet riot had become something people actually talked about, not famous, not even close, but known.

the kind of known where underground forums started posting blurry photos of your sets. the kind where kids in oversized hoodies showed up early just to get near the stage. the kind where people knew the lyrics before you officially released them.

it just felt unreal.

like building a paper airplane and watching it somehow survive a storm.

tonight, you were playing one of the biggest venues you'd had yet, still small, still grimmy, but bigger than bars and basements.

backstage was absolute chaos.

james was spinning a drumstick between his fingers, juhoon was tuning for the sixth time, keonho was muttering about winning, seonghyeon was pascing, and martin…

martin was sitting on the floor, guitar in his lap, head down, and quiet.

you leaned against the wall, watching him, he had this way of disappearing into himself before shows, like he had to lock every piece into place.

"you're staring," he said without looking up.

you rolled you eyes. "how do you always know?"

he looked up, a little amused.

"because you're loud."

"i'm literally just standing here."

"exactly."

you kicked his shoe lightly.

he smirked, and that stupid smirk did the usual damage.

by now, your feelings for martin were less of a secret to yourself, still hidden from everyone else, mostly. except for james, he definitely knew, james knew everything, he was like a raccoon with gossip, what a menace.

the set was electric, the crowd screamed so loud your ears rang between songs, sweat clung to your skin, lights flashed, your throat burned.

and martin was impossible tonight, every riff sharper, every glance heavier.

halfway through your new song, your eyes locked across the stage.

the song bent around it, that look, again, the same dangerous gravity, you almost missed your cue.

after the set, james was riding adrenaline like it was a stolen bike.

"THAT was insane!"

juhoon laughed. "you almost knocked over your kit."

"rock and roll."

keonho deadpanned, "you say that every time you nearly die."

the venue owner approached, older guy, leather jacket, cigarette in his mouth.

"you kids got something."

james instantly puffed up.

"yeah?"

"there's a battle of the bands next month. winners get time in the studio."

everyone froze, studio time, actual studio time.

not martin recording demos in his bedroom with cheap equipment. real studio time.

james nearly combusted.

"we're in."

then man laughed. "good."

when he left, chaos erupted. juhoon tackled james, keonho actually smiled, seonghyeon looked like he might cry, and you?

you looked at martin, because of course you did, he was staring right back, not smiling, just… intense.

like this mattered to him more than words could carry.

the celebration ednded up on the roof of the venue. cheap soda, cold air, city lights stretched below like spilled glitter.

james and juhoon were play wrestling near the stairs, keonho and seonghyeon were quietly talking, you stood against the edge, arms folded against the cold.

martin joined you. no wrods at first, that was your thing, silence without weight.

"you happy?" he asked.

you smiled. "yeah."

he nodded.

his shoulder brushed yours, small, accidental, probably, it still made your pulse trip.

"studio time," you said. "feels fake."

"it's not."

"what if we lose?"

martin looked at you. "then we lose."

"that's comforting."

"it's honest."

you laughed.

"there's the martin charm."

his mouth twitched, then his voice dropped, "you care too much about outcomes."

you frowned.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means your always twenty steps ahead. you never stay in the moment."

that annoyed you, because it was true.

"and you do?"

"yes."

"liar."

martin tilted his head.

"am i?"

you looked at him, really looked, messy hair, cold pink cheeks, eye darker under the city lights, so close.

"i don't know," you said.

his gaze dropped to your mouth, there it was, again.

that unbearable most. then, "yo!"

james' voice shattered it, you both jumped apart, james stood in the doorway grinning like a criminal.

"band picture."

you glared so hard he almost laughed himself down the stairs.

later that night, back at martin's place, everyone crashed there because it was closer.

his house was empty, parents gone for work, like usual.

the living room was covered in sleeping bags and half eaten snacks.

james was already snoring, juhoon had stolen all the blankets, keonho had headphones on, seonghyeon was asleep mid sentence.

you couldn't sleep, so you wandered.

the hallway light glowed dim, martin's bedroom door was open, he was inside, sitting by the window with his guitar playing softly, you leaned against the frame.

"thought you lived the moment."

he glanced up. "i do."

"seems like you're hiding."

he huffed a laugh. "could say the same."

you stepped inside, his room was complete chaos, posters, CDS, lyrics pinned to the walls, half finished songs everywhere.

it felt like walking inside his brain, messy, brilliant, dangerous.

"what are you playing?" you asked.

"nothing."

"that's a song title?"

"no. just nothing."

you sat beside him on the bed, closer than usual.

the mattress dipped, his shoulder touched yours, neither of you moved, your eyes landed on a notebook beside him, he snatched it before you could grab it.

"oh my god," you said. "what's in there?"

"nothing."

"again with nothing."

"drop it."

that only made you want it more.

you lunged, he pulled away, you grabbed his wrist, he grabbed yours, suddenly you were both froze, way too close.

his hand warm against your, your knees touching, your faces inches apart, the room felt too small, the air too thin.

martin's eyes searched yours, not joking anymore, not teasing, something sharper.

your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

"martin…"

his gaze dropped.

mouth, neck, back to your eyes, his voice was barely there.

"you keep doing that."

"doing what?"

"getting too close."

you swallowed.

"maybe you should stop me."

that was reckless, a match tossed into gasoline.

martin stared at your for one endless moment, then another, and then he kissed you.

quick, almost changed his mind, but it wasn't enough, you kissed back immediately. harder.

months of static finally breaking, his hand slid to your waist, yours tangled in his shirt.

it felt messy, breathless, like a song crashing into its chorus.

when you pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard.

martin rested his forehead against yours, neither of you spoke.

because what could you say?

that everything changed?

that it had been changing for months?

that maybe this was inevitable?

from the living room, james' half asleep voice rang out, "…called it."

you both laughed, quiet, disbelieving.

and somehwere between the city lights, the guitars, and the kiss that tasted like unfinished songs, something new began. not polished, not easy, but real.

[mariyariririri]

I luv these type of fics sm

[tojiscrack]

✧.* 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑, 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 *.✧

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴍ.ꜰ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ao3 , q&a

❝ ‘she’s my best friend.’

‘and nothing more?’

‘and nothing less.’

‘you’re a liar, megumi fushiguro.’ ❞

when you’d met megumi fushiguro in autumn of 2007, you thought he was a thorn at your side. twelve years later, you realised just how prickly thorns were.

chapter 1: kindergarten

chapter 2: elementary school

chapter 3: middle school

chapter 4: high school: freshman year

chapter 5: high school: sophomore year

chapter 6: high school: junior year

chapter 7: mission accomplished

chapter 8: new tutor

chapter 9: the open game

chapter 10: three quarters

chapter 11: mission failed

chapter 12: jujutsu’s got talent

chapter 13: behind the scenes

chapter 14: the last time

chapter 15: N/A

© tojiscrack

all of the writing above belongs to me. please do not plagiarise or translate my work, you do not have my permission. all characters — apart from y/n — belong to gege akutami, as well as the jjk story/plot. this is purely fan-fiction and a completely different story using his characters.

[mariyariririri]

Comeback baeee

I miss thiss💔

[augustinewrites]

JUJUTSU KAISEN MASTERLIST

series (gojo x reader)

keeping up with the fushigojos || raising kids is messy. it takes a whole lot of love and even more patience. but the two of you wouldn't trade your little blended family for anything in the world.

or,

how you and satoru become the legal guardians of megumi and tsumiki. featuring every life lesson and adventure you experience along the way.

merry christmas from the fushigojos

lunchbox

the talk

loose tooth

nutmeg

tense

grounded

proposal

drunken dancing

shibuya

weird sidekicks

adult time

halloween

two truths and a lie

anniversary

221

sweet nothing

family meeting

school dance

mother’s day

the more you know

dad!gojo

three conditions

off days

first kisses & falling in love

empty apartment

first crush

bachelorette party

irresistible

sharing is caring

stay

2006

sick day

watch and learn

the fushigohomes

a losing battle

conflicts of interest

gojo bday fic!

biggest fear

keeping up with the fushigojos: extended cut!

game night

halloween nonsense

sight-seeing

can’t lose you

united front

miracle

in laws

babysitter

grandchildren

thief

just a bad dream

fushigojo headcanons (too many, check the tag for more!)

random fushigojo hc’s

picking sides

other parent

appreciation

one-shots

worst kept secret

friendzone

there was only one bed

first fight

colpo di fulmine

long night

a favour

child rearing

proud parent

headcanons

proposal hcs

one-shots

cats & compromise

shikigami can’t keep secrets

drabbles

first date

accidental confession

birthday

drabbles

more than you know

eyes on me

emergency contact

being needed and being loved

hotter than jlaw

drabbles

truth or dare

[mariyariririri]

Miss this

[literaila]

a typical family (completed)

satoru shows up unexpectedly after six months of silence, two little kids trailing behind him. chaos ensues.

any additional posts tagged under #a typical family (there’s a lot)

ao3 link.

second year.

small talk

admissions

third year.

premature death

year zero. [START HERE]

one in the morning

year one.

three things

eavesdropping

did you miss me?

reassurance

year two.

sick

a bit loud

bad day

he stole my valentine

stay

year three.

moving in

new pups

midnight happenings

emotions

fighting

year four.

the brunch

slip-up

cuddle time

hey

keeping secrets

kitchen scene

year five.

a walk

stress baking

it's not my fault

midnight happenings (2)

worth

jealousy

remembering

year six.

are you stupid?

beyond…

if you're still confused about these idiots this is for you

[mariyariririri]

Hahhshahs i miss this seriesss

Highkey reading this again bcs its peak🤩

[eomagahd]

LUCKY SHOT ☘︎ EOM SEONGHYEON

☘︎ synopsis: After accidentally kicking a football straight into your face, Seonghyeon is prepared to spend the rest of the week apologizing. You meanwhile, discovered that being mildly injured comes with some surprisingly enjoyable perks.

☘︎ genre: classmate!seonghyeon x classmate!reader, highschool!au, SLOWBURN.., fluff, teasing, kissing, mutual pining, footballplayer!seonghyeon, shy!reader, jealousy, lots of yearning, a lil angst in there, protective!seonghyeon, shy girl & popular guy or wtv, some cringeworthy scenes, introverted reader x extroverted? seonghyeon

☘︎ wc: 17,6k MASTERLIST

If anyone asked later, you would insist you saw the football coming.

You didn’t.

Not until it was already flying toward you at an alarming speed.

Then- well. Getting hit in the face tends to interrupt a person’s train of thought.

The impact came fast and hard, sending a sharp sting across your cheek. Your eyes watered instantly as the ball bounced away somewhere across the field, but you barely noticed. All you could do was stand there, blinking in disbelief.

Seriously? Out of everyone on the field, it had to hit you?

A mixture of gasps and laughter erupted around you. Heat rushed to your face immediately, not from the pain, but from the sudden realization that half the football field was staring at you. Great.

Nothing was more humiliating than becoming the center of attention because a football had smacked you directly in the face. You pressed a hand against your cheek, hoping the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

A pair of hurried footsteps pounded across the grass, growing louder by the second. Before you could even recover, someone came to a stop right in front of you. “Oh my god.”

You looked up, it was Seonghyeon. His eyes were wide, his face pale. Judging by his expression, you’d think he just witnessed a murder.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately. You opened your mouth to answer.

“I am so sorry.” Then closed it again.

“I wasn’t aiming anywhere near you, I swear. I don’t even know how that happened. Are you hurt? Does your head hurt? Can you see properly?”

The questions came so quickly that you barely had time to process them. You just stared at him. It wasn’t really because your head hurt, more so because Eom Seonghyeon, the same Seonghyeon who usually looked far too cool and confident for his own good, looked like he was seconds away from having a complete breakdown. Finally, you sighed.

“I got hit by a football, not hit by a truck’’

‘’Some would argue that that’s worse.’’

Despite yourself, a faint laugh escaped you. The tension in Seonghyeon’s shoulders eased immediately at the sound of your laugh. For some reason, that made your stomach do something strange.

“You laughed,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly.

‘’Hm?’’

“It means you’re okay.”

You blinked at him. Then, before you could stop yourself you let out a quiet groan and pressed a hand to your forehead. Immediately, panic returned to his face. “Wait. What happened? Are you dizzy?”

“…Very.”

The reaction was instant.

“Oh god.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “Very” was apparently the wrong thing to say. Seonghyeon looked seconds away from calling an ambulance.

“I might die, it could be because of you.” you said dramatically.

“It’s that bad?!”

Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Come on.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you to the nurse.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. Actually…that didn’t sound so bad.

A few minutes later, you found yourself sitting on a chair in the nurse’s office while Seonghyeon hovered nearby like an anxious parent. The nurse had spent less than thirty seconds checking you over before declaring you completely fine. Unfortunately for Seonghyeon, he didn’t seem convinced.

“Are you sure?” he asked. The nurse looked mildly offended.

“Yes.”

“But the ball hit her pretty hard.”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know?”

You looked away before either of them could see your smile. This was getting ridiculous. Yet you couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about you this much. When the nurse finally sent you back out, Seonghyeon stayed beside you the entire walk down the hallway.

“You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to get you something? You’re not bruised, are you? Wait, let me check-” Before you could respond, Seonghyeon was already leaning closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined your cheek. You froze for a second, suddenly very aware of how close he was. After a moment, he leaned back with a small frown.

“I think it’s going to bruise.”

A few days have gone by, and Seonghyeon had somehow managed to become your personal caretaker. At first, it had been small things.

A bottle of water placed on your desk every morning with a bright smile that had you not doubt why everyone was charmed by him. When you carried many books, he’d take them out of your hands without hesitation. Everytime he would walk past you, he’d ask you this question:

‘’How’s your head today?’’ as if you were recovering from a life threatening injury. You have never met someone so commited. At some point you stopped correcting him because everytime he checked on you, his face softened in a way you have never seen before.

Before what happened in the football field, Seonghyeon had been one of those people you only knew from a distance. The kind of person everyone seemed to recognize. He wasn’t loud or constantly trying to be noticed, he never really had to. People gravitated towards him naturally.

Teachers liked him. Students liked him. Heck, even the security guard near the front entrance seemed happy to see him every morning. You had always thought Seonghyeon was cold and intimidating, which is why you have never spoken to him before. You weren’t exactly the type to walk up to people.

While Seonghyeon seemed to move through school as if he belonged everywhere, you preferred blending into the background. You kept your circle small, avoided unecessary attention and spent most of your time in your own world. The idea of starting a conversation with someone like Seonghyeon had never even crossed your mind. You were pretty sure he didn’t know who you were, or at the very least never bothered to pay any attention to you. Then he kicked a football directly into your face, now he wouldn’t leave you alone.

You really should’ve kept your mouth shut. It had been a completely harmless comment, a passing observation. Something you’d mutter to your friend while packing up your things after class.

‘’I’m hungry’’

You hadn’t asked anyone to get you anything, and you certainly hadn’t been talking to Seonghyeon. Yet somehow a few minutes later, he came back with a recognizable sandwich from the school cafeteria. You looked up in confusion.

“So..”

Before you could finish your sentence, Seonghyeon handed you the sandwich.

“You said you were hungry”

You stared at him, then the sandwich, then back at him.

“..oh.”

Very articulate. His expression didn’t change.

“Eat.”

“I was going to buy one after class.”

“Now you don’t have to.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because the problem wasn’t the sandwich. The problem was that half the classroom had suddenly become very interested in what was happening. You could practically feel the stares.

The girls sitting by the window had stopped talking. Someone behind you let out a suspiciously amused laugh. Your friend looked seconds away from exploding. She had many questions, the look upon her face says it all. Heat immediately rushed to your face.

‘’Tha..nks.’’ You mumbled, taking the sandwich quickly in your hand while lowering your head. Seonghyeon was completely unaware of the crisis unfolding internally.

‘’Your head okay?’’

‘’Yeah..’

‘’You sure?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’Good.’’

The conversation really should’ve ended there. Instead, Seonghyeon remained standing next to your desk. Your face grew warmer. Why is he still here? Finally, after a few seconds he spoke again.

‘’Let me know if it starts hurting.’’

Then, as casually as he’d arrived, turned and walked away. You turned to your friend, you already knew where this was going.

‘’Y/n-‘’

‘’No.’’

‘’There’s like-clearly something going on that you’re refusing to inform me about.’’

‘’Like what?’’

Her expression changed, as if it was obvious and self explanatory.

Choi Haejin was the complete opposite of you. You were reserved, she was sociable and open. You were in your own world and Haejin was in everybody else’s, gathering information to gossip about later. Somehow this dynamic worked extremely well. You needed a friend to do all the talking, and you really do enjoy it.

‘’Hello? Why is he practically working for you?’’

‘’There’s obviously something going on!’’

‘’WHAT IF HE POISONED THE SANDWICH?!’’

‘’It’s not reasonable for him to have any hatred towards you though..”

‘’How are you so calm?!’’

Yes, one of Choi Haejin’s many loveable qualities. Her overwhelmingly stacked questions.

Seonghyeon’s concern didn’t seem to fade with time. If anything, it had simply evolved. A week after the football incident, you found yourself stuck in a conversation you had absolutely no interest in being part of. You’d only been trying to get to class. That was it.

Somehow, somewhere between leaving the cafeteria and reaching the stairs, a girl from your year had stopped you. You knew who she was, but not well enough to have a ten minute conversation in the middle of the hallway. Yet here you were, smiling politely, nodding occasionally and secretly praying for an escape.

“-and then she literally posted about it!” the girl continued. “Really?” you replied.

You didn’t even know what you were saying “really” to anymore. The conversation had dragged on for so long that you’d completely lost the plot. You shifted your weight awkwardly, glancing toward the staircase. Your next class started in a few minutes, but cutting her off felt rude. Standing here forever also felt rude to yourself.

“So then I told her-‘’

“There you are.”

The familiar voice made you look up immediately. Seonghyeon. For a second, you just stared. He stopped beside you, one hand shoved casually into his pocket.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Class starts in like two minutes.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

It did?

Before you could check your phone, Seonghyeon looked over at the girl.

“Sorry,” he said easily. “I need her for something.”

Need you?

The girl glanced between the two of you.

“Oh.”

You felt your face heat up instantly.

“Oh.”

Seonghyeon, meanwhile, looked completely unaffected. The girl quickly stepped aside.

“Yeah, of course.”

And just like that, you were free. You followed Seonghyeon down the hallway, still trying to process what had happened. Neither of you spoke.

“You didn’t need me for anything.” You began.

“Nope.” You stared at him. He glanced over.

“You looked like you wanted to escape.” Your steps faltered slightly.

“Was it that obvious?”

“To me?” he shrugged. “A little.”

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to appear. The strange thing was that you hadn’t even told him you were uncomfortable. You hadn’t said anything at all. And somehow, he’d noticed anyway.

The next day, by the time you reached your classroom, you were expecting everyone to already be inside. Instead, a small crowd had gathered outside the locked door.

A few students sat on the floor scrolling through their phones while others stood around complaining about the teacher being late. Relieved that you hadn’t actually missed anything, you slipped into an empty spot against the wall and pulled out your phone, hoping to blend into the background until the classroom opened. It was working for about thirty seconds, then a familiar voice spoke beside you.

“You’re late, It’s not because of your head is it?’’

You looked up to find Seonghyeon standing there. Before you could answer, someone walking down the hallway lifted a hand.

“Hey, Seonghyeon.”

“Hey.”

Another student nodded at him as they passed. A group farther down the hall called his name and he acknowledged them with a small wave. It was such a normal thing that he barely seemed to notice it. You did.

Before he acknowledged you, this was exactly how you’d always seen him, from a distance. Someone who seemed to know everyone and be known by everyone. Teachers greeted him. Students greeted him. Even people who weren’t in his friend group seemed comfortable walking up to him. Meanwhile, you were usually trying to avoid being perceived altogether.

“Well?” he asked.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Why are you late?” You immediately looked away because the answer was embarrassing.

“I couldn’t find a pen.” Seonghyeon stared at you.

“A pen.”

“Yes.”

“You were late because of a pen.”

“It was an important pen.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, you felt strangely defensive.

“It was.”

A laugh escaped him.

Not loud enough to draw attention, but enough that you looked up in surprise. You weren’t sure why the sound caught you off guard. Maybe because Seonghyeon always seemed so composed around everyone else. Maybe because you’d spent months assuming he was intimidating. Now he was laughing because you apparently make hilarious jokes.

The interaction hadn’t gone unnoticed, somehow you caught two girls nearby glancing over before quickly looking away. One of them whispered something to the other. Heat immediately crept up your neck.

For some reason, whenever Seonghyeon talked to you, it felt like everyone else suddenly became interested too. Seonghyeon either didn’t notice or didn’t care. A few minutes later, one of his friends appeared and nudged his shoulder.

“Come here for a sec.” You expected him to leave but instead he glanced over briefly. “I’ll be there in a minute, Keonho.’’ His friend looked between the two of you before smirking slightly. “Right.”

The second he walked away, you wanted to disappear. Seonghyeon meanwhile, looked completely oblivious. The conversation continued in small pieces after that. Nothing important. Complaints about homework. A teacher neither of you liked. The upcoming test everyone was stressing about. You still weren’t saying much but for the first time, the silences didn’t feel awkward.

That was what surprised you the most because before all of this, talking to Seonghyeon had never even seemed like a possibility. Now you found yourself hoping the teacher would stay late for a few more minutes.

If there was one thing you’d learned from being friends with Haejin, it was that she was incapable of making a quick decision. She was supposed to buy a game for her younger brother’s birthday.

You were only there because she’d insisted she needed a “second opinion”. According to Haejin, this was a very important responsibility. According to you, she just didn’t want to go alone. Twenty minutes later, your theory was proven to be correct.

“You’ve been staring at these three games for like ten minutes”

Haejin gasped dramatically. “This is a life changing decision.”

“…It’s a birthday gift?’’

‘’Exactly.’’

You sighed and glanced around the store.

The place was busier than you’d expected for a saturday afternoon. The game store was warm and slightly crowded, lined with shelves stacked with colorful game cases and collectibles. Bright lights reflected off display screens scattered throughout the store, while the faint sounds of racing games, button mashing, and excited conversations filled the air.

Groups of friends wandered between aisles, kids begged their parents to buy things and somewhere in the back of the store, a racing game played loudly through a set of speakers.

‘’Oh, what do i do? Haemin likes all of these.’’ At this point, you were mostly waiting for Haejin to decide which game she’d buy for her brother so you could both leave. Then a familiar voice drifted across the store.

‘’You can’t blame me for that.’’

For a second, you thought you’d imagined it but then another voice answered.

‘’Oh yes i can.’’

You turned your head slightly. Near the racing simulator setup stood two boys. One was sitting in the simulator, controller still in hand. The other stood beside him with his arms crossed. You recognized them immediately.

Seonghyeon and Keonho.

You simply stared. Not because seeing them was surprising, you’re sure many highschoolers come here.

Because seeing them like this was.

‘’You literally drove into me!’’ Keonho blamed.

‘’I didn’t-‘’

‘’You did.’’

‘’I barely touched you.’’

Keonho looked genuienly offended.

‘’You sent my car into a wall.’’

‘’Well you suck at this game anyway.’’

A laugh escaped Seonghyeon.

Even after becoming friends with him, most of your conversations had happened between classes, in hallways, or during lunch breaks.

School Seonghyeon was confident, calm, and seemingly unbothered by everything. This version felt more relaxed, warm. More real. Like the moment he stepped outside school, some invisible pressure disappeared.

Beside you, Haejin finally noticed where your attention had gone. She looked at the two boys.

“No way.”

You already knew that tone.

“Haejin.”

“No way.”

“Haejin.”

“That’s Seonghyeon- and Keonho.’’

“I can see that.”

She looked far too excited about this discovery. Fate apparently hated you because at that exact moment, Keonho looked up and spotted the two of you. His grin appeared instantly.

“Oh, this is interesting.”

Seonghyeon frowned.

“What?”

Keonho tilted his head toward the entrance. Slowly, Seonghyeon turned around. For a brief moment, surprise flashed across his face. His eyes met yours. The first thing he did was smile, a genuine smile. Suddenly, becoming very interested in the floor seemed like a fantastic idea. Haejin had other plans. Before you could stop her, she grabbed your wrist and started walking.

“Haejin.”

“Nope.”

“Haejin, come on-”

“We’re already committed.”

“We absolutely are not.”

Across the store, you could hear Keonho laughing which somehow made everything worse. By the time the two of you have reached them, your dignity had already left the building.

‘’Y/n,’’ Seonghyeon said.

The fact that he greeted you first did absolutely nothing to help.

‘’Hi.’’

Haejin meanwhile, had abandoned all subtlety.

‘’What happened to fourth place?’’

Keonho immediately pointed at her.

‘’THANK YOU.’’

Seonghyeon closed his eyes briefly. ‘’You are not helping.’’

‘’You came fourth?’’

You really couldn’t help asking. The look Seonghyeon gave you was almost enough to make you laugh, almost. Keonho looked delighted. Finally, someone was on his side. “You see?” he said, pointing at you. “Even y/n agrees.”

“I didn’t agree with anything,” you replied immediately.

“You asked the question.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It basically is.”

“It absolutely is not.”

Seonghyeon looked exhausted.

“You two are impossible.”

The comment earned matching offended expressions from both you and Keonho which, unfortunately, only made Haejin laugh.

“Wow,” she said. “I’ve never seen him lose an argument before.”

“I’m not losing.”

“You came fourth.”

“I came fourth because somebody doesn’t know how to drive.”

Keonho gasped.

The betrayal.

The audacity.

The complete disrespect.

For a second, the two of them resumed arguing while you stood there trying- and failing not to smile. It was strange. Before today, you’d never really seen Seonghyeon with his friends. Not properly.

At school, people always seemed drawn to him. There was always someone talking to him, waving at him, asking him something. But this felt different, like it was more real, less intimidating.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said, glancing toward Keonho and Haejin, “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

You followed his gaze. Haejin was holding up two game cases while Keonho looked like he was defending his thesis.

“Yeah.”

“They’ve been arguing about the same thing for like ten minutes.”

“You say that like you weren’t arguing over a racing game when I walked in.”

Seonghyeon looked over.

“That was different.”

“Was it?’’

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Neither of you said anything for a moment. You found yourself looking around the store instead, eyes moving over shelves packed with games you knew nothing about. Then Seonghyeon pointed toward one.

“Have you played that before?”

You glanced at the cover.

“No.”

“What about that one?”

“No.”

He pointed at another.

“No.”

Another.

“No.”

Seonghyeon stared at you.

“Have you ever had fun before?”

You were slightly taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m trying to figure out why Haejin brought you to a game store.’’

“I’m here to supervise.”

To your surprise, he laughed.

Slowly, Your conversations started to flow naturally. It felt easier to talk to him. Maybe because it didn’t feel like talking to the cool guy everyone knew. Or the football player.

Just Seonghyeon.

Talking to him was becoming easier than talking to most people.

“You owe me.”

You looked up from your phone.

Across the lunch table, Haejin was staring at you expectantly.

“What?”

“You owe me.”

“..I don’t think I do.”

“You do.”

You narrowed your eyes, then Haejin leaned forward.

“Aren’t friends supposed to support each other’s interests?” She gave you a cheeky smile.

‘’Mm..that depends.’’

‘’On what?’’

“Whether those interests involve dragging me somewhere against my will.”

A look of betrayal crossed her face.

“Wow.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Haejin.”

She grinned. “What?”

You gave her a knowing look before she finally decided to answer.

“There’s a football match after school.”

You stared at her.

“Seriously? No.”

The answer came so quickly that she looked offended.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did.”

“You really didn’t.”

“I absolutely did.”

Haejin pointed at you.

“See? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Unfortunately, that was how you found yourself sitting on the school bleachers three hours later, questioning every life decision that had led you to this moment. It seemed fun though.

The field was already crowded by the time you arrived.

Students filled up most of the seats, scattered in groups with friends, snacks and far more enthusiasm than you could ever relate to. The noise was conversations overlapping, people calling out to eachother, the occasional burst of laughter carrying across the field.

You adjusted your position on the bleachers and glanced around.

“This is way more people than I expected.”

“Obviously,” Haejin replied.

“Why obviously?”

She looked at you as if you’d asked something ridiculous.

“It’s the biggest match of the season.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know that either?”

“No.”

Haejin sighed. Sometimes you genuinely worried about her blood pressure whenever she talked to you. The teams began gathering on the field below. A few students immediately started cheering. Others waved at friends playing.

You found yourself mostly observing, until a familiar figure stepped onto the field. The annoying thing was that you recognized him immediately. Not because of the jersey, not because he was standing the closest, your eyes had simply found him automatically.

You hated that, a lot.

Before he hit you with the football, Seonghyeon would’ve blended into the crowd of players. Now he stood out immediately. The realization was embarrassing enough that you quickly had to look elsewhere.

When you looked back a few moments later, your eyes found him again. And again. And again. It was becoming a problem.

The whistle blew.

The game began.

At first, you paid attention out of politeness. Haejin had dragged you here, after all. The least you could do was pretend to care. A few minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Somewhere along the way, you realized you were actually watching.

Not football.

Seonghyeon.

The thing was, you’d never seen him like this before. At school, Seonghyeon always seemed relaxed and comfortable. The type of person who could walk into any room and immediately belong there. On the field, however, there was something different about him. He moved with an ease that made everything look effortless. Even from a distance, you could tell people listened when he spoke.

Teammates glanced toward him constantly. A few times, he called something out and everyone immediately adjusted. It was strange. Not because you hadn’t known he played football. Because you’d never really thought about what that meant.

For the first time, you understood why so many people admired him. And for some reason, that realization made your stomach feel weird. Beside you, Haejin followed your gaze. Then smirked. You knew that smirk. It was never a good sign.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Haejin.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am.”

You groaned.

“Please don’t.”

The smirk only grew.

Thankfully, before she could speak, the crowd suddenly erupted around you. Cheers echoed across the bleachers. Students jumped to their feet. You blinked.

Apparently something had happened. Unfortunately, you’d been too busy arguing with Haejin to notice.

“What happened?”

Haejin stared at you, then at the field, then back at you.

“You weren’t watching.”

“I was.”

“You literally weren’t.”

“What happened?”

She pointed toward the field and you followed her gaze. Seonghyeon was jogging back toward the center, teammates crowding around him.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Haejin repeated.

“He scored.”

“He scored.”

You nodded.

For some reason, a smile pulled at your lips. A small one. One you didn’t even notice until Haejin did. Her eyes widened immediately.

“Wow.’’

Your smile disappeared.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“So?”

“You smiled because he scored.”

Heat immediately rose to your face. You felt your ears swell.

“No i didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You looked away before she could continue. You weren’t entirely sure she was wrong. That realization lingered for the rest of the match. Long after the cheering died down. Long after the game resumed. Long after you’d convinced yourself you were imagining things.

Because every time something happened on the field, your attention drifted toward the same person. Everytime he did something impressive, you felt strangely proud. As if you’d somehow earned the right.

Which was absurd.

You were still trying to convince yourself of that when the final whistle blew. The crowd immediately came alive. Students began standing, gathering their things, and making their way toward the exits. Some headed toward the field. Others were already talking excitedly about the game.

You stayed seated. Mostly because moving required effort. Partly because Haejin had disappeared five minutes ago after spotting someone she knew. You’d just pulled out your phone when a shadow fell across you. You assumed it was Haejin. Then a familiar voice spoke.

“I need an unbiased opinion.”

You looked up.

And immediately wished you hadn’t. Seonghyeon was standing there. Still wearing his uniform. Still slightly out of breath. His hair was damp from the game, falling messily across his forehead. For some reason, that bothered you.

Not because it looked bad, quite the opposite actually. Judging by the expression on his face, something had clearly bothered him.

“Hello to you too.”

“That can wait-‘’

You blinked.

“That’s sort of concerning.”

“I was robbed.”

A pause.

‘’Didn’t you guys win?’’

‘’That’s not the point.’’

‘’Feels like a pretty important point.’’

Seonghyeon looked genuinely frustrated, his breathing was heavier since the game had ended.

‘’The referee was seriously against me.’’

You stared at him for several seconds before you shifted in your seat.

‘’You’re one of those people?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’The people who blame the referee everytime something doesn’t go their way.’’

‘’It didn’t go my way.’’

‘’Well, you won.’’

‘’Of course i did.’’

You laughed, the reaction was immediate.

‘’You didn’t even pay attention.’’

‘’I was.’’

‘’No you weren’t’’

‘’How would you know?’’

‘’Because if you did, you’d be angry too.’’

‘’I’m not emotionally invested enough to be angry.’’

The look he gave you suggested this was the wrong answer.

“Okay, imagine this’’

‘’Oh-‘’

‘’I score.’’

‘’You score.’’

‘’A beautiful score.’’

‘’According to whom exactly?’’

‘’Everybody.’’

‘’Mm.’’

‘’Then the referee- who’s job is to observe accurately, calls it offside.’’

You considered this, then shrugged.

‘’Well- maybe it was offside.’’

The betrayal on his face creeped up fast.

‘’I swear it wasn’t.’’

‘’Were you the referee?’’

‘’No.’’

‘’Then how do you know?’’

For a moment, Seonghyeon simply stared at you, then he pointed accusingly.

‘’You’re terrible at this.’’

‘’At what?’’

‘’At being supportive.’’

‘’You wanted an unbiased opinion.’’

‘’I wanted you to agree with me.’’

‘’That’s not quite what unbiased means.’’

The corner of his mouth twitched. You knew he was competitive, he shot a football straight at you a few weeks ago.

‘’You know what? Nevermind.’’

You laughed again.

This time, Seonghyeon shook his head dramatically and dropped down to the bleacher seat in front of you. The field behind him remained crowded with players and students slowly making their way home. Voices carried across the evening air while coaches gathered equipment near the sidelines.

“You stayed for the whole match.”

The comment caught you off guard.

“What?”

“The whole thing.”

He leaned back slightly.

“I thought you’d get bored and leave.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You have a very low opinion of me.”

“I watched you spend twenty minutes in a game store staring at absolutely nothing.”

“I was being supportive.”

“You were wandering.”

“I was observing.”

“You were probably lost.”

“I knew exactly where I was.”

“Sure.”

You hated how satisfied he looked, with a smile to follow up on. His smile was genuine, like you could argue about anything- and it would still feel like you won, simply because he gave you that smile.

Then again, you hated how often he made you laugh. Before either of you could continue, a voice called from somewhere behind him.

“Seonghyeon!”

You looked up automatically.

A girl was jogging across the field toward the two of you, a bottle of water in one hand. She couldn’t have been much older than you. She looked pretty, and confident. The type of person who seemed completely comfortable talking to anyone. The type of person you immediately disliked for absolutely no reason.

She stopped beside him and held out the bottle. “You left this.”

“Oh.” Seonghyeon took it.

“Thanks.”

The interaction was completely normal.

The girl smiled. “No problem.”

Then she started talking, and Seonghyeon talked back. Which again, was normal. Because why wouldn’t he? But as you stood there listening to their conversation, a strange feeling settled in your chest. One you didn’t particularly like. The girl seemed familiar with him, she was comfortable like this wasn’t the first time they’d spoken. Obviously it wasn’t, Seonghyeon knew everyone. You already knew that.

Still, you found yourself looking away. Suddenly very interested in fixing the strap of your bag.

“You coming to practice on monday?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She grinned.

“Coach would’ve killed you if you missed it.”

Seonghyeon laughed. The same laugh you’d spent the last few weeks becoming far too fond of. Hearing it now felt different, a little less special.

You’d never thought it was special. Not really. Right? The realization hit, maybe that was the problem. You had.

At some point, without noticing, you’d started treating every conversation with Seonghyeon like it meant something. When in reality this was just who he was. He was friendly, easy to talk to. He was comfortable around everyone.

The girl finally glanced toward you.

“Oh.”

For a second, she looked between the two of you then smiled politely.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The conversation lasted another minute or two.

You weren’t really paying attention anymore because the stupid feeling in your chest had only gotten worse. Thankfully, someone else called Seonghyeon’s name from across the field. A teammate this time.

“Seonghyeon!”

He looked over, then back at you.

“I should probably go.”

The words were simple and harmless, but for some reason they felt disappointing.

“Yeah,” you said.

“See you monday?”

You smiled, disingeniously.

“See you.”

The second he stood up and walked away, you knew something was wrong. Not with him, but with you. You spent the entire walk home thinking about a conversation that hadn’t even involved you. You replayed everything, the exchanged conversation, his gaze, his laughter. You replayed him.

The realization irritated you more than anything else. It wasn’t as if Seonghyeon had done something particularly memorable. He’d talked to a teammate, that’s all. The interaction had been completely normal, yet somehow your brain insisted on revisiting it every few hours like there was some hidden meaning you’d failed to uncover the first time around.

By monday morning, you’d become so annoyed with yourself that you’d practically banned yourself from thinking about him altogether. Unfortunately, that lasted less than a day.

School carried on as usual. Teachers assigned work, students complained about it, and Haejin continued collecting gossip the way other people collected hobbies, which was admirable really. Everything felt normal. At least until the end of third period.

Your teacher had been gathering her things when she suddenly bent down and picked something up from beside one of the desks near the front of the classroom. It was a dark grey hoodie, slightly oversized and folded in on itself as if somebody had shoved it underneath a chair and forgotten about it.

“Did someone leave this behind?” she asked, holding it up.

A few students glanced over before immediately losing interest, you looked up too and knew exactly who it belonged to.

The answer came so quickly that you didn’t even question it at first. Seonghyeon. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation, you simply looked at the hoodie and knew.

Maybe it was because you’d seen him wearing it countless times over the past few weeks. Maybe it was because it had become one of those things your brain automatically associated with him. Whatever the reason, the certainty came naturally enough that you barely thought twice about it.

Then somebody behind you spoke.

“Oh, that’s Seonghyeon’s.”

Somehow, it felt odd. It wasn’t because they’d confirmed it, it was more so because they hadn’t told you anything you didn’t already know.

The rest of the class moved on immediately. The teacher placed the hoodie on her desk, someone made a joke and within seconds everyone was talking about something else. Everyone except you.

For some reason, that insignificant moment refused to leave your head. You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself it meant nothing. It was just a hoodie. People recognized each other’s belongings all the time. There was really nothing strange about it.

The argument would’ve been much more convincing if you hadn’t immediately noticed he wasn’t wearing it during lunch. The realization hit you before you even saw his face.

Your eyes found him automatically across the cafeteria surrounded by Keonho, Martin, James and Juhoon, the same group of friends he was always with. The first thing your brain registered wasn’t the conversation he was having or the fact that Keonho was laughing at something.

It was the absence of the hoodie. That’s why he looks different. You seriously didn’t like this, you in fact hated it. Seonghyeon, whom you hadn’t bat an eye on two months ago had occupied your mind the past four days. It was torture, simply because you refused to accept the thoughts. You denied everything, you brushed everything off and went about your day.

The following morning started with a problem. Not a particularly serious one, nor one that should have occupied more than a few seconds of your time, yet somehow you found yourself standing in front of your bedroom mirror far longer than necessary. You’d already finished getting ready.

Your makeup was done, your uniform was on, your bag was packed and waiting by the door. By all accounts, you should’ve been downstairs eating breakfast. Instead, you were still there staring at your reflection as if it had personally offended you. Something felt wrong.

The frustrating part was that you couldn’t figure out what. Your hair looked fine, more than fine actually. You had spent enough time on it to ensure that. Yet your hand still reached up to smooth down a strand near your cheek before stepping back again.

A few seconds later you found yourself leaning toward the mirror adjusting something else, then immediately questioning whether it had looked better before. The cycle repeated itself often enough that by the time you finally checked the clock, nearly fifteen minutes had disappeared. You frowned. That couldn’t be right.

Normally, getting ready in the morning wasn’t something you thought much about. You liked looking presentable and usually put effort into your appearance, but there was a difference between effort and whatever this was. This felt suspiciously close to perfectionism, except there was nothing to perfect.

Every time you fixed one thing, your eyes immediately found something else to focus on. A different hairstyle. A little more lip tint. Maybe a different pair of earrings. None of the changes were dramatic enough for anyone else to notice, but you noticed them, and apparently that was enough to keep you rooted in front of the mirror like an idiot.

Moments later, your phone buzzed. Haejin was texting you.

HAEJIN

Overslept.

Can’t make it to first period.

Meet you second period😴

Haejin was a bit careless when it came to school. You don’t think it’s on purpose, she just doesn’t see the need to wake up at 7:30 AM for merely first period. She makes it so justifiable, so you guess you could see it from her perspective, however not today. Today, was an important day.

By the time first period began, you were already feeling self aware. Now, instead of sitting beside your best friend, you found yourself alone at your desk while the teacher droned on at the front of the classroom. The seat beside you remained empty, which felt strangely noticeable. Haejin had a way of filling every space she occupied, and without her there the morning seemed significantly quieter.

When the bell finally rang, you gathered your things and stepped into the hallway with no particular destination in mind. Your next class was on the opposite side of the building, leaving you with more than enough time to get there. Normally, you would have spent the break with Haejin. Today however, you found yourself wandering alone through the crowded hallways.

“Y/n, hey.’’

The familiar voice made you turn immediately.

Seonghyeon stood a few feet away, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder. For a moment, your brain supplied an extremely unhelpful thought.

Did he notice?

You hated yourself instantly.

Notice what?

Your hair?

Your makeup?

The fact that you’d spent half your morning acting like a love island contestant? Thankfully, Seonghyeon seemed completely unaware of the spiraling thoughts currently unfolding.

“Haejin’s late,” you explained before he could ask. Before you could think of a more logical answer, like a simple hey.

Seriously?

What does Haejin have to do with this?

Why would he care?

Seonghyeon almost surpressed his reaction.

‘’Oh- right.’’

He was confused. Did you think he approached you to talk to Haejin? He didn’t read much into it though.

However, he did notice something was different about you today.

At first, he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Maybe your hair looked different. Maybe your makeup. Whatever it was, it gave you a slightly softer appearance than usual. Not dramatically different, just enough to make him pause for a second longer than normal.

“You look tired” he said instead.

You stared at him. Of all the things he could’ve said.

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t sleep?”

The betrayal you felt was immediate. You had spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready this morning. An embarrassing amount. And somehow the only conclusion he’d reached was that you looked tired. For a brief moment, you considered pushing him down the nearest staircase.

“That’s offensive.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“I’m choosing peace.”

Seonghyeon laughed.

Unfortunately, the sound did absolutely nothing to improve your mood. If anything, it made it worse. Because now all you could think about was the twenty minutes you’d wasted staring at yourself in the mirror. The universe clearly had a sense of humor.

“You look fine, by the way.”

The comment was casual. So casual that he probably didn’t think twice about saying it. You however, nearly forgot how to function. Before you could respond, Martin called Seonghyeon’s name from farther down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder, then back at you.

“I’ll see you later.” And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway wondering why two completely harmless words had managed to ruin the rest of your morning. The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly after that.

Haejin eventually arrived halfway through second period carrying the same energy she always did, immediately filling the empty space beside you with stories, complaints and dramatic retellings of how she had supposedly fallen victim to circumstances completely beyond her control.

According to her, the blame rested entirely on a combination of faulty alarms, unfair school schedules and a universe that seemed personally determined to make her suffer.

“I woke up and it was 9:12.”

“You start at 8:30.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s doesn’t quite help.” Haejin pouted.

The rest of the day continued pretty much the same way. Haejin spent most of her time insisting she was being unfairly persecuted by the education system. By the final bell, you had almost forgotten about the awkward interaction from that morning. Almost. Unfortunately, while you were fully prepared to go home, Haejin apparently had other plans.

“I’ll be two minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You also meant it last time.”

Ignoring you entirely, she disappeared back into the building after being stopped by a teacher regarding an assignment she had forgotten to submit. So you waited.

The afternoon air was cool, carrying the familiar sounds of students lingering around school grounds before heading home.

Groups gathered near the entrance, conversations overlapping as people delayed going home for as long as possible. You had been scrolling through your phone for several minutes when a football rolled across the pavement a few meters away. Your eyes followed it automatically.

Several members of the football team had gathered near the edge of the courtyard, passing time before practice. Some were kicking a ball around while others leaned against a nearby fence talking amongst themselves. The sight would’ve gone largely unnoticed if Haejin hadn’t finally emerged from the building at that exact moment.

“Oh.”

“What?”

Her eyes lit up. “Keonho’s here.”

Before you could stop her, she’d already started walking.

“Haejin.”

No response.

“Haejin.”

Still nothing.

Sometimes you genuinely believed she could hear only the things she wanted to hear. Unfortunately, Keonho seemed equally enthusiastic. A few minutes later, the two of them had somehow dragged everyone into the same conversation.

You weren’t entirely sure how it happened. One moment you were waiting for Haejin, the next you were standing in a loose circle listening to Keonho passionately argue that football players deserved special treatment during exam season.

“You kick a ball around.”

“That’s not all we do.”

“That’s literally what football is.” Seonghyeon let out a faint laugh. Keonho pointed at him immediately.

“See? He understands.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your silence supports me.”

The conversation drifted from one topic to another after that. Homework became complaints about teachers, which somehow turned into stories from middle school and then an argument over who had the worst attendance record. At some point, Keonho glanced toward Seonghyeon.

“Actually, speaking of people abandoning their friends.” Seonghyeon already looked tired.

“You spend more time talking to y/n than you do with me nowadays.”

The comment earned a laugh from Haejin. You wished it hadn’t, because now everyone was looking at the two of you. Seonghyeon meanwhile, seemed completely unaffected.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

For a second, Keonho gestured vaguely between the two of you as though presenting evidence to a jury. The response came easily. Without hesitation. Without even a second of thought.

“She’s my friend.”

The following morning began with rain.

Not the kind that belonged in movies, where people stared moodily out of windows while life changing realizations unfolded in the background. This was ordinary rain. Annoying rain. The sort that turned sidewalks slippery and made umbrellas feel completely useless because somehow you still ended up getting wet anyway.

By the time you arrived at school, your shoes were damp, your patience was gone and Haejin was already waiting by the entrance looking personally offended by the weather. She immediately launched into a five minute rant about how rain should be illegal before eight in the morning, only pausing long enough to complain about an upcoming assignment and the fact that she had forgotten to study for a quiz she apparently hadn’t known existed until fifteen minutes ago.

The conversation continued all the way to class. Then through first period. Then through half of second period. That was one of the things you liked most about Haejin. Being around her left very little room for overthinking. Unfortunately not no room, just very little.

The thought arrived sometime during lunch. You were sitting across from Haejin while she attempted to convince three people that she deserved compensation for having to wake up before sunrise every day. Around you, the cafeteria buzzed with the usual noise of conversations, laughter and the occasional argument over stolen food. It was normal. Completely normal.

Yet for some reason, you found yourself looking up whenever the doors opened. The first time, you didn’t think much of it. The second time, you barely noticed. The third time however, you caught yourself doing it and immediately looked back down at your food. That was strange. You frowned slightly.

Because you knew exactly what you had been looking for. Or rather, who. The thought irritated you far more than it should have. The problem was that it happened automatically. You had not consciously wondered where Seonghyeon was. You hadn’t been sitting there waiting for him to appear. Your eyes had simply searched the room on their own before your brain had the chance to stop them. Annoying. Deeply annoying. Across from you, Haejin paused mid-sentence.

“…Why do you look angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“You look like it.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That explains nothing.”

You stabbed a french fry with considerably more force than necessary. Haejin narrowed her eyes immediately. Never a good sign.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

“It literally is.”

You sighed. The problem with having a best friend for years was that they became impossible to fool.

“You know,” Haejin continued, leaning back in her chair “most people don’t glare at potatoes unless something is bothering them.”

For a brief moment, you considered telling her. Not everything. Then immediately decided against it. Mostly because hearing your thoughts out loud would somehow make the situation significantly worse, and because deep down there was a part of you that already knew exactly what Haejin would say. The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to hear it.

If someone had asked Seonghyeon whether anything had changed over the past couple of weeks, he probably would’ve said no.

Life looked exactly the same as it always had. Football practice continued to consume most of his afternoons and Keonho remained committed to making every situation at least twice as loud as necessary. The days blended together in the way school days often did. One class became another. One week became the next. Nothing particularly significant seemed to happen. At least, that was what he thought.

The realization didn’t arrive all at once. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t even particularly noticeable at first. Instead, it appeared in small moments and then disappeared again before he could properly think about it. A hallway conversation that felt strangely short. An empty seat during lunch that shouldn’t have mattered. The first few times, he ignored it. By the tenth, it was becoming difficult to.

Thursday afternoon found him sitting through one of the most painfully boring lessons of the semester. Even the teacher seemed tired of listening to himself speak. Around the classroom, students had long since given up pretending to pay attention. Some were doodling in notebooks, others were staring blankly out windows, and James had somehow managed to fall asleep while sitting upright. Honestly, it was impressive.

Seonghyeon’s attention had drifted somewhere around twenty minutes earlier. His notebook remained open in front of him, untouched except for a few half finished notes written without much thought behind them. He wasn’t really looking at anything in particular when the teacher suddenly stopped speaking and sighed.

“Since nobody seems interested in participating today, let’s try something easier.”

Immediately, several students sat up. The word easier had that effect.

The teacher began asking questions instead, pointing at different students around the room whenever he needed an answer. Most people responded with varying levels of enthusiasm. Some answered correctly. Others guessed. One student somehow managed to produce an answer so incorrect that the entire class burst out laughing. Including Seonghyeon. For some reason, the moment reminded him of y/n. The thought appeared so unexpectedly that he almost frowned.

It wasn’t even a specific memory. Just a vague association. Something about the expression she would’ve made if she’d heard the answer. The way she tried not to laugh when she found something funny. The way she usually looked away immediately afterward as if being caught smiling was somehow embarrassing. For a second, he found himself glancing toward the row she usually sat in. Then paused, because that was strange. He hadn’t spoken to y/n properly in what felt like ages. It didn’t make sense.

A few weeks ago, running into her had somehow become normal. Conversations before class. Conversations after class. Random interactions in hallways that stretched far longer than either of them intended. Nothing major. Just enough that he’d stopped noticing when they happened.

Now he was noticing when they didn’t. The thought lingered for the rest of the lesson. Then followed him into the hallway. Then all the way to lunch. By the time football practice started, he still hadn’t managed to shake it. People got busy, that was all. School happened, life happened. There was no reason to think about it this much.

Unfortunately, that explanation became slightly harder to believe when he realized he couldn’t remember the last actual conversation they’ve had.

Instead, he found himself standing on the edge of the football field staring at absolutely nothing while the rest of the team warmed up around him.

“Earth to Seonghyeon.”

Martin’s voice snapped him out of it.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at the same patch of grass for thirty seconds.”

Seonghyeon blinked.

Had he? Apparently. Keonho narrowed his eyes immediately.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Seonghyeon didn’t understand why he had thought about it this much. He wasn’t the type to. He’d logically examine situations, come up with a logical answer and move on with his day. Somehow this was different, yet he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Keonho had never been the type of person to let things go. In fact, if Seonghyeon had to describe him using a single phrase, it would probably be incapable of minding his own business. The moment practice ended, Keonho’s attention returned to the subject with the determination of somebody investigating a crime.

At first, Seonghyeon didn’t even realize it was happening. The team had just finished collecting equipment, everyone moving around the field in various states of exhaustion while the sun slowly disappeared behind the school buildings. Conversations overlapped from every direction.

Somebody was complaining about the coach, somebody else was arguing about where to eat afterward and a football rolled across the grass before being kicked back toward a storage cart. Everything felt normal. Until Keonho appeared beside him. That wasn’t unusual. The fact that he remained there in complete silence however, definitely was.

For several seconds he simply walked beside him without saying anything. Coming from Keonho, that was concerning enough on its own. When Seonghyeon finally glanced over, he immediately regretted it. Keonho was already staring at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Seonghyeon asked.

“I’m thinking.”

A sigh escaped him. The evening air had turned noticeably cooler now, students gradually filtering away from the field in small groups as the noise around them slowly faded into the distance. For a brief moment it almost seemed like Keonho might finally drop the subject. Then he spoke again.

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

Seonghyeon barely reacted. Mostly because this conversation happened at least three times a week.

“About what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The answer was so stupid that a laugh almost escaped him.

“No, seriously.” Keonho adjusted the strap of his bag before continuing. “You’ve been zoning out lately.”

That got his attention. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something similar. Over the past week different people had made almost identical observations often enough that it was becoming difficult to ignore. Martin had asked whether he was tired. His mother had asked whether something was bothering him. Even the coach had commented on him being distracted during practice yesterday.

At the time Seonghyeon had brushed all of it off. Now however, standing on the sidewalk outside the school while Keonho kicked absentmindedly at loose gravel beside him, he found himself wondering whether they all had a point.

The problem was that he couldn’t figure out what exactly was different. Or rather, he could. He just didn’t particularly like the answer. Because every time he started pulling at the loose thread of the thought, it somehow led back to the same place. The same person. The same question. When was the last time he’d actually talked to y/n?

Not seen her. Not waved at her from the other end of a hallway. Talked to her, a proper conversation. The answer should’ve come immediately. Instead, he found himself drawing a blank.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that really bothered him.

By the time he got home later that evening, dropped his bag beside the door and collapsed onto his bed, the thought was still there. Which was annoying, because he had homework to finish and football practice again tomorrow. He had significantly more important things to think about. Yet somehow, while staring at the ceiling of his room, his mind drifted back to the same thing. He dug deep into his thoughts.

The first time was almost laughably insignificant. Class had just ended, and students were spilling into the hallways at every direction. Seonghyeon had been halfway through putting his books away when he spotted y/n a little farther down the corridor.

She was standing beside her locker, listening to something Haejin was saying. Or rather, dramatically performing. Haejin’s hands were moving so aggressively that even from a distance it looked less like a conversation and more like an emergency press conference.

Without really thinking about it, Seonghyeon started heading that way.

Then suddenly y/n grabbed Haejin by the wrist and dragged her around the corner. Gone. Seonghyeon stopped walking, he had simply stared at the space where she’d been stadning.

‘’Why are you just standing there?’’

He looked over and Juhoon was staring at him.

‘’Nothing-‘’

Juhoon looked unconvinced.

The second time happened during lunch, Seonghyeon had just entered the cafeteria when he noticed y/n sitting at her usual table. For some reason, the sight made him smile.

He grabbed his tray and joined his friends. Halfway through James’s completely unecessary rant about him having to balance both the exams- since he’s a few years older, and football practice, Seonghyeon glanced across the cafeteria again.

The seat was empty, he frowned.

‘’How dare they stack up on exams the second football season gets serious? I can’t be expected to memorize biology and score goals.’’

Yeah that was just background noise for Seonghyeon.

The third time was when it had actually started bothering him. School had ended, and the campus was filled by students and chatter. Seonghyeon, Keonho, Juhoon, Martin and James stood in front of the school, talking while Martin shot the basketball into the hoop continuously.

Suddenly, he spotted y/n coming out of the main entrance. She was carrying a bag over her shoulder, already heading toward the front gate. He considered calling her name, the thought had appeared automatically. Then he paused. Because that would be weird, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t even sure what he would’ve said. Hey? Hello? Why have we apparently forgotten how to exist in the same space lately?

Before he could decide, a group of guys crossed between them. By the time they passed, she had already disappeared around the corner. That annoyed him.

He found himself looking for her the next day. Which felt ridiculous, that’s what he told himself while scanning the cafeteria without realizing he was doing it. He didn’t understand why it had bothered him so much.

Everytime he looked up, she seemed to walk the other way. He could’ve sworn she stood wherever he saw her, then poof she’s gone again. He missed talking to her. The more he thought about it, the more he realized y/n hadn’t actually disappeared. She was still around.

The strange thing about time was that it continued moving whether you wanted it to or not.

A few weeks ago, you’d convinced yourself that liking Seonghyeon was some life altering catastrophe. Every conversation felt important. Every interaction lingered longer than it should have. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of energy thinking about things that in hindsight, probably didn’t deserve nearly that much attention.

Now however, life had begun settling back into place. It wasn’t really because your feelings had disappeared, they hadn’t. You still liked him, that much obvious.

The difference was that it felt like your entire existence no longer revolved around it. Somehow, focusing on all ordinary frustrations had made everything else feel smaller. For the first time in a while, you felt like yourself again, which was probably why you agreed to help one of your teachers after class.

It seemed harmless enough at the time. It was just a simple favour, five minutes of your time. Unfortunately, teachers had a very different understanding of the word simple. Twenty minutes later, you found yourself carrying what felt like the entire contents of a storage room through one of the academic buildings.

A stack of folders was balanced precariously against your chest, several textbooks were tucked underneath one arm and a plastic container filled with miscellaneous classroom supplies kept threatening to slide out of your grasp every time you took a step.

You couldn’t see properly.

You couldn’t walk properly.

You were beginning to suspect your teacher had deliberately chosen you because you looked too polite to say no.

The hallway itself was mostly empty. Classes had ended nearly half an hour ago, leaving only the occasional student lingering behind for clubs, sports or whatever mysterious activities seemed to keep people at school long after everyone else had gone home. The combination of limited visibility and questionable balance meant you didn’t notice someone approaching from the opposite direction.

Not until it was too late.

The collision wasn’t dramatic, nobofy went flying across the hallway, well just the stack of folders that immediately tilted sideways, and the plastic container that slipped- oh and a pencil case launched itself onto the floor.

And before you could react, several sheets of paper had already escaped and scattered across the hallway like they were making a run for freedom. For one dreadful second, you simply stood there staring. Of course this was happening. Then a voice spoke.

“Whoa.”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up.

Seonghyeon looked just as surprised as you felt, then he looked down at the disaster surrounding your feet. Then back up at you. Then back down again. A smile appeared.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am.”

You sighed.

“Great.”

The smile widened slightly.

Without another word, he crouched down and began gathering the papers scattered across the floor.

You hated how familiar the sight felt.

A few months ago, seeing Eom Seonghyeon kneeling on a hallway floor collecting your homework would’ve felt absurd. Now it barely registered as unusual. Together, the two of you began collecting the mess. Most of it in silence. The kind that had somehow become normal between you before either of you noticed.

The strange thing was that for the first time in weeks, you weren’t hyperaware of him. You weren’t overthinking every word, you weren’t wondering what something meant. You were simply trying to stop your papers from disappearing underneath a nearby vending machine.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said eventually, handing over another folder “for somebody who was late because of a pen, I feel like this tracks.”

You stared at him then immediately groaned.

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“That happened once.”

“You were defeated by a mere pen.”

“I wasn’t defeated.”

“You absolutely were.”

To your annoyance, a laugh escaped before you could stop it. The sound earned a grin from him. The folders had been restacked, the notebooks gathered and the loose papers that had scattered across half the hallway had been retrieved. Only one sheet remained. It had drifted farther than the others. The hallway itself had grown noticeably quieter during the few minutes.

You moved first, or atleast you thought you did. The second you stepped forward, Seonghyeon did too. The realization seemed to hit both of you simultaneously. You stopped, he stopped. The paper remained exactly where it was.

‘’Go ahead.’’

You looked up.

‘’What?’’

‘’You saw it first.’’

‘’No i didn’t’’

‘’You did.’’

‘’I was being polite.’’

‘’You’re never polite.’’

The response left his mouth so quickly that he seemed to realize what he had said only afterward. You stared at him, and he stared back. Then a smile appeared, it was small. The kind that always seemed to show up before he could stop it.

‘’You know what i mean.’’

‘’Do i?’’

‘’No.’’

You smiled- it was stupid. You loved the conversations, you missed them. Both of you moved at the same time again. The result was immediate. Your shoulders bumped together.

‘’Ow.’’

You immediately laughed in shock. He was being dramatic, it was a small bump.

The past few weeks suddenly seemed a little ridiculous. Seonghyeon spent so much time wondering why something felt off only to discover the answer was embarrassingly simple. He’d missed this aswell.

Haejin had never been particularly interested in making your life easier. The first sign of trouble appeared at exactly 5:34 PM on a Saturday.

Your phone buzzed.

Haejin

Can i come overrrr~

You stared at the message. Of course she could, rather it was weird she didn’t show up at your door to ask that.

You

obv

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Haejin

keonho is coming too apparently

You

Oh

Why?

Haejin

because he’s annoying and won’t leave me alone

he just texted me

he’s already on the bus

Before you could gather your thoughts to respond, another message arrived.

Haejin

oh Seonghyeon’s coming too

You nearly dropped your phone.

The thirty minutes Haejin had promised turned into forty three. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren’t. The problem was that once somebody informed you that Haejin, Keonho and more importantly- Seonghyeon would be entering your house, suddenly every insignificant detail became a problem.

The blanket draped over the couch looked wrong. The cushions looked wrong. The stack of books sitting on the coffee table looked wrong. Even the framed photo sitting on the shelf near the television somehow looked wrong despite having remained in the exact same position for nearly three years. You were in the middle of rearranging the cushions for the third time when a voice spoke from behind you.

‘’Is Haejin coming over?’’

Your mother stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Her eyes moved from you to the perfectly arranged couch, then to the freshly folded blanket, then to the coffee table you’d wiped down approximately fifteen minutes ago.

You nodded, before following it up.

‘’And two other friends.’’

‘’That’s fine- Should i go make something? A snackplate? Cut up some fruits?’’

‘’No, that’s okay.’’

The doorbell rang. The sound practically echoed throughout the house. The second your hand touched the doorknob, you could swear your heart dropped, like seriously. The door opened, and Haejin immediately walked inside without waiting for an invitation.

‘’Hello to you too.’’ You said.

‘’Thank you.’’

‘’What?’’

Behind her came Keonho, then Seonghyeon.

For some reason, seeing him standing on your doorstep felt stranger than seeing him anywhere else. Maybe because he’s become so firmly associated with school that your brain momentarily struggled to place him here. There was no football field, no hallway. Just your front porch, and Seonghyeon standing on it looking mildly uncomfortable beneath your scrunity. There was a long pause, it felt awkward.

‘’Hi.’’

Immediately, you wanted to throw yourself into traffic. It was a groundbreaking greeting, really. Thankfully, Seonghyeon wasn’t much better.

‘’Hi.’’

Behind him, Keonho sighed dramatically. ‘’This is painful.’’

The two of them stepped inside while Haejin continued acting like she had lived there for years. Almost immediately, your mother appeared from the kitchen.

‘’Hello, dear.’’

‘’Hi!’’

The response came so naturally that it sounded like a part of a routine they had performed hundreds of times before. Then your mother looked toward the boys. Before Seonghyeon could do anything, Keonho stepped forward.

‘’I’m Keonho,’’

‘’Nice to meet you.’’

‘’And that’s Seonghyeon.’’

A brief silence followed. Seonghyeon looked over, Keonho looked back.

‘’I can introduce myself.’’

‘’You were taking too long.’’

‘’You spoke first.’’

‘’Exactly.’’

Your mother laughed.

‘’It’s nice to meet both of you.’’

‘’Nice to meet you too.’’ Seonghyeon replied, then bowed out of respect, Keonho followed. Hearing him speak to your mother felt oddly surreal. Your mother smiled politely.

The second everyone made it upstairs, the energy somehow shifted.

Maybe it was because school had become such a permanent backdrop to all of your interactions that seeing those same people inside your house felt strangely unnatural. Haejin immediately made herself comfortable. Keonho wasn’t much better.

He wandered around without shame, examining random objects on your shelves with the confidence of somebody who had been granted permission despite the fact nobody had actually given him any. Meanwhile, you found yourself standing near your desk, suddenly hyperaware of everything around you.

The room wasn’t messy. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it was yours.

School only allowed people to know certain versions of each other. Hallway conversations. Lunch breaks. Shared classes. Small pieces. Nobody saw what happened outside of that. Nobody saw your room at midnight when you were studying for exams. Nobody saw the stuff lying on your vanity or the old concert tickets tucked into your mirror frame. Nobody saw the photos you had forgotten were hanging on the wall until this exact moment.

And Seonghyeon seemed to notice everything.

Not in an obvious way. He wasn’t walking around inspecting things. If anything, he seemed quieter than usual. While Keonho was busy making himself at home and Haejin was already flopped across your bed scrolling through her phone, Seonghyeon’s gaze occasionally drifted around the room before moving elsewhere again. Small observations. Brief glances. Yet somehow those felt worse. You couldn’t tell whether he was actually paying attention or whether your brain was simply inventing reasons to be nervous.

“You definitely cleaned.”

You immediately looked at Haejin.

“No.”

“Yes you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You moved something.”

“I didn’t.”

Haejin’s eyes slowly travelled across the room.

“The cushions downstairs.”

You hated her.

The smile spreading across her face told you she’d won.

“Oh my god. You did move the cushions.”

“I hate talking to you.”

From somewhere beside the bookshelf, a laugh escaped Keonho.

“You cleaned for us?”

“It wasn’t for you.”

The room fell silent for half a second before Haejin started laughing because of Keonho’s reaction. The next hour passed surprisingly quickly. Conversations drifted from one topic to another without much direction. Somebody brought up an old teacher. That somehow became a discussion about embarrassing middle school memories. Then football. Then exams. Then an argument, nobody actually cared about the answer. The argument continued anyway.

At some point, somebody stole your blanket. At some point, Keonho and Haejin became invested in a debate so stupid that the original topic had long since been forgotten.

“You are fundamentally misunderstanding the point.”

“I understand it perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re just wrong.”

“I’m always right.”

“That’s not how opinions work.”

Watching them argue was a bit like watching two people accidentally start a fire and then continue pouring gasoline on it.

Eventually, they ended up sitting on the floor near your television, completely absorbed in whatever nonsense they were discussing now. For the first time all afternoon, the room became quieter. You were sitting near the edge of your bed, scrolling through your phone while the sound of Haejin and Keonho arguing faded into the background. Beside you, Seonghyeon sat comfortably against the wall. Neither of you were really speaking.

The silence wasn’t awkward. A few months ago, silence between you would’ve felt unbearable. Now it barely registered. You scrolled past an old photo without thinking, then immediately scrolled back. A small laugh escaped you.

“What?”

You glanced up.

“Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You looked back down at the screen.

“It was from middle school.”

“Let me see.”

Without thinking, you handed him your phone but the second you did, you regretted it. Because the photo was awful. Seonghyeon looked at the screen, then looked at you. He smiled.

“What?” His smile widened.

“You look twelve.”

“I was twelve.”

“You look younger than twelve.”

“Give it back.”

You reached for the phone. At the exact same moment he pulled it slightly away, your hand brushed against his. The movement was tiny, it was barely anything. Yet both of you froze for a second. The noise from the rest of the room suddenly felt strangely distant. You weren’t sure why, it was stupid. People accidentally touched hands all the time, nothing should’ve happened.

Then Seonghyeon handed the phone back.

And somewhere across the room, Haejin suddenly yelled:

“THAT’S LITERALLY NOT WHAT I SAID.”

Seonghyeon didn’t realize he was still thinking about it until he walked straight into his bedroom door. The impact wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was embarrassing enough that he immediately looked around despite being completely alone. A second later he let out a quiet groan and rubbed a hand over his face.

A few minutes later after showering and changing into comfortable clothes, he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed with a towel draped around his neck. His phone had been abandoned somewhere beside him. Downstairs, he could faintly hear the television playing. Everything felt normal. The day was over. There was absolutely no reason for him to still be thinking about it.

Nothing important had happened. They had gone to y/n’s house, wasted an entire afternoon doing nothing productive, listened to Keonho and Haejin argue about things neither of them cared enough to remember and eventually gone home. That was it. Yet every time Seonghyeon tried focusing on something else, his mind drifted right back there again.

The strangest part wasn’t that he had seen y/n’s room for the first time. It wasn’t even that he had spent several hours with her outside of school. It was the fact that every new thing he had learned about her somehow felt oddly expected. Not because he knew those things already, but because they fit.

The way everything looked slightly messy until you paid attention and realized there was a system behind it. Even the way she’d reacted whenever somebody pointed something out. Half embarrassed. Half annoyed. Like she wanted people to know her but only on her own terms.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He could already imagine how offended she’d be if she knew he was sitting here psychoanalyzing her bedroom.The thought should’ve ended there, instead another one immediately followed.

The look on her face when Haejin exposed the fact that she had obviously cleaned before they arrived. The way she tried denying it despite the evidence being painfully obvious. Then the laugh she’d let out later. Then the smile she’d been trying not to show when he teased her.

Seonghyeon dropped backward onto his mattress and stared at the ceiling. There it was again. That same problem. Every thought somehow led back to her. It was infuriating, it’s like his brain had no originality.

He had known y/n for what? A couple of months? Yet lately it felt like she kept appearing in places she wasn’t even supposed to be. In random thoughts, in conversations, in moments where he was supposed to be focusing on literally anything else. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. For the first time, Seonghyeon found himself staring directly at a possibility he had been avoiding for weeks. Not accepting it. Definitely not accepting it. Just looking at it from a safe distance. Then immediately backing away.

Nope, absolutely not.

For a long moment he simply layed there with one arm thrown across his face, feeling increasingly annoyed with himself. Because the more he thought about it, the worse his life defense became. Maybe there wasn’t some complicated explanation. Maybe the reason he had spent weeks looking for her in crowded hallways, noticing when she wasn’t around, and wondering why everything felt different lately wasn’t because something weird was happening.

Maybe the problem was much simpler than that, and that’s exactly why he didn’t wanna think about it, didn’t wanna consider it.

The problem started with a pencil.

Not because the pencil itself was important. It wasn’t. The pencil belonged to Keonho, who had somehow managed to drop it three separate times during a single class period. By the third time, the teacher looked ready to launch it out the nearest window.

A few people around the classroom were already trying and failing to hide their laughter, while Keonho seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was seconds away from becoming someone’s least favorite student.

Normally, Seonghyeon would’ve found this entertaining. He probably would’ve made a comment. Maybe laughed. Maybe joined Martin in making fun of Keonho later. Instead, he was staring out the classroom window, his attention drifting somewhere beyond the teacher’s voice and the half finished notes sitting in front of him.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. At least, that was what he told himself. The lesson had become background noise a long time ago, blending together with the scratching of pencils, turning pages and the occasional sigh from students who had already mentally checked out for the day.

Outside, students crossed the courtyard below in small groups. Some were heading back toward the academic building after lunch while others lingered near the benches despite the fact that the break had ended nearly ten minutes ago. From up here everyone looked smaller, moving through familiar routines without much urgency. It was the sort of thing he would’ve glanced at for a second before looking away.

Then movement caught his attention. Someone familiar stepped through the courtyard gate. Immediately, his eyes followed. Which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t recognized her from half a building away. That felt excessive.

The distance alone should’ve made it impossible. He couldn’t even properly see her face from here. Yet somehow he had known it was y/n before he consciously registered any actual details. Before he thought about it. Before he even realized he was paying attention.

She was walking beside somebody. Just some guy from their year that Seonghyeon vaguely recognized. For a moment, he found himself watching longer than necessary. Not because anything unusual was happening. The opposite, actually. They were just talking. The guy said something and y/n laughed before shaking her head slightly. Then the conversation continued as if nothing had happened.

Have they always been friends?

Worked on a project together?

Why was he even thinking about this?

Because he genuinely didn’t care. He shouldn’t, atleast. His eyes remained fixed on the courtyard for another moment before he finally looked away. The strange thing was that nothing about the situation actually bothered him. Y/n was allowed to talk to whoever she wanted. She was allowed to have other friends. The thought shouldn’t have occupied more than two seconds of his attention.

The thought lingered for the rest of the lesson. It followed him when the bell rang, when students immediately began shoving books into bags and when Keonho somehow dropped the same pencil again while standing up.

Seonghyeon barely heard Martin laughing about it beside him. His attention had drifted elsewhere. Not toward the courtyard anymore, but toward the uncomfortable realization itself. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have noticed.

A few months ago, y/n would’ve blended into the hundreds of students moving around campus every day. Not really because there was anything forgettable about her, but because she had never given people a reason to look twice. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t try to draw attention to herself. Half the time she seemed perfectly content existing just outside the center of things.

The weather was unusually good, good enough that nobody wanted to spend lunch indoors. The football field, basketball court and every bench around campus were crowded with students taking advantage of the rare sunshine. Conversations echoed across the courtyard.

Seonghyeon sat on a low concrete wall near the basketball court with Martin, Keonho, James and Juhoon. Or rather, everyone else was sitting. Martin had somehow convinced himself he was the next basketball prodigy and had spent the last ten minutes repeatedly shooting the same ball at the hoop missing every time.

“You know,” James said, watching another failed attempt, “at some point this becomes a public safety hazard.”

Martin caught the rebound.

“You people don’t understand greatness.”

“Stick to football, please.”

Martin looked offended.

Beside them, Keonho was lying dramatically across the wall as if he’d just survived a life threatening event.

“I’ve decided something.”

Nobody reacted.

“I’m serious.”

Still nothing.

“You guys never support me.”

Juhoon didn’t even look up from his phone. “That’s because your ideas are usually terrible.”

“See? Exactly what I’m talking about.”

James sighed.

“What realization have you had now?”

Keonho sat up immediately.

“I should get priority in the cafeteria queue.”

‘’Why?’’

‘’Because i’m an athlete.’’

‘’…and so are we.’’

‘’Yeaaaaah- whatever.’’ Keonho immediately leaned back again.

The bookstore had always felt different after sunset.

Because there were fewer people around, or because the street outside became quieter once the shops started closing for the evening. Whatever the reason, everything seemed softer at night. The warm yellow lights reflected against the shelves, the air smelled faintly of paper and old wood and somewhere near the front counter low music played quietly enough that it blended into the background. It was one of the reasons you came here so often. Nobody bothered you. You could spend an hour staring at the same shelf and nobody would question it.

Which was exactly what you had been doing for the last ten minutes. At least until a familiar voice drifted from somewhere deeper in the store. You didn’t react immediately. At first your brain simply registered the sound as familiar. Then a second passed. Then another. And suddenly your head snapped up.

For a brief moment you genuinely convinced yourself you were imagining things. The possibility would’ve been less embarrassing than the alternative. Slowly, you stepped around the end of a bookshelf and glanced down the next aisle. Immediately, your stomach betrayed you.

Because standing near the back of the store was Seonghyeon. Not somebody who looked like him. It was him. Seeing him here felt like spotting a teacher at the grocery store. Not wrong exactly, just unsettling enough to force your brain to restart.

He was standing beside a rolling cart filled with books, listening while the owner explained something. Every now and then he would nod before reaching over to place another book onto a shelf. Judging by how comfortably he moved around the store, this clearly wasn’t his first time here. Then the owner noticed you. His face brightened instantly. “Y/n.”

Oh great, Seonghyeon was turning around too. For a second, surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled. The same smile that had become increasingly dangerous for your emotional wellbeing over the past few months.

“Hey.’’

It still managed to make your heart forget how to function. The owner looked between the two of you before immediately deciding this was the most entertaining thing that had happened all week.

“You two know each other?”

The silence that followed felt unnecessarily heavy. Technically, the answer was simple. Still, none of you spoke immediately. Eventually Seonghyeon answered first. “We go to school together.”

The owner looked unconvinced. You understood why. Because there was something suspicious about the way Seonghyeon had smiled while saying it. As if the answer was technically true. Just not the entire truth.

The owner eventually disappeared toward the front of the store after receiving a late delivery, leaving the two of you alone with several half empty shelves and a cart stacked with books that apparently needed to be reorganized before closing. The task itself wasn’t particularly difficult, but the aisle he had assigned you to was.

It was narrow enough that every time one of you moved, the other had to adjust accordingly. At first neither of you paid much attention to it. The conversation flowed naturally. It should have felt normal. In theory, it was normal. Still, somewhere between reaching for the same stack of novels and arguing over whether a book belonged in the mystery section or literary fiction, you became increasingly aware of how little space actually existed between the two of you.

You noticed gradually rather than all at once. One moment you were focused on sorting books, the next you found yourself noticing things that shouldn’t have mattered. The sleeves of Seonghyeon’s hoodie were pushed up to his forearms. His hair kept falling into his eyes every few minutes. Every time it did, he would push it back before continuing whatever he was doing. It wasn’t remarkable.

It wasn’t even interesting. Yet for some reason, your attention kept returning to it. Across from you, Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. He had spent the last several weeks trying very hard not to think too deeply about certain things, only to discover that being alone with you outside school made that task significantly more difficult. At school there were distractions. Friends, classes, teachers, noise. Here there was only the soft hum of the bookstore, the occasional turning page from a customer somewhere in the distance, and you.

You reached for a book resting near the top shelf at the exact same moment Seonghyeon stepped forward to place another back in its place. Neither of you noticed the timing until it was already too late. The aisle was far too narrow for both movements to happen at once. One second you were focused entirely on the shelf in front of you, the next you found yourself stopping abruptly as Seonghyeon did the same. Far too close.

You hadn’t walked into him. Neither of you had. Yet somehow the distance between you had disappeared anyway. The narrow aisle had trapped both of you in the same small space and now neither of you could move without brushing past the other. Instinctively, you took a small step backward. Though, your shoulder bumped lightly against the bookshelf behind you, leaving nowhere else to go. The movement seemed to catch Seonghyeon’s attention. His eyes flickered toward you before immediately looking away again. Then back. That was worse.

Because now he was actually looking at you. Not casually. Not the way he normally did. The kind of look that lasted a second too long. The kind that made you suddenly aware of every inch separating you.

Neither of you moved. Somewhere outside, a car passed by. Somewhere inside, somebody turned a page. Neither sound felt real. Not compared to this. Not compared to the fact that Seonghyeon was standing close enough for you to notice details you never should have been able to notice. The faint scent of his cologne. The slight rise and fall of his breathing. The way his gaze kept dropping for the briefest moments before returning to your eyes again.

Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. A normal person would have stepped away by now. That was the logical thing to do. The obvious thing. Yet for some reason, neither of them seemed capable of being the first one to move. His hand was still resting against the shelf above your shoulder. Not touching you. Close enough that it felt like it.

Close enough that every rational thought in his head had abruptly stopped functioning. He couldn’t even remember what book he had been reaching for. Couldn’t remember what either of you had been talking about thirty seconds ago. All he knew was that you were looking up at him and that suddenly felt like a very torturous thing. The silence stretched. Your eyes dropped briefly, then lifted again.

Mistake.

Because the second your gaze met his again, something shifted. Neither of you moved, yet the distance felt smaller than before. Small enough that for one completely irrational second, the possibility crossed both of your minds at the same time. And judging by the way Seonghyeon’s breathing faltered, he knew it too.

The sound of a stack of books being dropped somewhere near the front counter shattered the moment instantly. Both of you stepped back so fast it almost hurt.

The rest of the evening felt strangely disconnected after that.

You had left the bookstore not long after, mumbling some excuse about needing to get home before it got too late. The owner had teased you for leaving earlier than usual, but you barely remembered what you had said in response. Your brain had been somewhere else entirely.

The walk home should’ve felt familiar. You had taken the same route hundreds of times before. The same streets. The same convenience store on the corner. The same traffic lights that always seemed determined to turn red at the worst possible moment. Yet everything felt slightly off, as if somebody had shifted the world half an inch to the left without telling you.

The problem was that your brain had apparently become incapable of behaving normally whenever he was involved. Every time you replayed the evening, you found yourself stopping at the same moment. Your thoughts kept drifting there on their own. The narrow aisle. The silence. The way neither of you had moved. The way you suddenly became aware of absurd things you never paid attention to before, like how close he was standing or how easy it would’ve been to reach out and touch him.

Meanwhile, Seonghyeon made it approximately twelve minutes before realizing he was completely screwed.

The bookstore owner had eventually returned to find him standing in the wrong aisle holding a book he had already shelved three separate times. Seonghyeon wasn’t usually the type to get distracted. If anything, one of the things people liked most about him was how calm he was under pressure. Football matches didn’t stress him out, presentations didn’t stress him out. Exams stressed him out a little, but not enough to make him lose sleep. One interaction with y/n had completely destroyed his ability to focus. The owner had asked him a question and Seonghyeon had stared at him for three seconds before realizing he had not heard a single word.

Every time he thought he had moved on, he would remember some tiny detail and immediately get distracted again. The way she looked up at him. The way she froze. The fact that neither of them had stepped away immediately. That part bothered him most. A normal person would’ve moved. A normal person would’ve laughed it off and continued shelving books. Instead, they had both just stood there staring at each other like complete idiots until somebody dropped books near the front counter and snapped them back to reality.

The days after the bookstore felt strangely normal on the surface and completely unbearable underneath. Y/n would be halfway through listening to Haejin before suddenly remembering the look on Seonghyeon’s face in that aisle and immediately losing track of the conversation. Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. Looking for y/n had somehow become a habit. Not a conscious one. His eyes just seemed to find her automatically now, and what bothered him most wasn’t seeing her. It was when he couldn’t.

By Thursday afternoon, students flooded out of their classrooms as the bell rang. Conversations echoed through the hallways while people pushed toward their next lesson. Seonghyeon was walking with his friends, half listening to whatever argument Keonho was currently having, when he spotted y/n a little ahead. She was walking through the crowd. He didn’t think about it. Not really. The words left his mouth before his brain had the opportunity to intervene.

‘’You coming this friday?’’ The second he said it, she turned around.

‘’What?’’

Seonghyeon blinked, for a moment neither spoke.

‘’Where?’’

And suddenly every functioning thought in Seonghyeon’s head disappeared. Apparently, he had skipped an entire conversation.

‘’You know..’’ He started. No, obviously she didn’t know.

‘’The game.’’ She stared. ‘’The football game?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ Only now did Seonghyeon realize how insane this looked. They had never actually discussed her coming. Not once. For some reason though, it had already become a possibility in his head.

‘’Oh.’’ The hallway suddenly felt far too crowded. ‘’You don’t have to.’’ The words came out faster than he intended and he immediately regretted them, because now it sounded like he didn’t care. Which wasn’t true. Not even remotely. ‘’You could- you-‘’ He paused, then looked at her. Actually looked at her. ‘’I’d like it if you did.’’

Y/n’s heart had stopped functioning. There was no reason that sentence should’ve affected her the way it did. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even flirting. Yet standing there in the middle of a crowded hallway, it felt dangerously close to something else. And suddenly she realized he actually meant it.

He wanted her there. A smile threatened to appear, she fought it immediately and failed. ‘’Okay.’’ The answer came out softer than she had intended.

Something shifted in Seonghyeon’s expression. The tension in his shoulders eased and the smallest smile appeared.

By the time you arrived, most of the stadium was still empty. The match wasn’t starting for another hour, leaving the school caught in that strange period between preparation and chaos. Staff moved equipment across the field, a few students wandered through the entrance gates and somewhere deeper inside the athletic building, the football team was getting ready. You honestly hadn’t planned on coming this early. At least, that was what you kept telling yourself. The hallway leading toward the locker rooms was nearly deserted when you spotted him.

Seonghyeon was standing beside a row of lockers, already dressed in his uniform, one hand resting against the metal door while he searched through his bag for something. For a moment, you simply watched. It felt unfair how normal he looked. Like he hadn’t spent the last few weeks slowly becoming the cause of half your problems.

Maybe he felt you staring, because a second later he looked up and smiled. Not the polite smile. Not the one he gave teachers. The real one. The one that always seemed to appear before he could stop it.

“You know the game’s not starting for another hour, right?” The greeting caught you off guard.

“What, you’re kicking me out already?”

“No,” he said immediately, a little too quickly.

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re here this early.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Maybe I have nothing better to do.”

“That’s depressing.” You stared at him.

“You’re about to play an important match.”

“And you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m helping you stay humble.” A laugh escaped him, and for a moment neither of you said anything else. The conversation should’ve ended there. It didn’t. For some reason, Seonghyeon was still standing there. For some reason, you were too.

“You nervous?” you asked eventually.

“About the game?” You nodded.

“Unless you’re secretly taking a math exam afterwards.” His smile returned.

“A little.” The answer surprised you, it sounded genuine.

“You?” he asked. You frowned. “What?”

“Nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” Something shifted in his expression. “Good question.” The look he gave you made your stomach drop because suddenly it didn’t feel like you were talking about football anymore.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. That was the problem. It felt too easy. Too comfortable. The kind of silence that only happened when you genuinely liked being around someone. You looked away first, which immediately turned out to be a mistake because the second you did, you became aware of how close he was standing. Not close enough to be strange. Close enough to matter. When you looked back up, Seonghyeon was already looking at you.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The hallway felt quieter than before, and you couldn’t remember what you had been about to say. His gaze dropped for the briefest second before lifting again. The movement was tiny. It still made your heart nearly stop. For the first time since you had met him, Seonghyeon looked completely thrown off, like he was realizing something at the exact same time you were.

The realization hung between you. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you looked away. The distance somehow felt smaller now. A lot smaller. You weren’t sure whether one of you had stepped forward or if you had simply stopped paying attention to everything except him. Seonghyeon let out a quiet breath. His eyes flickered down again. This time neither of you pretended not to notice. The moment stretched. One second. Two. Three. Long enough for your pulse to start racing. Long enough for him to look like he’d completely forgotten where he was.

Long enough that if either of you moved even slightly-

“SEONGHYEON!”

The shout echoed through the hallway, making both of you jump apart so fast it was embarrassing. A teammate appeared around the corner. “Coach is looking for you.” Seonghyeon genuinely looked annoyed. Actually annoyed. Which somehow made everything worse.

“Yeah.” he muttered. The teammate disappeared again, leaving the two of you standing there in the aftermath of something neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.

Then Seonghyeon rubbed the back of his neck and let out a short laugh. “I should probably go before he benches me.”

“Probably.”

Then he looked at you properly. Not past you. Not around you. At you.

‘’Stay until the game finishes.’’

You blinked.

‘’What?’’

‘’You came all the way here, it’d be rude to leave earlier.’’ The excuse was terrible, both of you knew it. You were smiling. You gave him a reassuring hum. His own smile softened.

The whistle blew before you were ready for it.

Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted. The scattered conversations around the stadium disappeared beneath the sound of cheering as both teams surged forward. Whatever relaxed energy had existed before kickoff vanished entirely. Suddenly everything felt louder. Faster. More important. You tried focusing, you really did.

For the first few minutes, your attention stayed where it was supposed to. The ball moved rapidly across the field, players weaving around each other while the crowd reacted to every near miss and interception. It was impossible not to get caught up in it. Even people who barely cared about football seemed invested tonight.

Then your thoughts wandered. Without warning, your mind dragged you back to the hallway. To the silence. To the way Seonghyeon had looked at you. A collective groan erupted from the crowd. You blinked. Apparently you missed something.

“That would’ve been such a good goal!’’ Haejin complained beside you.

“Are you even watching?’’

‘’I am.’’

‘’You’re not!’’

Before you could argue, the game resumed and your attention returned to the field. This time it stayed there for a while.The match itself was good. Really good. Both teams were evenly matched which only made the atmosphere more intense. Every attack felt intense. Every mistake earned a reaction from the crowd. By the time twenty minutes had passed, even you had stopped pretending not to care. A player from the opposing team broke through the defense. The stadium collectively held its breath. The shot missed by centimeters and the entire crowd exploded. Students jumped to their feet.

And before you realized it, you were standing too. For a moment, you just stared then slowly sat back down.

Huh. Maybe football wasn’t completely boring.

The final minutes of the match passed in a blur. The score was tied. Every touch of the ball seemed to pull a reaction from the crowd, every mistake earning groans and every opportunity drawing people to the edge of their seats. Even students who barely cared about football were standing now. The atmosphere had become infectious. Somewhere beside you, Haejin had completely abandoned any attempt at acting normal. She was half standing, half leaning over the railing, reacting to every play as if her life depended on it.

The clock was running down when Seonghyeon received the ball near midfield. The crowd immediately reacted. Maybe it was because everybody trusted him. Whatever the reason, the second he moved forward thousands of eyes followed. Including yours. The play happened so quickly you barely had time to process it. A pass. A turn. Somebody shouting. Then suddenly the ball hit the back of the net. The stadium exploded, the noise that had erupted was unbelievable.

Students jumped to their feet. Teammates rushed across the field. People screamed loud enough to make your ears ring. Somewhere beside you, Haejin grabbed your shoulders and started shaking you like she had personally scored the goal herself. You laughed in surprise.

The first thing Seonghyeon did after his teammates swarmed him was lift his head and look at you. The distance between you was enormous. The field, the track, hundreds of people, yet he found you.

The final whistle blew moments later. The match was over. The celebration wasn’t. Students immediately flooded toward the exits, some heading for the field while others crowded around friends and teammates. The entire stadium seemed alive with movement. You lingered for a while, letting people pass before eventually gathering your things.

You weren’t entirely sure where you were going. Only that suddenly being surrounded by hundreds of people felt overwhelming. The night air was cooler outside the stadium. The noise became quieter with every step until it faded into the background completely. For the first time all evening, you were alone with your thoughts.

You had almost reached the corner of the building when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned around, it was Seonghyeon. He was still wearing his uniform, still slightly out of breath. He looked at you, the corners of Seonghyeon’s mouth lifted first.

“You were leaving.”

You laughed softly.

“Why does everybody keep accusing me of that?”

“Because you keep doing it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Maybe you would’ve argued. Maybe you would’ve defended yourself. You found yourself smiling instead. The noise from the stadium felt distant now. The world seemed smaller somehow. Reduced to the stretch of pavement between the two of you and the fact that neither of you seemed interested in leaving.

A group of students passed somewhere behind Seonghyeon still loud from the match, still arguing over goals and missed opportunities and who deserved credit for the win. One of them called his name. Normally he would’ve responded automatically. You had seen it happen a hundred times before. Yet he didn’t even turn around. His attention never left you. Something about that made your stomach flip.

For months, Seonghyeon had existed in constant motion. Surrounded by teammates, friends, conversations. There was always somebody looking for him. Always somewhere else he needed to be. Now, after one of the biggest matches of the season, after scoring the winning goal, after spending two hours being pulled in every direction, he was standing here looking at you like the rest of the world had become background noise.

The smile on Seonghyeon’s face faded slightly. Your pulse sped up immediately, you knew. Not what he was thinking, not exactly. However, you knew this moment mattered.

The distance between you felt ridiculous, like it was the only thing both of you could focus on. Every second stretched longer than it should have. Your heart was beating so hard, you became painfully aware of it.

Seonghyeon took a step forward. You hated how quickly your breath caught. You hated how your eyes immediately dropped before finding his again. You hated that he noticed. You were standing close enough to notice details you never should’ve noticed. The faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the match. The way his hair had fallen messily across his forehead. The fact that he looked just as overwhelmed as you felt.

Your hand found the sleeve of his jersey before you even realized what you were doing. The second your fingers curled around the fabric, Seonghyeon’s eyes dropped to your hand. Then back to you. Something in his expression completely softened. Then finally, after a dreadful amount of missed chances and interrupted moments and terrible timing,

Seonghyeon kissed you.

The football field, the crowd, the noise from the stadium, all of it disappeared into the background until there was nothing left except the overwhelming realization that this was actually happening. The kiss wasn’t rushed, it felt like both of you had spent so long circling around this moment that neither of you quite knew what to do once you had reached it. Your grip tightened slightly against his jersey without meaning to, and something about that made his hand find yours.

You had spent weeks turning Seonghyeon into a problem inside your head. Something complicated. Something impossible to ignore. Yet standing here now, there was nothing complicated about it.

Then, your lips crashed against his. Off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw accidentally before you corrected. You were pulling him closer. Seonghyeon had reacted immediately, his hands reached to cup your face delicately. His lips were warm and softer than you had expected for a boy who felt so intimidating and cold at first. The contrast sent something sharp down your spine.

He shifted one of his hands to your waist, the touch light at first, like he was questioning if you’d pull away. You didn’t, you kissed him harder. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently, better, deeper. His chest was pressed against yours. Your heart was pounding, he could feel it. Or maybe it was his own heart.

His thumb was brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you properly now, he matched your energy. He kissed you until his lips were numb, he kissed you with genuine love. He kissed you like he was trying to get inside your skin. He was a mess for you. He took over the pacing, guiding slowly through it.

At some point, neither of you seemed to care how long you had been standing there. When you finally pulled apart, it wasn’t because either of you wanted to. It was because breathing had become somewhat important. The distance between you barely existed. Seonghyeon’s hand remained at your waist, his forehead nearly brushing yours as both of you tried to remember how to function.

You simply looked at each other. Weirdly, after months of wondering and guessing and pretending not to notice, that felt like enough. For the first time since all of this started, neither of you had to question it anymore.

Seonghyeon liked you.

You liked Seonghyeon.

And after everything it had taken to get here, It felt so good.

The next morning felt strangely normal. The school building was still crowded. Students still dragged themselves through the hallways half awake. Somewhere down the corridor, Martin was already being unnecessarily loud before first period had even started.

He was greeting everyone with the biggest smile plastered across his face, he was way too happy at 8:30 in the morning. Not as happy as you though. Your cheeks hurt, genuienly hurt reaching the main building. Everytime you remembered yesterday, another smile appeared before you could stop it. You were very warm, you just hoped it wasn’t obvious externally.

‘’You look happy.’’

You looked up, Seonghyeon was standing beside your locker. Immediately your smile got worse, a strange feeling in your stomach had come from nowhere when you looked at him.

‘’Hi.’’

He smiled.

His hand found yours so naturally it almost sent shivers through your body. His fingers slipping through yours as though they’d belonged there since forever. The action sent a completely unreasonable amount of warmth through your chest.

the two of you started walking toward your classroom. The hallway buzzed with conversation around you, people moving in every direction. A few students greeted Seonghyeon as they passed. He greeted them back automatically. Everything felt familiar. Yet every few steps your attention drifted toward your joined hands again. It was such a small thing.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said after a moment, glancing sideways, “you look less tired today.” You immediately narrowed your eyes. “You said I looked tired.”

“I said you were tired.”

“No.’’

“I meant it differently.”

“Sure.”

You tried very hard not to smile. Failed immediately. Beside you, Seonghyeon looked equally hopeless. The two of you reached your classroom far too quickly. Students were already filtering inside. The bell would ring any minute now. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to acknowledge that. Eventually, Seonghyeon stopped outside the door.

“So.”

‘’So.’’

A smile appeared, and a matching one answered it. Then Seonghyeon sqeezed your hand once before letting you go.

‘’I’ll see you later.’’

☘︎

taglist: @dreamyevilcomet @vilovestosimp @iifrui @riddlesonlywife @seombaby @hyeonverse @6rei-ji

[hyuneskkami]

FALLINGFORYOU. eom seonghyeon smau. ‎⭑

꩜｡ SYN. in which . . . seonghyeon and yn get caught up in fake dating rumours and are asked to get into a pr relationship.

꩜｡ PAIRING. cortis!eom seonghyeon x k-soloist!fem!reader

꩜｡ FEATURING. all cortis members | maki (&team) | iroha (illit) | chiquita (babymon) | louis (lngshot) | two of my lovely moots (hints: intercont & dubai chewy kono yk if yk) | etc.

꩜｡ GENRES. smau | fluff | some jealousy and slight angst | publicly annoyed, privately obsessed ahh

꩜｡ WARNINGS. ‘enemies’ (they pretend to hate each other i don’t even know why, seulbi asked me to do it, so i did it) to luvrs #hyeonyn | swearing, as always | mostly kazuha used as faceclaim for pictures! you can imagine yn however you want tho <3 | slight jealousy and angst | both of them somehow keep playing a lil bit of that ‘hard to get’ game | communication is key! | kissing | slight make out (pg 14?)

꩜｡ TAGLIST. closed.

꩜｡ SKYE’S NOTE. this was gonna be a miniseries but my ahh couldn’t stop yapping after 3 chapters so i js gave up and made it a whole series 😭✌️ also don’t slime me but juhoon series is currently on hold BECAUSE. because. i genuinely forgot my own plot and need to reread (it’s been over a month-ish since i wrote that series guys pls) 💀 HOWEVER this series is going much faster so i’ll probably post a chapter every week and get it done 😁💞 AND it is finals szn so if i do miss updates, pls don’t mind 🥹 i also have the ending of this fic done (i gen wrote the ending and then started writing the whole series AFTER that 😭) ENJOY THOOOO i hope y’all like my babies hyeonyn who i’ve been nurturing for the past month 🥹💞 [++ for anyone who remembers me crashing out about the corlit youtube short & woonhak interacting w cortis posts……. this is the fic i was talking about 😁]

꩜｡ MASTERLIST.

𖦹 O1. what is dispatch on fr

𖦹 O2. you flirt like a middle school bully btw

𖦹 O3. more cute hyeonyn edits for u to watch and simp over ig

𖦹 O4. hello this is bighit entertainment

𖦹 O5. award goes to cortis of eom seonghyeon

𖦹 O6. yet you still stay / where else would i go

𖦹 O7. next time, don’t run across the city at three in the morning

꩜｡ SERIES TL. @chocom0ka @tbhkwarrior @spininmytornado @yoiyoiyoii @velosiq @megamatt43 @zompina @ilovetylerthecreater @mariyariririri @keonono @lanasturnsnoopy @eomeow @zooweemimi @cortisen5 @bestboileeknow @pix3lkitten @yuuniversezx

19/may/2026 - 07/jul/2026

© hyuneskkami 2026.

[mariyariririri]

Luv this smm

[jjudawn]

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

synopsis: keonho being the loudest boyfriend of the quietest girl, and somehow it all just seems to make sense for the two of you.

word count: 7.0k

info+warnings: extroverted!bf!keonho, fluff, established relationship, shy/quiet + bookworm reader, teen romance, profanities, skinship, kissing

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites to the highest degree. He was the most talkative and outgoing boy you think you've ever met, having lines of people greeting him as he passed in the hallways, whereas you were the girl who could walk through a crowded cafeteria and remain completely invisible, a ghost in a sea of noise. He lived for the spotlight of conversation; you craved the quiet corners of the library. It was a cosmic mismatch, a social experiment doomed to fail. Yet there you were, two years into a relationship that confused everyone except the two of you.

It had all started a few months into your first year of high school. You had been walking home, earbuds in, the entire world muted. Your mind was already halfway through the chapters you needed to read for tomorrow, your fingers tracing the spine of your worn-out library book.

A blur of motion, a flash of dark blue fabric, and a solid thud sent you stumbling sideways. Your earbuds ripped out of your ears, your book flew from your hands, and you were suddenly very, very aware of a warm grip on your elbow keeping you from face-planting into the concrete.

"OH SHIT—I'M SO SORRY—ARE YOU OKAY—"

The voice was a cannon blast to your carefully constructed silence. You blinked, disoriented, and glanced sideways.

Keonho stood beside you, eyes wide with genuine panic as they scanned your face, his school blazer half-falling off one shoulder. His hair was a disaster, like he'd run through a wind tunnel, and his backpack was hanging open, pens and crumpled papers threatening to escape. He was still gripping your elbow like you might evaporate if he let go.

You quickly regained your footing, standing upright. His hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer before he dropped it, flustered.

"I'm so sorry, Seonghyeon was being an idiot and—" his lips moved at a thousand miles a minute as he crouched down, his hands scrambling across the floor to pick up the small pile of scattered books. You bent down beside him, attempting to help though it became impossible when his fingers latched onto each spine just as you reached out, leaving you squatting there awkwardly whilst words continued to pour out of his mouth. "—I really should have been looking where I was going—wait, are you hurt anywhere? Please tell me you aren't injured—hang on… aren't you in my chemistry class?"

To be completely honest, you were unable to process any of the rapidfire comments thrown at you, far too enclosed in your own mind's attempt to make sense of the situation you now found yourself in.

You stood up slowly, deeming it far too awkward for you to remain at eye level with the boy. He was soon to follow, his hands fiddling with the books as he tried to organise them, clearly stalling.

"Uh—here—" He thrust them toward you, his fingers fumbling. "Your books. I think they're all here. I didn't—I hope I didn't bend any pages—"

You took them carefully, clutching them to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured. "They're fine."

"Oh. Good. That's—good." He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting everywhere except your face. "I really am sorry. I wasn't looking. Seonghyeon bet me I couldn't make it to the fountain before he counted to ten, and I'm an idiot who takes dumb bets—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and blinked. "Yeah?"

You didn't say anything else. Just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment that held a hint of forgiveness, and turned to leave.

You made it three steps before his voice caught up to you.

"Wait—I never got your name."

You paused and glanced back over your shoulder. He was standing there, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his untucked shirt, looking almost nervous.

"Y/N." You told him quietly, then you turned back around and kept walking, tucking your earbuds back in, drowning out the world.

You thought that would be the end of it. An awkward collision that would be instantly forgotten by the likes of someone like Keonho, but the next day in chem class, you felt eyes on you.

You turned to see Keonho sat across the room, chin propped on his palm, head tilted. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, his lips curved into a smile: small and almost private, nothing like the loud, performative grins you'd seen him flash at everyone else.

He raised a hand in a tiny wave.

You stared at him for a beat, then turned back to your notes, your face unexpectedly warm.

After that, Keonho couldn't help but notice you at school now, and much worse, he wouldn't stop trying to talk to you.

The next morning, you spotted him in the hallway before he spotted you. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends, laughing at something one of them had said. His head was thrown back, the sound of it carrying easily over the morning chaos, bright and unguarded. 

You ducked your head and kept walking, fingers tightening around the spine of your book.

Despite your best efforts he noticed you and ran to catch up to you by the lockers, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, falling into step beside you. "You walk fast."

You didn't stop. "I have class."

"I know, me too." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, his steps slightly uneven as he matched your pace. "I just wanted to say sorry again for yesterday. I felt bad all night."

"You said sorry already."

"Yeah, but I meant it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I don't usually—I mean, I'm not usually that clumsy. Well, okay, I am—but I don't usually knock people over. That was a first."

You glanced at him. He was looking at you now, his eyes earnest in a way that caught you off guard.

"You already said sorry," you repeated, softer this time.

"I know but I still feel bad." He kicked at an invisible pebble on the floor, his sneaker scuffing against the tile. "So I was thinking… I owe you a hot chocolate… To make up for it."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know but I want to."

You didn't respond to that and he didn't push, he just walked beside you in surprising silence, his usual energy dialed down a few notches. It was almost comfortable, as though he already knew you weren't going to fill the space, and he was okay with that.

When you reached your classroom, he stopped at the door. His hand came up, hovering for a second like he wanted to touch your arm, then dropped back to his side. "See you around, Y/N," he said softly.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students.

The next day, he waved at you from across the cafeteria. You pretended not to see, and in response he only waved harder, nearly smacking the person next to him, and you could feel his eyes on you even through the chaos of the lunch rush.

You gave a tiny nod and turned back to your tray.

Mina followed your gaze, her line of sight slightly blocked by the passing students. "Who's that?"

"No one."

"He's staring at us."

You didn't look up. "He's not."

"He definitely is." Mina leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Wait… Is that Keonho? The Keonho? The one who's literally everywhere and in, like, every club ever and knows everyone?"

You shrugged, pushing rice around your bowl.

Mina's eyes widened. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. He ran into me."

"He ran into you." Mina's voice went flat with disbelief. "And now he won't stop staring at you?"

"It's not—" You glanced up despite yourself. He was still looking, a small smile on his face. When your eyes met his, he tilted his head, like he was checking if you were okay. You looked away quickly. "It's nothing."

"It's definitely something." She let you brood with that comment, choosing not to push you any further.

He found you in the library after school a few days later. Not intentionally—at least, you assumed not. He walked in with a friend and spotted you in your usual corner before you could disappear behind your book.

"Oh hey!" He dropped onto the chair across from you without asking, his bag thudding onto the floor. His friend lingered awkwardly for a moment, clearly not expecting to be ditched, before wandering off toward the fiction section. "Didn't peg you for a library person. Actually, wait, that's exactly what I'd peg you for. That came out wrong."

You closed your book slowly, marking your page. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. Obviously." He pulled out a crumpled worksheet from his bag, its edges soft and worn from being shoved around. "I need help with chem. You're good at chem, right? You look like you're good at chem."

"I'm average."

"Average is better than my 'please don't fail me' energy." He slid the paper across the table, his fingers tapping against it. "One question, that's all I'm asking, then I'll leave you alone."

You stared at the worksheet. The handwriting was messy, loops and squiggles in places where he'd clearly rushed. The first problem was partially solved, the steps correct until they suddenly weren't.

You pulled the paper toward you.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tension leaving his frame. "Thanks."

It quickly became a routine. He'd show up at the library, always with "one question" that somehow stretched into an hour of him talking about everything except chemistry.

His dog named Cookie who he claimed was smarter than him and had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter. His failed attempt at baking a cake for his sister's birthday that caused the smoke alarm to go off and the fire department to almost show up, and somehow the cake was still raw in the middle. Seonghyeon, who apparently had the worst impulse control of anyone he'd ever met and had once thrown his phone into a tree just to prove he could.

You'd half-listen, half-study, and he never seemed to mind that you barely said two words. Sometimes you'd glance up and catch him watching you, eyes boring into you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he found interesting. His gaze would flick away immediately, but not before you saw the faint flush creep up his neck.

One day, he didn't show up.

You told yourself it was fine, he didn't owe you anything. You weren't friends, and this totally wasn't a thing.

Though you spent the entire hour staring at the same paragraph in your textbook, reading it seven times and even then still had no idea what it said.

By the time you packed up your bag, you were annoyed at yourself for caring as much about that strange boy as you now apparently did.

The next morning, he appeared at your locker before you even had your combination turned.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said, slightly breathless, he'd apparently run the entire way. "Seonghyeon dragged me to some event. His younger sister's band was playing and he made me go. I didn't want to, I wanted to come with you. I swear I didn't ditch you on purpose."

You pulled out your textbooks, keeping your face neutral. "You don't have to come every day."

"I know." He leaned against the lockers, arms crossing loosely. "But I like coming, you're good company."

"I don't talk."

"That's what I like about you." He said it simply, without his usual theatrics. "You don't fill the silence with nonsense. You just sit there and listen. It's nice. Peaceful."

You didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called your silence peaceful before. Most people found it uncomfortable, a void they needed to fill or else it felt like the ground would swallow them whole from awkwardness.

He held out a granola bar, slightly crushed at the edges. "Here, to make up for yesterday."

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his though he didn't flinch or pull away. "You don't have to keep making up for things," you said.

"I know." He shrugged, already falling into step beside you as you started walking. "But I want to."

It went on like that for weeks, and somewhere along the way, you started noticing things.

His laugh changed when something genuinely caught him off guard—loud and surprised, all of his usual composure crumbling. His hands moved when he talked, always in motion, sketching shapes in the air. His voice dropped just slightly when he said your name, like it was something delicate he was handling carefully.

But most of all, he never pushed, never asked why you were so quiet, never made you feel like you needed to perform for him.

He just stayed, and you didn't quite know what to do with that.

It was Mina who finally asked, after watching him wave at you across the courtyard for the third time that week.

"So what's the deal with you two?"

"There's no deal."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He's just apologetic for running into me." You kept your eyes on your book, even though you'd stopped reading. "He only appears, like, once a day."

"Okay, first of all, it's been weeks since then, he should be over it by now. And second of all, that's literally following." Mina poked your arm. "And you just let him."

You didn't have a response to that because she was right, you did let him. You could've walked away, told him to leave you alone, stayed quiet and distant in the way you did with everyone else.

But when he sat across from you in the library, chattering away about nothing, you found yourself glancing up more often, even listening closer. You didn't mind his noise the way you minded everyone else's.

At some point across the many days Keonho spent in your orbit, your feelings about him began to shift.

It wasn't a single moment. There was no dramatic realisation, no sudden bolt of lightning. It crept in slowly, quietly, the way morning light fills a room before you notice it's no longer dark.

You caught yourself looking for him in the hallways. Your eyes would just wander, scanning the crowd, and when they landed on his familiar mop of messy hair, something in your chest would settle as though you'd been holding your breath without realising it.

You started noticing the small things he was doing for you. The way he always made sure to leave you the last bite of whatever snack he brought, and he'd angle his body toward you when he talked, like you were the only person in the room. He'd also pause mid-sentence when you finally spoke, giving you his full attention like what you had to say mattered more than whatever he'd been saying.

The library became a sacred place for the two of you.

He'd show up after school, drop his bag on the floor, and slide into the seat across from you like he belonged there. Which, you realised, he kind of did now.

Sometimes he studied, though more often he talked. 

You never offered much in return, but he never asked for more than you were ready to give.

"I don't even know your favourite color," he said one day, looking up from his worksheet.

You blinked. "Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't, I just want to know." He shrugged. "I want to know everything about you."

You told him it was purple. Deep purple, like the sky right before it goes dark. He smiled because you'd finally, finally,  given him something personal. "The color of the sky," he repeated. "That's really pretty."

You felt heat creep up your neck and looked back at your book.

It was on one of these evenings that you realised it had already happened.

He was rambling about something you could no longer remember, and you were pretending to read, but really you were just watching him be his naturally extroverted self.

And you thought, oh.

You liked him. Not just tolerated him, not just got used to him. You genuinely, completely, helplessly liked him.

You didn't know what to do with that. You'd never felt this pull toward someone before, this warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

You didn't tell him in that moment because you weren't sure you could.

But he noticed something had changed. Of course he did, he was far too observant of your tells for you to be able to hide something as big as, what you believed to be, unrequited love from him

"You're staring," he said one afternoon, looking up from his phone. "Not that I mind, but you're staring."

You looked away quickly. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, a teasing grin on his face. "You're thinking about something. What is it? Are you finally going to admit I'm charming?"

"You're insufferable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

You laughed and his grin softened into something deeper, warmer.

"I like that sound," he said quietly.

"What sound?"

"You laughing." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like making you laugh."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest as you quickly moved your gaze downward, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rapidly creeping onto your cheeks.

The weeks blurred together. His presence became a constant in your life, something you'd started to rely on without admitting it to yourself.

He'd find you in the mornings, falling into step beside you with a half-eaten breakfast bar or a coffee he'd grabbed for you. He'd walk you to class, talking the entire way, and you'd listen and nod and pretend you weren't memorising the way his hair fell across his forehead. He'd wave at you across crowded rooms, his grin wide and unashamed, and you'd feel a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You noticed how he was different with you than with everyone else.

Around his friends, he was loud and performative, always the center of attention, always making people laugh. But around you, he dialed it back. He still talked—he'd never stop talking, you were absolutely sure of that—but it was quieter. More genuine, as though he felt like he didn't need to impress you or perform.

"You're the only one who sees me," he said one evening, his voice soft. "The real me, not the show."

You looked up from your book. He was staring at the table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing.

"I mean—" He paused, searching for the words. "Everyone expects me to be a certain way. Loud, funny, always on, and I can do that. It's easy. But sometimes it's exhausting pretending to be that version of myself all the time."

He looked up at you. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You don't expect anything from me, you just let me be."

Something in your chest tightened. "I like the real you," you said quietly.

His eyes met yours properly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like something was being shared.

"Yeah?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

He smiled softly as you both continued what you had been doing before, choosing to ignore the way something in your gut had flipped.

It was late November when the first real change happened.

He'd walked you to the bus stop like usual, but the bus was late. The sky was dark, the air cold, and you were shivering in your thin jacket.

"Here." He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to you without a second thought.

"You'll be cold."

"I'll survive." He shoved his hands in his pockets, not taking it back. "You need it more than me."

You hesitated, then pulled it on. It was too big, drowning you in fabric, but it was warm and smelled like him: something clean and faintly sweet.

He stared at you for a second longer than necessary, then cleared his throat. "It looks better on you anyway."

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to flirt, but you were smiling.

Then one afternoon following the weather turned. A grey sky that had been threatening rain all day finally opened up, dumping sheets of water across the pavement. You'd left your umbrella at home.

You stood under the overhang of the school entrance, watching the rain come down, mentally calculating your chances of making it to the bus stop without getting soaked. Your jacket was thin. Your books would be ruined. You'd survive, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

You turned. Keonho was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face.

You sighed. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I was just going to say," he said, stepping beside you, "that I have an extra. Because I'm always prepared. Very responsible, ask anyone."

He pulled out a large umbrella, bright red, and held it out to you.

You stared at it. "You brought an extra just in case?"

"I brought an extra because I know you never carry one."

You blinked. "You’re watching me?"

"Always." He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he seemed to realise what he'd said, his ears turning pink. "I mean—I noticed. In passing. I pay attention to things."

You didn't say anything. Just took the umbrella, your fingers brushing his.

"It's too big for one person," you said quietly. "You should share."

He blinked at you, like he hadn't expected that. Then his smile widened, slow and surprised. "Okay," he said, stepping under the umbrella with you. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

You walked to the bus stop together, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The rain pounded against the fabric above you, loud and steady, but underneath it, everything felt strangely quiet.

He didn't say much and neither did you.

The bus arrived just as you arrived, and you moved towards it. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your wrist.

"Hey." You turned. His face was close, closer than it had ever been. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for weeks, and I think I know, but I don't want to assume, and—"

"Yes."

He stopped, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yes?"

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it, your palms were sweaty, and you'd never felt more exposed in your entire life. Every instinct screamed at you to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your silence, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I like you," you said, the words barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. And I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know if you'd want someone like me when you could have anyone, but—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, his lips brushed against yours gently, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to, you couldn't imagine wanting anything else in that moment.

Your eyes fluttered closed and everything else faded, there was only him, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the softness of his lips, the faint scent of him that you'd grown so familiar with over the past weeks.

His thumb traced a gentle path along your jaw, and you felt yourself lean into him, your body moving on its own accord. Your free hand came up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing something to anchor yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed and his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When he opened them, they were bright, almost dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. I just needed to know you felt something too. I didn't want to—"

You pulled him back.

This time you kissed him like you meant it, like you'd been holding it in for weeks and finally had permission to let it out.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, threading through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled into his warmth, into the circle of his arms, into this moment that felt both terrifying and right.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours again, his eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. That was—"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice coming out shaky.

He laughed, bright and surprised, and pulled you into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured into your hair. "You have no idea. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, every time you said my name—I just wanted to—"

He broke off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're really something, you know that?" He said. "You're quiet and you keep to yourself and you never told me how you felt, and somehow you're still the most interesting person I've ever met."

You pulled back to look at him, your face warm. "I'm not interesting."

"You're the most interesting person I know," he insisted. "You have a whole universe inside your head, and you let me see little pieces of it. And I just—" He shook his head, smiling. "I love that. I love you."

Your heart stopped.

He seemed to realise what he'd said, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't take it back. He just looked at you, vulnerable and hopeful.

"I mean it," he said, his voice softer now. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been—but I've felt it for a while. I didn't want to say it too soon, but—"

"Keonho."

He stopped.

You reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw the way you'd wanted to for weeks. "I love you too," you said.

His face broke into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on him: wide and unguarded and full of so much emotion it made your chest ache.

"Yeah?" He whispered.

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His lips were warm and soft, his hand gentle on your waist, and you felt like you were floating.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "So," he said, his voice breathless. "Does this mean I can walk you to the bus stop holding your hand now?"

The days that followed were different. Not in any huge, obvious way—he was still loud, still talkative, still showed up at your locker every morning. But something had shifted between you to the point where there was a new awareness, a new intimacy.

He started holding your hand everywhere: in the hallways, at the library, at the bus stop. He'd lace his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you'd let him, surprised by how right it felt.

His friends noticed. Seonghyeon had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you two together. "So this is the quiet girl?" He’d asked, looking you over. "The one you've been obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed," Keonho said, his ears turning red. "I just—"

"You literally followed her around for months."

"I didn't follow—"

"You made a spreadsheet of her favourite books."

Keonho groaned. "Seonghyeon, shut up."

You blinked. "You made a spreadsheet?"

"To figure out what you'd like," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes but keeping his hand locked onto yours throughout. "For future gift purposes. It was strategic."

You laughed, bright and surprised, and he looked at you like you'd just handed him the world.

"You're so weird," you said.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

You did. You really, really did.

The two years passed in a blur of shared moments.

Winter mornings where he'd show up with two cups of hot chocolate, one for each of you, his nose red from the cold. Spring afternoons where you'd study in the library, his head resting on your shoulder while he pretended to read. Summer evenings where you'd walk home together, the sun setting behind you, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders. Fall days where he'd kick through piles of leaves just to watch you smile.

He was still loud, still talkative, still the boy who knew everyone and was friends with everyone.

But he was yours, and somehow, impossibly, you were his.

Something in Keonho seemed to switch off whenever he was around you.

It was the first thing you'd noticed about him, back when he'd started showing up at the library—how the loud, performative energy that he carried everywhere else would dim the moment he settled into the chair across from you. His shoulders would drop, his voice would soften, and his hands would still. 

You'd never said anything about it. You weren't sure he even noticed himself, but it was there, always, a quiet shift that happened the moment he was in your orbit.

Now, two years later, you were sitting on his parents' couch in his living room, your legs tucked beneath you, a book resting open atop the little space remaining on your lap. Keonho was sprawled across the length of the couch, his head resting in your lap, his eyes closed. His hair was a mess—it always was—and his shirt was rumpled from a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

His parents had gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you alone in the house. It wasn't unusual, you'd spent countless evenings here, the two of you sprawled across this same couch, doing nothing and everything.

His hand was resting on your knee, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of your jeans. His breathing was slow and even, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders completely gone.

"Are you asleep?" You asked quietly.

"Mmm." He didn't open his eyes. "Maybe."

"You can't sleep. You're supposed to be spending time with me."

"I am spending time with you." His lips curved into a lazy smile. "I'm lying on you. That's quality time."

"That's not how quality time works."

"Sure it is." He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his hair tickling your bare arm. "I'm touching you, I'm breathing your air, I'm in your presence. This is the most quality time I've had all week."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. "You're such a know it all."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do," you said, and the words came easier now than they used to. "Somehow."

He opened one eye, turning to peek up at you. "Somehow?"

"You're very high maintenance."

"I'm not high maintenance." He closed his eye again, nuzzling the side of his face against your thigh. "I'm just... particular."

"You're particular."

"Very particular. About you. I'm particular about you."

Your heart did that thing it always did when he said things like that—that soft flutter that had become so familiar over the past two years.

"You're also very cheesy," you said.

"Cheesy and yours." He grinned, still not opening his eyes. "That's the deal."

You went back to your book, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His hand on your knee had stilled, his fingers loosely curled around your leg.

The house was quiet, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. The winter sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.

It was peaceful, perfect, and so utterly Keonho and you that you couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, barely above a murmur.

"Hmm?"

"Remember how we met?"

You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, but his smile had softened into something thoughtful.

"You mean when you tackled me when I was walking home?" You said, raising your eyebrows slightly. "And nearly killed me?"

"I didn't nearly kill you." He opened his eyes, turning and looking up at you with mock offense. "I gently collided with you. Don’t be so dramatic."

"You knocked me over and my books went flying."

"Okay, but I picked them up for you." He grinned. "That was very chivalrous of me."

"You just shoved them in my hands while apologising at a thousand miles an hour."

"I was panicking." He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "I'd just run into the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. What was I supposed to do? Stay calm?"

You felt your face warm. "You didn't think I was pretty then."

"I did." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you were pretty the moment I looked up and saw you standing there. I just didn't say it because I was too busy apologising and making a fool of myself."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "I went home that night and told Seonghyeon I'd met the most beautiful girl in school and I'd nearly murdered her."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "You did not."

"I did." He was grinning now. "He told me I was being dramatic, and I told him he didn't understand. I was very dramatic about it. That's just who I am."

"I know. I've noticed."

"Yeah, but you don't mind." His voice was warm. "That's why you're my favourite person."

Your heart swelled at his words, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck. "You're my favourite person too."

You felt him smile against your leg. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"You say it plenty."

"I know. But I still don't say it enough." He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you, Y/N. I love the way you read books and ignore me. I love the way you laugh when I say something stupid. I love the way you let me be quiet around you, even though I'm not good at being quiet."

"You're good at being quiet around me."

"Because you make it easy." His thumb traced your jaw. "You make everything easy. You make me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just... be."

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can just be," you whispered against his skin. "That's the whole point."

He closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

You went back to your book, and he went back to tracing patterns on your knee. The sun dipped lower, the room growing dimmer, but neither of you moved to turn on a light, existing in your own, quiet, ecosystem.

Of course, though, Keonho was still Keonho. And that meant he'd still have moments where his usual energy would come roaring back, filling whatever room he was in with noise and chaos. But even those moments—especially those moments—somehow made you love him more.

One Saturday afternoon you were curled up on his couch again, a book in your hands that he had recently gifted you. Keonho was in the kitchen, supposedly making cookies, though you'd been hearing a lot of noises: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes, something that sounded suspiciously like a pan being dropped on the floor.

"Are you okay in there?" You called out, glancing down the hall.

"FINE!" His voice was too loud, too cheerful. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM VERY CAPABLE."

You were about to go back to your book when you heard a crash followed by a rapid string of curses that would've made your grandmother faint.

You sighed, marking your page, and made your way to the kitchen.

Keonho was standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the countertops, the floor, his shirt, and somehow even his hair. A bowl was overturned in the sink, and there was something suspiciously charred smoking in a pan on the stove.

He turned to you with a sheepish grin, his face dusted with white powder.

"Hi," he said. "I was making you cookies. It's not going well."

You looked at the chaos around him. "I can see that."

"It's okay. I have a plan." He held up a bag of pre-made cookie dough. "I was going to do it from scratch, but then things happened, so I'm pivoting."

"Things happened."

"Things happened." He gestured vaguely at the mess. "I don't know what things, they just happened."

You bit back a smile. "You set the kitchen on fire."

"It was a small fire! A contained fire! I put it out immediately!" He paused. "Okay, the fire alarm went off, but I handled it."

"How?"

"I waved a towel at it."

You couldn't help it and laughed, bright and surprised, his face lighting up like you'd just given him a gift.

"You're laughing!" He said. "At my pain. You're laughing at my suffering."

"I'm laughing at your baking," you corrected. "Never your pain."

"The baking is the cause of my pain." He grabbed the bag of cookie dough and held it up triumphantly. "But this is my redemption arc. Watch and be amazed."

He tore open the bag with more force than necessary, and a puff of flour exploded in his face, leaving him standing there frozen and blinking.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't you dare."

You immediately burst out laughing, bending over slightly to catch yourself.

He groaned, but he was smiling. "This is bullying. This is emotional abuse."

"You're the one who decided to bake."

"I was trying to do something nice!"

"I appreciate the effort." You walked over, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek with your thumb as your palm cupped his jaw. "But next time, maybe just buy cookies."

"Where's the fun in that?" He leaned into your touch, his eyes soft and shining as they looked into your own. "I wanted to do something special for you."

"Keonho, you're special enough."

He dropped the bag of cookie dough and pulled you into his arms, flour and all. His chin rested on top of your head. "You're too good to me," he murmured.

"You're the one who almost burned down your kitchen."

"I would burn down a thousand kitchens for you." He paused and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. "Wait, that's a terrible thing to say. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Mmhm." You pulled back to look at him, his face still covered in flour. "You're ridiculous, but you're my ridiculous."

He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I love you."

"I know." You reached up, wiping a smear of flour from his nose. "I love you too. Even if you can't bake."

"That's offensive. I can bake. I'm an excellent baker in fact. This was just a test run."

"Of what?"

"Of my ability to make cookies." He paused. "I failed, but I'll get there, just give me time. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome didn't have you."

"Exactly. So imagine what I can do."

The sun had fully set by the time you moved to your natural positions on the sofa, the room dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight outside. 

"Hey," you said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you tackled me on my walk home."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't change a thing."

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, and pulled you down for a proper kiss. You both melted into it, the pure feeling of love swelling so deeply in your chest you couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

"Me neither," he said. "Not a single thing."

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites. A quiet girl who disappeared into the background and a boy who lit up every room he walked into. 

But none of that mattered because somewhere along the way, you'd realised that opposites didn't have to clash. Sometimes, they just fit perfectly and effortlessly.

He was the sun, bright and uncontainable, and you were the moon, steady and still, and you'd learned that the sky was big enough for both. That the most beautiful moments happened when the sun and moon shared the horizon—when the world was painted in shades of gold and silver, light and shadow dancing together in perfect harmony. The sunset wasn't beautiful despite the coexistence of day and night, it was beautiful because of it.

The sun didn't dim for the moon and the moon didn't fade for the sun, they simply existed together, each making the other more breathtaking.

And so did you and Keonho.

[cortismoon]

SNOWY DAYS

SYPNOSIS a snowy day with your boyfriend, james

WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS established relationship, fluff, snowball fight, playful teasing.

NOTE this is dedicated to my bby @hyuneskkami because she was feeling down and i hate seeing my mom feel sad ok? ok😁 no i wont say the L word tho..btw im gonna be asleep when this posts so i better wake up to hundreds of messages from you😋thanks!

you were huddled beneath the thick covers, curled into yourself as quiet little snores escaped your lips, completely unaware of the world beyond your bedroom. sleep had wrapped itself around you so deeply that nothing seemed capable of pulling you out of it, not the faint sounds coming from downstairs, not the footsteps echoing through the hallway, and certainly not the occasional cupboard closing a little louder than necessary. the warmth surrounding you felt too comfortable to leave, and every passing minute only seemed to sink you further into your dreams.

meanwhile, james had already been awake for hours, wandering around the house with growing impatience as he waited for you to wake up on your own. he had made breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, and even intentionally made more noise than usual, hoping the clatter of dishes or the hum of the coffee machine would finally stir you awake, but nothing worked. after standing outside your bedroom for a moment with an amused sigh, he finally decided he had run out of patience.

without a word, he marched over to the bed and yanked the covers completely off you.

the cold hit you instantly.

your entire body tensed as goosebumps spread across your skin, and with a sleepy groan you instinctively curled yourself into a tight ball, trying to preserve what little warmth you had left. your eyes remained stubbornly shut as you hugged your knees closer to your chest.

“james…” you mumbled, your voice rough with sleep. “what are you doing? it’s cold.”

instead of apologizing, he simply grabbed one of the pillows and dropped it onto your face with a dramatic huff. “open your eyes and look out the window.”

before you could complain again, he had already walked out of the room.

you let out a long, exhausted sigh as you pushed the pillow off your face and slowly sat up, rubbing your eyes with both hands while another yawn escaped you. your hair was sticking out in every direction, your brain still struggling to catch up with reality as you blinked away the last traces of sleep. with slow, reluctant movements, you turned your head toward the large window beside your bed.

the moment your eyes landed outside, every ounce of tiredness disappeared.

your mouth slowly fell open because the entire world had transformed overnight.

thick blankets of untouched snow covered the garden, every rooftop wore a layer of sparkling white, and tiny snowflakes continued drifting lazily from the gray morning sky. the trees looked as though they had been dusted with powdered sugar, their branches glistening beneath the soft winter light. everything looked impossibly quiet, peaceful, and magical.

your heart nearly burst.

without thinking, you jumped off the bed and sprinted out of the room, your socks sliding slightly across the wooden floor as you raced downstairs.

“james!” you shouted before you had even reached the kitchen. “it snowed!”

he was standing by the stove plating your breakfast when he looked over at you with the smile he had been waiting to wear all morning. “i tried to wake you up earlier, but you—“ he never got to finish.

a loud, excited squeal escaped your lips as you threw yourself into his arms without warning, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. he stumbled back only slightly before laughing, his own arms automatically finding your waist to steady you as you bounced with excitement.

“it snowed!” you practically yelled into his ear. “i haven’t seen snow in years!”

your excitement was so contagious that james couldn’t stop laughing, shaking his head as you continued talking over yourself, barely able to get the words out between happy squeals.

“okay, y/n,” he chuckled, gently easing you back onto your feet while keeping his hands on your sides. “you have to eat first. then get dressed and we’ll go outside and play.”

your eyes lit up even brighter, if that was somehow possible.

you quickly leaned forward and pressed a noisy kiss against his cheek before spinning toward the kitchen counter, grabbing the plate he had prepared and hurrying to the dining table. you barely sat down before you started shoveling food into your mouth, determined to finish as quickly as humanly possible so you could run outside.

james watched from across the room with the fondest smile, resting against the counter as he admired how unbelievably excited you looked over something as simple as snow. there was something about seeing you so openly happy that made every second of trying to wake you this morning completely worth it.

“look up.”

you glanced toward him with your cheeks puffed full of food, still chewing as confusion spread across your face.

before you could ask why, the familiar click of his polaroid camera filled the room.

he grinned immediately, waving the developing photograph in the air before watching the image slowly appear.

“ah, so cute,” he laughed softly, before he walked over and held it out for you to see.

there you were, sitting at the worn brown wooden table with messy morning hair, still wrapped in oversized pajamas as you stared toward the camera with a mouth full of breakfast and wide, sparkling eyes. behind you, the large window perfectly framed the snowy landscape outside, making the entire picture feel warm despite the freezing weather waiting beyond the glass.

you couldn’t stop smiling as you looked at it. “you’re never getting rid of that, are you?” you asked.

james slipped the photograph between his fingers like it was the most valuable thing he owned and smiled. “never.”

the second you finished the last bite of your breakfast, you were already pushing your chair back, completely ignoring the dirty plate you had left behind as you hurried away from the table. james called after you, reminding you to at least bring it to the sink, but his words barely registered because your mind was already somewhere outside, buried beneath fresh snow. you rushed into the bathroom, quickly brushing your teeth while practically bouncing in place, then splashed cold water over your face before throwing on the thickest clothes you owned, layering sweaters beneath your coat and pulling on warm socks, boots, gloves, and a knitted scarf that nearly swallowed the lower half of your face.

by the time you came downstairs, james was still sitting on the small bench by the front door, calmly tying the laces of his winter boots as though he had all the time in the world. meanwhile, you were already dressed from head to toe, your hands shoved into your pockets as you bounced impatiently from one foot to the other.

“come on, james, come on!” you whined, practically hopping in place as you stared at him with wide, eager eyes.

he only laughed to himself, deliberately taking even longer as he tightened the final knot before finally standing up. the moment he did, you grabbed onto his sleeve without hesitation and practically dragged him toward the front door before he even had the chance to grab his keys properly.

the cold winter air greeted you the instant you stepped outside, the front door clicking shut behind you with a quiet sound that disappeared beneath the peaceful silence blanketing the neighborhood. everything looked untouched, the fresh layer of snow covering gardens, fences, rooftops, and sidewalks in a soft blanket of white that sparkled beneath the pale morning sun.

you took one slow breath, closing your eyes as the crisp winter air filled your lungs, carrying that familiar scent of snow, pine, and frozen earth that you had missed for years. a peaceful smile spread across your face as you stood there for just a moment, soaking in the quiet beauty surrounding you.

then something cold exploded against the side of your head.

you let out a startled scream as the snowball burst against your temple, sending powdery snow flying into your hair and down the side of your coat. you instinctively ducked and threw your hands over your face, already too late to avoid the attack as bits of snow slid down your neck.

behind you, james doubled over laughing. he laughed so hard he could barely breathe, clutching at his stomach while pointing at the horrified expression on your face, completely unable to stop himself. his laughter echoed through the otherwise silent street until his cheeks turned bright red, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

meanwhile, you simply stood there, covering your face.

james blinked, still chuckling as he slowly straightened himself. “what happened?” he asked between laughs. “did it hurt you? y/n, babe, come on. it’s just snow.”

still laughing, he walked closer, reaching out as though he wanted to brush the snow out of your hair.

that was exactly what you had been waiting for.

the second he stepped within reach, your hands shot forward and grabbed both of his shoulders before giving him one hard shove.

his eyes widened instantly. a high pitched shriek escaped him as his boots lost all grip against the icy pavement, sending him crashing backward into the thick snow with a muffled thump that scattered white powder everywhere.

for one brief second, complete silence settled between you, and then you burst into uncontrollable laughter.

you laughed so hard your knees nearly gave out beneath you, pointing at james as he lay sprawled in the snow with the most offended expression imaginable. he stared up at the cloudy sky in disbelief before slowly turning his head toward you, narrowing his eyes with a grin that immediately made your laughter die in your throat.

“don’t you dare.”

he pushed himself upright without saying another word.

you took one cautious step backward.

he took one forward.

you both held eye contact for exactly one second before you turned around and bolted.

your laughter echoed through the neighborhood as you sprinted down the snowy sidewalk, boots slipping every few steps while james chased after you, shouting empty threats between his own laughter. every sharp turn nearly sent you crashing into the snowbanks lining the road, and more than once you had to flail your arms wildly just to stay upright.

“james, no!” you screamed through your laughter as you nearly slipped again. “leave me alone!”

“no!” his footsteps grew louder behind you with every passing second until you risked one quick glance over your shoulder, only to realize he had almost caught up.

you shrieked and tried to run even faster but it lasted all of three more seconds.

strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind just as your boots slid across a patch of ice, completely stealing your balance. james barely had enough time to laugh before his own feet slipped out from beneath him, and together the two of you toppled sideways into the deep snow.

you landed in a tangled heap, completely unharmed thanks to the thick blanket beneath you.

for few moments, both you remained unmoving before your eyes met and the laughter returned instantly.

it was loud, breathless, and completely uncontrollable as you both lay there half buried in snow, struggling to catch your breath while your stomachs began to ache from laughing so much. every time one of you started calming down, the other would look over and start laughing all over again, until tears streamed down both of your faces and the quiet winter morning became filled with nothing but the sound of your happiness.

after spending far longer outside than either of you had originally planned, your fingers had gone numb despite your gloves, your cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and both of your jackets were dusted with layers of melting snow. somewhere along the way, the two of you had decided to build a snowman, although calling it a snowman felt generous considering its uneven body, crooked stick arms, and the face that somehow looked permanently confused. the carrot nose had fallen off three separate times, one eye sat much higher than the other, and james insisted the oddly shaped lump on top counted as hair. every time you looked at it, you dissolved into another fit of laughter until the ridiculous little creation somehow became your favorite snowman you had ever made.

eventually, the cold became impossible to ignore, and you both hurried back inside, stomping the snow off your boots before peeling away your soaked scarves, gloves, and coats. warmth immediately wrapped around you as the heater hummed softly through the house, making your frozen fingers sting while they slowly warmed back up. james disappeared into the bathroom first for a hot shower while you waited patiently, curling yourself beneath a blanket on the couch and smiling every time you glanced out the window at the snowy yard.

once he finished, you slipped into the bathroom yourself, grateful for the steaming water that immediately chased away every lingering trace of winter from your skin. meanwhile, james wandered into the kitchen with damp hair and comfortable clothes, deciding to make chicken alfredo pasta while you finished getting ready.

when you finally turned the shower off, warm steam still clung to your skin as you wrapped a towel around yourself and carefully cracked open the bathroom door. you poked your head into the hallway first, quietly checking both directions to make sure james wasn’t nearby before making a run for it.

with one hand desperately holding your towel in place, you sprinted across the hardwood floor toward your shared bedroom, your slightly damp feet nearly slipping beneath you more than once before you finally made it safely inside.

after digging through james’s side of the closet like you always did, you pulled on one of his oversized t shirts that nearly reached your thighs along with a pair of loose gray sweatpants that were much too long for you. you rolled the waistband once before leaving the bottoms bunched around your ankles anyway, your wet hair dripping little drops of water onto your shoulders as you wandered back downstairs.

the rich smell of garlic, butter, and parmesan greeted you long before you reached the kitchen.

“smells amazing,” you said as you leaned against the doorway.

james looked over from the stove and smiled to himself before stirring the sauce one last time. “pick out a movie.”

“okay!” you called back happily. you practically threw yourself onto the couch, grabbing the remote before scrolling through movie after movie until your face lit up.

without another second of hesitation, you selected frozen ii. “do i press play?” you shouted toward the kitchen.

“yeah!” james called back. “you know i find the start of movies boring.”

a quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes to yourself before pressing play.

the familiar music filled the living room as the opening scenes began, and you immediately settled deeper into the couch, already smiling despite knowing practically every scene by heart.

about fifteen minutes later, james finally walked into the living room carrying two steaming plates balanced carefully in his hands. he lowered them onto the coffee table before his eyes wandered toward the television screen.

he stared for a long second, then he sighed dramatically. “seriously? again?”

you looked over at him with complete innocence, shrugging one shoulder. “what? you told me to pick out a movie.”

“it’s not even the first one,” he complained as he sat down. “it’s the second movie.”

“exactly,” you replied with a satisfied nod, as though that somehow explained everything.

he only shook his head, muttering something under his breath while you reached forward to grab your plate.

“just go bring me my coke, boy,” you scoffed dramatically before settling comfortably back against the couch cushions.

james stared at you in disbelief. “unbelievable.” he let out the most exaggerated groan imaginable as he pushed himself back to his feet. “it’s like i’m a maid around here,” he sighed loudly enough to make sure you heard every word.

“you’ll survive.”

he shot you one last offended look before disappearing into the kitchen, though you could already hear him laughing quietly to himself before he even reached the refrigerator.

a few moments later, he returned carrying two cold cans of coke, handing one to you before dropping onto the couch beside you with another theatrical sigh. despite all his complaining, he automatically shifted closer until your shoulders rested comfortably against one another, and without even thinking, you leaned into him as the movie continued playing, both of you digging into your plates while the warm smell of homemade pasta mixed with the cozy sounds of winter quietly lingering outside.

©cortismoon all rights reserved. Please do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[mariyariririri]

Guys I love this sm

[mariyariririri]

REBLOGGING THIS PEAK GOJO FICCC!!!