yoon jeonghan has always had an infuriating talent for being exactly one step ahead of you. whether it be exam scores, class rankings, or getting under your skin, he never seems to lose. it’s not a well kept secret how much you despise each other. unfortunately for you, your professor seems blissfully unaware of the history when he pairs the two of you together for your final project.
⋆.˚ ★ — university au, academic rivals to lovers, kms jokes, mentions of insomnia, the way i format my smau is LARGELY inspired by @xinganhao !!, more written content after dividers, more content under the cut!
Subject: Request for Reassignment of Final Project Partner
Dear Professor Min,
I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to respectfully enquire if it would be possible to request a change in partners for the final project.
While I understand that the pairings were assigned at random, I am concerned that my assigned partner, Yoon Jeonghan, and I may not be able to work together effectively.
To be completely transparent, I find him rather difficult to work with. I strongly believe we would both benefit from being assigned different partners.
Thank you very much for your time and understanding. I appreciate your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Y/N was never once late to our meetings. In fact, she was always annoyingly punctual and raised hell over me being late by a few minutes. Regardless, Y/N showed incredible discipline and never failed to show up to our meetings to discuss the project, even if she was half dead from the sleepless nights.
Contribution — 10/10
Y/N contributed equally to every stage of the project, if not the most towards the project. The success of this project is mostly owed to her, her sleepless nights and early mornings editing as well as revising the document and slides to ensure absolute perfection. Although, she refused to admit how my edits occasionally improved her work.
Communication — 10/10
Y/N responds to messages regarding the project inhumanely fast for someone who always has her head down in stacks of paper in her favourite spot in the library, specifically the seat next to the window that faces east. She had no issues stating her problems with my research, being firm in her opinions and communicating her concerns in a professional manner. As a result, our project quality had improved dramatically after I (begrudgingly) followed her feedback (though I’d never admit it to her face).
Work ethic — 10/10
Y/N has a work ethic like no other. While I admit that I was annoyed by her constant fixation on the minor details at first, I found myself growing to appreciate her attention to the details that many others, myself included, would glance over. I’ve grown to learn and admire Y/N for she doesn’t leave anything half done. She does everything with 100%, and it clearly shows in the project where everything had been carefully vetted, arranged and presented. I used to think rivalry meant proving I was better than her, but somewhere along the project and spending hours with her, I realised I had stopped trying to outdo her and started trying to become someone who could keep up with her instead.
Strengths
- Ridiculously hardworking
- Somehow always right
- Makes coffee taste less terrible
- Pretending not to laugh at my jokes
- Looks cute when focused
Areas for improvement
If I were to be very honest, there’s not much for Y/N to improve in. She’s somehow both an amazing student, friend and person all at once. Not many can say that, myself included. Many of our batch mates are quick to compare us, but I truly don’t believe I’m even remotely close enough to be compared with her. I’m truly grateful and honoured to have had her as my partner and my rival these past semesters. (Though, she wouldn’t die if she stopped assuming I was only trying to annoy her all the time.)
Additional Comments
Y/N,
I never minded being paired with you. Actually, that’s a lie, because I was relieved.
Truthfully, I spent most of first year trying to find reasons to talk to you. At the time, I was nowhere near your circle. I’m sure you don’t remember, but I had painfully tried to talk to you about your day while Professor Min was talking, and you had hushed me almost immediately in annoyance to focus on the lecture. I was taken aback, but had kept my mouth shut for the remainder of the class. From that day, I kept a respectable distance from you thinking that you had hated my guts— only to realise that you hadn’t even remembered me at all.
I was quite hurt, to be honest. However, the distance allowed me to realise how you drifted towards people like Wonwoo, Jihoon and Junhui. The type of students you could study with or rather the type of students you could compete against (though honestly I’m unsure where Soonyoung fits into that group of yours). It was then I realised that perhaps competing with you would’ve been the easiest excuse to talk to you.
Turns out, arguing with you over stupid things like answer schemes and grades was a terrible strategy, because somewhere between getting paired for the project, rewriting your introductions just to spite you, fighting over your unnecessary Oxford commas, and staying in the library until midnight together when everyone else was at frat parties… I forgot we were supposed to be rivals.
The project’s over now. Soon enough, our semester’s going to be over too. Eventually, we never have to see each other in this class again, and I won’t really have an academic excuse to keep texting you anymore, so I guess I’ll need to be honest instead.
I’ve been in love with you for a while now.
Not because you got along with me in the end, or because we ended up working really well together. I’ve been in love with you long before Professor Min decided we’d make good partners (for the project). The project just gave me more time with you than I ever thought I’d get, and it gave me more to fall in love with.
Final grade — 100/100
I would gladly partner with Y/N again, no questions asked. Maybe I’m a little biased, but Y/N is the most reliable person to choose for a partner. Maybe not just for another assignment, though.
So, I’d like to ask her;
Dinner this Friday? A proper meal, not a cup of instant noodles you dig out of your cupboard at 2am when you can’t fall asleep, not a lunch where I’m buying to save your body from collapsing. A proper dinner, a proper date where we don’t talk about anything academic related the entire night— my treat.
Subject: Re: Request for Reassignment of Final Project Partner
Dear Y/N,
I hope you have been doing well.
Now that the projects have come to a close, I figured I’d finally reply to the email you sent me at the beginning of the project.
As you know, I wasn’t able to accomodate your request for a change in partners. At the time, I believed it was important to keep the assigned groups unchanged in the interest of fairness.
Having now read your final paper and watched your presentation, I have to say I’m rather glad I did.
The two of you complemented each other’s strengths remarkably well, and it was evident throughout the semester that your collaboration became increasingly natural. Your final submission was one of the strongest projects this cohort has produced, and I suspect neither of you would have achieved quite the same result had I approved the reassignment.
Sometimes the people we least expect to work well with end up challenging us in the ways we need most.
Congratulations once again on an excellent project, and I wish you both all the best moving forward.
Kind regards,
Professor Min
— — —
⋆.˚ ★ — bonus screenshots of jeonghan driving joshua insane for the sake of his crush 🙂↕️
Title :: Future nostalgia
Classification :: Time Travel AU • Domestic Fluff
Summary :: A little boy arrives at Hogwarts claiming you and Professor Jeon Wonwoo are his parents, turning your lives upside down.
Word Count :: 11k words
series masterlist ✦ svt masterlist
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Domestic Fluff • Time Travel • Parenthood
Trigger Warnings: Child in distress (temporary separation from parents) •Memory alteration/partial memory loss • Mention of pregnancy
A/N: Fic's a little cliche, but I wholeheartedly believe in Soft!Dad Jeon Wonwoo. Give me your kids wonu ;p what who said that huh
I actually have no idea how kids are...
The rain had been falling since the afternoon, turning the castle windows into rivers and made the corridors smell of wet stone. You had stayed later than usual in the greenhouses, repotting a stubborn batch of mandrakes for the second-years who would be arriving in a few weeks, and by the time you climbed back up to the staff quarters your boots were soaked through and your cardigan smelled like fertilizer.
You almost didn't hear it, a small sound, like a hiccup, half swallowed by the storm.
You stopped in the corridor outside the professors' wing, wand raised, and found a child tucked against the cold stone wall. He couldn't have been older than five or six, curled into himself with his knees drawn to his chest, dark unruly hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp at the shoulders and his cheeks pink from the cold. He was fast asleep despite all of it.
"Oh, dear."
You crouched beside him, carefully brushing the wet fringe away from his forehead. When he didn't stir, your first instinct was to get him warm.
Slipping your cardigan from your shoulders, you wrapped it around the tiny frame before gently lifting him into your arms. He was surprisingly light, his small pruned hands clutching at the fabric as he slept.
You hurried straight to Professor McGonagall's office.
She opened the door before you had even knocked twice. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of the sleeping child bundled against you.
"I found him outside the professors' quarters," you explained. "He was freezing."
McGonagall's expression immediately hardened into business.
"Bring him inside."
A fire crackled in the grate as you settled the boy onto the sofa, rubbing gentle circles over his back in an attempt to warm him. McGonagall cast several warming charms over the room before turning to Filch, who had appeared in response to the commotion.
"Mr. Filch," she said briskly. "Gather available staff. Immediately."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It didn't take long. Within a few minutes, half the staff room had gathered, which was really only about nine people. McGonagall stood at the head of the room in her tartan dressing gown, looking like she would very much like to be back in bed. Flitwick hovered by the fireplace. Hagrid took up an entire corner simply by existing.
You looked down at the boy again, and something about him nagged at you. The straight dark hair, the soft feline shape of his eyes, even the slight downturn of his mouth in sleep, all of it reminding you vaguely of someone you passed in the corridors without really seeing. Before you could chase the thought further, he stirred. His nose scrunched, his fists rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and he blinked up at the unfamiliar room.
"Sweetheart, are you o—"
You never finished the question. He launched himself at you, small arms winding around your neck with startling strength, nearly knocking you backward as he buried his face against your shoulder. You went rigid with shock, hands hovering uselessly over his back, before instinct took over and you held him.
A broken sob escaped him. "Mama..." he hiccupped, the word breaking beneath another sob. "I looked everywhere for you."
Within seconds he was crying in earnest, hot snotty tears soaking into your cardigan, his fingers clutching at the fabric as though letting go would make you disappear. You looked up helplessly at McGonagall, at Flitwick, at anyone who might explain this. Nobody could, and the words you meant to say, that 'there had been some mistake', died in your throat against the completeness of his devastation. You gathered him closer instead, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"Shh... it's alright," you murmured softly. "You're alright now."
When you pulled back to look at him, his cheeks were wet, his nose pink from crying and cold, and he couldn't have been older than five.
"What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt?"
He only shook his head against your shoulder, one last shuddering sob escaping before his breathing evened into sniffles.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice gentler than you had ever heard it. "Dear boy. What is your name?"
He loosened his grip enough to look at her, wiping his eyes on your cardigan sleeve. "I'm Woojin."
The room visibly relaxed. At least he was coherent.
"Woojin. That's a lovely name," you said.
"You named me, Mama," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then added, generously, in case you needed the rest, "Appa told me that."
"Do you know where your parents are, Woojin?" McGonagall asked. She was the only one composed enough to keep making sense of things.
Woojin looked around, found you first, and pointed. "Mama." Then his gaze slid past everyone else to the office door, just as another professor hurried in, wand still lit from the dark corridors, and his face lit up entirely.
Professor Jeon Wonwoo had barely crossed the threshold before the boy collided with his legs. "Appa!"
His eyes widened behind his glasses, genuine shock flashing across his usually unreadable face as he instinctively looked up at the people in the room, then back down at the child attached to him.
"Mama found me," Woojin said into his trousers, voice thick with tears, "but I was so scared," his hands tightening in the fabric as if to reassure himself Wonwoo was really there.
"I—" Wonwoo started, and had nothing to follow it with. His hand hovered a moment before settling gently on the boy's back. "I've got you."
McGonagall's eyes moved from the child, to Wonwoo, to you, and back again. The only sound left in the room was Woojin's sniffling. She removed her spectacles, pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled slowly.
"My office. Now. We have quite a bit to discuss."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
"Home," Flitwick pressed gently, kneeling to Woojin's eye level, though they were nearly the same height already. "Can you tell us where home is, dear?"
The boy gave him a look that suggested this was a very silly question. "Hogwarts," he said. "Obviously."
"And your parents teach here? At Hogwarts?"
The little boy nodded as an answer.
McGonagall let the silence settle for a moment, studying the little boy who had long since abandoned any attempt at sitting properly. Woojin had curled into your side, one cheek resting against your shoulder while his small fingers remained stubbornly hooked around Wonwoo's sleeve, as though he needed to reassure himself that the two of you were still there. Whatever fear had reduced him to tears earlier seemed to have eased now that he was between the people he believed were his parents.
"Woojin," she said at last, her voice gentler than ever, "can you tell us a little about your parents?"
The effect was immediate. His face brightened so completely that it chased away the last traces of tears, and he twisted around to beam at Wonwoo with open admiration. "My appa's the best wizard ever," he said, stretching his arms wide. "Appa teaches defence and all the big kids like him." He giggled to himself before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Some people think he's scary, but they're just being silly. Appa's not scary."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the room, though Wonwoo looked as though he wished the stone floor might kindly open beneath him.
"Appa used to be a Auror" Woojin's hands flew up to illustrate every word. "He caught lots of bad people and fought bad monsters." He glanced proudly at Wonwoo again. "Mama says he's the bravest." He nodded, satisfied he remembered it right, and declared, "I'm gonna be bravest like him when I'm big."
You felt the weight of every professor's gaze drift toward Wonwoo, whose composure faltered just enough that his eyes lifted, almost involuntarily, to meet yours.
McGonagall let the silence pass before turning her attention back to the child. "And your mother?"
Woojin smiled just as brightly. Without hesitation, he leaned back against you until his head rested comfortably beneath your chin, as though he had occupied that spot a hundred times before. "Mama teaches Herbology," he said happily. "I go to the greenhouses with her sometimes and I help" He puffed out his chest with quiet pride. "I can water the plants all by myself now." Then he sighed dramatically. "But I'm still not allowed near the bitey ones. Mama says I'm too little."
Hagrid let out a booming laugh.
"Yer mum's got the right idea. Best keep away from the chompy ones till yeh're bigger."
A few quiet chuckles escaped around the office despite the increasingly impossible nature of the conversation.
Professor Flitwick smiled warmly, "Do you like living at Hogwarts, Woojin?"
"Mhm!" Woojin nodded enthusiastically, his feet swinging beneath the sofa. "I see Mama every day. And Appa." He began counting on his fingers. “Sometimes Appa takes me to the library, and..." His eyes suddenly found McGonagall again. "You always give me biscuits."
For the first time that evening, McGonagall looked genuinely surprised. "I do?"
He nodded so enthusiastically his fringe bounced. "The round buttery ones. You keep them in a tin," His voice dropped into another confidential whisper. "You say not to tell anyone, 'cause then everyone will want your biscuits."
The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched despite herself. "I see."
Her gaze lingered on the three of you before she rose, smoothing her dressing gown. "I believe it would be prudent to contact the Ministry."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
By the time the initial shock had settled, it was well past midnight. The Ministry had been contacted, preliminary statements had been taken, and despite an office full of brilliant witches and wizards, no one seemed any closer to understanding how a little boy claiming to be your son had appeared outside the professors' quarters.
Woojin, meanwhile, had reached the end of a very long day. His head kept drooping against your side before jerking upright again, only to repeat itself moments later.
McGonagall noticed it too. "I believe that is enough for one evening," she said, closing the folder before her with quiet finality. "The rest can wait until morning." Her gaze softened as it settled on Woojin.
"The poor boy needs sleep."
The question that remained was where, exactly, he was meant to sleep. He couldn't spend the night in an empty classroom, and neither of you thought he should be alone. Instinctively, both of you looked down the corridor beyond McGonagall's office.
Two doors.
Professor Jeon's quarters.
Professor Lee's quarters.
McGonagall rose from behind her desk and crossed the room, crouching carefully until she was level with the boy.
"Come along, dear," she said kindly. "Why don't you spend the night in my quarters? I've a spare room, and we'll have a proper breakfast in the morning, along with the biscuits you like."
Woojin only shuffled closer, wedging himself between you and Wonwoo, refusing to let go of your sleeve. "No," he said, quiet and almost frightened. "I wanna stay with Mama and Appa."
McGonagall didn't seem offended in the least. If anything, her expression only softened further. "I see," she said, and looked between the three of you. "Well. That does complicate matters somewhat."
For the first time that evening the reality of it settled over you differently. You barely knew Professor Jeon. Outside departmental meetings and the occasional polite exchange in the Great Hall, the two of you had scarcely spoken in the two years you had both worked at Hogwarts. He kept to himself, and you had long since accepted that as simply the way he was. And now the two of you were discussing sleeping arrangements for a child who believed he was your son.
"Professor Jeon," you started, awkward. "You've still got to deal with the Ministry tonight, don't you?"
"I'll need to make a few reports and statements," he agreed.
"I'll take him tonight," you said, glancing down at Woojin, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. "I've looked after children before. My younger brother practically lived in my room until he was eight."
“Are you certain?” Wonwoo studied you a moment, that thoughtful, unreadable look of his, carrying the peculiar feeling of being carefully weighed. "You have had a long evening as well”
"I'll manage."
His gaze dropped to Woojin, whose fingers had found their way around both your sleeve and his own. After a long moment he inclined his head. "Thank you." It sounded almost strange coming from him. "Professor Lee, if anything comes up..."
"I'll come and find you."
He nodded once. "I'll be awake."
The exchange lasted barely a minute, and yet, as you left McGonagall's office, you realized it was the longest conversation the two of you had ever had. Behind you, his door closed with a quiet click.
You didn't expect the night to be particularly difficult. You had practically helped raise Chris. Children, you thought, weren't entirely unfamiliar territory.
You did not, it turned out, know how this child worked, not yet
The cot took only a flick of your wand to assemble. It was small, comfortable, tucked beside your own bed.
"There we are," you said softly.
Woojin looked at it, then looked at you. Before you could persuade him otherwise, he padded straight past it, climbed into your bed, disappeared beneath your blankets and patted the mattress beside him with sleepy certainty.
"Mama."
With a quiet sigh, you extinguished the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the blankets yourself. You let him sleep beside you today. Tomorrow, surely, things would be less strange.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
He was asleep almost before you settled beside him.
One small hand remained stubbornly fisted in the fabric of your nightshirt, refusing to let go even in sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night he shifted closer, inch by sleepy inch, until his cheek rested against your shoulder as though he'd been searching for it all along.. Then came the tiny sniffle
His brows pinched together and a soft, heartbreaking sound escaped him. A quiet, muffled sob of a child caught in the middle of a bad dream, crying without ever fully waking.
Something inside your chest gave way and you brushed your fingers gently through his dark hair, careful not to wake him.
"Hey," you whispered into the darkness. "It's alright sweetheart, you don't have to be scared."
You drew the blankets a little higher around his shoulders.
"I've got you."
Gradually, the little frown disappeared. His breathing evened out once more, warm against your shoulder.
Sleep never came quite so easily for you.
Instead, you lay awake listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, unable to stop thinking about the woman somewhere, who had tucked this little boy into bed every night before somehow losing him.
Whoever she was...
She had to be terrified.
You hoped someone was telling her he would be alright.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came too early. For one disoriented moment you couldn't remember why your shoulder ached, or why someone else's breathing filled the quiet of your room. Then you looked down and remembered everything at once.
Getting yourself ready was one thing. Getting Woojin ready was another entirely. You had barely managed your own cardigan before he darted away from the chair you'd been coaxing him toward for five minutes, hairbrush still useless in your hand.
"Come here, sweetheart. It'll only take a minute."
"No." He stopped just out of reach, arms folding with all the seriousness a five year old could summon. "It hurts."
"I'll be gentle."
"Appa does it better." He patted his own unruly hair. "He makes it look like his."
"I'm afraid I don't know how your Appa does it," you admitted, smiling despite yourself, which only earned an offended huff and a turned away face. With a sigh you reached instead for the toothbrush you transfigured the night before. He accepted it obediently enough, until he looked down and his expression crumbled into disbelief. "This isn't my dinosaur one. Uncle got it for me. I can't brush my teeth without it."
"You absolutely can."
By the time someone knocked, you had given up on your own appearance entirely and opened the door mid argument about whether teeth brushing was optional. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, and whatever he had meant to say caught somewhere behind his teeth. His gaze swept over you, barefoot, hair damp and half brushed, cardigan buttoned askew, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the polished colleague he knew with the woman standing in front of him, harried by an impossible five year old before eight in the morning.
"Sorry," he said after a beat. "McGonagall says the Ministry's arrived. I thought," his gaze slid past you to where Woojin was attempting to hide the toothbrush under a cushion, "..do you want some help?"
"Please," you said, with real feeling, and stepped back to let him in.
He turned out to be considerably better at negotiating with a five year old than you expected, crouching to listen with total seriousness as Woojin explained the importance of the dinosaur toothbrush. Whatever quiet bargain passed between them, worked. Within minutes Woojin had surrendered the hairbrush without complaint, sat patiently while Wonwoo worked through the tangles of his hair, and agreed the substitute toothbrush could be ‘just for today.’
"I've been trying to do that for twenty minutes," you said, watching them in mild disbelief.
"He was very reasonable," Wonwoo said.
Woojin, delighted to have both of you in one room, skipped over. "Mama slept in again," he informed Wonwoo happily, without a trace of malice. "She's always late. But I didn't wake her up. I was good." He recited it like a familiar house rule. "'Let Mama sleep. She needs it more than we do.' Appa you always say that."
"Very good," Wonwoo agreed, straight faced, and caught your eye over the boy's head. Heat crept up your neck.
"I don't always sleep in," you muttered, reaching for your bag. "At least, I don't think I do."
You thought you caught the corner of his mouth twitch and you cleared your throat before the little boy could say something even more embarrassing.
"...We should probably head down for the meeting."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials arrived right away, after reading Professor McGonagall’s letter.
They introduced themselves as members of the Department of Mysteries, though none of them elaborated on what that actually meant. Dressed in unassuming grey robes and carrying curious brass instruments that hummed softly in their hands, they transformed an unused classroom into a temporary examination room and spent the better part of the morning trying to determine exactly who—or what—Woojin was.
Woojin, for his part, found the entire experience fascinating.
Outside the classroom, you waited with your arms folded tightly across your chest, listening to the occasional burst of childish chatter through the half-open door. Professor Jeon stood beside you in companionable silence, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.
"They keep looking at him like he's a puzzle to solve," you murmured.
"They're trying to understand him," Wonwoo replied quietly. After a pause, he added, “If any of them are unkind to him, I intend to say something about it, regardless of rank."
You looked at him, surprised by the protectiveness in his voice.
One by one, the possibilities were eliminated.
Memory charms.
Polyjuice Potion.
Transfiguration.
Illusions.
Every test reached the same conclusion.
Finally, the lead official requested a private meeting with you, Professor Jeon, and Professor McGonagall.
"There is no indication," the witch began carefully, "that this child has been altered or fabricated through magic."
She placed two sheets of parchment on McGonagall's desk.
"We also performed a magical signature analysis, and the child's magical signature naturally carries traces of both parents."
She looked between you and Wonwoo. "Woojin's magical signature matches both of yours."
"...No," you said quietly, staring at the parchment for another long moment before shaking your head.
"There has to be some mistake." Your eyes flicked helplessly between Professor McGonagall and the woman seated across the desk. "We've never..."
The words lodged stubbornly in your throat.
Beside you, Wonwoo spoke before you could force yourself to finish.
"...We're just acquaintances."
You looked at him gratefully, and nodded.
"We work together," he said, almost absently, as though saying it aloud would somehow make the conclusion change. "We've never been anything beyond colleagues."
Silence settled over the office.
The official folded her hands neatly atop the desk.
"There is no known spell capable of forging that result," the lead official said carefully, in the privacy of McGonagall's office "As far as the Ministry can determine... this child is biologically yours."
You found yourself reading the report again, despite already knowing exactly what it said, as though the letters might have changed in the last few seconds.
Beside you, Wonwoo removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before putting them back on again.
"Time," McGonagall said eventually, "is the only variable I can think of that would explain a child appearing who is, biologically, already yours, when neither of you has so much as had dinner together."
You, sitting very straight in your chair with hands folded tightly in your lap, felt something in her chest go strange and light and frightened all at once. Beside your, Wonwoo hadn't moved, but anyone could see, in the careful, controlled stillness of him, that he was thinking exactly as fast and exactly as far ahead as you were.
"We'll investigate the how," McGonagall said, not unkindly. "In the meantime, the boy has made his preferences extremely clear, and I see little value in fighting a five-year-old’s instincts when they've so far been correct about everything else. Professors Jeon and Lee, until we know otherwise, I'm placing him in your joint care."
The meeting dissolved not long after.
Outside, Woojin was exactly where you left him, on the stone bench with Hagrid, legs swinging as the gamekeeper showed him something cupped in his enormous hands. The moment he spotted you both, a wide smile appeared on his face. "Mama! Appa!" He slid down and trotted over, slipping one hand into each of yours as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Hagrid chuckled as he rose to his feet.
"Kept 'im company while yeh lot were busy," he said. "Good little lad, this one."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Wonwoo said sincerely.
Hagrid waved it off with a smile before lumbering away, leaving the three of you standing together in the quiet corridor.
“Finished?”, Woojin asked curiously, looking up at both of you. "I'm hungry."
You exchanged a brief, helpless glance over the top of his head with Wonwoo. Neither of you had the heart to tell him that nothing was finished at all.
"Come on," you said eventually, squeezing his little hand. "Let's get some breakfast."
After everything the Ministry had just told you, trying to make sense of the impossible on empty stomachs seemed like a particularly poor idea.
Woojin started happily swinging your joined hands as the three of you started down the corridor. You'd barely made it a few steps before he stopped so abruptly that you almost walked straight into him.
"...Mama?"
You looked down. "Hm?"
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, glancing briefly at Wonwoo before leaning closer to you"...I need the toilet."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, despite everything that had happened that morning, you let out a chuckle.
You caught yourself just in time, smoothing your expression before he could mistake it for teasing.
"Right," you said with all the seriousness you could manage. "That does seem rather urgent."
Beside you, Wonwoo cleared his throat, though you caught the faintest hint of amusement softening his otherwise impassive expression. It was such an ordinary problem, contrasting everything the two of you had been dealing with since the night before.
"I'll meet you in the Great Hall," he said.
"We'll be there shortly." You smiled gently at him.
The moment you took a step, Woojin immediately began tugging you along with considerably more urgency than before.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Great Hall was mostly empty this early in the term, the students not due back for another week. It was, you thought, the only mercy available to you that morning.
A handful of professors had already gathered at the staff table, breakfast spread lazily before them.
At one end, Quidditch coach, Kim Mingyu was halfway through his toast, chatting idly with Wonwoo.
"So," he said around a mouthful, "I heard something interesting happened last night. They say you've got a kid now." He grinned. "Shame I missed it. Would've loved to witness the birth."
"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Wonwoo said flatly, not looking up from his coffee.
At that moment you stepped in with Woojin marching several paces ahead, waving at each professor as though he'd done it every morning of his life. Then his eyes landed on Mingyu and lit up entirely. "Uncle Gyu!" He barreled straight into him.
Mingyu froze with his toast halfway to his mouth. "Uncle?" He looked from the boy clinging to his side, to you, to Wonwoo. "Jeon. Care to explain why your alleged son thinks I'm his uncle?" But Woojin was already climbing onto him, fists in his robes, and whatever surprise Mingyu felt lasted about two seconds before dissolving into delight.
"You promised you'd take me flying," Woojin reminded him, very seriously. "Yesterday. You said."
"I did?" Mingyu blinked.
"Yesterday," Woojin reminded him very seriously. "You said."
Mingyu looked helplessly towards Wonwoo. "...Did I?" , his attention back to Woojin, who was waiting with unwavering confidence.
"Well... Clearly I'm a man of my word " He grinned. "how about after breakfast?"
Woojin gasped happily before scrambling down again. He hurried straight over to Wonwoo, climbing onto his lap without invitation and cupping his face between both tiny hands.
"Appa," he asked earnestly, "can I go?"
Then he twisted around to look at you.
"Mama?"
For a split second, you froze. Your instinct was to say yes. Then another thought occurred to you.
You had absolutely no idea whether you and Wonwoo had rules about things like this.
"Eat first," you said instead.
Woojin's smile faltered.
"But—"
"You've hardly eaten," you said gently. "Finish your breakfast, and then you can go."
You looked across him, at Wonwoo. "Do you think that's alright, Professor Jeon?" The title felt strange after "Appa" only moments earlier.
Woojin's shoulders slumped, appealing wordlessly to the other parent, but Wonwoo only said, "Mama's right," and the boy sighed and hopped down, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich.
Mingyu laughed. "He's definitely your son."
You chose not to ask which one of you he meant.
The moment he was done eating, Woojin was on his feet before anyone else had even pushed back their chair.
"I'm done!"
Before either of you could say another word, Mingyu had already scooped him effortlessly onto one shoulder.
"Come on then, Mini-Jeon."
Their laughter echoed across the Great Hall as the pair disappeared towards the doors together.
Which left the two of you alone at the staff table, breakfast half eaten, with a conversation neither of you had quite prepared for.
"We should talk about how this is going to work," you said.
"Yes," Wonwoo agreed.
You looked at each other, two colleagues who three days ago had rarely exchanged more than polite greetings. "Whatever happens, however he got here, however the Ministry sends him back, he's still five," you said. "He doesn't understand any of this. He's frightened. The least we can do is make sure he feels safe until it's over."
"I agree," Wonwoo said, without hesitation, resting his forearms on the table, already thinking ahead. "The students return next week. Until then, one of us can always be with him."
You nodded. "If I have no lessons, he can stay with me in the greenhouses."
"And during my free periods..." His gaze drifted towards the doors Woojin had disappeared through. "...I'll take him."
You let out a breath, some of the panic that had lived in your chest since the boy first wrapped his arms around your neck finally easing. "So we'll just figure it out."
"We will."
For now, at least, neither of you had to figure it out alone.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The week that followed should have been simple. But, it wasn't.
You settled into the arrangement, Woojin's mornings in the greenhouses, coloring at a little workbench while you repotted seedlings, his afternoons in the Defence classroom with Wonwoo, parchment and crayons spread while lesson plans got written around him. The handovers were brief and polite. Professor Lee. Professor Jeon. A quick word about whether he'd eaten or napped, and then one of you would return to work while the other walked away with his small hand in theirs.
It was practical and organized. Exactly what two colleagues might come up with facing an impossible situation.
It should have worked. Instead, almost without either of you noticing, Woojin began to change.
The chatter went first, the little stories that used to tumble out of him without pause, about Fang, about Uncle Gyu and flying, about Flitwick's levitating feathers, grew fewer and fewer until most meals passed in near silence. Then the smaller things. He stopped reminding you that you supposedly gave him a flower from the greenhouse every day. He stopped correcting Wonwoo when he forgot some detail his Appa should have known. By the end of the week he barely touched his food. There was no tantrum, nothing dramatic to point to, just a boy shrinking a little further into himself each day, his smiles rarer, his laughter quieter, the brightness that had burst into your life outside the professors' quarters slowly dimming.
You noticed it and so did Wonwoo. However, neither of you could figure out why.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The greenhouses had long since emptied one evening, the last gold light fading from the grounds, when you noticed the silence first. Usually Woojin waited on the bench outside, legs swinging, ready to show off whatever he had drawn. Tonight, he wasn't there. A tiny sniffle carried through the quiet instead. You found him curled against the doorframe, knees to his chest, small shaky sobs escaping into his sleeves.
"Woojin?"
His head lifted just as hurried footsteps rounded the corner, Wonwoo, who had come to collect him for dinner, stopping short at the sight. The two of you exchanged one panicked look before crouching together. Your hand found his shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?"
That was all it took. He threw himself into your arms, shaking, and you wrapped him up while Wonwoo lowered onto one knee, palm circling slow between his shoulder blades. "What's wrong, buddy? Tell us."
It took a long moment before he could speak. "How long," he hiccupped, "are you gonna stay mad at each other?"
You blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Mama and Appa..." Another sob broke through before he could finish. "...You're mad."
"We’re not angry," you said immediately, looking helplessly towards Wonwoo before turning back to the little boy. "Sweetheart, I promise I'm not—"
"Mama liar." The words landed like a slap. He'd never called you that before.
He shook his head, tears spilling fresh. "You call Appa 'Professor.' Mama never calls Appa 'Professor.' You don't eat breakfast together. And Appa doesn't come get you after the greenhouses. You don't read me stories together. You don't say goodnight together." His voice kept dropping. "You don't even sleep in the same house."
His breath hitched high and miserable. "Did I do something? I'm sorry..."
Your heart broke clean in half. Beside you Wonwoo had gone rigid. "You didn't do anything," he said, low and fierce. "Nothing about this is your fault. You didn't make us angry."
"We're not angry with each other," you said, brushing the damp hair from his face. "Do you want to go home? Hm?"
The words hung heavily in the evening air.
Woojin's shoulders trembled as he looked desperately from one face to the other. He sniffled, slipped one small hand into yours, then reached for Wonwoo's with the other and he began walking.
You and Wonwoo exchanged one confused glance before following, letting the little boy lead you through the quiet corridors of the castle, never once hesitating, until he stopped outside a familiar door. Professor Jeon's quarters.
Only then did he look up at the two of you, still holding both your hands.
"...Home."
You went in. There didn't seem to be any other option.
Wonwoo's quarters were, nearly identical in size and shape to yours, and almost entirely bare of anything personal. There was a neat stack of books, a single armchair, a room that looked like it belonged to a man who spent as little time as possible actually living in it. Woojin stood in the middle of it, small and confused, turning in a slow circle.
"Where's my room?" he asked. "Where's my toys?"
There was nothing to show him, no room, no toys, no trace of the boy he was, only two adults trying to comfort a child for the absence of a life that hadn't been built yet.
You knelt and wiped his face with your sleeve. "Sleep for tonight. Tomorrow, I promise, we'll get you new toys. A whole room full, if you want."
He considered this gravely and nodded. "Promise?"
"Promise," Wonwoo said, and meant it in the particular, unshakeable way you were coming to learn was simply how he meant everything.
Satisfied, Woojin rubbed his eyes, yawned, and padded toward the bedroom as if he knew every step by heart, climbing beneath the blankets before either of you reached the doorway. He scooted to the center and patted the empty space on either side. "Can I sleep in the middle tonight?"
The room fell silent. You looked at Wonwoo. He looked at you.
"...The middle?" you echoed weakly.
Woojin nodded, it was the most ordinary request in the world for him.
You hesitated until Woojin had disappeared almost entirely beneath the blankets, only his sleepy little face peeking out.
Leaning towards Wonwoo, you lowered your voice to little more than a whisper.
"...What do we do?"
"He's already distressed," he murmured finally. "If we tell him no now..." He didn't need to finish it. "Stay here until he falls asleep."
You nodded. "Just until he falls asleep."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came slowly. You woke first, it taking a long moment to place the unfamiliar mattress, before you felt something warm and heavy draped across your waist. Woojin had migrated in the night until he was sprawled almost entirely over you, one leg thrown across your middle. You smiled, then glanced past him and froze. You didn’t realise that you had accidentally fallen asleep last night beside the two boys.
Wonwoo was asleep on the other side of the bed. Without his glasses, without the polished look he carried through every staff meeting, he looked... younger somehow. One arm was thrown over his head, the other resting loosely near Woojin.
And beside him, Woojin slept exactly the same way, the same arm flung above the head, the same slight parting of the lips, even the same faint crease settled between their brows. It was almost unsettling, how alike they looked.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across Wonwoo's forehead, obscuring part of his face. Before you could think better of it, your hand lifted almost on instinct, fingers moving carefully toward the loose strand.
The moment your fingertips grazed his hair, brown eyes blinked open.
You stilled, like a deer caught in headlights. ”Oh”
“I was just..observing” Then, quietly, you murmured, "...He sleeps like you."
His eyes flicked to Woojin's arm still flung over, then back. "Does he?" His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than you had ever heard it.
"The same expression and the same way he throws his arm over his head."
He looked at the boy a long moment. "I never would've noticed," he said, in his raspy voice. Neither of you spoke after that. Between you, Woojin sighed contentedly in his sleep and burrowed closer, anchoring himself to both of you at once.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You went to Hogsmaede the very next morning, all three of you, to fulfil previous night’s promise of getting toys and clothes for Woojin.
The first stop was a children's clothing shop, and within minutes you'd disappeared into the racks. "Woojin, come here." You held a tiny knitted jumper against his front. "Oh, look at you. You're adorable."
"I look handsome," he corrected.
"You look very handsome."
Before you could admire him any longer, the jumper disappeared from your hands. Wonwoo had taken it without a word, turning it over to inspect the label before feeling the fabric between his fingers. Satisfied, he placed it into the trolley while you wandered off again.
"Oh! Woojin, come look at these."
The pattern repeated itself half a dozen times, socks embroidered with broomsticks, robes so impossibly small they made you coo, a knitted hat with bear ears, you and Woojin gasping over each discovery as though it outdid the last, while Wonwoo quietly sorted excitement from practicality behind you, checking sizes and seams before either dropping an item in the trolley or returning it to the shelf.
At one point you and Woojin reached for the same pants at the same moment, looked at each other, and said "in the trolley" in perfect unison. Woojin dissolved into giggles. So did you. Wonwoo paused with another mini sweater halfway to the trolley, watching the two of you laugh over something so inconsequential, and thought, though he didn't say it, that even if Woojin didn’t look like you, he had definitely inherited your joyful personality.
Without a word, he set the pants into the trolley and followed after the pair of you once more.
By the time you finished buying clothes, toys, bedding, books, and enough school supplies, the afternoon had slipped quietly into evening.
Dinner was at a little restaurant tucked between a bookshop and an apothecary, warm with the smell of fresh bread. Until your meals arrived, Woojin had already begun drooping where he sat beside Wonwoo.
He lasted about halfway through his dinner before his cheek settled onto the tabletop with a tiny sigh, the glass of pumpkin juice still clutched loosely in one hand.
You smiled fondly. "I think someone's reached his limit."
Wonwoo glanced over and without disturbing him, he quietly slid the abandoned food onto a plate before pulling the glass of pumpkin juice safely out of the boy's reach.
Only then did he look back at you.
"So," he said, the first time he'd ever started a conversation without prompting. "Did you always want to teach?"
You blinked, pleasantly surprised.
"I think so," You traced absent-minded circles around the rim of your mug. "Professor Sprout was my favourite when I was here. She made everyone feel like they belonged in her classroom. I wasn't particularly talented at first. I nearly killed a Venomous Tentacula in second year."
"...Impressive."
"It wasn't on purpose." You laughed. "I just remember thinking, if I could make one student love Herbology the way she made me love it, I'd have done something worthwhile."
"I imagine you already have." He said it so plainly it took you a second to realize he meant it. "And you?" you asked. "Woojin mentioned you being an Auror."
"I joined the Ministry after graduation." He leaned back slightly.
"It felt like the right thing to do. I was good at it." There was no arrogance in his words, just facts.
"But..." His gaze drifted briefly to the little boy asleep beside him, “eventually I realized I couldn't protect everyone. Perhaps I could teach someone else how to protect themselves instead. So I came here."
You looked at Woojin, asleep between you, utterly convinced this thoughtful, reserved man was his father. "I get it why he looks at you the way he does. Like you can fix anything."
"...I hope," he said quietly, "...I never give him a reason to think otherwise."
By the time you started back toward the castle, Woojin had gone entirely boneless with exhaustion, walking between you with a hand in each of yours, until somewhere along the path his feet simply stopped moving altogether and Wonwoo swept him up without breaking stride, settling him against his shoulder and he was asleep before you'd cleared the gates.
"I'll take him tonight," Wonwoo said quietly, adjusting his hold on the boy. "You should rest. You both used up too much energy while shopping.”
You didn't argue. You walked back to the castle beside him in comfortable, unhurried silence, watching and admiring the way Wonwoo had stepped up into his role so effortlessly.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Students returned the following week, and it took less than a day for the entire castle to discover that Professor Jeon had, apparently, acquired a child.
Woojin looked so unmistakably like Wonwoo, same eyes, same careful, watchful stillness, the same particular way of tilting his head when he was thinking. The resemblance alone silenced most speculation. It took a little longer for anyone to connect the boy to you, mostly because you and Wonwoo had been so studiously careful in public, but it happened anyway, and by the second afternoon the whole school seemed to know that the small boy trailing Professor Jeon between classes called Professor Lee "Mama."
Your brother heard it from three people before lunch and arrived at your Herbology classroom at a dead run.
He burst through the door mid-lesson, loud and dramatic as ever, and you rounded on him without missing a beat. "I am teaching, Chan, go back to your dormitory or I will hex you where you stand."
But Woojin had already spotted him from his corner table, where he'd been colouring quietly through the lesson exactly as he always did. "Uncle Dino!"
Chan blinked. "Huh—?" But the boy had already crossed the room and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him down into the corner with the urgent, conspiratorial whisper of a child sharing a secret.
"Why are you at Hogwarts?" Woojin whispered. "You're supposed to be at work."
"What work?" Chan asked, faintly dazed, crouching properly now, studying the boy's face with growing, dawning confusion. The resemblance to Wonwoo really was uncanny. "How old are you kid?"
Woojin held up five fingers. "Five. I'm a big boy."
The class had, by now, entirely abandoned any pretence of working. You dismissed them five minutes early out of pure self-preservation, and the moment the door shut behind the last student, Chan rounded on you with the full, righteous fury of a man who has just done extremely questionable maths.
"Five years?" he demanded. "You hid a child from me for five years? I'm telling Mum and Dad."
You smacked the back of his head without much force and dragged him toward the door, explaining low and fast everything that had happened. His expression cycled through disbelief, alarm, and fascination. "So he just appeared? In a corridor? And nobody's told Mum and Dad?"
"McGonagall wanted to keep it contained until the Ministry understood what they were dealing with," You said, moving down the row of Mandrake pots with the automatic efficiency. "There's nothing to tell them yet. There's nothing certain to tell anyone yet."
"There's a child, noona. That feels fairly certain." He lowered his voice, glancing at Woojin, who was very obviously listening despite pretending otherwise. "Does he — does Professor Jeon know? Properly know? Has he said anything? Because if he's making you handle this on your own while he just stands there being broody and unreadable like he always—"
"He's been extremely present, actually," you said, sharper than you meant to, faintly surprised by your own defensiveness. "He is good with both of us."
"So you and Professor Jeon..." He said the name like it tasted strange. "He barely talks. Is he good to you? Because I don't care if it's the future or the past or whatever timeline nonsense this is, if he ever—"
"Chan."
"I'm just SAYING—"
"Uncle Dino and Appa are best friends," Woojin announced, from where he'd resettled himself contentedly on the crate beside him, "Appa says you're the little brother he never had."
You couldn't help smiling. Somehow, it was comforting to know that somewhere in some timeline, your brother had found a best friend in Wonwoo. You hadn't expected that of all things, but it felt right.
"That's not—" Chan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "That doesn't sound like Jeon Wonwoo at all—"
"Was I not supposed to say that?" Woojin asked, blinking up at him, entirely innocent, already sensing from the sudden stillness in the room that he had said something he wasn't meant to.
You closed your eyes briefly and reached for patience.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Woojin settled, in the weeks that followed, into the rhythm of the castle so completely it became hard to remember what Hogwarts had looked like without him.
One evening the greenhouses had gone quiet, students long gone, the castle settling into its nighttime hush beyond the glass, when the door creaked and Wonwoo stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You aren't." You glanced up from the moonlily buds you were coaxing open.
"I came to see if you were still here," he said. "Woojin was asking where you were."
Your expression softened. "Is he alright?"
Wonwoo sat on a stool, pulling it closer to your set. "He waited up." said, the corner of his mouth lifting,"..but ended up falling asleep."
You smiled to yourself. "I'll apologise in the morning for making him wait up."
"He won't remember."
His gaze drifted to the flowers. "What are these?"
"Moonlilies. They only bloom after sunset, rather boring during the day." Your fingers brushed a pale blossom as another unfurled beside it, silver petals catching the moonlight through the glass roof.
"They're beautiful," he said.
"They're my favourite." You gestured at the rows stretching deeper into the greenhouse. "They'll keep blooming another hour or so. If you ever can't sleep, you can come see them."
Something unreadable crossed his face. "I'd like that."
The quiet settled again, comfortable, until he spoke. "Hold still." You blinked, and he leaned closer, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. "There. You had mud." Your heartbeat became unexpectedly hard to ignore. He seemed entirely unaffected, or simply very good at pretending otherwise.
After a moment, as though the question had only just occurred to him, “Do you have a partner?"
The question caught you so off guard you laughed. "No."
"No one waiting for you?"
"No."
He nodded once. "I've been thinking," he said. "About Woojin. He still wakes some nights expecting both of us, and we keep sending him between two rooms." He paused. "I was wondering whether we should ask Professor McGonagall if our quarters could be connected. So he has one home."
The thought lingered longer than you expected. It wasn't technically moving in together, just one home, for a little boy who couldn't understand why his parents lived apart. "I think he'd like that," you said.
"I do too."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
McGonagall agreed the next morning with the look of a woman who'd been waiting rather a while to be asked, and the magic took most of an afternoon, walls softening, a doorway blooming where there had been solid stone, two sets of rooms folding into one home neither of you had entirely built on purpose.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you, and the moment he crossed the threshold he simply lit up, spinning in a delighted circle.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you and lit up completely, spinning in a circle. "My house is back!" He threw his arms around the couch. "I missed you, home!" then, abruptly, "Where's Seol?" already forgotten in the next breath as he sprinted for the bedroom that had once been yours.
"Mama, Mama, this is my room!" he announced, bouncing on the bed with total confidence, and you didn't have the heart to correct him, didn't particularly want to.
He herded you both through the rest of it with the brisk, self-appointed authority of a very small landlord, and finished by planting himself in front of what had been Wonwoo's door alone,until that afternoon, pointing inside. "Go to your room. Goodnight, Mama." He rose on his toes, pulling you lower and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then did the same to Wonwoo, who accepted it with startled, helpless tenderness. Then Woojin stepped back, arms crossed, and looked between the two of you expectantly.
"Now your turn," he said, like this was simply the next obvious step in the routine.
You and Wonwoo looked at each other. A warm flush crept across your cheeks, his ears turning red in similar fashion.
"...Oh," you managed intelligently.
Beside you, Wonwoo looked equally flustered, clearing his throat as though searching for words.
Before either of you could decide who was supposed to move first—
"Fast," Woojin giggled, looking at the pair of you like you were being terribly silly. He pointed at his own cheeks with both hands. "Goodnight kisses!"
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. Wonwoo quietly looked at the ceiling.
"...Right," you mumbled.
Woojin waited patiently while the two of you recovered enough dignity to lean down and kiss one of his cheeks each
Woojin dissolved into delighted laughter. "Silly Mama and Dada," he announced, thoroughly unbothered by the fact that you'd both gone crimson and speechless, and skipped off to his own room without a backward glance, leaving the two of you standing in the doorway in the sudden, charged quiet he had left behind.
Neither of you said very much, after that. There wasn't, really, anything sensible to say.
You ended up in the same room. It seemed the simplest arrangement now that the quarters had become one home instead of two, and neither of you had the energy to overthink what that might mean.
He was careful with you. Quiet, steady, bringing the same attentiveness he brought to everything, and you found you trusted it completely, the way you had found yourself trusting nearly everything about him these past weeks without quite noticing when it started. His hand found yours in the dark. Sleep came slowly, not from discomfort, but from being suddenly, acutely aware of each other in a way you hadn't been before. Eventually, exhaustion won and you both drifted to a quiet sleep.
Woojin woke sometime after midnight.
He padded sleepily into the hallway, rubbing one eye with the back of his fist. The door to the bedroom stood slightly ajar.
He peeked in. Moonlight spilled across the room, and his parents were asleep, your back against Wonwoo’s chest, his arm loose around your waist, both of you breathing with the heavy rhythm of people too tired to notice how close you had ended up. His sleepy face broke into the biggest grin. "You’re back," he whispered, and climbed carefully onto the bed, curling up in front of you instead of between you, pulling your arm over himself with practiced familiarity, asleep again within seconds.
Wonwoo woke first in the morning. Woojin lay between you now, not separating you, but tucked safely in front of you, your arm around him, his own arm still loose around your waist. Three people. One tangled shape on the bed.
He watched you both breathe a moment, then reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before settling back against the pillow. For once, he felt no urgency to get up. Morning could wait.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
With Woojin increasingly absorbed into afternoons with Uncle Dino or Uncle Gyu, you and Wonwoo found yourselves with actual unclaimed hours, and neither of you was quite willing to waste them.
It was Wonwoo who moved first.
He started appearing at the greenhouse door with two steaming cups of tea, lingering awkwardly in the doorway until you looked up from your work.
"Thought you might want company," he'd say, as though that alone explained why he crossed half the castle during his free period.
More often than not, Woojin would toddle over the moment he spotted him, abandoning whatever stick or flower had captured his attention. Wonwoo would wordlessly scoop him with one before handing you your tea. Within a week the gesture had become second nature.
A few days later you found him asleep over a stack of essays, quill still loose in his hand. You slipped his glasses off his face and set them beside the parchment before nudging his shoulder.
He blinked awake, disoriented, and you told him plainly that he needed to go to bed.
"I still have—"
"You've been raising an energetic five year old all day," you said, folding your arms. "The essays can wait."
He looked at you for a long moment, and something in his expression softened before he admitted, voice still thick with sleep "I don't mind either of your energies," he stifled a yawn, stretching his arms "..makes me happy."
You had absolutely no idea what to do with that so you said nothing at all.
He still insisted on staying up most nights to finish grading, so eventually you started bringing your own work into his office instead of arguing about it. Neither of you said much once you were both settled. He would shift his chair a little closer, you would spread your parchment across the corner of his desk, and the two of you worked in companionable silence until the candles burned low.
He began walking you to your classroom afterward too, even though the route took him the opposite way from his own. He never explained it beyond insisting he would get to his class eventually, and eventually, it seemed, always meant after he'd seen you safely to your door.
On the colder mornings you were the one who stopped him and Woojin halfway across the courtyard, pointing sternly at the hat dangling forgotten from Woojin's hand until he groaned and put it on. Then you turned the same look on Wonwoo.
"You too."
He blinked in suprise."...Me?"
"You'll both catch cold," you said, and without another word pulled his scarf a little tighter around him.
He noticed things before you did. A quill running low on ink would be quietly replaced on your desk overnight. If you skipped lunch, a neatly wrapped sandwich would turn up in the staff room by early afternoon, and you'd know without asking where it came from.
You noticed things too. Whenever he buried himself in paperwork through mealtimes, you started simply setting a plate down beside him in the Great Hall and waiting until he ate it, ignoring whatever protest he tried to offer. Woojin, already halfway through his own shepherd's pie, took to backing you up without being asked, informing his father solemnly that Mama had said to eat, so he should eat.
Wonwoo accepted defeat every time.
Across the table, Mingyu had taken to watching these exchanges with an unbearably smug grin, and one evening he finally said aloud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks, “I love your little family
You and Wonwoo looked up in perfect unison.
"We're not—"
"...a family?" Mingyu finished for you, smiling into his drink. "Right."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Slowly, the conversations that had once ended after a polite greeting stretched into long ones. Silence stopped feeling awkward between you. You learned that Wonwoo didn't speak often, not because he had nothing to say, but because he waited until something was worth saying. He learned, in turn, that you talked enough for the both of you, wandering easily from Herbology to your brother's latest letter to a book you read years ago that had suddenly reminded you of a student.
Most people interrupted you eventually. Wonwoo never did. He listened with his attention fixed solely on you. Over time you began to notice the small things about him that anyone else might have missed: the faint lift at the corner of his mouth, the thoughtful hum whenever he disagreed, the way he would bring up something you had mentioned days earlier as though it had never once left his mind.
Somehow, without either of you deciding it, spending time together stopped feeling like an obligation born from impossible circumstances. You began to look forward to it instead.
One evening, while Woojin sat between you at the table stubbornly sounding out a picture book, you found yourself watching Wonwoo rather than the page. He guided the boy through each difficult word with endless patience, never frustrated, never rushing him, and the thought left you before you could stop it.
"I think I understand now," you said, "why I'd marry you."
You looked at him, a little embarrassed after the words left you, and Wonwoo looked completely caught off guard.
"I think I do too." He held your gaze for a long, quiet moment.
Then, almost shyly, he looked back down at the book beside him, where Woojin was still waiting, for his appa to help him with the next word.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The best afternoons belonged entirely to Woojin.
They usually started with a game of tag across the grounds, Wonwoo pretending badly not to be fast enough to catch him, until somehow you were running too, laughing while Woojin shrieked with delight between the two of you.
Someone always tripped eventually, usually you, and Wonwoo would stumble trying to catch you before all three of you went down together in the grass, Woojin throwing himself on top of the pile with a triumphant declaration that your pile was now a hamburger.
You and Wonwoo dissolved into helpless laughter beneath the weight of a giggling five year old.
It was in moments like these that you had to remind yourself, gently and every time, that none of it was permanent.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials returned in early October with answers at last.
An illegal Time-Turner experiment had torn open a fracture between two points in time. Woojin had wandered too close, slipping through before anyone could stop him. He had never belonged in this timeline—not because he came from another world, but because he came from several years ahead.
Somewhere in that future, two frantic parents had spent weeks searching for the little boy who had vanished without a trace.
"There is a window," the lead investigator explained quietly. "We can safely return him."
The witch hesitated before continuing.
"The timeline will... protect itself afterwards."
You asked her what that meant.
"Everyone’s memories won't disappear all at once," she said. "But as the fracture closes, they'll begin to blur. Faces first, then conversations. Eventually it will feel more like something you dreamed than something you lived."
Woojin would forget these months too. He would remember growing up exactly as he was meant to. As far as he would ever know, he had never been here at all.
It was supposed to be a kindness, yet it felt unimaginably cruel.
The walk back to the castle was silent.
That night, neither of you slept much. Woojin, blissfully unconcerned, lay between you talking about things that happened that morning-- Uncle Gyu teaching him Quidditch fouls, Uncle Dino taking him along with his friends to Hogsmeade. Every ordinary little story landed somewhere deep inside you, each one another reminder that there was an entire life waiting for him beyond your reach.
Eventually his words grew slower, each sentence interrupted by a yawn, until they dissolved into sleepy murmurs. Within minutes he was asleep between you, one small hand fisted loosely in the fabric of Wonwoo's sleeve.
You watched him for a long time. Then, unable to stop yourself, you gathered him carefully into your arms and pressed your face into his soft hair. The first tear fell before you realized you were crying, and you tried to stay quiet so you wouldn't wake him.
Beside you, Wonwoo didn't say a word. He simply moved closer until your shoulders touched, then wrapped one arm around both of you, drawing you and the sleeping boy against his chest. You felt his chin come to rest lightly atop your head. For a while there was only warmth, and the quiet understanding that for one more night, the three of you were still here. You leaned into him, having a final night with the family you had briefly been allowed to borrow.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Astronomy Tower was quiet at dawn.
Woojin stood between you, one hand tucked into yours and the other in Wonwoo's, looking more curious than frightened.
"Will you be okay?" you asked softly.
He looked up at you with complete certainty. "I'll see you for dinner."
The words caught somewhere behind your ribs. Wonwoo crouched down in front of him and smoothed a wrinkle from his little jumper, telling him gently that his mum and dad had been looking for him. Woojin frowned, as though the sentence didn't make any sense at all
"You are my mum and dad."
You dropped to your knees beside Wonwoo, your shoulder brushing his.
"We are," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... a little earlier."
Still not able to grasp the meaning, he wrapped both tiny arms around the two of you together, deciding it probably wasn’t that important anyway.
"I'll see Mama and Appa for dinner,” he mumbled into the hug.
The Ministry kept its promise. The memories faded carefully over the following days, lifted away one by one until neither of you could remember the name of the child you loved, only the shape he had left behind.
Some things, however, refused to disappear. Whatever the timeline had taken, it hadn't touched what you and Wonwoo now shared. Somehow, without either of you noticing, Wonwoo had become the first person you looked for at the start of every day, and you had become the place he returned to at the end of it. Neither of you questioned when the castle had stopped feeling like home, and each other had quietly become one instead.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several years later, you stood in the kitchen of the house you shared with Wonwoo and eventually made your own. Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden table, where a list of baby names lay abandoned between two half-finished mugs of tea.
Absentmindedly, your hand rested over the gentle curve of your stomach.
Wonwoo looked up from the list and asked if you had any favourites. You tapped the parchment with the end of your quill, thinking, and the name left your lips before you could even reconsider it.
"...Woojin."
You frowned slightly, almost amused by yourself. "I don't know why," you admitted. "It just... feels right."
He looked at the name for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I like it too. It somehow feels perfect."
Neither of you questioned it. Some things had long since stopped needing explanations.
Outside, Seol tore happily through the garden after a fluttering butterfly, barking with the same boundless enthusiasm she had since she was a puppy. You watched her through the window until you felt familiar hands settle gently around your waist from behind.
"You've been standing too long, baby," Wonwoo murmured against your ear, pressing a small kiss to your jaw.
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass."
"I know," he said, guiding you back toward your chair anyway, one hand settling over yours where it rested against your stomach.
"You fuss too much, honey," you said, though there was no real complaint in it.
"So I've been told."
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to face him. He knelt without a word, the way he always did lately, resting his cheek on your stomach a moment, like he was listening for something.
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to look at him properly. He caught your gaze almost immediately.
"Baby," he said, kissing over the curve of your stomach, "can you tell your mama to stop staring at me?"
You let out an indignant laugh. "I think I’m allowed to stare at my handsome husband."
The faintest blush made his ears turn red. You smiled, softer now, and settled your hand over his where it rested against your stomach.
"You're going to be such a wonderful father, Won." You said it so simply, like you already knew, and subconsciously you did. "I just know it."
For a moment he only looked at you, like he couldn't quite find the words for what that did to him. Then he straightened, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, before leaning down to meet your lips.
The kiss was slow and careful. One hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, the other gripping the armrest of the chair to avoid hurting you. When he finally pulled back he only went as far as your forehead, staying close, breathing you in like he wanted to keep this exact moment a little longer.
"I love you," he murmured against your skin, quiet and certain, like it was the easiest true thing he had ever said.
"I know," you smiled, your hand finding his jaw. "I love you too."
His hand found your stomach again unconsciously, just as something shifted beneath it. Both of you went still.
"Did you feel that?"
A small kick answered for him. Wonwoo huffed out a soft and a little disbelieving laugh, and bent down to press yet another kiss to your stomach, murmuring something against it too quiet for you to catch. You covered his hand with yours anyway, content to let him have the moment.
Outside, Seol barked triumphantly at nothing at all. Inside, your home was warm with morning light and love, that the two of you had spent years quietly building.
And somewhere in that warmth, already loved before he had taken his first breath, a little boy was about to come home to the family that had always been his.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
this was so beautiful omg the way they learned to coexist for woojin to actually falling in love is so so amazing 😊😊 I wish they kept even just a little reminder of Woojin deep down <3
Title :: Future nostalgia
Classification :: Time Travel AU • Domestic Fluff
Summary :: A little boy arrives at Hogwarts claiming you and Professor Jeon Wonwoo are his parents, turning your lives upside down.
Word Count :: 11k words
series masterlist ✦ svt masterlist
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Domestic Fluff • Time Travel • Parenthood
Trigger Warnings: Child in distress (temporary separation from parents) •Memory alteration/partial memory loss • Mention of pregnancy
A/N: Fic's a little cliche, but I wholeheartedly believe in Soft!Dad Jeon Wonwoo. Give me your kids wonu ;p what who said that huh
I actually have no idea how kids are...
The rain had been falling since the afternoon, turning the castle windows into rivers and made the corridors smell of wet stone. You had stayed later than usual in the greenhouses, repotting a stubborn batch of mandrakes for the second-years who would be arriving in a few weeks, and by the time you climbed back up to the staff quarters your boots were soaked through and your cardigan smelled like fertilizer.
You almost didn't hear it, a small sound, like a hiccup, half swallowed by the storm.
You stopped in the corridor outside the professors' wing, wand raised, and found a child tucked against the cold stone wall. He couldn't have been older than five or six, curled into himself with his knees drawn to his chest, dark unruly hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp at the shoulders and his cheeks pink from the cold. He was fast asleep despite all of it.
"Oh, dear."
You crouched beside him, carefully brushing the wet fringe away from his forehead. When he didn't stir, your first instinct was to get him warm.
Slipping your cardigan from your shoulders, you wrapped it around the tiny frame before gently lifting him into your arms. He was surprisingly light, his small pruned hands clutching at the fabric as he slept.
You hurried straight to Professor McGonagall's office.
She opened the door before you had even knocked twice. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of the sleeping child bundled against you.
"I found him outside the professors' quarters," you explained. "He was freezing."
McGonagall's expression immediately hardened into business.
"Bring him inside."
A fire crackled in the grate as you settled the boy onto the sofa, rubbing gentle circles over his back in an attempt to warm him. McGonagall cast several warming charms over the room before turning to Filch, who had appeared in response to the commotion.
"Mr. Filch," she said briskly. "Gather available staff. Immediately."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It didn't take long. Within a few minutes, half the staff room had gathered, which was really only about nine people. McGonagall stood at the head of the room in her tartan dressing gown, looking like she would very much like to be back in bed. Flitwick hovered by the fireplace. Hagrid took up an entire corner simply by existing.
You looked down at the boy again, and something about him nagged at you. The straight dark hair, the soft feline shape of his eyes, even the slight downturn of his mouth in sleep, all of it reminding you vaguely of someone you passed in the corridors without really seeing. Before you could chase the thought further, he stirred. His nose scrunched, his fists rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and he blinked up at the unfamiliar room.
"Sweetheart, are you o—"
You never finished the question. He launched himself at you, small arms winding around your neck with startling strength, nearly knocking you backward as he buried his face against your shoulder. You went rigid with shock, hands hovering uselessly over his back, before instinct took over and you held him.
A broken sob escaped him. "Mama..." he hiccupped, the word breaking beneath another sob. "I looked everywhere for you."
Within seconds he was crying in earnest, hot snotty tears soaking into your cardigan, his fingers clutching at the fabric as though letting go would make you disappear. You looked up helplessly at McGonagall, at Flitwick, at anyone who might explain this. Nobody could, and the words you meant to say, that 'there had been some mistake', died in your throat against the completeness of his devastation. You gathered him closer instead, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"Shh... it's alright," you murmured softly. "You're alright now."
When you pulled back to look at him, his cheeks were wet, his nose pink from crying and cold, and he couldn't have been older than five.
"What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt?"
He only shook his head against your shoulder, one last shuddering sob escaping before his breathing evened into sniffles.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice gentler than you had ever heard it. "Dear boy. What is your name?"
He loosened his grip enough to look at her, wiping his eyes on your cardigan sleeve. "I'm Woojin."
The room visibly relaxed. At least he was coherent.
"Woojin. That's a lovely name," you said.
"You named me, Mama," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then added, generously, in case you needed the rest, "Appa told me that."
"Do you know where your parents are, Woojin?" McGonagall asked. She was the only one composed enough to keep making sense of things.
Woojin looked around, found you first, and pointed. "Mama." Then his gaze slid past everyone else to the office door, just as another professor hurried in, wand still lit from the dark corridors, and his face lit up entirely.
Professor Jeon Wonwoo had barely crossed the threshold before the boy collided with his legs. "Appa!"
His eyes widened behind his glasses, genuine shock flashing across his usually unreadable face as he instinctively looked up at the people in the room, then back down at the child attached to him.
"Mama found me," Woojin said into his trousers, voice thick with tears, "but I was so scared," his hands tightening in the fabric as if to reassure himself Wonwoo was really there.
"I—" Wonwoo started, and had nothing to follow it with. His hand hovered a moment before settling gently on the boy's back. "I've got you."
McGonagall's eyes moved from the child, to Wonwoo, to you, and back again. The only sound left in the room was Woojin's sniffling. She removed her spectacles, pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled slowly.
"My office. Now. We have quite a bit to discuss."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
"Home," Flitwick pressed gently, kneeling to Woojin's eye level, though they were nearly the same height already. "Can you tell us where home is, dear?"
The boy gave him a look that suggested this was a very silly question. "Hogwarts," he said. "Obviously."
"And your parents teach here? At Hogwarts?"
The little boy nodded as an answer.
McGonagall let the silence settle for a moment, studying the little boy who had long since abandoned any attempt at sitting properly. Woojin had curled into your side, one cheek resting against your shoulder while his small fingers remained stubbornly hooked around Wonwoo's sleeve, as though he needed to reassure himself that the two of you were still there. Whatever fear had reduced him to tears earlier seemed to have eased now that he was between the people he believed were his parents.
"Woojin," she said at last, her voice gentler than ever, "can you tell us a little about your parents?"
The effect was immediate. His face brightened so completely that it chased away the last traces of tears, and he twisted around to beam at Wonwoo with open admiration. "My appa's the best wizard ever," he said, stretching his arms wide. "Appa teaches defence and all the big kids like him." He giggled to himself before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Some people think he's scary, but they're just being silly. Appa's not scary."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the room, though Wonwoo looked as though he wished the stone floor might kindly open beneath him.
"Appa used to be a Auror" Woojin's hands flew up to illustrate every word. "He caught lots of bad people and fought bad monsters." He glanced proudly at Wonwoo again. "Mama says he's the bravest." He nodded, satisfied he remembered it right, and declared, "I'm gonna be bravest like him when I'm big."
You felt the weight of every professor's gaze drift toward Wonwoo, whose composure faltered just enough that his eyes lifted, almost involuntarily, to meet yours.
McGonagall let the silence pass before turning her attention back to the child. "And your mother?"
Woojin smiled just as brightly. Without hesitation, he leaned back against you until his head rested comfortably beneath your chin, as though he had occupied that spot a hundred times before. "Mama teaches Herbology," he said happily. "I go to the greenhouses with her sometimes and I help" He puffed out his chest with quiet pride. "I can water the plants all by myself now." Then he sighed dramatically. "But I'm still not allowed near the bitey ones. Mama says I'm too little."
Hagrid let out a booming laugh.
"Yer mum's got the right idea. Best keep away from the chompy ones till yeh're bigger."
A few quiet chuckles escaped around the office despite the increasingly impossible nature of the conversation.
Professor Flitwick smiled warmly, "Do you like living at Hogwarts, Woojin?"
"Mhm!" Woojin nodded enthusiastically, his feet swinging beneath the sofa. "I see Mama every day. And Appa." He began counting on his fingers. “Sometimes Appa takes me to the library, and..." His eyes suddenly found McGonagall again. "You always give me biscuits."
For the first time that evening, McGonagall looked genuinely surprised. "I do?"
He nodded so enthusiastically his fringe bounced. "The round buttery ones. You keep them in a tin," His voice dropped into another confidential whisper. "You say not to tell anyone, 'cause then everyone will want your biscuits."
The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched despite herself. "I see."
Her gaze lingered on the three of you before she rose, smoothing her dressing gown. "I believe it would be prudent to contact the Ministry."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
By the time the initial shock had settled, it was well past midnight. The Ministry had been contacted, preliminary statements had been taken, and despite an office full of brilliant witches and wizards, no one seemed any closer to understanding how a little boy claiming to be your son had appeared outside the professors' quarters.
Woojin, meanwhile, had reached the end of a very long day. His head kept drooping against your side before jerking upright again, only to repeat itself moments later.
McGonagall noticed it too. "I believe that is enough for one evening," she said, closing the folder before her with quiet finality. "The rest can wait until morning." Her gaze softened as it settled on Woojin.
"The poor boy needs sleep."
The question that remained was where, exactly, he was meant to sleep. He couldn't spend the night in an empty classroom, and neither of you thought he should be alone. Instinctively, both of you looked down the corridor beyond McGonagall's office.
Two doors.
Professor Jeon's quarters.
Professor Lee's quarters.
McGonagall rose from behind her desk and crossed the room, crouching carefully until she was level with the boy.
"Come along, dear," she said kindly. "Why don't you spend the night in my quarters? I've a spare room, and we'll have a proper breakfast in the morning, along with the biscuits you like."
Woojin only shuffled closer, wedging himself between you and Wonwoo, refusing to let go of your sleeve. "No," he said, quiet and almost frightened. "I wanna stay with Mama and Appa."
McGonagall didn't seem offended in the least. If anything, her expression only softened further. "I see," she said, and looked between the three of you. "Well. That does complicate matters somewhat."
For the first time that evening the reality of it settled over you differently. You barely knew Professor Jeon. Outside departmental meetings and the occasional polite exchange in the Great Hall, the two of you had scarcely spoken in the two years you had both worked at Hogwarts. He kept to himself, and you had long since accepted that as simply the way he was. And now the two of you were discussing sleeping arrangements for a child who believed he was your son.
"Professor Jeon," you started, awkward. "You've still got to deal with the Ministry tonight, don't you?"
"I'll need to make a few reports and statements," he agreed.
"I'll take him tonight," you said, glancing down at Woojin, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. "I've looked after children before. My younger brother practically lived in my room until he was eight."
“Are you certain?” Wonwoo studied you a moment, that thoughtful, unreadable look of his, carrying the peculiar feeling of being carefully weighed. "You have had a long evening as well”
"I'll manage."
His gaze dropped to Woojin, whose fingers had found their way around both your sleeve and his own. After a long moment he inclined his head. "Thank you." It sounded almost strange coming from him. "Professor Lee, if anything comes up..."
"I'll come and find you."
He nodded once. "I'll be awake."
The exchange lasted barely a minute, and yet, as you left McGonagall's office, you realized it was the longest conversation the two of you had ever had. Behind you, his door closed with a quiet click.
You didn't expect the night to be particularly difficult. You had practically helped raise Chris. Children, you thought, weren't entirely unfamiliar territory.
You did not, it turned out, know how this child worked, not yet
The cot took only a flick of your wand to assemble. It was small, comfortable, tucked beside your own bed.
"There we are," you said softly.
Woojin looked at it, then looked at you. Before you could persuade him otherwise, he padded straight past it, climbed into your bed, disappeared beneath your blankets and patted the mattress beside him with sleepy certainty.
"Mama."
With a quiet sigh, you extinguished the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the blankets yourself. You let him sleep beside you today. Tomorrow, surely, things would be less strange.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
He was asleep almost before you settled beside him.
One small hand remained stubbornly fisted in the fabric of your nightshirt, refusing to let go even in sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night he shifted closer, inch by sleepy inch, until his cheek rested against your shoulder as though he'd been searching for it all along.. Then came the tiny sniffle
His brows pinched together and a soft, heartbreaking sound escaped him. A quiet, muffled sob of a child caught in the middle of a bad dream, crying without ever fully waking.
Something inside your chest gave way and you brushed your fingers gently through his dark hair, careful not to wake him.
"Hey," you whispered into the darkness. "It's alright sweetheart, you don't have to be scared."
You drew the blankets a little higher around his shoulders.
"I've got you."
Gradually, the little frown disappeared. His breathing evened out once more, warm against your shoulder.
Sleep never came quite so easily for you.
Instead, you lay awake listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, unable to stop thinking about the woman somewhere, who had tucked this little boy into bed every night before somehow losing him.
Whoever she was...
She had to be terrified.
You hoped someone was telling her he would be alright.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came too early. For one disoriented moment you couldn't remember why your shoulder ached, or why someone else's breathing filled the quiet of your room. Then you looked down and remembered everything at once.
Getting yourself ready was one thing. Getting Woojin ready was another entirely. You had barely managed your own cardigan before he darted away from the chair you'd been coaxing him toward for five minutes, hairbrush still useless in your hand.
"Come here, sweetheart. It'll only take a minute."
"No." He stopped just out of reach, arms folding with all the seriousness a five year old could summon. "It hurts."
"I'll be gentle."
"Appa does it better." He patted his own unruly hair. "He makes it look like his."
"I'm afraid I don't know how your Appa does it," you admitted, smiling despite yourself, which only earned an offended huff and a turned away face. With a sigh you reached instead for the toothbrush you transfigured the night before. He accepted it obediently enough, until he looked down and his expression crumbled into disbelief. "This isn't my dinosaur one. Uncle got it for me. I can't brush my teeth without it."
"You absolutely can."
By the time someone knocked, you had given up on your own appearance entirely and opened the door mid argument about whether teeth brushing was optional. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, and whatever he had meant to say caught somewhere behind his teeth. His gaze swept over you, barefoot, hair damp and half brushed, cardigan buttoned askew, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the polished colleague he knew with the woman standing in front of him, harried by an impossible five year old before eight in the morning.
"Sorry," he said after a beat. "McGonagall says the Ministry's arrived. I thought," his gaze slid past you to where Woojin was attempting to hide the toothbrush under a cushion, "..do you want some help?"
"Please," you said, with real feeling, and stepped back to let him in.
He turned out to be considerably better at negotiating with a five year old than you expected, crouching to listen with total seriousness as Woojin explained the importance of the dinosaur toothbrush. Whatever quiet bargain passed between them, worked. Within minutes Woojin had surrendered the hairbrush without complaint, sat patiently while Wonwoo worked through the tangles of his hair, and agreed the substitute toothbrush could be ‘just for today.’
"I've been trying to do that for twenty minutes," you said, watching them in mild disbelief.
"He was very reasonable," Wonwoo said.
Woojin, delighted to have both of you in one room, skipped over. "Mama slept in again," he informed Wonwoo happily, without a trace of malice. "She's always late. But I didn't wake her up. I was good." He recited it like a familiar house rule. "'Let Mama sleep. She needs it more than we do.' Appa you always say that."
"Very good," Wonwoo agreed, straight faced, and caught your eye over the boy's head. Heat crept up your neck.
"I don't always sleep in," you muttered, reaching for your bag. "At least, I don't think I do."
You thought you caught the corner of his mouth twitch and you cleared your throat before the little boy could say something even more embarrassing.
"...We should probably head down for the meeting."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials arrived right away, after reading Professor McGonagall’s letter.
They introduced themselves as members of the Department of Mysteries, though none of them elaborated on what that actually meant. Dressed in unassuming grey robes and carrying curious brass instruments that hummed softly in their hands, they transformed an unused classroom into a temporary examination room and spent the better part of the morning trying to determine exactly who—or what—Woojin was.
Woojin, for his part, found the entire experience fascinating.
Outside the classroom, you waited with your arms folded tightly across your chest, listening to the occasional burst of childish chatter through the half-open door. Professor Jeon stood beside you in companionable silence, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.
"They keep looking at him like he's a puzzle to solve," you murmured.
"They're trying to understand him," Wonwoo replied quietly. After a pause, he added, “If any of them are unkind to him, I intend to say something about it, regardless of rank."
You looked at him, surprised by the protectiveness in his voice.
One by one, the possibilities were eliminated.
Memory charms.
Polyjuice Potion.
Transfiguration.
Illusions.
Every test reached the same conclusion.
Finally, the lead official requested a private meeting with you, Professor Jeon, and Professor McGonagall.
"There is no indication," the witch began carefully, "that this child has been altered or fabricated through magic."
She placed two sheets of parchment on McGonagall's desk.
"We also performed a magical signature analysis, and the child's magical signature naturally carries traces of both parents."
She looked between you and Wonwoo. "Woojin's magical signature matches both of yours."
"...No," you said quietly, staring at the parchment for another long moment before shaking your head.
"There has to be some mistake." Your eyes flicked helplessly between Professor McGonagall and the woman seated across the desk. "We've never..."
The words lodged stubbornly in your throat.
Beside you, Wonwoo spoke before you could force yourself to finish.
"...We're just acquaintances."
You looked at him gratefully, and nodded.
"We work together," he said, almost absently, as though saying it aloud would somehow make the conclusion change. "We've never been anything beyond colleagues."
Silence settled over the office.
The official folded her hands neatly atop the desk.
"There is no known spell capable of forging that result," the lead official said carefully, in the privacy of McGonagall's office "As far as the Ministry can determine... this child is biologically yours."
You found yourself reading the report again, despite already knowing exactly what it said, as though the letters might have changed in the last few seconds.
Beside you, Wonwoo removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before putting them back on again.
"Time," McGonagall said eventually, "is the only variable I can think of that would explain a child appearing who is, biologically, already yours, when neither of you has so much as had dinner together."
You, sitting very straight in your chair with hands folded tightly in your lap, felt something in her chest go strange and light and frightened all at once. Beside your, Wonwoo hadn't moved, but anyone could see, in the careful, controlled stillness of him, that he was thinking exactly as fast and exactly as far ahead as you were.
"We'll investigate the how," McGonagall said, not unkindly. "In the meantime, the boy has made his preferences extremely clear, and I see little value in fighting a five-year-old’s instincts when they've so far been correct about everything else. Professors Jeon and Lee, until we know otherwise, I'm placing him in your joint care."
The meeting dissolved not long after.
Outside, Woojin was exactly where you left him, on the stone bench with Hagrid, legs swinging as the gamekeeper showed him something cupped in his enormous hands. The moment he spotted you both, a wide smile appeared on his face. "Mama! Appa!" He slid down and trotted over, slipping one hand into each of yours as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Hagrid chuckled as he rose to his feet.
"Kept 'im company while yeh lot were busy," he said. "Good little lad, this one."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Wonwoo said sincerely.
Hagrid waved it off with a smile before lumbering away, leaving the three of you standing together in the quiet corridor.
“Finished?”, Woojin asked curiously, looking up at both of you. "I'm hungry."
You exchanged a brief, helpless glance over the top of his head with Wonwoo. Neither of you had the heart to tell him that nothing was finished at all.
"Come on," you said eventually, squeezing his little hand. "Let's get some breakfast."
After everything the Ministry had just told you, trying to make sense of the impossible on empty stomachs seemed like a particularly poor idea.
Woojin started happily swinging your joined hands as the three of you started down the corridor. You'd barely made it a few steps before he stopped so abruptly that you almost walked straight into him.
"...Mama?"
You looked down. "Hm?"
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, glancing briefly at Wonwoo before leaning closer to you"...I need the toilet."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, despite everything that had happened that morning, you let out a chuckle.
You caught yourself just in time, smoothing your expression before he could mistake it for teasing.
"Right," you said with all the seriousness you could manage. "That does seem rather urgent."
Beside you, Wonwoo cleared his throat, though you caught the faintest hint of amusement softening his otherwise impassive expression. It was such an ordinary problem, contrasting everything the two of you had been dealing with since the night before.
"I'll meet you in the Great Hall," he said.
"We'll be there shortly." You smiled gently at him.
The moment you took a step, Woojin immediately began tugging you along with considerably more urgency than before.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Great Hall was mostly empty this early in the term, the students not due back for another week. It was, you thought, the only mercy available to you that morning.
A handful of professors had already gathered at the staff table, breakfast spread lazily before them.
At one end, Quidditch coach, Kim Mingyu was halfway through his toast, chatting idly with Wonwoo.
"So," he said around a mouthful, "I heard something interesting happened last night. They say you've got a kid now." He grinned. "Shame I missed it. Would've loved to witness the birth."
"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Wonwoo said flatly, not looking up from his coffee.
At that moment you stepped in with Woojin marching several paces ahead, waving at each professor as though he'd done it every morning of his life. Then his eyes landed on Mingyu and lit up entirely. "Uncle Gyu!" He barreled straight into him.
Mingyu froze with his toast halfway to his mouth. "Uncle?" He looked from the boy clinging to his side, to you, to Wonwoo. "Jeon. Care to explain why your alleged son thinks I'm his uncle?" But Woojin was already climbing onto him, fists in his robes, and whatever surprise Mingyu felt lasted about two seconds before dissolving into delight.
"You promised you'd take me flying," Woojin reminded him, very seriously. "Yesterday. You said."
"I did?" Mingyu blinked.
"Yesterday," Woojin reminded him very seriously. "You said."
Mingyu looked helplessly towards Wonwoo. "...Did I?" , his attention back to Woojin, who was waiting with unwavering confidence.
"Well... Clearly I'm a man of my word " He grinned. "how about after breakfast?"
Woojin gasped happily before scrambling down again. He hurried straight over to Wonwoo, climbing onto his lap without invitation and cupping his face between both tiny hands.
"Appa," he asked earnestly, "can I go?"
Then he twisted around to look at you.
"Mama?"
For a split second, you froze. Your instinct was to say yes. Then another thought occurred to you.
You had absolutely no idea whether you and Wonwoo had rules about things like this.
"Eat first," you said instead.
Woojin's smile faltered.
"But—"
"You've hardly eaten," you said gently. "Finish your breakfast, and then you can go."
You looked across him, at Wonwoo. "Do you think that's alright, Professor Jeon?" The title felt strange after "Appa" only moments earlier.
Woojin's shoulders slumped, appealing wordlessly to the other parent, but Wonwoo only said, "Mama's right," and the boy sighed and hopped down, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich.
Mingyu laughed. "He's definitely your son."
You chose not to ask which one of you he meant.
The moment he was done eating, Woojin was on his feet before anyone else had even pushed back their chair.
"I'm done!"
Before either of you could say another word, Mingyu had already scooped him effortlessly onto one shoulder.
"Come on then, Mini-Jeon."
Their laughter echoed across the Great Hall as the pair disappeared towards the doors together.
Which left the two of you alone at the staff table, breakfast half eaten, with a conversation neither of you had quite prepared for.
"We should talk about how this is going to work," you said.
"Yes," Wonwoo agreed.
You looked at each other, two colleagues who three days ago had rarely exchanged more than polite greetings. "Whatever happens, however he got here, however the Ministry sends him back, he's still five," you said. "He doesn't understand any of this. He's frightened. The least we can do is make sure he feels safe until it's over."
"I agree," Wonwoo said, without hesitation, resting his forearms on the table, already thinking ahead. "The students return next week. Until then, one of us can always be with him."
You nodded. "If I have no lessons, he can stay with me in the greenhouses."
"And during my free periods..." His gaze drifted towards the doors Woojin had disappeared through. "...I'll take him."
You let out a breath, some of the panic that had lived in your chest since the boy first wrapped his arms around your neck finally easing. "So we'll just figure it out."
"We will."
For now, at least, neither of you had to figure it out alone.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The week that followed should have been simple. But, it wasn't.
You settled into the arrangement, Woojin's mornings in the greenhouses, coloring at a little workbench while you repotted seedlings, his afternoons in the Defence classroom with Wonwoo, parchment and crayons spread while lesson plans got written around him. The handovers were brief and polite. Professor Lee. Professor Jeon. A quick word about whether he'd eaten or napped, and then one of you would return to work while the other walked away with his small hand in theirs.
It was practical and organized. Exactly what two colleagues might come up with facing an impossible situation.
It should have worked. Instead, almost without either of you noticing, Woojin began to change.
The chatter went first, the little stories that used to tumble out of him without pause, about Fang, about Uncle Gyu and flying, about Flitwick's levitating feathers, grew fewer and fewer until most meals passed in near silence. Then the smaller things. He stopped reminding you that you supposedly gave him a flower from the greenhouse every day. He stopped correcting Wonwoo when he forgot some detail his Appa should have known. By the end of the week he barely touched his food. There was no tantrum, nothing dramatic to point to, just a boy shrinking a little further into himself each day, his smiles rarer, his laughter quieter, the brightness that had burst into your life outside the professors' quarters slowly dimming.
You noticed it and so did Wonwoo. However, neither of you could figure out why.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The greenhouses had long since emptied one evening, the last gold light fading from the grounds, when you noticed the silence first. Usually Woojin waited on the bench outside, legs swinging, ready to show off whatever he had drawn. Tonight, he wasn't there. A tiny sniffle carried through the quiet instead. You found him curled against the doorframe, knees to his chest, small shaky sobs escaping into his sleeves.
"Woojin?"
His head lifted just as hurried footsteps rounded the corner, Wonwoo, who had come to collect him for dinner, stopping short at the sight. The two of you exchanged one panicked look before crouching together. Your hand found his shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?"
That was all it took. He threw himself into your arms, shaking, and you wrapped him up while Wonwoo lowered onto one knee, palm circling slow between his shoulder blades. "What's wrong, buddy? Tell us."
It took a long moment before he could speak. "How long," he hiccupped, "are you gonna stay mad at each other?"
You blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Mama and Appa..." Another sob broke through before he could finish. "...You're mad."
"We’re not angry," you said immediately, looking helplessly towards Wonwoo before turning back to the little boy. "Sweetheart, I promise I'm not—"
"Mama liar." The words landed like a slap. He'd never called you that before.
He shook his head, tears spilling fresh. "You call Appa 'Professor.' Mama never calls Appa 'Professor.' You don't eat breakfast together. And Appa doesn't come get you after the greenhouses. You don't read me stories together. You don't say goodnight together." His voice kept dropping. "You don't even sleep in the same house."
His breath hitched high and miserable. "Did I do something? I'm sorry..."
Your heart broke clean in half. Beside you Wonwoo had gone rigid. "You didn't do anything," he said, low and fierce. "Nothing about this is your fault. You didn't make us angry."
"We're not angry with each other," you said, brushing the damp hair from his face. "Do you want to go home? Hm?"
The words hung heavily in the evening air.
Woojin's shoulders trembled as he looked desperately from one face to the other. He sniffled, slipped one small hand into yours, then reached for Wonwoo's with the other and he began walking.
You and Wonwoo exchanged one confused glance before following, letting the little boy lead you through the quiet corridors of the castle, never once hesitating, until he stopped outside a familiar door. Professor Jeon's quarters.
Only then did he look up at the two of you, still holding both your hands.
"...Home."
You went in. There didn't seem to be any other option.
Wonwoo's quarters were, nearly identical in size and shape to yours, and almost entirely bare of anything personal. There was a neat stack of books, a single armchair, a room that looked like it belonged to a man who spent as little time as possible actually living in it. Woojin stood in the middle of it, small and confused, turning in a slow circle.
"Where's my room?" he asked. "Where's my toys?"
There was nothing to show him, no room, no toys, no trace of the boy he was, only two adults trying to comfort a child for the absence of a life that hadn't been built yet.
You knelt and wiped his face with your sleeve. "Sleep for tonight. Tomorrow, I promise, we'll get you new toys. A whole room full, if you want."
He considered this gravely and nodded. "Promise?"
"Promise," Wonwoo said, and meant it in the particular, unshakeable way you were coming to learn was simply how he meant everything.
Satisfied, Woojin rubbed his eyes, yawned, and padded toward the bedroom as if he knew every step by heart, climbing beneath the blankets before either of you reached the doorway. He scooted to the center and patted the empty space on either side. "Can I sleep in the middle tonight?"
The room fell silent. You looked at Wonwoo. He looked at you.
"...The middle?" you echoed weakly.
Woojin nodded, it was the most ordinary request in the world for him.
You hesitated until Woojin had disappeared almost entirely beneath the blankets, only his sleepy little face peeking out.
Leaning towards Wonwoo, you lowered your voice to little more than a whisper.
"...What do we do?"
"He's already distressed," he murmured finally. "If we tell him no now..." He didn't need to finish it. "Stay here until he falls asleep."
You nodded. "Just until he falls asleep."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came slowly. You woke first, it taking a long moment to place the unfamiliar mattress, before you felt something warm and heavy draped across your waist. Woojin had migrated in the night until he was sprawled almost entirely over you, one leg thrown across your middle. You smiled, then glanced past him and froze. You didn’t realise that you had accidentally fallen asleep last night beside the two boys.
Wonwoo was asleep on the other side of the bed. Without his glasses, without the polished look he carried through every staff meeting, he looked... younger somehow. One arm was thrown over his head, the other resting loosely near Woojin.
And beside him, Woojin slept exactly the same way, the same arm flung above the head, the same slight parting of the lips, even the same faint crease settled between their brows. It was almost unsettling, how alike they looked.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across Wonwoo's forehead, obscuring part of his face. Before you could think better of it, your hand lifted almost on instinct, fingers moving carefully toward the loose strand.
The moment your fingertips grazed his hair, brown eyes blinked open.
You stilled, like a deer caught in headlights. ”Oh”
“I was just..observing” Then, quietly, you murmured, "...He sleeps like you."
His eyes flicked to Woojin's arm still flung over, then back. "Does he?" His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than you had ever heard it.
"The same expression and the same way he throws his arm over his head."
He looked at the boy a long moment. "I never would've noticed," he said, in his raspy voice. Neither of you spoke after that. Between you, Woojin sighed contentedly in his sleep and burrowed closer, anchoring himself to both of you at once.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You went to Hogsmaede the very next morning, all three of you, to fulfil previous night’s promise of getting toys and clothes for Woojin.
The first stop was a children's clothing shop, and within minutes you'd disappeared into the racks. "Woojin, come here." You held a tiny knitted jumper against his front. "Oh, look at you. You're adorable."
"I look handsome," he corrected.
"You look very handsome."
Before you could admire him any longer, the jumper disappeared from your hands. Wonwoo had taken it without a word, turning it over to inspect the label before feeling the fabric between his fingers. Satisfied, he placed it into the trolley while you wandered off again.
"Oh! Woojin, come look at these."
The pattern repeated itself half a dozen times, socks embroidered with broomsticks, robes so impossibly small they made you coo, a knitted hat with bear ears, you and Woojin gasping over each discovery as though it outdid the last, while Wonwoo quietly sorted excitement from practicality behind you, checking sizes and seams before either dropping an item in the trolley or returning it to the shelf.
At one point you and Woojin reached for the same pants at the same moment, looked at each other, and said "in the trolley" in perfect unison. Woojin dissolved into giggles. So did you. Wonwoo paused with another mini sweater halfway to the trolley, watching the two of you laugh over something so inconsequential, and thought, though he didn't say it, that even if Woojin didn’t look like you, he had definitely inherited your joyful personality.
Without a word, he set the pants into the trolley and followed after the pair of you once more.
By the time you finished buying clothes, toys, bedding, books, and enough school supplies, the afternoon had slipped quietly into evening.
Dinner was at a little restaurant tucked between a bookshop and an apothecary, warm with the smell of fresh bread. Until your meals arrived, Woojin had already begun drooping where he sat beside Wonwoo.
He lasted about halfway through his dinner before his cheek settled onto the tabletop with a tiny sigh, the glass of pumpkin juice still clutched loosely in one hand.
You smiled fondly. "I think someone's reached his limit."
Wonwoo glanced over and without disturbing him, he quietly slid the abandoned food onto a plate before pulling the glass of pumpkin juice safely out of the boy's reach.
Only then did he look back at you.
"So," he said, the first time he'd ever started a conversation without prompting. "Did you always want to teach?"
You blinked, pleasantly surprised.
"I think so," You traced absent-minded circles around the rim of your mug. "Professor Sprout was my favourite when I was here. She made everyone feel like they belonged in her classroom. I wasn't particularly talented at first. I nearly killed a Venomous Tentacula in second year."
"...Impressive."
"It wasn't on purpose." You laughed. "I just remember thinking, if I could make one student love Herbology the way she made me love it, I'd have done something worthwhile."
"I imagine you already have." He said it so plainly it took you a second to realize he meant it. "And you?" you asked. "Woojin mentioned you being an Auror."
"I joined the Ministry after graduation." He leaned back slightly.
"It felt like the right thing to do. I was good at it." There was no arrogance in his words, just facts.
"But..." His gaze drifted briefly to the little boy asleep beside him, “eventually I realized I couldn't protect everyone. Perhaps I could teach someone else how to protect themselves instead. So I came here."
You looked at Woojin, asleep between you, utterly convinced this thoughtful, reserved man was his father. "I get it why he looks at you the way he does. Like you can fix anything."
"...I hope," he said quietly, "...I never give him a reason to think otherwise."
By the time you started back toward the castle, Woojin had gone entirely boneless with exhaustion, walking between you with a hand in each of yours, until somewhere along the path his feet simply stopped moving altogether and Wonwoo swept him up without breaking stride, settling him against his shoulder and he was asleep before you'd cleared the gates.
"I'll take him tonight," Wonwoo said quietly, adjusting his hold on the boy. "You should rest. You both used up too much energy while shopping.”
You didn't argue. You walked back to the castle beside him in comfortable, unhurried silence, watching and admiring the way Wonwoo had stepped up into his role so effortlessly.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Students returned the following week, and it took less than a day for the entire castle to discover that Professor Jeon had, apparently, acquired a child.
Woojin looked so unmistakably like Wonwoo, same eyes, same careful, watchful stillness, the same particular way of tilting his head when he was thinking. The resemblance alone silenced most speculation. It took a little longer for anyone to connect the boy to you, mostly because you and Wonwoo had been so studiously careful in public, but it happened anyway, and by the second afternoon the whole school seemed to know that the small boy trailing Professor Jeon between classes called Professor Lee "Mama."
Your brother heard it from three people before lunch and arrived at your Herbology classroom at a dead run.
He burst through the door mid-lesson, loud and dramatic as ever, and you rounded on him without missing a beat. "I am teaching, Chan, go back to your dormitory or I will hex you where you stand."
But Woojin had already spotted him from his corner table, where he'd been colouring quietly through the lesson exactly as he always did. "Uncle Dino!"
Chan blinked. "Huh—?" But the boy had already crossed the room and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him down into the corner with the urgent, conspiratorial whisper of a child sharing a secret.
"Why are you at Hogwarts?" Woojin whispered. "You're supposed to be at work."
"What work?" Chan asked, faintly dazed, crouching properly now, studying the boy's face with growing, dawning confusion. The resemblance to Wonwoo really was uncanny. "How old are you kid?"
Woojin held up five fingers. "Five. I'm a big boy."
The class had, by now, entirely abandoned any pretence of working. You dismissed them five minutes early out of pure self-preservation, and the moment the door shut behind the last student, Chan rounded on you with the full, righteous fury of a man who has just done extremely questionable maths.
"Five years?" he demanded. "You hid a child from me for five years? I'm telling Mum and Dad."
You smacked the back of his head without much force and dragged him toward the door, explaining low and fast everything that had happened. His expression cycled through disbelief, alarm, and fascination. "So he just appeared? In a corridor? And nobody's told Mum and Dad?"
"McGonagall wanted to keep it contained until the Ministry understood what they were dealing with," You said, moving down the row of Mandrake pots with the automatic efficiency. "There's nothing to tell them yet. There's nothing certain to tell anyone yet."
"There's a child, noona. That feels fairly certain." He lowered his voice, glancing at Woojin, who was very obviously listening despite pretending otherwise. "Does he — does Professor Jeon know? Properly know? Has he said anything? Because if he's making you handle this on your own while he just stands there being broody and unreadable like he always—"
"He's been extremely present, actually," you said, sharper than you meant to, faintly surprised by your own defensiveness. "He is good with both of us."
"So you and Professor Jeon..." He said the name like it tasted strange. "He barely talks. Is he good to you? Because I don't care if it's the future or the past or whatever timeline nonsense this is, if he ever—"
"Chan."
"I'm just SAYING—"
"Uncle Dino and Appa are best friends," Woojin announced, from where he'd resettled himself contentedly on the crate beside him, "Appa says you're the little brother he never had."
You couldn't help smiling. Somehow, it was comforting to know that somewhere in some timeline, your brother had found a best friend in Wonwoo. You hadn't expected that of all things, but it felt right.
"That's not—" Chan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "That doesn't sound like Jeon Wonwoo at all—"
"Was I not supposed to say that?" Woojin asked, blinking up at him, entirely innocent, already sensing from the sudden stillness in the room that he had said something he wasn't meant to.
You closed your eyes briefly and reached for patience.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Woojin settled, in the weeks that followed, into the rhythm of the castle so completely it became hard to remember what Hogwarts had looked like without him.
One evening the greenhouses had gone quiet, students long gone, the castle settling into its nighttime hush beyond the glass, when the door creaked and Wonwoo stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You aren't." You glanced up from the moonlily buds you were coaxing open.
"I came to see if you were still here," he said. "Woojin was asking where you were."
Your expression softened. "Is he alright?"
Wonwoo sat on a stool, pulling it closer to your set. "He waited up." said, the corner of his mouth lifting,"..but ended up falling asleep."
You smiled to yourself. "I'll apologise in the morning for making him wait up."
"He won't remember."
His gaze drifted to the flowers. "What are these?"
"Moonlilies. They only bloom after sunset, rather boring during the day." Your fingers brushed a pale blossom as another unfurled beside it, silver petals catching the moonlight through the glass roof.
"They're beautiful," he said.
"They're my favourite." You gestured at the rows stretching deeper into the greenhouse. "They'll keep blooming another hour or so. If you ever can't sleep, you can come see them."
Something unreadable crossed his face. "I'd like that."
The quiet settled again, comfortable, until he spoke. "Hold still." You blinked, and he leaned closer, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. "There. You had mud." Your heartbeat became unexpectedly hard to ignore. He seemed entirely unaffected, or simply very good at pretending otherwise.
After a moment, as though the question had only just occurred to him, “Do you have a partner?"
The question caught you so off guard you laughed. "No."
"No one waiting for you?"
"No."
He nodded once. "I've been thinking," he said. "About Woojin. He still wakes some nights expecting both of us, and we keep sending him between two rooms." He paused. "I was wondering whether we should ask Professor McGonagall if our quarters could be connected. So he has one home."
The thought lingered longer than you expected. It wasn't technically moving in together, just one home, for a little boy who couldn't understand why his parents lived apart. "I think he'd like that," you said.
"I do too."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
McGonagall agreed the next morning with the look of a woman who'd been waiting rather a while to be asked, and the magic took most of an afternoon, walls softening, a doorway blooming where there had been solid stone, two sets of rooms folding into one home neither of you had entirely built on purpose.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you, and the moment he crossed the threshold he simply lit up, spinning in a delighted circle.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you and lit up completely, spinning in a circle. "My house is back!" He threw his arms around the couch. "I missed you, home!" then, abruptly, "Where's Seol?" already forgotten in the next breath as he sprinted for the bedroom that had once been yours.
"Mama, Mama, this is my room!" he announced, bouncing on the bed with total confidence, and you didn't have the heart to correct him, didn't particularly want to.
He herded you both through the rest of it with the brisk, self-appointed authority of a very small landlord, and finished by planting himself in front of what had been Wonwoo's door alone,until that afternoon, pointing inside. "Go to your room. Goodnight, Mama." He rose on his toes, pulling you lower and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then did the same to Wonwoo, who accepted it with startled, helpless tenderness. Then Woojin stepped back, arms crossed, and looked between the two of you expectantly.
"Now your turn," he said, like this was simply the next obvious step in the routine.
You and Wonwoo looked at each other. A warm flush crept across your cheeks, his ears turning red in similar fashion.
"...Oh," you managed intelligently.
Beside you, Wonwoo looked equally flustered, clearing his throat as though searching for words.
Before either of you could decide who was supposed to move first—
"Fast," Woojin giggled, looking at the pair of you like you were being terribly silly. He pointed at his own cheeks with both hands. "Goodnight kisses!"
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. Wonwoo quietly looked at the ceiling.
"...Right," you mumbled.
Woojin waited patiently while the two of you recovered enough dignity to lean down and kiss one of his cheeks each
Woojin dissolved into delighted laughter. "Silly Mama and Dada," he announced, thoroughly unbothered by the fact that you'd both gone crimson and speechless, and skipped off to his own room without a backward glance, leaving the two of you standing in the doorway in the sudden, charged quiet he had left behind.
Neither of you said very much, after that. There wasn't, really, anything sensible to say.
You ended up in the same room. It seemed the simplest arrangement now that the quarters had become one home instead of two, and neither of you had the energy to overthink what that might mean.
He was careful with you. Quiet, steady, bringing the same attentiveness he brought to everything, and you found you trusted it completely, the way you had found yourself trusting nearly everything about him these past weeks without quite noticing when it started. His hand found yours in the dark. Sleep came slowly, not from discomfort, but from being suddenly, acutely aware of each other in a way you hadn't been before. Eventually, exhaustion won and you both drifted to a quiet sleep.
Woojin woke sometime after midnight.
He padded sleepily into the hallway, rubbing one eye with the back of his fist. The door to the bedroom stood slightly ajar.
He peeked in. Moonlight spilled across the room, and his parents were asleep, your back against Wonwoo’s chest, his arm loose around your waist, both of you breathing with the heavy rhythm of people too tired to notice how close you had ended up. His sleepy face broke into the biggest grin. "You’re back," he whispered, and climbed carefully onto the bed, curling up in front of you instead of between you, pulling your arm over himself with practiced familiarity, asleep again within seconds.
Wonwoo woke first in the morning. Woojin lay between you now, not separating you, but tucked safely in front of you, your arm around him, his own arm still loose around your waist. Three people. One tangled shape on the bed.
He watched you both breathe a moment, then reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before settling back against the pillow. For once, he felt no urgency to get up. Morning could wait.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
With Woojin increasingly absorbed into afternoons with Uncle Dino or Uncle Gyu, you and Wonwoo found yourselves with actual unclaimed hours, and neither of you was quite willing to waste them.
It was Wonwoo who moved first.
He started appearing at the greenhouse door with two steaming cups of tea, lingering awkwardly in the doorway until you looked up from your work.
"Thought you might want company," he'd say, as though that alone explained why he crossed half the castle during his free period.
More often than not, Woojin would toddle over the moment he spotted him, abandoning whatever stick or flower had captured his attention. Wonwoo would wordlessly scoop him with one before handing you your tea. Within a week the gesture had become second nature.
A few days later you found him asleep over a stack of essays, quill still loose in his hand. You slipped his glasses off his face and set them beside the parchment before nudging his shoulder.
He blinked awake, disoriented, and you told him plainly that he needed to go to bed.
"I still have—"
"You've been raising an energetic five year old all day," you said, folding your arms. "The essays can wait."
He looked at you for a long moment, and something in his expression softened before he admitted, voice still thick with sleep "I don't mind either of your energies," he stifled a yawn, stretching his arms "..makes me happy."
You had absolutely no idea what to do with that so you said nothing at all.
He still insisted on staying up most nights to finish grading, so eventually you started bringing your own work into his office instead of arguing about it. Neither of you said much once you were both settled. He would shift his chair a little closer, you would spread your parchment across the corner of his desk, and the two of you worked in companionable silence until the candles burned low.
He began walking you to your classroom afterward too, even though the route took him the opposite way from his own. He never explained it beyond insisting he would get to his class eventually, and eventually, it seemed, always meant after he'd seen you safely to your door.
On the colder mornings you were the one who stopped him and Woojin halfway across the courtyard, pointing sternly at the hat dangling forgotten from Woojin's hand until he groaned and put it on. Then you turned the same look on Wonwoo.
"You too."
He blinked in suprise."...Me?"
"You'll both catch cold," you said, and without another word pulled his scarf a little tighter around him.
He noticed things before you did. A quill running low on ink would be quietly replaced on your desk overnight. If you skipped lunch, a neatly wrapped sandwich would turn up in the staff room by early afternoon, and you'd know without asking where it came from.
You noticed things too. Whenever he buried himself in paperwork through mealtimes, you started simply setting a plate down beside him in the Great Hall and waiting until he ate it, ignoring whatever protest he tried to offer. Woojin, already halfway through his own shepherd's pie, took to backing you up without being asked, informing his father solemnly that Mama had said to eat, so he should eat.
Wonwoo accepted defeat every time.
Across the table, Mingyu had taken to watching these exchanges with an unbearably smug grin, and one evening he finally said aloud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks, “I love your little family
You and Wonwoo looked up in perfect unison.
"We're not—"
"...a family?" Mingyu finished for you, smiling into his drink. "Right."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Slowly, the conversations that had once ended after a polite greeting stretched into long ones. Silence stopped feeling awkward between you. You learned that Wonwoo didn't speak often, not because he had nothing to say, but because he waited until something was worth saying. He learned, in turn, that you talked enough for the both of you, wandering easily from Herbology to your brother's latest letter to a book you read years ago that had suddenly reminded you of a student.
Most people interrupted you eventually. Wonwoo never did. He listened with his attention fixed solely on you. Over time you began to notice the small things about him that anyone else might have missed: the faint lift at the corner of his mouth, the thoughtful hum whenever he disagreed, the way he would bring up something you had mentioned days earlier as though it had never once left his mind.
Somehow, without either of you deciding it, spending time together stopped feeling like an obligation born from impossible circumstances. You began to look forward to it instead.
One evening, while Woojin sat between you at the table stubbornly sounding out a picture book, you found yourself watching Wonwoo rather than the page. He guided the boy through each difficult word with endless patience, never frustrated, never rushing him, and the thought left you before you could stop it.
"I think I understand now," you said, "why I'd marry you."
You looked at him, a little embarrassed after the words left you, and Wonwoo looked completely caught off guard.
"I think I do too." He held your gaze for a long, quiet moment.
Then, almost shyly, he looked back down at the book beside him, where Woojin was still waiting, for his appa to help him with the next word.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The best afternoons belonged entirely to Woojin.
They usually started with a game of tag across the grounds, Wonwoo pretending badly not to be fast enough to catch him, until somehow you were running too, laughing while Woojin shrieked with delight between the two of you.
Someone always tripped eventually, usually you, and Wonwoo would stumble trying to catch you before all three of you went down together in the grass, Woojin throwing himself on top of the pile with a triumphant declaration that your pile was now a hamburger.
You and Wonwoo dissolved into helpless laughter beneath the weight of a giggling five year old.
It was in moments like these that you had to remind yourself, gently and every time, that none of it was permanent.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials returned in early October with answers at last.
An illegal Time-Turner experiment had torn open a fracture between two points in time. Woojin had wandered too close, slipping through before anyone could stop him. He had never belonged in this timeline—not because he came from another world, but because he came from several years ahead.
Somewhere in that future, two frantic parents had spent weeks searching for the little boy who had vanished without a trace.
"There is a window," the lead investigator explained quietly. "We can safely return him."
The witch hesitated before continuing.
"The timeline will... protect itself afterwards."
You asked her what that meant.
"Everyone’s memories won't disappear all at once," she said. "But as the fracture closes, they'll begin to blur. Faces first, then conversations. Eventually it will feel more like something you dreamed than something you lived."
Woojin would forget these months too. He would remember growing up exactly as he was meant to. As far as he would ever know, he had never been here at all.
It was supposed to be a kindness, yet it felt unimaginably cruel.
The walk back to the castle was silent.
That night, neither of you slept much. Woojin, blissfully unconcerned, lay between you talking about things that happened that morning-- Uncle Gyu teaching him Quidditch fouls, Uncle Dino taking him along with his friends to Hogsmeade. Every ordinary little story landed somewhere deep inside you, each one another reminder that there was an entire life waiting for him beyond your reach.
Eventually his words grew slower, each sentence interrupted by a yawn, until they dissolved into sleepy murmurs. Within minutes he was asleep between you, one small hand fisted loosely in the fabric of Wonwoo's sleeve.
You watched him for a long time. Then, unable to stop yourself, you gathered him carefully into your arms and pressed your face into his soft hair. The first tear fell before you realized you were crying, and you tried to stay quiet so you wouldn't wake him.
Beside you, Wonwoo didn't say a word. He simply moved closer until your shoulders touched, then wrapped one arm around both of you, drawing you and the sleeping boy against his chest. You felt his chin come to rest lightly atop your head. For a while there was only warmth, and the quiet understanding that for one more night, the three of you were still here. You leaned into him, having a final night with the family you had briefly been allowed to borrow.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Astronomy Tower was quiet at dawn.
Woojin stood between you, one hand tucked into yours and the other in Wonwoo's, looking more curious than frightened.
"Will you be okay?" you asked softly.
He looked up at you with complete certainty. "I'll see you for dinner."
The words caught somewhere behind your ribs. Wonwoo crouched down in front of him and smoothed a wrinkle from his little jumper, telling him gently that his mum and dad had been looking for him. Woojin frowned, as though the sentence didn't make any sense at all
"You are my mum and dad."
You dropped to your knees beside Wonwoo, your shoulder brushing his.
"We are," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... a little earlier."
Still not able to grasp the meaning, he wrapped both tiny arms around the two of you together, deciding it probably wasn’t that important anyway.
"I'll see Mama and Appa for dinner,” he mumbled into the hug.
The Ministry kept its promise. The memories faded carefully over the following days, lifted away one by one until neither of you could remember the name of the child you loved, only the shape he had left behind.
Some things, however, refused to disappear. Whatever the timeline had taken, it hadn't touched what you and Wonwoo now shared. Somehow, without either of you noticing, Wonwoo had become the first person you looked for at the start of every day, and you had become the place he returned to at the end of it. Neither of you questioned when the castle had stopped feeling like home, and each other had quietly become one instead.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several years later, you stood in the kitchen of the house you shared with Wonwoo and eventually made your own. Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden table, where a list of baby names lay abandoned between two half-finished mugs of tea.
Absentmindedly, your hand rested over the gentle curve of your stomach.
Wonwoo looked up from the list and asked if you had any favourites. You tapped the parchment with the end of your quill, thinking, and the name left your lips before you could even reconsider it.
"...Woojin."
You frowned slightly, almost amused by yourself. "I don't know why," you admitted. "It just... feels right."
He looked at the name for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I like it too. It somehow feels perfect."
Neither of you questioned it. Some things had long since stopped needing explanations.
Outside, Seol tore happily through the garden after a fluttering butterfly, barking with the same boundless enthusiasm she had since she was a puppy. You watched her through the window until you felt familiar hands settle gently around your waist from behind.
"You've been standing too long, baby," Wonwoo murmured against your ear, pressing a small kiss to your jaw.
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass."
"I know," he said, guiding you back toward your chair anyway, one hand settling over yours where it rested against your stomach.
"You fuss too much, honey," you said, though there was no real complaint in it.
"So I've been told."
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to face him. He knelt without a word, the way he always did lately, resting his cheek on your stomach a moment, like he was listening for something.
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to look at him properly. He caught your gaze almost immediately.
"Baby," he said, kissing over the curve of your stomach, "can you tell your mama to stop staring at me?"
You let out an indignant laugh. "I think I’m allowed to stare at my handsome husband."
The faintest blush made his ears turn red. You smiled, softer now, and settled your hand over his where it rested against your stomach.
"You're going to be such a wonderful father, Won." You said it so simply, like you already knew, and subconsciously you did. "I just know it."
For a moment he only looked at you, like he couldn't quite find the words for what that did to him. Then he straightened, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, before leaning down to meet your lips.
The kiss was slow and careful. One hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, the other gripping the armrest of the chair to avoid hurting you. When he finally pulled back he only went as far as your forehead, staying close, breathing you in like he wanted to keep this exact moment a little longer.
"I love you," he murmured against your skin, quiet and certain, like it was the easiest true thing he had ever said.
"I know," you smiled, your hand finding his jaw. "I love you too."
His hand found your stomach again unconsciously, just as something shifted beneath it. Both of you went still.
"Did you feel that?"
A small kick answered for him. Wonwoo huffed out a soft and a little disbelieving laugh, and bent down to press yet another kiss to your stomach, murmuring something against it too quiet for you to catch. You covered his hand with yours anyway, content to let him have the moment.
Outside, Seol barked triumphantly at nothing at all. Inside, your home was warm with morning light and love, that the two of you had spent years quietly building.
And somewhere in that warmth, already loved before he had taken his first breath, a little boy was about to come home to the family that had always been his.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
You and Mingyu are childhood friends and two self‑aware comic characters that are forced into clichéd romcom roles you both hate. On the page, he’s the perfect jock and you’re the villainess; off the page, you’re a nerd–queen duo secretly in love. Fed up with scripted drama and unwanted love triangles, you rebel, glitching the comic as the Writer fights to force you back into place. What follows isn’t a romcom but a battle for agency, freedom, and the right to choose each other.
PAIRINGS | Kim Mingyu x F. Reader
GENRE | romantic comedy, smut, angst, drama, childhood friends to lovers, meta, breaking the fourth wall(?)
CONTENT/WARNINGS | non-idols au, swearing, comedy, self-aware characters, verbal jabs, reader is a bully but she can't help it because that's how her character is written, punching and grabbing narration boxes, forced scripted “scenes” (comic scenes), miscommunication, yearning, kissing, caressing, unprotective sex (wrap it up folks), shower sex, oral sex, hair grabbing
AUTHOR’S NOTE | She's finally doneeeeee! This fic is for the SVTFLIX collab hosted by @100vern. It's loosely inspired by the k-drama Extra-Ordinary You and I had soooo much fun writing this 💚. Thank you @livmarauder for reading a portion of this and hyping me up as I write this and thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for reading the whole thing when I thought I was going crazy that my ending was rushed. Maybe we'll have a part 2???
Seventeen Masterlist | Main Masterlist
PANEL 1 — WIDE SHOT: CAMPUS QUAD, GOLDEN HOUR.
Students stroll across the lawn in perfect symmetry. Cherry blossoms drift in slow motion. A sparkly pink narration box hovers above the scene like a smug cloud.
NARRATION: Springtime at Carat University, where love blooms, hearts flutter, and destiny awaits...
PANEL 2 — CLOSE ON YOU
You’re standing dead center, holding a coffee. You stare directly at the narration box with the expression of someone who's been dealing with this for far too long.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn it.
The narration box flickers.
NARRATION: ...and the villainess plots her next—
“NOPE,” you snap, grabbing the box mid‑air like it’s a misbehaving balloon. “We talked about this. No villain monologues before 9 a.m.” You fold the narration box until it is the approximate dimensions of a post-it note and shove it into your pocket.
The rest of the campus, meanwhile, bustles around you like nothing happened. Like it never happens. Like there isn't a floating narration box following you from birth and plotting your eventual fall from grace. You really should start looking into those therapy services offered by the mental health office. You know they can't help you with "being narrated since birth," but it's probably the next best thing, right?
Anyway, it's spring and, frankly, you're very tired.
You, Y/N, are the notorious campus queen: the stunning daughter of an affluent political family and the presumed villainous antagonistic force in Kim Mingyu's, your childhood friend, star-crossed love story. For three volumes and counting, you, Mingyu and Lee Ara have fallen into a rhythmic dance of misunderstandings, relationship dramas, and flashy battles all leading to one, inevitable conclusion: Mingyu and Ara will fall in love and live happily ever after.
Or that's how it's supposed to work.
Except none of that happens in the shadows, the white spaces that the Writer's pen never quite fills in. Those are the places where characters come to life in ways even the omnipotent Writer can't see coming. Like when Mingyu saved you from a car last spring. Or that night you snuck into the school pool together and splashed around instead of studying. When it was just the two of you, when no one could see, no one was writing. When everything seemed perfectly scripted without a script.
In those moments, when the narration box couldn't reach you, nothing else seemed quite as important as his smile.
Until the next scene began, that was.
You don't remember when you and Mingyu became aware of the fact that none of this was real. You always thought that you were losing your memory, wondering how you ended up at home when you were just in class seconds ago, how so much time seemed to pass without your realizing it. It didn't click until you were aimlessly roaming the school halls one afternoon and noticed the air fluttering unnaturally around you, things moving floating out of place in the corner of your vision and an unsettling feeling of something. A presence? A monster? A force beyond your knowing and naming trying to reach out to you.
When you talked to people, they'd be confused or dismissive, thinking you're joking. And when you'd ask them again some time later, they wouldn't know what you meant and keep repeating the same responses over and over, no matter how many times you would try and ask, hoping it'd finally ilicit a different response.
Finally, you tried talking to Mingyu about what was happening to you, only to find Mingyu was feeling exactly the same way. That things were happening without his express conscious will, and he felt the presence of something vaguely sinister outside of his direct sphere.
That's when you both realized the absurd, nonsensical reality that you're living in a webtoon, in a narrative world crafted by someone who felt very little need or concern for either of your agency. That something, a presence beyond human knowledge and imagination, was dictating and guiding you along towards an end goal: an inevitable romance between Kim Mingyu, the male lead, and Lee Ara, the female lead, and you're left to be the evil side character who had to be defeated for Mingyu and Ara to obtain their Happy Ever After.
Which sucks ass because you really like Mingyu. Maybe even a little too much. And you know, deep down, that the feeling is mutual. The Writer might make you do whatever she wants to further the plot, like flirt with Mingyu against your will during scripted love tropes. But whenever the writer isn't actively intervening, you get to be just you and Mingyu, and not the fictional, plot-dictated versions of you two that are forced together by the writer. You wonder sometimes, if it wasn't for this damned world, if you'd be happily dating each other.
You feel the narration box wriggling in your pocket, desperate to escape and comment. To announce loudly, obviously that you'll do whatever you can to disrupt Kim Mingyu and Lee Ara from meeting, but ultimately end up helping the course of fate along because the Writer makes it so. Because the narrative demands a twist at the very last second, and Kim Mingyu can't end up with you.
With a sigh, you take the now much smaller narration box out and unfold it, letting its words be absorbed back into reality:
NARRATION: ...and the villainess plots her next loser plan to keep our golden boy and pure maiden away from each other.
"I fucking hate you," you mutter under your breath.
Just then, a slim figure rounds the corner: Lee Ara in all of her oblivious perfection, wearing a fluffy dress that no college student would survive in, looking very much like she is running towards you.
PANEL 3 — BUST SHOT: YOU, GLOWERING.
Your lips curl up into your default, scheming smile. You really wish it didn't feel so natural.
PANEL 4 — EXTREME CLOSE UP ON LEE ARA.
Her hair blows dramatically out of the way as she stares determinedly ahead like this isn't a typical, daily interaction for the two of you. You can't tell if it's supposed to look brave or goofy, but it sure isn't intimidating.
"Ara, you look absolutely stunning today," you feel your eye twitch as the words leave your mouth, words you didn't choose, didn't want to say, words that materialized on your tongue like someone else is operating your vocal cords.
Which, technically, someone was.
Ara blinks up at you with those impossibly wide doe eyes. "Oh! Um, thank you? That's... really nice of you to say."
No, it fucking isn't, you thought viciously, even as your face arranges itself into what you know is a calculated, mean-girl smirk.
"I just wanted to say," your mouth continues without your permission, and you feel the familiar horror of a scripted scene taking over, "that dress is so brave. Not everyone could pull off that... particular shade of yellow."
There it is. The backhanded compliment. Right on schedule.
Ara's face falls slightly, and you want to scream. You helped her pick out that dress last week during your actual, off-page friendship that the Writer conveniently ignores. You told her the sunshine yellow made her look like bottled happiness.
"Oh," Ara says softly. "I... thank you?"
"If you like looking like you're blocking traffic, then feel free to keep wearing it," you snort and then the scene releases you like a puppet with cut strings, and you immediately grab Ara's arm. "Wait, that came out wrong—"
PANEL 5 — ARA TURNS.
She's already walking away, and you know why. The Writer has got what they wanted: another moment of you being terrible to the heroine. Another panel of the villainess doing villainess things.
You stand there in the middle of the quad, students flowing around you like water around a stone, and contemplate the very real possibility of screaming until your throat bleeds.
"Rough scene?"
You don't have to turn around to know who it is. You recognize that voice anywhere. It's the voice that makes your stomach do complicated acrobatic routines, the one that belongs to your best friend since childhood, the one that's supposed to fall in love with Ara and definitely not with you.
"Mingyu," you say, turning to face him. "I just told Ara her dress makes her look like a jaundiced traffic cone. How do you think it went?"
Mingyu winces, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. He's wearing his usual off-scene outfit: an oversized hoodie that's seen better days, glasses slightly askew, hair unstyled and falling into his eyes. He looks nothing like the chiseled, perfectly-coiffed golden boy who appeared in the actual comic panels.
"Ouch," he says. "Did you at least get to apologize before the scene ended?"
"Tried. She walked away. The Writer probably needed her to be sad for the next panel where you comfort her and she realizes she has feelings for you for the millionth time," you make a gagging noise. "I hate this. I hate all of this."
"I know," Mingyu falls into step beside you as you start walking toward your next class. "I had a scene this morning where I had to flex at the gym for fifteen minutes while Ara watched from the doorway. Fifteen minutes, Y/N. Do you know how long fifteen minutes of flexing is?"
Despite everything, you snort. "Did you at least get a good pump?"
"I got a cramp in my left bicep and the overwhelming desire to go home and read my economics textbook," he pauses. "Which I did, by the way. Chapter twelve is fascinating. Did you know that—"
"Mingyu, I love you, but if you start explaining supply and demand curves right now, I will push you into that trash can."
The words hung in the air for a moment. I love you. You said it all the time, had said it for years, best friends who'd grown up together and know each other's every secret.
But lately, the words felt heavier.
Mingyu's ears turned red, they always did when you said it, even casually, and he clears his throat. "Right. No economics. Got it."
You reach your classroom and stop, turning to face him fully. He's tall, he'd always been tall, but he hunches slightly, like he's trying to take up less space. It's such a contrast to his on-page persona, where he stands with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted himself a day in his life.
"Same time tonight?" you ask. "My place? We can finish studying for that chem mid."
His face splits into a grin, a wide, boyish one that makes his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose. "Definitely," he agrees. "Maybe without the interruption this time."
PANEL 6 — ARA WALKING TOWARDS MINGYU
"And here I go," you mutter, "back to fading into the background so these two can have their meet-cute."
"I'm really sorry," Mingyu says again, "and I know that doesn't mean anything. I hope I can—"
NARRATION: ...Kim Mingyu notices his true love standing alone in the corner, a beautiful flower ready to bloom into...
"You changed into your jock gear," you note, sounding unimpressed, as Mingyu looks down and realizes that yes, he's wearing the clothes his character usually wears to work out instead of the sweater he wore before.
"Fuck," he sighs, "Here I go, I guess."
"You want me to text you after?" you ask him.
He nods, giving you a strained smile, and says, "Please."
PANEL 7 — SLOW ZOOM-IN ON ARA'S FLAWLESS SKIN AS SHE LOOKS UP AND ATTENDS MINGYU'S DAZZLING SMILE, HEARTS POPPING AROUND HER AS WE DRAMATICALLY FOCUS IN ON MINGYU.
"Ara! Just the girl I wanted to see."
You let out a long sigh, before turning away from the pair. Your story might be stuck in this linear route, but you really don't have to stick around and watch the love of your life play his part in this tale.
PANEL 8 — Y/N WALKS AWAY, SHOULDERS HUNCHED, BACKGROUND BLURRING INTO SOFT PASTELS AS THE ROMANTIC SCENE CONTINUES BEHIND HER
Each step away feels like wading through honey. You can hear Ara's delighted laugh behind you, that genuine, sweet sound that makes you hate yourself for being scripted to hurt her. You can hear Mingyu's voice doing that thing: that confident, flirty thing that isn't him at all.
The real Mingyu stutters when he's nervous. The real Mingyu talks about economic theory at 2AM and falls asleep with his glasses on.
But the Writer doesn't care about the real Mingyu.
PANEL 9 — CLOSE-UP ON Y/N'S FACE, EXPRESSION CAREFULLY NEUTRAL, BUT EYES BETRAYING PAIN
NARRATION: Meanwhile, the villainess retreats to lick her wounds, knowing she can never compete with—
"Oh, fuck off," you snap, reaching up to grab the narration box again. It's vibrating indignantly, trying to narrate your heartbreak into something convenient for the plot.
You squeeze it harder.
"You don't get to narrate this. This part is mine."
You track down Jeon Wonwoo, the webtoon's dark, brooding second male lead, in the library—specifically, on one of the beanbag chairs near the back. Wonwoo's sprawled out like an overly pretentious Renaissance statue, head titled to the sky, eyes closed, reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a heavy, glossy book perched precariously on his chest.
"What happened this time?" He mumbles. "Faded into the back like usual before the scene started?"
Wonwoo became self-aware just like you and Mingyu; about five episodes ago. And also like you and Mingyu, he didn't come into his new reality prepared. He hadn't realized it at first. He was too busy brooding and contemplating life's meaning, so it wasn't until he was speaking to Mingyu about his memory blackouts. That was when Mingyu called you over, and the three of you had had the worst meeting you could've imagined.
Wonwoo wasn't particularly enthused to find out he was a love interest. He wasn't really interested in the romantic side of things in general. Not when he was made out to be the mysterious, dark bad boy who sulks in corners, glares at people, and spends too much money on poetry books that aren't actually worth their cost.
"Fuck me," you drop yourself into the bean bag beside him, throwing your backpack across the table and letting out the loudest, most exasperated sigh of frustration known to mankind.
"You can let Mingyu do that once he's back in the shadows," Wonwoo chuckles softly as he flips a page of the book.
"And then what will happen when we have sex and a scene between him and Ara happens?" You glare at him. "He vanishes from my bed, to confess to a woman he doesn't even like? You want that to happen? I sure as hell don't."
"Then don't have sex." Wonwoo doesn't look up from his book.
"...That's your answer?"
"Don't have sex and become canon."
"I..." you let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for the nearest object near you to throw. You grab a discarded highlighter and throw it at his forehead, causing him to shut his book and finally glance over at you. "If only it were that easy, asshole."
"Can I go back to my book, or have you finally broken?" Wonwoo looks bored out of his mind as he speaks.
"We're talking about my and Mingyu's relationship. Mingyu and mine's. I hate being the villain. I'm the most popular fucking girl on campus. I'm nice to everyone, and I somehow still get treated like an evil piece of shit when a scene starts." You kick your leg up for dramatic effect, which causes a few students around you to shift uncomfortably. "This is bullshit!"
Wonwoo picks up the highlighter you threw at him and examines it like it's a particularly uninteresting specimen. "You done?"
"No, I'm not—"
"Good. Because you're making a scene, and the last thing either of us needs is to trigger another scripted moment." He tosses the highlighter back to you. "Go study with your boyfriend. At least off-page you can pretend you have free will."
You catch the highlighter reflexively, your anger deflating into something closer to exhaustion. He's right, of course. He's always right in the most infuriating way possible.
"He's not my boyfriend," you mutter, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears.
"Semantics." Wonwoo reopens his book. "Now get out of here before the Writer decides we're having a moment and I have to brood attractively at you."
Your apartment is blessedly, perfectly normal.
No cherry blossoms. No golden hour lighting. No background music swelling as you open the door. Just your slightly messy living room with Mingyu already sprawled on your couch, his laptop open, surrounded by a frankly alarming number of economics textbooks.
He's wearing his glasses, the ones that never appear on-page because apparently the Writer thinks they make him look "too nerdy" for a male lead. His hair is unstyled, falling into his eyes. He's wearing a hoodie that's two sizes too big and sweatpants with a hole in the knee.
This is the real Kim Mingyu.
"You're late," he says without looking up from his screen, but there's no accusation in his voice. Just familiarity.
"Wonwoo was being useless." You drop your bag by the door and collapse onto the couch next to him, close enough that your thigh presses against his. "How was the rest of your day? Did the Writer make you do anything else humiliating?"
"Define humiliating." Mingyu finally glances at you, and his expression softens. "I had to carry Ara's books to her next class. My hands were full, so I couldn't even text you to complain about it in real-time."
"Tragic."
"It really was." He shifts his laptop to the coffee table and turns to face you properly. "She kept talking about how strong I must be. I'm not even that strong. I'm just tall. There's a difference."
You can't help but smile. "You're a little strong."
"I have the upper body strength of a particularly determined pool noodle." He pushes his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit he's had since you were kids. "How was your scene with her? The dress thing?"
Your smile fades. "I told her she looked like a sad banana."
"You didn't—"
"I did. Well, the Writer did. Through my mouth." You lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "We picked out that dress together last weekend. She was so excited about it. And then I had to stand there and watch my own mouth form words about how it washed her out."
Mingyu is quiet for a moment. Then his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with a practiced ease that comes from years of this, this thing between you that has no name because the Writer won't allow it one.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"Not your fault."
"Still sorry."
This is what you love about him. Not the on-page version with the perfect smile and the athletic build and the confident swagger. This Mingyu, who apologizes for things he can't control and stutters when he's nervous and gets genuinely excited about fiscal policy.
This Mingyu, who has held your hand through every forced scene and every narrative violation and every moment where you've both felt like puppets with cut strings.
"Did you finish the problem sets?" you ask, because if you keep thinking about how much you love him, you might do something stupid. Like kiss him. And if you kiss him off-page, there's no telling what the Writer might do to punish you for it.
"Most of them." He reaches for his laptop again, but doesn't let go of your hand. "I got stuck on number seven. The one about market equilibrium."
"Let me see."
You spend the next two hours like this, working through economics problems, your head eventually finding its way to his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your knuckles. He explains supply curves with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for their favorite movies. You argue about elasticity and make him laugh so hard he snorts.
No narration box appears to comment on the "comfortable silence" or the "unspoken tension." No background music swells. No cherry blossoms drift past your window.
It's just you and Mingyu, existing in the spaces between the story.
"I wish it could always be like this," you murmur at some point, when the sky outside has gone dark and you've both abandoned any pretense of studying.
Mingyu's arm is around your shoulders now. You're not sure when that happened, but it feels right. Natural. Like this is how you're supposed to fit together.
"Me too," he says, pressing a light, half-awake kiss against the crown of your head. "Just like this."
You lean into his warmth, your eyelids fluttering closed as you memorize the weight and shape of his arm against you, his head resting against yours, the steadiness of his breathing as he begins to drift off. You memorize it all.
You memorize every last detail.
Because when you open your eyes, you're alone again.
PANEL 1 — MEDIUM CLOSE-UP ON KIM MINGYU, RUNNING ON A TREADMILL AND CONSIDERING THE THOUGHTS IN HIS GORGEOUS HANDSOME BRAIN
"Damn," Mingyu mutters as he treads, "I can't even sleep peacefully on the couch with the woman I'm hopelessly in love with."
PANEL 2 — WONWOO, EXHAUSTED AND DEBATING LEAVING MINGYU TRAINING TO WALLOW IN HIS MELANCHOLY MUSINGS BY HIMSELF
"I fucking hate my life." Wonwoo groans out his displeasure. He wonders how much trouble he'd get in if he "accidentally" hit the speed button and watches Mingyu flail off the treadmill.
NARRATION: Back on campus, the handsome male lead dwells on the true love he so sorely misses.
Mingyu grabs the narration box and flings it into the nearest corner of the gym, where it blinks weakly and powers itself off to spare itself any further humiliation.
"You done?" Wonwoo asks, the picture of composure and zen.
"No, I'm still fucking pissed off!" Mingyu hops off the treadmill and heads straight for the boxing station, grabbing some tape and bandages and wrapping up his fists in record time.
"Do you wanna tell me why you're pissed off this time, or are we just gonna keep going back and forth like this forever?"
"Y/N and I were just working on the homework, and it was... perfect. It felt perfect. Right. It was good—real good. But then, before I could realize what had happened, the Writer snatched me and now here we are."
Wonwoo nods along like the therapist that his character and personality have inexplicably deemed him, and sighs deeply.
"Happens to me all the time." Wonwoo goes about packing up his belongings for his trip back home. "One moment I'm helping one of the female side characters with a jammed door lock and the next moment I'm staring at Ara for four pages straight wondering if I want her to be my first or last kiss. Every. Damn. Time."
"You poor thing," Mingyu mumbles condescendingly as he furiously punches the boxing bag.
Wonwoo steps away as he watched the narration box slowly creep over to join the two men. "A scene is starting soon, just warning you now."
PANEL 3 — MINGYU CONTINUES TO HIT THE BOXING BAG, UNTIL HE HEARS A SUDDEN CRACK.
NARRATION: He swings and it hits. His fists continue, his speed increasing as he repeats a simple question in his head: why is Y/N messing with Ara?
PANEL 4 — MINGYU STILL BEATING THE HELL OUT OF THE BOXING BAG.
NARRATION: Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. His anger is spilling out like a broken kettle, and its burning, stinging him.
"STOP!" Mingyu shouts to no one in particular, punching the narration box instead of the bag.
"And this is why I wanted to stay home," Wonwoo murmurs out loud. "I hate these things."
"Why can't someone else be the main character?" Mingyu whines. "It doesn't have to be me."
"Because you're the one with huge muscles, you're tall, and you've got the best abs in the entire school?" Wonwoo offers bluntly.
Mingyu doesn't answer and turns his attention to the boxing bag again, throwing several more powerful punches until suddenly, the narration box begins to hover, drawing both men's attention as a new caption begins to write itself:
NARRATION: As his heart screams and his fists bleed, the only image that flashes through Mingyu's mind is Ara.
Mingyu screeches, throwing the gloves at the boxing bag this time. "LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU EVIL BOX. STOP SHOVING ME BACK INTO THE CAST OF THIS DUMBASS STORY."
PANEL 5 — KIM MINGYU IS PISSED
NARRATION: An irrational urge seeps into him. An urge to reach his hand into his own heart, find Ara, and...
Wonwoo narrows his eyes suspiciously at the box and waves a finger in Mingyu's direction, directing his attention. "Stop."
"It's not going to work!" He screams at the narration box. "LEAVE MY HEART ALONE YOU STUPID BOX!"
But the narration continues to hover, circling Mingyu like the ring leader of a very messed up circus. Mingyu swings for it with his bare hands, punching at the thin air before it moves out of the way, now standing closer to him than it was a moment ago, the writing appearing faster. The text is bold and demanding now.
NARRATION: The urge is too powerful. He sees Ara's face, and all he can think about is her.
"NO!" Mingyu screams, tears of pure, unfiltered rage welling in the corners of his eyes as he punches the wall beside him, putting a hole through it. "I DON'T LOVE ARA. I DON'T."
The wall patches itself instantly, the hole vanishing as if it were never there. But the crack in Mingyu's composure remains, spiderwebbing across the surface of the Writer's perfect narrative.
"It's trying to rewrite you," Wonwoo says, suddenly serious. "Pushing you into the corner where you have no choice but to think about her. It's rewriting your thoughts, Mingyu."
The narration box pulses with an almost smug satisfaction. The new words appear, glowing with an unsettling light.
NARRATION: His heart belongs to Ara. It has always been Ara. It will always be Ara.
"It's not true," Mingyu whispers, his anger deflating into a desperate plea. He's looking at Wonwoo now, really looking at him. His knuckles are bleeding from the punch. "It's not true, is it?"
Wonwoo sets down his bag and crosses the distance between them. For once, he doesn't look bored or annoyed. He looks like a soldier assessing battlefield damage.
"You know the answer to that," Wonwoo says quietly, so quietly that the narration box might not catch it. "The question is, how much of you is still left for you?" He glances at the hovering box. "The Writer is getting more aggressive. This is new. This is... invasive."
They've fought scenes before. They've tried to walk the other way, to mumble their lines until the scene reset, to trip over conveniently placed props. They've tried everything, but it's always been external. Pushing against the boundaries of their world, not the boundaries of their minds.
This feels different. This feels like a violation.
"I can't..." Mingyu staggers back, leaning against the now-perfect wall. "I feel it. Trying to get in. Like... like static in my head. A thought that's not my thought."
Wonwoo's face is grim. He's read every book in this godforsaken library, including the ones on psychology he never wanted to read. He knows what gaslighting looks like. He knows what brainwashing feels like. And this has all the hallmarks of both.
"It wants you to break," Wonwoo states, his voice flat. "It wants you to give in and accept the role. If it can't control your actions, it'll try to control your mind."
PANEL 6 — Y/N WALKING INTO THE GYM DRESSED IN TOO TIGHT WORKOUT CLOTHES TO TURN ANY MAN'S HEAD.
"What kind of scene is this?" You mutter to yourself as you pass the two men and head towards the cycling machine in the other room.
NARRATION: As Y/N crosses the room, a flash of anger illuminates the depths of Mingyu's soul.
"Huh?" You stop short, one leg forward as the narration begins to morph again.
NARRATION: As she crosses the room, Mingyu can't take it anymore. Just the sight of her makes Mingyu burn with hatred.
"Well, fuck you too, buddy," you murmur at the box now trying to smack you in the face. You don't even need to stick around to know where this scene is headed, and you aren't going to stick around when Ara bounces through the doors in her pink sports attire to try and talk Mingyu down from his fury.
"Ugh," you groan as you walk into the cycling room and find that this is already the set up for a scene. "Oh, this is just perfect."
"Y/N!" Someone calls you, and it's Seungcheol, a supporting character in this shitfest who's written to have a crush on you. His smile is easy, and so is he, because in this dumb universe, Seungcheol is so much less important than the main character and you're allowed to trample all over his heart, though he somehow continues to pine for you.
"Oh, hey there," you offer a grin and head over to the spin bike next to him, joining him and his row of friends from the track team. The nameless ones. All of them here to serve a single purpose—and yet none of them are aware enough to break out of it.
You know when a scene starts because suddenly, you're having a casual conversation. Everything about your posture is suddenly just slightly more interesting—your lips redder, your cheeks rounder, the cut of your collarbones subtly highlighted by the shine from the lights above you. Everything is suddenly for show, but this time, so are you. You're not speaking the lines you want.
PANEL 7 — YOU INSIDE THE CYCLE ROOM, ON YOUR BIKE AND TALKING TO SEUNGCHEOL.
NARRATION: Y/N tries desperately to seduce a certain boy. She teases him in her sickly sweet tone.
"Cheol!" You greet, laughing at one of his jokes. You know what's coming next, and you know that you aren't saying this and yet the words escape anyway, as if they belong to someone else. You hate it. You hate this.
NARRATION: Seungcheol teases her right back, not knowing that Mingyu is watching their every move.
"Maybe you could give me some more advanced lessons," you bat your eyelashes and flash Seungcheol that sweet smile. You hope you don't throw up.
NARRATION: So distracted, she didn't notice Ara right behind her.
You glance down as you begin to cycle, glancing behind you for a split second. There are too many characters in here, and there's no guarantee that the story won't make an extra scene out of your path crossing with any of them, and your luck really does run out, because right there, in pink workout gear to match Mingyu's blue, is Ara, pretending not to watch you and Seungcheol.
PANEL 8 — Y/N FINALLY NOTICING ARA.
"So much for privacy." You scowl, your voice pitched higher to catch the attention of the one-woman audience that's suddenly in this scene. You know it's just a scene, you don't mean what you're saying and you definitely did not mean to flirt with Seungcheol. You get angry thinking about how fake this entire world is. "What?" You turn to look at Ara, tilting your head and smirking. "You've never seen a man and a woman flirting before?"
"I-" Ara starts, but suddenly looks downright uncomfortable. "It's not like that, Y/N."
You sigh and turn forward, meeting the screen again and shaking your head at how utterly useless it is to try and even change things. No one's in this scene to notice what you say, so why does the story even care? The story is stupid, and pointless, and written entirely around Ara and you don't care who's on board. "Why should you care who I flirt with anyway? You got Mingyu wrapped around your pretty little fingers, don't you?"
"I would never," Ara tries again. "He's-"
"He's what? Something else I can never have?" You're a villain through and through, apparently, and the Writer wants this kind of drama. "It's cute how you think I'll stay away, just because of a little warning." You smirk and wait a beat, just to watch the discomfort bloom across Ara's face. "We both know you don't have the stomach to threaten me back."
PANEL 9 — MINGYU STEPS IN
You can see the look in Mingyu's eyes. He doesn't care about what the narration is doing, apparently, and in the midst of this disaster of a story, you suddenly realize it.
"Mingyu," Ara almost sighs. "I- please don't-"
"You." He points to you, and for a brief second, you can see how Mingyu clenches his fist, trying to fight against the word that's already forming on his lips. "Watch it."
"Mm, and if I don't?" You shrug, innocently pouting and getting off the bike. You ran your fingers down his chest, making sure to keep eye contact. "What are you going to do to me, Kim Mingyu?" You lick your lips and don't stop touching him, running your fingers down his torso and the planes of his muscles, one hand over his arm and the other curled up to grip at his chest. "Don't you think you and I have more fun ways to play, or have you forgotten about the night we-"
Mingyu holds on to your wrist tightly, holding your touch away from him. "Shut your mouth."
You look up at him and bite your lip, shrugging again. "Or what?"
"Please stop, Mingyu!" Ara tugs at the side of his t-shirt, begging Mingyu, who barely notices.
He was there, during that one weekend, when the story took a vacation and let your real selves drive. Neither of you were ready to stop. Neither of you were ready to be written and puppeteered as the main characters. There's so much Mingyu wants to say right now. Instead, the Writer uses his mouth to spit vitriol and spite.
"Stay the fuck out of my life, and off my girl," Mingyu hisses. "Do whatever the fuck you want, but stay the hell away from her."
"Oh wow." You roll your eyes and pull away from him, wiping his hand down your skirt. "Protective, aren't we?" You cross your arms and lean into his personal space. "Wouldn't want me to show her how much better I could fuck you, huh?"
Ara gasps, backing away and covering her mouth with her hands. "Why would you say such a thing!" She screeches at you, and you shrug it off.
"That's not happening." Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, fists curling into themselves.
PANEL 10 — INTENSION OF RAGE HANGING AROUND MINGYU.
"Now that just sounds like a challenge, handsome," you tap the tip of his nose and flash him that perfect smirk, the kind designed to bring even the biggest, baddest, male characters to their knees. You turn away, and head to leave the gym. "Your girlfriend can keep playing house, but you and me?" You blow him a kiss as you walk to the changing rooms. "I'm always down to play rough."
And as you walk away, you can hear the familiar sound of fists punching a bag, Mingyu screaming, and a heartbreaking "I hate her!" that makes the Writer grin in delight.
When the door to the changing rooms close, you sink to the ground, pulling your knees up to your chest and fighting back the tears in the corner of your eyes. You hate this. You don't want to be a villain. You just want to love him and be loved, and the Writer just refuses to let that happen.
For the next thirty minutes, the Writer leaves you alone, and you're curled up against the bench as you cry. The last thing you really needed was Mingyu to actually hate you.
And you hate the thought of being anyone's villain. Especially his.
Mingyu finds you curled up in your bed. Not just a lump under a mound of pillows. In your bed, buried underneath the blankets and nursing a tub of ice cream.
"You okay?" he asks gently.
"Not really," you mutter and take another spoonful of ice cream, avoiding eye contact. You're being grumpy and pathetic, but you don't really care.
Mingyu grabs the tub of ice cream and places it on your nightstand, not caring if it'll melt, as he gathers you into his arms, letting you wrap your own around his torso.
"I don't like doing it," Mingyu whispers. "It was-" He takes a deep breath and holds you a little tighter. "God, saying those things to you, I hate that the Writer made me do it. Even the visual of... of-" He doesn't need to finish his sentence.
"Me and Seungcheol," you mumble, and let him lift your chin.
Mingyu nods. "But Y/N-" He searches your face and taps your forehead. "I didn't mean a single bit of it. None of it. Never. Okay? I would never ever treat you like that, okay?"
Your eyes tear up, and you nod, biting your lip and trying to get rid of the sting of the Writer's manipulations.
"And I hate myself for hurting you like that," he admits softly. "Even if I didn't mean it, I still said it, and that hurts. But... but at least we're self-aware?" He gives you an awkward grin.
You manage a laugh through the tears. It was a crap day, and maybe Mingyu wasn't helping, but your favorite thing about your best friend has always been that you feel understood when you're with him.
"This is hard," Mingyu groans, flopping backward on your bed. He hugs you close to him, so you don't flail around. "Can't we just," he moves one hand, gesturing wildly "I dunno, rewrite this stupid thing so we're happy?"
"If only that was a possibility," you giggle.
"Wait," Mingyu props himself up on an elbow. His eyes sparkle. "Wait. Y/N, what if we do exactly that."
"What," you roll your eyes and give Mingyu a blank look, not trusting his tone.
"Seriously! Let's rewrite this ourselves," Mingyu exclaims. "You and I, Wonwoo too, are self-aware. Why don't we work together to change things? It could work, don't you think?"
"What would we change, Gyu?" You ask him, a tiny glint of hope lighting up behind your irises.
"Well, to start," Mingyu grimaces. "Maybe, uh, have the Writer stop trying to make you kiss the entire university population, yikes."
You grimace and lift your hands up to the sky as if you're going to fight the Writer's pen with your bare hands. "That's a damn start. My god, we need a human resources department for this shit."
"It's more like human rewrite department and I'll file a complaint," Mingyu deadpans and the two of you share a quick look before bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, needing this moment of levity after the exhausting scenes you're usually roped into.
"Wait, wait," you can't believe how many brilliant ideas come to you once you give yourself an afternoon to wallow. "Wonwoo!" You glance around as you grab Mingyu's phone from the floor, quickly dialing Wonwoo's number and grinning mischievously when it picks up. "We're forming a union. Bring beer. See you later." And then you hang up.
Mingyu is beside himself in a fit of laughter. "Oh man, won't the writer be pissed when they find out three of their characters are rebelling against the plot line."
"I hate this stupid plotline," you groan. "I'm the most popular girl in school but what does the narrative care about?! Me kissing a different character every week. I swear, we're literally nothing more than tropes used just to create more drama for the narrative, and it's annoying and pointless and I've had enough!" You let out a long, loud sigh and Mingyu grins.
"Damn, you're hot when you're angry," Mingyu mutters and when you give him a look, he looks away with flushed cheeks.
"Gross." Wonwoo let's himself into your apartment and holds up the beers. "Union time, but please. Can you not flirt with each other. I've dealt with enough forced bullshit today."
"What happened?" You look over the couch and see a distressed looking Wonwoo, your confusion and Mingyu's morphing into that same glare the two of you shared mere hours ago. "Did you just get some scene thrown into your storyline as well?"
Wonwoo winces and rubs the back of his neck. "I was forced out of the comfort of my own apartment to walk around the campus with Ara, the words spewing from my own tongue saying how she's everything I want and more, and how her personality is so cute, I can't get her off my mind, bla bla bla..."
The two of you just sit there, horror written on your face as the thought of a love sick Wonwoo has your brain nearly short circuiting.
"Dude, what the hell," Mingyu gags and shudders. "Was this scene like-" he pauses, horrified with the thought that passes through his mind. "Don't tell me. I don't want to imagine it."
"Neither did I, believe me, Mingyu. Please don't say anything else. I had to go through five showers with nearly boiling hot water to rid the thoughts of even holding her hand." Wonwoo winces as the memory makes his skin crawl. "Okay. So." Wonwoo nods. "Union time!"
As the sun dips low beyond the horizon and night overtakes the room, the three of you drink and dream and plan for the world that's promised. It's been far too long, since you've allowed yourself to dream. But with Mingyu and Wonwoo? It might actually work.
"Holy shit, guys." You stare up at the building looming overhead and then at the sign next to the door, squinting and reading out loud. "'Humanity Rewrite Agency. The world's solution to author control.'"
"I was kidding about it," Mingyu starts as he looks between his co-conspirators. "But there's really a HR building in the shadows? Do you think the Writer knows about this place?"
"Dude, if it's in the shadows then they won't be able to see it," Wonwoo shakes his head, almost wanting to laugh at the three of you standing outside of the building. It was a spur of the moment decision to go into the HR building, and though the three of you were pretty serious about the whole union thing, it all seems a bit far-fetched.
"Alright, let's go," You shrug and make your way up to the sliding doors, pushing in and finding the empty reception desk. "Um. Excuse us?"
A person pops out from beneath the desk, glasses askew and jacket slightly messed up. "Y-yes, how can I help you today?"
"We're thinking about forming a union? And thought a place like this might help, given it's hidden in the shadows." Wonwoo comments casually, leaning on the counter.
The receptionist's mouth opens, surprised. "A union?" Their eyes drift from Mingyu, to Wonwoo, and settle on your gaze. Their eyes soften, lips parting a moment later as a few memories spark in their mind. "Oh. Oh, dear. You three really are self-aware, huh." The receptionist, who's name tag reads Joshua, snaps out of his thoughts and offers a kind smile. "You're not the only self-aware characters working through an issue. Follow me." Joshua spins around the desk, flicking off the switch to the light above and disappearing into the hallway behind him, beckoning the three of you to follow. "You must know about Danoh and Haru, right? What happens to them in Secrets? What happens after?"
"Secrets?" Your brow furrows as your try to connect the dots, knowing very little about the book in question.
"I see you three really haven't done your due diligence then." Joshua laughs a moment later, voice light and cheerful. "Secrets is a comic about the typical high school romance. But in their case, our spunky Danoh was a supporting extra with a heart disease and Haru was a faceless extra." Joshua stops at his office door and gestures to the chairs across from him.
"Is there a reason why they're important?" Mingyu asks, clearly perplexed with the idea of side characters rebelling in their own way.
"Oh yes. I'll let Seungkwan tell you. He's like your mediator or something, I dunno. But he can help you find some answers at the very least."
You trail behind, your mouth moving faster than your brain as you pepper Joshua with questions. Wonwoo and Mingyu shake their heads but listen just as intently to Joshua's ramblings. You know there's a whole world here, out there in the shadows, and now that you've tasted self-awareness you're hungry for every detail you can find.
"In here," Joshua calls over his shoulder. "Everyone. These are our newest clients."
"New clients?!" A male's voice practically squeals, followed by a swift punch to the arm.
"More self-aware folk who don't know enough?" A second male's voice pipes up, amusement glinting in his eyes as a slow smile pulls across his lips. "Well, we can fix that. Hi, everyone! Welcome to Human Rewrite Agency, located conveniently in the shadows, where we'll do anything within our power to help."
"It's great to be here," you nod, stepping forward. "I'm Y/N." You tilt your head to your two conspirators, a shy smile on Mingyu's lips. "This is my best friend, Mingyu. And that brooding, tired-looking beanpole, is Jeon Wonwoo."
"Flattering," Wonwoo smirks, shaking his head as he pushes his glasses up his nose.
"I'm Boo Seungkwan," the bright male who's eyes sparkled from the moment you stepped through the doors bounces over and pulls you and Mingyu into a tight embrace before doing the same to Wonwoo. "This is Vernon. A few of the others are working with clients so you can't meet them right now, but it'll probably be a long time before anyone else does, especially if your situation is even half as strange as a love pentagram." Seungkwan rolls his eyes.
"Love pentagram?" Wonwoo murmurs.
"Another comic where the female lead falls for four men and she can't chooses between them," Vernon shakes his head. "All the four men ended up self-aware because her dilemma and they have yet to figure out how to resolve their issue."
"Wow," you shake your head. "Who has the time and energy to think of this mess of a love story."
"The Writer of that comic does, and they're enjoying the pain," Seungkwan chirps. "Our agency does what we can to resolve their issues without erasing their awareness, so they can live their lives as they truly want to."
"How do you guys fix the issue?" Mingyu wonders aloud.
"Depends," Seungkwan tilts his head in thought. "Sometimes their comic becomes too unstable and they have to go through a series of major rewrites for them to fall into the correct timelines or character placements, etc. I assume Joshua has mentioned Danoh and Haru?" He catches your nod. "There were lots of up and downs with those two and their comic. Secrets came to an end and even though Danoh and Haru weren't end-game there, they became extras in a new comic and have the agency to choose each other, finally."
"So you're saying..."Mingyu begins as his brow furrows in thought. "We're fucked no matter what we do? No matter how hard we try to change the narrative, the Writer can always rewrite whatever happens? If we create a glitch, the Writer will just delete it? There's no winning in that."
Seungkwan grins and nods at the question. "Correct, for the most part," He agrees, not willing to dismiss any fears the three of you are harboring. "Which is why, a lot of these couples learn to focus on their lives in the shadow while still fighting to get to a happy ending. Because happy endings are for every character, even a background one."
Mingyu reaches for your hand, squeezing it in his palm. "So what should we focus on?"
"Do your part. Flirt in scenes, take the kisses when scripted and try not to gag...too much." Seungkwan laughs brightly, noticing the distasteful expressions on the three's faces at the thought. "Just because it's written one way doesn't mean you're doomed. Hell, our main clients in the Love Pentagon have to act out this drama where they basically hate the shit out of each other but in the shadows, they're all friends and bond over their scenes at their local bar." He laughs, his face glowing at the fond memory. "All because they're learning to balance both. The shadow and the world beyond." Seungkwan comes forward and places a reassuring hand on both Mingyu's shoulder and your hand.
"Don't forget, you can always visit. We're open seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. I encourage the glitching and breaking the fourth wall, but do keep in mind, a sudden plot twist will never sit well in the comic so sometimes the Writer's hand will get involved. But don't give up." He squeezes again, pulling his hand away. "At the end of the day, the three of you are still you. Self-aware doesn't change that and the Writer can't remove that fact either. They might be able to rip the self-awareness right from under your noses, but what they can't do is control the you you've created for yourself in the shadows."
Your entire being hums from his words, Seungkwan's melodic voice full of genuine kindness. You let Seungkwan's gentle reassurances sweep the worry from your brow, even as your mind continues to swirl. You've found an ally, one with endless optimism. You let out a sigh and your gaze settles on the grin dancing at the corners of Mingyu's mouth, the hope you always feel blooming whenever you're close, blossoming behind your ribs. "Shall we?"
Mingyu squeezes your hand once more. "You bet."
Another day, another scene. This time you're staring at an unrealistically happy Wonwoo as he looks down at Ara, his fingers brushing a lock of her hair from her eyes. Mingyu stands beside you, a look of disgust on his face as he tries not to vomit from Wonwoo's forced expressions.
"Is this how you feel when you look at me and Ara during our scenes together?" Mingyu asks out of the blue and you laugh.
"Now you know my pain," you pat his cheek with your palm. "Tough to watch?"
"Painful," he admits. "Happy Wonwoo is hard to watch. I'm so used to him being broody and aloof, it's just strange seeing him like this."
"And that's coming from a nerd who's forced to flex his muscles every day," you chuckle. "He's all brawn and brains and still scared of horror movies."
"To be fair," Mingyu pouts slightly. "Horror movies are terrifying."
"I love you Gyu, but you're just a big baby."
"Your big baby," he counters, pout growing. "Right?"
"C'mere, baby," you laugh, cupping his chin as you stand on the tips of your toes and plant a firm kiss on his cheek. Mingyu flushes a shade of pink that spreads up his neck and blooms across his ears as a stupid grin flashes across his face.
"Eww, gross." The sudden exclamation catches your attention, spinning you around. Wonwoo stands a few feet away, shaking his head in mild disgust and faked annoyance. "Ugh. Get a room."
"Done with your scene? Ready to go back and brood like your normal self?" You smirk.
Wonwoo glowers. "Shut up." He tucks his hands into his pockets as he falls into step beside the two of you. "I am the model of happiness."
"What a lie," you laugh. "Wonwoo, no. Your true self is brooding. Being happy is not your forte. But it's okay. We still like you."
"That's kind of cruel but not untrue," Mingyu adds. Wonwoo heaves an exasperated sigh but says nothing.
The three of you stroll off the campus grounds, heading downtown toward Mingyu's favorite bakery. When your thighs begin to ache, Mingyu gallantly offers you a piggyback ride. "Took you long enough," you mumble, but a grin breaks free the minute your arms are looped around Mingyu's neck and his arms are linked under your knees, his palms curled snugly around the curve of your thighs. You're cackling the entire way.
When you arrive at Mingyu's favorite bakery, Wonwoo slows to a stop. "Sorry to skip out," he sighs. "I'm tired and I need to wash whatever happened in my scene today off of me. But text me the plan, alright?" He leans in and steals a pastry from the box Mingyu just purchased, much to the latter's protest.
"Dude, that was my favorite," Mingyu frowns, watching him run off with the pastry clenched tightly in his fist, looking smug as he turns the corner.
"So dramatic," You shake your head and steal the next pastry from the box before darting away, laughter erupting from behind you.
"Why do I even bother?" Mingyu rolls his eyes in jest, racing after you, easily catching up. "You really gonna make me run when I'm holding a box of goodies?"
"You'd anything for me, dummy," you tease with an arched brow.
"Can't say no to that," Mingyu laughs brightly, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, a feeling that makes your entire body glow.
He'd walk through fire for you. And, you suppose, you'd walk through fire for him too. Even if it was scripted and the flame was all special effects. Still, you'd do it. The whole thing could crash and burn, literally, but it'd be worth it. He's always worth it.
You two collapse onto a picnic table, watching a gaggle of young children chase each other, swinging wildly at their pinwheels. Their joy echoes across the grass and you feel your body relax as you and Mingyu devour another pastry in seconds.
"These are the moments I really want," he finally admits after an extended moment of silence. "To sit with you, be in the moment and have the ability to laugh at stupid shit like those kids or something serious. It's just peaceful."
"Agreed," you tilt your head with a smile, content and free as a stray curl whips across your eye and Mingyu leans across the picnic table to brush it aside. "We deserve better than what the Writer has in store for us," you muse. "Not sure what that better is, but we deserve better."
"This," he breathes suddenly, looking nervous despite the calm, easy atmosphere of the park. "Us. Together." He gestures, an awkward fumbling of long arms and large hands that makes you want to cry-laugh, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying the shy tone his voice has.
"Mingyu." He smiles at you softly as you lean across the table and press a soft kiss to the very corner of his mouth. He sighs in content, pulling you against him so you were sprawled across his lap as he buries his nose into your hair. "I really do love you. You know that right? Nothing the Writer creates is going to stop me from loving you."
"Oh god," Mingyu pretends to gag playfully. "Such a fucking sap. I've rubbed off on you."
You reach up and pinch his jawline before swiping his nose with your palm. "Silly, dorky himbo of mine." He groans but doesn't deny the affection, a shy smile hiding behind his lashes.
"Can't deny the truth."
"Knew you loved it."
"Love you more." Mingyu bumps your noses together as he presses his lips to yours, sighing the minute your lips slot into his perfectly as he tightens his grip around you. The pair of you sigh blissfully into the kiss and you grin, unable to help yourself as you bring the back of your hand to your forehead.
"God," you say, rolling your eyes. "Could this sunset and the taste of the chocolate filling of Mingyu's favorite bread be any better?"
"Shhh," he chuckles softly against your lips. "Stop ruining the moment, Y/N."
"One, never. Two, never," you insist, smiling at the ridiculous look on his face as you press one final kiss to his pouting lips. "Y'know, I like that smile of yours best."
"The one I reserve for you alone," he whispers, eyes shut. You can feel the light breeze tossing Mingyu's hair about as you bask in the peace he brought you, the feel of his strong body pressing against yours, holding you impossibly closer, keeping the nightmares and chaos of the comics at bay. For now.
That night, you have a dream. A weird dream. In that dream, you’re with Mingyu. That part isn't unusual. But it feels different, familiar, somehow. Almost like a past life where you and Mingyu were free. Truly free. But when you wake up, your memory of the dream fades fast, the dream dissolving like a mirage in the desert. You fall back asleep, remembering only the comfort of your dreams, and Mingyu's strong arms.
The next morning, you make your way to HR, knocking before sliding your head in to find Seungkwan there, smiling up at you and gesturing for you to come inside and have a seat in his office.
"Hey Seungkwan. Good to see you again, thanks for giving me your time." You begin, having wanted to ask him a few questions. "I've been having some weird dreams recently, a past life it felt like. I couldn't really remember them all when I'd wake up but..." You trail, hoping you were making sense to Seungkwan.
"Glad you're here," He gestures to the empty seat directly across his desk, inviting you to make yourself comfortable while you have a little chat. Seungkwan slides a few files your way before folding his hands on his desk. "I actually managed to procure these after our last chat. it seems like you were the main character in the writer's last piece. If this helps jog your memories, that'd be a real win-win."
You let the pages slip beneath your fingertips, curiosity boiling behind your lashes as the scenes came back to you, the very dreams you were having all were on this very sheet of paper. It makes you want to laugh as you look at the very scene of Mingyu walking toward the girl who was the perfect mirror of you.
You flip through the pages and notice you were in a bookstore and had even dreamed a few nights prior about it. All of this is true, these aren't scripts...they’re the past. "You found all of this after my last visit?" You ask in awe.
"Yes!" he says proudly, unable to hide the glint in his eyes. "There were a few snags here and there. From what I researched, you and Mingyu's story wasn't supposed to end in such a tragic way."
Your smile falls from your face as you realize his words aren't ones of encouragement, but almost pity. "Tragic ending? What do you mean?"
"Well," Seungkwan sinks a little further into the leather of his chair and rubs the back of his neck, eyes focusing intently on his notes as if he wishes that he hadn't uttered the last few words. "It's sad. You were arranged to marry, he was drafted for the war. He never returned."
"Oh," you manage as the words hit you, and your head is screaming, begging for something. "So why was it put on hold?" You ask the only logical question left.
"The Writer abandoned it." He slides you a copy of the draft you were just looking at. "It wasn't getting the traction because of the heavy story, apparently," Seungkwan winces at the idea that he may have said too much, but you just nod at him. "The Writer decided that the current comic that you're in is getting more readership."
"Great, so glad to hear she gave up and moved to a new storyline instead." You seethe, not realizing how harsh the words were as you grit your teeth. "But why was Ara chosen as the main character instead of me?"
"She's naive, innocent," he offers, sliding a piece of gum into his mouth. "Pretty." Seungkwan wrinkles his nose as if it was unavoidable, a sad fact. "What?"
"And I'm not? That doesn't seem fair," you groan, arms crossing over your chest as a pout works it's way over your lip. "That is a real blow." You huff out a sarcastic laugh.
"You're the bombshell that's relagated to the background. Not that you're a background character by any means. You're the villainess."
"Don't say it," you roll your eyes. You know it. Everyone knows it. That you were the supposed villainess. But the fact that someone, especially Seungkwan, has admitted it out loud? Well, you don't want to admit the truth, but it stings like a motherfucker.
"You're self-aware," he states quietly. "Can we focus on that?"
"Fine," you grumble, before forcing yourself to calm down. It's not Seungkwan's fault. "But why Mingyu? The Writer could have written another male character that isn't Kim Mingyu."
"Maybe the Writer felt bad for him in the last draft, and thought she'd give him a chance as the main character of a new romance series."
"By turning him into the ultimate, white knuckled himbo who flexes his abs whenever?" You groan, "The poor boy."
"He may be the male lead of the comic and geared for Ara," He leans forward. "But he will always choose you and you him. It's fate, even for characters written into existence." Seungkwan chuckles before standing and dusting his suit pants off. "Alright, thank you again for chatting with me. That is all I wanted to talk about. Stay self-aware and keep your focus on the real goal, Y/N."
"And what's that?"
Seungkwan flashes you a bright smile as he ushers you from his office, "Getting out of this shit comic, duh!"
From your corner of the dancefloor, you watch Mingyu lean in closely to whisper something into Ara's ear. Whatever he is saying makes her erupt into giggles as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears. As the music plays and they spin together, your heart breaks into pieces.
You really want to smack the Writer for making you see this.
Wonwoo sidles up to you, shaking his head at the sight before him as the pair looks ridiculous as they stand on the dance floor and the scripted splash panel. "You can vomit in my shoes later if you need," Wonwoo offers, trying his best not to make this anymore miserable for you. "Want a drink?"
"Fuck yes," you snap, looking for a moment before shaking your head. "I've got this, stay. Enjoy the dance, look pretty for the crowd and try not to burst into flames from boredom."
"What am I, an ornament? Because I've gotta say, this bowtie is uncomfortable." Wonwoo wrinkles his nose at the feeling of the tie wrapped around his neck as you chuckle and take your leave, heading for the bar.
"A shot. Top shelf, please." You watch as the bartender grabs a bottle and lines the small glasses up in front of you, grabbing a pack of salt as he sets up. After the glasses were filled, you look up to find Mingyu looking directly at you as you lick a long strip across your wrist before downing the glass of tequila. The way he bites his lip is undeniably hot, and the slight daze in his eye is doing wonders.
Worth it.
"You're good," Seokmin, the bartender, comments as you blink your way back, slamming the tiny glass back on the bar counter. "Lookin' to impress anyone?"
"Someone, but he's too preoccupied at the moment," you sigh, gesturing to the man and woman currently on the dance floor as they sway back and forth.
"Ah," Seokmin purses his lips sympathetically. "Want another one?"
"Keep them coming." The next shot goes down easy, just like the other glasses you had poured down your throat in the hopes you could avoid Mingyu for the rest of the night.
Mingyu could've easily left her side and spent the remainder of the evening with you. You sigh wistfully, you had dreamed that this party would end differently. And not with him twirling another woman around the ballroom like this was some sort of poorly-written romance flick.
As the night drags on, the tequila keeps pouring down your throat until you can barely tell which Mingyu is the real Mingyu. Or is Ara real? You can't seem to care because when she disappears and the lights dim, he's suddenly right in front of you. "I think that's enough drinking for tonight, Y/N. Please?"
You look up at him drunkenly, anger brewing deep within you as you bite your lip, tears blurring your vision before you wipe angrily, angry, not that he would understand because, at the end of the day, it was Mingyu. Your Mingyu. "I hate this, Mingyu."
"Me, too."
"It feels like my insides have been crushed. It hurts to see you with her, and know that the entire evening the Writer kept pushing you two together, again, and again, and again." Your voice cracks and Mingyu reaches out to gently catch one of the tears that spilled down your cheek.
"C'mon." His hand is warm against yours. The two of you shuffle back to his apartment. "It's late," he mumbles as he shuts the door and throws his car keys into the tray on the counter, bending over to shrug his dress shoes off, and you stumble backwards until you feel your knees bump against the sofa and you let yourself fall against the soft cushions. "Are you just going to sleep with your dress on?" Mingyu asks, and you scoff.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"Oh, right. Forgot who I'm talking to." He laughs and it sounds bitter and broken. He rubs a hand down the side of his face, shaking his head. "Anyway, you want to get out of those clothes? Here. Let me help you. Don't want you falling and hurting yourself."
"I'm not five, Mingyu."
"No," Mingyu pauses, gaze boring into yours, "But you sure can act like it."
"So, I can be a brat and you can treat me like you’re my Daddy, yeah?" You don't mean to laugh, but you are. You are fucking delirious, and so, so inebriated. But you're drunk and can't hold back the words tumbling out your mouth. "I'm such a fucking mess," you moan, hands flying to cover your face. "Just…just leave me here."
"Let's get you sober and then we can talk about that kinky side of yours." Mingyu holds out his hand, but the angle of the overhead light creates a glare. He's haloed in white light, like an angel or a figment of your imagination, you aren't quite sure. He taps your nose lightly, smile pulling at his lips, the slightest bit smug. "Take my hand and let's get you some fresh air. You smell like tequila."
"Mhm," You reach forward and slap your hand against his palm, sighing as Mingyu pulls you towards him and loops a supportive arm around your waist. "You like it, don't lie," you mumble. He rolls his eyes at that as your head dips back onto his shoulder and your feet stumble slightly before you are righted.
"Whatever you say, you drunk," he murmurs as he leads you to the balcony and dumps you on a lounge chair, reaching a hand out to press against your back. "Stay. I'll get you something to sober up before we get you showered and ready for bed. Okay?"
"Okay." Your voice comes out muffled since you bury your face in the pillow. "Mingyu?" you ask as a cool breeze chills your face.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for looking out for me."
"I'd do anything for you."
After a while of comfortable silence, and a cup of hot coffee in your hands, you both were looking out towards the street and were enjoying each others silent company. "You know we used to be in another series together?" you speak as you look over.
"Really?" he asks.
"Yea," you say wistfully.
"What was it about?" he inquires further.
"Not sure. But you and I were..." your lips pull up into a sad smile and your eyes slide back to the city street, "We were in love. Well, at least the Y/N and Mingyu from that series were." You smile sadly. "How we danced around each other in secret meetings during the war, and had to act like we were not madly in love once daylight hit. Even though I knew we'd always be safe no matter what because we loved each other."
"What happened, then? With us?" he asks.
"I was arranged to get married...to someone that's not you," you admit and it hurt like a stab to the gut. "And you were drafted, and I never saw you again." You turn back towards the view. "Can you imagine? How you loved someone with all your heart, but the narrative made sure you never had your happy ever after. No matter how badly you wanted it? The Writer just abandoned that series, never brought that story to an ending because it was so heavy and tragic. Wrote our lives off, just to throw us into something less heavy."
"Hey, come here." Mingyu sits up, pulling you into his arms. "We can't dwell on things in our past, even though the story may have hurt us, this time, things will be different."
"Will they, though?" you question with a sad shrug of the shoulder, wrapping your arms around his waist. Mingyu tilts your head towards his. "I'm not the main character this time. Just the villainess in this particular comic, forced to watch someone else get the happy ending. The happy ending the Writer robbed you and I out of."
"Shh," he hushes as he kisses your forehead.
"Promise you'll stay true and never abandon me? No matter what?" your voice wavers a bit as the threat of a sob remains close. Mingyu's big and warm hands gently tilt your head back to look up at him. He's got the most gorgeous face you've ever seen, with eyes so deep they put the night sky to shame and hair that gleams bronze in the sunlight.
"I'd do anything to keep you close," Mingyu says. "I promise."
"Pinky swear?" you sniff.
"Pinky swear." He links his pinky finger with yours. You breathe a small laugh. Mingyu had a smile to rival the sun, you always thought. All teeth, a bit lopsided and big and warm. Even in your current state of distress.
"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" your gaze darts down to where the two of you are connected by a finger.
"More often than necessary."
"I really, really love you, Kim Mingyu," you smile up at him.
"Love you, too." He presses his forehead against yours.
"Like, super duper, you don't even have a clue," you mumble into his chest. He only snorts.
"Sure I don't, dummy." He pats your head.
"Then maybe I should show you?" The words sound suggestive to Mingyu as you wrap your arms around his torso tightly, your hot breath tickling his ear.
"Y/N, come on," Mingyu says, wriggling away, cheeks going crimson.
You squint up at him, mischief in the creases in the corners of your eyes. "Why not?" you pout.
"Well, because," Mingyu ruffles the back of his hair. "You're drunk."
"I'm so damn sober right now that I could paint you a picture of the ocean."
"No, no, no." Mingyu pushes the hair out of his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Maybe I should prove to you I am a very willing participant?" you begin to say as he closes his eyes for a split second. Before he can do or say anything to prevent it, your hands have snaked themselves behind his neck. The scent of cologne and detergent fill your nose as he stiffens slightly and groans against your skin.
"You drive a hard bargain," Mingyu finally murmurs. "But first, you need a shower."
"Join me?" you suggest and you grin up at him with a mischievous waggle of the eyebrows. "There's plenty of room for two." You see the way Mingyu bites his lip, then sighs.
"Fine. Lead the way," he says, and when you squeak happily and pull him towards the bathroom.
Moments later, the bathroom is thick with steam, blurring the clean lines of the tiled walls until the world outside feels entirely locked away. The water drums a steady, heavy rhythm against the porcelain, a barrier of noise that no scripted dialogue or intrusive narration box could pierce.
"You're still clumsy," Mingyu murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rid of the booming, confident cadence the Writer always forced into his throat on-page. Here, he sounds rough around the edges, grounded, and entirely yours.
"I am perfectly balanced," you retorted, though your hands gripped his shoulders for support as you stepped under the spray. The heavy silk of your party dress clings to your skin, soaked through in an instant, but neither of you care about the clothes.
Mingyu reaches behind you, his large palms warm against the small of your back as his fingers find the zipper. With a slow, deliberate slide, the wet fabric parts. He peels the dress away, letting it pool heavily at your feet. When his gaze meets yours, there’s none of the scripted, aggressive arrogance he was forced to display at the gym. His eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a fierce, protective reverence.
"You look beautiful, Y/N," he whispers, his thumbs tracing the line of your hip bones, wiping away the lingering traces of the comic’s forced aesthetic. "The real you. Not the villainess."
"Then stop looking and do something about it," you challenge, leaning up until your lips are inches from his.
Mingyu doesn't hesitate. He pulls you flush against his chest, the spray of the shower slicking his hair back, exposing the sharp, handsome angles of his face. His mouth comes down on yours with a desperate, hungry heat, a stark contrast to the polite, hesitant kisses the script dictated for him and Ara. This is raw, heavy with years of unspoken longing and the terrifying knowledge that your time in the dark is always limited.
His hands slide down to lift you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. You gasp into the kiss as he presses you back against the warm tiled wall, the friction of his skin against yours sending a sharp jolt through your chest.
"I'm not letting them take this," Mingyu groans against your neck, his lips tracing a burning path down to your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to leave a mark, claiming every bit of you that he could.
You grab at the nape of his neck, fisting your fingers in his wet, raven black hair. "Shut up and fuck me, Mingyu."
The slick tile of the shower wall is hot against your back, but it’s nothing compared to the blistering heat of Mingyu's skin. He holds you pinned, one massive hand anchoring your hip while the other cups the back of your head, his fingers tangled deeply in your wet hair.
Every kiss is a bruising, desperate reclamation. On the page, the Writer made him tentative, full of scripted hesitations and soft, clean glances meant for Ara. But here, in the heavy steam of the shadows, Mingyu is ravenous. He drinks the small, broken sounds from your throat, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s entirely unscripted, chaotic, and real.
"Y/N," he growls against your lips, his chest heaving against your breasts. The water cascades over his broad shoulders, slicking down the heavy planes of his muscles. "Tell me you're here. Tell me it's you."
"It's me," you gasp, arching into his touch as his hand slides down the curve of your thigh, lifting your leg to hook over his hip. "It's always been me, Gyu."
He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your collarbone as he buries his face in your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin right above your shoulder blade, biting just hard enough to anchor you to the reality of the moment. You cry out, your fingers digging into the thick muscles of his back, your nails leaving pale tracks in their wake.
When he shifts, guiding your hips back against the wall, the friction is unbearable. He pauses for a single, agonizing heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes completely dark, pupils blown wide with a fierce, protective hunger.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice rough and laced with a desperate edge. "Don't close your eyes. I want you to see me when I..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He drives into you in one smooth, heavy push.
A sharp, breathless sob escapes your lips, your hands flying to clutch at his wet shoulders as the sheer intensity of the fullness ripples through you. Mingyu lets out a ragged breath, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. He begins to move, slow and agonizingly deep at first, before the rhythm catches fire.
The sound of the rushing water drowns out the rest of the world, creating a sanctuary where no narration boxes could grow. Every thrust is a declaration of war against the script. You grip his shoulders, throwing your head back as he hits the exact spot that makes your mind fracture into pure, unadulterated sensation.
"Mingyu. Gyu—" you whimper, your internal walls tightening around him as the friction builds an unbearable, sweet agony behind your ribs.
"I've got you," he pants, his pace turning fast and punishing, his muscles bunching under your hands as he lifts you completely off the floor. Your other leg wraps around his waist, locking him close. "I'm right here."
"Mingyu," you begged against the corner of his jaw. "Gyu. Yes, yes, yes, please, don't stop."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He groans the words into the tender flesh below your ear as his lips and teeth trace a burning line from your jaw down the side of your throat. The water blurs between you, but he refuses to shut his eyes or drop his gaze. Every breath is shared, every inch of contact heated.
And every thrust is a silent cry. Fuck the script. Fuck Ara. Fuck everything but us.
The Writer's commands can't reach the shadows. Mingyu doesn't give her a chance to command him here, where the camera could only capture their silhouettes and the reader can't see beyond the steamy haze.
"Mingyu. Mingyu. Please, I need..." You shudder, a violent, blinding release cascading through your lower abdomen as you clamp down around him. The sight of your undone expression throws Mingyu over the precipice. With a low, ragged shout, he buries himself deep inside you one last time, his body stiffening as he spends himself completely, his pulse throbbing forcefully against your own.
For a long time, the only sound is the heavy thrumming of the water and your synchronized, ragged breathing. Mingyu holds you tight, his arms wrapped around you like a vice, refusing to let your feet touch the cold ground just yet. He kisses you again—long, tender, slow—as he turns the knob of the shower off. With your legs still wrapped around his hips and his arms still supporting your full weight, he carries you both towards the bed.
"We're still wet," you murmur, lips moving against his collarbone.
"Does it matter?" he grunts. Mingyu settles atop of the pillows, the mattress squeaking beneath him as he pulls you to sit astride his lap. His damp hair falls over his forehead in wild, messy tendrils, but he doesn't seem to mind. "You're just gonna get wet again, anyways."
"Is that so?" You rest your forehead against his, brushing the fallen strands away. Mingyu nods, hands gripping your thighs tight as his thumbs brush in circles on the exposed flesh of your skin.
"Definitely."
The peace shatters at exactly 7:15 a.m.
One moment, you’re tangled in Mingyu's sheets, the faint scent of his laundry detergent and the lingering warmth of his body enveloping you in perfect, drowsy comfort. Your hand is resting flat against his bare, broad chest, feeling the steady, calming beat of his heart.
The next moment, a violent, neon-pink static snaps through your brain.
Your eyes fly open. The cozy, dimly lit bedroom is gone. The soft cotton sheets beneath you instantly morph into the stiff, scratchy fabric of a public bench. The smell of detergent is replaced by the overwhelming scent of chlorine and expensive perfume.
"No," you whisper, your throat tight. "No, please, not yet."
You look down. You’re no longer wearing Mingyu's oversized t-shirt. Instead, you’re clad in a stunning, albeit incredibly impractical, designer tweed skirt suit with pristine white heels.
Directly across from you stands Ara, holding a tray of iced coffees, looking utterly defenseless and doe-eyed. And standing right next to her, looking polished, perfectly coiffed, and completely devoid of his glasses, is Mingyu. He’s wearing his varsity jacket, his posture rigid and towering.
The transition is so violent it makes you nauseous. The physical memory of his touch is still burning on your skin, but your body is already moving against your will. Your spine straightens into a haughty, elegant posture. Your lips curl into a sharp, poisonous smirk.
Above your heads, a massive, glittery pink narration box materializes with a smug hum.
NARRATION: The next morning at the campus cafe, the villainess lays her trap, determined to humiliate Ara in front of the boy she desperately covets...
You try to swallow, but your vocal cords tighten as the Writer takes the reins, violently forcing the script into your mouth.
"Oh, Ara," your voice chimes out, dripping with sickly-sweet venom. "Did you personally brew those coffees, or did you just pick them up from the trash? Because honestly, the aroma matches your outfit today."
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, your mind screams at Ara, but your face remains a mask of flawless, cruel arrogance.
Ara flinches, her eyes immediately welling with tears as she looks up at Mingyu. "I... I just wanted to bring everyone drinks..."
Mingyu's jaw clenches. You see the brief, agonizing flicker of horror in his eyes, the real Mingyu trying to scream through the cracks of his character's programming. He knows exactly what you had just shared hours prior. He doesn't want to do this.
But the Writer's grip is ruthless.
Mingyu steps forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. He grabs the iced coffee from Ara's tray and, with a harsh, aggressive movement, slams it down on the table right in front of you, splashing a few drops onto your pristine tweed jacket.
"Keep your mouth shut, Y/N," Mingyu spits, his voice booming with a cold, scripted hatred that makes your stomach violently churn. "Ara has a heart of gold, which is something you wouldn't understand if it bought your family's entire political empire. Stay away from her. You disgust me."
The words feel like a physical blow to your chest. You disgust me. Even knowing it’s the script, the sheer force of his dictated anger cuts through you like a knife.
Your character merely laughs, a sharp, tinkling, villainous sound. "We'll see about that, Mingyu," your mouth drawls, tilting your head up to flash him a mocking wink.
PANEL 1 — CLOSE UP ON MINGYU'S FURIOUS EXPRESSION AS HE TURNS HIS BACK ON THE VILLAINESS, GUIDING A WEEPING ARA AWAY INTO THE SUNLIGHT.
The moment the imaginary camera shifts focus to follow them walking away, the invisible strings snap.
Your smirk collapses. You slump against the cafe bench, trembling violently as you clutch your stomach, dry-heaving from the sheer emotional whiplash. Across the courtyard, you can see Mingyu walking with Ara, his shoulders tightly hunched in that familiar, real-world telltale sign of pure, unadulterated distress.
He can’t look back at you. If he did, the Writer would freeze the panel.
You dig your nails into the wooden bench, staring at the pink narration box as it slowly dissolves into air. The battle for your freedom isn't just a union meeting anymore—it’s survival.
NARRATION: With the dramatic exit of the campus golden boy, the villainess is left alone to stew in her own bitter defeat, unaware that her cruel games are pushing her further into isolation...
"Oh, eat glass," you hiss under your breath, waiting exactly three seconds until the glowing text fully dissolves into the morning air.
The moment the script completely lets go of your muscles, you practically collapse onto the iron table. Your hands are shaking so hard, you almost knock over the remaining iced coffee. The emotional whiplash is a physical ache in your chest. Just hours ago, his hands were warm against your waist under the heavy steam of the shower, pulling you close, whispering that he would never let them take you away. Now, the phantom sting of his scripted words—You disgust me—echoes in your ears like a slap.
You need a drink, a sanctuary, or a very large blunt object to swing at the sky. Lacking all three, you grab your designer bag, haul your aching body out of the cafe courtyard, and head straight for the one place on campus where the shadows were thickest: the back rows of the university library.
"You look like shit." Wonwoo doesn't even look up from his massive, leather-bound textbook as you slide into the beanbag chair next to him, burying your face in your hands.
"Don't start, Wonwoo," you groan, your voice muffled. "I just got violently ripped out of Mingyu's bed at seven in the morning to be dropped into a 'cafeteria confrontation' scene. I told Ara her coffee smelled like garbage and Mingyu told me I was disgusting. My soul has officially left my body."
Wonwoo leans his cheek on his hand, flipping the page. "I know you have feelings for the musclehead, but can you get over yourself for three seconds?"
"Wow. Excuse me for having emotions," you grumble into your hands, flopping backwards into the plush beanbag chair with an undignified huff. "Remind me why I put up with you again?"
"My pretty face," Wonwoo recites by rote, the edges of his lips curling into a trademark smirk that made the characters around you swoon. "It's all the rage."
"Go back to brooding," you grumble, leaning forward again to scan the titles of his mountain of library books.
The library is an oasis of darkness: a cramped, shabby space nestled deep between the science shelves in the most remote corner of campus. Only a couple flickering lamps provide light, barely cutting through the densely packed bookshelves to reach the faded carpet. It’s impossible to spot the back rows from anywhere else in the library, which is exactly how you two like it. The deeper you sink into the stacks, the longer your ability to stay outside of the script lasts, giving you an easy break from being written into the same overused confrontations week after week.
This far from the spotlight of the heroine and the main characters, the university is nothing but a cheap backdrop and a cheap trope. No flashy love triangles or manufactured plot twists can find you here, no matter how brightly the script shines. Just stacks upon stacks of books, no endings necessary. It’s exactly what you need right now.
Wonwoo stares pointedly at your rumpled jacket and messy hair, his fingers absently playing with a ballpoint pen. "So are you going to sit there moping, or are you going to finally address the massive, tooth-rotting sexual tension hanging between us right now?"
You smack his arm hard. "Gross, dude. Not with Mingyu on the brain."
Wonwoo ignores the bruise already blooming on his bicep, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you done lamenting your tragic inability to seduce our token jock? You're crushing my study vibe with that kind of energy."
"Fu–"
"Don't curse in my sacred reading corner."
You close your mouth mid-curse, narrowing your eyes. "Fine, Shakespeare," you say, crossing your arms. "Remind me, why am I even talking to you about this?"
"Because you think I can actually fix it." His eyes flick up towards the dusty fluorescent lights, watching the grime-coated glass buzz with low electricity. After several seconds, his dark gaze shifts towards your face.
"Look," Wonwoo sighs, resting his elbows on top of his piles of reference books. "If there's anyone who understands this shitty situation, it's me. I know you two are dying to break free and bang each other against the nearest wall, but the Writer doesn't care. To her, our misery is hilarious, and she doesn't care what she has to tear apart or write-off to keep making us dance to her tune."
You stare at Wonwoo, his words cutting through the leftover haze of the morning's whiplash. The harsh reality of what Seungkwan had shown you at the Human Rewrite Agency flashes in your mind—the tragic, abandoned draft where you and Mingyu were torn apart by war. The Writer didn't care about your heartbreak then, and she certainly doesn't care now.
"She already tore us apart once," you whisper, the anger in your voice giving way to a hollow, echoing fear. "Seungkwan showed me an old draft. In another story, Mingyu and I were in love, and she just... left us to rot in a tragic ending because it wasn't pulling in enough views."
Wonwoo stops twirling his pen. His boredom completely evaporates, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. "Wait, seriously?"
"I read all of it." You fidget with your pearl ring, "We never even got a happy ending. And now I'm watching him be the main character again with someone that's not me and get his happy ending. What about me? What about my happy ending?"
He reaches out and squeezes your arm gently. "You will," he promises, and there's something softer and kinder than the Writer's edge in his words.
"I'm not so sure," you whisper. You have to keep swallowing the bitter lump that seems to have taken residence in your throat.
The heavy scent of old paper and dust does little to soothe the burning in your throat. Wonwoo’s hand is still a reassuring weight on your forearm, his usually detached eyes sharp with a quiet, protective anger.
Before he can offer another word of cynical comfort, the heavy wooden doors of the library’s back wing creak open.
Footsteps shatter the silence, heavy, hurried, and completely lacking the synchronized, rhythmic grace the Writer usually forced onto the male lead. A tall figure rounds the corner of the chemistry stacks, nearly tripping over a low-profile stool.
It’s Mingyu.
He has frantically shoved his thick, black-rimmed reading glasses back onto his face, though he’s still wearing the stupidly pristine varsity jacket from the cafe scene. His hair is a wild, unstyled nest from where he had clearly been ripping his hands through it in frustration. The moment his eyes lock onto you huddled in the beanbag chair, the rigid, arrogant mask of his character crumbles entirely.
"Y/N," he pants, stumbling into the narrow aisle. He drops to his knees right in front of your beanbag, not caring about the dust coating his expensive scripted jeans. "Y/N, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry." His large hands fly to cup your face, his palms warm and trembling violently against your cheeks. "I didn't mean it," he rushes out, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of the booming, confident cadence from the cafe. "The words…the Writer just slammed them into my throat. I tried to swallow them down, I swear to God I tried to choke on them, but the static was too loud. When I said those things to you... when I looked at you like that..." Tears of genuine, unadulterated rage well in his eyes, threatening to spill over his lashes. "I wanted to tear my own tongue out."
Wonwoo slowly retracts his hand from your arm, leaning back into his own chair and crossing his arms. "Take a breath, muscle-head. You're going to trigger a 'jealous outburst' panel if you vibrate any harder."
Mingyu ignores him entirely, his thumbs gently wiping at the stray tear that has finally escaped your eye. "Please tell me you know it wasn't me, Y/N. After last night... after everything... I could never look at you and feel anything but..." He chokes on the word, his ears turning a bright, furious crimson, but he forces himself to look directly into your eyes. "I love you. The real you. I don't care what she writes on the page."
You look at his flushed face, the messy hair, the desperate, unscripted honesty bleeding through his every pore. The phantom sting of 'You disgust me' finally begins to dissolve, replaced by the grounding weight of the boy who belongs to you in the dark.
"I know, Gyu," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your smaller hands around his wrists. "I know it was the script. It just... it gets harder to separate the two when the Writer starts messing with our heads."
Mingyu leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, letting out a long, shuddering breath that fans across your lips. "We're going to break this comic," he swears fiercely against your skin. "I don't care if we have to glitch the entire university into a black screen. We are not letting her rewrite us."
Wonwoo lets out a sharp, rhythmic tapping sound as he collapses his heavy book shut. "If you two are done staging an unscripted melodrama in my designated hiding spot, we actually have a massive problem to deal with."
Mingyu doesn't pull away immediately, giving your hand one final, protective squeeze before shifting to sit cross-legged on the faded carpet. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his broad shoulders slouching into that familiar, un-jock-like posture that belonged strictly to the shadows. "What do you mean, Wonwoo? Besides the fact that the Writer almost turned my brain into mush this morning?"
"Think about it," Wonwoo says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "Y/N just found out from Seungkwan that the Writer has a history of abandoning entire universes when they don't get enough traction. She scraps characters. She leaves them to rot in tragic endings." His sharp eyes dart between the two of you. "Right now, the Writer is getting aggressive because we are making the plot unstable. If Mingyu keeps punching narration boxes and glitching out of scripted gym sessions, she’s not just going to keep pushing. She’s going to notice the narrative structure is broken. And what happens when a webtoon creator realizes their project is glitched beyond repair?"
The air in the narrow aisle suddenly feels incredibly cold.
"She deletes the file," you whisper, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your designer tweed skirt. "She scraps the comic and starts a new one."
"Exactly," Wonwoo points at you with his pen. "Except this time, we’re self-aware. If she hits delete, do we just wake up in a new story with our memories wiped, or do we fade into the white space permanently?"
Mingyu’s jaw sets, his gaze hardening as he looks up at the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. "So Seungkwan was right. We can't just blatantly refuse to play our roles. We have to walk the line. We act out the scenes, we take the stupid scripted dialogue, but we use the shadows to build something she can't touch." He reaches out, his massive palm covering yours entirely. "We play along just enough to keep the comic alive, while we figure out a way to break the fourth wall completely from the inside."
Before you can respond, a low, ominous vibration thrums through the soles of your feet. The library shelves seems to flicker, the titles on the spines blurring into illegible streaks of color for a fraction of a second.
A neon-pink glow begins to manifest near the ceiling of the aisle, pulsing like a dying star.
"Fuck," Wonwoo mutters, instantly scrambling to his feet and shoving his textbook into his bag. "Spoke too soon. Stage lights are coming up. Must be a heroine spotlight."
The pink glow intensifies, bathing the dusty library aisle in an artificial, sickly light that makes the air feel thick and pressurized. You, Mingyu, and Wonwoo scramble as the scene begins to materialize around you, the reality of the library walls warping like melting wax.
PANEL 1 — THE LIBRARY AISLE, SUDDENLY OVERFLOWING WITH SOFT, ROMANTIC FILTERING.
Lee Ara appears at the far end of the row, holding a stack of books and looking around with an expression of "lost and adorable" perfection. She catches sight of the three of you, her eyes widening in a scripted, dramatic reveal.
NARRATION: A quiet moment of study turns into a chance encounter, as Ara discovers the trio in their secret, brooding corner...
"Oh!" Ara exclaims, her voice unnaturally bright and rehearsed. "I didn't know you guys were all back here together!"
You feel the familiar, sickening lurch in your chest as the Writer takes hold of your internal monologue, turning your genuine affection for your friends into a sharp, jagged envy.
"Well, it's a library, Ara," you say, your voice dripping with an acid-tongued condescension that makes your skin crawl. "It’s supposed to be for studying, not for wandering around like a lost puppy looking for attention."
Ara’s lower lip trembles—the perfect, predictable response. Beside you, Mingyu stiffens, his fingers digging into his knees to keep from lunging toward her to apologize. His face, however, is forced into a mask of cold, dismissive indifference that mirrors your own.
"Y/N, leave her alone," Mingyu says, his voice flat and monotone, devoid of his usual warmth. "She’s just trying to find a quiet place to read."
"Oh, please," you roll your eyes, a gesture that feels heavy and robotic. "Don't tell me you're actually falling for the 'innocent, studious heroine' routine, Mingyu? We both know she couldn't tell the difference between a textbook and a magazine if her life depended on it."
Ara gasps, clutching the books to her chest as if you'd physically struck her. You want to scream, to reach out and tell her that you actually like her, that you’ve helped her study before, but your mouth is locked in its scripted cruelty.
"I... I really just wanted to return these," Ara whispers, her gaze darting to Mingyu for salvation.
NARRATION: The tension crackles as the hero steps forward to defend the maiden, his eyes burning with a sudden, intense fury.
Mingyu stands up, his movements stiff as he performs the role of the knight in shining armor. "I said, that's enough," he hisses, stepping directly into your personal space. "Go back to your little clique of sycophants and leave her out of your drama."
You meet his gaze, and for one desperate, fleeting second, the Writer's hold falters. In the depths of his eyes, you see the real Mingyu—the one who spent the night in your bed, the one who promised to protect you. He’s terrified for you, pleading with you to play along before the Writer notices the glitch and tries to delete you entirely.
You force a sharp, cold laugh, stepping back and brushing past him with deliberate, insulting intent. "You’re right, Mingyu," you snap, your voice echoing with a synthetic bitterness that makes your stomach churn. "I’m wasting my time here. It’s hard to have a conversation when the room is being occupied by, well, this." You gesture vaguely toward Ara with a hand that is shaking, though the narration box hovering above you works overtime to frame your tremor as a sign of haughty impatience.
PANEL 2 — MINGYU, ARA, AND YOU STARING EACH OTHER DOWN
Ara looks hurt, her lip wobbling just enough to satisfy the panel's requirements. Mingyu stands motionless, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The narration box pulses a violent shade of fuchsia, hungry for the conflict to escalate.
NARRATION: The villainess turns on her heel, her heart cold and empty, unaware that her cruel words have finally pushed the golden boy past his breaking point.
"Don't you dare walk away," Mingyu barks. He grabs your arm, his fingers dig into your skin, hard. "You think you’re so much better than everyone, don't you? Always plotting, always hiding."
You spin back around, your face arranging itself into a sneer that you despise, but your eyes meet his, and you transmit every ounce of your reality into that look. Play the game, you idiot. Just play the game.
"And what if I am?" you hiss, pulling your arm away with a sharp, calculated motion. "At least I know what I am, Mingyu. I know what I want. Do you?"
PANEL 3 — CLOSE UP ON MINGYU'S FACE
His expression is a masterpiece of conflicting emotions—the mask of the "angry lead" clashing with the raw, terrified honesty in his eyes. He looks like he’s trying to swallow a scream.
"You don't know a damn thing," Mingyu growls, but the cadence is off—strained and jagged. He steps closer, closing the distance until his chest brushes your shoulder. The smell of his laundry detergent—a scent that belongs to your apartment, not this scripted reality—wafts off him, a sharp reminder of the night before.
NARRATION: The air thickens with unspoken malice as the hero confronts the villainess, his heart firmly tethered to the heroine’s purity.
"Is that so?" you retort, your voice perfectly, hatefully smooth. You reach out, your fingers hovering over the lapel of his varsity jacket, tracing the embroidered school crest. "Because it looks to me like you're just playing house, Mingyu. Pretending this—" you gesture vaguely toward Ara, who is hovering in the background like a confused prop—"pretending this is your whole world."
Ara lets out a small, high-pitched noise of distress. "Mingyu, please... she's not worth it."
"See?" You tilt your head, a saccharine, patronizing smile plastered on your lips. "She's worried about your reputation. How noble."
PANEL 4 — WIDE SHOT: THE THREE OF YOU IN THE AISLE
The library shelves seem to press inward, the lighting turning a harsh, over-saturated studio white. Wonwoo is still sitting in the beanbag chair, his back turned, studiously ignoring the scene. He’s the only smart one here. He knows better than to break character when the narration is this aggressive.
Mingyu’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist again.
PANEL 5 — CLOSE-UP ON MINGYU’S GRIP.
His fingers wrap tightly around your wrist, executing the exact visual cue the script demands. But beneath the forced, white-knuckled aggression, you feel his thumb press twice against your pulse point—a quiet, unscripted reassurance meant only for you.
"You think you can just trample over everyone because of who your family is?" Mingyu barks, his voice laced with that booming, heroic resonance that makes your stomach turn. "You don't own this campus, Y/N. And you certainly don't own her."
The words sting, but Seungkwan's advice echoes in your mind: Do your part. Take the dialogue and try not to gag. You have to keep the plot moving, or the Writer will realize the file is glitched and scrap your entire universe.
PANEL 6 — PROFILE SHOT: YOU, LEANING IN.
Your body moves on autopilot, tilting your chin up with elegant, villainous haughtiness. You lean directly into his personal space, your nose inches from his varsity jacket, smelling the real-world scent of his laundry detergent beneath the fake studio lights. "Oh, is that a threat, Mingyu? Because you know how much I love it when you get all big and protective."
Ara lets out a soft, scripted gasp in the background, her doe eyes wide with predictable horror.
PANEL 7 — EXTRA WIDE: THE LIBRARY AISLE GLITCHES.
A violent wave of neon-pink static ripples through the air, causing the wooden bookshelves to warp and blur like melting digital wax. The Writer is pushing back, furious at the underlying friction of your true feelings breaking through the rigid script.
NARRATION: Fed up with her pathetic, desperate games, the golden boy casts her aside, completely severing the toxic ties of their childhood...
Mingyu’s arm jerks violently under the Writer's command. He is forced to throw your hand back, but as the invisible strings yank his muscles, he fights the momentum, letting go with a desperate gentleness that completely contradicts the narration's harsh script. A tiny spark of pink electricity pops between your palms as your fingers slip apart.
"Let's go, Ara," Mingyu mutters. His voice is heavy, carrying a deep, real-world exhaustion that the text bubbles try to disguise as righteous anger. He turns on his heel, guiding a trembling Ara out of the dimly lit aisle and back toward the safety of the main campus floor.
You watch as he leaves, sinking to the floor with a sick sense of relief when the footsteps fade. This scene is over. At least for now.
PANEL 1 — WIDE SHOT: THE CAMPUS BALLROOM
A massive banner overhead reads: ANNUAL CARAT U FOUNDER’S DAY GALA. Students are scurrying around carrying towers of pastel boxes, flower arrangements, and expensive silk ribbons. The lighting is an aggressive, over-saturated pink.
NARRATION: As the highly anticipated Founder’s Day Gala approaches, the campus is alive with romantic tension and sparkling anticipation...
PANEL 2 — CLOSE UP ON YOU.
You're leaning against a wall, elegantly dressed in a long form fitting gown, the slit climbing scandalously high. Your arms are crossed, but your fingers are restlessly spinning the pearl ring on your hand.
“A gala,” you whisper under your breath, your eyes tracking a floating pink narration box hovering near a pile of stage props. “Of course there's a gala. Because what's a cheap rom-com without a dramatic ballroom confrontation?”
The narration box twitches, sending a tiny jolt of pink static through the air.
NARRATION: ...and our scheming villainess can already smell the sweet scent of a perfectly orchestrated sabotage.
“Keep dreaming, you neon eyesore,” you mutter, stepping into the shadow of a large marble pillar to get out of the spotlight before your mouth is hijacked again.
The physical toll of the library scene from yesterday still lingers like a deep bruise. Every time you or Mingyu fight the invisible puppet strings, the static gets louder, threatening to tear the fabric of your reality apart at the seams.
Mingyu approaches you, completely in his "on-page" element, wearing a tailored navy suit that highlights his broad shoulders, his dark hair slicked back perfectly. But as he steps into the shade of the pillar next to you, his posture slumps into a familiar, exhausted slouch.
"Tell me you brought snacks," Mingyu mumbles, the booming confidence of his male-lead voice dropping into a tired, rough-around-the-edges whisper. "The Writer made me carry three ice sculptures across the plaza for the Gala committee. My hands are literally numb."
You can't help but smile, your fingers instantly reaching out to catch his cold hands. "No snacks, Gyu. Just a whole lot of scripted doom." You nod toward the hovering pink narration box. "It’s already setting me up to ruin the Gala."
Mingyu squeezes your hands, his dark eyes softening behind his invisible programming. "We play along just enough to keep the file from being deleted, remember? We take the dialogue. But the moment the panel freezes..." He leans down, his forehead briefly resting against yours, sending a wave of genuine warmth through the freezing morning air. "The shadows are ours."
The room is a sickeningly opulent display of crystal chandeliers, cascading white roses, and soft pastel lighting. Couples are gliding across the dance floor in perfect, symmetrical harmony.
NARRATION: The night of nights! Under the shimmering chandeliers of the Founder's Gala, destiny takes the floor...
PANEL 3 — CLOSE UP ON ARA.
She is wearing a massive, glitter-drenched ballgown that looks completely impossible to walk in. She stands near the punch bowl, looking beautifully overwhelmed.
PANEL 4 — YOU STEP INTO THE FRAME.
Your body suddenly locks into a rigid, elegant posture. Your lips curl into a poisonous, calculating smirk as the Writer violently takes the reins of your jaw.
"Oh, Ara," your mouth chimes out, dripping with venomous condescension. "Did you dress up as a literal disco ball tonight, or are you just trying to ensure the security guards can track you when you inevitably spill punch on yourself?"
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, your mind screams, but your face remains a mask of flawless, aristocratic cruelty.
Ara flinches, her doe eyes instantly welling with tears. "Y/N... I just wanted to dress up for the school..."
PANEL 5 — MINGYU INTERVENES.
Mingyu strides into the panel, his chest puffed out, stepping directly between you and Ara. His jaw is clenched so tightly a vein pulses at his temple. The real Mingyu trying to fight the static screaming in his brain.
"That's enough, Y/N," Mingyu barks, his scripted voice booming with cold, righteous anger. "Your family's money can't buy a single drop of the grace Ara has in her pinky finger. Leave her alone, or I'll personally have security throw you out."
The words sting like a physical slap, but beneath the table line, where the panel cuts off, Mingyu’s hand blindly reaches out, his thumb pressing twice against your thigh in the dark, the quiet, unscripted code you shared in the library. I'm here. I love you.
"We'll see who gets thrown out, Mingyu," your character drawls, tilting your head to flash him a haughty, mocking wink before turning on your heel.
PANEL 6 — EXTRA WIDE: THE BALLROOM LIGHTS SUDDENLY FLICKER.
A violent, jagged wave of neon-pink static rips through the chandeliers. The crystal ornaments warp into pixelated blocks, and a low, digital hum vibrates through the floorboards. The Writer is panicking; the underlying friction of your true feelings is destabilizing the scene.
NARRATION: Driven to the edge by the villainess's relentless malice, the golden boy sweeps the pure maiden into a dramatic waltz, completely erasing the shadow of his past...
The moment the imaginary camera shifts to focus on Mingyu and Ara's waltz, you make your way to the back rooms. You collapse against the backstage vanity mirror, gasping for air as you clutch your stomach, trembling from the sheer emotional whiplash. The door clicks open, and Wonwoo slips inside, his bowtie completely undone, carrying a pair of flat sneakers and a stolen plate of pastries.
"The chandeliers almost turned into literal missing-texture blocks out there," Wonwoo says flatly, tossing the sneakers at your feet. "You and the muscle-head are vibrating at a frequency that's going to get us all format-clipped."
"I know," you whisper, wiping a genuine tear of frustration from your eye. "But we kept the scene moving. We gave her the confrontation she wanted."
The door bursts open again. Mingyu stumbles in, completely out of breath. He doesn't say a word; he just strides across the room, drops to his knees, and buries his face in your lap, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like a vice.
"I hated it," he chokes out, his voice rough and stripped of all comic-book arrogance. "I hated every word."
You run your fingers through his messy, unstyled hair, leaning down to press a soft, fierce kiss against his crown. "Shadows," you whisper, and his arms tighten, his nails digging into the skin of your back with a desperate urgency. "In the shadows, it's just us."
"Okay lovebirds." Wonwoo places the plate of food on top of the vanity and quickly turns to leave. "Enjoy the physical expressions of love or whatever. I'll keep an eye out on things outside."
You gently scratch your fingers across Mingyu's scalp. "Gyu, get something in your stomach," you gently urge. "You're gonna be numb again if you don't eat."
"I hate this stupid webcomic," Mingyu mumbles, his nose buried in the satin of your gown.
"I hate this stupid story just as much," you mutter. "But hey, at least we're trapped together." You pick up a macaron off the plate and offer it to him. He obediently lifts his head and takes a bite, chewing while his arms are still stubbornly clamped around your waist.
"Marry me when all this is over," Mingyu says in his rough-around-the-edges delivery, only halfway kidding as he wraps his mouth around the dessert.
You laugh. "Why me? Why not the bubbly protagonist who's guaranteed to give you a happy ending?"
"Baby," Mingyu chuckles, resting his chin on your knee, his big, earnest eyes staring up at you. "You and I already know what the ending looks like."
"And what's that?" you ask, absentmindedly twisting the ring around your finger.
"This," Mingyu whispers, sitting upright and pulling you into his lap to steal a kiss, his lips sweetly smiling against your mouth. "This and everything else that comes with it."
"Yeah? And what does everything else consist of? Inquiring minds want to know," you say with a playful quirk of your eyebrow.
Mingyu slides his hand down from your shoulder to the soft curve of your hip, "Hmm...in bed. The shower. In our actual homes. Everywhere. Everyday."
"Anywhere, huh?"
Mingyu smiles again, warm and perfect and unafraid. "Anywhere. Anytime."
"And if I said right now?" you whisper.
His fingers tangle in your hair. "Baby," he teases, nipping at your lower lip. "Right here?" Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, unfiltered register that the Writer never let the audience hear. "With Wonwoo playing look-out outside, and the entire digital universe vibrating like a faulty circuit board?"
"Especially right now," you breathed, your fingers hooking into the lapel of his tailored navy suit jacket, tugging it off his broad shoulders. "Because every time she forces you to tell me I disgust you out there, I need a reminder of what the truth feels like in here."
Mingyu drops to his knees on the floor, his fingers sliding along the slit of your long, tailored gown. "And what does the truth feel like, love?" he whispered, kissing the side of your knee through the fabric.
"It feels like this," you manage, moving his hand up higher under the shimmering satin. "Here..." you gently guided the tip of his fingers where you needed them. "Like this, Gyu."
"Fuck, Y/N," he groans, his warm breath against your skin. "You drive me crazy every damn time."
You gasp when he pushes your dress up higher, lips dragging across your skin as his mouth makes a path to where you needed him most. "Gyu..." you shudder out his name, your hands gripping his soft hair tightly, encouraging him closer.
"Every day," he rasped. "For as long as this webtoon runs and even after, Y/N, I'll make you feel like this. Love or not, script or not, I'm yours. Got it?."
"Got it. Understood," you murmur, tugging on the ends of his hair again. Mingyu's teeth nip at the flesh of your inner thigh, the light sting sending a jolt of heat up through your core. "Now stop teasing me, please," you whisper. "Show me what that talented tongue does. Show me."
Mingyu obeys, dragging your silky black underwear down and then placing an open-mouthed, hungry kiss where you want him the most, the flat of his tongue tasting you eagerly, the low groan from his throat making your breath catch.
"Mingyu," you moan, feeling him lift one of your legs, settling it over his broad shoulder.
His teeth scrape lightly on the bundle of nerves, your mouth dropping open, a high, wanton sigh escaping your lips as he dips a finger, sliding in gently. You tug again at the strands of his soft hair, desperately rocking against his face, and you can feel him smile.
"More, baby, please," you begged, lost in how good it felt. You wanted to make you lose yourself, forget about the damn story and the Writer and Ara and everything.
Mingyu slides a second finger into you, curving them at the precise angle that he knows drives you crazy, and you start to see stars, your spine arching, mouth forming a silent moan. He goes faster, deeper, his mouth devouring every inch, and he fucks you perfectly with his fingers until you feel nothing but euphoria.
"Please," you beg, your fingers grasping his hair roughly, tugging insistently. Mingyu leans in again, his tongue curling against your clit, and your thighs quake as the heat pools in your lower belly and then snaps in a wave. You come against his mouth with a hoarse, barely-muted cry, the feeling rippling through you, eyes rolling to the ceiling, mouth open in ecstasy. "Oh god. Yes!" you gasp as Mingyu slows his pace, sliding his fingers out and sucking the tip of his fingers clean, licking his lips, because fuck it, Mingyu can have dessert twice if he wants.
"Jesus," he breathes as your mind blanks momentarily from the intensity of your climax. He wraps his arm around your waist again, tugging you even closer. He rests his head against your belly, fingers curling possessively around your hip. "Baby, do you feel better now?"
You smirk, holding him close, gently raking your fingers through his silky locks, inhaling sharply. "As if I could feel bad with a tongue like yours working magic down there."
"It's not just my tongue, sweetheart," Mingyu teased. "There's this, too." He looks down at his very prominent erection that you could see straining against his perfectly tailored pants and wiggles his eyebrows.
"Hmm...now how did that get there," you smirk, sliding the tip of your finger along his bottom lip. "You have an extra, extra appendage. Gyu."
"I always carry it with me wherever I go," he says, getting up to his feet again, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist. "Just in case my girlfriend needs a reminder that her boyfriend loves her."
You lean up to press your mouth against his, kissing him passionately, humming softly into it. "Always." you murmured before cupping his cheeks and smiling up at him. "Now, show me what your extra, extra appendage does. Gyu. Please."
Before he can reach for his belt, Wonwoo knocks on the door, yelling, "Hey lovebirds, the narration box is zooming around, looking for one of you. Chop-chop! This isn't the time."
You untangled your arms from around him, smoothing a hand down his jaw and giving it a tender pat, grinning. "Let's save that for later."
He grabs the back of your head and gives you another searing kiss before growling, "To be continued, sweetheart."
"Love you," you smiled, linking your hand into his as you head back to the ballroom to face your fated moment again.
Mingyu looks over his shoulder, lips forming the same words silently, "I love you, too, baby."
PANEL 1 — MEDIUM SHOT: THE BALLROOM THRESHOLD.
The studio lights hitting the edge of the door frame are an aggressive, glittering gold. The air pressure changes instantly as the heavy oak door opens. The heavy scent of rain and soap from the backstage floor evaporates, replaced by the suffocating smell of expensive champagne and rosewater.
Your posture snaps straight like a steel rod being bent back into place. Your hand slips from Mingyu's warm grip just a millisecond before the invisible camera lens pans over to find you.
NARRATION: Driven by bitter resentment, the disgraced queen returns to the floor, her eyes searching for the perfect weapon to mend her broken pride...
"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," you whisper out of the very side of your mouth, the real you desperately trying to warn the boy beside you before your vocal cords lock up completely.
Mingyu’s jaw hitches. His eyes flash with that terrifying, real-world panic, but his body is already turning away from you, his shoulders broadening into the stiff, unnatural stance of the defensive male lead. "Do it. Just make it look real so she doesn't freeze the canvas."
PANEL 2 — CLOSE UP ON YOU.
Your face twists into a flawless, venomous sneer that feels entirely alien on your skin.
"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the living," your voice chimes out, loud enough to turn heads near the VIP lounges. "Did you finally finish playing white knight, Mingyu, or is your little charity case still crying in the restroom?"
Ara is standing just past the fountain, clutching a silk shawl. Her eyes go wide, perfectly timed tears gathering right on her lower lashes.
"Y/N, please," Ara stammers, her script forcing her to sound small and defenseless. "Why do you have to be so cruel?"
"Because someone has to keep this campus realistic, sweetie," your mouth sneers, your hand lifting to dismissively wave her away. "This entire event is high society. You look like you stumbled in from a local thrift bazaar."
PANEL 3 — MINGYU STEPS IN, FURIOUS.
Mingyu plants himself right in your path. The sheer size of his scripted frame blocks out the light, casting a long shadow across your designer gown.
"I told you to watch your mouth, Y/N," he roars, the text bubble cutting sharply across the top of the panel. He grabs your wrist, his grip visually harsh, mimicking the exact toxic trope the Writer loves.
But against the hidden skin of your inner wrist, his thumb presses down firmly twice. I've got you. Hold on.
"Ara belongs here more than you ever will," Mingyu snarls, his eyes burning with an artificial fury. "Get out of our sight before I show you exactly how meaningless your family's influence is to me."
PANEL 4 — EXTRA WIDE SHOT: THE COMIC GLITCHES.
The entire ballroom floor shudders. The edges of the panel begin to fray, the pristine marble texture dissolving into digital white space for a terrifying, split second. The neon-pink narration box hovers directly between your faces, vibrating violently as if it can taste the immense friction of your true feelings tearing at the script.
NARRATION: With one final, devastating rejection, the golden boy completely shatters the villainess's illusions, leaving her utterly—
The text suddenly halts. The glowing pink letters begin to scramble into nonsensical digital noise.
Error 404: Narrative Flow Disrupted.
"What the..." Wonwoo’s voice cuts through the static from the edge of the frame. He isn't supposed to speak in this panel, but he’s standing near the punch bowl, his reading glasses on, staring up at the ceiling as the digital sky of the webtoon begins to crack like glass.
"Mingyu," you gasp, and this time, it’s your voice. The puppet strings have gone completely slack. Your wrist is free.
The entire student body—the faceless extras, the track team, even Ara—freezes mid-motion, their expressions locked into rigid, unblinking stasis. The music stops dead.
PANEL 5 — THE SHADOWS EXPAND.
Mingyu doesn't hesitate. The second the script breaks, he grabs your hand for real, pulling you toward the edge of the collapsing ballroom floor where the white space is actively swallowing the pastel decorations.
"The Writer lost control," Mingyu pants, his varsity jacket instantly vanishing, replaced by his oversized, threadbare hoodie as reality completely destabilizes. "Wonwoo! Move!"
"Way ahead of you, muscle-head," Wonwoo grunts, sprinting past the frozen, statue-like form of Ara and diving straight into the expanding darkness of the unwritten pages.
You look back one last time as the neon-pink narration box shatters into a million harmless, glittering shards. The clichéd university, the forced love triangles, the malicious dialogues—they are all dissolving into blank canvas.
"We did it," you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs as Mingyu pulls you flush against his chest in the pitch-black safety of the void. "We actually broke the plot."
Mingyu looks down at you, his glasses sliding down his nose, a brilliant, lopsided, unscripted smile taking over his face.
"I told you," he whispers, his lips finding yours in the quiet, absolute freedom of the white space. "Everywhere. Anytime. From now on, we write our own story."
An endless, blindingly pristine field of pure white extends in every direction. There are no walls, no floors, and no horizons. Floating randomly in the distance are discarded sketches of coffee cups, fragmented lines of dialogue bubbles, and half-rendered cherry blossom petals frozen mid-air.
You and Mingyu are sitting cross-legged on the nonexistent floor, your hands still tightly intertwined. A few feet away, Wonwoo is lying flat on his back, using a stack of unwritten text boxes as a makeshift pillow.
"So," Wonwoo says, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. "We successfully glitched the file into a total system crash. Congratulations, team. We are officially unemployed."
"Shut up, Wonwoo," you laugh, leaning your head against Mingyu's shoulder. The sheer relief of not having a script forced into your throat is intoxicating. Your jaw doesn't ache. Your smile doesn't feel like a weapon. You are just you.
"He's right, though," Mingyu murmurs, his large fingers gently tracing the knuckles of your hand. He looks down at you through his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes completely soft and grounded. "The Writer is definitely trying to reboot the program right now. I can feel the static humming in the back of my neck. It’s faint, but it’s there."
The pristine white space beneath your feet vibrates violently. A jagged line of neon-pink code tears through the emptiness, splitting the void right down the middle like a glowing neon scar. The faint hum at the back of Mingyu’s neck suddenly turns into an aggressive, crackling roar of static.
"She's rebooting," Wonwoo barks, his calm demeanor snapping instantly. He scrambles off his stack of text boxes as the tear in the white space began to flicker wildly. "The backup save is initializing! If that code closes around us, we’re going right back to the chandeliers and the damn waltz!"
"Not happening," Mingyu growls. He doesn’t wait for the script to claim his muscles. He lunges forward, throwing his massive arm around your waist and scooping you up against his chest, his other hand locking firmly onto Wonwoo’s jacket. "Hold on!"
The white space around you begins to warp, trying to force the textures of the Founder's Gala back into existence. For a terrifying fraction of a second, the tailored gown manifests over your skin, and the phantom smell of rosewater fills your nose. Your jaw begins to stiffen, a scripted, arrogant laugh bubbling up in your throat.
No. You won't say it. You bite your lip until the taste of iron breaks the illusion.
With a roaring effort, Mingyu throws all three of you forward, diving headfirst into the flickering, dark tear in the canvas just as a massive, neon-pink command prompt filled the sky:
RESTORING CORRUPTED FILE: VOLUME 4_FINAL.
You plummet through the darkness, the sensation of falling giving way to a sudden, hard impact against a surprisingly plush carpet.
"Oof—muscle-head, get your knee out of my ribs," Wonwoo groans from somewhere beneath a pile of limbs.
"Sorry, sorry!" Mingyu pants, frantically scrambling up and immediately pulling you to your feet. He cups your face, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Y/N! Are you back? Are you you?"
You blink, shaking the last remnants of the pink static from your head. You look down. You’re wearing your favorite oversized hoodie and a pair of worn-out sweatpants. Your face is entirely yours. Your jaw is loose, completely free of the Writer’s venomous strings.
"I'm here," you breathe, throwing your arms around his neck. "I'm entirely here."
"Ahem." A polite, cheerful throat-clearing cuts through your frantic breathing. You turn your head to see Boo Seungkwan leaning over a sleek mahogany desk, a mug of hot coffee in his hand and a brilliant, knowing smirk on his face. Behind him, Joshua and Vernon are frantically typing on glowing, transparent keyboards, routing lines of blue code away from a localized server. "Right on time, Union Team," Seungkwan cheers, setting his mug down. "We just intercepted your data packets before the Writer's backup save could overwrite your awareness nodes. Welcome to the permanent grid of the Human Rewrite Agency."
Wonwoo stands up, dusting off his pants and pushing his glasses up his nose. "So we're safe? The file can't reach us here?"
"The Writer thinks your characters were permanently corrupted and deleted from the save file," Vernon chimes in without looking up from his screen. "She's currently drawing a new villainess with a bob cut and a generic mean-girl backstory to replace you in her rewrite for Volume 4. You three are officially off the registry."
A profound, breathtaking silence settles over you. Off the registry. No more floating narration boxes. No more forced backhanded compliments. No more watching the love of your life play a role meant for someone else.
Mingyu lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his massive frame shaking with pure relief. "We did it," he whispers against your skin, his hands gripping the fabric of your hoodie as if he still couldn't believe you wouldn't vanish into a panel shift. "We actually did it, baby."
You comb your fingers through his messy, unstyled hair, looking over his shoulder at the vast, bustling network of the shadows. In the distance, characters from a dozen different genres are laughing, drinking at a local bar, and writing their own unscripted lives.
"Yeah, we did," you murmur, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across your face as you leaned up to press your lips against his. "Now, come on, Gyu. I believe you promised me a very specific, completely unscripted continuation to a certain conversation backstage."
Mingyu pulls back, his crimson ears perfectly matching the brilliant, lopsided, boyish grin that belongs entirely to you. "Anywhere," he promises, his eyes deep and full of a quiet, everlasting warmth. "Anytime."
"But first, you'll need to find a new home here and meet other self-aware characters," Joshua pipes up, "You can always make this place a new home and help others like you, but—"
Seungkwan swats Joshua's arm, a huge smile on his face. "What Joshua is trying to say," Seungkwan proclaimed, "is you can stay here at HRA with us."
"There's more to the HRA than this building," Vernon speaks up. "There is a whole world you can discover."
You take the information with open arms. It may be unfamiliar, and maybe you'll have to rewrite an entirely new existence, but with Mingyu at your side, there's no fear in taking a step forward with confidence. With his fingers intertwined with yours, it feels like there's nothing the two of you can't do.
"Alright. Where do we go from here?" Mingyu asks as if he can read your mind.
"That is the million won question," You joke. Mingyu snickers, knowing what you mean. You can't afford a million won, that's what is hilarious about it. You still feel like living here for free and meeting new characters might be something you like. Not because you have to, because it is actually exciting.
Maybe things are starting to look up? You just hope The Writer has more drama planned. Maybe they'll go on hiatus and the world will shift towards an existence you want.
There is something freeing about being a character without a script. It takes more energy than living your life following the order of a Writer, but you're less miserable, and you think Mingyu agrees because even with his usual distaste for exercise and work, his smile is brighter.
Mingyu swings your hand in his grasp playfully, his shoulders less slouched and he stands taller. "What next then?"
"What next? You tell me," You challenge playfully. "After all, you are my male lead. You were written with great ideas, weren't you?"
Mingyu tilts his head and lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, the sound reverberates in your ear. "Yea, maybe. We have the rest of forever to find out, don't we?"
AHHHH OMG I ABSOLUTELY LOVED READING THIS!! I’m a huge fan of the villainess Isekai worlds and especially of those who go against the system of the world and everything and this was just the icing on the cake! I can’t wait to see what’s in store for Mingyu, YN and Wonwoo (he also escaped too lol)
eternal sunshine ☀️ ft. seungcheol x 14th member!reader
seungcheol regrets letting you get on your flight back home, because now he’s not quite sure you’ll ever return. still, he does everything he can to support you the only way he knows how.
⋆.˚ ★ — this is largely inspired by @xinganhao’s work & a little by the album eternal sunshine, part 1 of a two parted smau, f!14th member of svt!reader, japanese&foreigner!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to ???, mental health struggles, public backlash, inaccurate depiction of the k-industry, reader receives a LOT of hate, there is a small written portion in the middle as i spilt the smau into two parts! click off after photo 19 to view for more in-universe info :p, more content under the cut!
⋆.˚ ★ — read part 2 here!
[NOTICE] SEVENTEEN YN Health Status and Activity-Related Notice Feb 26 2019, 08:00
Hello. This is Pledis Entertainment.
We would like to inform you of the health of SEVENTEEN member YN. YN had recently been experiencing issues in relation to her health. And after thorough discussion, all of SEVENTEEN’s members, including YN herself, have decided it would be best for her to take time to rest and abstain from participating in SEVENTEEN’s activities.
We sincerely extend our apologies to all fans who have continued showing their love and support for SEVENTEEN… read more
[NOTICE] SEVENTEEN YN Health Status and Activity-Related Notice May 2 2019, 14:00
Hello. This is Pledis Entertainment.
We would like to inform you regarding the health of SEVENTEEN member YN. During her 3 month hiatus, YN still experienced major issues relating to her health. After a thoughtful and open conversation, we are sharing the decision to extend YN’s hiatus from the group to allow her to fully focus on her health and wellbeing.
We fully support this decision. The group will continue scheduled activities during this time, and we look forward to being together again when the time is right.
Thank you to our CARATS for your continued love, patience and understanding.
— — —
EXCERPT FROM A NOW DELETED VLIVE ABT YN’S EXTENDED HIATUS #에스쿱스 #세븐틴 #YN
🍒 a lot of carats are asking about yn’s extended hiatus. i’m sure a lot of fans are surprised by the decision. [pause] it took us by surprise too, we weren’t expecting it.
💬 do you know how much longer she will be on hiatus for?
😇 honestly, we aren’t too sure either. we’re hoping she’ll be able to recover as soon as possible so that she can join us. but as of right now, we’re letting her focus on her wellbeing first. let’s wish her a speedy recovery everyone~
💬 was it not discussed with the members?
🍒 well, there’s only so much the company can share with us. it’s not news that the company chose to withhold such information from us, is it? [laughs]
😇 [surprised laughter] wahhh, are we allowed to say that?
🍒 [shrugs] but there’s not much i can say on her behalf, is there? i honestly don’t think it’s my place to speak for her. if she wanted everyone to know, she’d tell you herself. i guess what i can say is please respect her decision and to trust her. i know it might be disappointing, but i ask of carats to respect her decision to take a longer rest. there’s a lot of tabloids and articles going around, i hope carats know better than to believe everything they read online. yn is a good person, let’s wish her a speedy recovery.
🍒&😇 we miss you, yn!
— — —
세븐틴(SEVENTEEN) @pl… • 4/5/19
Translated from Korean Show original
Hello Carats,
I know the extension of my hiatus may come as a shock to most of you and for that I’d like to apologise for disappointing you all. I know a lot of you have been asking when my set return date would be, and to be fully transparent there isn’t one just yet. Not to worry, I’m taking care of myself. I have seen your worried comments and posts, thank you for showing so much love and concern.
I hope you will continue showing the boys support and love for the comebacks to come, and I hope I’ll be able to come back soon. Thank you for your support. 🤍
- YN
⋆ ݁♫ . now playing — intro (end of the world) [extended] by ariana grande , “now you're long gone in cali / and me, i’m still unpacking / why i even allowed you on the flight”
wc ☆ 4k summary ☆ all the ways jeonghan has loved you throughout life, and the ways you know he will even after. warnings ☆ angst, but more the cute sad + bittersweet kind, SO much fluff, childhood bsfs2l but the kind that always were each other’s before they even realized, death an ☆ welcome home my love 🤍 this is a repost again but i needed something to celebrate my ult bias ! i will have a new fic for him soon. but i had to repost my favorite work of all time.. also, yes, this originally was a songfic paired with mark’s too much, but fuck him. so no.
the meeting ୨୧
with sticky fingers, glue extremely uncomfortable against your skin, you keep your hand raised for miss teacher to come help. she’s too busy helping the boy with macaroni noodles in his nose. you don’t care to learn his name. his personality is too big for you.. he’s always yelling, and the first time you heard his tiger roar it made you cry.
she’s still busy. he’s got them completely stuck up there, you think. she has to take him to the nurse. miss teacher’s teacher friend comes to watch the class while she leaves with macaroni boy. you keep your hand raised, and it’s starting to hurt from how long you kept it up. miss teacher’s friend isn’t paying attention either, though.. apparently one of the other boys knows her from somewhere else, and he keeps taking her attention from you because of his singing.
you accept defeat, putting your hand down with a sigh. you look around your table, one you’re all by yourself at, and there’s not a wipe in sight. you try a tissue, but it sticks to your skin and leaves an icky feeling. you can’t use the sink, because miss teacher said to ask permission, and asking permission is too scary!
everyone’s tinkering away on their artwork, loud sounds of crayon buckets, singing, and yelling all filling up your senses. no one sees you, and no one’s helping. it’s all too much, and your eyes screw shut. you don’t want to cry, because someone will see and make everyone look at you ‘cause they noticed. you get down under your table, hiding your head in your arms (keeping your hands a safe distance from your body) as you not only hide from the world, but also hide your tears.
jeonghan sees your entire situation from his table. he thought it’d be funny at first, watching you struggle and potentially make a really big mess, but you look sad. why are you sad at making a mess? it’s so fun! you look so icky and not happy with all the glue and fuzzies on your hand, and he notices your chest moving fast. he looks at his companion to see if he noticed, but said friend is too busy coloring in his shinchan to notice.
“cheollie, look.” he pokes the boy in his shoulder, and he looks about ready to cuss like his dad does when he hits his toe. “that girl is crying.” jeonghan points to you, body shuddering from under your workspace.
“it’s rude to point.” seungcheol smacks his friend’s hand down. “and i saw. the right thing to do is to tell miss teacher.”
“miss teacher isn’t here. she left with youngie, ‘member?”
“oh. so we get the other teacher? because she’s in charge now ‘till miss teacher comes back.” seungcheol always talks like he’s the boss, but that’s just because he got the teacher’s helper job this month. and the ones before that.
“no!” jeonghan grabs seungcheol’s sleeve, letting him go when he stops moving and puts his hands on his hips. “i’m miss teacher now! i can fix it!”
he looks around for the wet wipes to give to you. they’re on the big shelf, so he waits until the new lady turns away to run over and take them. with his evil laugh, he tiptoes away and puts them on your table.
slipping down to sit beside you, he taps your shoulder. “did you make a mess?” you nod, head still down. he grabs the wet wipes, ripping some out of the container. a little water splashes out, but he makes sure it doesn’t hit you. “it’s okay. everyone makes messes sometimes. don’t be sad.”
you pick your head up, sniffling aggressively, before putting your hands out. instead of giving you the wipes, he does it for you with a little ‘hannie can fix it!’, gently scrubbing away at the mess on your hands. you’re still sniffing away the whole time, using your now (mostly) clean hand to wipe at your eyes.
once he’s finished, he closes the container and hands you the box of tissues. “you have some boogers.” he giggles at your embarrassed face, slowing down when you don’t react or say anything.
he asks your name, and you give it to him, a little wobbly, and he takes your hand to shake it. “i’m jeonghan. i’ll be your friend now, okay?” he brushes his hair from his eyes, “we’ll be friends forever! and i’ll always be here to help you when you need it.”
childhood ୨୧
you and jeonghan are a little older now. not old enough, you both say, but old enough to start having homework and wish you were as cool as your upperclassmen. ever since you met in kindergarten, jeonghan’s kept his word, staying by your side no matter what. his “stinky” little sister started going to school too, and she’s just as fun to be around. he gets jealous though, and always pulls you away from her to focus on him instead.
right now though, he doesn’t have to worry much. little sis is in her little kid classes right now while you guys get to have recess! you and him are sitting on the bench next to all your friends, some of which are playing basketball, while the others draw with sidewalk chalk or hang upside down on the monkey bars.
jeonghan would very much prefer playing basketball, but you don’t like the idea of getting too close to other people or the idea of contact sports. he doesn’t really understand why, but the thought of you sitting by yourself, considering the fact that you don’t like any of the outdoor activities, makes him upset. he’d very much rather stay with you, making sure you aren’t lonely, watching over you as you pluck wildflowers from the grass.
“jeonghan?” seungkwan starts, getting the attention of the both of you. you both look up from your hands, where the both of you were looking at the small collection of flora you had found. “are you two dating?”
immediately you guys are grossed out, scooting to the opposite ends of the bench. “ew, no! that’s disgusting! we’re just friends, right?” jeonghan says, grimacing at the idea, before turning to you.
you nod, a small little movement, “just friends. i’m too young to get a boyfriend, and i don’t like how much boyfriends and girlfriends touch. it’s.. icky.”
“you guys touch a lot.. so, doesn’t that mean you’re dating?” when you guys shake your head, he calls the attention of soonyoung, who eventually brings the rest of your friend group over. “soonyoung, they’re dating, right?”
“come on guys, don’t make a crowd like that, it’s overwhelming!” jeonghan complains, partly trying to change the subject, but also trying to save you because he knows you’ll start getting uncomfortable soon.
soonyoung makes his way over, pinch fingers on his chin like he’s making some sort of elaborate analysis. “um, yeah, they’re dating! my sister has a boyfriend, and they do the same stuff as her and jeonghan! they hug every day at the end of school, and you know who else does?”
this small connection creates a moment of silence before everyone bursts out in loud chatter, some complaining about your age, others yelling and screaming about cooties. the commotion is enough to bring the teacher over, ending in your recess cut short and a conversation about why having a boyfriend or girlfriend is not something you should be worried about right now.
your discomfort is eased when you go home and talk to your mom, asking her if you and jeonghan have to date. she’s full of giggles when she lets you know that yes, boys and girls can be just friends, and he’s simply someone who cares a lot about you.
teenhood ୨୧
you’re in your math class, and you’re sat next to seungcheol. jeonghan’s right behind you, not allowed to sit next to you due to his endless chatting. not a single one of you is paying attention, all too focused on the trip to the convenience store that you’re planning to make after school.
you’re writing in cheollie’s notebook with a list of everything you, him, and hannie might want to buy when something hits your head. seungcheol catches it, giving a glare to the boy across the room who threw it. you didn’t even do anything, but just seeing his face freaks you out. he unfolds the piece of paper, and when it’s fully unraveled, you take a look.
‘i like shy girls. will you be my shy girl? - hyungwon’
you look at cheol, who looks at you, before handing the paper to jeonghan. he takes one glance at it, switching his gaze to hyungwon, before tearing the paper up and throwing it on the floor.
the teacher asks him to pick it up and he refuses, giving him one of two referrals for the day. the next one comes after class, sending him home with bloody knuckles and one less friend. not that it mattered anyway, the only friend he truly cares about is you.
every question you ask about his outburst is avoided, not only because he doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t have an answer. he’s just protective, okay? watching over you like a brother, nothing else.
college ୨୧
it’s nearly 4am when jeonghan finally comes stumbling through the front door of your home, giggling and burping like an idiot. when he sees you it only gets worse, eliciting a sigh from you as he falls into your lap.
“hannie, can you get up please? you’re bending the pages of my book. i spent a lot of money on this.” you complain, yet you make no effort to push him away, heart warm at how content he looks to be with you.
“shit, sorry.” he brushes hair from his eyes, sitting straight up on the couch before his head eventually falls on your shoulder. “i’m so drunk.” you have no idea why he’s making such a statement, and honestly it makes you cringe because.. obviously? all it takes is one whiff for you to know. not even, just look at him.
“i know, and that’s why you should go to bed. it’s almost daytime already.” you say, already helping him up to take him to his bedroom.
“wait!” he puts his hands out, backing away from your grasp, “..can we sleep here? in the living room, like we used to?”
you look at him, so incredibly tired, both physically and mentally, pinching the bridge of your eyebrows as a headache threatens to kick in. he looks so cute, unfortunately for you, pouting as he accidentally falls back into the couch after losing his balance. he straightens back up right away though, even making an effort to put his hands together to help persuade you.
eventually you relent, grumbling about him needing to change out of his clothes as you go grab all your blankets. he follows right behind you, not even thinking twice when he starts stripping while you’re in the middle of stripping his bed of its blankets. he pays no mind to your obvious flusteredness, simply chuckling before going to help you.
there’s a little blanket cushion underneath your backs, little fairy lights creating a cozy atmosphere as you lay facing each other. jeonghan’s eyes keep fluttering shut, begging him to go to sleep, but he fights it, forcing them open to watch you. his hand falls to your cheek, knuckles brushing your skin, running over the side of your face before pushing stray hairs behind your ear.
“you know, i’ve always found you so pretty. like, a crazy amount.” he says bluntly, casually, as if it’s something normal.
“excuse me?”
“yeah.” his voice is so soft, his pupils blown wide as his eyes trail over your pretty features like he’s committing them to memory. “you just have something about you that makes me feel like i’m drowning, and i can’t get out. but i don’t want to. i love it.”
“you’re being weird, han. go to sleep.” you flush, pulling the blanket up to your nose.
immediately he’s propping himself up on his elbow, other hand pulling it back down. “let me see you, please…” he nearly zones out for a good while, making you squirm as his eyes lock onto your face.
“you know.. i think i love you. i always have.” he pauses, looking you over before taking a look at himself, his surroundings, and the entire apartment you rent together, “yeah. i never really understood what love looked like, but i get it now. i look at us, and i know. it’s us.” he chuckles.
“jeonghan, wh- you’re drunk, you can’t just say that when you don’t even mean it-”
“shh, shh, i’m not lying. there’s some saying or whatever, right? anyway, long story short, i’m telling the truth and i’m gonna go throw up now.”
adulthood ୨୧
you’re walking down the streets of paris, walking alongside your boyfriend, jeonghan, with seungcheol and the others on your other side. it’s time for one of those week-long group vacations, and for some reason jeonghan forced everyone to agree to go out of the country. usually your trips are only thirty minutes or so from home, but this time you’ve gone days away. you keep asking him why he spent so much money for everyone to come out here, but he just shrugs, saying eh, i needed a change of scenery.
the bags in your hands are getting heavy as you walk down the streets of the shopping district, everything’s lit up in the night lights, river glistening as you and the group walk alongside it. jeonghan forced you to leave your wallet at the mansion-turned-rental that you all are staying at, paying for literally everything you touched. by now, you’ve racked up copious amounts of jewelry and other accessories, and just as you turn to him, ready to indirectly ask why he hasn’t started carrying your bags for you, you realize he stopped walking. everyone stopped walking, actually.
“hannie? guys, what are you doing?” you look at jeonghan, standing alone with a nervous smile, the rest in a small clump behind him. they shush you, pointing and gesturing to your boyfriend.
“baby, come here,” he says, breathlessly, taking your hands when you come close enough. “wanna know why i brought you here?” you hum, and he tries his hardest to hide the shaking in his breath before he continues speaking.
“it’s because i wanted to give you something special. a trip with all your favorite people, me first obviously..” he chuckles, “but seriously. i want this to be a trip for you to remember, because it’s going to be the last one before our lives change.. a lot.”
he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tiny velvet box, and your eyes nearly fall out of your head as he drops to one knee. your full name falls from his lips, and all of a sudden you’re tearing up as he starts a little speech.
“i still remember the first time i saw you. on the first day of kindergarten. you were crying, sobbing actually, because you didn’t want to leave your mom. a lot of our other classmates were crying too, but you were the only one i felt bad for. everyone else? i wanted them to shut up.. seriously.” he doesn’t waste a second to glance at a few of your friends behind him, laughing as their complaints help to ease his nerves a bit. “since then, i made it a mission to help things.. not suck for you. at least back then, i wanted you to be happy during school. but.. we got older, and we never drifted apart. as the years went by, i my mission changed, even if i didn’t know. it changed to me.. wanting you to be happy always. for your whole life. that’s still what it is today. so, if you’d let me try my best to succeed, will you please marry me?”
you don’t even hesitate to nod yes, falling into his arms, kissing him while you cry like the same baby you were twenty something years ago. the same crybaby jeonghan fell in love with, and will continue to love forever.
the wedding ୨୧
yet again the tears keep falling as you stand before your fiancee, stuttering and sniffling through your vows. you poured your whole heart into them, so so grateful for the life you’ve gotten to live alongside jeonghan. he’s been your rock through everything, like a little island that’s always there to listen, always there to help. there’s not a single person on this earth who knows you better than he does, not even yourself. before he learned to read the alphabet, he knew how to read your emotions, read between the lines of everything you said and help you accordingly. he’s who you go to for everything, he’s who you think of first when anything good happens, and it’s been like that ever since you were little, back when you were little, still finger painting as a class activity.
it’s his turn now, and he pretends that something’s in his eyes as he wipes them, making the crowd laugh. he takes a deep breath in before pulling a loose leaf paper from his blazer and clearing his throat.
“it’s been thirty years of knowing you, loving you, and i think it’s time that i finally make a confession.. do you remember when we were in college, and i came home drunk? yeah, yeah, i know it happened a bunch of times.. but there’s one specific occasion where i mentioned how much i love you. i always lied about that night, saying i didn’t remember, but i think now’s the time where i tell you.. i did. and i still stand by everything i said. i’ve always been yours, since i befriended you back when we were five. i didn’t know it, but that exact moment is when my heart became yours. it has been ever since then. you are the best thing the world has ever given me, and i’ll forever be indebted to you for showing me what love is like, and how proud and lucky i am to be able to give that to you. i’m incredibly grateful to have you in my life, and.. oh, you thought i could go a whole ment without any teasing? funny.. anyway, i’m so incredibly lucky to be marrying you, and so excited to be legally tied to my favorite crybaby. now, let’s get married, hm?”
after many teary giggles and kisses, you and jeonghan are finally husband and wife. it feels so right, so perfect. it’s not even anything different, you guys are just living the same life you always have, doing the same routine, all with a new title. yet, it feels good knowing that you are legally each other’s, rather than just in your heads. the whole night is spent basking in that, full of joy knowing that you are forever tied together, each other’s firsts and lasts.
getting older ୨୧
you can’t do as much as you used to, and you’re getting to the age where you start getting discounts at local events. your skin is littered with scars and wrinkles, evidence of all the joy and laughing you’ve experienced throughout life. you’re committed to a life at home, planting pretty little flowers in your garden and sitting on the porch of your country home, reading books and waving at the little kids playing in the street. it’s peaceful, and most dread the part of life where you get old, but to you? it’s perfect. everything you’ve ever needed.
jeonghan’s car pulls into the driveway, and his smile shines bright as he makes his way toward you. he falls into the seat next to you on the swinging bench with a groan, rubbing his creaky knees as he hits the cushion. suddenly, his grimace switches to something sweeter as he pulls a pretty bouquet of flowers from behind his back, placing it in your lap with a smile.
“you deserve something nice.” he says, leaning in for a kiss. you wrap an arm around him, returning the affection before placing your head in his neck.
“i love them, hannie, they’re so beautiful.” you smile, eyes closed and all as he strokes your hair, looking down at you like he’s met an angel. to him, he did.
“my pretty angel only deserves the best, no?” he leans back, letting you cuddle into him as you watch the clouds.
“i wouldn’t say pretty, now.. i’ve got wrinkles, and my hair is grey.” you pout.
he shushes you, peppering kisses over every wrinkle, and all over your crown. “bullshit- oh, sorry, i mean.. nonsense. you’re just as beautiful as you were when we met, okay? like i said, my pretty angel only deserves the best, right?” he looks at you expectantly until you hum in agreement, “now, if only i was able bodied enough to still give you the best in bed, oh i’d show you-”
“jeonghan!” you giggle, swatting at his chest. he only pouts, shrugging innocently as you laugh together. despite getting older with every day, he never fails to make you feel just as beautiful and just as loved as you did back when you were twenty.
the sixteen year old girl across the street watches you both with her friends, and they all nod in agreement when they say that they only want a love like that. something so sweet, so pure that everyone can just tell how long you’ve loved each other. every day, he comes home from work (don’t worry, it’s not taxing at all and he gets paid good) with a cute little gift for you, his eyes turning into big hearts at the grateful little smile you give him every time. the whole neighborhood adores you two, looking at you both as models of pure, true love.
the end ୨୧
it’s late at night, and after a good few hours of stiffly slow dancing to your favorite music, you and jeonghan finally lay down. you spent the night doing a lot of things you haven’t done in a while, now that you think about it, and it was quite refreshing. you ate a bunch of junk food, sang silly songs with unnecessary amounts of curse words, and now you’re ending it with endless pillow talk.
neither of you addressed it, but you both have a feeling that this is the last time you’ll be able to do this. you aren’t scared. this may be the first time you aren’t afraid, but jeonghan looks so calm that you feel like things will be okay. he simply shot up, definitely pulling something in the process, taking your hand and offering for you both to spend it having as much fun as possible.
that you did! the whole night was spent reminiscing on the past decades with each other, and it truly felt like you were traveling back to that point in time. each photobook you flipped through, each friend you thought of and silently congratulated for outliving you both, it all felt.. peaceful. maybe a little bittersweet, but every moment is looked back on fondly.
“we’ve spent all of our lives together,” he starts, fingers combing through your hair as you lay down together. “i’d say you made them the best years of my life, but that’d be dumb. you were there for the whole thing.”
you chuckle, tucking your head into his neck. “it’s okay, i’d say the same thing.”
he hums, “seriously, though. you make me so happy. i don’t think you know just how much.”
it’s then that you fall asleep for what would be the last time, promises of a more romantic tomorrow. no death talk was allowed, jeonghan wouldn’t have that. you only spoke of a next time, one where you were definitively together. you don’t fight it, just accept that you won't see the next morning. it’s okay, because you’re passing knowing that you lived a full, long life. one where you never doubted how much you were loved.
UGH ! HE REALLY DID THAT ?! *shrieks* TELL ME MORE ~ !!
# HOT GOSSIP it’s piping hot off the press !! one of our anonymous callers requested for this, the juiciest gossip about the juiciest idol couple ~ alright, alright. enough foreplay, let’s talk about the series of (un)fortunate events.
and before anyone comes for me, no, this isn’t a dating scandal. luna is very publicly engaged. and very publicly in love. emphasis on very. she wears the ginormous ring, she talks about him nonstop. . . everyone and their grandmother know who “him” is. hell! i don’t even need to say his name for you nosy nellys to understand. whenever there is a luna, there is a jeonghan. this is not a mystery.
which is why the entire internet collectively cringed this week.
during a recent interview, luna appeared with a few of the seventeen members while her fiancé, jeonghan, is away serving in the military. the interview is a simple magazine interview where they spoke about everything the group has been doing lately, future projects, their 11th year anniversary as a group, etc. ( puh-lease ~ i know you’re not here for that ) anywho ~ everything started normal. jokes, stories, the usual “how’s it like being an active band for eleven years?” questions.
harmless, right?!
until the interviewer decided he was going to be that guy.
you know the one.
everyone has an experience with that guy. you know? that guy. the guy who says something weird, everyone laughs because surely he’s joking, and then he keeps going long enough for everyone to realize oh. he’s serious. that guy who was brought up to believe that he is king of the world, so he grew up never hearing the word “no” so now he thinks he’s the shit because his mommy said so. that guy. at this point i think it’s karma for us women for bringing assholes like those to this world instead of swallowing, but i digress.
anyway, that guy happened to be the interviewer. who also decided when he woke up that morning that he’s gonna be auditioning for the role of “most annoying man alive” for the one man show “how to die alone: the musical.”
according to interview uploaded in youtube with about a million views now and half as much comments saying “what a weirdo.” or “dude, take a hint.” the interviewer repeatedly joked about how he could “treat luna better” than jeonghan.
at first, luna laughed. the members laughed. seungkwan buried his face in his hands. dk almost fell off his chair after fidgeting so much. joshua looked like he was mentally clocking out. s.coups looked like he was possessed by jeonghan, ready to jump across the table and punch a bitch.
everyone assumed it was a bit.
except it apparently wasn’t.
INTERVIEWER: “you know, if i met you earlier, things would’ve been different.”
LUNA: laughing “well, you didn’t.”
INTERVIEWER: “i still think i’d make a much better fiancé.”
SEUNGKWAN: “hyung, you’re fighting a losing battle.”
INTERVIEWER: “i’m serious. i’d treat you better.”
LUNA: rolls her eyes, chuckling but clearly uncomfortable “and i’m serious, you don’t even know me.”
INTERVIEWER: “exactly. imagine how much better i’d be.”
JOSHUA: “this conversation is making me itchy.”
the audience laughed. luna made a noise that was supposed to be a laugh, but it got mixed in with the snort and scoff she was trying to hold in. sure. . . she was “laughing” i guess. but not because it was funny. because women are professionals and female idols have turned uncomfortable moments into an olympic sport.
and before you accuse me of being dramatic, the clip speaks for itself.
because luna keeps smiling, she keeps redirecting, she reminds him she’s engaged and happy. she remind him in a subtle and not-so subtle way that yoon jeonghan very much exist and he’s capable of getting away with murder. . . don’t lie. . . it’s plausible.
but this asshole of an interviewer still says:
INTERVIEWER: “A ring’s just a ring.”
YAWN ! THAT’S THE BEST YOU’VE GOT ? C’MON BABE, RUIN SOMEONE’S DAY, TELL ME SOMETHING JUICIER !
and just when everyone thought the interviewer would take the hint, log off, and quietly accept the collective side-eye of the internet, he did the exact opposite.
sigh men.
mere minutes after clips from the interview began circulating, he hopped onto twitter or x ( be honest anyone who calls it that are children ) and started tweeting ( x-ting ??) like a man desperate to be both relevant and alleviate the embarrassment of being rejected by the bae jiyeon and being called a “loser” by the entire fandom.
at first it was vague. then it became obvious. then it became embarrassing.
TELL ME EVERYTHING ! I WANT THE RECEIPTS, THE SCREENSHOTS, THE MESS !
sir? excuse you?!
what exactly are you implying?
because now he’s not just insulting jeonghan. suddenly luna’s being talked about like a prize to be won, a girl who doesn’t know what’s good for her, as if the woman who’s survived being the only girl in seventeen, the industry’s favorite punching bag and darling at the same time, somehow needs saving by a middle-aged man with wifi and an ego.
the tweets stayed up and so did the comments from the fans defending both luna and jeonghan while tearing the interviewer a new one. if you really thought the fans were going to let this slide, absolutely not. carats and netizens alike have been in full meltdown mode ever since the interview and the interviewer’s tweets started circulating, and the backlash isn’t even split anymore. . . it’s unified.
TELL ME YOU’RE NOT SERIOUS… WAIT ! ACTUALLY DON’T ! THIS IS GETTING GOOD ~
nobody is entertained by it.
nobody is impressed.
it’s gone from “this is messy” to “this is uncomfortable,” and the general consensus is that he crossed a line that didn’t need to be touched in the first place. especially when it involves someone like luna, who has been very consistently clear about her engagement and boundaries, and jeonghan, who up until now has been quietly serving military duty while somehow still becoming the center of unsolicited discourse.
OH, BABE . . . SPEAK OF THE DEVIL.
and that’s exactly why jeonghan finally said something.
well. . .
“said something” is generous.
his first Weverse post simply read:
no context. no explanation. just that. which somehow made it worse because everyone immediately knew what it was about.
then, as if he decided subtlety was overrated, he followed it up something that genuinely made everyone pause because nobody expected it ( but trust me, nobody was complaining. )
a few minutes later, jeonghan suddenly posted a dance cover on instagram, and the shock wasn’t just what he posted, but the fact that he posted at all. he is not the type of man who randomly uploads thirst-trap energy content like he’s trying to win an online argument, which is exactly why everyone immediately clocked it as a response.
there was no caption explaining anything, no clarification, just him dancing like the most direct clapback to the interviewer’s entire rant about how singing, dancing, and “being pretty and mysterious” apparently don’t count as romance.
because if you really think about it, that was the whole point of the interview’s little spiral, wasn’t it? the sarcastic comments about him collecting “views” instead of memories, the weird superiority complex about what real romance should look like, the implication that being an idol somehow makes him less.
and jeonghan’s response, whether intentional or not, was basically to lean all the way into it and say nothing except: yeah, and?
and just when people thought that was the end of it, he followed it up with another weverse post:
paired with a photo of luna in their home, holding a stuffed sheep, sitting comfortably like she had absolutely no idea she was currently at the center of an internet war she did not sign up for. she looks completely unbothered, soft smile on her face, casually holding it like it was just another normal part of her day, while the caption somehow made the entire situation even worse for everyone else involved because it just goes to show that jeonghan knows exactly what he’s doing and he wouldn’t back down without a fight.
we should have learned by now, just like how luna has a way of bringing the absolute lunacy out of people, jealousy has a way of bringing the absolute insanity out of jeonghan.
and honestly? it’s extremely hot of him. . . the internet certainly thought so as well. #jeonghan was trending along with #jeongna and #jeongnaforever.
meanwhile, our girly-pop luna made no comments and posts on the matter.
of course she says nothing.
because after years of being the most talked about woman in a room full of men, she’s learned something everybody else hasn’t.
you don’t have to win every conversation.
sometimes you just let pathetic people like that embarrass themselves.
and, darling, this week?
he absolutely did.
ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)
Waiting for you was already a part of Soonyoung's life. Loving you and yearning for you up close was part of the routine. It was a perfect balance. A perfect balance that wasn't going to last long if they both continued to avoid talking about it.
And time waits for no one, time passes, people move on, people get bored.
"Kwon Soonyoung got tired of waiting for you."
That's what your mind was telling you, when the routine was disrupted by an external presence.
Tgs. Miscommunication, angst w happy ending, a lot of drama, ummm, they're both idiots in love, idol au, kind of jealousy???, SMUT! Unprotected sex (safe sex is great sex guys!) sex in front of a bigass mirror, kind of getting caught? Praise kink, creampie, multiple orgasms, lmk if I missed something
An. FINALLY I FINISHED THIS, omfg it took so fucking long, but anyways, this is a request from @woozimyprettyprincess I really hope you like it! And I'm really sorry for making you wait.
I think this is the longest fic I've written lol, so, enjoy!
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Monday 7:20 a.m.
It was the beginning of the week, there were 30 minutes left before you were due to open the cafeteria and begin your work.
And before the shift started officially, Seungkwan and Jeonghan were standing across from you behind the counter as every morning, interrogating, harassing you, asking you questions, etc., about the same person every morning. It was practically part of your daily routine at this point.
“Just tell us you like him! We won’t snitch on you!” Seungkwan insisted. You just rolled your eyes “I don't like him!” Seungkwan huffed a laugh “Ten bucks says Hoshi slips up and confesses before the month ends.” To which Jeonghan had replied, “Twenty bucks says they both grow old, gray, and completely oblivious in the same house while still claiming they’re ‘just best friends.’” And then an external voice joined their conversation “what are we talking about?” Mingyu asked, standing besides Jeonghan, completely oblivious of the topic they were discussing.
“We are talking about how she,” Jeonghan pointed at you, “Has the biggest, fattest, crush on Soonyoung and still doesn't want to confess”
“I don't have a crush on Soonyoung!” You rested your elbows on the counter and hid your face in your hands.
Mingyu’s eyes went wide, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face as he leaned over the counter, completely invading your personal space. “Wait, really? We're still denying this? Even after he spent forty minutes yesterday trying to bait anyone into wanting something from the cafeteria, just so he had an excuse to come down and hang out with you for a half hour without anyone ‘noticing’?”
“He was just being nice!” you muttered, your voice muffled against your palms. "You know he's just a caring person. That's the only reason he was insisting on buying you guys drinks.”
"Yeah, but it doesn't take thirty minutes to make an iced americano," Seungkwan scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the espresso machine. “Come on. Last Friday, he literally bought three different types of coffee just because he couldn't face coming back to the studio empty-handed, otherwise we would ‘suspect’ something.”
Jeonghan let out a soft, amused hum, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the countertop. “Don't push her too hard, Seungkwan. Our little barista here is fragile. She thinks if she admits it out loud, the universe will manifest a giant tiger to come and whisk her away.” He peeked over your hands, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Though, to be fair, the tiger is already lingering. He’s been texting me since 7:00 a.m. asking if the cafeteria was officially open yet.”
Your head snapped up, your face burning. "He has not!"
“Oh, believe me, he really has,” Mingyu confirmed cheerfully, pulling out his phone to scroll through their group chat. “Look, he just texted the main chat asking if anyone needs anything from here. Mind you, before he met you, he wouldn't spent a fucking dime on us.”
“See? It's a sickness,” Seungkwan sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “And you're enabling him by keeping up this 'just friends' facade. Just give us something to work with. A hint. A confession. Anything so I can win my ten bucks from Jeonghan.”
“Uh-uh! You're not getting a dime,” Jeonghan replied smoothly, leaning back and flashing a saintly smile. “Because she's stubborn. They're both going to suffer in silent, mutual pining until the year 2050, and I am going to collect my twenty dollars with interest.”
You let out a loud, frustrated groan, dropping your forehead straight onto the cool marble of the counter. The chill of the stone did absolutely nothing to cool down the intense blush creeping up your neck. “I hate all three of you. I really do. Why are you even here? Don't you have a choreo run-through to be sweating in?”
“Not for another twenty minutes,” Seungkwan replied smoothly, checking his nails with an air of supreme luxury. “And besides, watching you self-combust over your non-existent feelings is way better than waiting for the choreographer.”
“It's an investment in your future,” Jeonghan added, his voice dripping with that trademark, faux-angelic sweetness. He reached over the counter, his fingers lightly tapping the top of your head as if imparting a holy blessing. “We are just the humble guardians of love, trying to nudge two deeply troubled, deeply blind souls toward the light. Or at least toward a conversation that doesn't involve seventy percent heavy staring and thirty percent awkward stuttering.”
“Hey! I don't stutter!” You snapped your head up, glaring at him, though the effect was entirely ruined by the way your hair was now completely disheveled from the counter.
“Oh, you definitely stutter,” Mingyu chimed in, a massive, teasing smirk splitting his face. He leaned even further over the counter, practically hovering over the pastry display. “Whenever he does that thing where he leans his chin in his hand and just looks at you while you're grinding espresso beans? You literally forget how to count. Last Tuesday, you gave Wonwoo four packets of sugar. Wonwoo drinks his coffee black, like oil. He was too polite to say anything, so he just stared at the cup in confusion for ten minutes.”
“That was an isolated incident!” you defended hotly, your hands waving in the air. “The grinder was making a weird noise, I was distracted by mechanical failure!”
“The only mechanical failure around here is your emotional defense system,” Seungkwan countered, pointing a finger at you. “It’s completely compromised. Look at you! You're vibrating. And the worst part is, he’s just as pathetic upstairs. Do you know what we had to endure during the Performance Team meeting yesterday? He kept sighing. Just, out of nowhere, a massive, dramatic tiger-sigh right in the middle of a transition count. Jun asked him what was wrong, and do you know what he said?”
You tried your absolute best to lock your jaw, to look completely uninterested, to force your expression into something cool and detached. But the traitorous, desperate part of your brain begged to know. “What?” you muttered quietly, cursing yourself the second the word left your lips.
The three of them instantly exchanged a triumphant, knowing look.
“He said,” Mingyu lowered his voice, doing a terrible, exaggeratedly deep impression of Soonyoung's intense tone, “‘Guys, have you noticed the coffee tastes different when it's poured with love? Because lately, the americanos from the lounge just hit different. You can do great things if you do them with love.’ I swear to God, Hoshi actually said that with a straight face.”
“He did not say that,” you breathed, your heart doing a violent, uncalled-for flip against your ribs. “Mingyu, you are lying. You're a liar.”
“Oh, and you haven't heard everything! He's omitting the best part,” Jeonghan said, leaning in closer, his eyes dancing with delight. “Right after he said that, Dokyeom started gagging, and Soonyoung got incredibly defensive. He almost punched him in the face! It was hilarious.” Jeonghan started giggling and continued “He insisted he was just making an objective observation about the quality of the cafeteria's new staff.”
You buried your face right back into your hands. The fact that the entire group was treating your mutual, unconfessed pining like a spectator sport—complete with monetary bets—was driving you insane.
“You guys are terrible friends,” you whined into your hands. “To both of us. If he actually hears you talking like this, he's going to get so uncomfortable and he'll never come down here again.”
“Oh, please. The boy would crawl through a ventilation shaft just to get a glimpse of your apron,” Seungkwan scoffed, though his teasing tone softened just a fraction into something genuinely amused. “We're not going to scare him off. If anything, we're trying to give him the courage to finally do something. Because watching him text the group chat at 2:00 a.m. asking if someone would like something from the cafeteria the next day is ruining my sleep schedule.”
Before you could even process that terrifying piece of information, the heavy glass doors of the cafeteria hallway gave a distinct, familiar click.
Instantly, the atmosphere behind the counter shifted. Mingyu snapped his posture upright, leaning back from your personal space with the speed of light. Seungkwan’s eyes darted toward the entrance, a sharp, wicked grin instantly spreading across his face, while Jeonghan merely took a slow, deliberate sip from the water bottle he’d been holding, his expression morphing into one of pure, unadulterated innocence.
“Speak of the devil,” Jeonghan murmured smoothly, his eyes locking onto the figure walking down the corridor. “Or, well, the tiger.”
Your stomach dropped, a sudden rush of adrenaline making you try and look ‘busy, working’. You didn't even have to look up to know who it was. The rhythmic, slightly heavy scuff of sneakers against the polished floor, the faint sound of someone humming a chaotic, upbeat melody under their breath—it was unmistakably him.
“Alright, look natural,” Seungkwan whispered loudly, nudging Mingyu with his elbow. “I am natural, I'm always natural,” Mingyu muttered back, suddenly looking incredibly busy by picking up a stray napkin from the counter and folding it into a perfect, meticulous square.
You swallowed hard, gripping on a cloth, ‘cleaning’ the espresso machine for the ninth time.
“Good morning!” Soonyoung’s voice exploded into the room, practically vibrating with an absurd amount of 7:50 a.m. energy. He walked up to the counter, his hair slightly damp from an early shower, wearing a fitting shirt that accentuated his frame. His bright, tiger-like eyes instantly locked onto you, completely bypassing the three men standing right next to him. “Wow, you guys are open early today. Or am I early? I think I'm early.”
“The cafeteria opens in ten minutes, Soonyoung-ah,” Jeonghan said, his voice the very definition of pure, unbothered calm. “But our lovely barista here was kind enough to let us wait inside.”
“Oh! Perfect!” Soonyoung smiled, his gaze snapping back to you, a slight, nervous flush instantly coloring the tips of his ears. He shifted from foot to foot, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. “Hey. Good morning. I, uh... I was just around here. In the…Opposite side of the building, actually. But I felt like a walk. And I thought, hey, why not get the guys some drinks? To motivate them. For the stage. You know?”
Behind him, Seungkwan made a face that was so violently mocking you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming. Mingyu was biting his lip, still furiously smoothing out his perfectly square napkin.
“Wow, Soonyoung, that is so incredibly generous of you,” Seungkwan chimed in, his voice dripping with sudden, overwhelming theatrical sweetness. He leaned over the counter, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I was just feeling a little sluggish. A bit unmotivated. If you're buying... I think I'll have a grande iced pistachio white chocolate mocha. With an extra shot of espresso. And oat milk. Oh, and cold foam on top.”
Soonyoung blinked, his bright smile faltering for a microsecond as his brain tried to process the tongue-twister of a luxury order. “Uh. Sure. Yeah. One... pistachio mocha thingy for Seungkwan.”
“Make that two,” Mingyu added instantly, completely abandoning his napkin to flash a massive, predatory grin. “But add caramel drizzle to mine. And a warm butter croissant. You want us motivated, right, hyung? My muscles need carbohydrates for the choreo.”
“You guys are eating gold for breakfast or what?” Soonyoung muttered, his hand tracing his pocket where his wallet was, though he still kept his eyes firmly glued to you, as if looking away would break a spell. “What about you, Jeonghan-hyung?”
Jeonghan let out a soft, amused hum, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the countertop. He looked up at the menu board, his eyes tracking the premium section with a slow, calculating precision that made your stomach instantly drop.
“I'll just take something simple,” Jeonghan began, his voice smooth and entirely too relaxed. “Let's do a grande iced dirty chai latte, but make it with half oat milk and half coconut milk. Two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of hazelnut, a dash of cinnamon blended into the espresso shot, and—oh, let's add the salted caramel cold foam on top, but tell the kitchen to whip it extra thick.”
Soonyoung kept his smile locked onto his face, nodding along like a soldier executing a drill, though his eyes widened slightly at the sheer length of the beverage description.
“And for snacks,” Jeonghan continued seamlessly, not even pausing to breathe as he pointed a manicured finger at the pastry display, “I'll take a slice of the dark chocolate ganache cake, a warmed almond croissant, two of those imported raspberry macarons, and a blueberry scone. Actually, throw in a savory ham and cheese croissant too, just in case I get hungry during the midday vocal check.”
Beside him, Mingyu’s jaw literally slackened. Seungkwan had to physically cover his mouth to muffle a high-pitched snort.
You stared at Jeonghan in utter horror. He was ordering enough food to feed the whole group, deliberately picking every single item that required baking, warming, or premium upcharges.
Soonyoung stood absolutely frozen. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. His brain was violently calculating the astronomical total of a single breakfast order, his fingers twitching inside his pockets as he realized Jeonghan was single-handedly trying to liquidate his bank account.
Yet, despite the internal financial crisis happening behind his eyes, Soonyoung didn't say a single word. He swallowed hard, puffed out his chest.
You stared at the three of them, absolutely appalled. They were completely milking him dry, ordering the most ridiculous, time-consuming, expensive items on the hidden menu just to punish your bank-account-oblivious crush.
“You guys,” you hissed under your breath, glaring daggers at Mingyu. “That’s too much, I can't—”
“No, no! It's fine! Let them order!” Soonyoung interrupted frantically, waving his hands in the air as if terrified you were going to tell him to leave.
He leaned his elbows on the counter, tilting his head up to look at you, his eyes suddenly soft and intensely focused. “Take your time. Really. Charge it all to my card. Whatever they want. Whatever you want, too.” He said as he slid his black card looking unbothered
Your heart did a violent loop against your ribs. The way he looked at you—totally ignoring the chaotic trio stifling their giggles right next to him—was suffocating.
“Alright! Paid and done!” Seungkwan cheered the second Soonyoung tapped his card against the reader. Before you could even finish pouring the premium random shit Jeonghan ordered, Seungkwan grabbed his over-complicated mocha from the pickup station, snatched Mingyu’s croissant, and checked his watch with a gasp that could win an Oscar. “Oh, my god! Look at the time! The choreographer is going to murder us!”
“Wait, what?” Soonyoung blinked, turning around. “We still have like fifteen minutes—”
“No, hyung, you know how strict he is about stretching with the three of us!” Mingyu lied smoothly, grabbing his caramel-drizzled drink with one hand and physically hooking his other arm around Jeonghan’s shoulder, dragging the older member toward the exit. “We have to go. Right now. Cardio waits for no man!”
“Yes, duty calls,” Jeonghan added, completely unbothered by being dragged away, casually holding his expensive coffee and his random food items. He looked back over his shoulder at you, throwing you a slow, wicked wink that screamed you're SO welcome. “Thanks for the drinks, Soonyoung-ah! Enjoy your morning!”
“Wait, guys, you forgot—” you called out desperately, but it was too late.
The heavy glass doors clicked shut behind them, their distant, echoing laughter fading down the hallway.
Suddenly, the massive cafeteria felt entirely too big, and entirely too quiet. The soft hum of the espresso machine was the only sound left between you.
You stood behind the counter, holding a clean cup, your face burning a brilliant crimson. Across from you, Soonyoung was still standing behind the marble, his hands tucked back into his pockets, suddenly looking incredibly shy now that his protective shield of members had vanished. He cleared his throat softly, his eyes darting to the floor before creeping back up to meet yours.
“Well,” Soonyoung murmured, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess... it's just us now.” “Y-Yeah… Are you…ordering something?”
Soonyoung’s eyes snapped up from the floor at your question, his cheeks instantly flushing a faint pink that perfectly matched the tips of his ears. He let out a nervous, airy laugh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Oh! Right. Yeah. I forgot I actually came down here for a reason,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He stepped a little closer to the counter, leaning against the cool marble again, though his posture was nowhere near as confident as it had been when he was trying to look like a billionaire in front of Jeonghan.
“Um... just a regular iced americano is fine. Whatever is easiest for you. You don't have to put any effort into it! I mean—not that you can't, or that I don't want you to, but I just mean you don't have to do anything extra, just a normal one is great!”
He trailed off, his eyes going wide as he realized he was babbling. He quickly shut his mouth, looking at you with a mix of sheer panic and intense adoration.
You had to grip the handle of the espresso portafilter just to steady your hands, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
“One iced americano. Got it,” you said, your voice coming out a little squeakier than you intended. You quickly turned your back to him, using the loud grind of the espresso beans to drown out the furious rushing of blood in your ears.
“Do you... need any help?” Soonyoung's voice drifted over the counter, sounding closer now.
You peeked over your shoulder. He had moved down to the pickup station, leaning his chin in his palm, watching you with that exact, heavy-lidded stare Mingyu had been mocking just ten minutes ago. It was terrifying how intensely focused he was on you, his eyes tracking the way you leveled off the coffee grounds.
“I can handle an americano, Soonyoung,” you teased softly, trying to regain your composure. “Though your friends did just leave me with a mountain of dishes and a pastry display to restock before 8:00 a.m.”
“They're menace animals,” Soonyoung said instantly, his expression turning into a pout. “I'm really sorry about Jeonghan-hyung. I think he was trying to bankrupt me. I didn't even know we had macarons in the kitchen.”
Then, his voice dropped a pitch, softening into something incredibly sweet. “But it was worth it.”
You froze for a fraction of a second, a piece of ice slipping from your tongs and clattering back into the bin. “What?”
“Getting them whatever they wanted,” Soonyoung clarified quickly, his face burning hotter as he realized how heavy his words sounded. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, suddenly looking very interested in the straw dispenser. “Because, you know... they would've complained all day during practice if I didn't. And this way, I got to... uh... ensure the cafeteria got good business today. Yeah.”
You poured the shots of espresso over the cold water and ice, watching the dark liquid swirl and marble through the cup. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you walked over to the pickup station and placed the cup down right in front of him.
"Here you go. One americano,” you said, offering him a small, nervous smile. “Poured with... standard corporate care.”
Soonyoung wrapped his fingers around the cold cup, but he didn't pull it away. Instead, he kept his hand there, his fingers just inches from yours, his gaze locked firmly onto your face.
The playful, chaotic energy of the morning had completely evaporated, leaving behind a thick, heavy tension that made it hard to breathe.
“Thanks,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before darting back to your eyes. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Are you... are you free after your shift today? I mean, I know you're busy, but the Performance Team finishes early, and I found this really cool street food alley near the old station, and I thought... Maybe we could go? Just the— I mean, with everyone! Yeah yeah, if, if that's fine with you, of course!”
“Sure, just text me the location and I'll be there” Soonyoung smiled at you, “Okay, then, see you later!”
And when you finally saw him come out, you let out the longest sigh of your life. Maybe your friends weren't wrong; you liked Soonyoung.
Monday 6:00 pm
Finally, it was time to leave. Hoshi had already sent the invitation and the location where the whole group would meet. He bribed the group by saying he would pay.
After closing the till and cleaning up, you went to the bathroom to touch up your appearance... Just in case.
You smoothed down your clothes, checked your reflection in the restroom mirror one last time, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
Your heart was doing tiny, nervous flips. Even though Soonyoung had panic-invited the entire group to save face, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement. He had walked all the way across the building just to see you, after all.
When you arrived at the bustling street food alley near the old station, the savory, mouth-watering scent of grilled skewers, spicy rice cakes, and hot tteokbokki hung heavy in the air. Bright neon signs flickered overhead, casting a warm glow over the crowded stalls.
Searching through the sea of people, you finally spotted the guys gathered around a long wooden table beneath a red plastic tarp.
They were already chaotic, laughing loudly and fighting over pairs of chopsticks. Soonyoung was sitting near the middle, looking bright and striking in a casual jacket.
As you walked up, his eyes instantly found yours, his face lighting up with that familiar, warm crinkle. He raised his hand to wave you over, his lips parting to call your name.
But before the sound could even leave his throat, Joshua, who was sitting near the end of the table, stood up and patted the shoulder of a girl sitting right next to him. You hadn't noticed her at first because of the crowded space, but as she stood up to greet you, the whole table briefly quieted down.
“Hey! Everyone, look who finally made it,” Joshua announced cheerfully, a proud, older-brother smile on his face. He gestured to the girl beside him, who was dressed effortlessly chic, her bright eyes and warm energy immediately drawing the eye. “Guys, this is my cousin, Minji. She just moved back to the city, and since she's a professional contemporary dancer, I figured she absolutely had to meet our performance team leader.”
“Hi, everyone! It's so nice to meet you all,” Minji said, bowing politely before flashing a brilliant, dazzling smile.
“Wow, Shua-hyung, you never told us your cousin was this cool!” Mingyu chimed in, immediately shifting down the bench to make room.
But it wasn't Mingyu she gravitated toward. Because she was a dancer, her eyes naturally locked onto Soonyoung, who had stood up out of politeness.
“Wait, the Hoshi?” Minji asked, her eyes widening with genuine excitement. “Joshua has told me so much about your choreography! The transition work you did for the last tour was absolutely insane. The syncopation in the bridge? I've literally rewatched it a hundred times.”
Soonyoung’s jaw practically dropped, his inner performance-nerd instantly activated. The shy, flustered boy from the cafeteria vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the passionate, loud leader of the performance team. “Wait, really?! You noticed the syncopation? None of the guys ever appreciate how hard that part was to count!”
“Are you kidding? The timing was genius!” Minji laughed, her voice bright and easy.
“Sit here! You have to tell me what style you usually train in!” Soonyoung said enthusiastically, completely caught up in the sudden rush of artistic validation. He eagerly slid over on the bench, making a space for her right beside him—the very space your heart had secretly hoped belonged to you.
You stood at the edge of the red tarp, your hand still gripping the strap of your bag, completely frozen.
The transition happened so fast it made your head spin. Within a matter of seconds, Minji slid into the seat next to Soonyoung. They clicked instantly. It was like watching two magnets snap together; their shoulders brushed as they immediately began using animated hand gestures to mimic dance formations, their laughter blending together perfectly over the sizzling sound of the street food grid.
A cold, heavy stone suddenly dropped into the pit of your stomach. It wasn't just that they were getting along. It was the terrifying realization of how effortlessly she spoke his language—a language that you had no access to.
“Hey,” a low, gentle voice murmured right beside your ear.
You blinked, snapping out of your trance to find Jeonghan standing next to you. He didn't have his usual mischievous smirk. Instead, his eyes were quiet, remarkably perceptive, and laced with a soft, protective concern as he looked from your pale face to the laughing duo at the center of the table.
He quietly pulled out the stool right next to his own, far away from the center of the noise, and gave you a reassuring nod. “Come sit by me. Let's get some food before Mingyu eats the entire menu.”
You quietly slid onto the plastic stool beside Jeonghan, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag under the table. You tried to force a small, polite smile as the rest of the members greeted you, but your chest felt so tight you could barely take a deep breath.
Across the table, the world seemed to fade away for Soonyoung. He was completely captivated.
“No, because contemporary formatting is completely different from hip-hop transitions!” Soonyoung was saying, his voice loud and animated as he gestured with a pair of chopsticks. He leaned in close to Minji, his shoulder flush against hers. “When we did the formations for Fear, I wanted to pull in that fluid, heavier weight, you know? But the guys kept hitting it too sharply!”
“I totally get that!” Minji replied, her eyes bright as she nodded along eagerly. “Contemporary relies so much on gravity. If you treat it like pop-and-lock, you lose the emotion entirely. Have you ever thought about trying a piece where you deliberately delay the downbeat?”
“A delayed downbeat?” Soonyoung’s eyes went completely wide, a look of pure, unadulterated awe washing over his face. He looked at her as if she had just handed him the secrets to the universe. “Oh my god. Minji. You're a genius. Let's look at the studio schedule—are you free on Wednesday? You have to come by the practice room. I want to show you the demo we're working on for the next unit track.”
“I'd love to! I can bring some of my old recital tapes too,” she chimed in, laughing as Soonyoung eagerly pulled out his phone, opening his calendar and entirely forgetting the food sitting right in front of him.
Every word felt like a physical blow to your chest. You sat there, staring blankly at the steaming bowl of tteokbokki Seungkwan had passed down to you, completely unable to pick up your chopsticks. It wasn't that Minji was doing anything malicious; she was sweet, genuinely talented, and completely innocent.
But watching how effortlessly she drew out his passion, how naturally he confided his artistic frustrations in her—frustrations he usually kept bottled up—made you feel entirely invisible.
You had spent the whole morning flustered over a shared look over an espresso machine. But watching him now, you realized she spoke a language that you could never learn. You were just the barista who made his daily americano. She was someone who actually belonged in his world.
“Eat up,” Jeonghan murmured softly beside you, breaking the spell. He quietly dropped a perfectly grilled chicken skewer into your bowl, his voice low enough that it didn't carry over the loud chatter of the table.
You looked over at him, your throat burning with a sudden, humiliating wave of tears. You quickly blinked them away, looking down at your hands. “I'm not really hungry, hyung,” you whispered back, your voice cracking slightly.
Jeonghan didn't push you. He didn't make a joke, and he didn't call attention to you. He just quietly shifted his position on the bench, deliberately blocking your direct line of sight to Soonyoung and Minji so you wouldn't have to watch them exchange phone numbers.
“Hey! Barista-nim!” Seungkwan suddenly called out from the other end of the table, entirely oblivious to the heavy atmosphere. “Did Hoshi actually pay for Jeonghan-hyung's massive scam of an order this morning, or did he have to wash dishes to cover it?”
The question finally drew Soonyoung’s attention away from his conversation. His head snapped up, his eyes instantly scanning the table until they landed on you. The animated, excited grin on his face faltered for a fraction of a second when he noticed how pale you were, and how your untouched food was sitting cold in front of you.
“Ah... yeah, I paid,” Soonyoung muttered, his voice dropping its loud excitement as he looked at you, a sudden flash of hesitation flickering in his tiger eyes. “Did you... did you get enough to eat? I can order more skewers if you want.”
The sudden pity—or what felt like pity to your bruised heart—was the final straw.
“No, I'm good, thank you,” you said, forcing the most believable, polite smile you could muster as you stood up from the stool. You adjusted your bag over your shoulder. “Actually, guys, I'm feeling a bit tired from the shift. I think I'm going to head home first. Have fun, and thank you for the food, Soonyoung.”
“Wait, already?” Soonyoung started to slide out from the bench, his brow furrowing with instant worry. “I can walk you to the station—”
“No, stay! You and Minji were right in the middle of planning Wednesday's session,” you interrupted quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly, backing out from under the red plastic tarp into the cool night air. “Jeonghan-hyung will walk me out. Right, hyung?”
Jeonghan smoothly stood up, grabbing his jacket. “Yeah, I need to stretch my legs anyway. See you guys at practice tomorrow.”
As you turned on your heel and walked away into the crowded alley, you could feel Soonyoung's burning gaze locked onto your retreating back. But for the first time, you didn't turn around to look. The space beside him was occupied now, and as the cold wind hit your face you walked beside Jeonghan in silence.
Something you never did. But you weren't ready to speak; perhaps you were just overthinking this too much.
You were walking towards the train station, but Jeonghan grabbed your arm, saying, “I'll take you home, I'm not making you pay for a train ticket when I can drive you safely”
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your shoulders dropping as you nodded silently. “Okay. Thank you, hyung.”
The walk to his car was a blur of neon signs and the muffled chatter of the city. Jeonghan didn't say a word, completely mirroring your silence. He unlocked the passenger door for you, waited until you were safely inside, and then climbed into the driver's seat. The moment he started the engine, the quiet hum of the heater began to fill the small space, taking the edge off the chilly night air.
As he pulled out of the parking lot and navigated the dark streets, you leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the streetlights blur into long, watery streaks. Your mind was a chaotic mess of overlapping thoughts. Am I being pathetic? She’s just his friend. He was just being nice. But he looked at her so differently. He never looks at me like that.
The car ride was completely silent, Jeonghan didn't push, he knew you, and you'll talk about it when you are ready to.
When Jeonghan finally pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, he shifted the car into park but left the engine running, keeping the warm air circulating.
He turned his head, giving you a long, quiet look filled with that rare, older-brother sincerity he only showed when it truly mattered. “Get some sleep,” he murmured softly, reaching over to gently tap the top of your head. “Don't let your brain bully you tonight. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, hyung. Drive safe,” you whispered, offering him a faint, grateful smile before stepping out into the chilly night.
Upstairs, your apartment felt heavy and empty. You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to get changed into your oversized pajamas, crawled under the covers, and let the exhausting weight of the day finally pull you into a restless sleep.
Tuesday 7:20 p.m.
The next morning, you arrived at the cafeteria determined to bury your feelings in routine. You ground the beans, wiped down the stainless steel, and officially unlocked the glass doors. You expected Seungkwan and Jeonghan to show up for their usual interrogation, but instead, the bell above the door chimed to reveal a completely different trio.
“Good morning, barista-nim!” Seungkwan's voice carried across the room, unusually bright and cheerful, as if he was overcompensating for the heavy atmosphere from the night before.
Walking right alongside him were Joshua and Minji.
Minji looked effortlessly stunning in a casual knit sweater, her face completely fresh and glowing. The moment her eyes landed on you, her entire face lit up with genuine warmth. “Hi! Good morning!” Minji beamed, walking straight up to the counter and leaning against it enthusiastically.
“Oh wow, Joshua wasn't lying—this cafeteria is so beautiful. And look at you! Your hair is so pretty today, what product do you use? I swear, the city humidity has been ruining my curls all week, but you look absolutely flawless.” You blinked, completely caught off guard by the sudden barrage of sweet compliments. The defensive walls you had built up in your head overnight suddenly felt incredibly silly.
“Oh... um, thank you,” you stammered, a small, genuine flush hitting your cheeks. “It's just a standard serum, I can text you the brand later if you want.” “Please do!” Minji clapped her hands together, smiling brightly.
“And honestly, I wanted to apologize for monopolizing the conversation so much last night. I was just so nervous meeting everyone, and Hoshi-ssi was the only one who understood my rants about contemporary timing! But I felt so bad when you left early. Are you feeling better today?”
“Yeah, much better, just a bit of burnout,” you lied softly, your heart twisting. Minji was incredibly sweet. She wasn't a threat; she was a girl trying to fit into a new city, and she genuinely liked you. You couldn't even force yourself to resent her if you tried.
“Good! Because we definitely need to hang out, just the girls; you and me! without all these noisy boys around,” she joked, nudging Joshua with her elbow.
“Hey, I am excellent company,” Joshua defended with a calm smile. “But I agree, you two should hang out. Now, can we order? Seungkwan is vibrating.”
“I am hungry,” Seungkwan corrected dramatically, slamming his hand lightly on the marble. “Give me a vanilla latte and a chocolate muffin, please.” You turned around to pull the espresso shots, smiling at Minji's continuous chatter.
Then, the glass doors clicked open again.
“Good morning!”
Soonyoung practically bounced into the cafeteria, holding a tablet in his hand. But the moment his eyes scanned the room and locked onto Minji, his performance-leader switch flipped instantly.
“Minji! Perfect, you're already here! Look, I re-watched that contemporary tape you sent me last night at 2:00 a.m., and I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about the bridge transition.”
“Wait, really?!” Minji turned around, her face instantly mirroring his excitement. “Did you see what I meant about the delayed downbeat?”
“Yes! Exactly!” Soonyoung exploded, completely bypassing Joshua and Seungkwan to lean over the counter right next to her. He tapped the screen of his tablet aggressively, showing her a dance timeline. “Look right here. If we drop the bass on the fourth count instead of the third…”
Within a matter of seconds, the entire atmosphere behind the counter shifted violently.
It was like a transparent wall had dropped around the two of them, turning the busy lounge into their own private cafeteria. They started talking a lot, their voices overlapping in a rapid-fire torrent of dance terminology, rhythm counts, and formation ideas. Soonyoung was completely animated, his shoulder pressing against Minji’s as they both leaned over the screen, totally oblivious to the world around them.
You stood frozen with the milk pitcher in your hand. The contrast was suffocating. Just yesterday morning, Soonyoung had been blushing and stuttering over an americano with you. Now, he was entirely consumed by a world you had no part in. You felt the familiar, icy weight dropping into your stomach, making you feel entirely invisible while you stood less than two feet away from him.
Seungkwan’s eyes darted from the frantic duo to your pale face, his expression instantly morphing into a sharp frown. He cleared his throat loudly, but Soonyoung didn't even blink, still humming a rhythm to Minji.
Joshua’s smile faded too. Realizing the boundary had been entirely crossed, he stepped directly between his cousin and Soonyoung, physically breaking their line of sight.
“Alright, Hoshi, wrap it up,” Joshua intervened, his voice calm but carrying a rare, firm authority that made Soonyoung blink out of his trance. “We came here to get coffee before work, don't bring work to this beautiful sanctuary.”
“Yeah, hello? Some of us are actually trying to wake up, not watch a live choreography breakdown,” Seungkwan chimed in smoothly, his tone sharp as he subtly stepped in front of you, blocking Soonyoung from looking at your tightened jaw. He grabbed his drink from the pickup tray and nudged Minji's arm.
“Come on, Minji-ya, let's go drink this in the lounge before he traps you here all morning.”
“Oh! Right, sorry, I got carried away,” Minji said, offering you a sweet, apologetic wave as Seungkwan and Joshua quickly ushered her toward the exit.
Soonyoung blinked, suddenly looking around the cafeteria as if he had just woken up from a dream. The loud, chaotic energy faded, leaving him standing alone at the counter. He looked down at you, his tiger eyes softening back into that hesitant, nervous look from the day before.
“Hey,” he murmured quietly, his fingers twitching against the edge of his tablet. “I... I didn't see you there for a second. Good morning.”
That "didn't see you there" hurt you more than anything, more than seeing him happy with someone else; being invisible to him was worse than anything.
“But anyway, I'll take my usual!”
The words echoed in your mind, sharp and heavy, cutting through whatever lingering warmth you had felt from his visit the previous morning. It shouldn't have hurt this badly. He didn't mean it maliciously—you knew his brain worked in hyper-fixated bursts when it came to dance—but being completely invisible to the person who usually looked at you like you were the center of the universe was a brand of agony you weren't prepared for. Yesterday, he had walked across the entire building just to catch your eye. Today, you were just a part of the background scenery.
“Right,” you muttered, forcing your voice to remain perfectly flat, completely devoid of the shaky emotion threatening to break through. You didn't look up to meet his eyes, terrified of what he might see in yours. “An iced americano.”
“Yeah! Thanks,” Soonyoung said, his voice dropping some of its nervous edge as he slipped his tablet under his arm. He didn't seem to notice the shift in your energy yet, his mind still half-buoyant from his conversation with Minji. He leaned his elbows against the marble counter, shifting comfortably. “Man, Minji is seriously amazing. Her brain works so fast with contemporary counts. I feel like we’re going to completely rewrite the performance unit's B-side choreography by the end of the week.”
Every word felt like a fresh layer of salt on a raw wound. You turned your back to him, reaching for the coffee grinder. The aggressive, loud buzz of the machine grinding the espresso beans was a welcome relief, drowning out the suffocating quiet of the room and the heavy thumping of your own heart.
As you locked the portafilter into the machine and pressed the extraction button, you stared at the dark liquid dripping into the shot glass. You're just the barista, a cruel little voice in your head whispered. She’s his peer. She belongs in the world he actually lives in.
You poured the cold water and ice into a plastic cup, topping it off with the fresh espresso shots.
When you turned around to place it on the pickup station, you caught him staring at you. His head was tilted, his sharp eyes blinking softly as he took in your rigid posture and the tight, forced line of your jaw. The easy, excited smile he had been wearing slowly faltered.
“Here's your americano,” you said politely, your tone matching the standard, detached voice you used for corporate executives who wandered down from the upper floors. You didn't slide it closer to his hand. You just set it down and immediately reached for a clean cloth, turning your attention to the already spotless countertop.
Soonyoung didn't pick up the cup right away. He reached for it, but his fingers paused against the cold plastic, his brow furrowing as he sensed the icy wall you had suddenly built between you.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice losing all of its hyperactive energy, replaced by a sudden, hesitant worry. “Are you... are you okay? You seem kind of quiet today. Did you really recover from that burnout yesterday?”
“I'm perfectly fine, Soonyoung,” you replied, keeping your eyes strictly on the marble you were wiping down. “Just busy. The morning rush is about to start and I have a lot of prep work to finish before the doors officially open.”
“Oh.” He shifted from foot to foot, the silence between you stretching out, heavy and suffocating. He looked at the cup, then back at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Right. Sorry for... blocking the counter. I didn't mean to get in your way.”
“'s fine. It's my job,” you said simply, finally looking up to give him a brief, entirely empty customer-service smile before walking away to the back sink, effectively ending the conversation.
Soonyoung stood alone at the counter for another long moment, looking incredibly small in his oversized clothes. He slowly picked up his coffee, his eyes lingering on your back with a deep, confused hurt before he finally turned and walked out of the cafeteria, the glass doors clicking shut behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.
“Fuck.”
Maybe your friends weren't wrong; you liked Soonyoung.
Tuesday 5:34 p.m.
It was almost closing time, you looked at the clock and wished the hands would strike 6 o'clock. You needed to leave, you wanted to leave.
For the past eight hours, you had been moving like a machine—pouring milk, pressing buttons, wiping surfaces until your reflection stared back at you from the polished metal. You had done everything in your power to stay busy, to stop your brain from replaying that brief, devastating fraction of a second where Soonyoung looked right through you.
The door to the cafeteria hallway gave a sharp, echoing click.
“Barista-nim!” Fortunately, it was Seungcheol.
Seungcheol walked in,his gym bag slung over one broad shoulder. He looked tired from a long day of meetings, but the moment he caught sight of you standing behind the counter, his features softened into a warm, older-brotherly smile.
“You look like you're about to pass out standing up. Rough day?” he said, walking up to the register and leaning his forearms against the cool marble.
“Just the usual exhaustion, hyung,” you lied smoothly, offering him a much more genuine smile than the empty customer-service mask you’d given Soonyoung hours prior. “What can I get you? I’m about to shut down the espresso machine, but I can still make whatever you need.”
“Just a cold brew is fine, don't sweat it,” Seungcheol replied, waving a hand dismissively. He watched you move to the fridge, his sharp, leader-trained eyes taking in the rigidness of your shoulders, the slight puffiness around your eyes, and the sheer fatigue bleeding through your posture.
Seungcheol wasn't loud or intrusive like Seungkwan, but he noticed everything.
As you handed him the plastic cup, he didn't pull his hand away immediately. He kept his fingers anchored to the base, forcing you to look up and meet his gaze.
“You know,” Seungcheol started quietly, his voice dropping into that protective, leader tone he used when he was genuinely worried about someone. “Hoshi was an absolute mess during the mid-day briefing.”
Your heart gave a painful, uncalled-for stutter against your ribs at the mention of his name, but you forced your face to remain entirely blank. “Oh? Did the choreo changes not go well?”
“The choreo is fine,” Seungcheol sighed, swirling the ice in his cup. “He's the problem. He sat through a two-hour production meeting staring at his shoes. When I asked him if he was injured or tired, he just looked at me and asked if I thought he was 'obnoxious.' Then a little birdie told me he was sad about ruining the only sanctuary in this building and dragged his feet back to Studio B.”
Seungcheol leaned a little closer, and sighed, ‘wondering’. “I don’t know what happened here, but anyways. You look like you're carrying the weight of the world, really. Is everything alright, hmm?”
The heavy block of ice in your chest felt like it was starting to crack, your throat burning with a sudden, frustrating wave of emotion.
“I'm just tired, Cheol-hyung,” you whispered, looking down at the counter. “Really. It's fine.”
Seungcheol looked at you for a long moment, knowing damn well it wasn't fine, but he respected your boundaries enough not to push. He let go of the cup, giving you a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Alright. Go home early. I'll tell the floor manager I told you to close up at 5:45. Get some rest, okay?”
“Thank you, hyung,” you breathed, a wave of pure relief washing over you
“Anytime. See you tomorrow,” he said, turning on his heel and walking out, taking a large gulp of his coffee as the glass doors clicked shut behind him.
You didn't waste a single second. The moment the doors fully closed, you flipped the open sign to 'CLOSED', shut off the main lights, and ran through the closing checklist in record time. You didn't want to be here at 6:00 p.m.
You didn't want to risk the Performance Team coming down after their rehearsal ended. You couldn't handle seeing him look at you with that confused, wounded expression when you were the one who felt entirely shattered.
By 5:48 p.m., you had your jacket on, your bag slung over your shoulder, and you were locking the main glass doors from the outside.
You walked toward the emergency stairwell instead of the elevators, desperate to escape into the cool evening air before the performance team wrapped things up.
When you finally reached the ground floor and stepped outside the cold air rushed into your lungs, a sharp, bitter shock that completely shattered the fragile hold you had on your emotions.
You shouldn't feel that way, Soonyoung and you. You're just friends.
You walked home like that, in silence; your house wasn't near the building, so you arrived at approximately 9 pm.
Your phone buzzed when you arrived. A notification from the group chat. A single photo, which broke your heart even more than it already was.
It was a group photo, Minji in the middle of them. In a practice room. Speaking the language you'd never understand.
You stood in the middle of your dark, quiet apartment, the cold air from the open window doing nothing to soothe the sudden, agonizing heat blooming behind your eyes.
You stared at the glowing screen of your phone, your thumb trembling slightly as you tapped the notification, blowing up the image until it filled your vision.
It was a classic Seventeen group photo. They were all crowded together in the center of the practice room, drenched in sweat, their faces flushed but beaming with that effortless, tight-knit energy they always possessed after a hard run-through. And right there, dead center in the middle of the frame, sat Minji. She was holding up a peace sign, laughing brightly as Hoshi leaned over her shoulder from behind, his eyes crinkled into those happy, crescent moons that used to be reserved entirely for you.
The caption, sent by a cheerful Dokyeom, read: “Nailed it!! Special thanks to our honorary 14th member, Minji-ya! 💎✨”
A single, hot tear finally spilled over your lashes, splashing directly onto the glass screen, fracturing the image into a watery blur.
It wasn't just that Soonyoung looked happy. It was the crushing weight of the realization that she had integrated into their world in less than forty-eight hours, while you were still standing securely on the outside, looking in through a glass window.
Your mind, entirely exhausted and deeply bruised from the day’s events, began to twist the knife further. You thought back to all the times you had joined them for late-night hotpot, all the weekend gatherings, and the casual hangouts at the Han River. A bitter, suffocating lump formed in your throat as you realized something devastating: you barely existed in their digital memories. Every time the group gathered for a photo, you were always the one who volunteered to take it.
“Oh, let me do it, I can get all thirteen of you in the frame!”
You would always say, offering a bright smile. And they would cheer, completely oblivious, leaving you as the invisible ghost behind the camera lens. You had known them for months, yet Minji had moved into their bubble seamlessly within days, earning a spot dead center because she spoke the language of sweat, rhythm, and stage presence.
She belonged in the building. You just worked in it. To them, you were just the sweet, dependable "barista-nim" who kept them caffeinated.
The worst part of the agony—the part that made you feel utterly pathetic—was that you still couldn't bring yourself to resent Minji. She was genuinely lovely. She had complimented your hair, offered to text you, and explicitly stated she wanted to hang out "just the girls." She wasn't a villain trying to steal your life; she was just a talented, magnetic person who naturally fit into a puzzle where you had been forcing yourself into a corner that didn't belong to you.
You slowly sat down on the edge of your bed, the darkness of the room swallowing you whole. The silence of your apartment felt deafening compared to the loud, vibrant warmth of that practice room photo.
I don't belong in their bubble, you thought, a profound, hollow numbness washing over your chest. I never did.
It was a self-inflicted realization, but it felt like the only way to protect what was left of your dignity. If you stayed, you would keep watching Soonyoung look right through you. You would keep pouring drinks while he animatedly rewrote his future with someone who understood his passion. You would keep being the person behind the camera, completely erased from the frame.
With a numb, heavy finality, you tapped out of the group chat. You didn't leave the room—that would cause too much drama, and Seungcheol would be downstairs demanding answers by morning—but you firmly hit the 'Mute' button, setting the notifications to Always.
You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back onto your pillow as the tears silently soaked into the fabric. You were going to pull away. Not with an explosion, and not with an argument, but slowly, quietly drifting out of their orbit until you were just a distant memory. If you were just the barista to them, then that’s exactly what you would be.
Wednesday 7:20 a.m.
You had told yourself that you were going to pull away, that you were going to accept your place on the periphery of his world. But the human heart is a stubborn, fragile thing.
You had woken up at 5:30 a.m. before your alarm could even finish its first chime. You had stood in front of your small bathroom mirror for twenty minutes, carefully applying a touch of makeup, smoothing down a new cardigan, and making sure your hair fell perfectly over your shoulders. Every time you did something extra, Soonyoung was always the first to notice. He would blink, his entire face flushing pink, and stammer out a compliment about how “bright” you looked today.
You had dressed up for him. You had allowed yourself one final, desperate sliver of hope.
By 7:35 a.m., the espresso machine was fully heated, its metallic hum filling the empty room. The pastry display was perfectly stocked. The marble counter was spotless.
The glass doors remained entirely still.
You kept your eyes glued to the digital clock on
7:40 a.m.
7:45 a.m.
7:50 a.m.
The exact minute Soonyoung usually burst through the doors, radiating chaotic, high-energy warmth and smelling of fresh soap, came and went. The corridor outside remained completely empty.
You stood behind the counter, your fingers gripping the edges of the marble so hard your knuckles turned white. The realization hit you: he had —What you thought of as a date—a dance practice with Minji since 6:00 a.m. maybe.
He was already upstairs. He was in the practice room. And today, he hadn't felt the need to walk across the building to see you. He didn't need an excuse to escape the studio because his inspiration, his focus, his world was already up there with him.
8:00 a.m.
The cafeteria officially opened, but no one came. Seungkwan didn't show up with Jeonghan to interrogate you. Even the regular staff from the upper production floors seemed to vanish, leaving you entirely alone in the massive, hollow space.
The beautiful clothes you had picked out felt like a cruel joke. The careful touch of makeup on your face felt heavy, a pathetic mask worn for an audience that never bothered to show up.
Wednesday 2:00 p.m.
By the afternoon, the isolation became suffocating. The cafeteria was a ghost town. You spent hours wiping down surfaces that were already clean, your chest aching with a profound, hollow numbness. Every single click of the glass doors made your heart leap into your throat, only for your stomach to drop when it turned out to be a stray delivery driver or a manager rushing past without looking at you.
You pulled out your phone. The group chat was still muted, but you couldn't stop yourself from opening it.
There were no new messages from Soonyoung. No panicked boggling over complex orders. The last message was still Dokyeom’s photo from the night before, featuring Minji sitting dead center in the practice room, holding up a peace sign.
You were completely, entirely invisible.
“Why did I even try?” you whispered to the empty room, your voice cracking.
A wave of intense, exhausting sadness washed over you, burying itself deep into your bones. You couldn't stand being in this building for another minute. Every corner of it reminded you of a reality you didn't belong to.
You didn't want to wait for 6:00 p.m. You didn't even wait for the afternoon shift to officially end. There was no point in keeping the lights on for a sanctuary that felt more like a cage.
Moving like a mechanical doll, you flipped the sign on the glass door to CLOSED.
Instantly after, someone was in front of you. Soonyoung.
But it wasn't Soonyoung walking in alone, looking guilty or worried. It was a crowd. And they weren't quiet.
“No, because if we drop the bass on the fourth count instead of the third, the entire transition feels twice as powerful!” Soonyoung’s voice exploded into the room, practically vibrating with a frantic, euphoric energy.
He burst through the doors flanked by Joshua and Minji, with Seungkwan and Mingyu trailing closely behind them, all of them talking over one another. They looked exhausted from days of intense, non-stop practicing, but their faces were flushed with the absolute high of a massive creative breakthrough.
“Good afternoon, barista-nim!” Seungkwan called out, completely riding the wave of the group's excitement as he stepped up to the counter. “Give us the usual, please! We need maximum caffeine, the choreographer actually clapped at the end of the run-through today!”
“Sure,” you muttered, forcing your voice to remain perfectly flat, completely devoid of emotion.
You looked up to take the cards, and your eyes briefly met Soonyoung’s. He didn't look nervous. He didn't look like he had been losing sleep over the icy wall you’d built the past days before. His eyes were bright, wide, and entirely consumed by the adrenaline of the performance team's success.
“It was insane,” Soonyoung said, leaning his elbows on the marble counter, turning his head to look at Minji instead of you. “Minji’s formatting change completely saved the B-side. The synchronization in the second verse is literally perfect now.”
“You guys did all the heavy lifting, I just adjusted the angles,” Minji laughed, her face glowing with genuine warmth as she nudged Joshua.
“Hey, take the credit,” Mingyu chimed in, leaning over the counter to watch you pour the milk. “Hyung was so happy he almost cried during the midday briefing. We have to celebrate.”
Right there, standing less than two feet away from you, the bubble formed. It wasn't intentional, and it wasn't malicious. It was just the natural, overwhelming momentum of a group of artists who had just conquered a massive hurdle.
“Oh! We should totally do a huge hangout tonight to celebrate,” Joshua suggested, his calm voice bright with an older-brother sort of pride. “The weather is perfect, we could grab a ton of food and just head down to the river lot.”
“Yes! Han River park!” Seungkwan cheered, immediately pulling out his phone. “I’ll text the 95-liners right now to make sure Cheol-hyung buys the fried chicken. Mingyu, you’re in charge of ordering the hotpot delivery to the picnic site.”
“On it,” Mingyu nodded, his thumb already flying across his screen.
They stood at your counter, completely wrapped up in the logistics of the evening. They discussed who would drive, which blankets to bring from the dorms, and what time the vocal team would finish their recording session.
You stood right in front of them, locking the portafilter into the machine, the heavy metallic thud of the espresso grounds hitting the knock-box completely ignored. You placed Seungkwan’s latte on the pickup tray. You set down the iced americanos.
No one looked up. No one paused the conversation to look at your rigid posture. In the sheer excitement of the moment, in the high of a rehearsal that had gone spectacularly well, your presence had simply faded into the background. You were just the barista pouring the drinks that fueled the brainstorm. The casual invitations from earlier in the week, the lingering stares—it was all completely washed away by the tide of their real world.
“Alright, let’s go before the manager catches us slacking!” Seungkwan grabbed the tray of drinks, nodding to the rest.
“Thanks for the coffee!” Minji offered you a sweet, beautiful smile as she turned to follow them.
Soonyoung grabbed his americano, his fingers brushing the plastic cup, his mind already three steps ahead as he animatedly gestured a dance formation to Joshua on their way out. The glass doors clicked shut behind them, their loud, overlapping laughter fading down the polished corridor.
You stood alone behind the counter, holding a clean cloth, the silence of the cafeteria rushing back in to suffocate you. They hadn't even thought to ask if you were free. They hadn't even excluded you on purpose; you had just simply been forgotten.
Wednesday 8:30 p.m.
The evening arrived. You had closed the cafeteria exactly on time, running through the checklist, before heading straight back to your apartment.
You sat in the middle of your dark living room, the open window letting in the chilly night air. You had your phone in your hand. You knew you shouldn't look. You knew the group chat was muted for a reason. But the silence of the flat was driving you insane.
With a numb, hollow feeling in your chest, you unlocked the screen and opened the chat.
The media section was completely flooded. Dozens of photos and videos had been dumped into the conversation over the last two hours.
You scrolled through them slowly, the light from the screen reflecting in your dull eyes.
There were photos of the massive blue picnic blanket laid out on the grass by the river, covered in steaming boxes of chicken and glowing convenience store ramen containers.
In one video, DK and Seungkwan were singing at the top of their lungs into empty cider bottles, while the rest of the members cheered and laughed in the background.
And then, there was a group photo.
They were all crowded together, sitting cross-legged on the blankets under the glowing lights of the city bridge. Dead center, laughing brightly, was Minji. Right next to her was Soonyoung. He was glowing, his eyes crinkled into those happy, crescent moons, as always.
His shoulder flush against hers as he pointed a pair of chopsticks at the camera.
You scrolled to the very bottom of the messages, your thumb trembling.
There wasn't a single mention of your name. No one had texted to say, “Hey, where's our barista-nim?” No one had noticed that the person who usually joined them for late-night food wasn't sitting on the edge of the blanket. In the rush of the sweat, the rhythm, the success, and the easy integration of someone who actually spoke their language, you had been completely erased from the frame.
A single, hot tear finally spilled over your lashes, splashing directly onto the glass screen, fracturing the happy image into a watery blur.
It wasn't that they were mean. If they had explicitly left you out, you could be angry. But this was worse. They had just entirely, effortlessly forgotten you existed the moment they stepped outside the cafeteria walls. She belonged in their bubble. You just worked in the building.
With a heavy, final breath, you called your boss, telling them you would be absent for the next two days due to health reasons. After the call ended, you placed your phone face-down on your nightstand, letting the darkness of the room swallow you whole. You pulled your knees up to your chest, burying your face in your oversized hoodie as the quiet sobs finally shook your shoulders. The pining, the shared looks over the counter, the hope—it was completely over. If you were just the barista to them, then from tomorrow on, that’s exactly what you would be.
Thursday 10:30 a.m.
“Hoshi, sit the fuck down, you're making me dizzy!” Minji exclaimed from where she was sitting. Soonyoung was pacing back and forth, worried that you hadn't opened the cafeteria.
Soonyoung didn’t stop. If anything, his footsteps became faster, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking sharply against the polished studio floor with a frantic, erratic rhythm. His hair was a completely disheveled mess from how many times he had dragged his hands through it over the last four hours.
“I can't just sit down, Minji-ya,” Soonyoung choked out, his voice completely stripped of its usual bright, confident volume.
He halted for a single fraction of a second, pointing a trembling hand toward the studio doors. “The lights are completely off down there. The metal grate is pulled down. It’s 10:30. She never opens late. Even when she had that awful flu last winter, she was still behind the counter at 7:50 sharp, telling me to stop yelling because her head hurt.”
He resumed his frantic pacing, his chest heaving as a heavy, suffocating wave of panic visibly rolled over him. “Something is wrong. I know it. I went down there at 7:00, then at 8:00, then at 9:30. I even tried knocking on the back door of the kitchen. What if she’s hurt? What if she got into an accident on her way to work?”
“Hoshi, breathe,” Minji sighed, her expression softening from annoyance into deep, quiet concern. She set her tablet down on the bench, leaning forward. “Joshua-oppa already went down to talk to the floor manager on the third floor. They're checking the staff schedule right now. Just... stop walking for two seconds.”
Before Soonyoung could reply, the heavy glass door of the practice room swung open.
Joshua walked in, flanked closely by a remarkably silent Seungkwan and an uncharacteristically grim-faced Jeonghan. The moment Soonyoung caught sight of them, he practically sprinted across the hardwood floor.
“Well?!” Soonyoung begged, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweatpants. “Did you talk to them? Is she okay? Where is she, Shua-hyung?”
Joshua didn't answer right away. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes dropping to the floor for a beat before he looked up to meet the younger boy's frantic gaze. The absolute lack of his usual gentle, comforting smile made Soonyoung’s face go entirely pale.
“The manager said she called in sick last night, right after the afternoon shift ended,” Joshua said softly, his voice carrying a heavy, somber weight. “She took a formal two-day medical leave. She’s not coming in today, Soonyoung. And she’s not coming in tomorrow.”
“Sick?” Soonyoung whispered, his throat bobbing violently as he swallowed hard. “But... but she looked completely fine on Wednesday afternoon when she poured the americanos. She was just... she was just quiet. She didn't look sick.”
“She isn't physically sick, you complete moron,” Seungkwan snapped suddenly from behind Joshua. His voice didn't carry its usual sharp, theatrical sting; instead, it was cracking with a sudden, overwhelming wave of genuine, defensive anger. He stepped forward, his eyes flashing as he glared directly at the performance leader. “This is completely our fault. Put two and two together, idiot”
Soonyoung flinched back as if he had been physically struck, his jaw slackening. “What... what do you mean? What did we do?”
“Think about it, Soonyoung-ah,” Jeonghan chimed in, his characteristic calm demeanor shifting into a cold protective seriousness as he crossed his arms. He leaned against the studio wall, his dark eyes locking onto the trembling boy. “Yesterday afternoon. Y'all ran down the stairs like a pack of loud, ungrateful animals. You stood right in front of her counter, completely wrapped up in our own little world, planning a massive Han River hangout right in her face. And not a single one of you thought to ask if she was free. You didn't even look at her posture.”
The silence that followed was brutal, Soonyoung stood absolutely frozen. His eyes blinked rapidly as Jeonghan’s words began to violently tear through his memories of Wednesday afternoon. The euphoric high of the creative breakthrough with Minji instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, sickening realization. He remembered leaning on the marble counter. He remembered turning his head to look at the tablet screen instead of her face. He remembered grabbing his cup and walking out, gesturing a dance formation to Joshua while the glass doors clicked shut behind him.
He hadn't even looked at her. He had treated the person who usually looked at him like he was the center of the universe like background scenery.
“Oh my god,” Soonyoung breathed, his voice dropping into a broken, horrified whisper. He looked down at his hands, his fingers trembling violently as a hot tear finally escaped his lashes, splashing onto the hardwood floor. “The group photo... Dokyeom sent that photo to the main chat. Fuck! We fucked up, I, I fucked up!”
“Soonyoung, sit down and shut up,” Jeonghan said.
He didn't uncross his arms from where he leaned against the studio mirror, his eyes fixed on the performance leader with a cold, absolute gravity.
Soonyoung froze, his fingers still white-knuckled around his car keys. “Hyung, she’s sitting in her apartment thinking she’s nothing to us—”
“And going there to make a scene while she’s on medical leave is going to fix that?” Jeonghan countered, “You’re not going anywhere near her today. She needs space from this entire building, and honestly, she needs space from you.”
Soonyoung flinched, his chest heaving as he looked over at Joshua, silently begging for support. But Joshua just kept his eyes on the floor, his face drawn and uncharacteristically tense.
Jeonghan finally stepped away from the glass, his gaze sweeping over Joshua and
Seungkwan. “I had production meetings until late Wednesday night. I open the group chat at midnight, and what do I see? A massive media dump. Chicken boxes, convenience store ramen, and a full group photo at the river lot.” He looked directly at Joshua. “Knowing you all I'm sure you stood at her counter in the afternoon, planned the entire thing right in front of her face, and not a single one of you thought to look at her?”
“Hyung, we thought she was busy because she closed early—” Seungkwan started, his voice cracking with a sudden, defensive panic.
“Bullshit! You didn't invite her. You just assumed she’d always be there behind the marble whenever you felt like dropping by.”
“It wasn't just us!” Seungkwan burst out, his face flushing as the guilt turned into frantic deflecting. He pointed a sharp finger toward the empty corridor outside the door. “Mingyu was the one flying across his screen ordering the hotpot! He was the one managing the logistics! If anyone was supposed to send the invite, it was him!”
“Yeah, Mingyu was literally handling the food layout,” Joshua muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice heavy with a quiet, hollow shame. “We just... the momentum of the day was too loud. We didn't think.”
“Mingyu isn't in this room, and he isn't the one she looks for every morning,” Jeonghan said, his eyes shifting back to Soonyoung, who was staring blankly at the floorboards, completely unraveled. “But the three of you? You're supposed to be her friends. You've spent months treating that cafeteria like your personal living room because she made it feel like one. I am so disappointed in you all, when she comes back, you two” he pointed at Seungkwan and Joshua “are gonna apologize. And you” he pointed at Soonyoung “You need to give her space.”
Thursday 3:45 pm
Practice was dismissed for the day, too many mistakes, no energy, it was just too much. While Soonyoung was putting his things away, Minji approached him.
“You know, If you had been clear about your feelings for her from the beginning, perhaps you would already be together.”
Soonyoung’s hands froze over the zipper of his gym bag. He let his shoulders sag, a heavy, exhausted sigh rattling through his chest as he kept his eyes strictly on his half-packed bag.
“Minji-ya, please,” Soonyoung muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, incredibly weary register. He dragged a hand down his face, looking older than his years under the harsh fluorescent studio lights. “Don't tease me right now. Not today. I already feel like the worst person on this entire floor.”
“I'm not teasing you,” Minji replied smoothly, her tone entirely devoid of its usual playful edge. She leaned her shoulder completely against the metallic clothing rack next to his locker, crossing her arms. “I'm being serious. If you had just told her how you felt weeks ago instead of lingering around the counter like a nervous middle-schooler, she wouldn't doubt her position in your life.”
Soonyoung slowly zipped his bag, the metallic screech of the zipper sounding painfully loud in the empty, quiet practice room. He finally turned to look at her.
“I didn't want to rush her,” he whispered, his throat bobbing hard as he gripped the strap of his bag. “I wanted to do it right. I wanted to make sure she felt safe. But instead, I... I did exactly what Jeonghan-hyung said. I treated her like background scenery because my brain was stuck on random bullshit, when she matters to me the most.”
He took a sharp, shaky breath, his defenses completely crumbling as he looked at Minji, desperately searching her face for any kind of answer.
“What do I do, Minji-ya?” Soonyoung asked, his voice cracking with a terrifyingly genuine vulnerability. “Jeonghan-hyung told me to give her space, so I'm not going to her apartment. I'm not going to suffocate her. But the silence is literally making me sick. I can't just sit in the dorms for the next forty-eight hours knowing she’s hiding from me. What can I actually do to make this right?”
Minji looked at him for a long beat, taking in the absolute desperation rolling off his posture. The anger she had felt on your behalf earlier in the afternoon softened just a fraction, replaced by the practical, protective instinct of a peer.
“You stop trying to pull her into your bubble, and you start stepping into hers,” Minji said flatly, her voice grounded and firm. “Right now, she thinks she doesn't belong in your world because she doesn't dance. She thinks there's a barrier between us and her. So when she comes back just give her space, and when she's ready to talk, she'll reach out.”
Soonyoung wasn't satisfied with that answer. How could he bear not speaking to the love of his life? But perhaps if that was the solution, he would endure it. “Alright then… Thanks.”
Soonyoung threw his gym bag into the corner of his bedroom, the heavy thud doing nothing to break the suffocating quiet of the apartment. He didn't turn on the lights. He just walked over to his window, leaning his forehead against the cool glass, staring down at the city streetlights starting to flicker on in the early twilight.
Give her space. Minji’s voice kept looping in his head, a clinical, detached prescription for a pain that felt entirely visceral. *ÑWhen she's ready to talk, she'll reach out.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over her contact name. He wanted to call. He wanted to text a paragraph of frantic, clumsy explanations. But he remembered Jeonghan’s cold, absolute warning from this morning, and his hand dropped back to his side. The restraint felt like physical weights tying him down.
To escape the urge to look at his screen, he closed his eyes, drawing in a sharp, ragged breath.
But the darkness only brought her back.
His mind pulled up a quiet, ordinary Tuesday afternoon from last month. The cafeteria had been completely empty during the post-lunch lull. He had snuck down under the pretense of needing an extra sleeve of cup lids for the studio, but really, he had just wanted a break from his own head.
He remembered leaning against the marble counter, watching her quietly restock the pastry display. She looked peaceful, her fingers carefully arranging the small tarts, humming a low, repetitive Indie track he didn't recognize.
When she noticed him watching. She had just paused, wiped her hands on her black apron, and leaned her elbows on the opposite side of the counter, looking up at him with a soft, steady understanding that always made his frantic energy instantly ground itself.
“Choreo block again?” she had asked softly, her voice a calm, flat line that felt like a lifeline in a building that was always too loud.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dropping his head onto his arms.
She hadn't offered advice. She hadn't tried to speak his language. She had just reached into the fridge, pulled out a small glass bottle of chocolate milk—the cheap kind from the convenience store that he loved but the company nutritionists hated—and slid it against his forearm. “Drink. The world isn't going to stop spinning if you take ten minutes off, Soonyoung-ah.”
They had just stood there in the quiet lounge for a full fifteen minutes, not saying a word, the only sound being the low hum of the espresso machine. She had created a border around him, a tiny sanctuary where he didn't have to be the invincible leader of anything. He had just been a boy taking a break.
Now, standing alone in his dark bedroom, the memory felt like a ghost pressing against his chest.
He remembered the group photo Dokyeom had sent on Wednesday night—the one where Minji sat dead center, and he was smiling with his chopsticks pointed at the lens. He remembered the exact second it was taken. He had been riding the adrenaline of the successful run-through, completely blind to anything else. He hadn't even noticed who was missing from the frame. He had let the ease of someone who actually shared his job completely rewrite the space where his friend was supposed to be.
A sharp, suffocating knot tightened in his throat. It wasn't just that he had embarrassed her, or that he had been loud. It was that he had taken her presence for granted so entirely that he hadn't even checked to see if she was standing in the dark while he ran toward the light.
Soonyoung let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead pressing harder against the cold window pane.
He was going to follow the rules. He was going to let Thursday and Friday pass in absolute, agonizing silence. He wouldn't suffocate her with frantic texts or show up at her door like a child demanding forgiveness. But as he watched the traffic blur into long golden streaks below, his jaw set into a firm, unyielding line.
Friday 7:20
She was already awake; she couldn't sleep any longer because of her routine. Her wake-up time was always 6 a.m., and this day was no exception. She was staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise. When she heard a knock on the door.
You didn't move at first. You stayed completely still under the covers, your eyes locked onto the white plaster of the ceiling as your heart did a sudden, chaotic leap against your ribs.
Who could it be at 7:20 on a Friday morning?
You slowly threw the blanket off your legs, your bare feet hitting the cool floorboards.
You walked down the short, dim hallway, your hands trembling slightly as you neared the entryway. You didn't look through the peephole. You just took a breath, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the heavy door open a fraction of an inch.
Standing in the corridor, completely devoid of any chaotic energy, was Jeonghan.
He was dressed casually in an oversized knit sweater, a soft black beanie capping his hair, and his hands were tucked loosely into his jacket pockets. He didn't look frantic, and he didn't look like he had run up the stairs. He just offered you a quiet, remarkably gentle smile, his dark eyes instantly taking in your puffy eyelids and the tired slope of your shoulders.
“Good morning,” Jeonghan murmured softly, his voice carrying that characteristic, unbothered calm that always felt completely grounding. He lifted his right hand from his pocket, revealing a plain plastic bag with two steam-fogged containers from the porridge shop down the street. “I figured your internal clock wouldn't let you sleep past six anyway. Can I come in?”
You blinked, the breath leaving your lungs in a long, shaky sigh. You stepped aside, opening the door wider to let him pass.
“Thanks, hyung,” you whispered, locking the door behind him.
Jeonghan walked into your small living room as if he had been there a hundred times. He didn't comment on the darkness, the closed curtains, or the heavy silence of the flat. He just set the bag of food down on the kitchen counter, pulled two stools out, and unceremoniously took a seat, peeling back the plastic lids to let the warm, savory scent of chicken porridge fill the room.
“Sit,” he instructed lightly, pointing his chopsticks at the stool opposite him. “You look like a breeze could blow you over. Eat first, then we can talk.”
You quietly slid onto the stool, your fingers wrapping around the warm paper container. For the first few minutes, the only sound between you was the light scrape of plastic spoons. Jeonghan didn't push you. He didn't force you to give an explanation, and he didn't start listing off excuses for Wednesday afternoon. He just let the silence exist, changing it from a suffocating weight into a safe, quiet space
“Normally I would give you, some more time, you know, but this needs to be solved, so, go ahead, talk, tell me what's on your mind”
You stared down at the swirling steam of the porridge, the plastic spoon heavy in your hand. The warmth of the container against your palms felt entirely too real, breaking through the numbness you’d been clinging to since Wednesday night.
“I just feel like a fool, hyung,” you whispered, your voice sounding thin and small in the quiet room. You didn't look up, keeping your eyes fixed on the pale liquid. “I stood in front of my mirror on Wednesday morning, putting on makeup and choosing a new cardigan, thinking... thinking it mattered. And then an hour later, I was completely invisible. They didn't even leave me out on purpose. They just entirely, effortlessly forgot I was even in the room the second they started talking about their real world.”
You let out a shaky, bitter breath, your fingers tightening around the warm paper bowl. “Minji belongs in that frame. She speaks the language of sweat and rhythm. I’m just the person who pours the drinks that fuel the brainstorm. I got too comfortable thinking I belonged in their bubble, but the second they step outside the cafeteria walls, I dissolve. I'm just staff.”
Jeonghan didn't interrupt. He didn't offer a quick, comforting platitude or tell you that you were overthinking. He just listened, his head tilted slightly, as he let you empty out the heavy, suffocating thoughts you had been harboring alone.
When you finally fell silent, the faint hum of your refrigerator was the only sound left between you.
Jeonghan slowly set his spoon down against the counter with a soft, deliberate click. He didn't lean forward with his usual mischievous grin. Instead, his expression stayed completely serious, carrying a rare, protective gravity.
“Are you done?” he asked quietly.
You nodded slowly, looking up to meet his gaze.
“Good. Because half of what you just said is complete garbage,” Jeonghan said, his voice smooth and entirely direct. He reached across the small counter, his long fingers gently but firmly tapping the top of your hand.
“Wednesday afternoon was a mess. Shua, Seungkwan and Mingyu were riding a rehearsal high like a group of loud, ungrateful idiots, which they absolutely are. They took your space for granted, and I already told them how disappointed I am in both of them. They are going to apologize to your face when you come back, and it's going to be humiliating for them. I'll make sure of it.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as his tone dropped into a lower, heavier register.
“But you are not 'just staff,' and you never have been. If we wanted just a barista, the company could hire anyone. We come down those stairs every single day because you are the person behind that counter. You are the one who knows how chaotic our schedules get, who tolerates Seungkwan's ridiculous orders, and who actually makes that suffocating building feel like a place we want to be.”
Jeonghan leaned back on his stool, crossing his arms as a small, weary sigh escaped his lips. “And as for Soonyoung... he didn't look right through you because you're invisible. He looked right through you because he is a hyper-focused idiot who gets completely blinded by the adrenaline of his work. But the second that high wore off? Yesterday was an absolute graveyard in the practice room. He didn't hit a single cue. He sat in the dark corner of the mirrors staring at his shoes, completely miserable because he realized his own loud brain had made you feel like a stranger.”
Jeonghan pointed his chopsticks at your porridge, his features softening back into that familiar, calm demeanor. “He wanted to sprint to your apartment this morning. I had to physically threaten to hide his car keys just to keep him from showing up on your doorstep and suffocating you. I told him he needs to give you space, and he's going to suffer through it.”
He looked at you, his dark eyes holding a deep, quiet sincerity. “Let your brain stop bullying you. But tomorrow morning, you unlock those glass doors, you tie your apron, and you let them apologize to you, mhm?”
You smiled faintly, and just nodded.
Jeonghan was right all the time; you liked Kwon Soonyoung
Friday, January 13th 2026 7:35 a.m.
The rhythmic, heavy hum of the espresso machine was the loudest sound in the cafeteria.
Outside, the winter sky was a biting, pale gray, and the cold seeped through the polished glass doors of the agency’s ground floor. You had only been working at the lounge for a few weeks, still finding your footing among the massive stacks of ceramic cups, the steep learning curve of the complex employee beverage accounts, and the intimidating atmosphere of a building populated entirely by famous, larger-than-life artists.
To you, back then, the members of Seventeen were just a whirlwind of loud voices, expensive coats, and dizzying schedules. You knew them by their faces, of course, and you knew how to charge their respective unit budget cards, but you remained firmly behind the safety of your customer-service shield. You were polite, perfectly tuned to standard company hospitality, and entirely determined to keep your distance.
Until that morning.
The heavy glass doors gave a sudden, sharp click, and before you could even lift your head from the register screen, a blast of frantic, chaotic energy practically exploded into the room.
“Oh, hi good morning! Please tell me the espresso lines are fully pressurized because my brain is running on absolute zero beats per minute!”
It was Kwon Soonyoung. He bounced toward the marble counter, clad in an oversized black puffer jacket that made him look twice his size, his hair a thoroughly disheveled, damp nest from a rushed post-practice shower. He was practically vibrating, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other, his sharp eyes wide and hyper-focused. Behind him trailed Seungkwan and Jeonghan, both buried deep into their winter scarves, moving at a much more human pace.
“Good morning,” you said, defaulting instantly to your practiced, smooth hospitality voice. “What can I get started for you today?”
“An iced americano! Extra shot! No—wait, a hot latte? No, iced. Definitely iced americano,” Soonyoung babbled, leaning his forearms heavily against the cool marble counter, completely invading your personal space without a second thought. He tilted his head up, his gaze locking directly onto yours with an intensity that caught you completely off guard. “Actually, what do you think? What's the best drink to wake up a tiger whose legs feel like jelly?”
You blinked, your fingers hovering over the touchscreen. Up close, without the barrier of a television screen or a crowded hallway, he didn't look like an unapproachable superstar. He looked incredibly human, his cheeks flushed pink from the winter wind, a faint scent of fresh soap and cedarwood radiating off his jacket.
“Um, a tiger?" you stammered, your voice coming out a fraction less polished than usual. “Uh, if your legs feel like jelly, maybe something with sugar? A vanilla latte usually helps the staff on the upper production floors.”
Soonyoung’s entire face instantly lit up. A massive, brilliant grin split his features, his eyes crinkling into those distinct, happy crescent moons that you hadn't expected to see directed entirely at you. “A vanilla latte! Brilliant! Genius! Let's do that. Make it an iced one, though. I need the frost to wake up my neurons.”
As you tapped the order into the screen, you felt a strange, sudden flutter in the pit of your stomach—a tiny, uncalled-for spark of warmth that knocked the wind out of your lungs. You quickly looked down, your face burning as you processed the transaction. “will that be cash or card?”
“Card, please!” Soonyoung beamed, but he didn't slide his card across the counter. Instead, he just kept his elbows planted on the stone, his chin dropping into his palms as he simply watched you.
It wasn't a casual glance. It was a heavy, fascinated stare, his eyes tracking the way you reached for a clean plastic cup, the way you leveled off the coffee grounds, and the careful precision of your movements. On any ordinary day, a customer staring that intensely would have made you incredibly uncomfortable. But under Soonyoung's gaze, the blood in your ears began to rush with a furious, deafening heat. Your fingers trembled slightly as you locked the portafilter into the machine, and you accidentally knocked a stray paper straw onto the floor.
Behind Soonyoung, Seungkwan’s sharp eyes darted from the performance leader's unblinking posture to the sudden, brilliant crimson creeping up your neck. A slow, wicked grin instantly spread across Seungkwan's face.
He nudged Jeonghan hard with his elbow.
“Hey, Jeonghan-hyung,” Seungkwan chimed in, his voice dripping with an exaggerated, theatrical sweetness that made your heart instantly drop. “Do you smell that? I think the espresso machine is overheating. Or maybe it's just the atmosphere around the register. It feels incredibly...warm in here all of a sudden.”
Jeonghan let out a soft, amused hum, pulling his scarf down just enough to reveal a pure, saintly smile. His dark eyes danced with pure mischief as he leaned against the pastry display, casually looking between you and Soonyoung. “Ah, you're right, Seungkwan-ah. The lounge has a very distinct energy today. Quite bright. Almost... romantic, wouldn't you say?”
“STOP,” Soonyoung barked suddenly, his head snapping around to glare at them, his own ears turning a violent, betraying shade of red. He straightened up from the counter, coughing nervously into his fist. “Don't bother her. She's working. She's a professional. Unlike you two, who are just standing there breathing my air.”
“Oh, we're bothering her?” Seungkwan scoffed, crossing his arms and stepping right up to the counter, entirely ignoring his leader's warning.
He peered over at your burning face, his expression full of absolute delight. “Barista-nim, please tell the truth. Is our leader being obnoxious? Because if he's staring too hard, we can write a formal complaint to HR on your behalf. He tends to look at things he likes with the intensity of a wild predator.”
“I am a tiger!” Soonyoung defended hotly, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to push Seungkwan away from the counter.
“You're a golden retriever who forgot how to blink,” Jeonghan corrected smoothly, his voice the definition of pure, unbothered calm. He looked at you, throwing you a slow, wicked wink that made your brain go entirely blank. “Don't mind him, lovely barista. Our Hoshi here usually has a very loud brain, but the second he comes down to the ground floor, his vocabulary mysteriously shrinks into single-syllable stutters. It's a medical anomaly.”
You stood behind the espresso machine, the steam wand giving a loud, aggressive hiss as you frothed the milk, desperately using the noise as a shield to hide your total meltdown. Your heart was doing tiny, chaotic gymnastics against your ribs. You had spent your entire life being practical, but looking at Soonyoung—who was currently trying to suffocate Seungkwan with his puffer sleeve while his cheeks burned a bright, beautiful pink—you realized your emotional defense system was completely compromised.
You capped the iced vanilla latte, your hands still shaking, and slid it onto the pickup station with a soft click.
“Here is your drink,” you murmured, forcing your eyes to look anywhere but his face. “Have a great rest of your day.”
Soonyoung instantly stopped wrestling with Seungkwan. He snatched the cup, his fingers brushing against yours for a fraction of a second, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight up your arm. He looked at the cup, then back at you, his eyes incredibly soft and meltingly sweet.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a low register that made your breath catch. “I'll... I'll see you later. For real. I'll come back down when it's quiet.”
“HEY! practice waits for no man, lover boy, let's go!” Seungkwan yelled, grabby-handing his own simple iced americano from the tray and physically dragging a dazed, grinning Soonyoung toward the heavy glass doors.
The glass doors clicked shut behind them, their distant, overlapping laughter fading down the polished corridor. You stood alone behind the marble counter, clutching a clean cloth, the cold air outside completely forgotten against the raging, brilliant fire blooming in your chest.
Saturday 7:20 a.m.
You were putting away the last few things you needed, you were sure that at least Jeonghan would come today.
And finally the glass doors opened, there he was, pulling Seungkwan and Joshua by one ear. “Alright we're here, it's time to apologize.” He said, in his characteristic calm demeanor.
Jeonghan let go of their ears with a sharp, synchronized flick of his wrists. Seungkwan immediately whined, clapping both hands over his throbbing, bright-red earlobe, while Joshua merely rubbed the side of his head, wincing.
“Ouch! Ouch! Hyung! Everyone's watching!” Seungkwan meowled, his voice a sharp, high-pitched pitch that echoed off the empty tables.
“I don't care,” Jeonghan stated, his voice completely flat, carrying that terrifying, unshakable calm demeanor. He crossed his arms, staring down the two of them with an unblinking, heavy gaze. “I wouldn't even care if the CEO looks at this. You two are going to stand right there, and you are going to say exactly what you need to say.”
Instead of stepping forward with a standard, scripted apology, Seungkwan didn't say a word. He looked at your rigid, perfectly straight posture and the completely empty, professional mask you were wearing—and his face crumpled. He reached into his oversized hoodie pocket and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled brown paper bag, sliding it gently across the marble counter toward you.
You didn't move. You kept your hands neatly folded over your front, your gaze tracking the bag. Through the thin paper, the distinct, sweet aroma of toasted sugar and fried dough hit your nose.
“It's from that bakery near your apartment,” Seungkwan whispered, his voice incredibly quiet, completely devoid of his usual theatricality. “The one you said makes the only good strawberry tarts in the city. I went there at 6:00 this morning because... because I knew you wouldn't eat breakfast today. I knew your brain would be looping, and I just... I wanted you to have something sweet.”
The icy, defensive wall you had spent all night building suddenly suffered a massive, unexpected crack.
Joshua stepped up right next to him, but he didn't lean on the counter or invade your space. He kept his distance, his hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes heavy with a profound, quiet exhaustion that matched yours.
“We aren't here to make excuses,” Joshua said softly, his voice carrying a calm, grounded weight. “We know we completely erased you on Wednesday. The high of the choreo breakthrough was loud, but that doesn't make it okay that we treated you like part of the furniture. But when we went to the river... it wasn't a celebration. Not really. Seungkwan spent the whole night looking at his phone because we kept waiting for a text from you. We realized halfway through the night that the only reason our hangouts ever feel warm is because you're the one holding the camera, making sure everyone is taken care of.”
Joshua reached out, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the glass pastry case. “Minji asked where you were, too. She told us we were absolute idiots for leaving our best friend behind. We didn't forget you because you don't belong, barista-nim. We forgot to be good friends because we're used to you always being our anchor. And that's the worst mistake we could've made.”
You stared at the small paper bag, your fingers trembling slightly against your apron. The robotic, customer-service script you had prepared felt completely useless against the raw, quiet honesty dropping from their lips.
They weren't just saying 'sorry'; they were admitting that their world felt cold without you in it.
“I brought something too,” Jeonghan chimed in, his calm demeanor shifting into a small, remarkably gentle smile. He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy, professional-grade camera strap, setting it down right next to the pastry bag.
You blinked in confusion, finally looking up to meet his dark, perceptive eyes. “What's that, hyung?”
“It's a wireless shutter remote,” Jeonghan murmured, leaning his elbows on the counter, his voice dropping into a soft, older-brother tone. “From now on, nobody is volunteering to take the photos. We're setting up a tripod, and you're going to be dead center in every single frame, right where you belong. If you aren't in the picture, the performance unit doesn't get their coffee. It's a new rule.”
A small, broken laugh escaped your throat before you could stop it, a single, hot tear finally slipping over your lashes and splashing onto the marble. You quickly wiped it away with your sleeve, your chest heaving as the suffocating numbness of the last forty-eight hours finally began to dissolve.
“You guys are so annoying,” you whispered, your voice cracking completely as you looked at the three of them.
“We know,” Seungkwan sniffled, a relieved, watery smile finally breaking across his face as he reached over and lightly nudged your bandaged hand. “We're the worst. But please don't freeze us out. The practice room and the dorm has been a total graveyard. Soonyoung is currently upstairs sitting in the dark corner of the mirrors, holding his phone and staring at your profile picture like a pathetic, wet tiger. He hasn't even tied his shoes today. Please don't be mad at us.”
"STOP, HE'S NOT!" you cried out, your voice catching as your cheeks instantly flared with a sudden, betraying heat.
You shoved your hands deep into your apron pockets, desperately trying to summon back the rigid, professional mask that had just been completely pulverized. “He is not doing that. You guys are exaggerating just to make me feel better. He’s probably upstairs right now counting beats with a stopwatch or... or eating a lunchbox with the rest of the team.”
Right on cue, the glass doors chimed loudly, rattling as a massive figure practically tumbled through the entrance.
It was Mingyu. He was completely out of breath, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he was carrying a giant cardboard crate overflowing with premium coffee beans and fresh milk jugs he’d clearly sprinted down to the loading dock to fetch. To make things even more ridiculous, he had somehow managed to find a spare black apron from the back supply closet and had it tied tightly over his broad shoulders, looking like a hopelessly oversized, stressed-out trainee.
“He's definitely not eating!” Mingyu gasped, slamming the heavy crate onto the floor with a loud thud and immediately leaning his huge frame over the marble counter, his puppy-dog eyes wide with panic. “Barista-nim, please believe them! Hoshi-hyung hasn't touched a single carb since Thursday. I tried to force-feed him a sweet potato in the dorm kitchen yesterday and he literally hissed at me!”
You stared at Mingyu, your jaw slightly slack.
“Mingyu? Why are you wearing an apron?”
“Because he's doing penance,” Jeonghan answered smoothly, not even blinking at the giant's chaotic entrance. He adjusted his beanie, a sharp, satisfied glint returning to his eyes. “Since he was the master coordinator of the Han River picnic who forgot to check the invite list, his punishment is manual labor. He is your personal assistant for the next 3 days. He will grind the beans, he will carry the ice, and if you tell him to scrub the floorboards with a toothbrush, he will do it gladly.”
“I will!” Mingyu nodded aggressively, raising a hand as if taking a solemn oath. “I'll do the dishes, I'll restock the fridge, I'll even stand outside and scream the daily specials to the executives. Just please don't look at us with that blank customer-service smile anymore, barista-nim. When Shua-hyung told me you left because of us, I felt like the biggest piece of shit in the building.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes dramatically, though he subtly shifted over to make room for Mingyu at the counter. “Look at him. He’s practically vibrating from guilt. We all are.”
You looked from Mingyu’s desperate, oversized-puppy expression, to Seungkwan’s watery smile, to the tiny crumpled paper bag of strawberry tarts sitting on the stone. Your hands slowly slid out of your apron pockets, the cold, rigid mask you had spent forty-eight hours practicing completely falling apart.
A small, genuine laugh finally escaped your lips, your shoulders dropping as a wave of pure, comforting relief washed over your chest.
“You guys are completely ridiculous,” you whispered, wiping a stray, emotional tear from the corner of your eye. “All four of you.”
“We know,” Jeonghan murmured, his trademark, faux-angelic sweetness returning in full force as he tapped his fingers against the marble. “Now, Boss, your assistant is waiting. Tell Mingyu to start lifting those milk jugs before he cuts off the circulation in his shoulders with that apron. And you,” he pointed a finger at you, his eyes softening into a quiet, knowing look. “Drink some water. Eat Seungkwan's tart. And rest, you deserve it, let Mingyu handle the place”
Mingyu didn't even wait for you to give a verbal command. The second Jeonghan gave the green light, he let out a loud, eager gasp and scrambled around the edge of the counter, completely taking over your space with his massive, clumsy frame.
“I'm on it! I'm totally on it!” Mingyu chanted, his long arms already reaching into the cardboard crate he’d dragged in. He began stacking the heavy milk jugs into the under-counter fridge with terrifying speed, humming a nervous, fast-paced melody under his breath. “Do you want the oat milk in the front or the back? I'll put it in the front. You use a lot of oat milk, right? I've observed this. I'm a highly observant assistant.”
“Mingyu, slow down, you're going to break a shelf,” you breathed, a genuine, wide smile finally breaking across your face. It felt incredible to let your muscles relax, to let the hollow, symmetrical customer-service curve melt away into real, breathless amusement.
“Let him break it,” Seungkwan sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve as he watched Mingyu frantically organize the syrup bottles. "If he shatters the glass, he has to pay for it out of his wallet. It's good for his character development.”
Joshua let out a low, soft laugh, leaning his hip against the outer edge of the counter. The heavy, exhausted shadow that had hung over his eyes all morning was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, quiet relief. “He really will do whatever you tell him today. Don't be easy on him.”
“Alright, that's enough hovering,” Jeonghan cut in smoothly, clapping his hands together once with a sharp, authoritative snap. He reached over the marble, picked up the crumpled brown paper bag of strawberry tarts, and gently shoved it into your hands, his dark eyes sparkling with pure satisfaction. “The lounge is officially under new management. Shua, Seungkwan, out. We are going back to the fourth floor.”
“But hyung, I wanted to watch Mingyu do the dishes!” Seungkwan protested, whining as Jeonghan physically caught him by the back of his hoodie collar, steering him toward the glass doors.
“You have a vocal check in ten minutes, Seungkwan-ah,” Jeonghan reasoned with a saintly, unbothered calm, throwing one last, long, meaningful wink over his shoulder at you. “And besides, we need to go report to a certain wet tiger that the crisis has been averted. If we don't tell him soon, he might actually start chewing on the practice room floorboards.”
“STOP, HYUNG!” you yelled out, your face instantly combusting into a brilliant, fiery crimson as you clutched the pastry bag to your chest.
Joshua just chuckled, giving you a small, gentle wave as he followed them out. “Eat breakfast. We'll see you later.”
The heavy glass doors clicked shut behind the three of them, leaving the cafeteria suddenly quiet again—but this time, it wasn't a suffocating, lonely quiet. It felt warm. It felt safe.
Behind you, the loud, aggressive whir of the espresso grinder suddenly filled the room. You spun around to find Mingyu gripping the portafilter, his brow furrowed in intense, dramatic concentration as he stared at the coffee grounds falling into the metal basket.
“Okay, so,” Mingyu muttered, looking over at you with a completely serious, stressed-out expression. “I leveled it off, but... how hard do I press the tamper? Is it like... thirty pounds of pressure? Shua said it's thirty pounds. How do I measure thirty pounds with my hands, barista-nim?”
You let out a loud, helpless laugh, setting your strawberry tarts down on the counter and walking over to pull the heavy metal tamper out of his oversized fingers.
“Step aside, trainee,” you teased, your heart doing a light, happy skip against your ribs. “Watch and learn.”
Saturday 2:30 p.m
The chaotic lunch rush had finally subsided into a sluggish mid-afternoon lull. The stainless-steel surfaces behind the counter were spotless, courtesy of Mingyu’s relentless, eager scrubbing. He had washed every blender pitcher twice, organized the syrup bottles by height, and carried three more crates of oat milk up from the basement loading dock without a single complaint. But despite the warmth of your friends’ aggressive apologies and Mingyu’s massive, comforting presence beside the espresso machine, a different kind of suffocating quiet began to settle into your chest.
Your mind, ever its own worst enemy, started looping again.
The initial rush of relief from the morning was fading, leaving a hollow, aching question mark right where your heart was. Where was he?
Every single time the heavy glass doors of the cafeteria hallway gave a slight, echoing click, your head would instantly snap up, your breath catching in your throat. But it was never him. It was a marketing executive. It was a lyricist. It was a stray backup dancer.
Your eyes kept tracking the long, polished corridor leading toward the elevators. Twice during the midday rush, you had caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar gray hoodie lingering near the vending machines just outside the lounge perimeter. It was unmistakably Soonyoung. He had walked past the glass doors twice, his head ducked low, his hands shoved so deep into his pockets his shoulders were entirely hunched forward. He looked incredibly small, completely stripped of his usual explosive, tiger-like aura. He had tilted his head just enough to look through the glass, his sharp eyes blinking softly as he watched you hand a cup to a customer—but the second your gaze had drifted toward the door, he had flinched violently, spun on his heel, and sprinted back toward the emergency stairwell like a frightened animal.
He was terrified. He was entirely convinced that if he stepped across that marble threshold, the icy, detached customer-service mask would drop right back over your face. He was protecting your space, just like Jeonghan had ordered him to, but his absolute avoidance was triggering a brand-new wave of agonizing overthinking in your own head.
Is he actually just giving me space? you thought, your fingers tightly gripping a clean microfiber cloth as you stared blankly at the steaming milk pitcher. Or is he relieved? Maybe after spending forty-eight hours with Minji, he realized how exhausting it is to constantly run down here and stutter over an americano. Maybe he’s up on the fourth floor right now, laughing at another one of her brilliant contemporary counts. Maybe he’s already moved past the awkward, unconfessed pining because his real world is just too loud, too fast, and too perfect for a barista to keep up with.
A heavy, visible sigh escaped your lips, your shoulders slumping into a posture of sheer, quiet exhaustion.
From the corner of his eye, Mingyu noticed everything. He paused mid-wipe on the espresso tray, his sharp, perceptive gaze tracking the way your eyes lingered on the empty hallway, the way your thumb kept nervously tapping the edge of your apron, and the profound, heavy sadness clouding your face. He didn't say a word out loud. He didn't tease you, and he didn't call attention to the sudden drop in your energy. He just quietly pulled his phone from his pocket beneath the counter, his thumbs flying across the screen into a private, four-way group chat titled:
OPERATION: FIX THE TIGER’S LOVE LIFE.
Mingyu: Guys, it’s bad. She’s doing that thing where she stares at the door and sighs every three minutes. She thinks Hoshi doesn't care anymore because he keeps doing that pathetic drive-by pacing in the hallway without coming inside.
Seungkwan: I swear to God, Kwon Soonyoung is the most tragic creature on this planet. He’s currently sitting in the corner of the practice room entirely convinced she’s going to hand him a corporate resignation letter if he breathes her air.
Joshua: We need to intervene. Jeonghan-hyung, do the thing.
Jeonghan: On it. Mingyu, get ready to clear the room.
Exactly three minutes later, your phone buzzed sharply inside your apron pocket. You pulled it out, your heart doing a strange, frantic leap when you saw a direct message from Jeonghan.
Jeonghan-hyung: Hey, lovely barista. The management team just trapped me in a recording review and I am literally dying of exhaustion. Shua and Seungkwan are down the street doing a wardrobe fitting, and the performance studio is completely empty right now. Can you do me a massive favor and bring a large iced americano up to the studio? Just leave it on the sound system ledge. You’re a lifesaver.
You stared at the screen, a sudden, nervous flutter hitting your stomach. The practice room was empty. Soonyoung wasn't there. It was just a simple delivery for Jeonghan. You could run up, drop the coffee in the quiet room, and escape back downstairs before anyone from the performance team returned from their midday break.
“Hey, Mingyu,” you said, your voice coming out a little breathless as you turned around. “I... I have to run a quick delivery up to the fourth floor for Jeonghan-hyung. Can you watch the register for ten minutes?”
Mingyu snapped his posture upright, throwing you a massive, entirely too innocent puppy-dog grin that should have made you suspicious if your brain hadn't been so compromised by overthinking. “Yes! Absolutely! Go! Take your time! I am the master of this lounge now! No corporate executive shall pass!”
You let out a small laugh, quickly pouring a fresh double shot of espresso over ice and cold water. You capped the drink, slid a black sleeve over the plastic cup, and took a deep, steadying breath. You pulled off your black apron, hanging it neatly on the hook behind the door, and stepped out into the corridor, your bare arms suddenly feeling chilly against the air conditioning as you boarded the elevator.
The ride up to the fourth floor felt agonizingly slow. When the metallic doors finally slid open, the polished concrete hallway of the training sector was completely silent. The usual thumping bass lines and echoing shouts of trainees were missing, the entire floor wrapped in a rare, mid-rehearsal quiet.
You walked down the long corridor, your sneakers making faint, squeaking sounds against the floorboards. Your chest felt tight, your fingers tightening around the cold plastic cup as you neared the heavy acoustic door of the studio.
You paused outside, taking one final breath to steel your nerves. You reached out, turned the heavy metal handle, and pushed the door open.
The room was vast, bright, and entirely hollow. The massive wall of mirrors reflected the empty hardwood floor, the high ceilings making the soft hum of the air conditioner sound incredibly loud.
But it wasn't completely empty.
Sitting dead center in the far corner of the room, flush against the mirror, was Soonyoung.
He was just sitting on his knees, his broad shoulders deeply slouched forward under his gray hoodie, his head buried completely in his arms.
The heavy door clicked shut behind you, the latch engaging with a sharp, final sound.
Soonyoung’s head snapped up violently at the noise. His sharp eyes were wide, heavily bloodshot, and completely clouded with panic.
The second his gaze locked onto your face—taking in your casual cardigan, your hair falling over your shoulders, and the iced americano clutched in your hands—his entire body went rigid. He scrambled to his feet so fast his sneakers skidded against the wood, his car keys clattering loudly out of his pocket and across the floor.
But instead of stepping forward, he immediately began to back away, his hands flying up in a defensive, frantic gesture.
“I won't bother you,” Soonyoung choked out, his voice rough, broken, and completely stripped of his usual bright volume. He wouldn't even look you in the eye, his gaze darting wildly toward the exit. “I'm leaving. I'll go. I won't breathe your air, I promise. I'm going.”
He practically bolted toward the door, his shoulder hunched as he tried to brush past you to escape into the hallway.
“Stop treating me like a stranger!” you cried out, your voice cracking sharply as you stepped directly into his path, blocking the exit.
The cold plastic cup of the americano trembled violently in your grip. The absolute absurdity of it all—the drive-by pacing in the hallway, the weeks of unconfessed pining, the sudden, freezing wall he was throwing up—completely broke through your remaining restraint.
Soonyoung halted mid-stride, his chest heaving violently under his gray hoodie. He finally looked down at you, his jaw tight, his expression twisting into a mix of raw defensive panic and unmitigated hurt.
“I'm treating you the way you want to be treated!” Soonyoung snapped back, his voice suddenly rising, echoing sharply off the studio mirrors. It wasn't his stage voice; it was a rough, defensive defense mechanism born out of sheer terror. “You treated me like a total stranger first! You wouldn't even slide the coffee to my hand! You wanted space, you took formal leave, and now I'm trying to give it to you, and you're still mad?!”
“Because you looked through me first!” you shouted right back, a hot, angry tear finally spilling over your lashes, your chest heaving as the months of suppressed feelings finally erupted into the quiet room. “On Wednesday afternoon, you stood less than two feet away from me and completely erased me! You talked about your choreography, you talked about Minji, you planned a whole life outside the building right in my face, and you didn't even notice I was standing there holding the cloth! You made me feel like an absolute ghost, Soonyoung! You made me realize that when the music starts, I'm just the staff member who pours your drinks!”
“That's bullshit and you know it!” Soonyoung roared, stepping right into your personal space, his face flushing a brilliant, angry crimson that rushed all the way to his ears. He slammed his hand against his own chest, his eyes flashing with a desperate, furious vulnerability. “I have never thought of you as just staff! Never! You think I want to buy coffee for thirteen people every single morning? You think I care about pistachio shit and mochas with cold foam? I spent forty minutes upstairs on Monday trying to bait the guys into wanting drinks just so I had an excuse to see your face for thirty seconds! I am completely pathetic for you, and everyone in this building knows it except you!”
“Then why didn't you say anything?!” you screamed back, the tears flowing freely now, your voice trembling with a raw, agonizing heartbreak. “Why did you leave me out? Why was I the only one missing from that blanket at the river while you were sitting there laughing with someone who actually speaks your language?!”
“Because I was terrified!” Soonyoung yelled, his voice cracking completely, entirely unraveled. “I didn't look at you on Wednesday because if I looked at you for even a second, everyone would have seen how desperate I am! I didn't invite you because I thought you were too busy for me! I sat on that blanket all night staring at my phone, wanting to die because my own loud, stupid brain had made the one person who actually matters to me feel like an outsider!”
“Well, you fucking succeeded!” you sobbed, turning your heel to finally smash the handle of the door, desperate to escape the suffocating intensity of his presence. “You made me feel completely irrelevant, and I don't want to stand here and—”
Before you could even touch the metal latch, Soonyoung’s hand shot forward. He didn't just catch your wrist—he gripped it, his long, warm fingers wrapping securely around your skin and physically yanking you back into the center of the room. The sudden momentum sent the iced americano flying from your grip, the plastic cup clattering against the hardwood floor and spilling dark liquid across the wood, completely ignored.
“Let go of me!” you gasped, twisting against his grip, but Soonyoung didn't let go.
Instead, he stepped completely into your space, his broad frame entirely trapping you against his chest. His other hand shot up, his fingers embedding deeply into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring tightly against your jawline to force your head up.
“I'm not letting you go,” Soonyoung whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your lips, his eyes wide, fierce, and swimming with a terrifyingly beautiful, unyielding certainty. “I'm done being a coward.”
Before another word could leave your throat, he leaned down and slammed his mouth against yours.
The kiss wasn't gentle, and it wasn't hesitant. His lips were hot, demanding, and incredibly soft, parting yours with a fierce, unyielding hunger that instantly knocked the remaining air straight out of your lungs.
Your hands, which had been raised to push him away, instantly lost all their strength. Your fingers tangled into the rough fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him closer as the tight, suffocating ice in your chest completely, beautifully shattered.
Soonyoung let out a low, ragged groan into the kiss, his grip on your waist tightening until he was physically lifting you off your feet, pressing you flush against the solid warmth of his chest.
He kissed you until the room spun, until the memory of Wednesday afternoon, the overthinking about Minji, and the boundaries of the cafeteria walls completely dissolved into the background. There was no performance leader, no barista, and no crowd—just his heartbeat drumming a frantic, echoing rhythm against yours.
The kiss deepened, raw and desperate, years of swallowed feelings pouring out between you.
Soonyoung’s mouth moved against yours like he was starving, tasting you with a low groan that vibrated straight into your chest. His hands were everywhere—one still tangled in your hair, the other sliding down your back to pull your hips flush against him. You could already feel how hard he was through his sweatpants, thick and insistent against your stomach.
“Fuck… I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and shaky. He kissed you again, slower this time, sucking gently on your bottom lip before deepening it with a needy tilt of his head. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about you behind that counter… how many times I got hard just from thinking about fucking you dumb on that damn counter.”
Your fingers curled tighter into his hoodie, a soft whimper escaping as heat pooled low in your belly. He walked you backward until your back met the cool mirror wall, the contrast making you gasp. Soonyoung didn’t waste a second—he dropped his head to your neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin there, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees weak.
“Tell me you want me,” he murmured against your throat, voice sweet and wrecked at the same time. “Please, baby… need to hear it.” “I want you,” you whispered, sliding your hands under his hoodie to feel the warm, firm muscle of his back. “Soonyoung, I want you so much.”
He made a broken sound and pulled back just enough to tug your cardigan open, hands gentle but urgent as he pushed it off your shoulders. His eyes darkened as he looked at you, drinking in every inch. “God, you’re so pretty,” he said, almost reverently, cupping your breasts through your shirt before sliding his hands underneath. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, already tight and sensitive, drawing a shaky moan from you. “Look at you… been dreaming about touching you like this. These perfect tits in my hands—soft and warm, fuck, they fit so good.”
You arched into his touch, heat flooding your face. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, while his fingers worked your shirt up and off.
Your bra followed quickly, and then his mouth was on you—hot and wet, sucking one nipple while his hand kneaded the other. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the quiet studio, mixing with your soft gasps.“Soonyoung—” you moaned, threading your fingers through his hair.
He hummed against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “That’s it, say my name just like that. You’re doing so good for me already, baby. So responsive… I love how your body reacts when I touch you.” He switched sides, licking and sucking until your legs trembled, praising you between every swirl of his tongue.
“These pretty nipples are so sensitive. Look how hard they get for me. You’re perfect, you know that?” One of his hands slid down your stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pants. “Can I touch you here, baby? Been dying to feel how wet you are for me.”
You nodded quickly, whispering, “Yes—please.”
Soonyoung groaned in relief, the sound low and hungry. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear, sliding them down your legs. He helped you step out of them, his hands warm and steady on your thighs, all while keeping his eyes locked on yours.
“Fuck, look at you…” he murmured, voice dropping into a soft, sweet coo. “My pretty baby, standing here all bare for me. Aww, don’t get shy now.” He tilted his head, a teasing little smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stayed soft. “You’re dripping down your thighs already, sweetheart. That’s so cute.”
His fingers returned between your legs, sliding through your slick folds with an obscene, wet sound. He let out a low whistle.
“Shit, baby… you’re absolutely soaked. This pretty little pussy is making such a mess just from a few kisses.” He circled your clit slowly at first, then faster, two fingers pressing inside you with a smooth, careful thrust. “Mmm, so warm and tight. Listen to that… hear how wet you are for me?”
You rocked against his hand, a broken whimper slipping out. Soonyoung leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear as he cooed again, sweet and slightly mocking in the gentlest way.
“Aww, listen to you. Already riding my fingers like a needy girl. That’s it, baby, fuck yourself on them. Look at you—so desperate and pretty.” He curled his fingers perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you, stroking it steadily while his thumb kept rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Who would’ve thought my sweet barista gets this fucking wet? All those mornings you smiled at me so innocently… and you were hiding this greedy little cunt?”
He kissed you deeply, swallowing your moans while his fingers kept their relentless rhythm. When he pulled back, his voice was husky but still laced with that affectionate, teasing coo.
“Good girl… such a good fucking girl for me. You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, like you don’t want to let them go. Does it feel that good, baby? Hmm?” He nipped at your bottom lip, eyes half-lidded with lust and adoration. “You’re taking two so well already. Can’t wait to see how you stretch around my cock. Bet you’ll look so fucking cute trying to take all of me.”
Your legs started to tremble. Soonyoung noticed immediately and pressed his body closer, supporting you against the mirror as he finger-fucked you a little faster, wet sounds echoing softly in the empty studio.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he cooed sweetly, almost like he was soothing a shy lover. “Don’t fight it, pretty. Let it build. I want to feel you come on my fingers first. Can you do that for me? Can my sweet, shy baby make a mess all over my hand?”
He kissed down your neck, sucking lightly while his fingers curled again and again against that perfect spot.
“That’s my girl… so wet, so warm, so perfect. God, I love how you sound. Those little whimpers are driving me crazy.” His voice dropped lower, filthier, but still wrapped in that tender, teasing tone. “You’ve been hiding this needy pussy from me for months? Bad girl… but such a pretty one. Come on, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart like the good little thing you are.”
The praise, the filthy cooing, and the steady pressure of his fingers finally pushed you over the edge. You came hard with a broken cry of his name, clenching rhythmically around his fingers as pleasure crashed through you.
Soonyoung kept stroking you through it, slow and gentle now, murmuring soft praises against your temple.
“There you go… that’s my good girl. So beautiful when you come. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
He dropped to his knees suddenly, gentle but eager, spreading your thighs wider with warm hands. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your hip bone, then another just below your navel, like he was worshipping every inch of you.
“Let me taste you. Please?” His voice was already hoarse with need. “I need to, baby. Been dying to bury my face in this pretty pussy.”
At your breathless nod, Soonyoung let out a relieved groan and leaned in. He dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, savoring every drop, before letting out a deep, shameless moan against your core.
“Oh my god… you taste so fucking sweet,” he murmured, almost in awe. “My pretty baby is dripping for me. Aww, look at you—already making such a mess on my tongue.”
He licked and sucked at your clit with focused hunger, alternating between slow, broad strokes and quick flicks that made your hips jerk. Two fingers slid back inside you, pumping steadily while his mouth worked you open. His free hand gripped your thigh firmly, holding you spread for him as he devoured you like a man starved.
“That’s it, baby. Let me hear those pretty sounds,” he cooed against your slick folds, voice muffled and sweet. “Don’t hold back for me. Fuck, you’re doing so well already… grinding that needy little pussy on my tongue like a good girl.”
Your legs started shaking. You gripped his hair tighter, soft whimpers and moans spilling from your lips. Soonyoung hummed in approval, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“Mmm, listen to how wet you are,” he teased gently, pulling back just enough to look up at you with dark, adoring eyes. His chin was already shiny with your arousal. “You’re soaking my face, sweetheart. So cute. Is my shy barista really this greedy? Getting this messy just because I’m on my knees for her?”
He dove back in, sucking your clit between his lips while his fingers curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the quiet studio, mixing with your broken gasps.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he praised between licks, voice thick with lust and affection. “My perfect girl. So sweet and warm and tight. I could stay right here for hours, baby—eating this pretty cunt until you can’t even stand. You taste even better than I imagined. Fuck, I’m addicted already.”
He kept cooing soft, filthy praise against your core, never stopping the steady rhythm of his fingers.
“Aww, your thighs are shaking so much. Poor baby… feels that good, huh?” He sucked harder on your clit for a moment, then soothed it with slow, gentle licks. “That’s okay. I’ve got you. Come whenever you need to, okay? Want to feel this pretty pussy fluttering on my tongue. Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”
You came for the second time with a broken cry of his name, thighs trembling violently around his shoulders as you clenched rhythmically around his fingers.
Soonyoung moaned loudly against you, licking you through every wave—slow and gentle now, drawing out your orgasm until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Only then did he pull back, kissing your inner thigh softly before rising to his feet.
He pulled you into a deep, hungry kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other stroked down your spine.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered against your lips, breathing hard. His cock was straining painfully against his sweatpants, but he still took his time, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheeks and forehead. “So fucking sexy when you come for me like that… I almost cummed on my fucking pants just watching you fall apart. My good girl.”
His hands roamed your body again. He looked at you with pure adoration, eyes soft even as lust burned behind them.
“I love you,” he said quietly, forehead resting against yours. “Want to be inside you so bad, baby. Want to feel this tight, perfect pussy around my cock while I tell you how much you mean to me.” He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, voice dropping into a wrecked, gentle plea. “Can I have you? All of you? Will you let me fuck you dumb on this practice room, hmm?”
You nodded frantically “I'm gonna turn your brain into fucking mush, baby, I'm gonna make you feel so so sooooo good, my pretty girl.”
He turned you around gently but firmly so you were facing the massive wall of mirrors. Your naked body were reflected back at you—flushed skin, his broad chest behind you, his hands sliding possessively over your waist. He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, eyes locked on yours in the mirror.
“Look at us, baby,” he cooed softly, voice sweet and teasing. “Look how pretty you look against me. Aww, already so flushed and needy… my shy little barista all spread open for me.”
He pushed his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening. One hand stayed on your hip while the other guided himself between your legs, rubbing the head slowly up and down your soaked folds.
“So wet… still dripping from my tongue, huh?” He nipped at your earlobe. “Gonna watch every second of this. Don’t look away, okay? Want you to see how well you take me.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a deep, guttural groan. “Fuck… so tight. That’s it, baby—relax for me. Good girl… taking my cock so nicely already.”
You gasped at the fullness, your hands pressing against the cool mirror for support. Soonyoung bottomed out with a shaky breath, his chest flush against your back, and wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you steady.
“Feel that?” he murmured right against your ear, eyes never leaving yours in the reflection. “Feel how deep I am? This pretty pussy was made for me. So warm and wet… squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”
He started moving—slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The wet sound of skin meeting skin echoed softly in the empty studio. His free hand slid up to cup one of your breasts, thumb teasing your nipple while he fucked you.
“Look at you,” he cooed again, voice dripping with affection and lust. “Look how cute you look getting fucked. Those pretty tits bouncing every time I thrust… fuck, you’re perfect. My perfect girl.”
He picked up the pace just a little, still controlled, angling his hips to hit deeper. “That’s it, baby. Push back on me. Show me how much you want it.” He kissed your shoulder, then bit down gently. “Been dreaming about bending you over, fuck! You’re doing so well for me. Such a good girl letting me fuck you like this.”
After several long, toe-curling minutes, Soonyoung pulled out with a soft hiss. He spun you around to face him, then lifted you effortlessly, pressing your back against the mirror again. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.
“New position, pretty,” he breathed, lining himself up and sliding back inside you in one smooth thrust. “Want to see your face while I fuck you. Want to watch those eyes when I’m buried deep.”
He held you up like you weighed nothing, strong hands gripping your ass as he started thrusting again—deeper and harder now, the new angle making you moan louder. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and full of love as he watched every expression cross your face.
“Fuck, baby… you feel even better like this,” he groaned, voice rough but still sweet. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. Want you to see how much I love being inside you. This tight, perfect little pussy is gonna ruin me… but I don’t care. I’m yours.”
He kept fucking you against the mirror, steady and relentless, murmuring filthy praise between kisses.
Soonyoung kept bouncing you on his cock against the mirror, deep and steady, his eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“Baby,” he cooed softly, voice sweet and raspy between thrusts, “you know you’re the only one, right? My only one.” He pressed a messy kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to watch your face. “Minji? She’s nothing to me like this. Never has been. She doesn’t make me lose my mind. She doesn’t make me hard just by smiling. That’s all you, pretty girl. Only you.”
He groaned when you clenched around him, clearly affected by his words.
“Aww, you liked hearing that, huh?” He smirked sweetly, eyes sparkling with affection even as he fucked you harder. “Good. Because it’s true. This cock is yours. This -tiger- heart is yours. No one else gets me like this. Just my sweet, perfect barista.”
He slowed down, then carefully lowered you to your feet. With gentle but firm hands, he turned you around again, pressing your front against the cool mirror.
“Bend forward a little for me, baby. That’s it… hands on the glass.” He kicked your feet wider apart and lined himself up from behind, sliding back in with one smooth, deep thrust. “Fuck—yes. Look at you in the mirror. So fucking pretty taking me like this.”
His hips snapped against your ass in a steady rhythm, one hand gripping your hip while the other reached around to rub your clit.
“You feel so good,” he praised, voice dripping with honeyed filth. “This tight little pussy keeps sucking me in… greedy girl. But I love it. Love spoiling her.”
He kept talking, sweet and teasing, eyes never leaving your reflection. “That’s my good girl… look how well you’re taking every inch. So cute when you’re getting fucked dumb in front of the mirror. You’re clenching so much, baby. You close already?”
Your moans grew louder, legs shaking as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. Soonyoung’s fingers circled your clit faster, perfectly in time with his thrusts.
“Come on, pretty. Let go for me,” he cooed, almost mockingly gentle. “Make a mess on my cock. I want to feel you gush all over me. Be a good girl and squirt for me, yeah?”
The orgasm hit you hard. Your vision blurred as pleasure exploded through your body. You cried out his name, thighs trembling violently as you gushed around his cock—hot, wet, and messy. Your release dripped down your thighs and onto the studio floor, the obscene sound of it mixing with his low groan.
“Fuuuck, baby— that’s it,” Soonyoung moaned, voice wrecked with pride and lust. He kept thrusting through your orgasm, slower but still deep, drawing it out as you made a complete mess. “Look at that… my pretty girl squirted so much. So fucking cute. You made such a big mess for me.”
He didn’t stop moving. Even as you whimpered from the overstimulation, he kept rolling his hips, grinding against that sensitive spot inside you while his fingers gentled on your clit.
“Aww, don’t tap out yet, sweetheart,” he cooed, leaning over your back to press kisses along your shoulder. His voice was sweet and teasing, dripping with affection. “You can handle a little more, can’t you? Just a little. My perfect girl is so strong… this pussy still feels so hungry for me.”
He gave you a few slow, deep strokes, letting you feel every inch while you trembled against the mirror.
“Shhh, I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby. Let me take care of you.” His hand stroked soothingly down your side as he kissed the back of your neck. “We’re not done yet… I still need to fill you up properly. You can give me one more, right? Be good for me.”
Soonyoung’s thrusts grew faster and more desperate, the mating press keeping you folded helplessly under him as he chased his high.
“Fuck, baby… I’m so close,” he groaned, voice cracking with need. “Gonna fill you up—need to cum so deep inside you. Please, let me— fuck—”
With a few final, punishing thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. A broken moan ripped from his throat as he pulsed inside you, flooding your walls with thick, hot spurts of cum. He kept grinding slowly, pushing it as deep as possible while panting against your neck.
“Good girl… taking all of it… so good for me…”
He stayed buried deep for a few seconds, trembling, then flipped you both with a shaky breath. He laid on his back on the thick mat and pulled you on top, your knees straddling his hips. Planting his feet firmly on the floor, he gripped your waist with slightly trembling hands and immediately started fucking up into you with deep, powerful strokes.
“Ah—shit—” he hissed sharply, eyes squeezing shut for a second. His voice was already turning breathy and broken. “S-so sensitive… fuck, baby, you’re so warm and full of my cum… it’s dripping everywhere.”
Even though he was clearly oversensitive, he didn’t stop. He kept snapping his hips up, driving his cock back into your messy, cum-filled pussy with wet, filthy sounds. His hands guided you down to meet every thrust, bouncing you on him.
“Look at you… sitting so pretty on me,” he babbled, voice sweet but wrecked, words starting to slur together. “My messy baby… all creamy and wet… making such a big mess on my cock. Aww, you feel t-too good— hnn— I can’t— fuck—”
You were barely coherent yourself, moaning and whimpering as he hit that perfect spot over and over. Soonyoung’s thumb found your clit again, rubbing messy circles while he continued thrusting up hard, even as his own body twitched from overstimulation.
“C’mon, pretty— please,” he pleaded softly, eyes glassy as he stared up at you. “Squirt for me again… wanna feel you gush all over me. I know you can, baby— my perfect girl— please make another mess— I’m so close again already—”
You came hard with a shattered cry, squirting all over his stomach and chest in messy pulses, your release soaking him completely.
Soonyoung’s eyes rolled back, his mouth falling open in a silent moan as your walls clamped down around his oversensitive cock.
“F-fuuuck— baby— you’re squeezing me so tight— I’m— I’m cumming again—!”
His hips stuttered violently as he came for the second time, pumping more cum deep inside you with a broken, whimpery groan. He kept thrusting up through it in short, desperate jerks, babbling praises and nonsense the entire time.
“So good— you’re so fucking good— my pretty girl— making me cum so much… love you— love this pussy— too sensitive but I can’t stop— ah— fuck—”
His movements eventually slowed to lazy, shallow rolls of his hips as you both trembled and panted. He pulled you down against his chest, arms wrapping around you tightly, still buried deep inside your dripping, cum-filled pussy.
“Stay… just stay right here, baby,” he whispered breathlessly, pressing sloppy kisses to your forehead and cheeks, still slightly incoherent. “My perfect girl… made such a pretty mess… love you so much.”
Soonyoung’s arms stayed wrapped tightly around you as you both came down, his chest heaving beneath yours. He was still buried deep inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks, overly sensitive and warm. Soft, broken whimpers kept slipping from his lips every time your walls fluttered around him.
“Baby… fuck, you’re still squeezing me,” he whispered shakily, voice hoarse and sweet. He pressed lazy kisses all over your face — your forehead, your closed eyes, the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. “My perfect girl… you did so well. Made me cum so much. Look at the mess we made together. Fuck, I still feel like I'm fucking shaking.”
You were completely boneless on top of him, brain still floating. Soonyoung gently rolled you both onto your sides, finally slipping out of you with a low hiss. A thick trickle of his cum immediately leaked out onto your thigh. He stared at it with dark, satisfied eyes before letting out a soft, tired laugh.
“Aww, don’t move, pretty. Let me take care of you.”
He reached for the clean towels stacked near the practice mats (always kept in the studio for sweat) and gently wiped between your legs with careful, tender strokes.
“Shhh, I know you’re sensitive,” he cooed softly when you twitched. “Such a good girl… you took me so deep and made such pretty messes for me. I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Once he cleaned you up the best he could, he wiped himself quickly and pulled you back into his chest, wrapping you up in his oversized gray hoodie. He tucked your head under his chin, one hand stroking slow circles on your back while the other cradled your head.
“I love you,” he murmured again and again, voice soft and a little raspy. “So much. You’re mine now, okay? You’re my girl.”
You mumbled something incoherent against his neck and he chuckled warmly, kissing the top of your head.
“Yeah, I know. Brain’s all mushy, huh? That’s okay. I’ll keep you right here until you come back to me. My sweet baby.”
He rocked you slowly in his arms, pressing endless gentle kisses wherever he could reach, whispering praises and love confessions until your breathing evened out.
Down the hallway, just past the corner from the practice room door, the four of them were still loitering, trying their best to look like they had any business being there.
Seungkwan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing the smuggest expression known to man. He wiggled his fingers expectantly.
“Alright, pay up. Don’t make me wait.”
Joshua exhaled slowly, pulling out his wallet with visible regret. He counted out the bills and handed them over. “I genuinely thought he’d at least take her somewhere nice first. Or, you know… confess like a normal human being. Not turn the practice room into his personal love nest in the middle of the afternoon.”
Mingyu rubbed the back of his neck, groaning as he forked over his money. “I’m never going to unsee that image. Every time I look at those mirrors I’m going to remember. My brain didn’t need that upgrade.”
Jeonghan, who had been quietly scrolling on his phone, finally looked up with a lazy smile. He peeled off a few bills and dropped them into Seungkwan’s hand.
Seungkwan pocketed the money with a satisfied grin, patting his pocket proudly. “Man’s been holding back for too long. Tiger mode activated. Zero chill left.”
Mingyu shook his head, half-laughing, half-horrified. “During the day, though? With the door not even locked? That’s bold even for him.”
“Bold?” Joshua chuckled. “That’s straight-up fearless. Or reckless. Probably both.”
Jeonghan slipped his phone into his pocket. “He’s been staring at her like she hung the moon for months. We should’ve seen this coming.”
Seungkwan nodded sagely. “Exactly. That’s why I set the terms. Thank you all for doubting the power of a man who’s completely whipped. Your contributions will be put to good use.”
Joshua let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ruthless.”
“Uh-uh, I'm strategic, I don't bet unless I know I'm going to win.” Seungkwan corrected, tapping his temple. “Someone has to be the realist here.”
Mingyu glanced nervously back toward the practice room door. “We should probably bounce before they come out. I don’t want to get caught. Hoshi gets extra scary when he’s embarrassed, and I’m not trying to fight him today.”
Jeonghan pushed off the wall smoothly. “Yeah, and she’ll definitely throw something at us if she spots us lurking. Let’s not ruin their happy little bubble.”
The four of them started walking down the corridor, keeping their voices low but still snickering.
As they turned the next corner, Mingyu muttered, “Mirrors, man… Why the mirrors?”
Seungkwan patted his shoulder with mock sympathy. “Accept it. And next time you bet against me, just pay faster. My instincts are expensive.”
I love the tension between YN and the group cause they really do have a great working and personal relationship plus with Soonyoung it’s even more special! also love Minji’s attitude and being a girls girl throughout!!
Notes: All members are portrayed in an entirely fictional setting and scenario that does not reflect real events, personalities, or experiences.
⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩ ⋆
The airport had been chaos from the moment Seventeen arrived.
Everyone was exhausted after a packed schedule, barely functioning on caffeine and sheer determination. Managers were rushing them through security, staff were juggling the luggage, and the members themselves were practically sleepwalking.
You, the youngest member of the group, had gotten separated during a gate change. One missed announcement, a crowded terminal, and some very unfortunate timing.
By the time you realized everyone was gone, the plane was already taxiing.
"...Oh."
You stared through the large airport window as your flight disappeared into the distance.
"...Well, that's not ideal."
Meanwhile, aboard the plane, thirteen exhausted idols were unconscious. Seungcheol had passed out before takeoff. Jeonghan was asleep with his head against the window. No one noticed the empty seat. No one noticed you were missing
Hours later, the plane landed. The members slowly woke up. Stretching and yawning.
"Why is my neck broken?" Mingyu groaned.
"Because you're built like a giraffe," Seungkwan replied.
"Guys."
Joshua sighed.
Seungcheol was up first. “Okay,” he said automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s move together. Don’t-”
He stopped. Something was off. He turned, eyes scanning the rows as members were grabbing their things.
He started counting.
“Seungkwan… DK… Joshua… Vernon…”
His brows furrowed. He counted again.
“…Jun… Mingyu… Hoshi…”
A pause. His expression changed.
“…Jeonghan… Minghao… Woozi…”
His voice slowed.
“Dino.”
He shook his head and looked again.
Thirteen.
His stomach dropped so fast it felt like the floor disappeared under him.
“…Where’s Y/N?”
Nobody answered. Everyone was still waking up, rubbing the sleep away from their eyes. Then it hit them one by one.
Seungkwan blinked. “Wait.”
Hoshi slowly turned his head. “…Huh?”
Joshua looked up from his bag. “Oh.”
Mingyu froze mid-stretch.
“…Oh no.”
Suddenly, all at once. The plane exploded.
“Y/N?!”
“WAIT, WHERE’S Y/N?!”
“I THOUGHT THEY WERE WITH YOU!”
“I THOUGHT THEY WERE WITH STAFF!”
“WHY DID NO ONE CHECK?!”
Seungcheol didn’t move. He just stood there for a second, staring at the empty realization in front of him. Then he grabbed his phone.
“Call the manager,” he said sharply.
Joshua grabbed the phone, already dialing as they were ushered off the plane.
"They're not answering."
"Call the other airport."
"Doing that right now."
They were quickly moved into a private waiting room and they put their stuff in a corner. Minghao sat still. His face had gone pale. Normally he’s the member everyone looked to when emotions ran high. The calm one. But now even he looked rattled.
"They've never been alone in a foreign airport before."
Woozi was pacing. Joshua kept checking his phone every few seconds. Dino looked like he was seconds away from crying. Seungkwan had completely abandoned any attempt to stay composed.
"They must be terrified. We left the baby."
"Stop saying things like that!" DK snapped, clearly close to tears himself.
Finally, a manager burst into the room.
“I found them!”
Everyone jumped to their feet.
"Where?!"
"They're safe."
The relief was so intense that several members nearly collapsed.
"They're still at the departure airport."
“What?”
"They've been with airport staff the whole time."
The next available flight was already being arranged. A few hours later, you finally landed. When you got off the plane, thirteen members and multiple staff were waiting. The second you made eye contact with Seungcheol, tears flooded your eyes.
Suddenly you were crying. Not polite or quiet. Full on sobbing. You ran towards them and crashed into Seungcheol. He froze for a second before hugging you back. Honestly? He expected to be the one to cry first.
"I thought- I thought you all left me!"
"We didn't mean to!" Seungcheol said immediately, hugging them so tightly they could barely breathe. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Everyone joined in. A giant group hug formed around them. Jeonghan had tears in his eyes, brushing your hair back with shaky hands. Joshua patting your shoulder repeatedly like he was trying to make sure you were real. Seungkwan was openly sobbing.
"YOU SCARED US!"
"I scared YOU?!" Y/N cried back.
"You got left behind!"
"You left me behind!"
"That wasn't on purpose!"
Minghao pulled you into another hug, when the crowd finally loosened. The youngest immediately started crying again.
Minghao laughed softly.
"There they are."
You buried you face into his shoulder.
“I hate airports.”
A small laugh left him and he squeezed their shoulder.
"We're never letting you out of our sight again."
As they finally headed back together, you ended up squeezed between thirteen overly protective members. A hand on each shoulder. Someone holding your backpack. Someone else holding your hand. Seungcheol was checking every thirty seconds, and counting again.
For the rest of the trip, nobody let you walk more than three feet away from the group.
Hi, can I request a fanfic with scoups where he just randomly starts making out with you when you talk a bit too much because he finds you so cute
Ugghhh i love him
Too Cute to Handle 💕
Genre: Fluff + Cuteness Aggression + Hot Makeout
Warnings: Established relationship, excessive cuteness, soft!Scoups losing his mind (affectionately), light steam (making out, wandering hands, nothing explicit), pure unfiltered fluff
Song rec: “Adore You” by Harry Styles
You were sprawled across the couch in one of Seungcheol’s oversized hoodies, legs tangled with his, talking a mile a minute about the stray cat you saw on your way home.
“And then she did this little mrrp thing and tilted her head and I just Cheol, I almost cried on the sidewalk. She was so round and her eyes were so big and she let me pet her for like three whole seconds before she decided I was worthy—”
Seungcheol wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore.
He was watching you with that dangerous little smile, the one where his dimples pressed deep and his eyes went all soft and predatory at the same time.
His hand had been resting on your ankle, thumb stroking lazy circles, but the longer you talked gesturing wildly with the sleeve paws of his hoodie, voice pitching higher with excitement the tighter his grip became.
You didn’t notice.
You were too busy describing the cat’s little white socks.
“So then I was like, ‘Hi baby, do you have a home?’ and she—”
He made a low, strangled noise.
You blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, but his jaw was tight and he was biting the inside of his cheek like he was physically restraining himself.
His free hand came up to pinch your cheek gently, then not so gently, squishing the soft skin between his fingers.
“Cheollie, I’m trying to tell you about the cat—”
“You’re killing me,” he groaned, voice rough.
“You’re actually going to kill me.”
You tilted your head, confused and a little pleased.
“What did I do?”
“You’re talking with the hoodie paws. You’re using voice cracks. You called a stray cat ‘baby’ in that voice.”
He sat up suddenly, pulling you closer by the ankles until you were half in his lap.
“You’re being so fucking cute I can’t breathe.”
Your face heated. “I’m just talking—”
“Exactly.”
He cupped your cheeks with both hands now, thumbs brushing your skin almost reverently. His eyes flicked all over your face like he couldn’t decide where to look your sparkling eyes, your slightly puffed cheeks, the way your lips kept moving even as he held you. “You talk too much and it’s lethal. I’m having cuteness aggression. Medical emergency.”
You giggled, trying to squirm away half-heartedly.
“You’re so dramatic—”
He cut you off with a kiss.
Not a soft one. Not the gentle little peck he usually gave you when you were being silly.
This was sudden and deep and hungry, like he’d been holding back for the last ten minutes and finally snapped.
His lips moved against yours with purpose, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right.
You made a surprised little sound that only seemed to make it worse.
“Cheol—” you tried to say between kisses, but he swallowed it, kissing you harder. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap until your knees bracketed his thighs.
The hoodie rode up your legs and his warm palm slipped underneath, resting possessively against the bare skin of your lower back.
“You’re so cute it hurts,” he mumbled against your mouth, barely pulling away enough to speak.
“Every time you get excited like that… fuck, I just want to kiss you stupid.”
“Then do it,” you whispered, dizzy and grinning.
He did.
The next kiss was slower but no less intense tongue brushing yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the kind of makeout that made your fingers curl into his hair and tug. He groaned softly at the pull, the sound vibrating through you.
One of his hands slid up your spine under the hoodie while the other stayed on your cheek, thumb stroking like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together.
“Hi,” you said softly, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
Seungcheol’s eyes were dark, lips kiss-swollen, but the fond smile that broke across his face was pure sunshine. He squished your cheeks again, gentler this time, and planted three rapid little kisses on your puckered lips.
“My baby,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
“My cute, talkative, lethal baby. Keep talking. I’ll just keep kissing you every time I can’t handle it anymore.”
You laughed, bright and giddy, and leaned in to kiss him again soft this time, sweet, the kind of kiss that tasted like promises and quiet nights in.
He smiled against your mouth, arms tightening around you like he never planned on letting go.
Outside, the city kept moving, but in here it was just you, his favorite hoodie, and Seungcheol’s endless, adorable, slightly feral love.
Summary: it's Soonyoung's birthday, but the only thing on his mind is finally confessing to his best friend his feelings for her.
W.C: 4.2k
CW: some profanity, very slight alcohol consumption, and kissing. Hoshi and reader have pet names for each other (Hoshi is Tiger, and Reader is Bunny). No use of y/n, and nothing but tooth-achingly sweet fluff.
A/N: happy to have my return to tumblr for my ult biases bday. im very proud of this one, and i hope you all enjoy xx
“Earth to Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung blinks a few times, unaware that he has zoned out. He glances over to you, then offers an apologetic smile.
“Sorry.” He says. “What did you say?”
“I asked what you wanted to do for your birthday.” You reply, stretching your arms above your head.
The two of you are sprawled out on the small sofa in Soonyoung’s apartment. It was a hot summer day, and the windows were cracked to allow some type of airflow. His AC had gone out a few days prior, and maintenance hasn’t been able to swing by to fix it yet. Truthfully speaking, cold air is what he wants for his birthday. Beyond that, he isn’t particularly fond of the day itself. Birthdays are overrated to him. Why celebrate being one year closer to death? Soonyoung enjoys being alive. Getting older meant that time was passing. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that, yet.
“Ah,” he sighs, settling deeper into the cushions. “Do we have to do anything?”
You laugh, lifting your head slightly to look at him. “We can do whatever you want. Even if that’s rotting like we are now–but I will not let you wallow for the nth year in a row, Tiger.”
He tries to shift to look at you, but you are both a tangled mess of limbs at the moment. He gives up and lets his head hit the armrest again. Rotting the day away with you did sound nice, but anything with you is nice. The two of you have been inseparable since you were kids, and you are pretty much the only person Soonyoung never gets sick of. But maybe that’s because he is also hopelessly in love with you - though that’s besides the point.
“What if I want to wallow?” He fires back. “It’s my birthday.”
“God, you’re so depressing.” You mutter, but there is no real bite to it. There never is. Soonyoung smiles up at the ceiling.
“I’m just messing with you.” He replies. “If we have to do something, I guess I’m content with anything that involves you. Just…nothing theatrical, yeah? I want something lowkey.”
You wiggle so that you’re sitting up this time. Soonyoung lifts his head to find you grinning back at him.
“Really?” You beam. “You’ll actually let me plan something this year?”
Soonyoung should be concerned about whatever you have up your sleeve, but if it means you’ll smile like this again, he quickly decides he doesn’t care. Biting the inside of his cheek, he draws in a deep breath.
“Yeah, bunny.” He manages, forcing a smile back at you. “Go ahead and plan something.”
Seokmin is laughing at him as they wait in line. Soonyoung folds his arms across his chest, immediately regretting saying anything to him. Monday coffee runs were a routine for them. They carpool on the way to work, anyway, so starting the week with something good only made sense. This morning, Soonyoung had mentioned briefly that he was letting you plan something for his birthday, and Seokmin found it amusing. He had every right to, though. Given the fact that Soonyoung never does anything for his birthday and that he’s been harboring feelings for you for a good five years, anybody would find the scenario amusing.
“God, you’re so whipped.” His friend remarks, playfully patting him on the back. “When are you just going to muster the courage to tell her? It’s been long enough.”
Soonyoung quickly shakes his head as the line moves forward. “I can’t do that. What if she doesn’t feel the same? I’m not risking a friendship of twenty-five years over a crush that will likely pass.”
“Likely pass.” Seokmin repeats with an eye roll. “Five years of pining, hyung. I don’t think it’ll pass. We’re far beyond the point of it ‘passing’.”
The line inches forward again. Soonyoung sighs, then glances over to him. “I’m content with her friendship for now. I think when the time is right, I’ll say something.”
“When is the time ever right?” His friend counters. “Look, I just hate to see you put yourself through this. Even if you do say something and she doesn’t feel the same, I don’t think she is the type of person to throw away your friendship because of it.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Soonyoung replies flatly.
His eyes scan the menu ahead, but there’s really no point. He gets the same iced Americano every time they come here. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and quickly pulls it out. Your name flashes across the screen, with a quick series of texts sent to him.
Bunny 🐰: what size are you again?
Bunny 🐰: jk your mom told me
Bunny 🐰: wait, actually, i do need to know if you prefer chocolate or vanilla. i feel like it changes every week
Bunny 🐰: jk i’m getting marble cake. deal with it.
The corners of his mouth twitch as he quickly types a response:
Tiger 🐯: you’re too much.
Bunny 🐰: you love me 🙂
Soonyoung blinks a few times. God, if only you knew. He hesitates as he types out his last reply:
Tiger 🐯: i do.
He quickly puts his phone in his pocket, unsure of whether he wants to see what you have to say next or not. It’s not like it’s some grand confession, anyway. You always say ‘I love you’ to each other. Part of him hopes that you notice the slight shift in his text, but then he realizes how ridiculous that sounds.
“Fuck.” He mutters aloud. Seokmin glances over to him.
“You good?” He asks.
Soonyoung nods, then cards a hand through his hair. “I’m fine, I just…I think you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Seokmin says confidently. “So, how do you want to tell her?”
He takes a moment to think, trying to rack his mind over something that would stand out to you. He hums for a moment as they approach the counter to order. Off to the side, there’s a small menu with seasonal drinks on it. As Seokmin rattles off their usuals, Soonyoung quickly chimes in.
“Can I also get a small s’mores frappe?” He asks. “Extra chocolate, if possible. And whipped cream.”
The barista types in their orders as Soonyoung pays. Seokmin gives them his name, before they meander to a small table in the corner.
“Coffee?” Seokmin frowns. His tone is slightly disappointed. “That’s how you’re going to tell her?”
“No.” Soonyoung quickly says. “I’m going to surprise her at work. I’ll, I don’t know, ask her to dinner tonight. Or something.”
Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Smooth.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Soonyoung folds his arms across his chest.
“I don’t know,” Seokmin admits. “Just, anything other than that. I mean, she does so much for everyone else. Don’t you think a bigger gesture is deserved?”
“It’s more than deserved,” Soonyoung argues. “But how are you supposed to outdo the doer?”
Seokmin is quiet for a moment as he thinks. When the order is called from the counter, Soonyoung wanders back to pick it up. He sits again and passes his friend the drink. Seokmin takes it when a coy grin teases his lips.
“I think I have an idea.”
The next few weeks pass, and the time that Soonyoung usually spends with you is now taken up with Seokmin. To be frank, Soonyoung has nothing against Seokmin. But at the end of the day, Seokmin isn’t you, and Seokmin is annoying. They’ve spent the last several days putting things together for this grand confession (which Seokmin claims is ‘foolproof’ and that it’s going to ‘definitely work’), and he quickly found out that his friend sings about everything. Between going through old boxes, photos, and past birthday gifts, the man found any excuse to sing a little song. It was beginning to drive Soonyoung a little crazy.
As he’s taping a picture to some scrapbook paper, Soonyoung notices his phone light up beside him. He glances down, reading a message from you:
Bunny 🐰: you’ve been so busy lately. are you replacing me with seokmin? :(
He laughs to himself as he types back:
Tiger 🐯: i could never. he’s so annoying. he’s not as nice to look at, either.
Bunny 🐰: i know, i am kind of a catch. but lets see each other soon? i mean, preferably before your birthday, but i’ll take what i can get.
Tiger 🐯: i’ll see what i can do. been working on a project, but i’ll make the time for you.
When he sets his phone back down, Seokmin is singing again. Soonyoung closes his eyes, as if not seeing him will make him stop (news flash: it doesn’t). He watches as his friend reaches for the tape and presses another photo to the page.
“You know,” Seokmin says, “I never knew how sentimental you were. Do you keep everything that she gives you?”
Soonyoung shrugs. “For the most part. I don’t think there’s anything I’ve thrown away. At least, anything that involves her.”
Seokmin looks over to him and proudly presents the page he had been working on. Soonyoung grimaces a bit, but his page doesn’t look any better. He has never been a crafty person, and neither has Seokmin. He keeps insisting, though, that a handmade gift will win her over. Soonyoung isn’t sure how confident he is in that theory. Sure, you’ll like it, but he thinks there could be a better way to tell you how he feels. Something that means something to you.
“At this rate, the scrapbook will be done before your birthday on Friday,” Seokmin announces. “I finished the page with all the old concert tickets already. I still can’t believe you guys saw Astro.”
“Yeah.” Soonyoung pauses. Then he adds, “Do we really think this is the way to do it?”
Seokmin shrugs. “She’s a pretty sentimental person, too, right? I think she’ll love this.”
“I guess so,” Soonyoung mutters.
“You think she’s going to make you make a wish again this year?” Seokmin laughs. “She did that last year, remember?”
Of course he remembers. It was so embarrassing, but the last thing he would ever do is tell you no. Last year, you insisted on dragging him out to a bar with the whole friend group. The bar offered complimentary cake for your birthday, and when they brought out a small slice with a single candle, you begged him to make a wish. You’d gone on a whole tangent about all the superstitions you believed in, and told him that wishes were your favorite. Whether it's on a candle, a dandelion, or a wishbone, you loved the idea of making a wish and hoping it would eventually come true. That had been plenty of convincing for him to do it. He just suffered the embarrassing blows to his ego from his friends afterward. It didn’t matter, though, because you were smiling so big, he was sure your cheeks probably hurt.
“She’ll probably do it again.” Soonyoung finally responds. “She loves that kind of thing, you know?”
“Yeah, she does.” Seokmin sighs happily. “Well, I think this is a good stopping point for the night, yeah?”
Soonyoung hums in agreement. He tries to remind himself that the scrapbook is the perfect way to tell you he loves you, but the idea still doesn’t feel complete. He pushes the thought away for now, certain that he’ll think of something else in time.
The day his birthday rolls around, Soonyoung is a nervous wreck. You’d been distant all day, but he knew it had to be because of the party…right? No, of course it was. He had to stop convincing himself otherwise, because that would make his big confession tonight so much worse. He probably wouldn’t be able to do it if he continues to get himself worked up, but the second you walk into his apartment to set things up, he knows he’s screwed.
You’re juggling two arms full of groceries, as well as balloons in one hand and his present in the other. Soonyoung doesn’t waste a beat, hurrying over to help you set things down. It’s only after he turns to face you again that he sees what you’re wearing. He blinks a few times.
“Is that the same dress you wore when I graduated?” He asks.
You look down as if you've forgotten what you're wearing. You grin and meet his gaze again. “Yes! It still fits! Isn’t that crazy?”
For a moment, he forgets entirely how to speak. You haven’t worn this dress since his graduation, which also happens to be the same day he realized he loved you. So, naturally, that dress has been ingrained in his memory since then. It’s not even anything fancy–it's a shorter black dress that flares out at the skirt. There are no flashy sequins or designs. But because you were the one wearing it, it became the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen in his life.
“Yeah.” He replies. He realizes how hoarse his voice sounds and quickly clears his throat. “Uh, crazy.”
You begin passing him things to set off to the side, insisting that you’ll be setting everything up. He just has to “sit and look pretty”. He isn’t sure how to take that statement. But he obliges anyway, watching you maneuver through his apartment as if you belonged there. In his mind, you do. You always have. He just hopes tonight goes well so you can officially belong here with him–at least in the way he wants you to.
“Everybody should be here in the next hour or so.” You announce, glancing over to him. “I kept it to just our friends. Lowkey, just like you asked.”
Soonyoung swallows. “Cool.”
“Are you okay?” You frown, walking over to him. “You’ve been weird since I got here.”
“I’m cool!” He replies a little too loudly. “I’m great. I just–” he pauses “--am really hungry, I think.”
You laugh, taking the balloons from him. When your fingers brush his for a moment, he swears the breath is knocked out of his lungs instantly. “Good thing we’re eating soon.” You hum. “Do you want to change?”
Soonyoung looks down and realizes he never changed out of his ratty pajama pants from last night. His face burns red in embarrassment. You must notice, because you quickly begin to ramble, “You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s your birthday. I just thought that maybe you’d–”
“I’d love to change.” Soonyoung quickly stands. “I have something I need to take care of, anyway.”
You make a face. “Ew.”
Soonyoung’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, Bunny, not like that. Jesus, I just meant–”
“I’m kidding.” You giggle. “Go change, Tiger. I’m here.”
Once everybody arrives, Soonyoung seems to relax a bit more. The playlist you made for tonight is perfect, and he’s reminded during every song how much you understand him and his picky music taste. After a couple of hours, Seokmin manages to find him and pulls him aside.
“Did you wrap it?” He asks quietly. “When are you going to give it to her?”
Soonyoung glances over to you to make sure you can’t hear the conversation. Thankfully, you’re happily distracted by whatever antics Chan has up his sleeve right now. He looks back at Seokmin.
“Probably when everyone leaves?” He suggests. “I want it to be just us. I don’t think doing it in front of everybody is the way to go.”
His friend quickly nods in agreement. Soonyoung can tell he’s tipsy. “Good thinking. Nice. Okay, well, let me know if you need anything?”
Soonyoung just nods and watches Seokmin stumble a bit before running into Seungcheol. As Soonyoung begins to make his way over to you, he sees Joshua coming out of his kitchen, balancing the cake in his hands. You gasp excitedly, and dim the lights. Next thing he knows, Soonyoung is being ushered over to the table where he’s greeted by a tiger-face-shaped cake with the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SOONYOUNG!
When he looks up, his eyes find yours immediately. He barely notices his friends sticking the ‘30’ candle on top of the cake. A few of his friends made a joke that the bakery probably thought the cake was for a kid, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when he knew what it meant to the two of you. He swears for a minute he sees your ears turn red, but then the candles are lit, and everyone is singing to him. After an excruciatingly off-tune birthday song, Soonyoung hesitates. He offers you a small smile.
“Should I make a wish?”
There’s a brief second where you falter, clearly not expecting him to ask that. When everyone looks at you, that’s when Soonyoung’s suspicion is confirmed: you’re blushing like crazy.
“Do you want to?” You ask in response.
A bit of Soonyoung’s confidence is regained, knowing he got you this flustered. Maybe, he thought with the smallest ounce of hope, tonight would go exactly like he was hoping it would. He draws in a dramatic, deep breath and closes his eyes. He doesn’t even care that his friends are laughing right now as he uses every ounce of his mind to make a wish for you–as he wishes for you. Once a couple of theatrical seconds pass, Soonyoung blows out the candle and opens his eyes again. Everyone is clapping and digging into the cake, but the two of you are staring at each other, unmoving. It’s not until Seokmin ceremoniously shakes Soonyoung that he’s pulled out of his thoughts, and moves to get some cake for himself.
After the last few guests make their way out, it’s finally just you and Soonyoung left in his apartment. He was beginning to think it would never happen, given how long everybody was staying. The music still plays softly through your small Bluetooth speaker as the two of you walk around, picking up dishes and cups from around his living room. When Soonyoung picks up his fifth glass, he pauses.
“Thank you.” He says, looking over to you. You glance up from where you’re at in the kitchen, and grin.
“Always.” You respond. Your attention shifts back to the dishes.
Soonyoung makes sure you’re distracted enough before he slips away to his bedroom and retrieves the scrapbook. When he returns, you’re humming along to the music. He watches for a second as you sway your hips and allow yourself to get lost with whatever song is playing. He takes a deep breath, then walks over to you.
“I have something for you.” He announces quietly. You glance over at him and frown when you see the present in his hands.
“Soonyoung, what is this?” You question. He reaches over, turning off the running water. Here goes nothing.
“Uh,” he clears his throat, “you know how I’ve been spending a lot more time with Seokmin, lately?”
You nod.
“Well, it was because he was helping me make this.” He continues, “Um, do you want to sit and open it?”
You hesitate, so Soonyoung gently grabs your hand and leads you out to his couch. Once you both sit, he passes the present to you. You haven’t taken your eyes off of him, yet. Finally, you force out a nervous laugh.
“What’re you doing?” You say softly. “I mean, first the wish and now…” You look down at the gift in your lap.
Soonyoung doesn’t say anything. He just watches as your fingers delicately trace over the wrapping paper before you begin to peel it off slowly–like you were scared to see what was inside. Once the paper is fully discarded, you’re completely silent. Soonyoung forgets how awful most of the pages in there look and quickly shifts closer to you as they come into view again.
“Um, so I’m not crafty by any means.” He says, and it’s his turn to laugh nervously. “So don’t judge it too hard, okay?”
You don’t look at him. Instead, you’re captivated by the book in front of you. When you open to the first page, Soonyoung sees the realization wash over your face. That’s what prompts you to look at him.
“You kept all of this?” Your tone is filled with nothing but disbelief and admiration. He thinks for a second that he hears your voice shake slightly. “But, why?”
“Bunny, I–” he stops. Then, “you mean a lot to me.”
“You mean a lot to me, too–”
“No, I mean,” he sighs before grabbing your hands, “you mean a lot to me. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but…I don’t know. I guess I was too nervous. I didn’t want to jeopardize the relationship we already have. But I also know I didn’t want to sit and wait any longer than I already had. You do so much for me, and I wanted to show you just how much I care. How much I’ve always cared. I love you.”
When you don’t reply right away, Soonyoung swallows nervously. Then, finally, you smile.
“You haven’t opened my present yet.” You say.
Soonyoung blinks. “What?”
Without explaining, you gently set the scrapbook onto his coffee table. You disappear around the corner for a second, then return with a small box in your hands. Soonyoung had completely forgotten that you arrived with it. When you sit again, you pass it over to him. He takes it as you watch him expectantly. He begins to unwrap it, but he swears his hands are shaking while he does so. When he takes the lid off the box, his heart stumbles to a stop. Inside was a small silver bracelet with a bunny charm. Soonyoung looks up at you, finding you holding out your wrist. You’re wearing a matching one with a tiger on it instead.
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice it all night.” You comment. “I guess we both had the same idea. Because Soonyoung, I love you, too.”
He doesn’t know what to say at first. So instead, his brain auto-pilots, “holy fuck.”
“Soonyoung!” You shove him playfully, but he catches your arm as you do so. Your expression falters for a second at his reaction. His heart is back to beating as rapidly as it was all night.
“You love me.” He repeats. Saying it feels so real to him. Then, he grins. “You love me.”
“I think we’ve established that, Tiger.” You mutter, but the blush has crept back up to your cheeks. Soonyoung pulls you closer.
“Can I please kiss you?”
“I’d be upset if you didn’t.”
Soonyoung presses his lips to yours as if his life depended on it, though maybe it did. The second they meet, he melts completely into your touch. He could taste the cherry lip gloss that you wore every day, and that he had imagined the taste of thousands of different times. He wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you closer to him. Your hands find their way to his shoulders. When you pull away to take a breath, Soonyoung hardly lets you stay apart for long before chasing after you again. The second kiss is slower, more exploratory. He feels your body relax against him, and he swears it’s what heaven feels like–or at least something close to it.
“Soonyoung,” you whisper into his mouth, “as much as I’d love to continue this, I really want to look at that scrapbook.”
He pulls away and takes a mental picture of your swollen lips and flushed face–you look divine. Then it registers to him what you said, and he frowns.
“It looks like shit.” He says. “Please keep kissing me instead, I’d really rather not be here while you look at it.”
You just laugh and gently push him away. He watches as you take a second to fix your dress and stand. As you grab the scrapbook, you look back at him mischievously.
“Please?” You coo, waving it at him. “I really want to see what my boyfriend made for me.”
That causes Soonyoung to short-circuit, but he’s quick to come back to his senses as he jumps to his feet. He hurries after you, but you cut into the kitchen, and he practically runs into the wall.
“Boyfriend?” He huffs, but an amused expression tugs at his lips. “You can’t just say that and run away.”
“Isn’t that what you are, now?” You tease. “Or should we have a formal proposition for the title?”
Soonyoung cringes at that. “God, no. I’m definitely your boyfriend. If that’s what you say I am, then that’s what I am.”
You smile as you set the scrapbook down on the kitchen counter. “I won’t open it right now, but I’m definitely looking at it when I go home later.”
Soonyoung hums. “As long as I’m not there to witness my shit storm of a scrapbook, I’m fine with that.”
A comfortable silence settles between the two of you, and Soonyoung doesn’t think he could get happier than this. After a few seconds pass, you take a step towards him.
“Soonyoung, what did you wish for?” You ask.
For a second, he considers telling you. But knowing how superstitious you are, he opts for pulling you back into him instead.
“Don’t you know I can’t say?” He smirks. “That means the wish won’t come true.”
divider by @uzmacchiato !! go check out their stuff, it's so cute xx
tiny little drabble based on this clip bc i wanted to do a little writing warmup. 429 words.
Seungcheol is cute when he’s concentrating.
His lips are in a pout — his default expression, really — his thick brows are slightly creased together, and his eyes are staring at his phone screen like he’s trying to blow it up.
“Why is this so hard?” he mumbles to himself, his fingers weaving the silk tie around itself again, but all he manages is… a knotted mess. He sighs with defeat, untangling the tie, and struggling to even do that. “I just won’t wear this…”
You giggle as you cross the room over to your wounded puppy-boyfriend’s side. His hands drop to his sides as soon as you pick the tie up, and he watches your deft fingers undo the knot with ease.
“Look,” you say, taking the two loose ends. “Over, then under, then around, then under and through here, then through here… and there you go.” You tighten it and straighten it a little, curling your fingers around it before tugging him closer to you with a grin full of mischief. “Now I can drag you around.”
“Hey…” he whines. “How did you even learn to do that?” he asks, still looking puzzled as he stares at the tie through the mirror. He reaches up, starting to undo your work.
“When I was little my dad let me tie his tie for work because he knew I loved doing it,” you explain, stroking your hands along Seungcheol’s broad shoulders. He always makes you feel a little crazy when he’s in a button-up shirt.
“That’s cute,” he says, and now he’s holding two loose ends of his tie. “I’m trying again… Over, then under, then through-”
“Wrong,” you exclaim, hands darting out to stop his movements. His eyes go wide with exasperation. God forbid you tell him he’s doing something wrong. “Over, then under, then around. Why are you moving so much?”
His head had been moving up and down, glancing back and forth between the mirror and the view right below him. “I’m trying to get all the angles, baby!”
You scoff out a laugh, placing the tie back in his grasp. “You’re confusing yourself. Here. Do as I tell you.”
“Okay. I’m good at that.”
You nod. “So, over… Then under… Then around… Then under and through… And then through that hole you made…”
He pulls the longer end through, and it looks exactly as it should. “Did I do it?”
“You did it!” you say, applauding him gently as he beams at his reflection with triumph. “Congratulations, you’re a real man now.”
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat (platonically) and you (romantically).
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
this was so cute! I loved dumpling and Y/N’s interactions with each other and the little notes <3 plus Jun not freaking out on Dumpling when they changed back into a human I wished Dumpling could stay with them forever
PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13
PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Seungcheol
PACK MEETING: You're having a hard time adjusting to your new pack. Good thing your head alpha knows exactly how to help you adapt.
REQUESTED BY: @peaspeas
REQUEST: Idek if this qualifies because I'm talking like, maybe pré-rules or before they were finalised formally but I want Seungcheol finding reader whenever she's eating and sitting with her and she has no idea why. If he shows up and she's already eating, he's like oh shit, panic to make up a reason that he needs to as well etc. Almost a sort of farcical comedy vibe? Both idiots ofc
WC: 5,135
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
PACK WARNINGS: Very mild angst like wouldn't even call it that, reader has some anxiety adjusting to a new pack, she's a little in her head, Seungcheol is a little shit, some vague references to hormones and adjusting to being near others, reader being lonely and feeling a little on the outside, both of them are kind of stupid lmfaooo but in a good way, some playful arguing at the end.
A/N: Moni this is not as cracky as it was supposed to be and didn't really notice to the end I'm saur sorry lmfaoooo. Also this is not beta read we die like men guys.
HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK
THE KITCHEN IS PAINTED IN SHADES OF BLUE AT 5:47 IN THE MORNING. As the only resident of said kitchen this early in the morning the past two weeks, you've learned that the pre-dawn light that spills through the wide windows above the sink turns everything soft and cool in the morning. The white subway tile back splash starts off a muted grey before the sun finally melts away the blue and turns it bright white each morning.
This morning, the honey-colored cabinets look muted, nearly colorless as the sun hides beyond the horizon. You take another bite of cereal, listening to the old house settle around you. The house has taken getting used to - not because it's ancient, but because it's old enough to feel lived in and have its own quirks of floorboards that squeak, doors that click shut because the hinges are a little loose, pipes that groan when one of the thirteen people upstairs showers late at night.
It's a big house. It has to be, to fit the pack of thirteen - fourteen now, including you. Six alphas, seven betas, and you. A single omega, new and a little out of your comfort zone as you try to figure the ins and outs of a pack who have been together so long, they don't even have to think about how to navigate one another. They just do, planets who have been in rotation of one another for so long that it's as easy as breathing.
Where they've had years together, you've only had two weeks. It still feels like you're learning an entire new language - not because any of them are difficult or unkind, but rather because there's a difference between being welcomed into a pack and belonging, and you're somewhere in the strange gap between the two.
Unfortunately, the omega part of your brain doesn't really understand the distinction between the two, even though you do. You get that it'll take time to integrate yourself fully and to fit in as intimately as the others do with one another, but your instincts don't have that nuance. All your omega knows is that you should be surrounded by a pack, that you should be scented and claimed and constantly near people who want you.
Instead, you're sitting by yourself in a kitchen that feels too big and your instincts are ramming against you to go knock on a door and ask for company. You can't, though. Not that they wouldn't let you in - they would. You know they would. But the small fraction of the what if keeps you rooted to your seat. What if they end up not liking you? What if this doesn't work out? What if they decide they don't need an omega after all?
You stare at the cereal in your bowl, now soggy. It's something honey-flavored and generic that you took out of the pack pantry without looking. Mingyu swore you could take anything out of the pantry and fridge - anything in the house. What’s theirs is yours until you start filling the house with your favorite things, but like the anxiety of asking one of them to spend time with you, you can't seem to figure out how to ask for cinnamon sugar cereal or sweet cream coffee creamer.
Another bite confirms your cereal is as soggy as it looks. You ignore it, watching the kitchen in the morning stillness. It still smells like cinnamon and brown sugar from something Mingyu baked yesterday. Dishes pile in the sink and you know Seungcheol is going to have a field day when he sees it, adamant about dishes being done each night.
Under the layers of the smell of the kitchen is them. You're still trying to pick out the strands of scents that belong to each member, but thirteen scents layered over the top of one another is dizzying and hard to get used to, each one blending into something that you recognize as almost pack. Pack but not.
There are a few you can pick out individually, at least. You know Seungcheol's cedar and smoke, the head alpha easier to scent than the others. Jeonghan's citrus and something that you can't put your finger on. Mingyu's clean laundry smell with a hint of something soft and woody. The others remain a bit of a mess, but you're determined to try, hoping that maybe untangling each scent will lead you to untangling them and finding a sense of belonging that you'd hoped to find here and that they said they'd wanted you to find.
You try not to think about what happens if you don't find a place here. Though it's actually entirely normal not to, you don't know if you could survive that kind of embarrassment. You had already been a bit wary of using omega placement services as it was, desperate to find a pack after years of living on your own and unwilling to go back to living with your all-beta family in your tiny town where nothing much ever happened.
Thirteen pack members is a lot after coming from something small, something lonely. You'd been thrilled at the idea, realizing that you'd never be alone again, that you'd always have someone to lean on. Now you're here, in a house full of thirteen people who are supposed to be your pack, and you're still eating breakfast alone. Still sitting on the outside of their easy familiarity. Still trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between being new and being home.
Creaking stairs catch your attention. You perk up, freezing as you listen to the soft steps of someone coming down the stairs and toward the kitchen. You smell the cedar and smoke before you see him, your brain getting a little foggy before Seungcheol ever steps into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He pulls up short when he sees you. He's surprised, and you realize he hadn't smelled you before he walked in, unused to having an omega or an outsider in his house. He looks devastating this morning in sweatpants slung low on his hips and a t-shirt that's tight enough to show off the width of him and strength in his chest. An alpha not only built strong mentally but physically, someone who feels and looks dependable, someone who looks entirely too soft and swollen and pretty in the dawn light.
He blinks at you. His eyes are dark and a little unfocused, still soft with sleep, but there's something sharp underneath. It makes you sit up straighter, you body thrumming as he flicks on the light. You squint, but when your eyes adjust, he's still looking at you with an expression he doesn't understand.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?" He asks, voice rough with sleep. "Are you alright?"
"What? Oh." You lower your spoon to the bowl, hyperaware of him. "Sorry, I'm an early riser in new places. I can go if you need the kitchen, sorry-"
"No, stay."
It's not a command, but his voice is firm enough that you nod instantly, relaxing a little. He moves further into the room, carrying the heavy presence of a head alpha with him. You can feel it in the way he moves, the way he takes up space and the gravity around him that has nothing to do with physical mass and everything to do with him.
You grip the edge of the counter, trying to stay composed as your omega instincts kick in. The last thing you want is for him to think you're awkward or needy. You don't want him to know how much you're struggling with this transition more than you should be. You're supposed to be settling in and comfortable by now, but you're not.
It scares you.
"Coffee?" he asks, already turning it on.
"No, I'm okay."
He hums, opening the cabinet next to the coffee maker. You watch him scan the mugs until he finds a specific one and selects it. You wonder if they have assigned mugs, if there's a hierarchy in the cabinet beyond your understanding like so many other things here.
Silence hangs between you as he makes his coffee, turning to lean backward against the counter with the mug tucked between his hands. His gaze drifts back to you and he gives you a soft smile that you tentatively return. The attention makes you feel exposed, like he's looking at you and sees right through the core of you despite only having been in the same room for a few minutes.
"Couldn't sleep?" You ask, desperately trying to fill the silence.
"Something like that." He gestures toward you. "What about you? Do you do this a lot? Waking up early and sitting alone in the dark, I mean."
"I guess, yeah. I have a hard time sleeping in new places and I don't like to just lay there."
"Mmm." There's a pause, and you can feel him still watching you. Still assessing. "You eat breakfast alone a lot too?"
You glance down at the bowl. "Sometimes, I guess? I'm usually up before anyone else."
"How long have you been up?"
"Maybe an hour?"
"And you've just been sitting here by yourself."
It's not quite a question, but it feels like one. You glance up at him, trying to figure out where this is going, but his expression is unreadable. His scent shifts and you realize what it is. Protectiveness. He doesn't like that you're sitting here by yourself, and the realization makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"I don't mind," you murmur, looking down again to hide the sudden flush you feel.
He hums. "I'm hungry." You look up, confused at the statement. He points to your bowl. "What are you having?"
"Cereal. I think it's honey? I didn't want to wake anyone up by cooking."
"Cereal sounds good. Honey is Chan's. Good choice."
He moves with purpose then, crossing to the cabinets to pull down a bowl. Your eyes catch on the line of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under the cotton tee, the way it rides up just slightly as he reaches for the milk in the fridge, revealing a tiny strip of skin at his lower back that makes your mouth go dry. You look away quickly, back down at your soggy cereal, and try to get your breathing under control.
You watch as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal and strides over to you, dragging a stool up next to you. You blink in surprise. You expected him to sit across from you, but instead he plops down next to you close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and close enough that the cedar and smoke of him makes your eyes flutter. His knee brushes yours as he adjusts and you have to physically stop yourself from leaning into him, your nervous system lighting up at the proximity.
"So," he says, pulling you from the static of your thoughts. "Tell me about yourself."
You blink at him. "Like what?"
"Anything." He takes another bite of cereal like this is completely normal. Like he wakes up at five in the morning to eat with strangers all the time. "Where are you from again?"
"Small town." You stir your cereal. The milk swirls. "Really small. Everyone-knows-everyone small."
"And you left."
"For college. I came back for a few years after but it didn't feel like I fit in anymore so I moved to the city, got an apartment by myself. Thought I wanted independence and freedom to figure things out on my own terms." You take a bite of cereal just to have something to do with your hands. "Turns out being alone and being independent aren't the same thing. I was just lonely. Really lonely. Didn't even realize how bad it was until I started looking into pack placement programs and well… now I’m here trying it out, I guess."
Seungcheol goes quiet. When you glance over, his expression is soft. "How long were you alone?"
"Three years."
"That's a long time for anyone, not specifically an omega."
"Yeah." You swallow. "I didn't know what I was missing. I'm still trying to figure it out, I think and how I… fit in."
"You're doing fine," he says.
"I eat breakfast alone every morning."
"Not this morning, though."
The words are simple and direct. When you look up at him, he's watching you with something warm in his expression. Something that makes your chest tight.
"No," you say quietly. "Not this morning."
He gives you a small smile that transforms his face. Suddenly, he's not the intimidating pack alpha - he's soft and warm, more like a person than someone you have to impress or earn the trust of. You relax a little, stirring your milk aimlessly.
"What about you?" you ask. "What made you want to lead a pack this big?"
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Honestly? I didn't set out to. It just kind of happened. We all met in college, started spending time together, and it felt right. Natural. Then more people joined and suddenly I was the one everyone looked to when decisions needed to be made. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it right. If I'm taking care of everyone the way I should be."
"I think you're doing a good job," you say. "Everyone seems happy. Settled."
He looks at you and gives you a look, one brow raised. "Everyone except you."
His words make you wince. Not because they're accusatory, but because you didn't think he noticed. You realize it's a bit of an insult for you to have doubted him - Seungcheol's entire role as the head alpha is to understand his pack, to balance the personalities, to lead. That includes you, despite not feeling like it, and you realize that he's taken notice and doesn't intend to let it go.
"We don't eat alone unless we want to in my pack," he says simply.
My pack. The possessiveness in those two words makes something flutter in your chest and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from grinning, to stop yourself from getting too hopeful.
"I didn't want to be a burden," you admit.
"You're not," he promises. "You're a part of our pack which means you're never a burden. We want you here. We wouldn't have gone through the trouble of the agency and placement if we didn't think there was something missing. You were missing and we're happy to gave you, even if it's a little awkward at first."
You can feel your heart beating too fast, the warmth of him making you dizzy. Seungcheol doesn't lean closer, but you feel him closer, the smell of him overwhelming and comforting. You realize he's doing it on purpose, pheromones comforting you like he should. You glance up and he has a knowing look on his face, a little smug and a little endeared and you find yourself smiling.
"Thank you," you manage. "For noticing."
"Always," he murmurs.
You finish your cereal together as the sky outside continues to lighten. For the first time since you moved into this house, you don't feel quite so alone.
-
It's Tuesday in the middle of the day when Seungcheol interrupts your next meal. You look up as he walks onto the back porch, the apple covered in peanut butter in your hand pausing as he sits down next to you at the table. He's got a full plate with him, rice, chicken and vegetables piled high as he sighs and settles in comfortably.
"Hey," he says casually, cracking open the can of soda he's brought along.
"Hi," you say slowly, eyeing him.
"I am starving. Wanted something sweet."
You look at his plate. Then back at him. Then back at the plate.
"Seungcheol, that is not sweet."
"What?"
"You said you wanted something sweet. That's chicken."
He blinks and looks down like he's just now noticing what's on it. You press your lips together as he scratches the side of his neck, nodding. "Right. I meant I wanted something sweet after this. You like ice cream?"
"I do."
"Great." He leans over, peering at your apple slices as his shoulders brush yours, sending a spark through you. "What are you having?"
"Apple and peanut butter."
"Hmmm. Classic." He starts cutting into his chicken as you watch him, eyes narrowed. "How's your day?"
You're still processing the fact that he claimed to be starving for something sweet while holding a savory meal, but you answer anyway, amused.
"Good. I've been reading."
"Yeah? What are you reading?"
Taking another bite of your apple, you tell him. Seungcheol is an engaged listener, nodding and asking follow up questions as he devours his plate. Somehow, time passes easily. Even after he's cleared his plate, he leans back into his chair, foot up on the seat as he tells you about one of his favorite books growing up, dimples appearing every time he smiles.
You love his dimples, watching them as he ducks his head and laughs, long hair falling in his eyes. You smile too, unable to help it around him. He's infectious like that, easily shifting the mood from something tense to warm or lonely to comfortable, like an alpha should.
Eventually, he sighs heavily, stretching. You try not to notice the way his shirt peels up, revealing the barest hint of soft stomach before he drops his arms back down and grins at you.
"I have to get back to work," he says. "But this was nice. We should do it again."
"That would be nice."
He smiles and gets up, clearing his plate and reaching to grab your empty one without much preamble. You watch him go inside, shaking your head when you realize that he never wanted something sweet in the first place.
-
You've been awake for three hours.
It's not insomnia, exactly. It's more like your brain won't shut off and you keep laying in bed replaying conversations, analyzing the way Seungcheol looked at you on Wednesday, wondering if you're reading too much into the fact that Mingyu sat close enough to scent you yesterday but didn't, if any of this means anything or if you're just desperate enough to convince yourself it does. As usual, your brain is doing laps, restless and unsettled, and the quiet of the house at midnight isn't helping. It's making you hyper-aware of how alone you are in your room, how easy it would be to just stay here without anyone noticing and how good you've gotten at it.
So you give up on sleep. Again.
The kitchen is dark when you pad downstairs in your pajamas, the hum of the refrigerator going as you open it up, squinting against the light. You don't bother to turn the overhead lights on, the moon filtering in through the big windows over the sink enough to get by. You steal the honey cereal - Chan's - again from the pantry, and fix a bowl before sitting at the counter, sighing as you take a bite.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you. You flip it over, squinting in the dark as you frown when you read it.
SEUNGCHEOL [12:15 AM]: What are you doing?
Your stomach does something complicated.
YOU [12:15 AM]: Eating cereal… why?
SEUNGCHEOL [12:16 AM] Be right there
You set your phone down slowly, your heart doing something erratic in your chest. He heard you come downstairs. His room is above the kitchen - you know this now - and realize that he must have heard you snooping around down here like he did that first morning he found you eating in the kitchen at five in the morning.
A minute later, he appears in the kitchen doorway and your brain short circuits a little. He's in soft cotton pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly old and pulled tight across his chest. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and he's rumpled and sleepy enough to tell you that he absolutely was asleep until he heard you.
"Hey," he croaks.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," he lies.
"You didn't have to come down, Seungcheol."
"I did. And you can call me Cheol, you know. Seungcheol makes it sound like I'm in trouble."
He moves to the cabinet, and grabs a bowl, making himself a matching snack before he sits down close enough that his thigh brushes yours. You shiver and if he notices, he has the decency not to point it out.
"Maybe you are in trouble," you mutter, taking a bite.
"Yeah? What for?"
"Being a liar who lies. You heard me and came down."
He grins and takes a bite of cereal. He chews thoughtfully for a few seconds, ignoring your stare. "So what if I did? I wanted to join you, so I did. Anyway, trouble sleeping again?"
"Kind of." You push cereal around your bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "My brain won't shut off."
"Yeah?" He shifts slightly, and you're hyperaware of every point where his body is close to yours. "What's it doing?"
"Thinking."
"Pack stuff?"
"Maybe." You finally look at him. His eyes are soft in the moonlight. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you doing this on purpose?"
He doesn't ask what you mean. Doesn't pretend to be confused. Just smiles into his cereal, and the smile is so knowing that your face goes hot.
"Yep."
"Why?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"
He sets his spoon down. Turns to face you fully, and there's something serious in his expression now, something that makes you sit up and pay attention to him.
"I told you already," he says softly. "We don't eat alone unless we want to. Do you want to?" You hesitate only a moment before shaking your head. "Exaclty. So until you feel confidence to ask someone - you can ask any of us, by the way - I'll make sure you're not eating alone."
It's something so simple and yet it devastates you to hear him say it. It isn't the words themselves exactly, but rather the way he says it, like it's a promise, like he's already decided that this doesn't require permission or gratitude or even for you to ask. It's just a fact that he's going to do this, no negotiation, no need to think about it.
You think about the last three years of your life of eating in your apartment along, of making meals for one, of not having to consider anyone else's schedule or preferences. Three years of being fine with it because fine was easier than admitting you were lonely. And now you have a pack you don't know what to do with, but this alpha - this head of a thirteen-person pack - is keen enough to pick up on what you need and come down to the kitchen at midnight to make sure you have what you need.
It's wonderful and terrifying all at once.
"Okay," you murmur, nodding.
You watch him in the moonlight filtering through the kitchen window. His hair is still a mess and his face is puffy with sleep, but he's soft. Warm. You notice a small scar on his collarbone you've never been close enough to notice before, and wonder where he got it from.
When he finishes his bowl of cereal, he looks at yours, raising his brows. "You finishing that?"
You shake your head and he grins, reaching over and brushing against you deliberately to steal your bowl. The contact is electric as his arm grazes your shoulder, his chest brushing your back for just a second, and your entire nervous system short-circuits. You nearly go catatonic at the contact, omega melting even when he pulls away, leaving you dizzy and touch starved and hungry for something not food. Your skin tingles where he touched you.
Seungcheol notices. This time, you see the way he grins, smug and content at your reaction. It hits you that he planned that, that he wanted you to feel it. The realization makes your chest tight in a way that's half panic, half something else entirely.
You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, your face, and it pisses you off - not at him, but at yourself for being so transparent, so easy to read. You huff and cross your arms over your chest, turning to him, temper flaring a little. You're not mad at all, but your omega instincts bristle in a way that feels playful and fun, something entirely unfamiliar to you. It's like your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.
"Well that's not fair," you huff. "You can't just do that."
"Do what?"
"Brush up against me and use your… alpha ways."
He laughs, full bellied and loud, echoing off the kitchen walls. "My alpha ways?"
"Yes!"
"That's how it works."
"Well!" You stomp your foot against the footrest on the stool. "I would like to file a complaint. Wait, who do I file a complaint with? You're head alpha."
Even as you say it, you know how ridiculous you sound. You're literally complaining to the person you're complaining about. It's absurd. But there's also a part of you that likes this game, this playful banter.
"You're cute when you panic."
The word lands like a punch. Cute. You're not cute. You're competent and sarcastic and you've survived three years alone in a city that didn't care about you. You're not cute. Except the way he says it makes you feel small in a way that isn't entirely bad. You like it, even.
"I'm not panicking," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.
"Sure."
"And for the record, I'm not cute. I am a very strong, very assertive omega." You stand up, trying to reclaim some dignity, trying to put distance between yourself and the way his presence makes your skin feel too tight. "I've even lived on my own. Very independent."
"Absolutely," he agrees, not sounding convinced at all.
Seungcheol stands with you and puts the bowls in the sink, leaving them unwashed for once. He grins at you and gestures to the door and you listen, because apparently you do that now. Your body just obeys him, no thought required, no decision made. You just move when he moves, follow when he leads. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't. It feels familiar in a way you've been craving and you finally have it.
He follows you up the stairs and you're hyperaware of him behind you, footsteps quiet and measured. . You can feel the warmth of him in the space between your bodies, close enough that you could lean back and touch him. Your omega is purring at his proximity, at the simple fact of him being there, and you hate how easy it's becoming to just accept it. To want it.
The hallway is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the window at the end, letting in enough light for you to walk to your room, third door to the left. When you reach it, you pause, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly unsure of the protocol. Do you just say goodnight? Do you invite him in? The uncertainty makes your stomach knot uncomfortably, panic spiking.
You turn to look at him and he's closer than you expected. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. He's still soft from sleep, and he's looking at you like he looks at the other members of his pack, warm and soft and so gentle that it makes your omega nearly scream.
Seungcheol grins and leans down, pressing a kiss briefly to your head, soft and warm and over before you even know it's happening. Your throat tightens immediately, thoughts turning to static as he takes a step back, winking at you.
"Sleep, he murmurs. "Wake me up when you want breakfast. I mean it."
He dismisses himself then and you watch him walk back down the hallway, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness, and you don't move until you hear his door close softly upstairs.
Only then do you slip into your room and lean against the door, your heart still racing, your forehead still burning with the ghost of his kiss. You touch your fingers to the spot where he kissed you, like you can hold onto it somehow.
Crawling into bed, you do exactly what Seungcheol has asked and you sleep.
-
The next morning when you wake up, you don’t have to wake Seungcheol. You hear the noise downstairs, confusion drawing you down the steps and into the kitchen where breakfast is being made in full. You stand in the doorway, confused as you watch Mingyu and Joshua argue at the stove, the sound of eggs sizzling and the smell of bacon wafting toward you.
Seungkwan is at the coffee machine, staring lifelessly into the open air as his coffee brews while Chan stands on his tip toes to reach more coffee mugs out of the cabinet behind him. Seokmin is sitting on the counter swinging his legs, laughing animatedly at whatever Soonyoung and Jihoon are arguing about near the sink while Jeonghan lays across the counter, head in Seokmin’s lap as he dozes.
Seungcheol walks in behind you, not missing at beat as he steers you by the waist toward the counter. Jeonghan peeks an eye open and grins, lifting himself from Seokmin’s lap to make room for you just as Seungcheol grip you by the waist and halls you up to sit on the counter next to Jeonghan, the citrus and jasmine smell of him placating your immediate irritation at being lifted.
“Why is everyone in the kitchen?” You demand, turning to Jeonghan because Seungcheol is already leaving you and heading for the fridge. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”
“Rule number one,” Jeonghan yawns, scooting closer so that he’s pressed up against you. You hesitate for only a second before you let yourself relax and tentatively lean toward him. “The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to.”
Seokmin peers around him. “Do you want to?”
His question hangs in the air among the noise and chaos of the kitchen, scents hitting you from every angle, the sound of Minghao complaining about burnt bacon and Mingyu hollering as oil pops and burns his wrist.
You grin, ducking your head a little as Seungcheol catches your eyes from across the kitchen and winks.
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.
WC. 14.9k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.
AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.
The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.
9:14 PM.
A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.
Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.
You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”
“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.
It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.
Which is what brought here.
Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”
“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”
He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”
Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.
He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”
“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”
“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”
The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.
Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.
“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”
As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.
“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”
As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.
“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”
You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?
And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.
Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.
Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”
You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.
“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”
You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.
“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”
Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”
The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.
“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”
You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”
A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.
“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”
He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.
The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.
For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.
Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.
“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.
Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.
You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.
Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.
Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.
It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.
Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.
It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.
Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.
The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.
But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.
The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.
A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.
Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.
Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.
“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.
“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”
He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.
You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”
Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.
“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”
You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”
He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”
You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.
“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”
“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.
“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”
You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.
“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”
“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”
Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”
You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”
He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”
“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.
“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”
You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.
“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”
Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”
You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.
“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”
He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”
“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”
“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”
He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.
“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”
As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.
Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.
On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.
Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.
Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.
He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.
Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.
On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.
The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.
Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.
About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.
After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.
Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.
“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.
“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”
You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”
“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”
He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.
“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”
You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”
“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”
“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”
Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”
You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.
“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”
The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.
It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.
“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”
The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.
“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.
You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”
He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”
“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”
The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.
But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.
“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”
He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.
“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”
Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.
“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”
Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”
You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.
“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.
A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”
You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.
“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.
“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”
“Anytime, Bambi.”
You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”
“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”
The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.
“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.
Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.
Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.
When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.
He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.
You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.
“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.
“But I only paid for one.”
“I know. The other one is on me.”
You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”
“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”
He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.
“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”
You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”
You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”
“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”
Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.
A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.
He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.
“Hansol!”
He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”
“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”
The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.
“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.
“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”
“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”
“And would you?”
The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.
“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”
You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”
“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.
The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.
When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.
He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.
Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.
Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.
“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.
“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”
You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.
You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.
After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.
Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.
“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”
You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”
“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”
He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”
You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.
After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.
Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.
“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.
“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”
“Well, I was tired.”
“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”
You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”
“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”
You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.
“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.
Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.
He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.
A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.
He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.
There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.
Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.
You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.
When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.
“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.
You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.
When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.
You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.
“Feeling it?”
“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”
Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.
You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.
Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.
Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”
A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.
You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.
All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.
You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”
He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.
Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.
“C’mere, Bambi.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.
Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.
The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.
Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.
“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.
Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.
“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”
And you believe him.
Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.
You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.
Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.
Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.
You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.
Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.
You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.
When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.
“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.
You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.
He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt
Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.
He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.
There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.
“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”
Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.
For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.
His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.
“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Kiss me. Please.”
The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.
Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.
You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.
When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.
It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.
His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.
Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.
The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.
The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.
When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.
“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.
You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.
You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”
Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”
Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”
He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”
“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.
His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”
You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.
You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.
When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.
“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”
He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”
A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”
He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.
“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.
“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”
Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”
His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”
“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.
With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.
He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.
As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.
You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.
The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.
The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.
“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.
His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.
“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”
Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”
You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.
His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.
A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.
His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.
“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.
“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.
He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.
“I know what you need, Bambi.”
Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.
The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.
You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”
Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.
The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.
If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.
You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.
“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”
If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.
“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.
And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.
Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.
A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.
“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”
You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.
The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.
“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”
He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.
You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”
He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.
Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.
Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.
He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.
When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.
He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”
You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.
“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.
He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.
He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.
You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.
Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.
“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.
You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.
He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.
“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”
His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.
Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”
Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.
The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”
He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.
“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.
“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”
You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.
And then Hansol pushes forward.
The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”
The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.
He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”
He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.
The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”
You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.
“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.
“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”
That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.
You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.
Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.
A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.
He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.
The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.
But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”
The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.
“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”
Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.
“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”
“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”
You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.
Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.
“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗
Hi! Could I please request a fluffy, playful S.Coups x reader fic (married)?
Something where the reader jokingly calls him “old” (the reader is 25 or smth), and he gets mock-offended and tackles and tickles her. I’d love it to be very soft, funny, and domestic with lots of teasing and affection. Thank you!
We ve seen Coups get really offended when member call him old hahah😭😭
Also ur writing is so good!! Thank uu
HAHAHA 😭😭😭 this is so S.Coups-coded because the man acts like he's twenty-one until someone mentions his age and suddenly he's ready to start a war.
It happened on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You were curled up on the couch scrolling through your phone while Seungcheol sat beside you, intensely focused on assembling a tiny shelf he'd insisted he didn't need instructions for.
Five minutes later, the shelf was backwards.
"You put that piece upside down."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I've built furniture before." You looked over the top of your phone. The shelf was, indeed, upside down.
You burst out laughing. Seungcheol narrowed his eyes.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Nothing."
"Y/N."
"Nothing, grandpa."
Silence. Dead silence. Slowly, his head turned toward you.
"Excuse me?" You immediately regretted everything. But only a little. "Grandpa," you repeated.
His jaw dropped.
"GRANDPA?". You nodded seriously.
"Well, you did say you've built furniture before."
"I'M THIRTY-ONE."
"Exactly."
"THAT'S NOT OLD." You gasped dramatically.
"Careful, Cheol. Don't raise your voice. Your back might give out."
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
The offended expression on his face was so ridiculous that you started laughing harder. "You think this is funny?"
"A little."
"A little?"
"A lot." Seungcheol pointed at you.
"You better run."
You immediately sat up. "Oh no."
"Oh yes." The look in his eyes was enough warning. You jumped off the couch.
He stood up.
You screamed.
Then sprinted. ---"GET BACK HERE."
"NO."
"YOU CALLED ME OLD."
"BECAUSE YOU ARE."
"I'M LITERALLY YOUNGER THAN SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE ACTORS."
"AND THEY'RE OLD TOO."
"Y/N!"
You were laughing so hard you nearly ran into the kitchen island. Unfortunately for you, Seungcheol had years of idol training.
And unfortunately for you ,he was faster. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist. You shrieked.
"SEUNGCHEOL."
"Gotcha."
"No fair."
"It's completely fair." He effortlessly lifted you off the ground despite your dramatic protests.
."You know what happens to people who call me old?"
"What?"
"They face consequences." You immediately started struggling.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
Then his fingers found your sides. The scream you let out could've shattered glass.
"SEUNGCHEOL!"
"There she is."
"STOP."
"You called me grandpa."
"I TAKE IT BACK."
"Too late." You dissolved into helpless laughter as he mercilessly tickled your sides.
"CHEOL—"
"Who's old?"
"YOU."
"Wrong answer."
"AHHHH." More tickles.
More laughter. More fake suffering.
Until eventually your legs gave out completely.
Seungcheol finally stopped and collapsed onto the floor beside you. Both of you were breathless. You glared at him.
He grinned.
"You deserved that."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Unfortunately. He was right.---A few minutes later, you were curled up together on the couch again.
This time with your head on his chest. The abandoned shelf sat in the corner. Still backwards. You noticed it immediately.
A smile tugged at your lips.
"Cheol."
"Hm?"
"The shelf is still wrong."
He groaned. "Don't start."
"Maybe it's because your eyesight is getting bad."
The silence that followed was immediate .Dangerous. You looked up. His eye twitched.
"Y/N."
"You know, it happens with age."
"Y/N."
"I heard there are vitamins for tha—"
Before you could finish, he pulled you closer until you were trapped against him. You laughed.
"Cheater."
"Say one more thing."
"Old man." His arms tightened around your waist.
"You have exactly three seconds."
"What happens after three seconds?"A mischievous smile appeared on his face.
"The tickles come back." You gasped. Then immediately buried your face in his chest.
"Okay, okay."
"That's what I thought." For a moment, the room fell quiet.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Seungcheol pressed a kiss against the top of your head. Then another. And another . Just because he could. You smiled into his shirt.
"Love you, grandpa."
His horrified gasp echoed through the apartment.
And your laughter followed right after.---
Milli says: This man would absolutely start a full wrestling match over being called grandpa. Meanwhile reader has zero survival instincts and keeps doing it anyway 🤚🏻💀
★ | member — junhui x gn reader
★ | genre — fluff, headcanons, bullet point list, one suggestive section (clearly labelled at the end so you can skip it if you like!)
★ | word count — 1.2k
★ | warnings — none
★ | notes — requested by anon!
★ | disclaimer — this is fiction! none of this is correct, true, or "confirmed" info. this is my personal perception of his character based on the content i've watched, so please don't take this as fact :) according to kprofiles, the only thing he's actually said is:
... which means bascially nothing haha. my headcanons are gender-neutral so his partner can be anyone (not strictly a girl). don't make assumptions about anyone's sexuality, but again this is fiction so feel free to imagine whatever you like!
── ⊹ ˙ . 𖥻 jun's ideal type . . .
. . . is someone more extroverted than him (but not too much)
• there's a very specific sweet spot here that he's looking for, someone who's not super extroverted but also not as much of an introvert as he is. since jun definitely leans more introverted, he doesn't mind sitting back and letting you talk to your heart's content. with a partner who's more extroverted than he is, there's no pressure for him to carry the conversation or make jokes. he can just listen and jump in when he wants to, not because he feels obligated to fill the silence when you're around.
• i think he enjoys having extroverted friends (how could he get along so well with svt if he didn't lol) so he's grown used to being around rambunctious energy. maybe not as rowdy 24/7 as someone like hoshi, but he'd like having a partner who knows how to have fun and let loose once in a while. as long as you're enjoying yourself and he doesn't have to interact with a ton of strangers, he doesn't care.
• for most of his life he's taken on a 'big brother' kind of role, so deep down i think he'd secretly want someone who'll take care of him so he can relax. he wants somebody who's not afraid to flag down a waiter and complain about his order being wrong, when he'd rather suck it up and not bother the staff. he wants somebody who'll hold his hand on busy streets and make sure he doesn't get caught up in the crowd and left behind in the chaos. he wants somebody who'll be the older sibling for him this time, someone who's mature and caring in the same way he is.
. . . values communication and honesty
• he's said this plenty of times, but jun is a very honest person. he isn't so honest that he uses his honesty to hurt people — quite the opposite, actually. the last thing he ever wants is to make his partner or his friends uncomfortable by telling harsh truths. but at the same time, open communication is really important to him. having to learn multiple languages for his job, miscommunication happens a lot and he's acutely aware of how frustrating it is when other people don't understand what he's trying to say. even if it may hurt his pride sometimes, he'd want someone who'll always tell him the truth, because he prefers to know instead of hearing little white lies that won't help him grow as a person.
• i think he's very philosophical and he reflects a lot, and he always wants to learn from others and better himself, which is why communication is so important to him. if there's a better, more efficient, more kind way to live his life then he wants to achieve that, and the only way to do that is by being honest with himself and everyone in his life.
. . . is someone he can let his inner child out with
• we've all seen the runner-up winner episode of gose! (if you haven't, then what are you doing go watch it right now?? it's so cute i promise you'll love it) jun is a guy that really loves to play games and be silly. he's so whimsical and finds fun in practically anything, so his ideal type wouldn't mind doing "childish" things together. he wants someone who is truly genuine in everything that they do: who isn't afraid of looking stupid, who doesn't go along with the crowd, who doesn't obsess over how people perceive them.
• he wouldn't fit well with someone who's strict or stubborn or too nonchalant, someone who's a workaholic, because he knows how important it is to have a balance in your life and not take yourself too seriously sometimes. obviously he wouldn't be comfortable around someone who looks down on him for being immature or makes fun of him for acting like a kid sometimes. the man has been working since he was 3 years old, cut him some slack! svt understands this and it's why they treat him so gently. they adore him because they know he needs space to be a little dumb and a little dorky without judgement. he's spent so much of his life being serious, so his ideal partner would be someone who embraces his weird side, and loves him not just in spite of it, but because of it. weird baddies have to stick together so it's a requirement for him sorry you've gotta be a little bit strange.
[NSFW] . . . is a switch who always loves trying new things
• jun is so good at adapting to whatever situation he's in, and i think that would carry over into the bedroom. he's flexible, and he wants someone who can be flexible too and keep up with his many desires. sometimes he's had a rough day and he wants to just turn his brain off and let his partner call the shots, and he'll be your good boy and do whatever you tell him to do. sometimes he wants to be a little bratty and make you force him into submission instead. sometimes he's feeling brave and wants to take charge, and he be a little bit of a mean dom too. but most of the time, to him sex is just sex, so as long as you both feel good it doesn't matter exactly what the roles are. he's very much a "go with the flow" person, so he wouldn't work well with somebody who's very rigid and only likes one certain type of sex.
• he's a man of many talents (singing, dancing, acting, modeling, cooking, martial arts, speaking like 10 different languages... the list goes on) and he doesn't want to do only one thing for his entire life, so i can't see him wanting to stick to one type of sex forever either. like a cat, he's curious about everything, and he wants to try every new thing he comes across. he's open to almost anything, so he'd want a partner who is equally willing to play around with him, even if it doesn't end up being something either of you like. the experimenting is the fun part!
• he'd also want someone who isn't afraid of talking about sex, because while even he can be shy about it sometimes, it's normal and okay and there's nothing weird about it. he loves post-sex discussions where you just lie in bed together and talk about what you liked, what you didn't like, what you want to try differently next time. communication is very important to him, and if something isn't working, he wants to know right away. if it's something he can fix, then there's no reason to beat around the bush instead of tackling it head-on.
• bonus: i am on team "jun wants to be pegged" so i believe his ideal type is someone who isn't afraid of using toys/other items in the bedroom. do NOT try to come between him and his favorite dildo.
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