warnings: MDNI!!!!! contains explicit sexual content, ZERO plot we get right into it (hence no synopsis), established relationship, nonidol!au, M/M/F, M/M initially, Dom!minho, switch!jisung, sub!reader, voyeurism, anal (m receiving), oral (m & f receiving), facial, unprotected s, makeouts, praise, dirty talks, Eiffel tower (two different times), manhandling, masturbation, munch!ji, petnames, swearing, slight dumbifacation, sensory overload, aftercare isn't written out but it happens, typos probably
wc: 3.5k
a/n: okay I KNOW I said I won't be writing member x member, but this is purely self indulgent and probably a little sloppy </3 so I probably won't write mxm again this explicitly except if its on my own accord. also if you get the odetari reference from the title ily
this might be the hottest thing you've ever seen.
You are perched on the edge of the mattress, breath coming in short, jagged hitches as you watch Minho drive into Jisung so meanly.
The room is thick with the scent of sex and salt, the mid July summer air feeling heavy and humid against your skin.
Minho has Jisung pinned face down on the mattress, his large hands gripping Jisung’s hips to anchor him. The bedframe giving a metallic creeaaaak whenever Minho drives back into jisung with a hard thrust that echoes the wet, slapping sound of their bodies colliding.
and Jisung is a complete mess right now.
His fingers are clawing into the sheets, twisting the fabric between his fingers as he tries to find some kind - any - of leverage. His head is tossed back, mouth hanging open and drooling. leaking desperate, incoherent pleas that make your own cunt throb.
The sight of them connected has you trembling.
You can't stop your hand from sliding down. You are already sopping wet, your panties clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. hand working on instinct, shedding your panties n' slipping your fingers through your pussylips as you watch the way jisung is driven forward with every harsh thrust.
You want in. You need in.
“Please, Min,” you whimper, “Please just- anything”
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he commands, a guttural sound in the back of his throat, as he pushes Jisung deeper into the mattress. “Just watch how much he wants it. Touch yourself to it.”
At that, Jisung lets out a loud, shattered moan, his hips jerking forward. “Hnnng- please, oh god, I can't-” He is babbling now, his words blurring together into a frantic, incoherent mess of pleasure.
Minho doesn’t slow down. anything but that.
Instead, he leans forward, his chest pressing against Jisung’s sweating back as he whispers right into his ear. His voice is a low, taunting coo, “Oh you’re shaking so hard, baby.”
He punctuates his words with a slow, punishingly deep stroke that makes Jisung’s eyes roll back. “but you’re doing so well. You can take it, right? like good boy?”
Jisung can only sob out a fragmented "Yes," his mind zeroing on the praise, focused on getting called a good boy again
You'd pushed two fingers in by now, matching minho's pace as you watch Jisung’s back arch.
You're leaking all over, your hips rolling against the bed, but Minho keeps the focus on Jisung.
He is breaking him down, overstimulating him until Jisung is just a shaking, sobbing heap of nerves. “See? That’s it, baby, just take it all,”
The room is suffocatingly hot, the scent of sweat and sex becoming a thick, dizzying fog. You can see the way the sweat is glistening on Minho’s shoulders and the mess of lube between jisungs thighs.
Every slap of skin against skin and every broken moan making you impossibly wetter, your fingers sliding through so easily in and out in a desperate attempt to find some release, but your fingers aren't quite enough.
“Please, Min, please ” you whimper, your voice cracking, so desperate to be touched, to be manhandled just like Jisung is.
Minho finally shifts his gaze to you, though he doesn't break his rhythm. He keeps driving into Jisung with that same relentless force, his eyes locking onto yours. A small, smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he watches you trembling, your fingers still working frantically between your legs.
“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice thick and commanding. “You look absolutely gorgeous like this, sweetheart. So desperate n’ soaked”
Without slowing the pace, he reaches forward, his hand sliding from Jisung’s hip to the back of his neck, gripping firmly before forcing his head to turn and tilt upward.
He maneuvers him until Jisung is looking right at you, his eyes glazed and eyes blown out, his face flushed a deep, bruised red. “Look at her, Jisung,” Minho purrs, “Tell me, isn’t she so pretty?”
Jisung lets out a broken, high pitched whine, his gaze lingering over your shaking form.
“So pretty,” Jisung whimpers, “God, she’s looks so p-pretty,” He tries to reach out for you, his fingers twitching against the sheets, his eyes dilating even further as he takes in the sight of you trembling on the edge of the bed.
and as if minho finally decides to have mercy on you, he stops.
The sudden silence of the room is deafening, the slapping sound cutting off abruptly as pulls out of jisung slowly with a pop. Jisung lets out a pathetic, high pitched whine, his hips twitching backwards, trying to chase the feeling of Minho inside him.
Before either of you can even question why he stopped, his palms wrap themselves around your waist, shifting your weight until your legs are splayed wide and your dripping cunt is positioned right in front of Jisung’s face.
You feel the sudden heat of his breath fanning against your bare, twitchy cunt, then-- “Now,” Minho says, “go ahead, ji, take care of her.” before sliding back into jisung once again.
that's all he needs to hear before he starts eating you out like a madman
his tongue is there, lapping and hitting your clit with a precision that makes your head spin, moaning at the slick that engulfs his mouth and onto his tastebuds.
his hands run to splay against your thighs and grip them open to pull you closer, closer and closer until you're flush against his face. His mouth parted, tongue licking from bottom to the very top in one messy stroke that makes your back bow.
“Hnnnng, oh- Jisungggg,” you moan, your fingers finding ground into the mattress as you feel Minho’s heavy thrusts pushing Jisung forward.
everything is so overwhelming.
the feeling the wet slap of Minho and Jisung’s bodies colliding while Jisung’s tongue works you over, dragging you down by your plush thighs whenever you even try to inch upwards, it's all too much
"So sweet," he gasps, "God, you taste so good." He lets out a whine, his tongue a blurr, flicking rapidly over you, pushing you toward a sweet release that feels just out of reach.
above both of you, minho is all praise, his voice a sweet “That’s it, baby, eat her out.” and “Good boy, Jisung. Such a good boy for me.”, that contradict the harsh move of his hips.
You can hear Jisung making these muffled, needy sounds against your skin, his breathing heavy and wet as he focuses entirely on your pleasure.
Every time Minho drives his hips forward, he pushes Jisung’s face deeper into your folds, making the suction even tighter.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” you sob, your head tossing back “Ji , please don't stop.”
Jisung lets out a muffled moan against your skin, his tongue flicking faster, more desperate. He’s shaking, his whole body vibrating because he’s being fucked and he’s tasting you all at the same time.
You look down only too see him already looking at you, his cheeks flushed a deep, dark red. He’s making these little hnnnng sounds in his throat, his hands’ grip on your thighs still firm and unmoving.
Minho’s voice is a low, commanding rumble right above your head. “Look at her, Jisung. See how much she’s leaking for you? keep going. Eat every bit of her.”
Minho’s got his fingers threaded through Jisung’s hair, pulling his head tighter against you. You can hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue sliding over your clit.
“Min, please*” Jisung babbles, his voice broken and wet. “Haaah, it feels so good, m'gonna cum soon, she tastes so sweet—”
“I know, baby, I know” Minho praises, his voice dripping with affection even as he drives into Jisung with a brutal, heavy force. “Just take it. Take it all for her.”
The friction is too much. Your vision is blurring at the edges, and your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely stay still.
“I’m— I’m gonna,” you gasp, your voice is wrecked. You can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in your gut that is seconds away from snapping. “Can I-- can I cum?”
Minho doesn't answer right away. He lets out a sharp, guttural sound, his pace becoming erratic. He leans over Jisung, his chest heaving, his eyes focused on the sight of the two of you.
“Do we let her, Ji?” Minho huffs. “Should we let her come?”
jisung breaks off for just a second "Yes, please," Jisung begs, "Please let her. I wan' it all over my tongue."
Minho lets out an amused hum, "You heard him, sweetheart."
The coil in your gut finally snaps, your back arching violently as the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you. You collapse against Jisung’s face, your walls pulsing and squeezing as you soak his tongue in a heavy, hot flood.
Jisung lets out a strangled, muffled cry against your skin. The feeling of you coming all over him pushed him over the edge. He freezes for a split second, his eyes blowing wide, and then his entire body jolts. He cums, soaking into the mattress beneath him.
Minho isnt far behind either, he drives himself deeper one last time, his body locking up as he spills himself deep inside Jisung.
“Oh- oh fuck,” Jisung babbles, his eyes rolling back into his head as the aftershocks ripple through him. He doesn't even pull away from you, his lips still wet and swollen.
He looks up at you, his gaze hazy and desperate. “I want - hnnng - I want to fuck her. Min, please, I need to fuck her so bad.”
you've barely even caught your breath.
Minho just smirks, his hand sliding from Jisung’s hair to the small of his back. “Then do it, baby. Get her ready.”
the approval is all he needs to hear before he surges.
Still shaking from his own release, he hooks an arm around your waist and heaves you onto your hands and knees with a strength that's so surprising given he just got wrecked.
His skin is slick, sliding against yours with a wet, tacky sound as he moves you into place. He’s trembling, his muscles twitching under the skin, but his grip on your hips is strong, bruising.
He settles back onto his wobbly knees, his breath hitching in a series of jagged gasps. You can feel him - thick, pulsing, and dripping - pressing against your entrance.
He guides himself in so agonizingly slow, the tip of his cock stretching your opening wide.
“fuck” Jisung moans, his voice a wrecked, airy mess. “You’re so wet, baby, you’re fucking soaking... I can’t - haaah - I can’t believe how good this feels.”
and the only thing he can do through his hazed senses is grab both sides of your waist and using it as leverage to pull and pull you down his dick till you're fully stretched to accommodate him.
Your forehead hitting the mattress as you feel him finally sink deep, filling you to the brim. “Jisung, oh god--,”
The moment he’s fully bottomed out, he starts rutting into you so desperately, his hips snapping forward in a wet smacks that echo through the room.
You are clawing at the sheets, your fingers twisting the fabric into ruined knots as you sob into the pillow, your voice a broken, incoherent mess of babbles n' moans
“You feel so fucking tight,” Jisung whines, hand caressing your back before pressing you down into a meaner arch “shitt, you’re squeezing me so h-hard, baby”
Minho watches before he reaches forward, his large hands sliding down your torso to haul your upper body off the mattress.
You let out a startled sound as you’re pulled upward, but you don't lose the connection. Jisung just adjusts his grip on your hips, digging his fingers in for leverage as he continues to move into you from behind, his cock sliding even deeper at this angle, kissing at your cervix with every heavy, plunging thrust.
Minho’s fingers tangling in your hair to yank your face toward his.
He crashes his lips against yours in a kiss that is desperate and messy, all tongue n’ teeth, and you meet his intensity with a needy whine, your tongue dancing with his as you lose all sense of where you end and he begins.
You're lightheaded, the world narrowing down to the feeling of both of them sandwiching you.
Just as you think you can't handle the sensory overload, Minho lets go.
The sudden loss of support sends you pitching forward, collapsing right into the mattress with a soft thud. You land sprawled out, breathless and flushed.
face hovering directly in front of him.
Your gaze falls immediately on his cock, still thick and pulsing, a prominent vein running the length. he looks so pretty, glistening with a mixture of precum and leftover lube.
Your hand reaches out, purely on instinct, fingers curling around him and giving him a few wet tugs that sent his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
You lean in closer, hot breath fanning against his skin, and begin to place small, flickering kitten licks along the underside of his shaft.
“o-oh, what a good girl,” he stutters for the first time tonight. “ takin’ care of me without even being asked.”
You shift your weight, eager to please, sliding forward until you can wrap your lips around the leaky tip of his cock.
You keep your gaze locked on his, looking up through your lashes, watching his expression crumble as you swirl your tongue down along the sensitive ridge.
and God does that make him throw his head back with a whimper
Then, you open wide and take him deeper. easing down inch upon swollen inch so slowly down your throat.
Minho doesn't let you set the pace for long.
His large hands suddenly snap forward, fingers locking firmly onto either side of your head.
He drives his vicious hips forward with a sudden, heavy force that sends him deeep into your throat. You make a muffled, surprised sound, your eyes widening and your throat contracting as you feel him hit the back of your throate.
He doesn't start slow.
He doesn’t even give you a second to adjust before he's fucking your throat with a mindless hunger, paying no mind to your wet gurgles as you struggle around him, his thick length sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy sound that fills the room.
“Look at her,” Minho groans, his fingers tightening in your hair. “Such a greedy little thing. Taking every inch of me.”
He lets out a sharp hiss when you involuntarily contract around him, your eyes watering from the depth. He doesn’t stop the relentless pace, his hips snapping forward with a heavy, wet sound.
“perfect lil' mouth,” he rasps. “So perfect for me. Just a little toy, hmm?”
his words make you reel
Jisung lets out a breathless, jagged laugh from behind you, still rutting into you, still plunging into you like an animal
“fuckfuckfuck,” Jisung whimpers, gazing down lovingly at your overspilling cunt. “She loves it, Min. She’s clamping down on me so hard- fuck.”
Minho chuckles, griping your hair tighter, pulling your head back just enough to look at your flushed, desperate face.
“Is that true, sweetheart?” he purrs. “Do you like being my little toy? Do you love it when I tell you how good you are?”
You can’t even answer. You just let out a muffled hum, your eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss.
You are absolutely trapped between them, a living fuck toy. You can feel the thrusts of Jisung’s cock drilling straight into your g-spot, all while Minho’s length is filling your mouth, pushing you forward and backward on the mattress so ruthlessly.
Your hands scramble for balance, fingers digging into the hard muscle of Minho’s thighs as you gag around him, the sound of your own choked whines muffled by his cock.
Jisung lets out a shattered, needy sound, his hips snapping forward, “oh god, she’s so tight,” he babbles so dumbly, he's drunk on your pussy “fucking clamping around me--, so wet, can feel it dripping down my thighs”
his mouth is running a hundred miles an hour as his pleasure peaks, hand snakes down, his fingers slick with a mix of lube and your own soaking wetness.
He finds your clit, rubbing circles that makes your whole body shudder. you moan - or try to moan - around Minho’s cock, your eyes fluttering shut.
Minho suddenly pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop. You snap your head back, gasping for air, your chest heaving as you take in a massive, shaking breath after being deprived of oxygen for so long.
You are completely dazed, your vision swimming and your lower face a glistening, smeared mess of saliva and precum.
Minho shifts back, sitting up slightly, and starts jerking himself off, hovering just inches above your face, the head dripping a heavy bead of precum that lands with a wet plink right on your cheek.
Your mind is a complete white blank.
You can feel Jisung still buried deep inside you, his hips twitching and shuddering, he's close.
Your own walls are pulsing, clamped tight around Jisung’s length, and you can feel the pressure building in your gut, a violent need to release that is almost painful.
“P-please...”
Minho’s hand moves faster on himself, the sound of his grip sliding over his skin a wet, tacky noise. “Please what, sweetheart? Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”
you can barely remember how to form a sentence.
You let out a frustrated moan, your hips jerking instinctively against Jisung. “I-I... hnngh... please let me...”
“C’mon, baby. You’re almost there, aren’t you? Tell me,”
“Please let me cum-”
“That’s my good girl. go ahead n' cum baby”
Drowning in the wave of bliss, you're cumming- hard, trying to fuck yourself back on jisung despite the limpness in your limbs, dragging your high back on forth through his length.
That does it for jisung
“fuck - fuck, I’m-I’m cumming!” he already was cuming, his whole body stilling as he shoots a heavy, hot load deep inside your womb, filling your pretty insides to the brim.
You’re still shaking, your chest heaving as you gasp for air, and the sight of you - both of you - brings minho right at the edge.
He leans over you, his dark eyes searching yours, his free hand caressing the hair clinging to your forehead before holding your head up by your chin. “Stick your tongue out for me, sweetheart.”
You obey instantly, your mouth hanging open, tongue sliding out, your face still a smeared mess of saliva and precum.
“Thaaat’s it,” Minho groans, his hips snapping forward one last time, and you feel the first hot, thick rope of his cum hit your lip, and then another, and another, and another, splashing across your cheek and landing right on your tongue.
he's coated your face in a glistening, salty mess his own cum, his breath coming in long, shuddering exhales.
there is a thick silence that follows, only broken by the sound of the three of you catching your breaths.
You stay frozen, your eyes fluttering, feeling the hot, tacky sensation of his cum cooling on your skin and tongue. Your body is still humming, your nerves fried from the intensity of being sandwiched between them, used and praised until you couldn't think.
a/n: PLEASE READ!! i just wanted to take a moment to say how special this fic is to me. i took "self-insert" to a new level when i started feeling down and decided to write this as a way to get my feelings out. so, consider this fic a love letter to anyone who hasn't experienced love yet. whether you're 16 or 25 or 42 or whatever your age might be, you're beautiful. you deserve love. you'll find that person one day. don't be too hard on yourself. you're perfect as is. much love, and i hope you all enjoy this one. - tiny🩵
a/n 2: pretty, PRETTY please leave me some feedback? yes, i mean actual words. likes are nice, but they don't tell me what you thought about my writing. your words, however, do! please, make use of the comments, reblogs, my inbox, or my feedback form (completely anonymous) to share your thoughts with me. that's what keeps me writing!
Summary: Romantic love wasn't something you'd ever experienced, even at 27 years old. You'd never even so much as held hands with someone, so why in the world would you ever believe an idol has taken interest in you?
Pairing: bang chan x reader
Word Count: 5.8k+
Content/Warnings: hurt/comfort, oblivious!reader, insecure!reader (no specifics mentioned), loser!chan, simp!chan, reader wears makeup (only mentioned once), reader has poor self-esteem, food mentions, other member bullying chan, should be gn!reader but pls let me know if i've messed that up, mostly proof read, let me know if i've missed anything please!
bang chan masterlist | main masterlist
Being single had never bothered you. It was simply something you’d grown used to. Romantic attention wasn’t something you’d ever been familiar with, and you’d made peace with that a long time ago. You didn’t experience the innocence of teenage love, the exploration during your college years. You just didn’t really get approached like that.
It used to bother you a lot more than it does now. You’d be out at a bar with your friends, or sometimes even just walking around campus, and they’d get approached. Some attractive guy would come up, ask for their number, and either score or take the L. It used to weigh heavily on the way you viewed yourself.
You just couldn’t figure it out. Was it the way you looked? You’d tried to fix it with makeup, but maybe you weren’t good enough at it, or the products weren’t enough. Was it your personality? You’d tried to fix that, too, not speaking until spoken to, always being polite, never showing your personality until you truly trusted someone.
You didn’t think you were ugly, but statistics can be hard to deny… How had you made it well into your twenties without so much as being asked for your number? There’s no way you could be that repulsive, right?
That’s why you’d just… let it be. It was easier to accept that you’ll be an old, lonely cat lady one day than to dwell on anything and everything that could possibly be “wrong” with you. Besides, you’re happy. You lead a good life; you have a steady job and a decent apartment. You’d found out that you have a bit of a green thumb, and now, you find joy in the plants you call your “babies”. You even left all of the “fixing yourself” nonsense behind. You’re loud and colorful, and you don’t hide who you are.
That doesn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in sometimes, though. It’s usually late at night as TikTok has a way of reminding you of your insecurities during your pre-bedtime scrolling, and it’s significantly more difficult to fend off those thoughts when you can’t distract yourself like you can during the day. All there is to do in those moments is close the app and stare up at the ceiling, wondering if you’d ever find the love you used to dream about so innocently.
Romanticism still comes easily, thankfully. You can still admire couples when you see them; elderly couples in particular always warm your heart. You don’t hate roses, or Valentine’s Day, or those heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, or anything else that would fall under “romantic and cheesy.” You find it sweet, endearing even. You’re still able to see the light in those things, and sometimes, you’re still able to hope that someone would want to be romantically cheesy with you one day.
But you’d never let any of those doubts or hopes take up too much of your time, right? No, you have a life to live, a job to do. You still get up every day, go to work, enjoy the little things, spend time with your friends… You don’t dwell, ever.
So, here you are, walking into the JYPE building once more. Another day, another dollar, or at least that’s what they tell you. Styling idols isn’t too strenuous of a job, though; at the very least, it’s something you enjoy deeply. The majority of the idols are incredibly nice, and sometimes, you’re lucky enough to be paired with an absolute sweetheart.
That’s the risk you face every day, though. You never know which group you’re paired with until you get there. This week’s culprits are still yet to be discovered as you walk into the meeting room, slumping into your chair before taking a slow sip of your coffee. You’d been up way too late last night, and now, your head is pounding. Apparently, trashy TV is your weakness when it gets juicy. You force yourself to sit up a bit straighter as your boss moves her attention toward you.
“You’re getting bumped up to a lead role for the next couple of weeks since Jiwoo is out. We’re sticking you with Stray Kids. They have an upcoming comeback, and the first music video shoot and photoshoots are approaching quickly. Be swift.”
She fixes you with a look, and you nod obediently. “Yes, of course.”
You make quick work of gathering your things once the morning meeting is over, and you head to the floor you were directed to. They sent two of the younger stylists with you to assist with the project, but for the most part, you’re running the show.
You love it, honestly. This was what you’d originally gotten your fashion design degree for, to run your own company. Working with idols wasn’t bad, though, and the scenery in Seoul was to die for. You were more than content with this gig.
When you arrive on the correct floor, your two associates disperse, finding some of Stray Kids’ staff, or Skzigi, to get a clearer picture of the comeback. You, however, are off to find the members. This will be your first time working with the group, but you’re familiar with who they are. Basically, everyone who works at JYPE is; they’re difficult to avoid.
After searching for a minute or two, you notice one of them at the snack bar. Short, common for the group, with long, bleached hair, fair skin, and the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen. Felix, you think is his name. You approach him calmly; he seems nice enough anyway.
“Excuse me… Hi, I’m your lead stylist for the upcoming comeback. I was just wondering if you could point me in the direction of your other members, maybe your leader…” The last sentence comes out as more of a question, but you speak with a friendly but professional smile.
He returns it easily and twice as brightly. “Yeah, of course! They’re right over here. I’ll show you. I’m Felix, by the way, or you can call me Yongbok. You’ll hear both.”
You return the favor by sharing your name as well. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m excited to work with you all.”
“Good! We’re pumped for this comeback. Chan can relay the details better than me, but the vibe we have going is sick,” he nods eagerly.
“I can’t wait to see it,” you grin back. Soon enough, he’s leading you into the room where almost all of his fellow members await. It looks like Chan, the leader, is out at the moment, but Felix still introduces you to everyone.
They take to you kindly, and you get to work making notes of their sizing and preferences. Changbin isn’t comfortable showing a ton of skin, but he doesn’t mind showing off his arms. Seungmin and Minho specifically asked to be fully covered. So far, no crazy requests and entirely respectful conversation. You could get used to working with this group.
“Yah! I’m sorry, Skzigi got confused about our lunch orders, and I was trying to help them out. Have I missed any-” He pauses when he notices your presence. This must be Chan. “Oh. I’m, um… I’m Bang Chan, or Chan, o-or Chris, or you know what, just call me whatever you want,” he chuckles awkwardly. You have to stifle a laugh when you notice how red his ears are as he brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck.
You offer your name in return once more before continuing, “It’s nice to meet you, Chan. I’m the lead stylist for this comeback, so I was just getting some measurements and preferences from the other members. Once I finish up with Jisung, I’ll get you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, no worries,” he nods, ears still crimson. You think you hear Felix snickering at him, but you pay the noise no mind as you finish taking Jisung’s measurements. Soon enough, you’re measuring Chan while he’s informing you of his stylistic preferences, his arms sticking straight out in a T pose.
“I’m not really a fan of anything too restricting,” he starts. “I don’t mind showing skin, though. As long as it’s nothing crazy, anyway.”
You let out a snort without thinking about it. “Don’t worry. If you weren’t at least mostly covered, I’d lose my job, and I rather enjoy it.”
You finish measuring him just then, and he turns to face you as he lets his arms down. “Good. Maybe we’ll just have to keep you around as our stylist, then.” He quirks a brow up as he talks, and there’s a slight lilt in his Aussie accent that anyone else would interpret as flirtation. You pay him no mind, though, too busy scribbling down his last few measurements along with the preferences he’d mentioned.
“Sounds great,” you chuckle softly. “You guys have been great to work with, and we’re just getting started.” You sigh a bit as you realize what time it is. “It’s almost lunch time… Are you cool with pausing for now and talking more about the concept after?”
He deflates just the slightest bit, but once again, you don’t pay attention to it. “Yeah, no, that sounds great. Go eat,” he nods, motioning toward the door to sell his compliance with your idea.
“Perfect. See you all in an hour or so.” With that, you’re gone, already halfway to the cafeteria downstairs with your associates.
“Mate, you fumbled bad,” Felix snickers, clapping a hand onto Chan’s shoulder.
“Wha- I didn’t fumble! There was nothing to fumble. We’re at work,” Chan argues defensively.
“Yeah, and I’m the maknae,” Minho huffs with a smug smirk.
Chan sets his sights on him instead of Felix, giving Minho a firm glare. “No one asked you.”
The younger members continue to relentlessly tease their leader for his failed attempt at flirting, and downstairs, you’re still none the wiser, enjoying lunch with the two associates you’re working with.
The next day, you’re going over some options with the guys for their music video outfits. You’d already finished with six of them, and now, it’s Chan’s turn.
“You want me to wear that?” He points to the picture of the jacket you’d picked for him. There are lots of buckles, and it has both a deep V-neck and an open stomach. You can see why he’s a bit worried, but you can’t help but mess with him.
“What? You said you’re cool with showing some skin…”
“Yeah, but that’s…” He trails off, unsure of what word he’s even looking for because you do kind of have a point.
“Relax, Chan,” you giggle. “I’m messing with you. It’ll be open, and I’m thinking one of these two tops will be under it, depending on your comfort level.” You show him two pictures, each showing a different top for the outfit. One is solid but fitted with an interesting pattern, giving him some actual coverage while still keeping the outfit interesting. The other is almost completely sheer, offering a more visually pleasing contrast; it would be your choice.
“Oh, thank goodness,” he sighs in relief. “Honestly, though, I’m leaning toward the one that’s kind of see-through.”
“Perfect. We’ll get everything sent here ASAP, so we can start making adjustments. Can you send Hyunjin in on your way out?”
“Oh… That’s it?” Chan asks, playing with his fingers subtly. He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want his opportunity to talk with you one-on-one to end, but he’s trying not to be obvious.
“Unless there was anything else you needed to discuss.” You turn your head toward him, waiting expectantly for him to add something.
“Ah, no. No, I think that covers everything… See you tomorrow, I guess.” He gives you one last nod as he exits the room, head hanging low. When he makes it to the room next door, where all of the guys are waiting, he looks to Hyunjin and nods toward the meeting room. “You’re up.”
Chan lets out a huff as he plops into one of the open seats, and he chooses to ignore the look that Jeongin and Changbin share. It’s better for his sanity to pretend he didn’t see it. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second. He’s got to stop letting this silly work crush get to him.
Meanwhile, Hyunjin has already made it into the meeting room with you and is approving his outfits for the music video. Once it’s set in stone, he reclines back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“So… I’m your last meeting, right?” Hyunjin wonders aloud.
“Yep. Now, I can grab some lunch and head back to my office to request the pieces we decided on.” You smile, relieved, as you drop your pen on top of your notebook.
“Why don’t we grab something together?” Hyunjin offers nonchalantly.
“No offense, but I’d rather not be seen outside of a work environment with an idol.” You huff out a laugh, fully turning in your seat to look at him properly.
“So, we’ll order something to be delivered here,” he shrugs.
“You’re set on this, huh?” You’re struggling to hide the grin on your face. These guys seemed determined to become your friend by the time this comeback is finished.
“Very much so. Let me treat you for how quickly you’re pulling this together for us. You’re already a day ahead of where the other stylists are usually at by now.”
“Alright, alright. We can have something delivered, I guess, but I’m working until it gets here.” You reopen your laptop with a slight shake of your head. It’s hard to tell him no.
Hyunjin doesn’t bother hiding his smile. He quickly shoots off a text to the Stray Kids group chat, telling them not to wait up for him, before ordering some food for you both, asking for your preferences along the way.
Before you know it, the food’s been delivered, and you’re both halfway through two orders of tteokbokki and gimbap. The conversation has been flowing well, and you’ve found that your personalities mesh well.
“So, are you ever gonna acknowledge Chan’s flirting?” Hyunjin asks with a smirk, nudging his food around with his chopsticks.
You blink at him slowly before letting out an abrupt laugh. “Yeah, maybe when it actually happens.”
Hyunjin’s face scrunches in confusion. You’re messing with him, right? “Uh… It’s definitely happening.”
You let out another brief laugh. “When?”
The thought seemed preposterous to you. No one ever flirted with you. Now, all of a sudden, an idol wants you to believe his fellow idol, no, his leader, has been flirting with you over the past two days? Fat chance.
“Literally every time he speaks to you,” he deadpans like it was obvious.
“Why would Chan flirt with me?” It was a genuine question, yet you couldn’t seem to stop yet another laugh from escaping with it.
“Because you’re hot.” Hyunjin seems flabbergasted, completely thrown off by you not seeming to see his leader’s interest in you.
“Pfft, I’m cute at best. Definitely not hot,” you wave him off. Now, you know he’s crazy.
Hyunjin blinks before leaning in closer, now close enough to rest a hand on your shoulder as he looks at you in concern. “You’ve looked in a mirror before, right?” he asks softly, like it was entirely serious.
You chuckle quickly, “Yes, Hyunjin, I’ve used a mirror.”
“Oh, so, you’re just lying for fun, then. Cool,” he huffs, dramatically flopping back against his chair.
“Wha- No, I’m not! I’m not saying I’m ugly or anything. I know I’m not. I’m just not hot. That’s not a word people use to describe me,” you shrug casually.
Hyunjin’s jaw drops again. “It’s a word I’m using to describe you right now!”
“Well, you’re wrong, or just too nice.”
He frowns, realizing just how serious you are about it. “Why on Earth are you so convinced you aren’t a certain level of attractive?”
“Hot girls get approached,” you shrug. That’s the simplest way you could put it.
“So, what…? You don’t get approached often, so you think you can’t be hot?” His brows are furrowed, genuinely confused.
“I don’t get approached at all,” you correct him.
Hyunjin has to take a deep breath to keep himself from losing his cool. Chan has been trying to approach you every time he’s seen you over the past two days. Are you blind? “That doesn’t have to mean anything, though,” he argues. “Maybe you’re just-“
You cut him off, “Too intimidating? Right, because I’m so scary.” A scoff escapes your lips.
He opens his mouth to respond, but he quickly closes it again. You have a point. You aren’t intimidating. You look sweet. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about you.
“Look, Hyunjin, you aren’t gonna tell me anything I haven’t been hearing for years. I’m intimidating, or I’m not missing out on anything. Or, my personal favorite, it’ll happen when I least expect it. Well, I promise, I couldn’t expect it any less. I don’t get asked out, and I’ve made my peace with that.”
He can only stare while you talk; he knows he won’t be able to change your mind. You seem set in stone on this, but maybe if he couldn’t change your mind, Chan could.
“Alright, I get it. Just know, I think you’re beautiful and hot and whatever other synonym you can think of. Now, finish your tteokbokki before I steal it.” He points to your food with his chopsticks, brow raised threateningly, and suddenly, the atmosphere feels a little lighter again.
Lunch goes more smoothly after that. No more expressing your biggest insecurities or airing out your self-esteem issues. Just two coworkers, or maybe friends, sharing a meal.
Hyunjin decides to keep his cards close to his chest. It’s not really his place to air out your business, but when Chan finally admits just how into you he is and lets out his frustrations about you being unable to take a hint, Hyunjin knows he has to help out his friends.
“I just don’t get it! I flirt so well with STAY. It can’t be any different, right? It’s never been different. Are they just genuinely not into me?” Chan is currently pacing the living room of Hyunjin and Changbin’s dorm, and the other two can’t do much but watch him spiral.
“I mean, honestly, there’s no way anyone is that oblivious. I’ve done everything except directly ask them out.” He runs a frustrated hand through his short, bleached hair. Hyunjin, however, finally has enough. He won’t admit to knowing anything, but he’s to give Chan a push.
“Then, maybe that’s exactly what you should do,” the taller man shrugs from his spot on the couch.
Chan whips around, glaring at him for a moment. “You can’t be serious. Why would I do that?”
“Why wouldn’t you do that?” Hyunjin raises a brow at his friend.
“They haven’t responded to flirting! I’ll just get shot down!” Chan waves his hands around like that’ll help get his point across.
“Exactly. Maybe they’re just bad at realizing when people are flirting. At least if you ask them out, you’ll know for sure if they’re oblivious or just not into you,” Hyunjin reasons.
Chan looks to Changbin for help but finds none.
“He’s got a point,” Changbin nods. “That’s the only way to know for sure.”
“I hate you both,” the eldest sighs. He knows they have a valid point, though. He’s just scared. He’s never let himself get so worked up over liking someone. What’s he gonna do if you say no?
He lets the thought sit for a few days, but when the last day of the music video shoot comes, he knows he’s almost out of time. Who knows when you’d get paired with Stray Kids again?
He catches you just after he’s changed back into his normal clothes, a loose-fitting zip-up over a black tank top, paired with some comfy shorts.
“Hey… I just wanted to say thanks again for all of your hard work. You really showed up and showed out for us, and I appreciate that a lot,” he speaks softly, playing with the zipper of his jacket.
“Oh! Thank you. I mean, you guys were just so great to work with. You made it easy,” you smile back as you pack up your things. Your work was done, which means you were free to go home for the night.
“Would, um… Would you let me take you out to dinner? Just as a thank you. I mean, you handled our chaos really well, and you got everything done so quickly-“
You cut off his rambling by resting a hand on his bicep. He’s pretty sure it short-circuits his brain. “You really don’t have to do that,” you assure him.
“I don’t think you understand how badly I do need to do it,” he responds dumbly, still reeling from the slightest touch from you.
“Then, I guess dinner would be nice,” you chuckle. “Just let me know when and where.”
His eyes light up. “Really? I, uh, I mean, that sounds great. I’ll text you,” he nods as he starts backing away, trying not to look too excited.
“Chan?” You stifle a laugh. What’s up with this dude? Maybe Hyunjin was right… No. No way.
“Hmm?”
“You need my number to text me.”
“Right! Yeah, yep, totally knew that. I was just testing you…” His ears are bright red as he types his number into your phone. “There. I texted myself, so I’ll text you. About dinner. Not anything else. Unless you want me to! I mean- I’ve gotta go…” He gives one last awkward wave before disappearing in the other direction.
When he finds Hyunjin, he nearly tackles him into a hug. “I could kiss you!”
Hyunjin hesitantly returns the hug, confused by the sudden affection but not against it. “I mean, I won’t say no, but I’d like to know why…”
Chan slaps his arm lightly as he pulls back, still smiling widely. “They said yes! I asked them out to dinner, and they said yes! You were right!”
That makes Hyunjin grin. “I told you! You just have to be more upfront with some people.”
“Ugh, I have so much to do. I’ve gotta book reservations, and be sure to find quiet places so that no one will see us… Oh, my god. What am I gonna wear? I can’t look stupid,” Chan rambles, one hand on his hip while the other has a grip on his hair.
“You sound stupid right now,” Hyunjin deadpans. “Dude, you’re, like, incredibly well-dressed. Just be normal. It’s a date, not your wedding.”
“But what if it leads to my wedding?”
After bugging Hyunjin for who knows how long for advice about this date, Chan texts you all of the details. Now, you’re sitting in the back of an Uber, stressing yourself out over what this dinner means.
Is it a date? No, why would it be a date? He literally said it was just as a thank you for your hard work. But what if it is? You’ve never been on a date… You’ve never even held hands with someone.
What’s the protocol for dates? How are you supposed to act? Are you meant to kiss him after? Would he be expecting that? Is that how you lose your first kiss, at 27 years old, after one date with an idol you barely know? You suppose it’ll happen at some point, hopefully anyway. At least Chan seems like a nice enough person; he’s not a bad option for a first kiss.
He’s not a bad option for a first anything. He’s sweet and thoughtful and caring, and he makes you laugh, sometimes when he doesn’t mean to. He’d be a great first date. He’d be a great first kiss. He’d be a great boyfriend. He’d be a great first- No.
Nope, you’re not letting your mind go that far. This is a dinner between coworkers, associates. Nothing more. You’ve let Hyunjin get into your head with his nonsense, but you’re smarter than that. You won’t get your hopes up.
Before you know it, you’ve arrived at the restaurant, and suddenly, your nerves are tenfold. You walk in, looking around for him, when you realize the restaurant is completely empty. You spot him at a table toward the back, away from any windows, and you approach slowly.
“You know this is kinda creepy, right?” you ask when you get close. Without wasting a second, he gets up and pulls out your seat for you before returning to his own once you’re settled.
“Well, not until right now…” He chuckles sheepishly, finger tracing a small wrinkle on the tablecloth.
“Why is it so empty, anyway?” You laugh softly.
“I, uhh… I rented it out.”
Your eyes go as wide as the saucers on the table. “You- What? The whole restaurant?”
“Hyunjin mentioned you saying something about not wanting to be seen with an idol out of the workplace, so I thought this might make things a bit more comfortable for you,” he admits.
You’re stunned into silence for a moment. “Chan… That’s too much-“
“It’s not, not if it makes you more comfortable.” His hand reaches out to rest on top of yours on the table, and all you can do is stare at him for a moment, touched deeply by his words.
“Thank you,” you whisper earnestly.
He smiles shyly, leaning back a bit but leaving his hand on yours. “Hey… I’ve gotta make a good impression on the first date, right?”
You pale, removing your hand from under his. No. No, no, no. This can’t be a date. You didn’t mentally prepare for a date. Hyunjin was telling the truth? He couldn’t have been. This is some kind of joke, right?
“What?”
Chan panics a bit inside at your reaction, but he forces himself to remain calm outwardly. “This is a date… U-Unless you don’t want it to be. It can just be dinner.”
“I just… Why would you ask me on a date?” You look at him in genuine confusion, and his heart shatters as his head goes through a million reasons why you might not have ever expected him to ask you out.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks softly, his voice cracking slightly halfway through.
You let out a scoff. Why do they keep asking that? “I’m not… I don’t get asked out, Chan. I-I’ve never done this.”
“Done what? Had a boyfriend? That’s normal. Plenty of people wait until later in life to find someone-“
“It wasn’t on purpose. I’ve never been asked on a date. I didn’t have a high school sweetheart. No one’s ever had a crush on me, even in middle school. I’m not… Why would you be the first?” You frown deeply as you speak, gesturing toward him vaguely at the end.
“What is that supposed to mean?” His brows furrow, and he leans forward in his seat again.
“You’re… you. You’re an idol. You’re hot. You could have literally anyone-“
“I want you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
The air gets heavy after that, and after gathering his thoughts for a moment, he speaks up again, voice gentle, “Why do you think that?”
You’re not sure why, but you find yourself being honest with him. “I told you… I’ve never, ever, received romantic attention, even just for a hookup. I’ve seen guys flirt with my entire friend group and glance over me like I wasn’t an option in the first place. I’ve been told more than once by people I’m close to that they couldn’t imagine me in a relationship. I haven’t ever had a reason to think I’ll find love, but the universe has given me plenty of reasons to assume I won’t.”
His heart breaks for you all over again. Why would anyone say that to someone else? He, of all people, knows how your mind can twist mindless comments into something that can tear you apart. Gingerly, he reaches out, taking your hand into his once more, covering it with his other hand.
“Let me be your reason,” he says softly, eyes pleading with you.
“What?” The word comes out like a breath, soft, airy, with a tinge of confusion.
“Let me be the reason to assume you’ll find love. I don’t care how slow we take things. I don’t care if we have to start as friends. I don’t even care if I’m not the one you marry. Just let me prove that you can be loved like anyone else,” he proposed.
It knocks the air out of your lungs for a second. He said it with such conviction, like he needed it as much as you did, and he’s still staring at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him. Maybe you are right now.
“Chan-“
He cuts you off, “Please.”
You hesitate only a moment longer. “Okay…”
“Yeah?” His brows shoot up to his hairline in hope.
“Yeah. If you really want to try, then I do, too. I trust you enough to know that this isn’t some kind of prank or something.” It was true. You hadn’t known Chan long, but you could tell he wasn’t that type of person.
“Thank you. I won’t waste this, okay? Starting tonight. Let me show you a real first date.” His hands squeeze the one of yours they’re holding.
“Alright…” you smile softly, forcing yourself to relax into this. It wouldn’t be easy, but you could see how genuine he is. He deserves a chance.
By the time dinner ends, you’re feeling much lighter. He was a perfect gentleman, and he’d proven to be a professional at making you laugh. You manage to get to his car without being seen; he’d convinced you to let him drive you home. You weren’t surprised to see the sleek, black luxury car he brought you to, and you were somehow less surprised when he opened the passenger door and helped you in.
The drive was nice, filled with the same easy conversation that took place during dinner. He puts the car in park when you arrive at your building, and he shifts in the driver’s seat to look at you properly.
“I had a really nice time, Chan, even with the dramatics at the start of dinner…” You try to joke away your slight embarrassment, looking down at where your hands hold your purse in your lap. You can feel a blush coating your cheeks, but you don’t care too much.
“It wasn’t that dramatic,” he grins. “I enjoyed myself, too. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
You feel your heart burst with warmth as you look back up at him. “Thank you for wanting it.”
“Can we do this again sometime?” he asks softly, reaching his hand out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’d really like that,” you murmur in return.
You escape that night without a first kiss, but five dates in, neither of you wants to wait anymore. Safe to say, Chan was successfully capturing your heart, tearing down your walls brick by brick until you had no choice but to let him in completely, and he was doing it with a smile.
Tonight’s date is on the couch in your apartment. Two pints of ice cream and one bowl of popcorn sit on your coffee table, all half-eaten, as you and Chan watch a movie. Well, you’re technically on movie number two, but that’s neither here nor there. Chan’s been playing with your fingers for half an hour now, and you can feel him staring at you every few minutes.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you snort.
“‘Cause you’re pretty…” he replies, a dreamy look in his eyes. What a loser. You wanna keep him forever.
“Stop,” you push him away playfully.
“No, come back!” He doesn’t hesitate to lean closer, dramatically wrapping his arms around you like he wouldn’t be able to live otherwise. “Don’t leave me…”
He pouts up at you with those boba eyes and plump lips, and all you can think about is kissing him. He’s just so perfect, so attentive and caring, so attractive. It’s so not fair that you don’t know how to kiss.
“I’m not leaving you,” you roll your eyes, pretending to be grumpy about it. Your eyes flick back down to his lips, and he catches it this time. It makes his dart down to look at yours, too.
“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.
“I’ve never-“
“I can show you. It’s not hard,” he tries.
“That’s what everyone says,” you argue.
“Because it’s not,” he laughs. “Please? You just have to follow my lead. I won’t even open my mouth if you don’t want to.”
“…Okay. Just go slow, alright?” You fix him with a look.
“Slow,” he nods, already leaning in.
You do as he said, following his lead. You close your eyes, and before you know it, his lips are pressed against yours. It’s soft, gentle, a test. When you lean into it, he tilts his head, kissing you more deeply, more confidently.
He pulls away after a moment and just looks at you, silently asking if you’re okay with more. When you nod, he cups your cheek to pull you back in, and when you get comfortable again, he lets his tongue glide against your lower lip. You’ve read enough books to know that’s your cue to open your mouth, so that’s what you do.
When he presses closer, letting his tongue brush against yours, you lose yourself in the kiss, in him. Maybe this is everything it’s cracked up to be; you’re pretty sure you could kiss him all day.
Eventually, you both need air, so he pulls away slowly. “How was that?”
“Really good,” you grin. “It was good for you, too, right?” You had to be sure.
“It was amazing. You’re a natural.”
“Maybe I just have a good teacher,” you flirt.
“Ooh, kissing and flirting. That teacher must be pretty good, then,” he teases you back.
You laugh with him, lightly shoving him again because, of course, he’d be all about hyping up your “teacher”.
“You really don’t mind, though? Being my first… well, everything?”
“Do I mind being the person to show you how it feels to be loved? No… not at all,” he replies in earnest. This is his favorite thing ever; of course, he doesn’t mind it.
“Are you ever gonna stop making this sound so romantic?” you chuckle.
“It is romantic, first of all, and second of all, no.” His grin is cocky, but you find yourself endeared by it anyway.
It wouldn’t be easy, but you already knew you’d be keeping him around for every first you’ll ever have from now on. You still have some self-esteem issues to work through, and you still struggle with your inexperience in romantic relationships. He’ll be there through every bit of it, though, and he’ll enjoy every second.
He’s found his person, and soon enough, you’ll know for certain you’ve found yours, too.
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You like museums because they are honest about silence.
People whisper there, but even that feels optional. Sound exists, but it never demands you. No one expects conversation, no one expects responses. You can exist fully inside yourself without apologizing for it.
That’s why you came today on your day off from the atelier.
This exhibition has been advertised everywhere in Seoul, contemporary reinterpretations of classical Korean landscapes. Posters plastered on subway walls, colors blooming against concrete, brushstrokes promising emotion.
Art speaks your language.
You arrive early, before the afternoon crowd gets too overwhelming. The museum smells faintly of polished floors and old paper. Sunlight filters through tall windows, washing everything in gold. Your footsteps echo softly, or at least you imagine they do. You’ve learned to construct sound from memory rather than experience.
As you step inside you immediately feel calm settle over you.
Paintings line the white walls of the museum like open windows into other worlds. Mountains dissolve into mist. Rivers stretch endlessly toward horizons painted with impossible patience. You move slowly, hands clasped behind your back, reading each plaque carefully.
You don’t rush art. You let it happen to you.
A group passes behind you, you feel the vibration of footsteps through the floor before you notice them in your peripheral vision. You shift aside politely, used to navigating spaces by motion rather than sound.
People talk. Mouths move. Laughter appears in shapes you recognize but cannot hear. You don’t mind anymore. You stopped minding many years ago.
Silence isn’t loneliness. It can become a home if you know how to welcome it.
You stop in front of a smaller painting, ink brush mountains rising sharply against a pale sky. The artist captured distance so perfectly you almost feel wind on your face. Your chest tightens the way it always does when something beautiful finds you unexpectedly.
You lean closer..and that’s when you notice him.
You notice him the way you notice art that doesn’t belong to the rest of the room. He stands several paintings away.
Tall.
Black hair falling softly across his forehead, slightly messy like he forgot to tame it before leaving home. He’s wearing a brownish long coat, neutral colors, nothing flashy, yet he looks impossibly out of place among ordinary visitors.
Beautiful is too small a word.
Your brain supplies it anyway.
Beautiful.
A properly beautiful man, and you get lost in your head about how you’re pretty sure, you have never seen anyone this good looking before. Is he from here? Is he a visitor?
He studies a painting with complete focus, head tilted slightly, lips parted as if he’s thinking something profound. His hands rest loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed but elegant.
You stare longer than you should, and you know you are staring but you can’t take your eyes off of his face. You tell yourself to look away.
You don’t. You can’t.
There’s something gentle about him, something quiet, and you catch yourself wonder what he sees in the painting, and then you wonder what his voice sounds like. You rarely think about voices, but his lips move slightly, almost forming words to himself, and suddenly curiosity blooms painfully inside your chest.
You look away quickly, embarrassed.
Focus on the art.
You move to the next piece.
Then the next.
But awareness of him follows you like warmth at your back. Each time you pretend not to look, you somehow find him again across the room, turning a corner, standing beneath another canvas. Maybe he’s moving through the exhibition at the same pace as you. Maybe you’re both drawn to the same pieces. Or maybe you’re just being delusional about your destiny bullshit.
You stop in a room with a huge piece, and the painting dominates the room.
It stretches across nearly an entire wall, a sweeping landscape of storm clouds breaking over a coastline, waves crashing in thick, violent strokes of blue & gray. Light cuts through the storm in one brilliant opening, illuminating a lone figure standing at the edge of the sea.
You feel it immediately.
The ache.
You walk closer and closer, until the rest of the world disappears. You imagine the roar of the ocean, not as sound, but as motion. As pressure. As something vast and overwhelming that exists whether you hear it or not. The lone figure in the painting looks small against the storm, yet unafraid.
You exhale slowly, and you sit on the bench placed before the artwork.
You always sit for paintings like this. Standing feels disrespectful when something demands your full attention. You fold your hands in your lap and let your eyes trace every brushstroke. Minutes pass, or maybe longer. Time behaves differently when you’re absorbed in beauty.
Your thoughts drift.
You think about the waves, what sounds they might make, and your thoughts lead you to roads you don’t want to take right now, like how people describe music as emotional. You’ve never known music. Sometimes people pity you for that, but standing here, feeling emotion swell so strongly it almost hurts, you wonder if music could really feel more alive than this.
You don’t think so.
You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice him approach. Not until the bench shifts slightly beside you.
Your heart jumps and you glance sideways.
It’s him.
He is so much more unreal up close. His presence feels warm, and you study him from the corner of your eye as he looks at the painting in front of you.
Long fingers resting on his knees. Soft features sharpened by concentration. His eyes move across the canvas slowly, thoughtfully, and you watch yourself thinking that he looks like someone who feels deeply, just like you.
Then he turns slightly toward you, and his lips move.
You blink, not expecting any interaction at all with the beautiful stranger, as if you were invisible in this space and someone interacting with you was impossible.
You look around briefly, wondering if he’s speaking to someone else, but no one stands nearby.
You look back at him.
His mouth moves again. Gentle expression.
You catch only fragments, shapes of syllables, but he’s probably mumbling and being extra quiet given the space you’re in, so you can’t read his lips at all.
Your stomach drops.
Of course, of course he’s talking, and of course he’s talking to you.
Panic flutters in your chest with the familiar anxiety of misunderstandings. Of people thinking you’re ignoring them purposefully. One of those moment where the world just has to mind you that easy communication isn’t built for you.
You hesitate.
Maybe he wasn’t speaking to you after all.
You look back at the painting, pretending nothing happened, but then he leans slightly closer, clearly directing his attention at you this time.
His lips move again, slower. You recognize the expression now. He’s definitely talking to you.
Heat rises to your face, and you hate this part. The part where you must interrupt normalcy. The moment people’s expressions change, surprise, awkwardness, apology. You turn toward him fully and he waits politely, eyes kind.
You look at him in the eyes, his beautiful intense but kind eyes, and you shake your head, pointing at your ear and your cochlear implant.
Then you mouth silently and carefully, hoping he’ll understand.
I’m deaf.
His eyes widen slightly as he realises, and for a brief second you prepare yourself for the usual reaction, exaggerated apologies, embarrassment, people backing away because they don’t know what to do or how to respond back.
He nods slowly. Then he mouths something again, more carefully this time.
You catch nothing. Maybe because you’re so distracted by him, maybe because the beautiful stranger is literally sitting right next to you and is trying to talk to you.
He pauses.
Thinks.
Then, unexpectedly, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone.
You watch his every movement, surprised.
His fingers move quickly across the screen, and a moment later he turns his phone toward you.
“Sorry. I said the painting feels lonely but peaceful. I wondered if you thought the same since you’re sitting here too.”
You stare at the words. Then at him, and your chest does that thing again.
Most people would have simply smiled and stopped trying. They wouldn't try to have a conversation with you. But he was, he was trying. He was actively trying to communicate with you.
You take your own phone out, hands suddenly clumsy with awareness of him watching as you type.
“Yes. Like standing in a storm but not wanting to leave.”
You show him.
His eyes brighten instantly, he smiles and nods at you. Something about his reaction makes warmth spread through you.
He types again.
“Exactly.”
You both turn back toward the painting. Side by side. You can see a smile in his face, and you become acutely aware of everything.
The closeness of his shoulder. The subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The way he glances at the painting, then briefly at you, as if checking whether you’re experiencing the same emotion. Your heart beats faster.
Ridiculous.
You don’t even know his name. You don’t know anything about him. He’s just a beautiful stranger.
And then you catch him typing again, and directing his phone at you, again.
“Do you come to museums often?”
You nod, then write.
“Whenever I want to think.”
He smiles big at you and the smile changes his whole face, making it so soft and childlike, like he’s genuinely so unbelievably happy. And you almost forget how to breathe.
He writes.
“Funny you say that, me too.”
You want to ask more. So much more, but you hesitate. Conversations with strangers rarely last long. People move on. They always do. You don’t want to out yourself up for disappointment
Still, neither of you stands up to leave.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. You exist together in this shared silence, watching painted waves crash endlessly against a painted shore.
You glance at him again.. and he’s already looking at you.
Your gaze collides with his but neither of you looks away immediately. Something shifts. Unspoken. Fragile. Dangerous. You both smile at each other and he looks back at the painting, and he looks shy, cheeks red. You’re pretty sure you look like a radish yourself.
His phone lights up again in his hands. He hesitates before turning the screen toward you, but he does anyway.
“I’m Hyunjin by the way”
Hyunjin. You mouth it silently to yourself, testing how it looks. The name fits him somehow. Soft yet so elegant.
You quickly type your own name and turn your phone toward him.
He reads it carefully and smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers there, warm and bright, like he’s committing your name to memory.
Your stomach flips again at how pretty he looks.
He types again.
“Nice to meet you.”
You nod and type quickly.
“You too.”
It feels insufficient for the strange gravity of the moment, but you don’t know how else to explain what meeting him already feels like.
He looks at the painting again.
Then at you.
Then types:
“Do you want to see the rest together?”
Your heart stutters. You hadn’t expected that. You were just hoping to stay like this besides him for a few more minutes before he’s gone and you never see him again. You stare at the words longer than necessary, and he waits patiently, a look in his eyes as if hoping more than anything you’ll say yes.
You nod, a small movement, but his face lights up immediately.
You both stand at the same time, almost awkwardly synchronized, and a soft laugh escapes him, you see it in the way his shoulders lift, and you wonder what that sounded like.
You begin walking side by side through the gallery.
At first, neither of you types anything. You simply appreciate the art around you. Stopping before paintings and leaning closer to read descriptions. Then you start to occasionally exchanging phones for short comments.
“I like the colors here.”
“It feels nostalgic.”
“I think this one makes me sad. I’m not sure why.”
It’s all so natural and so not forced.
You notice how patient he is when typing, never rushing, and it’s all just making you feel like this is easy, after all, it’s not some huge inconvenience to him. He waits for your responses fully, eyes attentive, focused only on you when you write your words on the screen.
It’s rare. This is rare for you and you know it. People often grow restless. They get tired of having to do this. It has happened too many times. Boyfriends, friendships, coworkers.
The beautiful stranger in front of you doesn't stop. At least not yet.
You start noticing small things about him. The way he tilts his head when thinking. How expressive his eyes are and how carefully he observes everything.
You’re standing before a sculpture when Hyunjin suddenly pauses as if he forgot something, or her left something behind accidentally. He glances around the room, quick subtle movements, and then he reaches into his bag. You watch curiously as he pulls out a black cap. He slides it onto his head, lowering the brim slightly, and then a mask appears too, covering the lower half of his face.
Strange, you think. All of a sudden, why?
He wasn’t wearing any of that earlier when you saw him walk around the museum alone. Your brows knit together slightly and you look around instinctively.
Nothing seems different.
Only his eyes remain fully visible now. And because you stand beside him thankfully you can still see him clearly.
He notices you looking.
For a brief moment, embarrassment flashes across his eyes as he sees the confused look at your face.
He types quickly.
“Sorry. It's just something I have to do.”
You read it twice.
Why?
You glance at him again, puzzled. Again, you think about how free he looked before talking to you, what changed now?
You type back before thinking clearly.
“Not because of me I hope.” and you smile at him, as if joking. So awkward, why would you say that to him, so passive aggressive and for what? You just met the guy.. relax.
He immediately looks apologetic and there’s panic in his eyes. You’re a fucking idiot that’s for sure.
“Of course not!”
Relief softens the tightness in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you were holding your breath. You nod lightly to show you understand, even if you don’t really. People have private reasons for things. Everyone carries pieces of themselves they don’t explain to strangers. You have no right to ask for explanations on anything.
He studies your face for a moment longer, as if making sure you truly believe him. Then his shoulders relax. Whatever tension had briefly appeared in him fades, replaced again by that quiet warmth you’ve begun associating with his presence.
You continue walking.
He stays slightly closer to you than before, positioning himself so that anyone passing would see mostly the side of his face turned away. When other visitors walk by, his posture shifts subtly, head lowered, brim of his cap shadowing his eyes.
It feels more like a habit of his. Like muscle memory.
You don’t ask why. You’re not going to ask him anything, he has his reasons. You just hope he’s not a criminal or something and he’s scared of being found.
You laugh in your head at the thought of this beautiful, kind man being a criminal.
You slow near the next painting and gesture toward it, inviting his attention back to something else. You both stop in front of a watercolor landscape, pale greens and soft blues melting into each other. He leans closer to read the description while you type a thought onto your phone.
“This one feels quiet.”
He reads it, then nods immediately.
He types
“Comfortable quiet.”
You smile.
Yes.
Exactly that.
The conversation resumes naturally after that. Whatever moment of tension existed dissolves into shared observation again, phones passing back and forth between you like a language only the two of you understand.
And you notice how attentive he is.
When you pause longer at a painting he waits for you. When you step closer to examine brushstrokes, he follows your lead. At one sculpture you circle slowly around it, studying how light changes the shadows, and when you turn he’s watching you instead of the art.
You pretend not to notice but your heart still reacts anyway. You show him another message.
“Do you like art a lot?”
He thinks before answering.
His thumbs hover over the screen longer this time.
“Yes. A lot. I try to make as much time for art as I can.”
You walk through the remaining galleries together, falling into an easy rhythm. Sometimes you talk through text. Sometimes you don’t talk at all. And somehow the silence between you never feels empty.
It feels shared.
At one point your hands brush accidentally while reaching toward the same information plaque. Both of you pull back at the same time. He laughs silently again, shoulders lifting, eyes crinkling above the mask.
You feel warmth rush to your face.
You type quickly, hiding your embarrassment behind humor.
“We have synchronized museum instincts.”
He grins and nods enthusiastically.
You don’t notice how often he looks at you now.
Not just glances.
Lingering looks.
As if he’s trying to memorize something.
Eventually the exhibition begins to thin out and visitors move toward the exit. Afternoon light grows stronger through the windows, signaling the end of the experience.
You reach the final gallery together and neither of you says anything. Neither of you rushes forward. It feels strangely similar to standing at the end of a good book, not wanting to turn the last page because finishing means losing it forever, that it’s over.
You slow your steps and he matches them automatically.
Outside the gallery doors the museum lobby stretches wide and bright. Reality waits there. You stop walking. He stops too. For a moment you both just stand facing each other. The silence changes. Not comfortable now, but fragile. Temporary.
You suddenly become aware that this was never guaranteed to last longer than today, longer than a few hours. That soon he will become a stranger again. You grip your phone slightly tighter.
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down before returning to yours.
He’s nervous, you can feel it.
You’ve seen nervousness before, in yourself, in others trying to bridge uncertain moments. He types something. Stops and deletes it, then types again
Your heart begins beating faster.
Finally, he turns the screen toward you.
“Can I have your number Y/N? I understand if not, of course.”
You look at him. At the hidden half of his face. At the eyes that have stayed soft with you all afternoon, at the stranger who chose to stay instead of walking away when he realised communication was going to be more complicated than he's used to.
You type your number and you’re smiling down at his phone, and your fingers feel strangely unsteady as you hand the phone back to him.
He exhales, a subtle release of tension you almost miss. He saves it immediately, then types.
“I’m glad I met you today.”
Your throat tightens.
You reply.
“Me too.”
It feels inadequate compared to what you actually mean. You both linger a moment longer near the exit. Neither moving first.
Finally, you bow slightly, and he mirrors you instantly. You turn toward the doors, the remaining sunlight spilling across the floor ahead of you and each step away feels heavier than it should.
You reach the exit and something pulls at you. You glance back.. and he’s still standing there watching you. Not checking his phone. Not leaving.
When your eyes meet again he lifts his hand in a small wave and you immediately smile at him and wave back in a small movement, and then you step outside into the afternoon air, unaware that somewhere behind you Hyunjin remains still for several seconds longer.
As if leaving this moment is harder than he expected.
_
You didn’t expect him to text.
That’s the rule you’ve learned about people who show interest in you. People are not willing to do all that, to put this much effort. These beautiful moments don’t follow you home.
Still, when you step into your apartment you place your phone down on the table more carefully than usual. As if being gentle to your phone will make him text. You change clothes. Wash your hands. Make tea. The routine unfolds exactly as it always does, predictable.
Your apartment is quiet, as it always is.
You sit by the window, watching the city move below. Cars glide past. People talk animatedly on sidewalks, conversations you can see but never enter. And then.. with the corner of your eye you see your phone light up.
Your heart jumps before logic catches up and you go and pick it up way too quickly.
A message.
Unknown number.
You already know.
“Hey, it’s Hyunjin, from the museum. Did you get home safely?”
Warmth spreads through your chest so suddenly it genuinely embarrasses you. You type back immediately, then delete it. You’re being too fast. Too eager. You don’t want to make it seem like he’s all you could think about, even though that’s exactly what’s happening.
You wait for at least five minutes, just hoping he didn’t see you typing.
You: Hi. Yes. Did you?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
He was waiting too.
Hyunjin: Yes :) I keep thinking about the painting.
You smile instantly. You walk to the couch and sit down, pulling your legs beneath you.
You: The one with the storm?
Hyunjin: Yes. The one we met in front of.
Your breath catches. You stare at the message longer than necessary, unsure how to respond without revealing how much it affects you.
You: I can’t stop thinking about that piece too.
Three dots appear again.
Disappear.
Return.
You imagine him somewhere across the city, looking at his phone the same way you are now.
Hyunjin: I’m glad I talked to you today.
You blush like a schoolgirl. What even is this, why are you so effected by this man you barely know. Yes, he’s very attractive and he seems kind, but those things never effect you if you’re not knee deep in someone’s personality.
You: Me too, thank you for today.
The conversation ends there, but you can’t seem to be able to stop thinking about him for the rest of the night, before finally going to sleep, still thinking about him, replaying everything in your head.
_
As the days go by the beautiful stranger texts you nearly every day, almost always at the same hours, late evening, when the city softens and people begin disappearing into their private lives. And you blush and kick your feet like a teenager who’s interacting with a boy for the first time in her life every time you get a text from him.
At first, the questions are small.
Hyunjin: What do you usually do after work?
You: Go home. Read. Sometimes cook badly.
Hyunjin: Haha, I doubt it’s bad.
You: Do you paint?
Hyunjin: Yeah, I'm trying to find time for that.
You: What do you do for work?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Return.
Hyunjin: I’m a dancer.
You smile unconsciously. It fits him. The way he stood in front of the sculpture. The way his hands moved. The quiet awareness of his body in space.
You: That makes sense.
Hyunjin: Really? How come?
You hesitate, unsure how to explain something intuitive.
You: You notice things. Dancers notice things.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Stops.
Appears again.
Hyunjin: I think you notice more than me.
The conversations grow slowly as days go by. He asks what silence feels like to you. No one has ever asked that before. You tell him silence isn’t always empty. It can be full. Full of movement, expressions, light shifting through rooms, people breathing.
He sends a message after several minutes.
Hyunjin: That sounds beautiful. I think sign language is very beautiful, maybe you can teach me something one day?
Your chest aches. Teach him sign? One day? This mean he's planning to see you again?
You: Oh, of course, if you'd like that :)
Hyunjin: I'd love it.
Some nights he tells you about the 'rehearsals' he has, as he calls them. You haven’t t quite understood what he does for work. Is he a dance teacher? Is he a backup dancer? He talks about long hours, sore feet and mirrors everywhere, and you imagine him practicing alone in a quiet studio.
You never push for details. You’ve learned people reveal only what they want to.
One evening after weeks of messages that feel strangely essential to your days, you type without overthinking.
You: I wish I could see you dance one day.
The message sends.
Immediately, the typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Appears again.
You watch it, heart beating faster than it should.
…typing…
…typing…
Then it disappears. Again. A minute passes. Two. Your stomach tightens.
Hyunjin: Maybe someday.
Another pause.
Hyunjin: Goodnight :)
You blink at the screen. Something about it feels unfinished. Like a door almost opened and then quietly shut again. What was he writing for minutes straight that he deleted?
You type goodnight back.
The next day passes without a text from him, and you don’t think much of it. People get busy. He clearly sounds like someone who has lots of work and lots of stuff to do. You go to work, come home, make tea and sit by the window as always.
Your phone stays dark.
Two days.
Five days.
A week.
No message.
You stop checking constantly. You place your phone face down now, as if removing the possibility will make disappointment smaller. It shouldn’t hurt. Yes, you both opened up a little bit about your lives, but still, you barely know him. But something settles quietly in your chest, familiar and heavy.
Because this is how it always happens.
People are kind at first. Curious. Interested. They like the novelty of learning how you communicate, the way you watch faces carefully, the patience required to speak with hands or typed words. But eventually comes the moment when effort becomes visible. When conversations require adjustment. When spontaneity disappears.
And then they fade.
Not cruelly or dramatically, but they do, and it always hurts the same. Maybe he wanted to meet with you, but the thought of having to text all the time made him change his mind.
You learned not to blame people for this.
And with him? You just tell yourself this was never different. You tell yourself that you knew better and to stop rereading the messages you exchanged the past weeks, and to stop wondering what he almost said that night.
Two weeks pass.
The rhythm of your life closes again around you, steady and predictable. Evening tea and city lights through your window. You feel foolish for having expected anything else. Some people are just passing moments. Beautiful ones, yes, but temporary. And you're still glad you got to know him even for just a bit. After all, he seemed like a nice, kind man.
_
It's Friday night and you’re halfway through washing dishes. You're planning on tidying up a bit, then putting on a movie and relaxing like that in front of the tv after a shitty day at the atelier.
You dropped your canvas, made a mess in the floor, ruined hours upon hours of hard work and had everyone trying to help you like you were some baby. You’re deaf, you’re not a toddler.
Everything today was just shit, and you deserved to relax and forget this day all together.
Suddenly your phone lights up on the counter. You don’t rush, you’ve trained yourself not to, and you're pretty much sure it's just your mom or your sister.
You dry your hands slowly.
His name.
Your heart forgets all the lessons you tried to teach it.
Hyunjin: Would you be up to meet again?
_
You start getting ready far too early.
The clock says you still have three hours before he arrives, yet you stand in front of your wardrobe like the decision carries unreasonable consequences. Shirts are lifted, held against your body, folded back again. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like trying too hard. You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment trying to catch your breath and looking at all the mess you’ve made in front of you.
You’re being so ridiculous. This is just tea. Just meeting a friend. Right? That’s what he is. A friend.
But your thoughts don’t cooperate. What if he realizes how exhausting it is to talk with you? The pauses while you type. The way conversations sometimes need to slow down or the constant awareness required to communicate with you. People always say it doesn’t matter at first. And then later it does.
You smooth your hands over the clothes you finally picked. A long skirt and a beautifully detailed top.
You tell yourself not to hope too much. To treat this as meeting a friend and nothing else. This is not a date, not a romantic one at least.
The message he sent yesterday replays in your mind.
Would you be up to meet again?
And then the location he chose.
A tea house.
You had mentioned weeks ago casually that tea makes you feel calm and that you collect different kinds, that choosing tea feels like choosing a mood.
He remembered.
The realization warmed you more than the invitation itself. He listens. He listens and he notices and he remembers. You'd be happy even having him in your life as just a friend, so you just hope tonight goes well.
The tea house isn’t in town. It sat far outside the city, near the hills, almost hidden, and you wondered why he would choose somewhere so far when there were dozens of tea places closer. The thought lingered, unanswered. And you didn’t have time to care.
Your phone lights up.
Hyunjin: I’m outside.
Your heart leaps. You grab your bag, check your reflection one last time and step outside.
The car waiting at the curb makes you slow down.
Sleek. Black. You can tell this is a nice, expensive car. Dancers don’t usually drive cars like that. Or do they? Before you can think longer, the driver’s door opens. Hyunjin steps out, and for a moment your brain stops working properly.
He looks unfairly beautiful.
Soft black hair falling into his eyes, simple clothes somehow looking elegant on him, long coat moving slightly with the breeze. There’s nothing flashy about him, yet everything about him draws attention effortlessly. He has a cup on again, a cup that hides most of his face.
He smiles when he sees you and it makes your stomach flip.
Oh no.
He looks even better than you remembered. How are you supposed to try become friends with someone you are so attracted to? A man so beautiful your heart is doing backflips inside your chest. This is never going to work. But you will try, you will do anything to keep him in your life, you're already sure of it.
He walks toward you, slightly nervous energy in his movements. Then he pauses, studying you carefully. He lifts his phone, types quickly, and shows you.
Hyunjin: How do you sign “beautiful” ?
You blink, surprised. You demonstrate slowly, showing him the motion, and his eyes follow your hands with intense focus, repeating the movement carefully, almost reverently.
He signs it back to you.
Beautiful. And points at you right after.
Heat rushes to your face instantly and you're pretty sure your cheeks are red, and he definitely noticed, because the corner of his eyes crinkles as a small smirk appears. You look away, suddenly very interested in the pavement.
The drive is quiet but comfortable.
He occasionally glances at you, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. The city slowly fades behind you, buildings giving way to open views and softer landscapes.
You watch the scenery change, curiosity returning. Why here? Why somewhere so far away? But you will not ask. Somehow, the distance feels intentional. Private. Safe. And you find that nice, you trust him. Maybe he just wants to be far away from people because it will be overwhelming having to text and hear all the noise all at once.
The tea house appears nestled between trees, large windows facing an expansive view of hills stretching toward the sea. When you step inside you can see that there are barely any people, and the air smells faintly of jasmine and citrus. They seat you by the window and the view was breathtaking.
For a while, neither of you speaks. You simply sit there, sharing the calm. Then he types something and turns the phone toward you.
Hyunjin: I’m sorry I disappeared.
You blink, caught off guard by the directness.
Hyunjin: Work became overwhelming. I didn’t want to text carelessly.
You nod slowly and you type back.
You: It’s okay.I thought maybe you got tired of talking to me.
You immediately wish the floor would open up and you’d disappear inside it. Why would you just blurt that out so easily? What is wrong with you?
His reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, genuine shock crossing his face. He shakes his head quickly.
Hyunjin: Of course not.
He hesitates before continuing.
Hyunjin: Why would you think that?
You stare at your hands before answering. You already fucked up by being completely honest, you might as well explain.
You: People usually do. They don’t always have patience. Talking with me takes effort.
You expect sympathy or awkward reassurance. Instead, his expression just softens, and he types slower this time.
Hyunjin: Talking to you is easy.
Your chest tightens, and you're still not used to the feeling even though he's making you feel like this way too often.
You hadn’t noticed how tightly you were holding yourself together until the tea arrived. Steam curls upward between you, carrying the faint scent of chamomile and something floral you don’t recognize. The porcelain cups are warm against your fingers.
Hyunjin watches you as you lift the cup.
Hyunjin: Can I ask something personal?
You nod immediately. You’re surprised by how easily trust comes with him.
Hyunjin: Were you always deaf?
You smile at his genuine curiosity and type back.
You: Yes. I was born this way.
You pause, then add more.
You: My parents found out when I was a baby. I have never experienced sound, so I don’t feel like I lost anything.
Hyunjin: Does the cochlear implant help you catch anything?
You reach up instinctively, fingers brushing the small processor resting behind your ear.
You: Sometimes, yes. In quiet places, I can pick up bits of sound, but it doesn’t come through clearly. It’s more like my brain turning electrical signals into rough shapes of meaning. I guess. Speech is the hardest. Some sounds are clearer than others, but none of it feels natural. And I get tired quickly, listening takes effort
He nods as he reads.
Hyunjin: Can you hear your own voice?
You: Not really. I feel it more than hear it.
You tap lightly against your throat.
You: Like vibration inside my chest.
His expression changes, something tender flickering there, and you realize he’s imagining it. Trying to understand your world from the inside.
He types again, slower this time.
Hyunjin: Thank you for explaining it to me.
You nod and smile at him.
Hyunjin: And do your parents know sign language?
You: Kind of, they're still learning, but we can communicate comfortably for the most part.
He smiles.
Hyunjin: I want to learn too.
You look up at him, smiling big without meaning to.
You: I'll teach you then.
And he nods excitingly, as he types again.
Hyunjin: Tell me about your paintings, about your work!
You describe them shyly at first, talking about your favourite techniques and explain how painting feels like translating emotions you can’t always express otherwise. He reads your messages intensely, elbows resting on the table, completely focused. You talk more than you meant to and you open up to him quickly.
Eventually, without thinking, the words slip out.
You: You could come to my house and see them sometime… if you want.
The moment you turn the phone towards him for him to read you immediately regret it and try to take the phone back, but he stops you and holds your hand, turning the phone back to himself. Soft hands, his long fingers making you feel dizzy.
Focus, you're trying to be his friend.
You read his lips: “Let me see.”
You look down quickly, wishing you could pull the invitation back.
He goes still, and you can see uncertainty flicker across his face as he reads it. You rush to type again.
You: Only if you want. No pressure!!!!!!!!
He interrupts gently, typing as a small laugh leaves his throat and you catch the movement.
Hyunjin: I’d like that.
You look at him and he nods once, as if confirming the decision to himself as much as to you. Warmth spreads through you, mixed with nervous excitement.
You: Enough about me though, tell me about yourself too.
He laughs and types.
Hyunjin: I’m not very interesting.
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, and you wonder if the sound you made just now sounded weird. You hope not, and you see him smile, so you don’t think about it too much.
You: That’s not true.
He smiles at your quick response, shoulders relaxing slightly, and he tries again.
Hyunjin: I dance. That’s most of my life.
You nod, already knowing that part, but you wait for him to continue.
Hyunjin: I started young. Training took a lot of time. Long days. Late nights. I still practice almost every day.
You: What kind of dance?
He tilts his head, thinking how to answer.
Hyunjin: Different styles. Contemporary, hip hop, performance dance.
You: Do you like it?
His answer comes immediately this time.
Hyunjin: Yes. When I dance, I don’t think about anything else.
You smile. You understand that feeling. Painting does the same for you.
You: That’s how painting feels for me.
He nods eagerly, clearly happy at the connection.
Hyunjin: Then you understand.
Golden light stretches across the road as you walk back to the car together, and the drive feels different now. You feel closer to him after the talk you had. You feel like you know more about him, but still, you know there's so much more. You can feel that he’s holding back, you just can't put your finger on what it is.
When the car stops outside your apartment your heartbeat picks up again. He picks up his phone after stopping the car right in front of your door and types.
Hyunjin: I have time to see your painting now, if you’re okay with that.
You look at him, not ready for this to happen so fast, but you want him to come and see so bad that you just can’t find it in you to care if your apartment is messy. You nod eagerly.
_
He’s here. About to see your space. Your world. You glance at him, unsure if he’s nervous too, and he meets your eyes and smiles softly.
He follows you quietly into your apartment and the moment the door closes behind him something shifts in the air. You don’t turn on the big overhead light. Instead you move through the small space flipping on the many warm lamps you’ve collected over the years, soft golden pools of light that make the cozy room feel even smaller, more intimate.
The apartment is tiny, walls lined with bookshelves and half finished canvases. The air smells faintly of oil paint, chamomile tea and a lavender candle that even though wasn't lit you could still smell it.
Having him here feels… overwhelming, in a good, perfect way.
Hyunjin looks impossibly beautiful under the warm lamplight. The harsh edges of the outside world are gone. His black hair falls softly across his forehead as he takes his cap off, catching threads of gold. His long coat is draped over the back of your old armchair, and in just a simple black sweater, he seems softer, more real. Every time he moves the light shifts across his face, highlighting the gentle slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the depth in his eyes. He looks like one of your paintings come to life, something delicate and aching all at once.
You lead him to the corner where you paint. The space is cramped but warm, brushes resting in jars, colors smeared on an old wooden palette. Several canvases are propped against the wall, your private little windows into everything you feel.
Hyunjin crouches down slowly so he can see better, eyes moving across each piece with genuine focus. He studies the stormy seascape, soft misty mountains, and the smaller abstract works where colors bleed into emotions you’ve never named out loud.
His expression changes as he looks. First curiosity, then quiet surprise, and finally something close to awe. He leans closer to one particular canvas, a figure standing on a cliff as golden light breaks through heavy clouds, and his lips part slightly.
He pulls out his phone, but then seems to change his mind. Instead, he looks up at you, eyes bright, and slowly signs the word you taught him earlier.
Beautiful.
The movement is careful, a little clumsy but full of effort. His long fingers shape the sign with reverence.
You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can feel it in your throat. Without thinking, you sign back “Thank you”, and you mouth the word silently at the same time.
For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you under the warm lamplight.
Hyunjin’s gaze softens. He rises slowly from his crouch until he’s standing close, closer than he’s ever been. The air between you feels charged, fragile, full of all the unspoken things that have been growing since you met. His eyes drop to your lips for half a second, then return to yours, asking without words.
And then he just leans in.
The kiss is impossibly soft.
Tentative at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet you both cherish. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, tasting faintly of the tea you shared earlier. There’s no rush, only tenderness. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek with feather light care, thumb brushing your skin.
Your eyes flutter closed. After a heartbeat of surprise, you lean in and kiss him back, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest. You can feel the steady, slightly faster beat of his heart under your palm. The kiss deepens just a little, still soft, still slow.
When you finally pull apart you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests gently against yours for a moment, eyes closed, as if he’s savoring the closeness, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, then reaches for his phone with slightly unsteady fingers.
Hyunjin: I wanted to do this since the moment I saw you in front of that painting.
You smile, cheeks flushed, and you grab his phone to type back
You: I wanted you to do this since that moment too, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
His eyes are warm and shiny as he reads.
Hyunjin: I don’t want to scare you with how much I already like you. But being here, in your space, seeing your art… it feels like I’m seeing the real you. And I like her so much.
Your chest tightens with a sweet ache.
You: I’m not scared of you.
The hour now has grown late, and Hyunjin glances at the time on his phone, reluctance clear in his expression.
Hyunjin: I have early practice tomorrow… I should go. Thank you for letting me into your world tonight.
You smile at him as he touched your face one last time, and you walk to the door together. He puts his coat back on and pulls the mask and cap from his pocket, preparing once again for the outside world. Before he steps out, he turns to you one more time.
He leans down and presses a final, tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a few heartbeats, and you melt completely. Then he pulls back, eyes soft.
You sign “Goodnight” slowly as you mouth it, and he repeats the sign back to you with a smile.
You stand there for a long moment, fingers touching your lips where he kissed you, the warmth of his presence still lingering in your small apartment.
_
The next afternoon you stepped out to buy groceries, still carrying the warm glow from last night’s kiss. Your steps felt lighter. The world seemed a little softer, and you wanted more than anything to make soup.
You loved soup, and you loved making it. It felt so cozy to make soup. Mushroom soup, carrot soup, chicken soup, onion soup. You’ve tried everything, all of it equally delicious.
You got your groceries and you decided to go home from a different route, to walk around a little longer since the day was so nice. You turned the corner onto the main street, and right there as you looked up, you froze.
There, towering over the busy intersection was a massive billboard. Bright, impossible to miss. Hyunjin’s face, the face of the boy who was in your apartment last night filled most of it, sharp eyes, styled hair, wearing a striking outfit, promoting a luxury brand.
Your bags slipped from your fingers.
The world tilted. You stared, frozen on the sidewalk as people walked past you. Your chest tightened painfully. That was him. Your Hyunjin, splashed across a building like he belonged to everyone.
What the fuck? Is this actually him? Or is this a sick joke? Does he have a fucking twin or something? No. There’s no way that’s him.
_
The groceries hit the floor the moment the door of your apartment closed, milk carton cracking open, vegetables rolling across the tiles.
You didn’t care.
Hands shaking, you opened your laptop and typed “Hyunjin” into the search bar. You didn’t even know his last name, there’s no way anything will come up with just his name.
The page loaded.
Thousands of results.
Photos. Videos. News articles. “Hwang Hyunjin” — Stray Kids. Born March 20, 2000. Main dancer, rapper, visual. Millions of followers. Fancams. Magazine covers.
His face was everywhere.
You clicked frantically. More images flooded the screen, him on stage, glowing with confidence, blonde hair in older clips, intense expressions, surrounded by seven other men. He looked so different yet the same. Powerful. Distant. Like a completely different person from the man who had kissed you so tenderly the other night.
And then the betrayal hit and you felt tears running down your face.
He had lied to you. Not directly, but by omission. While you poured out your world to him he had hidden this enormous part of himself. The cap, the mask, the faraway tea house, the sudden disappearances… it all made brutal sense now.
Is he really that ashamed of me?
The thought tore through you. That’s why he hid his face whenever you were together. To protect himself. So no one would see the famous idol standing next to the deaf girl.
Tears burned hot down your cheeks.
You curled up on the floor beside the spilled groceries, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, too full of him. You cried until your eyes ached and your chest felt hollow.
How could he do this?
_
The next morning your phone lit up.
Hyunjin: Hey. I keep thinking about your paintings… and you. How are you today?
You read it. Your thumb hovering over the keyboard, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. The hurt is too raw, too fresh.
Twenty minutes later, another message.
Hyunjin: Did you sleep well? I know I left late the other day, I hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule. if you’re busy, it’s okay. Just let me know you’re alright?
Read. No reply.
An hour passes.
Hyunjin: Is everything okay? I’m getting a little worried. Did I do something wrong?
You still couldn’t answer and the tears came again. Why was he doing this? What did he want from you? Why is he texting you acting like he cares if he’s so embarrassed to be around you to the point he has to hide under masks?
Then, late in the afternoon another message.
Hyunjin: Please talk to me. Even if it’s just one word. I can’t stop thinking that I messed up the moment I left your apartment. You’re important to me. I don’t want to lose this.
Something inside you snapped. You typed with trembling fingers, vision blurred
You: Are you embarrassed of me, Hwang Hyunjin? Is that why you were hiding your face every time we were together? What do you want from me exactly?
The message sent.
You saw the “Read” notification almost instantly.
He didn’t reply.
_
You feel slightly calmer now after getting that out of your chest, calm enough to look him up again. With a clearer head now, not filled with shock. You searched his name once more and click on a music video titled “God’s Menu.”
The video starts, and you can’t hear a single note. Hyunjin appears on screen, younger, with striking blonde hair, moving with fierce, sharp precision. His expressions are powerful, almost predatory, completely different from the gentle person who had crouched in front of your paintings to look. There were seven other men with him, all radiating raw energy and charisma. The choreography was intense, synchronized, explosive.
He had opened up to you about dancing, about how it made him forget everything. But he never told you this was his life. Why? Why were you not allowed to know about this?
Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. The disappointment felt heavier than the anger now. You had trusted him, but he hadn’t trusted you with this.
It was past 9 p.m when your phone buzzed again.
Him.
Hyunjin: I’m outside your apartment. Please… can I come up and explain? Just five minutes. I’ll leave right after if you want me to.
Your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to ignore him. The bigger part, the one that still remembered his soft lips kissing you, made you walk to the door. You were angry, but you were mostly curious. Curious to know what the fuck he wants from you and why he hid this.
Hyunjin stood there in the dim hallway light, mask pulled down, eyes wide with worry and something else.. fear?.
He looked exhausted. He stepped inside carefully when you moved aside, and the moment the door closed he started typing frantically, then stopped and tried to speak slowly so you could read his lips.
“I’m not embarrassed of you,” he said clearly, voice careful. “Never. Please believe that.”
You stared at him, arms wrapped around yourself.
He continued, typing and showing you the screen.
Hyunjin: My company has very strict rules. Idols aren’t allowed to date publicly. If fans see me with someone, especially if pictures get taken, it can turn into a huge scandal. It could hurt my members, my career… and the person I’m with. I was trying to protect you. Your life and identity. I don’t want cameras or hate coming after you because of me. I was going to tell you. I swear. I just… I wanted you to like me for me, the guy who sat next to you in the museum.
His eyes were glassy and he looked genuinely devastated. Breaking your heart seeing him like this even though you were still upset with him.
“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”
You felt your own tears return. The anger cracked, leaving only hurt and sudden guilt.
You didn’t know any of this. You weren’t familiar with idol culture, hell, you couldn’t even listen to music.
You typed with shaky hands.
You: Okay, I get that, I’m sorry for reacting like this. I saw you on a billboard and then I googled you. So many people know you. Why do i not deserve to? I just instinctively thought you’re embarrassed of me because of my disability.
Hyunjin shook his head fiercely and pulled you into his arms without hesitation. He held you tight, one hand gently cradling the back of your head. You clung to him, face buried in his chest, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He rubbed slow circles on your back, patient and warm.
After a long while, he pulled back just enough to type.
Hyunjin: I really like you Y/N, and I don’t give a fuck that you’re deaf. It’s just another beautiful part of you, nothing more, nothing less.
You read the text and looked up in his eyes, more tears forming in your eyes, in his too. And you hugged again, tightly, as he kissed the top of your head.
After a while like this..
You: I saw the music videos. You look so cool, and you dance so unbelievably great. I wish I could hear your music
The sadness in your own expression was impossible to hide. Hyunjin’s face softened and he cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away your tears. He leaned in and kissed you, soft, deep, full of apology and longing. You kissed him back desperately, clinging tighter, your hands fisting in his shirt as if he might disappear.
The kiss grew heavier. Your body pressed closer to his, seeking comfort, connection, anything to fill the ache. Your hands slid under his coat, under his sweater, touching his waist and now actively pulling him toward the bedroom as you kiss.
Hyunjin understood immediately and he stopped you gently as he smiled, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against yours.
He shook his head no, breathing uneven, cheeks flushed.
“Not like this,” he mouthed slowly, making sure you could read his lips. “You’re upset. I don’t want you to.. regret it later.”
And his words are kind but they still hit you like cold water. Your hands loosen from his sweater immediately, heat rushing to your face. Embarrassment floods through you so quickly it almost hurts. You pull back a little too fast, avoiding his eyes.
Of course.
Of course you misread everything and embarrassed yourself again.
You stare at the floor, fingers twisting together. You type quickly on your phone, movements slightly clumsy.
You: I’m so sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean to-
Before you can finish, he gently catches your wrist. His expression changes instantly, concern replacing surprise.
He shakes his head, almost panicked.
“No,” he mouths quickly. “No, no.”
He takes your phone, typing himself.
Hyunjin: Hey. It’s okay. Really. You didn’t do anything wrong. We can do that some other time, when you’re feeling better. I want it too.
He looks at you and smiles, warm, reassuring, the kind of smile meant to pull you out of your own thoughts. He’s still standing so close and it doesn’t help that you’ve touched his bare waist. You’re still embarrassed, and you don’t know what to do with your hands for the first time maybe ever.
His hand lifts slowly, hesitant, giving you time to pull away if you want.
You don’t.
His fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Then he leans in again. Gentle, soft kiss, slow. Not desperate or overwhelming, reassurance pressed quietly against your lips.
When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again for a second, both of you smiling a little shyly now. The tension melts and you breathe out a small laugh, still embarrassed but lighter. And he smiles at the sound you made.
He gestures towards the couch and you nod.
You sit side by side, knees touching, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you both pull out your phones to talk. The room feels calmer now. Safe again.
You glance at him, then type.
You: So… idol.
He groans immediately, covering his face with one hand, and you grin.
You: You hid that pretty well.
Hyunjin: I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… wanted you to meet me first.
You tilt your head, teasing.
You: So you’re secretly mega famous and thought I wouldn’t notice?
He laughs, shoulders shaking.
Hyunjin: You didn’t notice.
You nudge his arm.
You: I thought you were just suspiciously pretty.
He pretends to look offended, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. You both laugh, the last bit of awkwardness dissolving between you, but your next message is softer.
You: I was really hurt yesterday. It really shocked me and my mind went to the worse case scenario.
His smile faded, replaced by something serious.
Hyunjin: I know. I’m really sorry. I should’ve thought of the possibility of hurting you like this.
He looks at you while you read it, eyes vulnerable in a way that doesn’t match the polished image he probably shows the world.
Hyunjin: I was scared you’d treat me differently or feel like my life was too much.
Your chest tightens. You don’t type this time. You just lean in and kiss him. A quiet answer. Forgiveness. When you pull back he looks stunned and then relieved, smiling wider than you’ve seen all night.
You stand up suddenly and he blinks in confusion. You gesture toward the kitchen.
“Tea” you mouth, and sign it at the same time.
His face lights up immediately.
He watches you move around the kitchen, comfortable in your own space, sleeves pushed up as you prepare tea. Something about the normalcy of it seems to calm him more than anything else tonight. When you return handing him a warm cup his fingers brush yours deliberately.
He mouths thank you, and he tries to sign it from memory. His movement is a little clumsy, but you help him get it right as you both smile.
You grab the remote and put on some anime show you’ve left unfinished, looking at him to make sure he’s also cool with your choice, and his eyes widen in excitement as he nods immediately.
As the show starts playing quietly the screen colors flickering across the room. He keeps glancing at you more than the show at first, like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re okay, that you’re still here with him.
Eventually you settle closer. Your head rests against his shoulder and his arm hesitates only a second before wrapping around you carefully, pulling you into his side.
He’s warm. steady, safe.
You both watch episode after episode, occasionally passing the phone back and forth to comment or joke. At some point you stop typing altogether. You’re just… comfortable. Your breathing slows and your body grows heavier against him, and a few minutes later he looks down and realises you’ve fallen asleep on him, your cheek pressed against his chest as one of your hands loosely hold his shirt.
His expression softens instantly and he stays still for a long time, unwilling to disturb you, watching your peaceful face like it’s something fragile.
After an hour he carefully shifts, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back as he lifts you. You stir slightly but don’t wake, instinctively leaning closer into him.
He smiles at that. Finding it adorable.
Carrying you to the bedroom feels strangely intimate, more intimate than any of the kisses you’ve shared. He lays you gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over you and tucking it around your shoulders. He just stands there for a moment, watching you, memorizing your face as his fingers brush lightly against your hair.
He mouths quietly, though you can’t hear it,
“Goodnight baby”
And he hesitates… but then leans down and presses one last soft kiss to your forehead before he leaves. And the apartment returns to silence but holds all of the warmth he left behind.
_
Morning arrives slowly.
Sunlight slips through your curtains in golden lines, warming the blankets tangled around you. For a moment you don’t move, you just lie there, half awake, wrapped in the lingering feeling of last night.
Then memory returns all at once.
Hyunjin, the apologies, what almost happened but he’s just so sweet and considerate, the couch, the tea, his arms around you, falling asleep against him.
Your eyes snap open and you sit up quickly, looking around your room. Deep inside you hoping he’s here. A small flicker of disappointment rises… until your phone lights up beside you.
Hyunjin: Good morning! You fell asleep during episode four.
Your heart jumps, and you open the messages immediately. A smile spread across your face as another message appears.
Hyunjin: I carried you to bed. I hope that was okay. I had work pretty early today so I had to go.
You press your lips together, warmth blooming in your chest at the thought.
Hyunjin: Also… I just wanted to say that I’m sorry again for upsetting you. I never want to make you feel unsure of my intentions again.
You reread that one twice. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but before you can answer, another message arrives.
Hyunjin: I have an idea, and a feeling you’re going to like it. Can I pick you up later?
You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start hurting.
You: You don’t have to apologize anymore Hyun. And yes, you can pick me up!
Hyun.
He smiles at the nickname.
He’s down horribly and he knows it.
_
You notice immediately that this drive feels different. He looks excited but nervous too. His fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel while he glances at you every few seconds, like he’s waiting for your reaction before the surprise even happens.
The car stops in front of a large building and you tilt your head questioningly. He grins, a little shy, a little proud over his idea, and gestures for you to follow him.
You immediately realise you’re in a company building. The hallways are never ending, and staff members bow politely as he passes. You notice it, the familiarity, the respect, the way people instantly recognize him. This is his world. Some of them look at you with a strange look on their faces, but they don’t try to interact with you at all, so you simply follow Hyunjin.
He opens a door carefully.
A.. studio?
You’re suddenly inside a huge recording studio. And right there in front of you is another man who looks back at you and Hyunjin and smiles fondly. Does he know you?
Hyunjin signs slowly as he points at him for you to look:
“Friend”
Chan immediately mirrors the greeting, giving you an enthusiastic wave. His smile is kind, gentle in a way that eases your nerves instantly. He types something quickly on a tablet and turns it toward you.
Chan: Hi! I’m Chan, Hyunjin’s bandmate. Hyunjin talks about you a lot. Welcome to our studio. It’s nice to finally meet you”
You smile at him and nod.
He talks about you? He’s.. talked about you to his members? To his group?
Suddenly Hyunjin takes your hand and leads you towards an enormous speaker setup. Huge. Almost intimidating. He suddenly looks nervous, searching your face for trust.
He signs slowly so you can follow every movement.
“I want you to feel my music.”
Did he do research? How does he know how to signs sentences all of a sudden? Your head is already spinning at the fact he’s fully signing before what he actually said even registers.
He guides your hand gently toward the large speaker, an enormous one that’s resting against the wall.
The music starts, and..
BOOM.
A deep vibration surges through the speaker and travels straight into your palm. Strong and alive and you gasp, eyes widening.
The bass pulses again, and again and again. You feel it climb up your arm, into your chest, into your bones. Instinctively, your other hand presses over your heart. The beat syncs beneath your palm. You’re feeling it. Feeling him. His art, his effort. His voice translated into movement, into vibration and emotion.
Your smile grows uncontrollably and you know your eyes are shinning, and then tears spill before you even realize you’re crying. Hyunjin freezes when he sees them.
For one terrifying second he thinks Did I overwhelm her? Did I do something wrong?
But then you laugh silently through your tears, gripping the speaker tighter, shoulders shaking with emotion. And he understands. You feel it. You feel him. He steps closer, overwhelmed himself now, and gently cups your face. His thumbs wipe your tears away one by one, and then he leans down, kissing them softly from your cheeks.
Behind you Chan quietly smiles, and without a word he slips out of the room, closing the door, giving you privacy, protecting the moment.
Hyunjin rests his forehead against yours, the music still pulses through the floor, through your hands, through your heart.
He signs slowly, again: I wanted to share my world with you.
You squeeze his hand, pressing it over your chest so he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm and you kiss kid knuckles.
That’s your answer.
He exhales shakily, overwhelmed by how deeply this moment means means to him, and scared of how much you mean to him.
The tears on your cheeks had barely dried when something shifted in the air between you. His breathing grew heavier, you could feel it. His thumbs stroked your skin once more, then slid down to your jaw.
He kissed you again, hard, passionate, desperate.
It wasn’t like his usual gentle kisses. This one carried everything he had been holding back, longing, fear, and overwhelming want.
His lips moved against yours with urgent hunger, tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted and you whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt.
He started to guide you to the couch now, and he locked the studio door with one hand without breaking the kiss.
He sat down on the wide, comfortable studio couch and pulled you with him. You climbed into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips, straddling him. The moment your bodies pressed together you both instinctively moaned. And oh you were needy. So needy. And so was he. And the little sounds you were making were driving him crazy.
Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the growing hardness in his pants. The friction was delicious, and you rocked against him again and again, chasing the pressure. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements.
“Fuck… baby,” he breathed against your neck, making sure you could feel the low rumble of his voice. “You’re so eager for me…”
You answered by rolling your hips harder, desperate little sounds slipping from your throat. The music continued to pulse around you, deep bass thumping through the couch, through his body, into yours. Every beat seemed to sync with the way you moved against him.
Hyunjin’s hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin. He helped you pull the fabric over your head, then leaned forward to kiss and bite softly at your neck and collarbone while you continued grinding down on him. The humping grew more frantic, and your breathing was ragged, thighs trembling around his hips as you rubbed yourself against his clothed cock again and again.
He was breathing hard too, forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning every time you rolled your hips just right.
After several long minutes of this, he finally slid one hand between your bodies. His long fingers slipped under your skirt and into your panties, finding you already soaked.
“So wet for me baby” he said, making sure you read his lips, and his words made you shiver.
He circled your clit slowly at first, then faster. Two of his long, elegant fingers pressed inside you, curling gently, opening you up. He scissored them slowly, stretching you, stroking that sensitive spot inside while his thumb continued rubbing your clit.
You clung to his shoulders, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers, soft whimpers turning into broken moans. Hyunjin watched your face the entire time, eyes dark and full of adoration, occasionally leaning in to kiss you deeply whenever your sounds grew louder.
When he felt you were ready, trembling and dripping around his fingers, he pulled them out gently.
He quickly opened his pants, freeing himself. His cock was hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He looked up at you, breathing heavily, eyes sparkling and asking for permission even now. And you answered by lifting your hips, pushing your panties aside, and slowly sinking down onto him.
The stretch was intense.
You gasped, forehead falling against his as you took him inch by inch. Hyunjin’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but he didn’t push, he let you control the pace, groaning deeply every time you sank a little lower.
When he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, you both stayed still for a moment, breathing each other in.
Then you started moving.
Slow at first. Rolling your hips in deep, sensual circles. Hyunjin’s head fell back against the couch, lips parted, low groans spilling from his throat and you wrapped one arm gently around his neck so you could feel every groan, every moan through your palm. And every time you felt it you’d squeeze him inside you so deliciously.
His hands guided you, helping you ride him harder, deeper.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, looking at you straight in the eyes as he spoke “So tight… so warm… all mine. My perfect girl.”
Your pace quickened. You rode him with desperate need, breasts bouncing slightly with every movement, hands clutching his shoulders for balance. Hyunjin met every roll of your hips with upward thrusts, fucking up into you while keeping one hand on your lower back, pressing you closer.
When you finally came it hit you so hard. Your body clenched around him, a silent cry tearing from your throat as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Hyunjin followed right after, pulling out of you quickly, a shuddering groan you felt vibrate through your entire chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you against him as he spilled on his stomach.
You looked down at the beautiful mess he had made in himself, and you picked some of it with your finger, bringing it to your mouth.
His head was going to explode. The expressions on his face priceless, making you wet all over again by just how hot he looked looking at you.
His hands started to stroke your back slowly, tenderly. He pressed soft kisses to your sweaty temple, your cheek, your lips. His fingers brushed damp strands of hair away from your face with such gentle care it made your chest ache.
“I think i’m falling in love with you” he mouthed and touched his heart.
Your eyes widened, a smile you couldn’t control. You fell on his chest and kissed him, and you could feel each other’s smiles through the kiss
“Me too” you mouthed back.
You buried your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around him, heart still racing.
_
The award still feels unreal in his hands even hours later.
Even after the stage lights, the cameras, the cheers vibrating through the arena floor, the weight of the trophy resting beside the table keeps pulling Hyunjin back to reality.
They won.
The restaurant is loud, warm, crowded with late night laughter and clinking glasses. The members insisted on going out if they won, no managers hovering too closely tonight, just eight exhausted men finally allowed to breathe.
Chan lifts his glass.
“To surviving another year”
Everyone cheers. Glasses collide.
Hyunjin smiles, but his mind drifts elsewhere, and across the table Chan watches him carefully. Too carefully. He knows him too well.
Chan leans forward slowly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.
“Why do you look like you’re remembering something illegal?”
Laughter erupts instantly.
Changbin snaps his fingers. “He’s been smiling at nothing all night!”
Han points dramatically. “You can’t possibly be this happy over the award you little fuck, just tell us”
Hyunjin groans, dropping his face into his hands.
“I hate all of you.”
Felix grins. “No, no. We love you. That’s why we investigate.”
Seungmin tilts his head. “It’s her, right?”
The table quiets just slightly. Not teasing now, all of them genuinely curious to know.
Because they know.
They’ve watched Hyunjin change the past few months, softer rehearsals, distracted smiles, the way he stays up texting. The way he just looks happier now, more content, complete.
Chan leans back, arms crossed.
“The museum girl.”
Hyunjin exhales, there’s no hiding he’s down bad for her, they already know, he’s already told them, so what’s the point of shying away now.
His voice comes quiet.
“…Yeah.”
Immediately, smiles spread around the table. Jeongin kicks his leg under the table. “Finally.”
Changbin laughs. “So you’re officially together or what?”
Hyunjin shakes his head, embarrassed but smiling anyway. “I don’t know. Yes? I haven’t asked her to be her boyfriend but do I even have to? We both said we’re falling in love with each other.”
He looks down at his glass, thumb tracing condensation along the edge.
“I think…” he hesitates, searching for words. “…I think she sees me. Who I am, who I really am you know?.”
He thinks about how you looked at him before knowing who he was. How heartbroken you were because you thought he’s embarrassed of you, when the thing he wanted to do the most was yell from a rooftop about you.
“I mean, to find someone like her, so kind, so talented, and to not care at all about this life.. this is one in a lifetime”
His friends have long stopped teasing and are now listening to him, some of them smiling, others almost looking proud.
“When I thought I lost her I was a mess”
Felix nods gently. “But you didn’t.”
Hyunjin shakes his head, a small smile forming.
“No.”
Chan watches him carefully, then grins slowly.
“…So.”
Everyone leans in. Chan’s voice lowers dramatically.
“You brought her to the studio yesterday.”
Groans and laughter explode immediately and Hyunjin’s face turns bright red.
“Hyung...”
Chan points accusingly. “You never bring anyone to the studio.”
Changbin slams the table. “Oh my god, you fucked in the studio didn’t you?”
Hyunjin hides his face again, shoulders shaking with mortified laughter.
“That’s none of your goddamn business idiots.”
“Oh my god they did. They fucked in our studio.”
The reaction is instant chaos. Han nearly falls out of his chair. Felix covers his mouth, laughing and Minho claps like someone just scored a goal.
Chan leans back triumphantly.
“I knew it.”
Minho has been itching to ask this, and he finally does
“So, did you have her sign an NDA?”
Hyunjin looked at him like he had asked the craziest thing in the world. Almost disgust forming on his face
“Dude what? No. She will never do anything shady. She’s not like that”
Changbin nudged him. “You waited forever to meet someone like that.” shifting the conversation, knowing how Hyunjin gets with the whole idea of NDAs.
Felix nods warmly. “You deserve someone who understands you.”
Chan’s teasing fades into something softer. “You look lighter,” he says. “On stage today too. I noticed.”
Hyunjin looks at him and smiles, “Really?” he hadn’t realized it himself, but it was true. The performances felt more free lately. The pressure quieter. Because for the first time since forever.. he has somewhere to return to emotionally. Someone who knows him when the lights turn off and loves him anyway for who he really is.
He smiles to himself.
“She felt our music yesterday, that’s why I took her to the studio. She wanted to know, and that’s the only pleas for her to do that.” he says softly.
The table stills again. They are all so curious about how Hyunjin makes it work considering her deafness. He tells them about your hand on the speaker, the way your smile broke open, how you cried while feeling the rhythm through your body.
No one interrupts. Even Changbin grows quiet.
Chan exhales slowly, clearly moved.
“…That’s beautiful, man.”
Hyunjin nods.
“I think… I think this is serious guys. I’m like.. genuinely in love with her.”
Then eight matching grins spread around the table, and Han raises his glass again.
“To Hyunjin finally being in love.”
Glasses lift. They all cheer loudly as Hyunjin blushes, and he doesn’t deny it. How could he when it’s the truth.
He’s so madly in love with you.
Because when he checks his phone under the table and sees your name lighting the screen with a simple message —
Did you eat? Congratulations on your win, I saw you on tv!
— his chest warms in a way no award ever could ever make him feel.
He types back instantly.
Yes. I miss you already.
He doesn’t notice Chan watching him fondly from across the table. Doesn’t notice the knowing smiles exchanged between the members. They’ve seen Hyunjin chase perfection for years. Seen him doubt himself. Seen loneliness hide behind beauty and talent. Tonight he looks peaceful.
And that matters more than any trophy sitting on the table beside them.
synop: felix feeling insecure that he's 'too feminine' for you
now playing: what makes you beautiful - one direction
pairing: lee yongbok felix x fem!reader
warnings: kind of angsty, insecurities, toxic masculinity, crying, fluff, petnames
stray kids masterlist
a/n: havent written for lixie in a while so i came up with this <3
it started off as a normal trip to the supermarket. your hand in felix's, shifting between cereal boxes.
"is this any good?" you asked, holding up a colourful box.
felix thought for a second. "mm, it's too sweet."
"look who's talking" you smirked, drawing out a light pink flush from his cheeks. you put the box back, now looking at 'organic' cereal. gross. suddenly, a deep voice you hadn't heard in a while called out from the end of the aisle. "y/n!"
you and felix's heads snapped up at the same time, looking for the source of the voice. a tall man, walking towards you with a huge grin and arms open wide. "i haven't seen you in so long!" he exclaimed.
you forced an awkward smile, hugging him stiffly from the side. "yeah, it's been a while, malcolm."
felix frowned. malcolm? you'd never brought up a malc- oh. your ex.
"how've things been going for you?" malcolm asked, leaning his elbow on the shelf, clearly not sensing the tension in the air. his voice was platonic enough that felix decided not to intervene yet.
"um, pretty good. you?" you kept the conversation going politely. felix's eyes drifted down to the black compression shirt the guy was wearing, showing off the taut, plump muscles stretching underneath the material. 63 taekwondo medals, and he still wouldnt stand a chance in a fight with this guy. wait, why's he even considering that? it's not like he'd ever have to fight for you or something. right?
"not bad. and this is..?" malcolm finally looked at felix, eyes raking over him.
"oh, this is felix, my boyfriend." you said proudly, making felix smile.
"your boyfriend?" malcolm choked out. he quickly regained his polite smile, extending his hand out to shake felix's.
felix took it, shaking it slowly. it dwarfed his. most definitely dwarfed yours too at one point.
"well, i'll get going. nice seeing you guys." your ex smiled and walked off politely.
as soon as he was gone, you exhaled. "sorry about that. wasn't expecting to see him here." you apologised softly to felix.
he only nodded back. "yeah, all good."
later, you guys headed back to your car in the parking lot, you holding one shopping bag while he held the other. in the distance, felix's eyes found malcolm, hauling his own stuffed bags into the trunk of his car like they weighed nothing, then sliding into the drivers seat.
when felix zoned back in, you were holding open the car's trunk, hand extended expectantly for the shopping bag in his hand. "oh, sorry." he mumbled, handing it to you then finding his way to the passengers seat. you opened the door to your side and buckled up, revving up the car.
he sat there looking down, fumbling with the waist of his seatbelt.
"you good?" you glanced over, reversing out of the parking spot.
he nodded quickly. " 'm fine."
you could tell he was lying, but decided to let it go for now.
meanwhile, he sat there in contemplation. was that your type? tall? strong? why did you go from such a manly man like malcolm to....him?
maybe he should've offered to carry all the bags. maybe he should've learned to drive instead of being driven around by you. maybe he should start working out. maybe he should change his style.
he looked at his wrists. slim, the bone sticking out where arm met hand. no muscle.
maybe you deserved better.
a man you could rely on. a man who could take care of you, protect you. a real man.
and suddenly, as you pulled into your home's driveway, his eyes were full of tears.
you looked over, pausing when you saw the wetness on his cheeks. "oh, lixie, what happened?" you turned to face him.
and now he's crying. what kind of man cries?
"n-nothing! nothing, i'm okay." he said quickly, the crack in his voice betraying his emotion.
"did i do something?" you asked, eyes wide. one hand went up to cradle his face, wiping away tears.
"no, you didn't. it's just.." he trailed off. you nodded, urging him to go on.
"am i not.. man enough for you?"
you frowned. "man enough? what are you talking about?"
"i mean..malcolm, your ex.. why would you go from a man like him to a man like me?" he sobbed, nuzzling into your hand.
"oh, baby, that's why you're upset?" your heart broke at the realisation. "i never though about how manly you are, lix."
"but h-he's so strong and big, and i'm-"
"perfect." you cut him off. "you're perfect. there's a reason he's my ex and you're my boyfriend. he may be buff, but he's never made me as happy as you do."
"really?" he looked up at you with big, wet eyes, glimmering with hope.
"100%. you always take care of me, felix."
"b-but, do you ever feel like.. i can't protect you?"
"never. that's not how a relationship works, baby." you said softly. "i dont need a boyfriend just to protect me with his big muscles. i need a boyfriend like you who makes me forget that there's any harm in this world in the first place."
his lips quirked up, lighting up your world again.
you leaned over and pressed a light kiss to his nose. "there's my favourite smile."
SYPNOSIS : in which…the guys thought it would be funny to play a little prank on you, not knowing you hadn’t completely healed from the way they used to treat you before debuting.
CORTIS 6TH MEMBER AU
a/n: two updates in one day omg…ALSO I LOVE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH AIAOSOSO I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT AS MUCH AS ME…
01 | 02
series mlist
the past few days had been hell for everyone. avoiding the others wasn’t exactly difficult since you were barely home anymore. whenever practice ended, you usually disappeared with allday project and stayed out until ridiculous hours of the night. if you did return to the dorm, it was usually long after everyone had gone to sleep. you would quietly let yourself in, grab a blanket from the couch, and sleep there until morning before leaving again. the guys had tried everything to catch you long enough for a conversation, but every attempt somehow failed.
even during practice there wasn’t an opportunity. lately, you had been training like your life depended on it. the second practice started, you completely locked in. every break was spent stretching, rehearsing, or running through choreography again. if anyone tried approaching you, you always found an excuse to leave. after a few days, everyone finally realized you weren’t just busy. you were avoiding them.
nobody was taking it well. keonho had probably sent enough texts to fill an entire novel by now, and martin had already tried cornering you twice after practice. even seonghyeon had sent an apology message, which shocked everyone considering he hated talking about his feelings. none of it worked. every time you thought about that stupid prank, your stomach twisted all over again. what hurt wasn’t even the prank itself. it was the fact that they all knew exactly why it affected you so badly.
especially james.
out of everyone, james was the one you couldn’t stop thinking about.
that was how you ended up sitting on the beach late one night. the ocean stretched endlessly in front of you while the moon reflected across the water in a long silver line. the waves rolled onto the shore in a steady rhythm, and for once your thoughts felt a little quieter. you had been sitting there for nearly half an hour when you heard footsteps approaching from behind.
normally, you would’ve ignored it, but something about the pace felt familiar. a second later, someone lowered themselves into the sand beside you. you didn’t even bother looking. you already knew who it was.
james.
for several minutes, neither of you said anything. he sat beside you with his hands resting on his knees while staring out at the water. surprisingly, the silence wasn’t awkward. it never really had been between the two of you. eventually, you let out a slow breath and broke it yourself.
“out of all people, i thought you’d be the last one to do something like that.”
beside you, james lowered his gaze and nodded once. he didn’t interrupt, didn’t defend himself, and didn’t try making excuses. he simply waited. he knew you weren’t finished.
you laughed quietly to yourself, not because anything was funny, but because you genuinely didn’t know what else to do. “i mean, seriously. i understand keonho or sean. they’re idiots. i love them, but they’re idiots. half the time they don’t even realize they’re doing too much until somebody yells at them.”
that earned the smallest smile from james before it disappeared again.
“but you?” you finally turned your head toward him. “you’re supposed to be my older brother.”
james visibly winced.
“you were the first person in this group who actually saw me as me. before everyone got close to me. before all of that. it was you.” your eyes drifted back toward the ocean. “you saw how badly all that trainee stuff affected me. you saw everything.”
the words came easier now that you had started.
“that’s why i thought you’d stop them. or at least tell them it wasn’t going to be funny. you were there when i cried about that stuff. you were there when i thought nobody wanted me around. you were there when i felt like i didn’t belong here.” you swallowed hard. “so when all of that happened again, even for one day, i honestly felt like we were right back at the beginning.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. the only sound was the ocean.
when james finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.
“i know.”
you didn’t say anything.
james dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “and honestly, that’s exactly why i’ve felt like shit this entire week.” he stared down at the sand while speaking. “i’m not gonna sit here and make excuses because there really aren’t any. we thought it’d be a stupid prank. that’s the truth. we thought you’d get annoyed, we’d tell you it was a joke, everybody would laugh, and we’d move on.”
he shook his head.
“but we didn’t stop to think about what it’d actually feel like for you. especially me.”
you glanced over at him.
“i should’ve known better than anyone,” he continued. “i remember those trainee days. i remember finding you crying after practice. i remember how long it took before you finally got comfortable around everyone. the second you came home excited about seeing allday project, i already knew this was probably a bad idea. i should’ve stopped it right there.”
the guilt on his face was obvious.
“and i’m sorry.”
the apology sat between you for a few moments. you didn’t know what to say to it. part of you was still angry. part of you was still hurt. but another part of you could tell he genuinely meant every word.
james looked back out at the water and laughed quietly to himself. “also, whether you like it or not, you’re basically our little sister.”
you immediately rolled your eyes.
“there it is.”
“what?”
“the sibling speech.”
james grinned.
“it’s an important speech.”
“it’s a terrible speech.”
“still important.”
despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly.
james immediately pointed at you.
“that was almost a smile.”
“shut up.”
“it was.”
“james.”
“i saw it.”
you groaned and buried your face in your hands while he laughed quietly beside you. for the first time all week, the tension between you didn’t feel quite as suffocating.
after that, neither of you said much. surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it reminded you of your predebut days. back when you and james weren’t particularly close yet, but somehow always ended up sitting together after practice. neither of you had known how to start conversations properly back then, so you mostly sat in comfortable silence until somebody finally thought of something worth saying.
eventually, james pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his clothes. then he held out a hand toward you.
you stared at it for a second.
then sighed dramatically.
“you’re annoying.”
“coming from you, that’s basically a compliment.”
rolling your eyes, you grabbed his hand and let him pull you up.
the walk back to the dorm was almost completely silent. strangely enough, it felt familiar. not because everything was fixed, because it definitely wasn’t. there were still conversations waiting for you back at the dorm and apologies you hadn’t heard yet. but for the first time in days, the distance between you and james didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.
and for now, that was enough.
the next morning, you woke up before everyone else like you had been doing for the past week. for a moment, you simply stared at the ceiling. your usual routine would be to quietly leave before anybody woke up, spend the entire day avoiding the dorm, and come back sometime after midnight. honestly, you were already halfway through convincing yourself to do exactly that.
instead, you sat up with a sigh and climbed out of bed.
the apartment was completely silent as you made your way into the living room. pale morning sunlight was peeking through the gaps in the curtains. after a moment of hesitation, you walked over and opened the blinds. sunlight immediately flooded the room, making you squint.
you stood there awkwardly for a second, then shook your head. if you were already here, you might as well do something useful.
the kitchen was exactly as disastrous as you expected. judging by the state of a frying pan sitting in the sink, somebody had attempted cooking recently and failed miserably. you didn’t even want to know who.
with a sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and got started.
despite everything that had happened, you still knew exactly how everyone liked their breakfast. james liked his eggs plain. martin liked extra cheese. juhoon hated having too much pepper. keonho somehow managed to complain about every breakfast food imaginable except bacon. seonghyeon preferred his eggs cooked longer than everyone else.
it was annoyingly easy to remember.
by the time you were done, six different plates sat neatly on the countertop. beside them were six different drinks. water for james. orange juice for martin. cherry juice for juhoon. cold milk for keonho. warm milk for seonghyeon.
you had no idea why you remembered all of that.
afterward, you grabbed your own bowl of cereal and sat at the table. you had never liked eggs much anyway. the apartment remained quiet for a while before you finally heard movement coming from one of the bedrooms.
a few seconds later, james shuffled into the living room.
his hair was sticking up in every direction imaginable and his face was still puffy from sleep. he looked half conscious at best. the moment his eyes landed on you, though, you watched something visibly relax in his expression.
like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
james simply grabbed his plate and drink before sitting down beside you. the two of you ate quietly. it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it felt surprisingly normal.
that peace lasted all of five minutes.
the next person to wake up was juhoon. he walked into the living room while rubbing his eyes, clearly still half asleep, when he noticed you sitting there.
he froze.
without saying a single word, he turned around and walked straight back to the bedroom.
“…okay.” you frowned.
james immediately started laughing into his water.
a minute later, juhoon returned, this time holding a folded piece of paper. he walked directly over to you and awkwardly shoved it into your hands before taking several steps backward.
you stared at him. slowly, you started unfolding the paper.
“no, wait.”
you paused.
juhoon looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “don’t read it now.”
you looked up. “why?”
“because it’s embarrassing.”
you immediately became interested. “how embarrassing?”
“very.”
“juhoon.”
“please.”
you grinned. “if this is too corny, i’m literally never letting you live it down.”
juhoon closed his eyes and sighed like a man accepting his fate. without another word, he grabbed his breakfast and sat down as far away from you as physically possible.
you laughed quietly and slipped the paper into your pocket. whatever was written on it could wait until practice.
a few minutes later, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by yelling.
“i’m telling you that’s not how microwaves work.”
“then explain why it started smoking.”
“because you’re stupid.”
“that’s not an explanation.”
the remaining three idiots.
their argument continued all the way down the hallway before they entered the kitchen together. the second they walked in, however, all three of them froze.
their eyes landed on you.
the silence lasted approximately two seconds.
“oh thank god.”
before you could react, keonho launched himself across the room.
you had literally just taken a bite of cereal when he wrapped his arms around you. the sudden impact made you immediately choke.
“i’m sorry y/n, i love you, you’re my baby sister, please forgive me, i’ll never do that again, i’m horrible, i’m a terrible person, you’re just a little kid—”
you awkwardly patted his back while coughing. “get him away from me.”
james took another bite of breakfast. “nah.”
eventually, martin grabbed keonho by the hoodie and physically dragged him away. keonho hit the floor dramatically and kept whining.
your relief lasted about three seconds, because then you noticed martin opening his arms. “no.”
martin ignored you. the next thing you knew, he had somehow folded himself into your lap despite being significantly larger than you.
“we don’t deserve you,” he cried dramatically. “if it wasn’t for you, we’d be dead. we’d be starving. we’d be eating drywall.”
“martin, you’re crushing me.” you coughed while trying to shove him away.
eventually, after several seconds of struggling, you managed to push him off. martin immediately collapsed onto the floor beside keonho.
both of them remained there.
your attention drifted toward seonghyeon. unlike the others, he hadn’t said much. he was already sitting at the table with his breakfast in front of him. when your eyes met, he immediately froze.
for a second, neither of you looked away. then seonghyeon lowered his gaze.
you frowned slightly. the tension was definitely still there, which was strange.
you had already forgiven keonho. honestly, the second he threw himself at you and nearly caused your death by cereal, most of your anger disappeared. martin was martin. juhoon had apparently written you some sort of emotional apology letter. james had already talked things out with you last night.
but seonghyeon felt different. he didn’t feel angry, defensive or anything like that.
he just looked nervous as hell. almost like he’d been rehearsing something in his head for days and still hadn’t figured out how to say it.
and judging by the way he kept staring down at his breakfast instead of eating it, you had a feeling that conversation was coming sooner rather than later.
practice had gone surprisingly well.
the atmosphere was completely different from how it had been a week ago. everyone was joking around again, teasing each other whenever someone messed up choreography, and arguing over things that didn’t matter. for the first time in days, things felt normal.
during break, you slipped away to the balcony with a can of cola.
the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and pink as a cool breeze drifted through the air. after making sure nobody was following you, you finally pulled the folded letter out of your pocket.
juhoon’s handwriting was terrible.
you immediately smiled.
dear y/n.
first of all, before you start making fun of my handwriting, shut up.
i know you’re already laughing.
anyway.
i’m not really good at saying stuff like this out loud, so i’m writing it instead. james told me that’s a coward move, but i’m choosing to ignore him because he’s old.
i wanted to say i’m sorry.
not just for the prank. i’m sorry for every time i’ve made you feel like you weren’t important to us. because you are.
i don’t think i tell you that enough.
actually, i don’t think i tell you that at all.
you do so many things for us that none of us even think about until they’re suddenly gone. you remember everyone’s schedules. you remind us to eat. you know exactly how everybody likes their food. you somehow always know when one of us is having a bad day before we even say anything.
and the thing is, you act like nobody notices.
but i do.
i notice how every night before bed, you stand on the balcony for a few minutes and stare outside before going to sleep.
i notice how you always leave the last piece of food for somebody else even when you’re still hungry.
i notice how you pretend you’re not tired because you don’t want anybody worrying about you.
i notice how you always check if everyone’s home before you go to bed.
i notice how every time one of us gets sick, you somehow become the most annoying person alive because you’re constantly checking on us.
i notice how you’re always the first person to congratulate us when something goes right and the first person to comfort us when something goes wrong.
you think nobody notices those things.
but i do. and i know the others do too.
i think sometimes you forget how much you’ve become part of our lives.
if i’m being honest, i can’t really remember what the dorm was like before you moved in, which is probably a problem because it definitely existed before then.
but you get what i mean.
you’re family.
you annoy me constantly. you steal my hoodies, and i steal your stupid skinny jeans. you threaten violence every other day. you insult me at least seventeen times daily.
but you’re still family. and i love you.
even if saying that makes me want to launch myself into traffic.
i’m really sorry, y/n and i hope someday you’ll forgive me completely.
please burn this letter after reading it. seriously. i’m begging.
love, juhoon.
p.s. if you show this to anyone i’ll tell everybody about that embarrassing thing you did in 2024.
p.p.s. you know exactly which thing i’m talking about.
you finished reading and immediately started laughing through the tears in your eyes. by the end of the letter, your vision had become blurry. stupid idiot.
a small smile remained on your face as you carefully folded the paper and slipped it back into your pocket.
that’s when the balcony door opened.
you looked up at seonghyeon who stood there. the second your eyes met, he looked like he wanted to run away. instead, he awkwardly walked over and sat in the chair opposite yours.
for a moment, neither of you spoke. then you sighed. “i know there’s stuff you wanna get off your chest, so just say it. you know i’ll never judge.”
seonghyeon immediately looked down. his fingers twisted together in his lap. he chewed anxiously at the inside of his cheek while trying to find the words.
you waited.
eventually, he looked up. the second he did, a tear slipped down his face.
your heart immediately dropped. “seonghyeon—”
“i was jealous.”
you froze as he laughed shakily and wiped at his eyes. “that’s it. that’s the reason.” more tears followed.
“every time you talked about allday project, you’d look so happy.” his voice cracked slightly. “like… really happy.”
you stared at him quietly.
“and i started thinking maybe that was because they were your first choice.” another tear slid down his cheek.
“and maybe we weren’t.”
your stomach twisted.
seonghyeon looked away. “i know it sounds stupid.”
“it doesn’t.”
“it does.” he laughed bitterly. “because instead of talking to you like a normal person, i got jealous.” his shoulders shook.
“i kept thinking maybe you still liked them more than us. maybe you were only here because you had to be. maybe if you could choose, you’d pick them every time.”
you felt your chest tighten. “seonghyeon…”
“and then i started thinking about how i’m probably the member you’re least close to.” his voice had gotten so quiet you could barely hear him.
“i mean… can you blame me?” he wiped at his eyes again. “i treated you like absolute shit before debut.” the bluntness of it made you flinch.
“and i know we moved past it. i know you’ve forgiven me.” he shook his head. “but part of me always thought maybe you didn’t forgive me completely.” the words seemed to physically hurt him.
“so when everyone started talking about pranks, i suggested ignoring you.” he laughed bitterly. “because i was jealous.”
another tear rolled down his face. “and because i’m an idiot.”
by now, tears were running down your own face too.
“i’m so sorry, y/n.” the guilt in his voice was unbearable. “i’m sorry for the prank. i’m sorry for being jealous. i’m sorry for everything before debut. i’m just… i’m sorry.”
for a few seconds, neither of you moved. then you grabbed your chair and dragged it closer. before seonghyeon could react, you wrapped your arms around him.
immediately, he broke. his face buried itself in your shoulder as sobs shook his entire body.
you held him tighter and before you knew it, you were crying too. “you’re so stupid,” you mumbled through your tears.
he nodded immediately. “i know.”
“you’re actually so stupid.” another nod.
“i know.”
you laughed weakly, then hugged him tighter. “i love you all equally, seonghyeon.”
his shoulders froze while you pulled back just enough to look at him. “you guys are not my last choice.”
more tears spilled down his face.
“not even close.”
he immediately buried his face back into your shoulder.
“please don’t ever think that again.”
seonghyeon nodded so fast it was almost painful. for the first time in days, you felt some of the tension finally disappear.
inside the practice room, meanwhile, absolute chaos was unfolding.
martin was standing by the door with his phone out.
“clip that, clip that!” keonho giggled from beside him
“i am clipping it.” martin whisper yelled at keonho
james looked exhausted. “guys, she literally just forgave us. let’s not make her angry again.”
neither of them listened.
juhoon, meanwhile, looked like he was experiencing genuine psychological distress.
“i need that letter back.”
nobody answered him.
“i’m serious.”
still nothing.
“i need to burn it.”
keonho immediately looked over. “was it that bad?”
SYPNOSIS : in which…the guys thought it would be funny to play a little prank on you, not knowing you hadn’t completely healed from the way they used to treat you before debuting.
you had been excited the entire way back to the dorm. seeing the allday project members again after two whole months felt unreal. it had only been two months but it somehow felt longer. maybe because everything had changed so much since then. schedules had gotten busier. promotions had started. everyone was running around nonstop. there was barely enough time to sleep sometimes. so finally seeing them again felt like finally being able to breathe after holding your breath for weeks.
the second you had spotted them you practically sprinted across the room. they barely even had time to react before you launched yourself at them. everyone immediately started laughing while trying not to fall over from the force of your hug. they all wrapped their arms around you anyway. teasing you for being dramatic while simultaneously refusing to let go of you.
you spent hours talking after that. talking about training days. talking about dorm stories. talking about embarrassing moments. talking about debut preparations. talking about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing at the same time.
every time someone brought up a memory another person would interrupt with an even funnier story and somehow all of you ended up crying from laughter more than once.
by the time you left your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
the entire ride home was spent replaying everything in your head. you couldn’t wait to tell the others. they always listened whenever you got excited about something. even if they acted annoyed. even if they interrupted every five seconds. they always listened.
meanwhile back at the dorm the living room was complete chaos.
everyone was sprawled across the couches. keonho was half laying across martin. martin was loudly complaining about it. juhoon was trying to watch something on his phone while seonghyeon continuously poked his shoulder just to annoy him. james sat nearby looking exhausted as usual.
then keonho suddenly sat up. “hey what if we pranked y/n?”
the room immediately went quiet as everyone slowly looked at him.
“prank her how?” james asked.
keonho shrugged. “i don’t know. just prank her. all i ever see her do is glare at us. she needs a little laugh.”
that immediately sparked interest.
martin suggested hiding all your shoes.
juhoon suggested replacing your shampoo with nair.
seonghyeon suggested putting googly eyes on everything you owned.
none of those ideas lasted more than five seconds before getting shut down.
then seonghyeon spoke again. “what if we ignore her?”
everyone paused.
“like completely?”
“yeah.”
the room immediately erupted with agreement but keonho looked unsure.
“i don’t think that’s gonna be funny though.” he muttered.
“it’ll be funny when she realizes it’s a prank.”
“or she’ll murder us.”
“that’s also funny.”
after several minutes of arguing they somehow settled on it.
james already looked guilty. “guys maybe we shouldn’t.”
“too late.”
“we already agreed.”
“i don’t think she’ll like it.”
“it’s gonna last like ten minutes.”
james sighed. he had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well.
almost an hour later the front door finally opened. everyone immediately grabbed their phones. their acting skills were terrible but somehow they managed to pull themselves together.
the second you walked inside you practically bounced through the doorway.
“i’m back!” your voice echoed through the dorm.
you blinked. the silence that followed was unsettling.
“hm. did they go out or someth…” your sentence died immediately when you spotted all of them sitting in the living room.
“oh!” you smiled. “you’re here! one sec, i’ll go change and come tell you guys everything.” without waiting for a response you ran toward your room.
the second your door closed everyone released the breath they had been holding. “fuck.” james muttered.
“what?”
“this already feels mean.”
“it’s been thirty seconds.”
“she looked really happy.”
“james lock in.”
“shut up, keonho.”
keonho slowly frowned. “okay maybe today she looked happy.”
for a second nobody said anything, then seonghyeon waved them off. “too late now.”
you changed as fast as humanly possible into a random crop top and james’s old grey sweatpants that had somehow become yours months ago.
you practically ran back into the living room. the smile hadn’t left your face once. you immediately threw yourself onto the couch beside juhoon. “okay so what happened was the second i walked in they saw me and started yelling and then i literally ran over and hugged everyone and then tarzzan almost fell over because apparently i hit him too hard and then we started talking and apparently…”
the words poured out of you nonstop. you were smiling, you laughing, you were gesturing wildly with your hands.
normally by now someone would’ve interrupted you. keonho would’ve asked twenty questions. martin would’ve made fun of you. juhoon would’ve pretended not to care while secretly listening. james would’ve smiled.
someone would’ve reacted.
but there was nothing. you slowly stopped talking.
the silence felt strange as you looked around. everyone was staring at their phones. nobody had even looked up once.
your smile weakened. “…and then…”
nothing. you swallowed. “uh.”
still nothing. “are you guys okay?”
silence.
you looked from face to face. nobody acknowledged you.
not even a glance. not even a hum. not even a nod.
your stomach suddenly twisted. “did you fight or something?”
you stared at them. keonho looked annoyed. martin looked uninterested. juhoon looked focused on his phone. james wasn’t even looking in your direction.
your chest suddenly felt tight because you knew this feeling. you knew it far too well.
sometimes entire conversations would happen around you without anyone involving you. you’d always sit there wondering if anyone even noticed you were there.
you hated those memories. you hated them so much and suddenly they all came rushing back at once.
your fingers curled into the fabric of your sweatpants. “okay…”
your voice came out quieter than expected.
still nobody reacted.
you stood up and the knot in your stomach pulled tighter.
maybe they had argued. maybe something happened while you were gone. maybe everyone was in a bad mood.
but that didn’t make sense because they had all been perfectly fine this morning.
you looked at them one last time hoping someone would finally say something, anything, but nobody did, so you slowly turned around and walked back toward your room.
the second your bedroom door closed behind you the smile you’d been carrying all day finally disappeared.
and out in the living room every single one of them immediately looked up.
martin immediately started laughing while keonho buried his face into a pillow and kicked his feet against the couch. seonghyeon looked way too proud of himself and juhoon was trying not to smile.
the only person who didn’t look amused was james. “guys.”
nobody listened.
“guys seriously.”
still nobody listened. they were too busy talking over each other.
“did you see her face.”
“she looked so confused.”
“this prank is working way better than i thought.”
“she’s probably sitting in her room trying to figure out what she did.”
james immediately looked up. “exactly. that’s the problem.”
the room quieted slightly. “what?”
“i don’t think she’s laughing.”
“well obviously not yet.”
“no. i mean i genuinely don’t think she’s taking this as a joke.”
keonho waved him off. “she’ll figure it out eventually.”
james frowned. he wanted to believe that, he really did, but something about the way your smile disappeared earlier hadn’t sat right with him.
still, nobody listened.
hours passed and you stayed in your room the entire time.
at first you tried distracting yourself with your phone. then with videos. then with music. then by scrolling through old pictures.
nothing worked.
every time you thought about what happened your stomach twisted again.
you kept replaying every interaction from the past few weeks. every conversation. every joke. every disagreement. every possible mistake. had you said something wrong. had you annoyed someone. had you accidentally upset them.
you couldn’t figure it out and that somehow made it worse.
eventually hunger started creeping in. you hadn’t eaten since before meeting the allday project members.
you were starving and fried chicken sounded perfect. the thought alone almost made you smile.
key word: almost.
you got up from your bed and headed toward the door.
even if they weren’t talking to you. you should still let them know you were ordering.
maybe someone wanted something. maybe things would finally go back to normal.
you opened the door and immediately froze, listening to everyone arguing in the living room, laughing together and talking over eachother.
the exact same sounds that filled the dorm every single day.
your heart skipped. for a second relief rushed through you because they weren’t upset or fighting and everything was normal.
you quickly stepped farther into the hallway and the smell of food hit you instantly. your stomach growled.
confused, you followed the noise into the kitchen and the second you stepped inside the room your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
everyone was there. all five of them, sitting around the table, eating takeout with drinks and containers everywhere.
the second they noticed you standing there every voice immediately died. everyone looked away.
your stomach twisted so hard it hurt.
no.
no no no.
please.
not this again.
for a moment nobody said anything as you stared at the table. fried chicken, rice, ramen, snacks.
they had ordered food and somehow nobody thought to tell you.
“you guys ordered food.” your voice came out small.
the second he spoke your chest tightened, because for a brief moment he sounded exactly like he used to before your debut.
before things got better. before he became one of your closest friends.
back when he barely acknowledged your existence. back when every interaction felt like you were bothering him.
your face immediately lost color. you looked as pale as a ghost.
the room suddenly felt too hot. your hands started shaking. you couldn’t stop them.
this wasn’t happening. it couldn’t be happening.
“did you get me anything?”
nobody answered immediately. everyone exchanged glances. the hesitation was enough.
it was enough to make your stomach sink. it was enough to make your chest ache.
finally juhoon spoke. “well, if you wanted something. you should’ve said so. we can’t really read your mind.”
your ears started ringing.
suddenly you weren’t standing in the dorm kitchen anymore, you were back in those old practice rooms. back when you spent lunch breaks alone because nobody wanted to ask if you wanted to come.
back when entire food orders happened without anyone mentioning them to you. back when you convinced yourself you didn’t care. back when you cried in bathroom stalls where nobody could hear you.
your hands trembled harder and your had gone fully numb. your heartbeat was so loud you could hear it. the knot in your chest kept growing.
you genuinely felt sick.
what had happened? what did you do? why were they acting like this?
you looked around the table and nobody met your eyes, which somehow that hurt more than if they had yelled at you, because at least if they yelled you would know what was wrong.
you swallowed hard. “did i… do something?” your voice barely sounded like yours.
nobody answered.
the silence felt suffocating.
you slowly nodded, as if you understood, even though you didn’t. “okay.” your voice cracked slightly. you turned around before anyone could see the tears gathering in your eyes.
back in your room you sat on the edge of your bed for almost ten minutes without moving.
you stared at the floor, your thoughts running so fast you couldn’t keep up. you tried convincing yourself there had to be an explanation.
there had to be. these were your members. your family. your brothers. the people who stayed up all night helping you practice. the people who celebrated your debut. the people who held you when you cried. the people who promised they weren’t going anywhere.
so why did it feel like they already had?
eventually you grabbed your towel and headed toward the bathroom. you needed to think. you needed to breathe.
you needed something. anything.
the shower lasted almost an hour. you sat under basically boiling water longer than necessary.
letting it pour over your head and letting it burn your body, hoping it would somehow wash away the horrible feeling sitting in your chest.
it didn’t.
every time you closed your eyes you heard juhoon’s words again.
‘if you wanted something. you should’ve said so.’
every time you remembered the look on their faces your stomach twisted even more than the last time.
by the time you finally turned the water off your fingers were wrinkled and your eyes hurt.
you changed into your pajamas slowly, not really wanting to leave the bathroom, because eventually you’d have to see them again. eventually you’d have to figure out what was happening.
but when you stepped into the hallway everything was dark all the lights were off.
the dorm was silent which meant everyone had already gone to bed.
for a second that somehow hurt even more.
you quietly made your way toward your room, carefully opening the door.
the room was dark except for the faint glow coming through the curtains from the moon.
james and juhoon were already asleep, their breathing soft and steady, like nothing had happened today.
you stood there for a few moments, just staring at literally nothing, because a part of you kept expecting one of them to wake up and explain everything.
to tell you this was all some misunderstanding. to tell you everything was okay.
neither of them moved.
with a heavy chest, you quietly climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over yourself.
the room felt colder than usual, and despite being exhausted, despite your eyes burning, despite how badly your body wanted sleep.
you spent most of the night staring at the ceiling wondering what you had done wrong.
every time you started drifting off your brain immediately dragged you back to the same thoughts. the same questions. the same horrible feeling sitting in your chest. when your alarm finally went off the next morning you felt worse than when you had gone to bed. your eyes burned. your head hurt. and your chest still felt painfully heavy.
for a few minutes you just laid there staring at the ceiling, listening.
everyone was already awake. you could hear them talking in the living room.
they were all laughing, arguing over something stupid.
completely normal, like yesterday never happened.
you swallowed hard. part of you wanted to stay in bed. part of you wanted to hide in your room forever.
but you couldn’t. eventually you forced yourself up and headed toward the bathroom.
you brushed your teeth mechanically. washed your face. stared at yourself in the mirror for longer than necessary.
you looked awful. your eyes were swollen from crying, your face looked pale.
when you finally stepped out of the bathroom your feet felt strangely heavy. the closer you got to the living room the louder their voices became.
everyone was scattered around like always. keonho was stretched across the couch, martin was sitting on the floor, seonghyeon was leaning against an armrest, juhoon was scrolling on his phone and james was sitting near the edge of the couch.
nobody noticed you at first. you just stood there, watching them.
your throat tightened and your vision started blurring. before you even realized it tears were already sliding down your face.
one after another.
you quickly wiped at them but it didn’t help. a quiet sniffle escaped you, and immediately every conversation stopped.
everyone looked over. the second they saw your face their expressions changed completely.
you stood there crying, looking absolutely destroyed, and suddenly nobody looked very proud of the prank anymore.
another sob escaped you, then another.
and suddenly the words came pouring out.
“i’m sorry.”
the room stayed silent.
“i’m sorry if i did something wrong. i know i can be annoying sometimes and i know i talk too much and maybe i did something without realizing it but can somebody please just tell me what i did?”
your voice cracked so badly you barely recognized it.
nobody moved. nobody spoke.
which only made everything worse.
tears kept pouring down your face. “please just talk to me. i don’t understand what’s happening. if you’re mad at me then just tell me. please. i can fix it if you tell me. i swear i can fix it.”
you sucked in a shaky breath. your chest hurt. everything hurt. “i don’t care if you’re angry at me. i don’t care if i messed up. just please stop ignoring me. please. i can’t do this again.”
everyone looked horrified. you were crying so hard you could barely breathe.
“you don’t understand. i spent all day trying to figure out what i did. i kept replaying everything over and over and over again and i couldn’t think of anything. i couldn’t sleep. i couldn’t eat. please tell me so i can fix it.” your knees suddenly gave out beneath you.
before you could hit the floor james was already moving. he practically launched himself off the couch as he wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you up before you collapsed completely.
the second he touched you a broken sob tore from your throat.
because finally, someone was acknowledging you.
you buried your face into his chest like a child, which you literally were, crying so hard your entire body shook.
james looked sick. his arms tightened around you. “y/n.”
it was the first time any of them had spoken to you properly in almost twenty four hours.
you completely broke. james slowly lowered himself to the floor with you still clinging to him.
he held you tightly, one hand rubbing your back.
the other holding your head against his chest. he kept pressing small kisses against your hair, your forehead, the top of your head. anything he could reach.
“i’m sorry.” his voice sounded horrible. “i’m so sorry.”
you couldn’t stop crying. your lungs felt like they were on fire.
“what did i do?” you whispered between sobs. “please tell me what i did.”
the room fell silent again. nobody wanted to be the one to say it.
finally keonho forced himself to speak. “it was a prank.”
your crying immediately slowed. for a second you thought you heard him wrong.
“…huh?”
nobody answered immediately. your heartbeat pounded in your ears.
keonho looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “we’re really sorry y/n. we thought it would be funny. we weren’t trying to hurt you. we just thought it’d be one of those dumb pranks and we didn’t realize you’d take it like…”
he couldn’t even finish the sentence because suddenly you were staring at all of them completely frozen.
then you shoved yourself away from james like being near him physically disgusted you. And to be fair, at that moment he did disgust you.
you shoved him hard enough that he nearly lost his balance.
everyone flinched.
you slowly stood up, your legs felt weak and vision was blurry from the tears.
somehow you looked angrier than any of them had ever seen you. “what the fuck is actually wrong with you guys?”
nobody answered.
“seriously. what the fuck is wrong with you?”
james stood up slowly. “y/n.”
“don’t.” your voice shook. “just shut up.”
the room immediately fell silent again as you stared at all of them.
“you know exactly what happened when i first moved in.” your voice cracked. “every single one of you knows.”
guilt immediately flooded every face in the room.
“you know how miserable i was.” you pointed at them with a shaky hand. “you know how hard that was for me.” tears kept falling down your face.
“half of you wouldn’t even acknowledge me when i spoke. i’d walk into a room and nobody would look up. nobody would answer me. nobody would include me in anything. i spent months wondering what was wrong with me.”
nobody could look you in the eye anymore. “you made me feel like i wasn’t wanted here.”
silence.
“and after all that, after all the conversations we’ve had, after all the times i’ve told you how badly that affected me.”
your voice broke completely.
“you thought this would be funny?”
nobody spoke. nobody defended themselves, because there wasn’t anything they could say.
“do you know how yesterday felt?”
you looked directly at keonho, then juhoon, then seonghyeon. you didn’t even bother looking at james. for some reason, you were most upset with him.
“i genuinely thought we were back there again.” tears streamed down your face. “when you ordered food without me i thought that was it. i thought you all finally got sick of me and nobody wanted me around anymore.”
james looked like he was about to cry too. martin had his head lowered. juhoon looked absolutely miserable. seonghyeon couldn’t even look in your direction. keonho looked the guiltiest of all of them. you could tell immediately he was the one who had the idea to prank you.
“i spent the entire night wondering what i did wrong, and i couldn’t think of a single thing.” your breathing shook.
you wiped at your face angrily. “have you guys even changed?”
“seriously.” your voice came out quieter this time, more hurt than angry. “have you?”
still nothing.
you shook your head, disappointed, hurt and angry.
you looked at the people who had become your family, and somehow right now they felt like strangers.
“jesus, how can i be younger than all of you but still more mature?”
james took a small step forward. “y/n please.”
you immediately stepped back, and the look on james’s face shattered.
you shook your head, unable to even look at them anymore and then without another word you turned around, walked to the front door, and left.
the apartment door slammed shut behind you. for several seconds nobody moved, or spoke.
because the second that door closed every single one of them finally realized that what they thought would be a harmless joke had just reopened wounds they should have never touched in the first place.
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ wait guys this is not funny why did i cry for a whole two minutes while picking out the photos on the top for my banner ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ fuck
❤︎ wc ─── ৻ꪆ 2.3k
𝄞 𓏸 my cortispilledmasterlist »﹙合﹚
❝ tracklist ❞ ─── gilded lily—cults ❦ demons—alec benjamin ❦ mirrors—pvris ❦ liability—lorde ❦ scars to your beautiful—alessia cara ❦ to build a home—the cinematic orchestra ❦ fix you—coldplay ❦ fine line—harry styles ❦ matilda—harry styles ❦ exile—taylor swift ft. bon iver ❦ little freak—harry styles ❦ pluto projector—rex orange county ❦ sweet—cas ❦ turn—the wombats ❦ we’re going to be friends—the white stripes
the rehearsal studio mirrors were always too loud when the room went quiet, reflecting every sharp angle of your body and the slight, exhausted tremble in your knees, but nothing felt as loud as the notification that popped up on your phone screen. you had been leaning against the ballet barre, catching your breath while the choreographer adjusted the speaker volume, when you pulled your phone out of your cargo pants.
the weverse notification was right there at the top of your screen. a fan had commented on a photo of james from his recent weverse update, ‘his face card never declines’. a standard, sweet compliment meant to stay buried in the endless scroll of idol praise. but it was james’ account handle right beneath it that made your heart drop into your stomach.
‘never thought i had one.’
the words looked so tiny on the screen, so casual, but you knew him well enough to read the staggering weight of defeat behind them. you knew about the tabs he’d been opening late at night when he thought juhoon and you were asleep in your shared room, the way his thumb would relentlessly scroll through search results for ‘cortis visual hole’ and the brutal forums where strangers dissected his features with clinical cruelty.
“hey,” you said, your voice cutting through the heavy studio air as you looked over at the choreographer, already grabbing your gym bag from the floor. “i have to go. something came up at the dorm. i’ll be here two hours early tomorrow to make up for the rest of this run-through, i promise. i’m so sorry!—”you didn’t even wait for a proper response, just throwing a polite, rushed bow before slipping out the heavy acoustic doors, your sneakers squeaking against the hallway floor.
the taxi ride back was a blur of neon city lights and the sharp ache of anxiety building in your chest. you kept staring out the window, chewing on the inside of your cheek, thinking about how unfair it was that the oldest member of cortis—the boy who held the group together with his quiet kindness and undeniable talent—was currently drowning in self-doubt all alone.
when you finally let yourself into the dorm, the silence hit you first. it wasn’t a peaceful quiet; it felt heavy, stagnant, like the air in a room that hadn’t been lived in for days. you kicked off your shoes by the door and walked down the short hallway toward your shared room, your heart hammering against your ribs.
when you pushed the door open, the sight of him made a sudden, sharp wave of sadness wash over you so intensely it felt physical. james was just sitting on the edge of his unmade mattress, his long legs drawn up slightly, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. the curtains were half-drawn, letting in only a dim, grey slice of late afternoon light that caught the dust motes dancing in the air. he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t on his phone anymore; he was just staring blankly at a spot on the hardwood floor, his shoulders hunched inward as if he were trying to occupy as little space in the universe as possible. he looked so small in his oversized black HYBE hoodie, stripped entirely of the stage presence he usually forced himself to wear like armor.
you didn’t say anything at first. you just quietly dropped your bag by the door and walked over, the floorboards giving a faint, familiar creak beneath your weight. you sat down right next to him on the mattress, the spring shifting beneath you. he didn’t look up immediately, but you saw the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his eyelashes fluttered as he swallowed hard, acknowledging your presence without having the energy to meet your eyes.
“how dare you call yourself not pretty?” your voice broke the silence, soft but laced with a fierce, protective ache that made his shoulders flinch slightly. you reached out, your fingers gently finding his chin and tilting his face toward yours, forcing him to look at you. his eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles under them looking almost like bruises in the dim light, and his lips were dry and bitten raw. “jamie, look at me. please, just look at me. you are quite literally the most beautiful human i’ve ever laid eyes on. you look like a damn angel. how could you reply to a fan like that? do you have any idea what you put me through seeing you say something so heartbreaking while i’m stuck at practice?"
he finally let out a ragged breath, his gaze wavering before he looked down at your hands, his fingers idly tracing the cuff of your sleeve. “you shouldn’t have left practice for me,” he mumbled, his voice thick and scraped raw from hours of silence. “i didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it. it just... it came out before i could think. i just got tired of pretending like i don’t see what everyone else sees. you know what the comments call me. i’m the ‘visual hole’. when we stand in a line for photo walls, i can see the cameras shifting away from me to focus on the others. i see the edit videos where they crop me out. i just look at the mirror sometimes, especially after the stylists finish with me, and i don’t see an idol. yn. i see someone who doesn’t belong in this group. i feel like i’m ruining the image of cortis just by standing there.”
“james, stop saying that, please,” you pleaded, your voice cracking as your own eyes started to fill with tears. “you’re the heart of this group. cortis doesn’t even exist without you. how can you think you’re ruining anything, baby?”
“because it’s all people talk about sometimes,” he whispered, a sharp sob breaking through his words as he finally looked into your eyes, his gaze frantic and shattered. “it’s not just the comments. it’s the way it makes me feel inside. like i’m constantly wearing a mask that doesn’t fit. every time i get on stage, i feel like a fucking fraud, yn. i see the way the light catches the other members, how effortlessly perfect they look, and then i see my own reflection in the monitor and i just want to… disappear. it’s this constant, suffocating weight in my chest that tells me i’m not enough, that i’ll never look good enough, no matter how hard i try or how much weight i lose or how much makeup they put on me. it makes me feel so small, so completely worthless, and it terrifies me that everyone else sees it too… that you can see it too.” he paused. “i look in the mirror and i hate what i see, and then i feel guilty because i’m an idol and i’m supposed to be confident, but i’m just... i’m just breaking down over a stupid screen.”
“it’s not stupid if it’s hurting you this badly,” you said softly, the tears spilling over your cheeks as you leaned in closer, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and pulling his heavy frame against your chest. your own vision blurred completely as you felt him hesitate for a fraction of a second before he completely collapsed into you, his face burying into the crook of your shoulder, his hands gripping the back of your damp practice shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white. “but those people online don’t know anything. they don’t see the real you, james. they don’t know the millions of reasons why i love you, or the little things that make you so incredibly special. please listen to me.”
“how can you even look at me like this?” he choked out, his whole body shuddering against yours as a loud, breathless cry escaped his throat. “i’m a mess. i’m sitting here crying over netizen comments while you’re working hard at the studio. i feel so pathetic.”
“you’re not pathetic,” you said fiercely, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, your hands framing his face, your thumbs desperately wiping away the thick dampness on his cheeks. “i love you because you are the kindest, most selfless person i have ever met. i love the way your eyes crinkle up into tiny, perfect crescents when you’re genuinely laughing at something stupid, and how your nose does that little twitch whenever you’re about to sneeze. i love the way you always make sure everyone else has eaten and liked their food before you even look at your own plate, and how you stay up late to help the younger members with their dance or vocals even when you’re completely exhausted yourself. i love the quiet, gentle way you speak to me when it’s just the two of us, like i’m the only thing that matters in the entire world. i love how you love people around you. so how can you say you aren’t enough when you’re everything to me?”
“but what about the fans?” he sobbed, his eyes wide and glossy with pain, his lips trembling violently. “what about the people who buy the albums and see me and get disappointed? i want to look perfect for them. i want them to be proud to say i’m in their favorite group.”
“they are proud of you, james. the real fans love you for exactly who you are, and the ones who don’t? they don’t deserve a single second of your thoughts,” you pressed your forehead against his, letting him feel the warmth of your breath, your voice dropping to a fierce, emotional whisper. “and physically? james, you are breathtaking. i love the soft slope of your jawline, and the way your hair falls perfectly across your forehead when you wake up in the morning. i love the tiny mole on your nose that the stylists always try to cover up with concealer, but it’s my absolute favorite thing to kiss. i love the warmth of your hands and the way your lips feel when you smile against mine. you’re not a visual hole, you’re a masterpiece, and i need you to start seeing yourself through my eyes because my eyes only see perfection when they look at you. please, tell me you hear me. tell me you believe me even just a little bit.”
“yn, i swear i want to,” he wept openly now, the walls completely broken down as he let out a raw, painful sound that made your own chest heave with fresh, violent tears. “i want to believe you so badly. it just hurts so much inside. i’m so tired of feeling like this.”
“i know, baby, i know,” you whispered into his hair, your own tears streaming down your face in earnest now, dripping onto his hair and sliding down his neck as you squeezed him as tight as your arms would allow. the room was entirely filled with the sound of your shared crying, the agonising release of all the pain he’d been harboring silently, and the desperate, fiercely protective love you kept pouring into him with every ragged breath you took. you rocked him through the violent tremors of his body, crying just as hard as he was, your hearts beating erratically against each other’s ribs in the dim, grey light. “i’ve got you. i’m right here. we’re going to get through this together, i promise you.”
when the heavy, gasping sobs finally started to slow down, leaving both of you completely spent and trembling, you pulled back just enough to look at him through your swollen, wet eyes. you used the pads of your thumbs to tenderly wipe away the remaining tears, your hands shaking slightly from the emotional toll. his nose was bright red, his eyes puffy and glassy, but to you, he had never looked more precious, more real, or more stunningly beautiful.
“look at me, jamie,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his cheek as you kissed a lingering tear away. “are you still in there? still listening to my voice?”
“yeah,” he whispered, his breath hitching as he tried to stabilise his breathing. “i’m listening.”
“good,” you said softly, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, and finally against his lips—a slow, reassuring pressure that tasted heavily of salt and shared sorrow, but carried all the quiet, unbreakable devotion you couldn’t put into words. “let’slie down. no more phones, no more comments. just us.”
“okay,” he whispered against your wet lips. you pulled gently at his waist until he complied, letting himself be guided backward onto the tangled sheets. you curled yourself directly into his side, throwing one leg over his thighs and resting your head squarely on his chest, listening to the steady, gradually calming rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. his arm wound tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his fingers still twitching with the residual adrenaline of his tears.
“thank you,” he whispered into the quiet of the bedroom, his voice still incredibly small and raspy from crying, but the sharp, suffocating tension in his frame had finally begun to melt away, leaving him soft, vulnerable, and safe in your arms. “i don’t deserve you. i really don’t.”
“you deserve the whole world,” you corrected him quietly, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his fabric softener and skin as you gripped his hoodie tightly. “and i’m going to spend every single day reminding you until you finally believe it.”
💌 ❤︎ notes ─── ৻ꪆ i didn’t wanna take up space before the fic to yap so i moved the notes part down but what i wanted to say was.. this fic is more than just words to me. there’s been so many instances in my own life where i’ve felt like i was the ugly one of my friend group or not smart enough or not pretty enough and just.. not enough. when i first saw james in august ‘25, i don’t know what it was, but i genuinely felt like i saw pieces of me in him or vice versa. and when he was subtly making self-deprecating comments about himself (but people tried to call it ‘humility’ when it really wasn’t), i think i finally found home in him.
and ik i joke a lot about being a james stan and saying goofy stuff all the time but i wanna admit that he’s just so painfully relatable, to me. yk how that thing where people say “you choose your bias because you see yourself in them”? i think that’s exactly why he’s my bias </3 i try to never bring heavy topics ab myself onto my blog bc most of u follow me for my fics but this one fic has become an exception; im sorry ):
i also think that’s why writing this specific story was so heavy, but so necessary for me. it wasn’t just about building on a supposedly ‘small’ comment he made today; it was about pouring all those late-night thoughts, the suffocating insecurities, and the silent breakdowns into a space where they could finally be held and comforted. seeing someone you look up to battle the exact same quiet demons you do is a strange, comforting kind of ache. it reminds you that you aren’t alone, but it also makes you want to protect them from the very things that hurt you.
when i write scenes of him being held and reminded of his worth, i’m reminding myself of mine too. so i wanted to give him the gentle, unwavering love that we all deserve to receive when we feel entirely invisible.
to anyone who read this and felt a little too close to the words: i hope this fic felt like a soft place to land. thank you for letting me share a piece of my heart with you <3
warnings ⸻ ˚₊·
mentions of angst · rivalry · swearing · school pressure · emotional tension · heated arguments · unresolved yearning · rebel reputation vs golden boy image · jealousy · raw confessions · NO PROOF READING WAS DONE
synopsis ៹
in a world where silence and rebellion clash like chalk against slate, he’s the boy with pressed collars and perfect grades, and you’re the girl with torn notebooks and a storm stitched into your veins. every sharp word traded is a spark. every glance held too long is a secret neither of you can name. and somewhere between late-night notes and hallway arguments, hate begins to unravel into something much harder to fight.
author’s note ✧
for the girls who love sharp tongues, colder stares, and the burn of rivalry that tastes almost like love. nerdy seungmin has been haunting me lately—so this one’s for you if you’ve ever wanted to ruin and heal the smartest boy in the room all at once.
Playlist for this fic <3
(seungmin has mentioned in some interview that he listen to shawn mendes)
--
The last place you expected to be was standing on the auditorium stage, a newly appointed co-head of the school fest. You'd imagined a casual role, maybe handling the music playlist or designing some quirky posters – definitely not this. Your name echoed through the microphone, followed by scattered applause that felt oddly hesitant. You managed a wobbly smile, already picturing the endless possibilities for a truly legendary, slightly chaotic school event.
Then the principal cleared his throat, and your vision of neon lights and impromptu dance-offs began to flicker. "And joining [Your Name] as co-head," he announced, "we have someone known for his exceptional organizational skills and meticulous planning: Kim Seungmin."
Your jaw, which had been set for a triumphant grin, nearly unhinged. Kim Seungmin. The same Kim Seungmin who’d once given a five-minute lecture in pre-calculus on the optimal angle for turning a page without creasing it. The same Kim Seungmin who color-coded his highlighters, his binders, probably his socks. Your polar opposite.
He ascended the stage with a calm, almost regal stride, his posture impeccable, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. As he took his place beside you, the air immediately thickened, charged with a silent, simmering current. You offered a tight-lipped nod, which he returned with a curt dip of his head – more of a dismissal than a greeting. This wasn't just tension; it was a perfectly constructed wall going up between you.
The first official meeting of the Fest Committee was, predictably, a disaster. You walked in, buzzing with ideas, a crumpled sketch of a "Death-Defying Disco Inferno" theme in your hand. "Okay, people!" you announced, slapping the sketch onto the table with more enthusiasm than grace. "Forget boring booths! I'm thinking a neon carnival, maybe a haunted escape room, and definitely a flash mob during lunch!"
A collective gasp, then murmurs. Seungmin, seated directly opposite you, merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He hadn't even looked at your drawing. Instead, he calmly unrolled a pristine, professionally printed Gantt chart, each task meticulously laid out, every deadline highlighted in a different pastel shade. "While enthusiasm is appreciated," he stated, his voice smooth and devoid of any discernible emotion, "we must adhere to a structured framework. My preliminary proposal focuses on a traditional, revenue-generating fair model, emphasizing clear communication channels and hierarchical task delegation."
You scoffed. "Hierarchical task what-now? This is a school fest, not a corporate takeover!"
He ignored you, addressing the rest of the team. "For instance, our current budget projection shows a deficit if we pursue… unconventional attractions. A simple, well-executed theme ensures financial viability and avoids unnecessary complications."
"Unnecessary complications are what make things memorable!" you shot back, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. This was going to be a long semester.
The next hour was a slow, agonizing grind. Every idea you floated – a student-run art gallery, a quirky talent show, even just painting the gym a different color – he meticulously dissected, pointing out logistical flaws, budget constraints, and potential safety hazards. It was like trying to argue with a highly intelligent, perfectly insulated brick wall.
At one point, you were explaining a particularly brilliant idea for a 'Mystery Food Truck' concept. "So, like, people buy tickets, but they don't know what they're getting until it's served! It's a risk, but fun, right?"
Seungmin cleared his throat. "It's 'buy tickets for,' not 'buy tickets.' And the concept lacks proper allergen disclosure and health code compliance. Furthermore, the element of surprise could lead to customer dissatisfaction."
Your face burned. He hadn't just corrected your grammar; he'd done it in front of the entire team, making you sound like an uneducated fool. A ripple of suppressed chuckles went through the juniors. You wanted to crawl under the table and disappear.
Instead, you straightened, forcing a saccharine smile. "Oh, my apologies, Professor Kim. I didn't realize we were in a linguistics seminar. Perhaps next time, I'll submit my ideas in triplicate, bound with a ribbon, and accompanied by a detailed bibliography."
His eyes, dark and unblinking, met yours. Not a flicker of amusement, not a trace of anger. Nothing. "Punctilious execution is paramount," he simply stated, turning back to his chart. The utter lack of reaction was almost more infuriating than a fight would have been.
After that, the division of labor was practically a given. He took charge of finance, logistics, and anything that involved spreadsheets and meticulous planning. You, in a defiant act of self-preservation, claimed creativity, public relations, and anything that involved brainstorming sessions fuelled by questionable amounts of caffeine. Both of you walked away from that meeting secretly seething, convinced the other's approach would lead to certain disaster.
Despite your initial assessment of him as a robotic, joyless individual, you couldn't help but notice something perplexing about Seungmin. He was popular. Not in the loud, charismatic way you tended to be, but in a quiet, undeniable manner. People approached him with questions, seeking his advice, trusting his judgment. They listened intently when he spoke, nodding respectfully. It was his organized charisma, you realized with a jolt – the kind that drew people in with competence and reliability, rather than dazzling them with flair. He wasn't just smart; he was dependable, a steady anchor in the chaotic sea of high school. It was, grudgingly, something you admired, even as it annoyed you.
Seungmin, for his part, found himself covertly observing you. You arrived at meetings with a whirlwind of energy, your ideas often half-formed but undeniably exciting. You could walk into a room and within minutes, have people laughing, offering suggestions, genuinely engaged. While he meticulously laid out plans, you inspired enthusiasm. You won people over with sheer charm and carefree energy, a natural ability to connect that he, despite his intellectual prowess, couldn't replicate. It was infuriatingly effective.
The budget meeting was where the real fireworks began. You presented your estimates for the "Enchanted Forest Photo Booth" and the "Cosmic Cafe," confidently citing projected revenue from ticket sales. Seungmin, without missing a beat, pulled up his own projections.
"While your creative endeavors are… ambitious," he began, his voice flat, "your revenue estimates are optimistic to the point of being reckless. The cost of materials for a 'Cosmic Cafe' alone, not to mention the specialized lighting for an 'Enchanted Forest,' far exceeds our allocated budget."
"Reckless?" you snapped, leaning forward. "At least I'm not proposing something so mind-numbingly boring that people will fall asleep before they even buy a ticket! Where's the fun in a 'traditional fair,' Seungmin? Are we trying to raise money or put everyone in a coma?"
"Fun does not equate to fiscal irresponsibility," he retorted, his voice rising slightly. "My plan is designed for maximum efficiency and return on investment. Your proposals are a glorified spending spree!"
"And yours is a glorified spreadsheet!" you shot back, slamming your palm on the table.
The principal's office was surprisingly quiet. "I don't care about your personal differences," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "but the school fest is a tradition, and it will be successful. You two will work together or be replaced. Is that clear?"
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken threats. You exchanged a glare with Seungmin, a silent promise that neither of you would be the one to back down first.
Later that day, you vented to your best friend, pacing furiously around your room. "He's insufferable! A human calculator! A robot in human skin! He probably runs on batteries and recharges by organizing his sock drawer!"
The next morning, you walked into the committee room, still fuming from your rant, only to find Seungmin already there, meticulously arranging pens in a holder. He looked up, his expression as impassive as ever. "I overheard your charming assessment yesterday," he said, his voice low, "and while I appreciate the unique biological classification, I assure you, my operating system is far more advanced than mere batteries. And for your information, my sock drawer is organized by fabric type, not just color."
You gaped, caught completely off guard. He'd overheard? And that comeback! It was so perfectly dry, so utterly him, and yet it stung with an unexpected bite. He didn't even crack a smile, just went back to his pens. The humiliation, quickly followed by a strange flicker of grudging respect, was almost unbearable.
From that moment on, a new, unspoken tension settled between you. You were both secretly motivated to outdo each other. Every proposal, every task completed, became a silent competition. You worked harder, stayed later, just to prove you could be as effective as he was, even with your "chaotic" methods. He, you suspected, was doing the exact same thing, determined to show that his meticulous order would always triumph over your wild ideas.
Despite the animosity, small details about him started to emerge, almost against your will. He always carried a carton of strawberry milk to meetings, carefully placing it beside his meticulously organized notebooks. It was such an incongruous detail for someone so rigid, and you found yourself watching for it, a tiny, inexplicable crack in his robotic facade.
He, in turn, couldn't help but notice your habits. He'd meticulously color-code your shared project folders, only to find them later adorned with whimsical doodles – cartoon animals, intricate floral patterns, even tiny caricatures of committee members (which he definitely recognized as himself, with his perpetually serious expression). It annoyed him immensely, a testament to your inability to conform, but a small part of him found them… unexpectedly charming.
Their glares across the meeting table became a silent rivalry language. A narrowing of eyes for a particularly brazen suggestion. A subtle curl of a lip for an overly optimistic projection. It was a communication understood only by the two of you, a private war waged in the confines of a conference room.
One heated argument over the placement of the main stage, a particularly ridiculous clash of wills, reached a crescendo. You were exasperated, throwing your hands up. "Why are you always so rigid, Seungmin? Can't you just let go for one second?"
His jaw tightened. He held your gaze, his eyes dark, then slowly, deliberately, he slammed his pen down onto the table. The sharp crack echoed in the sudden, absolute silence of the room. The other committee members froze, eyes darting between the two of you, sensing the precarious edge you were teetering on.
In the suffocating quiet, a desperate, impulsive question burst from you. "Do you ever smile?"
His jaw visibly tightened further. His eyes, usually unreadable, flickered with something – anger? Hurt? You couldn't tell. He simply stared at you, his silence a stark, unyielding wall. No answer.
That night, you were gathering your things to leave, the argument still replaying in your head, when you noticed a light on in the main committee room. Curiosity, or perhaps something else, pulled you back. Through the open door, you saw him. Seungmin, alone, surrounded by stacks of files, meticulously organizing them late at night. His sleeves were rolled up, a few strands of hair had fallen across his forehead, and for a fleeting moment, he looked tired, vulnerable, and surprisingly human. It was the first crack in your perception of him, a tiny chink in the robot's armor.
You slipped away before he could see you, the image of him, alone in the quiet room, stubbornly working, burning itself into your mind. You walked home, still irritated, still nursing the wounds of his sharp words, but also, strangely, oddly aware of him in a way you hadn't been before. The rivalry was still there, sharp and undeniable, but now, a subtle, confusing thread of something else had begun to weave itself into the fabric of your interactions. You hated him, you really did. But you couldn't stop thinking about him.
The air in the committee room still hummed with the aftershocks of the budget meeting and Seungmin's unexpectedly sharp comeback. A fragile, yet palpable, truce had settled, defined by cold civility rather than genuine peace. The next battleground? The decor theme.
"Alright, team," you began, trying to inject some much-needed enthusiasm, "let's talk visuals! I'm still feeling a risky neon carnival vibe. Think glow-in-the-dark cotton candy, blacklight art installations, maybe even a UV paint splatter zone!" You gestured wildly, your eyes alight with the vibrant possibilities. "It's fresh, it's exciting, it'll make us stand out!"
Across the table, Seungmin adjusted his glasses, his expression flat. "While the concept of a 'paint splatter zone' certainly sounds… unique," he said, his voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain, "I maintain that a traditional school fair theme is more appropriate. It's universally appealing, logistically simpler, and aligns with community expectations. Imagine classic game booths, handmade crafts, perhaps a quaint, aesthetically pleasing photo backdrop with natural light."
The room split. A few of the younger students, their eyes wide at the mention of neon, murmured their agreement with your idea. The more pragmatic, often older, members nodded along with Seungmin, envisioning easy setup and predictable success. You could feel the subtle shift, the silent alignment of sides forming around each of you. It wasn't just an argument about decorations; it was a referendum on your leadership styles.
"A quaint photo backdrop?" you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Are we trying to throw a festival or a tea party for centenarians?"
"We are attempting to execute a successful and reputable school event," Seungmin countered, his gaze unwavering. "Not a chaotic rave that will alienate parents and potentially violate school policy."
The argument escalated, their voices rising, until Ms. Davies, the faculty advisor, clapped her hands sharply. "Enough! Both of you! This is counterproductive." She surveyed the divided room, her gaze stern. "The decor will blend both ideas. [Your Name], you'll incorporate some of your modern, vibrant elements. Seungmin, you'll ensure it remains structured and cohesive. You are co-heads. You will cooperate."
You bit back a sarcastic retort, while Seungmin merely nodded, though his jaw seemed to clench almost imperceptibly.
Later that afternoon, you presented your initial sketches for the blended theme: iridescent streamers, subtle neon accents, and a "Galaxy Game Zone" that hinted at your carnival idea without going full rave. Seungmin looked at them, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"These designs," he stated, pushing them back across the table, "are fundamentally childish. The color palette lacks sophistication, and the thematic execution is, frankly, amateurish. We need something more… mature."
Your eyes narrowed. "And your idea," you retorted, grabbing his meticulously detailed, almost architectural blueprint for a 'Harvest Festival' layout, "is soulless. It looks like a tax form, not a celebration. Where's the joy? The spark? It's just lines and labels!"
"Lines and labels," he said, tapping the blueprint with a precise finger, "ensure functionality. 'Joy' does not prevent bottlenecks at the ticket booth."
Ms. Davies, bless her exhausted soul, then delivered the final blow. "You two will sit down, right now, and merge these plans. I expect a unified blueprint by the end of the day. And don't leave this room until it's done."
You groaned inwardly, exchanging a venomous look with Seungmin. Sitting together for hours. Just the two of you. This was going to be torture.
The initial hour was a flurry of snarky banter. Every suggestion you made was met with a dissecting, often condescending, remark from him. Every logical counterpoint he offered was met with your eye-rolls and exaggerated sighs.
"So, the 'Cosmic Cafe' then," you muttered, tapping your pen against your teeth. "We could have star-shaped lanterns…"
"And a clear, concise menu board, unlike the 'mystery' debacle," he interjected, without looking up from his laptop.
"Oh, right, because ambiguity is the greatest sin in your universe," you shot back.
"Irresponsibility is."
"Boring is."
But as the hours dragged on, the snark began to wear thin, replaced by a dead silence that was almost heavier than the arguments. You stared at your half of the table, sketching angrily, while he typed away, the rhythmic click of his keyboard the only sound. It was an uneasy truce born of forced proximity, not mutual respect.
The next few days were a blur of committee meetings and sub-group assignments. You, however, found yourself increasingly frustrated by Seungmin's unwavering adherence to "protocol." So, in a moment of rebellious brilliance, you snuck in risky ideas behind his back. You subtly convinced the art club to use glow-in-the-dark paint on some of the "traditional" banners, framed some of your neon concept art and hung it in a less conspicuous hallway, and quietly secured a booking for a local breakdancing crew, pitching them as "surprise entertainment." They weren't exactly a flash mob, but it was a start.
You felt a surge of defiant satisfaction with each small victory. Seungmin was too busy with his spreadsheets and schedules to notice your little acts of sabotage. Or so you thought.
You were in the middle of convincing the drama club president to incorporate a dramatic light show into their skit when Seungmin appeared, his face uncharacteristically grim. He held up one of the glow-in-the-dark banners you'd approved.
"Care to explain this?" he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm.
Your heart gave a small leap. "It's… artistic expression? Adds a bit of flair?"
"Flair that was not approved, not budgeted for, and directly contradicts the agreed-upon aesthetic," he stated, his eyes boring into yours. "And I'm given to understand you've engaged a 'breakdancing crew' without consulting anyone. Are you deliberately undermining my efforts?"
"Undermining? I'm trying to make this fest actually fun!" you fired back, your own anger flaring. "Unlike your beige, soul-crushing vision!"
"My vision ensures success! Your 'fun' guarantees chaos and potential failure!" he retorted, his voice rising. "You are completely reckless! You think you can just do whatever you want without consequences?"
"And you're a control freak! You think everyone needs to be a clone of your perfectly ordered mind!"
It was a brutal exchange of words, sharp and cutting, leaving both of you breathing heavily, the air around you thick with animosity. He turned on his heel and walked away, his back ramrod straight, leaving you seething.
Later that afternoon, still reeling from the confrontation, you were heading to the library when you saw him. On the empty baseball field behind the school, Seungmin was alone, wearing a plain t-shirt, his usually neat hair slightly dishevelled. He was practicing a baseball throw, over and over, with a powerful, fluid motion you hadn't expected. The ball zipped through the air, hitting the fence with a satisfying thud. He looked… different. Less like a robot, more like a focused, intense athlete. You found yourself pausing, oddly drawn, watching him without realizing how long you'd been standing there.
He wound up for another pitch, then hesitated, his arm mid-air. He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. He'd seen you. His face, initially focused, hardened almost instantly, a flash of annoyance crossing his features.
"What are you staring at?" His voice, though distant, carried across the field, edged with an impatient frustration. It wasn't a question, but a demand. The annoyance in his voice, the way his gaze lingered, made you flush. You quickly spun on your heel and walked away, the echo of his annoyed "what are you staring at?" burning in your ears.
The next day brought the first practice run for the main stage performances. The lights flickered, the sound system buzzed, and a prop backdrop started to wobble precariously close to the edge of the stage. Panic flared through the student crew. But before anyone could react, Seungmin's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and clear. "Stage left! Support beam, now! Secure that top corner!"
His precise, calm order saved a near-accident. The crew, startled but responsive, followed his instructions without question, and the backdrop was stabilized just in time. The crisis averted, he simply resumed checking his clipboard, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. You watched him, a knot forming in your stomach. He had been right. His attention to detail, his quick thinking, had prevented something serious. You grudgingly admitted he was right (in your head), though you'd die before saying it out loud.
Seungmin, meanwhile, observed you throughout the practice. Despite the technical glitches and the general disarray, you were a whirlwind of positive energy. You were cracking jokes with the overwhelmed tech crew, offering words of encouragement to nervous performers, and somehow, miraculously, keeping everyone's spirits up. You were chaotic, yes, but you were also the emotional backbone of the entire operation. He grudgingly admitted she keeps morale up (in his head). It was a skill he completely lacked, and one that, to his quiet frustration, was proving undeniably valuable.
That evening, your phone rang. It was Ms. Davies. "Look," she sighed, "I'm calling both of you. You have to coordinate together. This infighting is affecting the entire committee. You're both indispensable, but you're also driving everyone crazy. I'm setting up a shared document, and you two will be updating it together, daily. No more surprises, no more silent treatment."
You hung up, dread washing over you. More forced collaboration. This was never going to end.
The next day, you found yourselves in the committee room again, hunched over a shared laptop, updating the dreaded document. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the click of the mouse and the occasional sigh from either of you. You were outlining a schedule for prop distribution when you heard it – a faint, almost inaudible humming under his breath. It was a soft, melodic tune, familiar yet out of place.
You paused, leaning in slightly. "Is that… Shawn Mendes?" you asked, a playful, incredulous note in your voice.
He stiffened instantly, his humming cutting off abruptly. His head snapped up, and a faint blush crept up his neck, though he quickly tried to mask it by clearing his throat and adjusting his posture. "It's a structurally sound piece of music," he mumbled, refusing to meet your eye.
You couldn't help but tease him. "Seungmin, you have a secret pop obsession? The robotic brain enjoys shawn mendes songs?" You grinned, finding a rare, unexpected chink in his armor.
He glared at you, his ears still a little red. "It's merely an example of efficient song composition. And you," he retaliated, grabbing a report you'd just finished, "your handwriting on these reports is atrocious. It looks like a spider crawled across the page after consuming too much caffeine."
"Oh, really?" you shot back, snatching the report. "At least my thoughts aren't as dull as your penmanship is neat. It's legible, that's what matters! Unlike your personality."
The sharp words, however, lacked their usual venom. There was a lightness to them now, a familiar rhythm.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows, you found yourselves walking home, both leaving the school at the same time. The usual distance you maintained was slightly lessened, a subtle shift you both noticed but didn't acknowledge. You walked home in silence, but not as hostile as before. It wasn't comfortable, not yet, but the air felt less charged with outright loathing. It was a tentative, almost fragile, cease-fire.
That night, alone in your room, you found yourself pulling out the revised decor blueprint Seungmin had meticulously updated. You traced the lines, noting his precise labels, his careful calculations. Despite yourself, you started to see the logic, the efficiency in his plan. It was boring, yes, but undeniably solid. You were secretly re-reading his notes.
Miles away, Seungmin sat at his desk, a stack of notes and reports before him. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the margins of one of your reports, where a small, surprisingly detailed doodle of a starry night sky with tiny, smiling planets had been scrawled next to a list of budget figures. He found himself studying it, a faint, almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. He was secretly re-reading your notes, too. The conflict was still alive, simmering beneath the surface, but something else had undeniably begun to stir. A quiet, confusing awareness.
The countdown to the school fest was ticking down, and with it, the pressure was mounting like a physical weight on everyone’s shoulders. What had started as a series of brainstorming sessions and mild-mannered meetings had devolved into a frantic, chaotic scramble. Responsibilities piled up, sub-groups were struggling, and the air in the committee room was thick with the scent of stale coffee and impending doom. You and Seungmin, despite your best efforts to manage your respective domains, were both burning the candle at both ends. Your free-flow, "we'll figure it out as we go" approach was a stark contrast to his meticulous, "there are no contingencies for chaos" framework, and the friction between the two was becoming unbearable.
The tipping point came with the printing of the official invites. It was a simple task, one you had confidently assigned to a junior who was usually reliable. You had given her the design, which you’d whipped up in an hour of manic inspiration, and a loose deadline. You trusted her, and you trusted your gut that the design was perfect. It was a beautiful, vibrant card with a stylized illustration of your neon carnival, designed to get people hyped. The mistake was small, a single misplaced comma in the date and a typo in the main sponsor's name, but it was significant. You only found out when a frantic junior, her face pale, came to you with a box of the newly printed cards. The typo was glaring. All three hundred invites were wrong.
Before you could even formulate a plan, Seungmin was there. He picked up one of the invites, his expression hardening as his eyes landed on the error. You braced yourself, expecting a lecture, but what you got was something far worse. He didn't just point out the mistake; he dissected it in front of a small group of confused juniors.
"This is what happens," he said, his voice low and cutting, "when you rely on a 'free-flow' approach. A lack of proper proofreading, an absence of a clear chain of command, and an over-reliance on… intuition." He looked at you, his gaze cold and full of disdain. "You were careless. This isn't just a typo; this is a tangible consequence of your recklessness. Now we have to pay to get these reprinted, all because you couldn't be bothered to check something so basic."
The juniors, who had been listening to you just a moment ago with enthusiasm, shifted uncomfortably. His words, delivered in a sharp, almost surgical manner, didn't feel like a scolding; they felt like a public execution. You felt the blood drain from your face, your skin growing hot with a mixture of shame and fury. It was one thing to be lectured by him in private, but to be humiliated in front of your peers, your own team… it was a new low.
"I'll handle it," you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes burning.
"You should have handled it the first time," he said, turning back to his clipboard, as if the conversation was over.
The casual dismissal was the final straw. Deeply stung, you didn't say another word. You simply dropped the box of invites and walked away, the juniors parting for you like a red sea. You could feel their eyes on your back, the silent whispers, the unspoken embarrassment. It wasn't the mistake that hurt; it was the brutal, unfeeling way he had called you out, making it seem as though your very presence was a problem.
As if to twist the knife, Ms. Davies, a teacher who had always been fond of your creative energy, came over to you later that day, catching you in the hallway. "Don't let him get to you," she said, her voice gentle. "He’s a good kid, but he can be a little rigid. We all make mistakes. What matters is how you fix them." Her words were meant to be comforting, but they were a double-edged sword. She had taken your side. You knew this would only subtly frustrate him, reinforcing his belief that people were too soft on you.
You avoided him the whole day. You took different routes in the hallway, skipped lunch in the committee room, and made sure to be the last one to leave your classes. The silence between you, which had once been filled with a simmering hate, was now a heavy, suffocating blanket. It was a silence that carried the weight of his harsh words and your deep-seated hurt. It was heavier, more profound than any fight.
That night, well past the time anyone else was in the building, you were coming out of the art room with some posters when you saw a light on in the committee room. The door was ajar, and as you peered inside, your heart gave a strange, complicated lurch. There he was, Seungmin, sitting at a desk with the box of botched invitations, a fresh stack of paper, and a pristine printer. He was alone, his brow furrowed in concentration, painstakingly inputting the correct information. He wasn't delegating the task or complaining about it; he was redoing your mistake alone.
A surge of shame, and something else you couldn't name, washed over you. The anger you’d felt all day began to dissipate, leaving behind an uncomfortable, quiet gratitude. You took a tentative step into the doorway. "You… you don't have to do that," you whispered, your voice small.
He didn't look up, his fingers moving methodically across the keyboard. He finished a line of code, then hit 'print.' The machine whirred to life, spitting out a perfect, corrected invitation. He picked it up, inspected it, and gave a tiny, satisfied nod. Then, and only then, did he glance over at you, his face still unreadable. You couldn't tell if he was annoyed, or resigned, or simply indifferent.
"Thank you," you said, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.
He didn't respond with a word. He just gave a curt nod and returned to his work. The gesture was minimal, a silent acknowledgment, but it was enough. It was an olive branch, a tiny, fragile one, and you couldn't help but feel a little less alone in the world.
The following day, you walked into school to find that the entire student body was in on your personal drama. The rumors started in school as whispers, then blossomed into full-blown public opinion: "they fight like a married couple." It was the worst possible comparison, one that made your stomach churn with disgust. You were furious, and you made sure everyone knew it.
"A married couple? Please! He's my polar opposite! We're not married, we're not dating, we just… tolerate each other out of necessity," you'd snapped at a friend in the hallway.
Seungmin, when he heard it, simply rolled his eyes, a gesture so deeply detached and condescending that it somehow made your furious denial seem even more over-the-top.
The universe, in its cruel irony, decided to make things even more awkward. Later that week, you and Seungmin were the only two committee members free to go on a props shopping trip to a large, warehouse-sized craft store on the edge of town. It was just the two of you, alone, in a car that felt uncomfortably small.
He was in his element, of course. He had a printed list, a spreadsheet on his phone, and a keen eye for finding the most practical, durable, and cost-effective materials. He insisted on a very specific shade of blue for the backdrop and a certain brand of high-strength tape. You, meanwhile, were on a mission to inject some personality. As he was preoccupied with comparing different types of felt, you sneaked in colorful add-ons to the cart: a giant disco ball, a string of glowing mushroom lights, and a bag of iridescent glitter.
You found yourself noticing how meticulously he was and how he checked every single detail twice. He weighed the spools of ribbon, inspected the weave of the fabric, and even read the fine print on the glue bottles. It was exhausting to watch, but you also saw that he wasn't doing it out of a need for control; he was doing it to ensure nothing went wrong. There was a quiet intensity to his focus, a genuine care for the quality of the final product.
And he, in turn, found himself watching you. You didn't just grab items; you made a show of it. You charmed the cashier into giving you a discount, chatted with a fellow shopper about their DIY project, and somehow got the attention of a store employee who found the exact shade of glitter you were looking for. He noticed how easily you talked to strangers, how people smiled at you in return. Your energy was infectious, a genuine and unforced magnetism that made his own carefully constructed politeness seem pale in comparison.
You had your arms full of fabric rolls and fake plants when one of the heavy bags ripped, and the contents went spilling all over the floor. You let out a frustrated sigh, bending down to collect the mess. Before you could even register what was happening, Seungmin was there. He didn't say a word, didn't make a comment about your clumsiness. He simply bent down, scooped up the heavy bag you had dropped, and took it from you. He took it wordlessly, his face as impassive as ever.
"Oh," you said, caught off guard. "Thank you."
He didn't respond with a word, just a quiet shrug as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The small act of kindness, unprompted and without fanfare, hit you with the force of a tidal wave.
Just as you were leaving the store, the skies opened up, and the rain started pouring with a vengeance. You both sprinted for the nearest shelter, which happened to be a cramped bus stop, filled with other people waiting out the storm. With the loud, drumming rain and the close proximity, the silence that fell between you was now heavy with a different kind of tension.
It was you who broke it first. "Well, this is just great," you muttered, leaning against the cold glass. "Trapped with the human rulebook."
He didn't rise to the bait. "It's a statistical certainty that it would rain," he said dryly. "The meteorological data was quite clear."
"See? That's what I'm talking about! You're so predictable," you shot back, but there was a teasing quality to your voice now, a lightness that hadn't been there before.
The sarcastic quips returned, a familiar and comfortable rhythm, a way of navigating the charged space between you. You mocked him for his reliance on data; he mocked you for your inability to carry a bag properly.
Then, a sweet-faced old woman next to you smiled. "You two are a lovely couple," she said warmly, "It's so nice to see young love."
Your head snapped up, and you denied it loudly, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a panicked rush. "Oh, no, no, we're not—we're just committee heads for the school fest!"
Seungmin, surprisingly, also denied it on instant instead of avoiding it like he always did, though his denial was as perfectly structured as his notes. "We are merely colleagues collaborating on a shared project. There is no romantic component to our relationship," he said stiffly.
The old woman just smiled knowingly and nodded. "Whatever you say, dears."
You didn't look at him for the rest of the ride, but you could feel him there, just inches away. Both of you were silent, the bus moving through the rainy city. And though you would never admit it, you couldn’t stop thinking about it later. The stranger's simple words had labeled a complicated, volatile relationship, and in the privacy of your own mind, you had to ask yourself: Was it really so far from the truth? The thought was terrifying, and for the first time, not entirely unwelcome.
The uneasy truce from the bus stop dissolved quickly under the weight of an escalating crisis. The principal’s voice, usually calm and measured, cut through the afternoon announcements with unusual severity. "Fest prep is significantly behind schedule. If we don't see substantial progress by the end of the week, I will have no choice but to reconsider the event altogether."
A collective groan rippled through the student body, but a cold dread settled in your stomach. This wasn't just about a school event anymore; it was about your reputation, and Seungmin’s. The stakes had suddenly skyrocketed. There was only one solution: an all-nighter, and Ms. Davies made sure it was a joint command. "You two," she stated, her gaze pointedly alternating between you and Seungmin, "will coordinate this tonight with your entire team. I expect to see tangible results by morning."
Seungmin, predictably, took charge with the efficiency of a seasoned general. He arrived with an extensive checklist, assigning tasks with precise, almost surgical, instructions. "Alright, listen up," he commanded, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the weary murmurs of the team. "Section A, backdrop construction. Section B, prop painting. Section C, electrical wiring. We'll rotate every two hours. No unscheduled breaks. Hydration is mandatory, but chatter is not. We are operating on a strict timeline." He moved through the auditorium, a clipboard in hand, organizing everything like a military drill. The team, exhausted but intimidated, moved with a newfound, albeit grumbling, discipline.
You, on the other hand, knew that pure discipline wouldn't carry them through hours of tedious work. Morale was plummeting faster than the fest budget. So, as Seungmin barked orders, you moved through the room with a different strategy. You started cracking jokes, offering ridiculously bad puns about paint fumes, and making silly faces at the most stressed-out juniors. You brought out a stash of your emergency snacks—extra-spicy ramen, giant bags of chips, and an array of sugary drinks. And then, the final touch: you pulled out your portable speaker.
"Alright, people!" you declared, hitting play on a high-energy pop playlist. "Time to get this party started, even if it's a work party!" The bass vibrated through the floor, a stark contrast to the quiet, focused intensity Seungmin had cultivated.
He spun around, his eyes narrowing at the sudden blast of sound. "Do you mind?" he demanded, walking swiftly towards you. "This is a work environment, not a discotheque. We need focus, not auditory distractions."
"Oh, come on, Seungmin! A little music helps keep the energy up!" you retorted, turning the volume dial higher just to annoy him.
He bristled, a vein thropping faintly in his temple. "It's disruptive and unprofessional." But as he returned to his inspection of the stage scaffolding, you noticed something. He was subtly tapping his foot to the beat, a barely perceptible bounce in his otherwise rigid posture. And then, so quietly you almost missed it, you heard him secretly hum along to the chorus of a particularly catchy song. The realization hit you with a jolt: he wasn't immune to fun, he just fought it.
Hours bled into the late night. The initial exhaustion had given way to a strange, almost delirious energy. You were covered in paint streaks, your hair a mess, but you felt a surprising camaraderie with the rest of the team. You glanced over at Seungmin. He looked tired, too, his usually pristine shirt rumpled, dark smudges under his eyes. He was still working, correcting a junior's attempt at building a prop stand, his voice softer than usual.
He finished, then straightened up. Without a word, he walked over to a cooler he’d brought, pulled out a carton, and walked directly towards you. Your eyes widened as he extended his hand. It was a strawberry milk. Cold, pink, and utterly unexpected. He didn't say anything, just held it out.
Shocked, you took it, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment. His hand was surprisingly warm. You stared at the carton, then at his impassive face. "Thanks," you managed, your voice quiet. He simply gave a curt nod and walked back to his station. You took a sip, the sweet, cold liquid a surprising comfort in the late hours. It was the first time he'd offered you anything without an agenda, without a hidden critique. A small gesture, yet it felt monumental.
A while later, you were taking a quick break, scrolling through your phone, when you glanced up. Seungmin was sitting alone on a crate, his own phone in his hand, looking down at the screen. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. It was small, fleeting, but undeniably there. Not his usual tight-lipped politeness, but a genuine, soft curve of his mouth.
"So you do smile," you blurted out, the words escaping before you could filter them.
His head shot up, his eyes wide. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by an instant, almost panicked, stiffness. He instantly froze, his expression shutting down, becoming that familiar, unreadable mask. He quickly shoved his phone into his pocket.
"Don't," he mumbled, his voice tight, barely audible. He looked away, his jaw clenching.
The abruptness of his reaction, the raw defensiveness, made something click in your mind. He didn't just not smile often; he hated smiling because he didn’t trust it. Like it was a weakness. Like it made him vulnerable. A wave of unexpected empathy washed over you. The anger and annoyance you usually felt towards him receded, replaced by a strange, quiet understanding.
A fragile silence grew instead of a fight. It wasn't the hostile silence you were used to, but something softer, more tentative. The music still played, but the underlying tension had shifted.
"You know," you said, breaking the quiet, your voice softer than intended, "your seriousness… it's actually useful sometimes. Like, when everything else is going crazy, you're the one who keeps us on track." It was a genuine admission, one you never thought you'd make.
He didn't look at you, but you saw the barest flicker in his eyes. He paused, then responded, his voice equally low. "And your chaos… sometimes it works. Keeps people from burning out. Keeps the mood light." It was a grudging admission, but it was an admission nonetheless.
That was it. The first moment of genuine teamwork. Not forced by a teacher, not fueled by competition, but born from a reluctant acknowledgment of each other's strengths. You continued working through the night, falling into a surprisingly efficient rhythm. You cracked jokes when spirits flagged; he stepped in with clear directions when things got messy. You were still two very different people, but for the first time, you were truly working together, not just in parallel.
The next morning, as a bleary-eyed Ms. Davies surveyed the transformed auditorium, a satisfied smile spread across her face. "Remarkable," she murmured. "Absolutely remarkable. You two really pulled through."
News traveled fast. By lunch, the rumors in school had taken a new, bewildering turn. Instead of "fighting like a married couple," the whispers were now, "they're warming up to each other?"
You heard it from your friends, from random classmates, even from a freshman in the hallway. You felt a blush creep up your neck, a confusing mix of embarrassment and something else you couldn't quite name.
Then you saw Seungmin, approached by a group of juniors, one of whom brazenly asked, "So, are the rumors true, Seungmin sunbae? Are you and [Your Name] finally getting along?"
His reaction was immediate and decisive. His eyes hardened, and he shot down the rumor sharply, his voice devoid of warmth. "Absolutely not. We are colleagues fulfilling a responsibility. There is nothing 'warming up' about it. Focus on your own tasks." The juniors scattered, chastised.
You watched from a distance, and a peculiar, oddly hurt feeling bloomed in your chest. It was illogical, of course. You had denied the same rumors yourself, just minutes ago. You hated the comparison. But seeing him shut it down so emphatically, so coldly, made your stomach clench with an unexpected pang.
During meetings that followed, despite the outward professionalism, you found your eyes lingering more. On his precise movements, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the faint shadow of a smile that sometimes threatened to break through his serious facade. You would catch him looking at you too, a quick glance that darted away the moment you met his eyes. Neither of you wanted to admit it, not yet. Not the subtle shift, the easing of hostility, the strange, new awareness that was undeniably growing between you.
The temporary truce, fragile as spun sugar, shattered with the first festival mock event. This was the dress rehearsal, the final run-through before the actual day, designed to iron out any kinks. Instead, it exposed every single flaw, magnified every underlying tension. Your brilliant, slightly unconventional lighting setup for the main stage, meant to create a dazzling, immersive experience, instead resulted in a spectacular technical mishap. A key circuit blew, plunging half the auditorium into darkness, causing a ripple effect that shorted out the sound system and froze the projection screen. The dazzling light show became an instant, deafening blackout, followed by confused murmurs and then, outright panic from the performers.
You, despite the chaos, tried to take it lightly. "Whoops! Looks like we just invented the 'surprise blackout segment'!" you called out, trying to laugh it off, already thinking about how to turn the disaster into a quirky, memorable moment. "Alright, everyone, minor hiccup! Let's get these lights back on, improvising is half the fun, right?"
But Seungmin didn't find it funny. Not even a little. The moment the backup lights flickered on, illuminating the mess, he stormed towards you, his face a thundercloud. This wasn't the usual controlled annoyance; this was raw fury, simmering just beneath the surface, finally boiling over.
"This is not a 'hiccup'!" he exploded, his voice low but vibrating with intensity, drawing the attention of every bewildered committee member and performer. "This is what happens when you prioritize reckless, unproven ideas over fundamental safety and established protocols!" His voice rose with each word, sharper than you'd ever heard it. "I warned you about the voltage, I warned you about the experimental wiring, but no, you had to have your 'dazzling light show'!"
He gestured wildly at the darkened stage, his anger painting him red. "You ruin everything you touch! Every single time, you bring chaos, you create problems, you disregard every piece of advice given to you. This entire fest is jeopardized because of your irresponsibility!"
The words, so brutally delivered, hit you like a physical blow. "You ruin everything you touch." They weren't just about the lights; they were about you. About your very essence, your approach to life. You were stunned, deeply hurt, the air knocked out of your lungs. The cheerful mask you usually wore cracked, revealing the vulnerability beneath. Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall.
Instead, a cold, hard anger sparked within you, pushing back against the pain. "Oh, and you're so perfect, aren't you?" you fired back, your voice trembling despite your efforts to control it. "At least I’m not a lifeless robot! At least I have ideas, passion, something beyond spreadsheets and rules! Maybe if you actually lived a little, you'd understand that sometimes things go wrong, and you just fix them instead of blaming everyone around you!"
"I'm fixing your mistakes because you refuse to be anything but a liability!" he spat, his face tight with controlled rage.
"And you're a self-righteous, control-freak dictator!"
The air vibrated with the force of your words. You could feel the stunned silence of the team around you, the palpable drop in their morale. You didn't wait for a response. You just spun on your heel and walked away, furious, leaving him standing there in the half-lit auditorium. You heard the murmurs begin as you left, the embarrassed whispers, the questions about the fest's fate. It felt like the end.
That night, alone in your room, the cutting words replayed in an endless loop in your head. "You ruin everything you touch." The bravado you'd shown in front of him evaporated, leaving behind a raw, aching pain. You curled up on your bed, the hurt finally breaking through your defenses, and you cried alone. It wasn't just frustration; it was a deep, soul-shattering sadness. This was the first real emotional crack, a moment of profound vulnerability where the confident, carefree exterior crumbled entirely.
Miles away, in the quiet of his own room, Seungmin was also awake. The auditorium incident, the words he had hurled at you, spun in his mind. He had been angry, yes, but the harshness of his attack, the personal nature of his accusations… he knew he had gone too far. He saw your stunned, hurt face, the way your usual fire had dimmed, and a heavy, suffocating wave of guilt settled on his chest. He paced, restless, the image of your shattered expression burning in his mind. He had aimed for logic, for consequence, but he had hit something far deeper. He hadn't meant to break you.
The next morning was a nightmare. The moment you saw Seungmin in the hallway, your stomach lurched. You immediately veered off, taking a circuitous route to avoid any contact. You felt his presence, the way the air subtly changed when he was near, and you did everything in your power to make yourself invisible. He also saw your calculated evasions. He saw the way your head ducked, the way your path shifted. He knew you were avoiding him completely, and it was a sharp, unwelcome pang.
The tension between the two of you was a palpable entity, a dark cloud hanging over the committee. The team was walking on eggshells, performing their duties with a quiet, almost fearful diligence. The usual chatter was gone, replaced by an uneasy silence.
You were trying to focus on a new prop design in the art room when you overheard a couple of guys, not from the committee, talking. "Heard the co-heads had a massive blow-up yesterday," one sneered, loud enough for you to hear. "No surprise. [Your Name] always messes things up. She's too flaky to handle anything serious."
A familiar spark of anger ignited within you, but before you could respond, a cold voice cut through the air. "I suggest you refrain from speculating on matters you know nothing about."
You looked up, startled. Seungmin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the guys, his posture rigid. His voice was low, but laced with an undeniable menace. He hadn't raised it, but the chilling authority in his tone made the two guys flinch. He didn't defend you directly, but his temper simmered and he had stepped in, snapping at the guy for daring to speak ill of you.
They mumbled apologies and quickly retreated. Seungmin didn't look at you. He just stood there for a moment, his gaze still hard, then he turned and walked away. But you had caught that small protective act. It was quick, subtle, and completely unexpected. The robot had defended you. The realization was confusing, unsettling.
Later, you returned to your desk in the committee room, finding it devoid of your usual messy pile of papers. Instead, a neat, organized stack of notes, perfectly indexed and cross-referenced, sat precisely in the center. Your share of notes. Seungmin's handwriting, of course. He had silently placed them on your desk. He hadn't waited for a thanks, hadn't sought acknowledgment. He had just done it, an unspoken, practical gesture that somehow felt more meaningful than words. You didn't thank him back, not out loud, but you picked up the stack and read them anyway, your fingers tracing the neat, precise lines.
During the next practice event, which, thanks to Seungmin's frantic, lone efforts, ran smoother, you watched him. He was a whirlwind of efficiency, troubleshooting problems before they even fully emerged, guiding the younger students, his face set in a grim determination. A small, technical error occurred with a sound cue, completely unrelated to your previous mishap. Before anyone could panic, Seungmin immediately stepped forward, addressing Ms. Davies. "My apologies, Ms. Davies. I miscalculated the trigger point for the cue. It won't happen again." He shouldered all blame, even when it clearly wasn't entirely his fault, protecting the student who had actually made the error. It was another surprising display of responsibility, a silent strength that made you see him differently.
He, in turn, observed you. You were still quiet, less boisterous than usual, but you were moving through the team, quietly reassuring the nervous performers, offering gentle corrections, and somehow, by just your presence, subtly fixing the morale that his earlier outburst had shattered. You were doing it despite the cold war between you, despite the fact that you still probably hated him. He noticed how she fixes morale despite hating him.
A first fragile layer of understanding began to form, thin as ice, but undeniable. You both recognized the other's unique value, their indispensable role in this overwhelming task. But you were both too prideful to admit it. Too hurt by the brutal words, too entrenched in your rivalry.
Their fights now sting deeper than before. The arguments weren't just about winning; they were about defending bruised egos and hurt feelings. The animosity was still there, a default setting, but beneath it, a confusing undercurrent had begun. They had torn each other down, built each other back up, and in the process, revealed fragments of themselves they never intended to share. The bitter truth was starting to dawn on both of them: they care more than they want to. The thought was terrifying, unwelcome, and yet, persistent.
The aftershocks of the stage mishap and the brutal argument had left an acrid taste in the air. The animosity between you and Seungmin was thicker than ever, yet strangely, something had shifted. The hard shell of mutual hatred had developed a hairline crack, allowing glimpses of something far more confusing to seep through. It was an unspoken, fragile awareness, and it made the current situation almost unbearable.
Ms. Davies, perhaps sensing the need for a change of scenery – or perhaps a desperate attempt to force some kind of functional interaction – announced a new assignment. "For the outdoor segment of the fest, the game booths and the sports challenges, I'm sending you two to the sports ground for setup."
You groaned inwardly. Of course. The one place where physical exertion might actually drain some of the pent-up frustration between you. You arrived to find a sprawling expanse of green, dotted with the skeletal frames of what would soon be game booths. Seungmin was already there, directing a group of volunteers, his usual clipboard clutched firmly in his hand.
He was explaining the layout for the baseball throw, demonstrating proper form. His movements were fluid, precise, and surprisingly powerful. He wound up, his body a coiled spring, and hurled the baseball. It whistled through the air, hitting the target board with a satisfying thwack that echoed across the field. He did it again, and again, each throw perfectly executed.
You found yourself pausing, a wrench in your hand, a half-assembled frame forgotten beside you. You watched silently, oddly drawn. It wasn't just the athletic prowess; it was the unexpected grace, the raw energy that seemed so at odds with his meticulously organized persona. He looked… unburdened, for a moment, genuinely absorbed in the physical act.
He released another perfect throw, then turned, probably to address a volunteer, and his eyes landed on you. He caught you staring. A flicker of surprise, then something else, something almost like amusement, crossed his face. A faint smirk played on his lips, quick and unsettlingly charming. It was the first time you’d seen anything remotely resembling a genuine, non-sarcastic smirk from him.
He walked towards you, the baseball still in his hand, stopping a few feet away. "Something interesting?" His voice was low, and for once, not laced with disdain, but something lighter, almost playful yet challenging. "Or are you just admiring my superior form?"
Your cheeks flushed. "Hardly. Just wondering how someone so stiff manages to move like that."
The smirk widened fractionally. "Want me to teach you?"
The invitation hung in the air, unexpected and tempting. A part of you, the part that hated him, wanted to immediately refuse, to maintain the distance. But another part, the curious, competitive part, saw it as a challenge. And, a tiny, buried part of you felt a pull towards that unexpected flash of playfulness. You hesitated for a beat too long, then, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, you reluctantly agreed. "Fine. But don't expect miracles, Professor Perfect."
"I expect competence, at minimum," he retorted, though the edge was softer.
The awkward first lesson began. He stood behind you, guiding your grip on the baseball, his hand briefly covering yours. A jolt, like a small electrical current, passed between you. You quickly pulled your hand away, feeling a strange heat prickle your skin. He didn't comment, simply adjusted his stance and tried again. He corrected your foot placement, your shoulder alignment, your wrist flick. There were lots of accidental touches – his hand brushing your lower back as he demonstrated posture, his arm grazing yours as he showed the follow-through. Each touch, however brief, sent a confusing spark through you. You’d always kept a careful distance from him, and this forced proximity was unsettling.
You tried to focus, but his intense, unsmiling concentration as he explained the physics of a proper throw was almost comical. He was so serious about it. He looked like a mad scientist, detailing a complex theorem, only the subject was a baseball. You tried to suppress it, but a giggle escaped your lips. You couldn't help but laugh at his serious teaching face.
He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowed. He stared at you for a moment, then a faint blush crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign beneath his pale skin. He looked away quickly, composing himself. "Is there something amusing about proper biomechanics?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual dry, sarcastic tone, effectively masking it. But you had seen it – the blush, the brief moment of discomfiture. He was human.
Despite the awkwardness, something shifted. Out here, on the open field, away from the pressure of meetings and budgets, your teamwork felt smoother than in meetings. He would patiently correct your form, and you, surprisingly, would listen. You’d even manage a decent throw or two, which earned you a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. The competitive drive was still there, but it was less about proving each other wrong and more about achieving a common goal, however small.
After a few more throws, he straightened up. "Your throwing arm needs work, but your general athleticism isn't entirely abysmal." It was the closest he'd come to a compliment. "I can also show you some basketball tricks, if you're interested."
"Oh, really?" you challenged, a playful spark in your eyes. "And what, pray tell, are your hidden talents in that department, Professor?"
He just raised an eyebrow, a hint of that smirk returning, and walked over to the basketball hoop. He demonstrated a series of dribbles, crossovers, and even a fancy spin move, all executed with unexpected agility. He then tossed you the ball. You tried to mimic his moves, but your coordination, usually passable, completely deserted you. You fumbled the ball, tripped over your own feet, and sent it bouncing off the backboard in a completely wrong direction. You failed miserably.
He watched your spectacularly botched attempt, and then, slowly, a sound escaped him. A low chuckle, then a fuller, unrestrained laugh. It was a genuine, open laugh, a bright, surprising sound that filled the air. You had never heard him laugh like that before, not a scoff or a sneer, but a real, honest-to-goodness laugh. It was a rare moment, and it utterly disarmed you.
"Oh, my God," you gasped, clutching your stomach, "you actually laughed! You're having fun!" You teased him about finally having fun, a wide, genuine smile on your face.
His laughter died down, but the residual warmth lingered in his eyes. His expression softened, losing its usual guardedness. For a fleeting second, he looked almost… gentle. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, his face hardened, and he shut down quickly, the familiar mask sliding back into place. "It was merely an involuntary physiological response to extreme incompetence," he stated, his voice flat, but the slight tremor in his lips betrayed him.
You tried to push him, to make him laugh again, but he was gone, retreated behind his walls. Still, the image of his rare, genuine laugh lingered in your mind.
That night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you found yourself replaying the day's events. The accidental touches, his suppressed blush, the way he'd teased you, and most vividly, his unexpected laughter. A warmth spread through your chest, and you realized, with a jolt, that you were smiling, thinking about him. Not the "I just got one over on him" smile, but a soft, contented one. The realization was confusing, unsettling. This wasn't hate. It wasn't even just rivalry anymore.
Miles away, Seungmin was also trying to sleep, but your image kept flashing in his mind. Your bright, uninhibited laugh as you fumbled the basketball, the way your eyes sparkled when you were excited about an idea, the unexpected "thank you" you'd given him the night of the invites. He found himself replaying her laugh in his head secretly, a quiet, melodic sound that somehow resonated with him more than any organized spreadsheet ever could. He was confused, refusing to label it. It was dangerous, this new awareness.
Over the next few days, the change was subtle but undeniable. Your banter became less poisonous, more teasing. The sharp barbs were still there, but they were coated in a thin layer of something else – familiarity, perhaps even a grudging affection. He still corrected your grammar, but sometimes a fleeting smirk would accompany it. You still mocked his rigidity, but you found yourself paying closer attention to his actual instructions.
But this new dynamic came with its own risks. The tension felt sharper, almost electric, every time your eyes met, every time you inadvertently brushed hands reaching for the same pen. The clear, defined rivalry line blurred dangerously, dissolving into something far more complicated. You were no longer just enemies; you were something else entirely, something neither of you was ready to acknowledge.
The quiet, confusing truce of the sports field carried over into the next phase of fest prep. It was an unspoken, yet undeniable, shift. The hate hadn't vanished entirely; it had simply thinned, replaced by a charged, almost electric tension. Your forced proximity was no longer torture but a source of strange, unsettling anticipation.
The ultimate test of this new dynamic was a group project for a marketing class, which, to your mutual dread, needed them to present together. The topic was brand synergy, a cruel joke of fate that perfectly mirrored your current predicament.
When the time came, you stood side-by-side in front of the classroom. You started with your usual flair, improvising a lively, interactive introduction, gesturing wildly, and even asking the audience to participate. You were all about the energy, the feeling, the chaotic joy of it. Seungmin, meanwhile, stood as your still, composed counterpoint, a picture of methodical poise. He had his notecards, a detailed, perfectly structured script, and he spoke in clear, concise bullet points, citing data and brand case studies with academic precision.
The audience, a mix of your friends and his admirers, was oddly captivated. They leaned forward, listening intently, genuinely enjoying both styles blended. Your energy grabbed their attention; his logic held it. The room buzzed with a shared, surprising realization: you were so different, yet you complemented each other perfectly.
After the presentation, as you were gathering your things, you heard him. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if the words were an immense effort. "That worked."
You stopped, turning to him, a grin spreading across your face. It was a simple admission, yet it felt like a monumental surrender. You couldn't resist. You teased him for finally admitting it. "Oh? The great Kim Seungmin concedes that my brand of chaos has a measurable effect? I'm honored."
He didn't rise to the bait with his usual snark. He just picked up his notecards, his lips twitching into a faint line. He rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture, only a wry acceptance.
Ms. Davies, who had witnessed the presentation, stopped you both in the hallway. "That was an excellent presentation," she said, a genuine smile on her face. "You two have a natural dynamic. Your combined energy is really effective. Good work." Her praise hung in the air, a final confirmation of what you had just discovered. You could feel Seungmin beside you, and you glanced at him just in time to see a quick, almost imperceptible smirk. He was proud of the presentation, proud of the collaboration, and you were the only one who saw it. You caught him smirking faintly, a private moment shared just between the two of you.
Your heart gave a strange flutter. The word that came to mind, a soft, dangerous, and utterly forbidden thought, was "cute." You almost called it cute out loud before you bit your tongue, the word dying a frantic death in your throat.
That evening, a study session was a pretense for more forced collaboration. You found yourselves in the quiet, hushed tones of the library, your textbooks and laptops spread out on a large table. The silence between you, which had been so fraught with hostility just a week ago, now felt comfortable, not hostile. The occasional click of his keyboard, the soft rustle of your turning pages—it was a gentle soundtrack to your shared work.
You looked up from your notes, finding yourself unable to resist the urge to glance at his. His handwriting was perfect, each letter a precise, uniform work of art. You found yourself mesmerized, a strange pull to this ordered, controlled world he inhabited. You studied the neat lines, the meticulously highlighted keywords, the perfect symmetry of it all.
He must have felt your gaze. Without a word, he leaned closer, his hand reaching across the table to a section of his notes he was working on, as if to show you something. His face was just inches apart from yours. The sudden proximity, the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his soap—it all hit you at once, startling you. You both froze, suspended in that moment, your eyes locked, the air thick and humming with a raw, unspoken energy.
The moment was too intense, too overwhelming. You couldn't handle the silent question in his eyes, the gravity of it. Panic seized you, and in a desperate, last-ditch effort to break the tension, you blurted out the first ridiculous thing that came to mind. "Is that the font you use in your dreams, too? It's so… legible."
He pulled back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He didn't smile, but the rigidity of his posture softened. "You're impossible," he muttered, but the words were without bite, almost a fond observation. He picked up his pen and went back to his work, but the spell had been broken.
You tried to refocus on your own notes, but the quiet hum of the library was suddenly deafening. The image of his face, so close to yours, was burned into your mind. You thought about his faint smirk, his subtle shrug, his words that had changed from insults to quiet observations. A dangerous, exhilarating question formed in your mind, a thought you had been actively trying to suppress: were you falling? The thought was terrifying.
Seungmin, for his part, was also struggling. He kept his eyes on his notes, but the words swam before him. He replayed the moment in his mind, the way your eyes had widened, the way your lips had parted just slightly. He had leaned in, almost without thinking, a magnet to your chaotic, vibrant energy. He tried to rationalize it away, to push the thoughts away as illogical data, as a "glitch" in his system, but he couldn't stop.
The truth was staring both of you in the face. This wasn't just professional collaboration. It wasn't just a rivalry with a temporary truce. You both finally had to realize: this is no longer just rivalry. It had become something else entirely, something fragile, something real, something that had been building since the moment you were forced to share a stage. But admitting it felt terrifying. It would mean shattering the comfortable walls you had built around yourselves, and neither of you was ready to face that terrifying, beautiful truth.
The fragile foundation, laid down during the library study session and the silent baseball lesson, held. It didn't just hold—it solidified, becoming an unspoken truth that hummed between you and Seungmin. The direct hostility had evaporated, replaced by a new, more dangerous current. Your forced proximity was no longer a punishment; it was a source of strange, unsettling anticipation.
As the days sped towards the festival, a remarkable transformation occurred. The fest prep was now smoother, almost effortlessly efficient. Where there had once been clashing blueprints and public arguments, there was now a seamless, almost intuitive division of labor. You would propose a wild, imaginative idea, and before you even finished speaking, Seungmin would be sketching out the logistics, refining the budget, and quietly, almost imperceptibly, making it viable. And conversely, when he’d hit a snag in his meticulous planning—a last-minute vendor issue, a scheduling conflict—you would effortlessly charm a solution out of thin air, or rally the weary team with a burst of morale-boosting energy. Your synergy was visible to everyone.
Committee members, once wary of approaching either of you, now came with requests, clearly seeing you as a unified front. Your differences no longer clashed; they interwove, creating a tapestry far richer and stronger than either of you could have woven alone.
But with this newfound, undeniable harmony came something else. The whispers, which had previously labelled you as a "married couple," now began to take on a decidedly more suggestive tone. People started shipping you openly. You’d be working quietly, and a junior would nudge their friend, pointing at you and Seungmin, stifling giggles. Or a teacher would make a passing comment about "how well you two get along now, really well."
You, in your usual carefree manner, found yourself laughing it off. "Oh, come on, guys, it's called professionalism!" you'd declare, waving a hand dismissively, though a slight warmth would creep up your neck. You tried to treat it like a joke, a harmless consequence of your sudden efficiency.
Seungmin, however, reacted differently. Every time he overheard a whisper, every knowing glance, he would get visibly annoyed. His jaw would tighten, his shoulders would tense, and a distinct flush would creep up his neck and over his ears. He hated the implication, the insinuation that anything so illogical and messy could be happening between you.
You couldn't resist. You'd catch his eye, a mischievous grin playing on your lips. "Why so red, Professor Kim? Is your logical mind overheating from too much irrational speculation?"
He would immediately turn away, a deeper crimson spreading across his face. He'd avoid eye contact, his gaze fixed on some distant, safe point on the wall. "It's merely a physiological response to irritating stimuli," he'd mumble, his voice a little strained, or "The ambient temperature in this room is suboptimal." His excuses were as transparent as glass, and your grin would only widen. He was so easy to fluster when it came to this.
One afternoon, during a particularly gruelling budgeting session, a natural break was called. You leaned back, stretching, when you saw him reach into his bag. He pulled out a carton of strawberry milk. You'd noticed it was his constant companion. Without a word, he set it on the table between you, then pulled out another, identical carton. He didn't offer it, didn't push it towards you; he simply placed it there, a silent offering.
You stared at it, a wave of tenderness washing over you. It was completely accidental, and utterly intimate. He was sharing his ritual, his small comfort, without a spoken invitation. You picked up the carton, the coldness a pleasant sensation in your hand, and quietly drank it. The unspoken gesture felt heavier than any conversation you’d ever had.
The shared moments started to multiply, small glimpses into each other's worlds. During a frantic search for some missing receipt, you both ended up rummaging through a box of discarded snacks left over from a previous event. You pulled out a packet of spicy chips, crinkling it. "Want some?"
You stopped, utterly stunned. "Wait, you hate spicy food? Seriously? Kim Seungmin, the stoic, unshakeable force of nature, can't handle a little chili?" The sheer absurdity of it made you burst out laughing. It was such a delightfully human weakness. From that moment on, you teased him endlessly about it, offering him spicy snacks with a mischievous glint in your eye, watching him politely but firmly decline, his nose crinkling in distaste. It was a tiny, harmless vulnerability, and it endeared him to you in a way nothing else had.
He, in turn, discovered one of your own hidden insecurities. You were reviewing a poster design for the talent show, something you were usually so confident about. But for this, a tremor of doubt ran through you. "What if no one signs up?" you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. "What if the audience just… doesn't care? What if it's just a colossal, embarrassing failure?"
He stopped typing, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked at you, his usual analytical gaze softening. "You're secretly scared of public failure, aren't you?" he stated, not as a question, but as a quiet observation.
You flinched, caught off guard. You always projected an image of fearless spontaneity. "Of course not! It's just… a lot of work."
He ignored your denial. "Look," he said, his voice unusually quiet, almost gruff. "We've prepared. We've accounted for variables. There will be an audience. They will care. You've ensured that." It wasn't flowery, it wasn't soft, but it was him. For the first time, he reassured her in his blunt way. He wasn't telling you not to be afraid; he was telling you that your fears, logically, had no basis, because you had already laid the groundwork for success. It was the most Seungmin-like reassurance imaginable, and it calmed you in a way no platitude ever could.
The boundaries continued to blur in the late hours. Your late-night texts about small details—a missing prop, a revised schedule—slowly began to turn personal. A hurried question about the fest budget might morph into a casual mention of a bad day, or a funny anecdote. One night, you were struggling to sleep, still feeling the anxiety of the mock event. On an impulse, you sent him a song, a chaotic, indie rock anthem that perfectly captured your restless energy. You didn't expect a reply.
A few minutes later, your phone buzzed. It was a link from him. A Shawn Mendes song. A smooth, melodic, surprisingly heartfelt ballad. Your lips curved into a soft smile. You played it on loop, imagining him, the meticulously organized robot, humming along to it. The thought warmed you from the inside out.
He, too, found himself increasingly fascinated by the small details of you. He starts noticing her in small things: the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you were deep in thought, the subtle tilt of your head when you listened, the spontaneous, bright spark in your eyes when a new idea struck. Your voice, with its energetic inflections, and your bright, uninhibited laugh—he found himself unconsciously seeking them out in the crowded hallways.
And you, increasingly aware of his gaze, caught him staring too long during meetings. His eyes would linger on your face, on your hands as you gestured, on your lips as you spoke. The moment you met his gaze, he would quickly look away, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.
You both recognized the shift, the dangerous territory you were venturing into. The unspoken, terrifying attraction that pulsed beneath the surface. Yet, neither of you dared to acknowledge it. Both avoided talking about it, circling around the elephant in the room with polite conversation and work-related banter.
But the silence only amplified the tension. It sharpened with every meeting, every shared glance, every accidental touch. You’d be leaning over a diagram together, and your fingers would brush, sending a jolt through your arm. Your breath would hitch, and you’d instinctively pull back, feeling a surge of panic. One instance, you were reaching for a pen on the desk at the exact same time. Your fingers brushed, just for a second, a fleeting contact that sent a shockwave through both of you. You both froze, your hands hovering inches apart, eyes locked in a silent, startled gaze.
In that frozen moment, a thought crystallized in your mind, sharp and cold: "This is dangerous." This wasn't just playful teasing or grudging respect. This was something real, something that could shatter the careful balance of your lives.
And for Seungmin, the internal battle was just as fierce. He felt the pull, the undeniable magnetism of your vibrant, chaotic energy. He fought against it, a desperate struggle for control. His mind screamed: "I can’t let myself lose control." Control was his anchor, his defense against the unpredictable. And you, you were the embodiment of beautiful, exhilarating unpredictability.
The air around you was thick with unspoken feelings, a heavy, expectant silence. A storm brewed silently between them, gathering strength, waiting for the inevitable moment when it would finally break. The surface was calm, but beneath it, the currents were churning, pulling you both irrevocably closer to the precipice.
The festival was a mere two days away. The air in the committee room, usually thick with the low hum of frantic work, now crackled with a potent mixture of excitement and exhaustion. The synergy you and Seungmin had built was at its peak. It was a well-oiled machine, each of you anticipating the other’s next move, covering for each other’s weaknesses before they could even become a problem. The team was amazed, the teachers were impressed, and you, despite the constant, dizzying tension, felt an undeniable sense of triumph. You were actually going to pull this off.
The final rehearsal before the fest was meant to be the victory lap, a celebratory final run-through to marvel at your hard work. It was the last chance to test the grand finale—a stage setup designed to reveal a series of custom-built, free-standing props that you had envisioned. You had drawn up the designs, and Seungmin, after his initial, logical protests, had meticulously refined the physics and structural integrity.
As the cue came, the lights dimmed, and the team pulled at the ropes designed to retract the main curtains. The sound was deafening, a sickening groan of metal followed by a splintering crash. The curtain mechanism jammed, but worse, the sudden strain on the stage’s frame, combined with a structural flaw in one of the central supports, caused a partial stage collapse accident during props setup. The wooden beams groaned and gave way, the main screen tilted precariously, and a series of meticulously crafted props came tumbling down, one after another, in a cacophony of shattered wood and twisted metal. It wasn't a total disaster, but it was close. Panic seized the team. People screamed, scattering from the stage as dust and debris rained down.
The principal arrived in a flash, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He didn’t scream, didn’t yell. His voice was dangerously low, and every word was a sharpened knife. "What in the world is this?! You have two days. Two. And this is what I find? This is a complete failure of leadership. The safety of the students was compromised! The cost of this… this destruction… is beyond acceptable!" He gestured wildly at the wreckage. "I am seriously considering cancelling the event entirely. All of it." The threat hung in the air, cold and final.
You felt a crushing weight settle on your chest. It was your idea. The risky, unconventional props. The unique, complex reveal. Seungmin had warned you, not directly, but in his meticulous planning, in the extra hours he'd put in to make sure the structure was sound. But you, in your usual carefree, improvisational way, had pushed for speed over caution. This wasn't just a technical mishap; it was a consequence, and it felt entirely like your fault. You felt a wave of nausea, the knowledge that you had jeopardized everything so close to the finish line.
As you stood there, paralyzed by a sinking dread, you saw Seungmin do something that completely redefined everything you thought you knew about him. He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his chin raised slightly. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady. "Principal," he said, his voice ringing with a calm that was completely out of place. "The blame for this lies with me. I was the one who signed off on the structural designs. I take full responsibility for the failure. It was an error in my calculations. I will personally find a way to fix this, but the fault is mine."
The principal, who had been about to unleash a storm of fury on the entire committee, stopped dead. His eyes narrowed on Seungmin. "An error in your calculations? You are Kim Seungmin. You don't make 'errors.' Are you telling me that you, in charge of every detail, missed something so fundamental?"
"Yes," Seungmin said, his voice unwavering. "I did."
The principal’s scolding that followed was brutal. He didn't just scold; he tore into Seungmin, his words lashing like a whip. "You've jeopardized the entire event! The reputation of this school, and more importantly, your own, is on the line because you chose to be careless. I expected more from you, Kim. You were supposed to be the sensible one, the responsible one. This is a disgrace." He reminded him that he was the golden child, the one who was supposed to be perfect, and that a mistake of this magnitude was unforgivable. He threatened to remove him from his position and put a formal warning on his record, an action that could jeopardize his academic standing and future prospects. It was a public dressing-down, vicious and relentless, and you could only stand there, watching, utterly shocked that he'd protect you like this. The man who had once told you that you "ruined everything you touch" was now sacrificing his own perfect record to shield you from the consequences.
The night was a whirlwind of frantic fixes, with Seungmin's parents called in for an emergency meeting and the entire committee scrambling to salvage what they could. The fest was on thin ice, but a new, simplified stage plan was quickly drafted. You were a ghost, moving through the tasks with a silent, haunted purpose. You needed to talk to him. You needed to understand.
You found him late that night, alone in the committee room, re-drawing blueprints on a new sheet of paper. The desk was littered with crumpled drafts, and he looked haggard, a deep line of exhaustion etched between his brows. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a stark, unforgiving glow on his pale face. He looked broken. You closed the door behind you. He didn't look up, his pen scratching furiously on the paper.
"Why?" you asked, the word a small, broken thing in the vast silence. "Why did you do that?"
He didn't stop drawing. "The safety report was my responsibility. The final sign-off was my responsibility. It was a logical consequence."
"Don't lie to me," you snapped, your voice cracking with a painful mix of fury and gratitude. "It was my idea. You know that. I pushed for it. You were just trying to make my reckless idea work." You took a step closer. "You took the blame. You took the fall for me. Why?"
He finally stopped, looking up at you, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Because," he said, his voice hoarse, "I won't let you be blamed." The words were blunt, simple, but they cut to the core.
A rush of emotions, too complicated to name, flooded you. He was so infuriatingly noble, so self-sacrificing, so… perfect. And you, with your messy emotions and your chaotic energy, couldn't stand the thought of him doing something so immense for you. It was too much.
You felt something break inside you. All the tension, all the hurt, all the fear and the confusing feelings you’d been trying to bury came boiling to the surface. You snapped: "Stop trying to be a hero! Do you know what you did? You put your whole future at risk! All for me! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting! I make my own messes!"
He flinched. The calm he had clung to all day finally broke. His face twisted with a mixture of pain and anger. "That's exactly it, isn't it?!" he spat, slamming his pen down on the desk, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room. "You always make a mess! You're careless, you're reckless, you're so irresponsible you can't even see the consequences of your own actions!" The accusations, once a cold observation, now came from a place of deep, gut-wrenching pain. He wasn't just angry, he was terrified. "I told you! I told you it was a risk! But you just laughed it off, didn't you? You always laugh everything off! Because it's never real to you until it crashes down!"
"And you're obsessed with control!" you fired back, tears welling up in your eyes. "You have to control every single thing because you're terrified of living! You can't stand anything that's not on your little checklist because it scares you! You're so scared of being anything but a perfect, lifeless machine, you'd rather sacrifice yourself than admit you might not have all the answers! You'd rather take the fall than let me fix my own mistake because that would be admitting that your world isn't perfect!"
The words hung in the air, poisoned arrows. The fight wasn't about the stage anymore; it was about the very core of who you both were. The tears that had been threatening to fall from your eyes finally did, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. And you saw it then—a single, traitorous tear sliding down his face as well.
He was silent, shattered. He didn't move, just stood there, his shoulders slumped, the facade of a perfect machine finally cracked. You watched that tear fall, and the sight of his pain was a physical blow. You had won the argument, but at what cost? You had broken him.
In a final, desperate act of self-preservation, of pushing him away before he could get any closer, you took a step back. You had to make sure he understood. You had to make sure he never did anything so selfless for you again. You had to protect him from the chaos that was you.
"Go back to your perfect life," you said, your voice thick with unshed tears. "Just… stop. Stop pretending. You don’t deserve chaos like me."
The words were final, a door slamming shut. His eyes, full of a crushing, bewildered hurt, were a raw wound. He was stunned, speechless. He had fought for you, risked his perfect life for you, and you had just thrown it back in his face. You didn't wait for a response. You just spun on your heel and stormed out, leaving him shattered in the quiet, dim committee room, the ghost of your last, brutal words hanging in the air.
You went to your room, isolated yourself, and curled up in a ball, the belief that you ruin everything you touch now a cold, undeniable certainty. You didn't answer your phone. You didn't check for messages. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing you under its immense pressure. You had ruined the fest, and you had just broken the only person who had tried to save it for you.
Seungmin, meanwhile, stayed up all night. The words you had said, "you're impossible, you don't deserve chaos like me," echoed in the silence. He tried to focus on the blueprints, the numbers, the cold logic of fixing the problem, but the image of your tear-stained face, and his own single, shameful tear, kept getting in the way. He stayed up all night redoing plans alone, a desperate, obsessive attempt to regain control over the one thing he had lost: you. His usual analytical fury had turned inward, becoming a self-inflicted punishment. The guilt was crushing him. He had let his guard down. He had cared, and in doing so, he had made a mistake, a mistake that had not only damaged the fest but had seemingly confirmed every fear he had about himself. He was not a hero. He was just a failure.
Over the next two days, the school was abuzz with hushed whispers. Rumors spread that the fest may fail, and the pressure mounted on everyone. The team was exhausted and demoralized. You and Seungmin, once the driving force, were now two separate, broken entities. You avoided each other at all costs, not even a glance, not a word. The storm that was brewing had finally broken, but it hadn't cleared the air. It had left a devastating silence. The two of you had stopped speaking completely. The tension was gone, replaced by a deep, aching void.
-
The two days leading up to the festival were a miserable, agonizing blur. The passionate, creative energy that had once filled the committee room was gone, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence. You and Seungmin, once the heart of the project, were now two separate, broken entities, orbiting a shared catastrophe. Days pass with zero contact between them. You’d see him across the hall, a ghost of his former self, and your heart would twist with a sickening pain. But you’d look away, your guilt a lead weight in your stomach. It felt as though an invisible wall had been built between you, one made of unspoken words and shattered trust. Every passing moment was a new incision on a wound that refused to heal.
Consumed by the belief that you had ruined everything, you did the only thing you knew how to do: you ran. You avoided the committee room entirely, hiding from the problem you had created. You answered text messages from other members with one-word replies, and only offered help with tasks that could be done in complete isolation. You didn't dare show your face at the fest, convinced that the moment you did, it would all come crashing down again. You were an island, isolated in a sea of your own making, consumed by your guilt. It was a corrosive, all-consuming emotion that ate away at your insides, making every laugh from a friend sound like an accusation, every casual glance a judgment. You felt like a plague, a force of nature that only brought ruin, and Seungmin was just the latest, and most painful, casualty.
Seungmin, meanwhile, was left to manage the wreckage alone. The new, simplified plans were a testament to his sheer will, but the work was relentless. He was everywhere at once—on the stage, in the tech booth, at the prop warehouse. The teachers, the other committee members, and your friends noticed his exhaustion. His perfectly pressed uniform was perpetually wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and his eyes, once so sharp and clear, were now perpetually bloodshot. Yet, when anyone asked if he needed help, he'd just shake his head and give a curt, clipped reply. He refused to complain, refusing to ask for the help he so desperately needed. He was shouldering everything, a silent, solitary Atlas bearing the weight of a world he had chosen to save. He had no one to share the burden with, and he wouldn't dare ask. The thought of letting someone else in, of allowing them to see the cracks in his perfect facade, was worse than the exhaustion itself.
You weren't there to see his breakdown, but you heard it in fragments. You overheard classmates talking in the hallway, their voices filled with a casual cruelty. "He's just not cut out for this, is he?" one of them said. "I thought he was supposed to be a genius. Looks like he couldn't handle the pressure. The fest is probably going to fail." Your heart plummeted. Her guilt deepens to an unbearable ache, a raw, exposed nerve. The words were like tiny shards of glass, each one twisting deeper. You retreated to a bathroom stall, locking the door, the quiet sobs tearing from your chest. You had not only broken him, but you had also tarnished his reputation. You had taken the one thing he valued more than anything—his control, his perfection—and you had shattered it, leaving him to pick up the pieces alone.
Later, your friend, concerned about your disappearance, found you in the deserted hallway. "You know you should be helping, right? He’s drowning. He won’t admit it, but he is. This is your fault." Her words were a painful truth, and when she urged you to talk to him, to apologize, to help him, you refused. "He's better off without me," you mumbled, turning away, the lie burning on your lips. "I just… I'm a mess. I'll just make things worse."
Unbeknownst to you, Seungmin was just around the corner. He had been looking for you, a desperate hope forming in his mind that you would finally talk to him, finally come back. But instead, he found himself a silent witness to a conversation that shattered his heart. He heard your friend's plea, and he heard your response: "I want some distance from all of this. He's better off without me." The words hit him like a physical blow. He froze, his entire body going numb. He had taken the blame, had risked his future, and you had confirmed his worst fear: that you didn't need him. His heart, already so bruised and fragile, shattered. He had chosen to be your hero, and you had just told him you didn't want him. It was a brutal moment, and it was a thousand times more painful than the principal's angry words.
That same evening, at baseball practice, he was a ghost on the field. He missed throws, his arm mechanics were off, and he kept looking toward the bleachers. The coach, a gruff but perceptive man, finally called him over. "What's wrong with you, Kim? You're a liability out there. Get your head in the game or get off my field." He demanded improvement and warned him that he would be benched. He saw him collapsing under pressure, and it killed you inside.
You had gone to the baseball field to clear your head, to be alone, but you found yourself hiding behind the bleachers, watching him secretly. You saw the slump of his shoulders, the uncharacteristic errors, the look of profound exhaustion on his face. He was not a perfect machine; he was a boy, hurting. He was hurting because of you. The sight of it was more than you could bear. You were a mess, a sobbing wreck, and you had to leave before he could see you.
Finally, the day before the fest, as you were slinking down a deserted hallway to grab something from the committee room, you saw him. He was standing there, leaning against a locker, a dark cloud of exhaustion and pain hanging over him. He was waiting for you. He straightened up as you approached, and his voice was raw, devoid of its usual controlled tone. “Why are you running?” The question was simple, but it was a raw, aching plea.
You flinched. You had no defenses left. You broke. The tears you had been holding back for days finally spilled over. “Because I break everything I touch—including you.”
A flicker of something—anger, frustration, agony—flared in his eyes. He took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous, a tremor running through the words. “Do you think I care? You think I’m perfect? You think my life is some pristine, little box I have to keep neat and tidy? I chose this! I chose to stand in front of that man, I chose to take the fall, I chose to be here now, trying to fix this! Do you think you’re the only one who can make a mess? I’m here. I’m right here, a mess because of you. Do you think I care about being perfect anymore? Do you think I care about what the principal says? I chose you, you idiot!” The words were a torrent of raw, unfiltered emotion, the final breaking of his control.
You just stood there, stunned, watching him as he revealed everything. He was trembling, his eyes glassy with tears. You had never seen him so vulnerable, so completely shattered. And in that moment, all your carefully constructed walls crumbled. You broke down crying in front of him, your body wracked with loud, heaving sobs.
He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to comfort you. He just stood there, trembling, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes glassy and filled with his own unshed tears. The silence was deafening, a thick, heavy acknowledgment of all the pain that had been exposed. The truth was out, ugly and brutal and raw, and in its wake, there was nothing left but two broken people. You both walked away, but the truth was exposed.
The silence was a tangible weight between you, a heavy, suffocating blanket that had settled over the entire project. For two days, the committee room felt less like a workspace and more like a tomb. You and Seungmin moved through it like specters, avoiding each other's gazes, communicating only through clipped, curt words directed at other team members. The atmosphere was so thick with unspoken tension that committee members were genuinely scared to approach you both, preferring to whisper their questions to your friends rather than risk the fallout.
But the festival deadline, a merciless countdown, didn't care about your pain. With a final, frantic push, you were all forced back together. It was a cruel necessity. There were simply too many final details to handle alone. You found yourself on opposite sides of the stage, working on different tasks, but every move you made, you were acutely aware of him. The sound of his footsteps, the low rumble of his voice giving a direction, the flash of his hair as he bent over a prop—each was a new incision on a wound that refused to heal.
The awkward silence was broken only by the work itself. There was no longer any of the shared laughter or comfortable companionship. It was purely professional, but the professionalism was a paper-thin facade. Your hands trembled as you taped a banner, and his voice was so strained it was almost unrecognizable.
The tension finally came to a head when a teacher, oblivious to the emotional chasm between you, walked in, hands on her hips. "Alright, everyone listen up! The lighting and sound are a mess. We need to do a final systems check, and since you two are the only ones who know how this is supposed to work," she said, gesturing at you both, "I’m putting you in charge. Lead the discussion. Now."
You and Seungmin locked eyes, a brief, agonizing moment of shared desperation. There was no escape. You couldn’t pretend you didn’t exist anymore. You were forced to work together. Standing in front of the team, you both began to speak. Your voices were shaking, but you forced yourselves to act professional, going over the checklist, delegating tasks, your words a strange, stilted ballet of forced courtesy. He'd explain the tech setup, and you'd chime in with the visual cues. Every sentence was a tightrope walk. You were so close to the finish line, but the pressure to be normal was crushing you both.
After the meeting, everyone scattered, leaving the two of you alone on the empty stage. The quiet felt louder than the frantic buzz of the earlier rehearsal. You turned to walk away, to make your escape, but his voice, low and raw, stopped you. “Hey.”
You froze, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.
"Look at me," he said, and the demand held a desperate, aching plea. When you finally did, his eyes were bloodshot, exhausted, but they held a raw, terrifying sincerity. “I meant what I said.”
You felt your throat tighten. The words, so angry, so full of anguish, had been a constant replay in your mind. The thought that he hadn't just said them in the heat of the moment was a new, crippling blow. You avoided his gaze, staring at your shoes, the shame and guilt so overwhelming it made you want to disappear. "I know," you muttered, the words barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. For… all of it."
He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if holding himself back. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t want your apology,” he said, the hurt in his voice so palpable it was like a physical touch. “What I can't stand is this. This… distance. The way you look at me like I’m a stranger. The way you run. I can’t stand when you pull away.”
His confession tore a fresh hole in your heart. You finally looked up, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry,” you said again, but this time it was a plea. “I'm so sorry. I’m just… terrified. Of everything. Of messing things up. Of hurting you. You’re this… this perfect person, and I’m just… a disaster. I feel like my very presence breaks things. That’s why I left.” Your voice cracked, thick with the anguish you'd been holding in for days. “I’m terrified of hurting you.”
He shook his head slowly, the single, glassy tear you’d seen days before finally making a reappearance. “You don’t get it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You don't understand. You already hurt me more by leaving.” He took another step, the distance between you now terrifyingly small. “You think leaving me in that room was protecting me? You think abandoning me was a heroic act? It was the most brutal thing you could have done. I would rather you break every single thing in my life, every single one of my plans, than watch you run away.”
The words were a final, desperate admission of his feelings, a complete and total surrender. You couldn't hold back the sob that escaped your lips. The tears that had been so close to the surface for days now fell freely, a waterfall of anguish that had been building inside you. You were both so raw, so emotionally exposed, standing there on the empty stage under the harsh glare of the rehearsal lights.
He didn’t move to comfort you, but for the first time in days, his shoulders seemed to relax. He didn’t try to control the situation. He just stood there, letting the chaos of your emotions wash over him. He finally let out his bottled emotions. "I'm so tired," he whispered, the words barely audible, the raw, unfiltered truth of his exhaustion finally escaping. "I'm just so, so tired."
And for the first time in your life, you didn't feel the need to run. You stepped forward, your hand outstretched. You gently rested your hand on his shoulder, and a single, shuddering breath escaped his lips. She gently comforts him, her hand a soft, reassuring weight. He didn't move away. He leaned into the touch, just a little, a small, involuntary movement of a boy starved for comfort. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften, the sharp, guarded look replaced by a profound, aching vulnerability.
You looked into his eyes and the words came out, a confession you didn't even know you were holding. “I don’t hate working with you anymore.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle in his jaw clenching. When he opened them again, he met your gaze, and the words he spoke were the most honest, painful truth he had ever uttered. “I never hated you.”
The words hung in the air, a silent bomb. You both froze, realizing the immense weight of the words. He had never hated you. Even when he was at his most brutal, at his most annoyed, he had never hated you. It had all been a defense mechanism, a shield to protect himself from the powerful, unpredictable force you were. And you, you had been so caught up in your own guilt that you hadn't seen the truth.
The silence that followed was different from the one that had separated you for days. It was a shared silence, thick with meaning and the thudding of two hearts, both terrified and hopeful. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, not the cruel tension of hate, but the electric pull of two broken people who finally found their way back to each other.
The shift was undeniable. The chasm had been bridged, and you were standing on solid ground, ready to finally pick up the pieces, together.
The night before the festival was supposed to be a time of frantic, last-minute fixes, a final celebratory push. Instead, it was just… quiet. Most of the committee members had left hours ago, exhausted and demoralized. The school, usually a hive of activity, was now a hollow, silent echo of its daytime self. You and Seungmin, however, remained. The stage was a ghostly skeleton of its former self, with half-finished props and tangled wires scattered across the floor. The air was cold, and the only sound was the low hum of the stage lights you were trying to fix. Night before fest — decorations still unfinished. You were perched precariously on a ladder, trying to hang a massive, shimmering banner, and he was on the stage below, meticulously sorting through a box of bulbs. The silence, so different from the agonizing void of the past few days, was now heavy with a raw, unspoken emotion.
You fumbled with the banner, your hands shaking from a combination of exhaustion and nerves. It was the same banner you had worked on together, the one you had almost ruined. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth. You finally got it hung, but it was slightly crooked. You sighed, defeated, and descended the ladder. He was still on the ground, his back to you, and something in the slump of his shoulders, the stillness of his form, made you want to just wrap him in a hug. But you couldn't. Not after everything. You stood there for a long moment, watching the way his shadow stretched long and thin under the stage lights. It felt like watching a stranger, a stranger you knew intimately, a stranger whose every breath you had once been in sync with.
You picked up a stray wire, trying to organize the mess on the floor, when he spoke, his voice low and strained. "You're doing it wrong."
You flinched. The old Seungmin, the one who saw everything with a critic's eye, was back. The words, however, held none of the old venom. They were just… tired. "Sorry," you mumbled, a familiar wave of shame washing over you. "I'm a disaster."
"Stop saying that," he said, turning to face you. His eyes were shadowed, but they held none of the brutal coldness from a few nights ago. They were just… hurt. "Just let me fix it." He reached for the wire in your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The brief contact was an electric shock, sending a jolt of heat up your arm. You pulled back as if burned.
And that was it. That was the final straw. You had been holding it in for so long, and his quiet, resigned exhaustion, the way he was trying to fix your mistake yet again, sent a wave of frustration and pain through you. A stupid, petty argument breaks out again over last-minute choices. "Don't you get it?" you snapped, your voice rising. "I don't want you to fix it! I don't want you to take all the blame! I want you to be angry! I want you to tell me how much you hate this, how much you hate me for messing it all up!"
He stared at you, his eyes wide, startled by your outburst. He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, the words spilling out in a torrent of raw emotion. “Why do you even care this much?! It's just a school festival, Seungmin! It’s not worth your record, not worth your sanity! What is wrong with you?! Why do you care about this more than you care about… about yourself?! It doesn't make any sense!"
He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched between you, thick and charged with all the unspoken truths. You could see the internal battle raging behind his eyes, the final remnants of his control crumbling. And then, he said it. Not in a shout, but in a low, choked whisper that was more powerful than any scream. “Because it’s you!”
The words landed like a physical blow, a sudden, brutal confession that shattered the silence. The raw truth of it was so shocking, so unexpected, that it took your breath away. He wasn't yelling anymore. He was just… standing there, his face pale, his eyes wide and filled with a terrifying, agonizing vulnerability. Silence, heavy and raw. You felt your entire body tremble. This wasn't about the fest, not about the stage. It was about you.
He took a step closer, his voice barely a whisper, filled with the raw, brutal honesty that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. “You drive me insane,” he admitted, the words a confession of his own powerlessness. “You’re reckless, and you're careless, and you’re a walking catastrophe. You mess up everything you touch, and you make me want to scream with frustration. I hate the way you make me feel, the way you make me lose all my control. But… I can't stop caring.”
You couldn't breathe. His words were a mirror, reflecting all the flaws you had ever seen in yourself, but in his voice, they were not flaws at all. They were just… facts. And then, it was your turn. The words trembled on your lips, but you forced them out, a shaky, desperate confession. “I’ve been falling for you, and it terrifies me.” You had finally said it. You had confessed the one thing you had been so afraid to admit, the reason you had run, the reason you had pushed him away. Because the way he looked at you, the way he protected you, it made you feel something you had never felt before, something so terrifyingly real.
Tears sprang to both of your eyes, tears of relief and pain and brutal honesty. Tears on both sides—brutal honesty. The raw shouting had turned into a raw, messy breakdown. He reached out, his hand hovering over your face, as if he was afraid to touch you, afraid you would disappear.
“Don’t run from me again,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
“Then don’t let me go,” you whispered back, the words a silent plea.
And then, he was kissing you. It wasn't a perfect, cinematic kiss. It was messy, desperate, and trembling. His hands were in your hair, his lips were on yours, and you were kissing him back, a frantic, agonizing expression of everything you had been holding in for so long. It was the messiest, most desperate thing you had ever done, and you had never felt more alive.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, your foreheads touching, your eyes closed. The silence was heavy, but it was no longer a suffocating silence. It was a shared silence, thick with the aftermath of a confession and a first kiss. You opened your eyes, and a single tear slid down your cheek, and a ghost of a smile, a real, genuine smile, touched his lips.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered, and a laugh, shaky and choked with emotion, escaped your lips.
“I know,” he whispered back, his voice still raw, his eyes still glassy. He looked at you, his thumb gently wiping away a tear from your cheek. “You know… I’ve been so completely and utterly whipped for you all along.”
You laughed, a real laugh, that sounded more like a sob. It was the most honest thing you had ever heard him say. He had been fighting it, fighting you, but he had been falling for you all along. He had been so obsessed with not losing control, that he hadn't even realized he had lost it the moment you had walked into his life.
He gently cupped your face, his hands so warm and comforting. He leaned his forehead against yours, and you closed your eyes, a single tear of relief sliding down your cheek. There was so much left to say, so much left to define, but in that moment, in the quiet, dusty hall, you didn't need words. It was real.
You spent the rest of the night working in a comfortable, easy silence, not needing to speak, just holding onto each other quietly, a hand brushing against a hand, a shoulder leaning against a shoulder, a silent acknowledgment that the chasm was finally closed, and you were finally, completely, home.
Fest day finally arrived. The morning light, filtering through the high school windows, seemed to hum with a different kind of energy. It wasn't the frantic, chaotic buzz of a few days ago, but a nervous, electric current of anticipation. You walked into the main auditorium, and the sheer scale of what you had accomplished hit you like a wave. The stage, no longer a pile of splintered wood and twisted metal, stood tall and proud, its backdrop a stunning, meticulously crafted art piece. The lighting rig, once a tangled mess, now pulsed with a soft, confident glow. You saw him immediately. Seungmin was standing at the edge of the stage, his hands on his hips, a familiar look of concentration on his face as he surveyed the empty room. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights, but there was a quiet triumph in his posture.
The past twenty-four hours, since the moment you had kissed him, had been a strange, beautiful blur. The desperate energy of the previous night had been replaced by a quiet, focused collaboration. You had worked side by side, not as two separate entities forced together, but as a single, perfectly balanced machine. It was as if the brutal honesty and the first kiss had cleared a path, removing all the walls and defenses that had separated you.
And now, here you were, on the most important day of the school year. The fest was a living, breathing thing, and you and Seungmin, its creators, were its beating heart. The both worked seamlessly together — perfect balance. He would call out a cue, and you would hit the corresponding button without a word. He’d point to a prop that needed adjusting, and you’d already be moving to grab it. There was an unspoken language between you, a silent, intimate communication that had been forged in the crucible of chaos. It was a beautiful, terrifying thing, to feel so in sync with another person, to know their every move before they even made it.
And everyone noticed. The committee members, who had been so afraid to approach you, now watched with a silent, awestruck respect. The teachers, who had been so ready to write off the fest as a failure, now looked on with a sense of wonder. Everyone notices how in sync they are. You could feel their gazes on you, a strange combination of relief and curiosity. The pressure was on, but for the first time in days, it didn't feel like a crushing weight. It felt like a shared mission.
During a final walk-through, the principal himself stopped the two of you. His expression was one of genuine surprise and admiration. "I have to admit," he said, his voice unusually soft, "I was ready to pull the plug. But you two… you pulled it off. This is a testament to your hard work and leadership. You have gone above and beyond. Thank you." His words were a balm, a final, public acknowledgment of the pain and the effort. He praised them for pulling through, and a strange, shy smile touched Seungmin's lips.
You looked at him, and you saw something you had never seen before. Reader sees Seungmin shine — organized, respected, admired. He wasn't just the cold, analytical leader anymore. He was a force of nature, a person who had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders and had refused to be crushed by it. He was a hero, not because of a grand gesture, but because of his quiet, relentless determination. And the way he carried himself now, the way his shoulders were a little less tense, the way his eyes held a new, cautious hope—it made your heart ache with a fierce, protective love.
He, in turn, was watching you. You were a whirlwind of energy, a blur of motion as you checked the final details, your hair a mess, your cheeks flushed with excitement. He saw a vibrant, inspiring, fearless leader, a person who wasn’t afraid to take risks, a person who wasn't afraid to break things in order to build something new. He had been so obsessed with control, and you, with your beautiful, brilliant chaos, had shown him that sometimes, a little bit of beautiful chaos was exactly what was needed.
During the event, you were a blur of motion, rushing from the stage to the tech booth, but your eyes were always searching for him. And his were always searching for you. During event, they exchange small looks across the crowd. A shared glance, a brief, private smile. It was a secret language, an unspoken acknowledgment of the past few days, a silent promise that you were in this together.
At a brief, breathless performance break, you both found yourselves in a quiet hallway backstage, a small, intimate refuge from the roaring crowd. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and excitement, but in your little bubble, it was just the two of you. He didn't say anything. He just reached into his bag and pulled out a small carton of strawberry milk, his favorite. It was a simple, mundane thing, but in that moment, it was everything. He shared his strawberry milk with her—an intimate gesture. It was a silent apology for the arguments, a silent promise of everything that was to come. You took a sip, the sweet taste a comfort in the midst of the chaos, and you handed it back to him.
You sat on the floor, your legs crossed, the energy of the crowd thrumming through the floorboards. Without thinking, you reached out, and under the table, your hand found his. His fingers curled around yours, a tight, possessive grip that sent a jolt of electricity through your entire body. She holds his hand under the table. He squeezed back tightly, and a small, shaky sigh of relief escaped your lips. It was a silent acknowledgment, a physical connection that said everything that words couldn’t. It was a lifeline, a steady, anchoring force in the midst of the storm.
You were both so giddy, so electrified by the small, private act, yet so terrified of being exposed. It was a new, frightening thing, this intimacy. It was the calm after the storm, and it was the beginning of something new.
After the fest, the principal and staff praised them as the best leaders in years. The air was thick with relief and a quiet joy. You turned to him, your heart pounding, and in a low voice, a voice just for him, you whispered, “We did it.”
A tired, genuine smile, not a forced, polite one, touched his lips. It was so real, so completely and utterly his, that it made your breath catch in your throat. You had been so used to seeing him with a polite, practiced smile, but this one… it was different. You noticed it's genuine, not forced. He looked at you, his eyes soft, and he leaned in, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “With you, smiling feels different.”
The words were a final, devastating blow, a beautiful, shattering admission of how much you had changed him. You melted, and you reached for him, throwing your arms around him in a tight, desperate hug. She melts, hugs him tightly. He stiffened at first, a brief moment of surprise, and then, slowly, his body relaxed, and he melted into it, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you so close you could feel his heart beating. He buried his face in your hair, and you could feel his sigh of relief.
He whispered the words you had been so afraid to hear. “Don’t leave me again.”
And you, with the weight of his confession and the truth of his hug, promised him. “I won’t.”
The first week after the festival was a strange, disorienting blur of relief and overwhelming emotion. The frantic, high-stakes chaos that had consumed your lives for weeks was gone, replaced by a quiet, lingering exhaustion. But instead of leaving a void, the calm felt like a new beginning. Your late-night conversations and clumsy first kiss had been a catalyst, a brutal, beautiful reset button that had cleared the air and laid the foundation for something new. Weeks after fest, their bond grows. Slowly at first, like a cautious plant stretching for sunlight after a long winter, and then with a quiet, undeniable strength. You started spending every possible moment together, not out of obligation or necessity, but because the space between you felt wrong, an aching emptiness that only the other could fill.
You were officially dating but lowkey at school. There were no grand pronouncements, no public displays of affection in the crowded hallways. Your friends knew, of course, their knowing smiles and subtle nudges a constant reminder of the sea change in your relationship. But to everyone else, you were just the two leaders of the successful fest, a well-matched pair who had a new, unspoken camaraderie. You liked it that way. It felt like a precious, fragile secret, a small bubble of intimacy in the bustling, prying world of high school.
The dichotomy of Seungmin's public and private self became a fascinating, endlessly endearing thing to witness. To the world, he was still Kim Seungmin, the school's cold, meticulous genius. He was still quick with a dry, sarcastic comment, his eyes still held that sharp, analytical gleam, and he was still utterly uninterested in small talk or social niceties. To everyone else, he was still the same person, maybe a little less stressed, a little more… human. But with you? With you, the mask dissolved. Seungmin still savage, but only to others — soft with her. He’d see you in the hallway, a slight smile would touch his lips, and his eyes, once so guarded, would soften into a warm, gentle gaze that was only for you. The difference was so stark, so beautiful, it made your heart ache.
And you, of course, couldn’t resist the temptation. You loved to watch him in his element—calm, confident, and utterly untouchable—and then you’d catch his eye from across a crowded room and mouth, "You're whipped." He'd roll his eyes, a small, subtle reaction that no one else would see, but the faint, genuine smile that followed was a secret just for you. Reader teases him about being secretly whipped. He never denied it, not with his words, but with his actions. He started to show up at your locker with a carton of strawberry milk, his favorite, and he’d just hand it to you, a simple, quiet gesture that spoke volumes. The first time he did it, you just stared at him, and he looked away, his cheeks a faint, embarrassing pink. "Just… take it," he mumbled. "It's the only one they had left." It was the most terrible lie, and you both knew it. You started bringing him orange slices before baseball practice, a small nod to the fact that he was finally letting you in, letting you take care of him.
Your dates were a comfortable, chaotic mess. You’d meet up at the library after school, but it was less about studying and more about just being in the same space. You’d sit at the same table, surrounded by towering stacks of books, his neat, meticulous notes spread out on the desk, your own doodles of him in the margins. You’d share silent glances, your knees occasionally brushing under the table, a constant, unspoken intimacy that made your skin tingle. They study together — his notes, her doodles. His notes were perfect, every detail accounted for, every point highlighted and underlined. Your doodles were chaotic, a mess of lines and scribbles that somehow perfectly captured the way his eyebrow would raise when he was confused, or the way his lips would curl when he was trying not to smile.
The nights grew cooler, and your library dates turned into late-night walks, the kind of comfortable silences that only exist between two people who know each other deeply. You didn't need to fill the space with words. You just walked, your shoulders occasionally brushing, the unspoken conversation a low hum of contentment. Late night library dates — comfortable silences. You talked about everything and nothing. He'd tell you about a complicated equation he was trying to solve, and you'd tell him about the ridiculous dream you had last night. You both listened, not just with your ears, but with your hearts.
Your basketball lessons, once a source of tension, were now playful, filled with good-natured teasing and an unspoken, gentle competition. Basketball lessons turn playful, filled with teasing. He’d gently correct your form, his hand on your waist, and you'd pretend to get annoyed, but the truth was, you loved the way he touched you, the way his body felt against yours, the way he laughed when you missed a shot and landed on your butt. One particularly ridiculous day, a playful fight ends in a raw kiss mid-laughter. You were arguing about a missed foul, and you were both so wrapped up in the moment that you didn't see it coming. He reached out, his hands on your cheeks, and he kissed you, not a gentle, sweet kiss, but a raw, desperate one, full of passion and laughter.
He started walking you home daily, not because you needed a chaperone, but because he just wanted to prolong the time he had with you. You'd linger on your doorstep, a brief, silent moment that felt like an eternity. Seungmin starts walking her home daily. You noticed he listens more to your music now, the songs you had once blasted into the void of the school hallways now on his playlist. He, in turn, noticed you humming Shawn Mendes songs, the kind of soft, melodic tunes that were the complete opposite of the rock and punk you had always loved. You were both slowly, beautifully, changing, and the changes were subtle, a silent acknowledgment of the way you were falling into each other’s rhythm.
But it wasn't perfect. It couldn't be. The wounds from the past were still there, and they were still a part of who you were. One day, a big argument erupted. It was a petty thing, a minor disagreement about a group project that quickly spiraled into a much bigger fight, the kind of raw, emotional blow-up that you had both been avoiding. He accused you of being reckless, and you accused him of being a control freak. The words were familiar, but this time, they weren't meant to destroy. They were meant to hurt. You both said things you didn’t mean, and the silence that followed was a familiar, painful echo of the silence from a few weeks ago. But this time, you didn't run. You didn't slam the door and disappear. You both just stood there, tears in your eyes, but you stayed. Big argument once, but they learn to fight and return. You both took a deep breath, and you faced each other, ready to work through it, ready to fix what was broken, instead of running away from it.
He admitted he never thought he could let someone in. He confessed his fear of chaos, of things he couldn't control, of the way you made him feel a kind of raw, desperate emotion that he had always pushed away. He admitted that he was terrified of loving you, because it meant he was vulnerable, and it meant he wasn't in control. She, in turn, admitted she never thought someone would choose her chaos. She admitted her fear of being a burden, of ruining something pure and perfect, of the way he made her want to be a better person, a more careful person.
And then, he said the words that had been building inside him since the day you had walked into his life and turned it upside down. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.” The words weren't a grand, poetic gesture. They were simple, honest, and devastatingly true. They were a raw confession, a final, unyielding surrender.
Time Skip
Twelve years after the festival indeed 12 years of dating each other facing the ups and downs together, and a few months into a beautiful marriage, the "organized chaos" of your life had only deepened into a comfortable, shared rhythm. You stood in the living room of your home, a space filled with mismatched furniture that somehow worked perfectly together, just like you both. The scent of a celebratory dinner still lingered in the air, a sweet testament to a love that had grown from a bitter rivalry into a profound partnership.
A hand, warm and familiar, slid around your waist, pulling you gently back. A low, tired, but deeply content voice murmured against your shoulder, "You know, for all your brilliant chaos, you didn't leave a single detail of this night to chance. Everything's in its right place… except for you. Should I put you on a list, too?"
You leaned back into him, your head tilting to rest on his shoulder. "Why would I need to? My prize is already here. And besides, I'd say I've taught you a thing or two about abandoning your lists entirely."
He gave a soft smile, his eyes holding a decade's worth of inside jokes. His hands moved from your waist to your neck, his lips following, leaving a trail of soft, reverent kisses that made you melt. He kissed your collarbone, the delicate line of your neck, his every touch a silent prayer of gratitude for every part of you.
You traced the line of his jaw with your finger, your voice a soft murmur. "You're still a creature of habit, Kim Seungmin. But at least now your lists have a very important first item: Worshipping your wife. In a very… thorough way."
He chuckled, a sound that resonated deep in your chest. "A given. A constant. It doesn't need to be on a list. And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, his lips brushing your skin, "you can’t worship what you don’t have access to."
A hot flush crept up your neck. You gently pushed him back, your heart hammering in your chest, and a shy smile on your face. "That was… a very bold comment from the man who still carries an emergency strawberry milk in his bag."
He feigned a grimace, though his eyes were alight with mischief. "That was twelve years ago, when we were newly dating. Are you going to bring that up for the rest of our married life?"
"Until we're old and grey," you promised, your laugh bubbling up in your chest, your confidence returning. "It's the first crack I saw in your perfect armor. The moment I knew you were more than just a robot."
His smile faded, and his hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His expression was no longer teasing, but serious, and filled with a profound tenderness that still had the power to disarm you completely. "You know, that wasn't the first crack," he said, his voice low and intimate. "The first crack was when I saw you laughing with your committee. The way your entire body lit up with that unhinged energy. I was so angry, because I couldn't understand it. And so incredibly jealous, because I couldn't be like that. I wanted to see you that happy all the time."
Your heart ached, a sweet, painful twinge of a memory you had long buried. You had never known that. You had only seen his cold, analytical gaze.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "And you, you didn't just see a robot," he whispered, his eyes closing. "You saw through my fear. That's why I knew I had to marry you. Because you're the only person who can see the fear, and not just the perfection. You're my beautiful, perfect chaos. And I'm all yours."
The air between you was charged, thick with a decade of unspoken words, of inside jokes and tender moments, of arguments and resolutions. The playful banter had given way to something deeper, something far more meaningful. His touch on your skin felt like coming home. He peppered your face with kisses before his lips found yours again in a slow, gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of sweet victory and promises.
The flirty words and playful jabs were just a cover for the deep, abiding love that lay beneath. It had been twelve years since you had met, since a disastrous school festival had brought two unlikely rivals together. The past decade and a half had been a beautiful, imperfect blend of his logic and your light, a life filled with spreadsheets and spontaneous adventures, with carefully planned vacations and last-minute road trips.
You and Seungmin. Chaos and order. A perfect, beautiful, and sometimes messy union.
genre: crackfic, dark comedy, dark romance, thriller
summary: hyunjin invites you over to hang out with him and his friends. they try to kill you. you survive! aaaand now they’re obsessed with you.
warnings: non idol au, attempted murder of protagonist(reader), violence, blood, stalking, obsessive behavior, mentions of death/murder/dismemberment/(implied)rape(it’s just in a conversation, it didn’t happen to anyone in the fic!!), cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, dumb han and felix, people die, the love interests(skz) are the problem, nobody here is okay, english is obvi not my first language
word count: 13k
you almost got murdered.
by eight gorgeous men.
yea, y/n. you got yourself into that situation. but how?
you were walking home once, minding your own business, chewing on some thought. could have been anything. from dinner to what you need to do tomorrow, let’s not act like it matters. none of these little details matter, what does, is that a man was walking towards you. (an: guys i’ll clarify it now that it’s hyunjin. i just hate when fanfics try to describe looks when we don’t know names yet)
the man passed you. smelled great. nothing more.
“is this yours?”
that was him. his voice. he talked to you.
you stopped then and turned around. he was also standing still, looking at you. holding a single airpod.
no. it was not yours. at all. not your airpod.
“shit. yes, it is.” you smiled. a hundred percent aware that the single airpod was not yours.
hyunjin smiled, relieved in a way that suggested he had not planned beyond step one: talk to pretty girl. he asked your name. you asked his. he pretended he wasn’t internally rehearsing how to introduce you to the worst decision of your life.
and that’s exactly how you got yourself into the situation before your getting murdered one, where you kept seeing hyunjin, never really revealing that the airpod was not yours. you didn’t want to, he was just so cute.
and also a serial killer, not like you knew that though.
hyunjin was always the best with the women. or with the people in general. the other seven guys were… doing alright with them, sure, some better and some worse, but hyunjin always got what he wanted. he was the one collecting the people, another person to kill.
which did not happen to you, duh it’s in the first line, but how? how, when the eight of them, eight little nobodies who only got through life because of each other, are so good at killing? how, when it’s the main thing that bonds them together and gives them their sick little dosage of joy? how, when that’s the thing they can do best? how, when they’re fit? lucky? hot?
yea i’ll just stop with all the questions. i’m boutta explain, obvi.
so. you two started meeting up. you not telling him that the airpod wasn’t yours, him not telling you he was planning on sliming you out.
once, he invited you out. you two have been out hundreds and thousands of times(like five times), so it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary to you. not a date, he said hang out. his place. “a few friends might be there” he added. you went. fucking idiot.
the place was so fucking cool. big. looked good. kinda place where you immediately lost cell service and your sense of direction.
“that’s just the guys.” hyunjin had also said when you two got there, gesturing inside.
you met them all in under three minutes, which was about two minutes too many. chan was a gentleman. he smiled. he shook your hand. he had huge arms and was gorgeous.
minho and seungmin both looked like they hated you. looked you up and down. acted like bitches. acted like they didn’t understand what you wanted when you said hi and introduced yourself. acted like you were beneath them. hm.
changbin saved the moment by immediately knocking over a chair and laughing at himself. he was sweet. he asked you if you wanted a drink. that was nice, because he meant that. he wanted to get you something to drink, even if he wanted to kill you after. wanting to absolutely murder you wasn’t personal, so he wasn’t going to make it personal.
felix and unfortunately han, two sunshine or whatever you heard the guys say about them(why were there two?) were sweet, but dumb. han tried to shake your hand and missed. felix complimented your shoes and then apologized to the floor.
jeongin bowed. he asked if you were real. he told chan you were out of his league. chan was about to smash his head into a wall. he seemed intelligent though, a little playful, a little flirty. sweet guy. (also a fucking psychopath y/n run run RUN)
through all of it, hyunjin, the liar, the asshole, stayed near you. calm. watching. soooo fucking hot, man. everyone else was loud or mean or deeply stupid, but hyunjin looked at you like he didn’t quite know what to do with you.
which was funny, because the rest of them clearly knew exactly what they wanted to do with you.
they were bad at hiding it. terrible, actually. chan kept whispering. minho and seungmin stared too long. felix dropped something sharp and went “oops”. jeongin asked, loudly, if you were good at running, then immediately said he meant marathons.
you thought they were weird. intense. hot, unfortunately. you had no idea you were being sized up.
so. like two hours into the hang out. you didn’t have your phone with you, it was in the living room somewhere. you were in the kitchen with hyunjin, leaning against a counter, listening to him explain, calmly, something about the cabinets.
“uhuh.” you said, opening three drawers and finding nothing but knives. so many knives. “oouukay.”
from the living room, something heavy scraped across the floor.
“alright.” chan’s voice came. “enough foreplay.”
you frowned, no idea what he was referring to. yet. “that’s a weird thing to say out loud.”
hyunjin hummed. then seungmin appeared in the doorway, posture lazy, swaying a lil, with a fire poker in his hand. i repeat, fire poker.
you had just enough time to think oh that’s new, before he swung. clean. aimed at your head.
you ducked on instinct. the poker smashed into the cabinet behind you, splintering wood, sending a drawer of knives exploding onto the floor.
everyone froze for half a second.
“jesus.” changbin said from somewhere nearby. “we just fixed that.”
you stared at seungmin. he stared back. you two stared at each other for a while.
“…huh.” you said. “okay.”
then you ran.
the boys just… got into it immediately. switched. getting up. listening to your footsteps. laughing. jeongin whooped. they all obviously had done this before. they were so boyish, all of them. and so fucking evil.
you ran down a hallway, heart slamming in your ribs. a door on your left? locked. on your right, open.
you ran into a study and immediately regretted it. felix was there, sitting on a desk, holding a crossbow. WHERE. DID. HE. GET. THAT. FROM.
“oh!” he said, genuinely delighted. “hey.”
“move.” you said.
he winced sympathetically. “can’t.”
the shit that he shot out of the bow that i don’t know the name of thunked into the wall beside your head. close enough that you felt the vibration in the air, from the ground.
“fuck you.” you said, accepting it surprisingly quick that you were getting hunted down.
you burst back into the hall and nearly collided with changbin. he caught you by the shoulders automatically(so like without thinking about it), steadying you.
“okay.” he said, quick and quiet. “left stair’s blocked. right one buys you maybe twenty seconds.”
“why are you telling me?” you panted.
he shrugged. “i like you.”
then he leaned down, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, oh, and shoved you forward by the middle of your back.
“go. before i change my mind.”
you went.
behind you, he called out cheerfully: “she went right!”
“YOU FUCKING LIAR.” minho yelled.
you ran up the stairs two at a time. at the top when you turned, han was waiting, holding a bat.
“oh shit.” he said. “hi.”
you grabbed the bat midswing, yanked it free, and cracked him across the shin. you fucking rock y/n.
he screamed, fell over, yelled “timeout! timeout!”
you ditched the bat(DUMB bitch) and ran into what looked like a… whatever room. it was big, pretty big, too open, too much of a bad choice.
chan stepped into your path. was this bitch there the whole time? no, he couldn’t be. could he?
you spun, only to find minho closing in. you kicked him in the knee, hard. he lunged. you ducked, grabbed a chair again and swung blindly. the thing is, you were extremely weak tho. the chair could have been a fucking pillow at this point, because he just stepped away from it. and you… kinda went with the chair. but you stood up! luckily.
they loved this, they loved the way you fought, the way you adapted. it was cute, girly how you didn’t scream, just swore and moved and made it harder than it was supposed to be because they know their shit in this field. it made them better, sharper, more playful.
you ran out the door you came in thru and shut it behind you, jamming a heavy table against it. the boys could have prevented that, they just didn’t. you were way too fun, and they knew that you were getting tired. they knew they were going to win this. again.
you waited a bit.
the door shuddered. once. twice.
then stopped.
silence.
your stomach dropped. that was never good.
“okay.” hyunjin’s calm voice came, suddenly close, from behind you.
you spun.
for a bit, you just stared at each other.
“yeah. so. the airpod?” you said breathlessly.
he winced. “yeah.”
“figures. sorry for lying about it.”
“it’s fine. i lied too.” he stepped aside, gesturing toward a side door. gentlemanly. “run. i’ll count to five.”
“why?”
he smiled, beautiful. “because it’s more fun when you almost make it.”
you didn’t wait for five. you ran again, heart in your throat.
“YOU’RE DOING GREAT!” felix shouted when he saw you run past him. “I MEAN—STOP!”
yeah. pfftt.
the house stopped making sense after a while. corridors doubled back on themselves, which was fucking brutal. there were rooms you swore you’d already crossed. you ducked into a side room and slammed the door, immediately realizing, too late, that it didn’t lock.
“fuck.” you whispered, hands on your knees, trying to quiet your breathing. and you listened. footsteps walked past. someone laughed, a really… loud laugh. jeongin’s voice echoed from somewhere far off. you could hear how unserious his voice was, talking bout sum “she’s still upright, folks, which is honestly impressive” genuinely just making fun of the situation.
“keys.” you muttered. “i need keys.” because you clearly remembered hyunjin closing the front door after you.
from behind the curtain came a soft, confused, very close: “…huh.”
you froze.
the curtain moved. it was han, holding a knife and a flashlight upside down, blinking at you.
“oh. hi.”
third hi he said tonight. hi to you too, han.
you stared at each other.
“uh.” he said.
“yeah.” you replied.
a beat passed.
another.
he frowned at the flashlight, turned it the right way up, blinded himself, and yelped.
“sorry.” he said, rubbing his eyes. “didn’t mean to corner you.” serial killer btw.
“you did. that’s literally what you did.”
“right.” he nodded. “yeah. so. i’m supposed to, uh—” he made a weak stabbing motion with his hand that held the knife. missed entirely. “—do the thing.”
you glanced at the knife in his hand. them at him. then back at the knife. “you don’t look super confident about that.”
he shrugged. “i get nervous.” he hesitated. then leaned in and whispered: “hyunjin gave his keys to chan, i saw it.”
“…thaaanks.”
he smiled, shy. “okay.” he said, stepping aside. “i’m gonna count to… uh… what’s fair?”
“ten.”
he nodded seriously. “ten.”
you bolted.
“ONE—THREE—WAIT—”
you ran out. didn’t get far though, you heard too many noises, so you did what made sense at the moment. hide again. and you did hide again, at least tried, you were soon interrupted by seeing felix, who was crouched behind a couch, chewing on a cereal bar.
he looked up mid bite. “oh. hello again.”
“move. again.” you said.
he scooted instantly. “yep.”
you walked past. paused. looked back. “why are you hiding?”
he swallowed. “i forgot what the plan was.”
“oh. i’m sorry.”
“it’s alright.”
from the hallway, heavy footsteps. chan, probably. he walks confident. you can just… hear his walk. he walks like it’s heavy, grr. felix heard it too, grimaced.
“he’s gonna be mad. he hates when i lose track.” felix whispered.
you looked at felix. then at the hallway. then back at felix. “you’re fine. it’s not your fault. i think so, at least.” you looked around. “he just feels like the fucking star of the show, having the keys and all that”
felix’s eyes lit up. “oh! yeah, he’s got those.”
boom. that was your plan. sneak the keys into the conversation. get to know about it. you’ll be out of there in no time, y/n.
you looked back at him. “can you distract him?”
felix thought for a second, then shook his pretty head enthusiastically. “absolutely not.”
“…fair.”
he stood anyway, shook himself together kinda, and ran into the hallway yelling “HEY BRO I THINK SHE WENT—”
you didn’t hear the rest, you ran. climbed stairs, ducked under a railing(just being extra for no reason pfffft), slipped through a door that led into a laundry room, and locked it. the blessed, beautiful click of a lock nearly made you cry. then you crouched between machines, shaking, trying not to laugh or scream or do both.
minutes passed. nothing. then, a knock. polite. gentle.
you stared at the door.
hyunjin’s voice, calm and exactly what made you like him. “i’m not coming in.”
“yeah? promise?”
“cross my heart.”
“don’t have one.” jeongin added from somewhere farther back.
hyunjin sighed.
the fact that jeongin heard you talk and didn’t go to the laundry room says a lot about them though. tells you that they’re doing this for fun, that they’re not in a hurry at all.
you edged closer to the door, careful. “i need the keys.”
“i know.”
“give them to me.”
a pause. you imagined him leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, watching the floor. “you almost deserve them.” he said. “that’s the problem.” from down the hall came a crash, followed by changbin yelling. hyunjin continued anyway, softer now. “if you get them, though… you’re really leaving.”
“yes.”
“shame.”
fucking manipulator. that’s what he is. “you’re really leaving” oh boo fucking hoo. sappy asshole. not one sincere bone in his beautiful body. he said this cringe shit on purpose.
the doorknob jiggled once.
“five minutes.” he said. “that’s what I can give you.”
then footsteps retreated. you sagged against the dryer, adrenaline basically ripping your muscles, like ripping. we all know the feeling. anyways, five minutes. okay. you had to get out for sure, otherwise you would be so dead. so, next, run. you were going to run. open the door and… go… some… way. anyways, that’s what you did after about one minute of sitting on the floor and thinking about how will you do that. you got out, and didn’t stop running so much as you failed forward into the next hallway.
somewhere behind you, han shouted your name wrong, twice, then tripped over absolutely nothing and went down with a sound that sounded like multiple things falling with him.
“FUCK. i’m okay! I’M OKAY.”
you risked a glance back just in time to see him scramble up, only to immediately collide with minho, who had come around the corner too fast. they hit the wall together, tangled, swearing.
you burst through a door and nearly slammed straight into seungmin. both of you froze. like actually froze. inches apart. his breath was loud. yours was worse. he stared at you. you stared at him. his grip tightened on whatever sharp thing he had in his hand.
“…hi.” you said.
“sup.” he said. “you’re shorter up close.”
“fuck you.”
“later.” easily.
you looked at him, furrowing your pretty brows.
he glanced down at the knife in his hand, then back up at you. “this is awkward.”
“yeah.”
he tilted his head. “you okay?”
“no.”
“hm.”
there was a beat where neither of you moved. somewhere far away, something crashed, probably han.
seungmin tilted his head. “you gonna run, or are we doing this weird staring thing?”
you lunged left.
he lunged right.
you both smacked into the same doorframe and recoiled in pain.
“fuck.” you mumbled, rubbing your pretty head.
“shit, okay, that one’s on me.” he admitted, rubbing his shoulder. his pretty shoulder. that sweater looked good on him, by the way. yeah. hm. really good. but that didn’t fucking matter when he lunged again.
you screamed, slipped on a rug, and fell, only for minho to come in from the side and tackle seungmin directly into a glass table. the table shattered.
you stared.
they stared back.
“…go.” seungmin shook his head, waving you off.
you did not need to be told twice. behind you, minho yelled smth like “WHY ARE YOU LETTING HER GO?”
a crash. a thud.
then seungmin, very calmly: “because you’re pissing me off.”
you ran straight into han and felix arguing at the end of the hall.
“i said left.” han insisted, holding a crowbar upside down.
“you always say left.” felix argued, holding a taser and clearly forgetting how it worked.
you skidded to a stop.
all three of you froze.
you were panting. “can you both—”
felix lunged. han lunged. they lunged into each other. they crashed, arms everywhere, legs everywhere, clothes everywhere, the smell of men everywhere, tangled up, the taser going off uselessly into the air.
“STOP STABBING MY JACKET.” felix yelled.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE HER.” han yelled back.
you stepped over them. “thank you.” you said sincerely, and ran.
you rounded a corner and slammed straight into chan, full chest to chest. you both stumbled back a step. he held you automatically, hands on your arms. you stared up at him. he stared down at you.
he almost smiled.
then han came sprinting in, tripped over nothing again, and took chan out at the knees.
“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY.” han yelled, tangled in chan’s limbs. “I DIDN’T SEE YOU.”
seungmin and minho found you again. jeongin leaned on a wall, wiping dust off his knees. han just got up and felix came in late, and they tripped over each other again. chan just sighed at this point.
you backed toward the door, hands up.
then while getting up, felix slipped. took han down with him. again. they crashed into minho, who slammed into seungmin.
jeongin smiled. “DOMINOES!”
that was your chance to do something. something to even just slow these guys down, anything, bro. so, you did. when chan stood up finally, you lunged for him.
but like… that asshole just laughed in your face and twisted away easily, shoving you past him. “go.” he said. “you’re warmer when you keep moving.”
weirdo. but you ran again anyway, down a side corridor, thru a door and immediately ate shit. your foot caught on something, and you slid, palms burning, your pretty little skin they want to cut so bad just gone like that.
behind you, there was a collective “OOHHHH.”
you rolled your eyes. sighed. thought about just lying there because they would probably still miss even if you were completely still. you decided maybe not. so you scrambled up and ran again, swearing, adrenaline making everything feel fucking crazy. unreal. is this really happening?
you didn’t know how long you ran, time stopped somewhere around the third near death experience.
you went downstairs and upstairs and downstairs again, back and forth, hoping to find something that could save your life. when you were back at the stairs for the seventh time that night, you took the stairs three at a time, only to find han at the top, again, wheezing, holding a knife backwards.
“WAIT.” he said. “hold on—euh—my lung—”
you ran past him.
he tripped over his own foot and tumbled down the stairs alone, screaming “I’M FINE—I’M NOT FINE—TELL MY MOM—”
you didn’t look back. you burst into a bedroom and slammed the door, locking it just as something heavy hit the other side.
silence.
your chest heaved. sweat slicked your now skinless palms. you pressed your back to the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, brain finally catching up enough to think.
okay. door. big house. front door has keys. keys are on someone. they told you it’s at chan but he could have gave it to anyone since that.
that was bad.
you stood, looking through the room. window. too high. bathroom. connected. closet. tiny but usable. fuck yes. you hid in the closet just as the door opened.
footsteps. slow, manly. so confident in himself.
“you know, i really thought we had something.” jeongin. sweet. acting, obviously.
you clapped a hand over your mouth.
he paced the room, dragging something metal lightly along furniture. an axe, maybe.
“like, don’t get me wrong. i love the chase. big fan. but the eye contact earlier? intimate.”
you heard him stop in front of the closet.
“…you in there?”
you didn’t move.
he sighed. then, dropped to his knees. you could see him through the slats now, sprawled on the floor.
“y/n.”
you could hear your breathing. you could also hear his. which meant…
“come out.”
…he could hear yours too.
okay. fuck. your only option was to make a run for it. so, after taking a biiiiig big breath, you burst out of the closet and kicked him in the shoulder. was it successful? was it a good kick? who knows. it knocked him down, that’s what matters, but it was a pretty lame kick after all. he only went down because he wanted to, not because you actually kicked him good.
anyways, you ran again. out the room. then immediately skidded to a stop when seungmin opened a door in front of you.
he stepped aside immediately. “after you.” he said, gesturing inside.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
you could hear hyunjin make a noise, talking with changbin.
seungmin raised his brows. “i insist.”
he knew that you needed an escape route and this was your only option. you knew he knew.
you sighed. ran through it, and it slammed shut behind you. you could hear a snicker(his voice), then silence. maybe he left. maybe not.
the room you were in was darker. storage. boxes. is this place even owned by these guys? or do they just come here to… play?
you hid behind a shelf, crouching, heart in your ears.
okay. think.
front door. locked. too obvious. you needed keys. you needed a person.
but they were playing. this wasn’t about killing you quickly, it was about the fun. about testing themselves. about proving, again, that they were smarter, faster, better. the teamwork thrilled them, having prey thrilled them.
footsteps approached.
door opened. han stepped into the room, tripped, and fell into a stack of boxes. why always this guy?
“oh COME ON.” he groaned. “i wasn’t even chasing her!”
neither of you moved.
“…you okay?” you asked.
“yeah.” he said, looking up, nose bleeding. “yeah. you?”
“living the dream.”
he nodded. then, very gently, he pointed back towards the door. “they’re coming.” he whispered.
in the doorway, felix appeared, pointing at han. “dude. again?”
you took the chance and got out of your hiding place, quick, and bolted past them both.
felix gasped. “oh shit—sorry—sorry—”
han tried to follow, slipped again, and yelled: “WAIT FOR ME!”
a crash. a curse. someone else falling over him.
you ran down the hall toward what you hoped was the front of the house. behind you, shouting, laughter, whooping, bodies colliding, someone yelling “WHO LEFT THIS CHAIR HERE?” you rounded a corner and skidded to a stop in front of the front door. you tried the door. locked. you didn’t know where the keys are. your chest tightened. behind you, footsteps slowed. confident. chan, seungmin, minho, jeongin, closing in.
you turned around. the wall met your back hard enough to knock the air out of you.
“okay.” you said, breathless, girly, the prey they wanted you to be. “okay. this is—yeah. alright.”
the other four found you too. felix, panting. han, limping. hyunjin and changbin obviously not affected because they didn’t really take part of the chase. blocking off every possible exit.
chan didn’t take his eyes off you. “everyone good?” he asked, calm. so fucking calm. knowing he won.
“peachy.” jeongin said.
“bit winded.” felix added. “but spiritually fulfilled.”
changbin gave you an apologetic little wave. “sorry.”
then seungmin lunged.
you fought, harder than they expected, apparently, elbowing, kicking, swearing. but they were sure now, hands grabbing wrists, legs hooking yours, pressure applied. you went down. not slammed, though. controlled. that fucking pissed you off more.
seungmin had your arms pinned. minho had a knee on your thigh. chan crouched in front of you, looking down at your pretty face.
the second you were fully restrained, jeongin shrieked. “oh my GOD we got her!”
he leapt into felix’s arms. felix caught him, squealing back.
“we did it!” felix yelled.
they spun once. almost fell. han clapped wildly and then tripped into changbin, taking them both down.
you laid there, chest heaving, heart pounding, really feeling your body, not knowing what the fuck was happening. because they didn’t seem dangerous, but you knew they were.
chan tilted his head. “you ran well.”
“thanks.” you said.
jeongin crouched down to your face. “so. how you feeling?”
“fuck off.”
hyunjin tilted his pretty head, hands in his pockets. “you did really well.”
you forced yourself to breathe slower. think. keys. chan’s jacket pocket. right side. you’d seen the outline earlier when he caught one of the boys midfall.
jeongin tilted his head at you. “are you afraid? like, i’m actually asking, because i need to know what to do differently next time. are you afraid of death? did we make you feel like you’re going to die? how would you rate it out of ten?”
you sighed, looking down at the floor. “getting killed is, like, the last thing on my list right now.”
they paused.
seungmin grimaced. “yeah, no.”
“oh, no.” felix said, shaking his head
“dude.” minho murmured.
“we would never.” changbin whispered.
“ew.” han blurted, horrified.
you narrowed your eyes. “ew?”
“no—no—not ew you. i mean—fuck—you’re hot—shit—sorry—what i meant was—”
jeongin smacked the back of his head. “stop talking.”
seungmin pulled his mouth up. “we’re not… that evil.”
minho crossed his arms. “jesus.”
chan straightened slightly. “that’s not our thing.”
you watched the discomfort, the immediate correction, the way the tone shifted. interesting.
“relax.” you said, rolling your neck as much as the hold allowed. “i know.”
“thank you.” han said, sweating. “sorry. respectfully.”
“you’re fine.” you murmured.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
but something had changed, you saw it. that weird line you’d dropped, (half joke, half truth because it’s horrible that we have to live in a world like this), went somewhere they didn’t like. their version of evil had rules. sooo fucking weird ones, but still.
“okay. wait. wait.” you said.
…
“what.”
“i think i’m gonna throw up.”
“fuck—” changbin recoiled.
“not on me.” minho said, backing up.
“turn her head!” felix yelped.
jeongin scrambled backward on his hands and feet.
chan watched seungmin loosen his grip. “are you actually nauseous?”
“yeah.” you croaked, gagging for effect. “stress. adrenaline. it hit now that i’m still.”
hyunjin crouched beside you, studying your face. “you might want to give her space.”
“THANK you.” you gasped.
they got off you. you rolled to your side, clutching your stomach dramatically. and in that shuffle, arms moving, balance adjusting, you shoved your hand straight into chan’s jacket pocket. your fingers hit metal.
keys.
you grabbed them and curled them into your palm just as jeongin leaned back in. “you good?”
you scrambled to your knees, pushing past them, one hand over your mouth, the other clenched tight around the keys.
“don’t run.” chan warned.
you made eye contact with him.
and ran.
“FUCK.” seungmin yelled.
“GO GO GO.” han screamed, even though he was on the wrong side.
you sprinted down the hallway, heart about to explode, keys biting into your palm. behind you, footsteps. but now… less playful. more oh shit.
han tripped. felix ran into a wall. changbin yelled: “STAIRS—CUT HER OFF—” and jeongin was just shouting around for fun. just hootin n hollerin.
you ran down the hall.
behind you, hyunjin’s calm voice said: “don’t panic.” which was because they finally were.
you ran away from them, deep into the house again. you heard the footsteps disappear from behind you. good. good.
you slowed just enough to think. you couldn’t outrun eight of them forever.
chan and hyunjin were walking together on the halls. hyunjin had a small, neat folding knife now loose between his fingers. chan had taken a syringe with him. already prepped. yes, he can do a lot with only one syringe. his other hand kept brushing the empty space where the keys used to be.
he didn’t like that.
“she took them clean.” chan said.
“yeah. good hands.”
“you sound impressed.”
“i am.”
“you like her?”
hyunjin didn’t answer.
“if we lose her, we change locations.” chan said, ignoring that his earlier question didn’t get an answer. he already knew it.
hyunjin nodded. but there was something under it, for the first time, the outcome wasn’t certain. that was unusual for them, because they usually did really, really good at this. once someone was caught by them, there was no escape. you were the first one who lived to a second round. he found that interesting. and yeah, he might have started developing a tiny little crush on you, back when you two were just meeting up normally. so what? he’s allowed to!
jeongin moved alone. still with his axe that he’d twirled into familiarity. he swung it lightly as he walked. he checked corners, smiling. as if he was dancing.
“y/n.” he called, singsong. “be honest, was it the flirting? too much? i can dial it back. slightly.”
he stepped over a fallen chair.
“i just feel like we had chemistry.”
he grinned to himself. he loved this part, the story, the tension, the almost. he knew you were thinking now. they got a thinker. he loves that. ohohohoooo
he paused, listening. then grinned. “oh, you sneaky girl.”
seungmin had the fire poker again. holy shit??
he liked the chase because it stripped people down to instinct, survival. that’s what he respected.
“c’mon.” he murmured. “don’t go quiet on me.”
you were irritating him. he barely got irritated. ever.
changbin and minho moved together. changbin carried an injection case now, plus a heavy flashlight he could swing if needed. minho had a hunting knife.
they turned a corner. empty.
“she’s doing something.” minho realized.
changbin’s smile(that came upon his face while he was thinking about you, hehehe) faded. “oh.”
they heard a noise and both spun, only to slam into each other again.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” minho snapped.
“shit.” changbin said, steadying the other guy by his shoulders. “let’s just go.”
you moved through hallways. your lungs burned, but your head was clear now. you slipped into a side room and crouched low, listening.
footsteps passed. voices echoed elsewhere. they’d spread too wide.
you waited, then moved when you judged safety.
back at the hyunjin chan duo, hyunjin stopped in the hallway. “she’s heading back.” he said quietly.
chan. followed his gaze toward the front of the house. “you sure?”
“yes.”
“how?”
“it’s what i’d do.”
meanwhile, at the front door han sat on the floor, back on the wall, holding a shovel. felix sat beside him on the other side of the door with a frying pan he absolutely did not need to be trusted with.
“…we guarding?” han asked.
felix looked at the door. looked at the hallway. looked back at the door.
“…yeah.” he decided.
they both nodded.
“you think she thinks i’m cute?” han asked, adjusting his grip on the shovel.
“bro. absolutely.”
“really?”
“yea, mate.”
they dapped each other up.
“if she makes it back here, i call saying something smooth.” felix said thoughtfully.
“what’s smooth?”
“i don’t know yet.”
while they talked, you grabbed a metal… something from a side table. and started walking back toward the front door.
“she definitely liked when i said she was hot.” han said.
“respectfully.” felix said.
“respectfully.” han looked away, then back at felix. “she’s gonna be so impressed when we catch her.”
“dude. literally.”
they fist bumped.
then, a loud sound came from down the hallway, and a metal object rolling fast across the floor toward them.
they screamed, then scrambled to their feet, immediately abandoning the door.
“dude. we’re gonna fucking die.” han cried.
felix grabbed his arm. “if y/n was here right now, she’d hold my hand.”
“yeah. she’d be so brave.”
“should we check?”
“no.”
“…we should get the others.”
“yes.”
they ran away from the door, deeper back into the house, yelling for backup.
the front door stood unguarded.
you waited three full seconds after their footsteps faded. then you moved. silent. you didn’t run, that was important. you didn’t want to make noise.
behind you, distant voices.
“FRONT DOOR!”
“THEY LEFT IT—”
you walked to the door quickly. put the key in. wrong key. tried another. wrong key. another. unlocked it. opened it.
now, you ran. you ran, and didn’t stop. you didn’t look back. already past the gate. past the trees. gone.
for the first time ever, they’d lost.
the boys regrouped at the front door. empty. door slightly open.
silence.
chan looked at the door. then at hyunjin, who stared at the gap, face blank. he felt respect. and relief.
seungmin looked at the lock. then at chan’s empty pocket. then back at the lock.
for a second, nobody spoke.
“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” minho said, sneering.
behind them, han and felix jogged in, out of breath and pale.
“okay.” felix panted. “so—update—there’s a hallway demon—”
they stopped when they saw everyone standing still, all backs turned to them.
felix looked around. “anyone else feel a breeze?”
chan walked to the door in three steps and shoved it open the rest of the way. empty driveway. dark trees. no you.
jeongin blinked. “…no.”
seungmin made a sound like someone had just run over his foot. “noooo.”
minho rubbed both hands down his face. “no no no no—”
jeongin looked at the ceiling. “oh that’s embarrassing. that’s so embarrassing for us.”
han gasped “shit, she did it!”
felix nodded. “i always believed in her.”
they high-fived.
every head turned.
“are you two serious right now?” seungmin snapped.
han immediately jumped into felix arms.
chan stepped back inside slowly and shut the door, quiet. too quiet. “no one moves.” he said.
seungmin was already halfway to the threshold, fire poker still in hand. “we can still see the road—”
chan grabbed his arm. hard. “i said no.”
seungmin yanked free. “she’s on foot.”
“she has a head start.”
jeongin crossed his arms, shifting his weight. “so we just—what—clap?”
“use your brain for once.” chan, voice low. “you’ll make mistakes.”
“oh, i’m sorry.” seungmin snapped. “did your pocket make a mistake?”
OHHHHH.
minho swore and kicked a chair across the room. it smashed into the wall. “THIS is why we don’t get cute.” he said. “this is why we don’t play with our food.”
chanbin winced. “okay, that phrase—”
“not the time.” seungmin cut in.
hyunjin leaned against a table, arms crossed, watching the boys.
seungmin looked at him, suspicious. the level of angry where he gets suspicious at anything. “you’re quiet.”
“thinking.”
“about?”
hyunjin didn’t answer.
“you liked her.” minho accused.
hyunjin’s eyes flicked to him, calm and flat. “irrelevant.”
“bullshit.”
chan stepped between them before it turned physical. “enough.”
“no, not enough.” jeongin shot back. “she got past eight of us. eight.”
“seven.” seungmin muttered. “i was close.”
“YOU HIT A CABINET.” changbin screeched.
felix, still holding han bridal style, raised a hand. “i think we should acknowledge that she was very good.”
everyone stared at him.
han nodded seriously. “and brave.”
minho looked like he might actually kill them. “put him down.”
felix gently set han on his feet.
han immediately pointed at minho. “your energy is aggressive.”
minho grabbed a glass off a table and hurled it into the fireplace. it shattered. “THIS is aggressive.”
“billy badass over there.” changbin murmured, crossing his huge arms.
minho didn’t hesitate to turn towards changbin and shove him. changbin shoved back automatically.
“don’t start.” chan warned.
too late. seungmin grabbed minho’s shoulder and pulled him back. minho shook him off. jeongin stepped between them, not to help, just to watch. “god, you’re all so emotional.” he muttered.
seungmin started toward the door again, fury radiating off him. “i’m going after her.”
now, chan didn’t just stop him but actually pushed him away by the chest. a confident, violent push. manly. frustrated. “no.”
seungmin rounded on him. “she’s RIGHT THERE.”
han raised his hand again. “i still think she likes me.”
everyone yelled at once: “SHUT UP.” “READ THE ROOM.” “YOU WERE AFRAID OF THE DARK.” “SHE HIT YOU WITH A BAT.” “YOU LEFT THE DOOR.”
“we were investigating a threat!” felix said defensively to the last one.
“you are the threat, you idiot!” seungmin barked, then grabbed the front of his own shirt and screamed into it.
minho kicked the wall.
chan exhaled through his nose, centering himself. “no chasing into the dark.” he said. “not like this.”
“she’s getting farther.” jeongin argued.
seungmin made a noise like something dying. chan folded his arms. thinking. hyunjin stared into the night air like he could still see the path you took.
behind them, han whispered to felix: “when we catch her, i’m gonna ask if she thinks my eyes are pretty.”
felix nodded seriously. “they are.”
eight dangerous men. outplayed. and every single one of them wanted you back.
so yeah. that’s what happened, like… two weeks ago now? yeah. about two weeks. now you’re living your life. you hadn’t told anyone. what would you even say? you decided to just leave it. process it. give yourself time to get over it.
now you are standing in line for coffee. life’s been fine since that after all, you deserve it. you slept. eventually. not well, but enough. you changed routines. new routes, new locks, pepper spray, therapy waitlist, the works. you tell yourself you’re fine.
your name gets called.
“hey.”
your stomach drops before your brain catches up. you don’t turn around. because you know that voice. so you grab your coffee and walk. behind you, footsteps.
“okay, so don’t freak out.” jeongin says.
you keep walking.
“that’s actually a terrible opener, sorry, ignore that.”
you cross the street. he crosses too. you don’t look at him. you don’t run. at least you try.
“you look good.” he adds.
“go away.” you say calmly.
“working on it.” he says, which is not how that phrase works.
you turn a corner toward a busier street. people. noise. couples. kids.
“no.” you say.
“i just want to talk.”
“no.”
“did you get a haircut?” he tries.
you stop dead and turn. “how long have you been following me?”
“today? or—”
“jeongin.”
he winces. “okay. today today? like twenty minutes. but not in a creepy way. i was building courage.”
you resume walking faster.
he matches it, breath puffing a little. “listen, i know we didn’t end on a great note.”
“you chased me with an axe.” you cross the street without looking. a car honks. jeongin grabs your sleeve and yanks you back just enough to keep you from getting hit.
you stare at him.
“i didn’t come to hurt you.” he says. “if that helps.”
you keep walking. he groans softly and follows. people passing by just see two hot twenty somethings having what looks like a mildly tense situationship talk. it’s kinda crazy that they have no idea what happened two weeks ago.
you walk faster. he matches it.
“you dropped something.” he blurts. when you give no reaction, he tugs at your sleeve. “really.” he says, pointing behind you.
“that only worked once.” you say, yanking your hand out his grip.
“yeah.” he sighs. “worth a shot.”
a florist stand is set up on the corner. without stopping, jeongin leans sideways, grabs a small bouquet, tosses a crumpled bill onto the table, and keeps moving. he shoves the flowers toward you.
you stare at them. then at him. you don’t take them. but you stop walking and finally look at him.
he looks… normal. hoodie. messy hair. no axe. no grin that clearly tells he’s in animal mode. just this pretty guy.
people move around you, annoyed at the sidewalk blockage.
“you have five seconds.” you say.
he nods, serious now. “okay. we’re not going to hurt you.”
you stare. you start walking again.
he follows. “the boys haven’t shut up about you.”
“that’s not flattering.”
“it kind of is.”
“i don’t know what you want. i’m not coming back.” you say.
“i know.”
“you can’t follow me.”
“already am.”
you reached your apartment building. this is bad. this is very bad. you stop again, turning to face him fully now. his eyes shine.
“we don’t want to kill you.” he says quietly.
you search for anything that could say he’s lying. you can’t find it.
“that doesn’t make you better.” you say.
“i know.”
“you’re still—”
“yeah.”
“…if you come near my place again, i call the cops.”
he nods immediately.
“if i see any of you, i run.”
“mhm.” he holds the flowers out again, then seems to think better of it and just sets them on the sidewalk between you. “i just needed you to see that i’m not… only that.”
“…you are that.” you say. you’re not even being mean, just honest. brutally honest.
“yeah.” he says.
you go inside without looking back. not caring about where will he go, when will he go, why will he go.
the next day, you change your route. different coffee shop. different street. hoodie up, headphones on, just really fucking trying to stay away from them in general. you’re in that coffee shop now. then you step out of the café with your drink, and nearly walk straight into a guy. you flinch back hard.
“whoa—sorry—sorry.” a voice says quickly.
you look up. it takes your brain a second. glasses. plain black frames. simple gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that this man is fucking fit.
changbin.
he gives you a small, awkward wave like you ran into each other and not like he… he found you. “hi.”
you just stare.
“i come in peace.” he adds, lifting both hands.
you close your eyes. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“okay. before you walk away—i deserve that—but just—hi.”
you glance around. public. morning rush. safe enough. “why are you here.”
he adjusts his glasses. “i just wanted to talk. like, normal talk. not chase talk.”
you sigh, and start walking. “you have two minutes before i start screaming.” that’s more time you’ve given jeongin, though.
he falls into step beside you immediately. “you could’ve called the cops.” he says after a moment. genuinely confused. “you still could.”
you look at him. “you don’t think i’ve thought about that?”
“i figured. but you didn’t.”
you sip your coffee, buying time. “you’d disappear before anyone got there.”
“…yeah.” he admits.
“and then what? i spend the rest of my life wondering if you’re gonna show up mad?”
he nods slowly. he can’t argue that.
“also, i don’t want to tell that story out loud. figured it would be the best for me if i just lived through it and got over it. eventually.” you add, quieter.
changbin nods “okay. yeah. that makes sense.”
you study him. he looks the same as in the house, almost friendly. that makes a question pop up in your head. “have you done that before?” you ask. “like. killing people.”
“yeah.”
“how many?”
he blows out a breath through his teeth. “i don’t keep a number.”
“and why?”
he takes a breath, thinking. actually thinking. “it’s not the killing part.” he says slowly. “not for me. that’s just… the end of it. it’s the before. i dunno. i like the teamwork. but that’s just me, ask the others if you want their version.”
you’re confused. “…did something happen in your past?”
he shrugs. “no. grew up rich. had friends. i have a great job. my mom calls me on sundays.”
you stare at him.
“i’m serious.” he says. “i’m just… like this.”
you hate how calmly he says it. “when did you start?”
“early twenties.”
“why didn’t you stop?”
he gives you a small, almost embarrassed smile. “i’m good at it.”
you don’t answer. a car horn blares down the street. someone laughs nearby. the world keeps going, oblivious. “you scared me.” you say.
“i know.”
“you still are.”
“i know.”
you swallow. you check the time on your phone. “i told jeongin i’d scream if any of you came close to me ever again.”
“i heard.”
“you got lucky.”
“i’m glad.”
a bit of silence.
you meet his eyes. “i don’t trust you.”
“you shouldn’t.”
“but you still came now. why? why can’t you leave me alone?”
he shrugs, small and helpless. “i liked talking to you in the kitchen. before we… started.”
ow. sounds bad. so bad that you take a step back. away from him. you’re scared.
“i don’t feel things the way other people do.” he says finally. he wanted to spit that out for a while now, he just couldn’t scrape the courage together. “it’s like everything’s gray unless it’s intense.”
you sigh. “…at least you’re honest.”
he nods. “i just… i wanted one interaction with you that wasn’t you running.”
you watch him. he’s still scary. “you got it.” you say. “now what.”
he shrugs. “now i go away.”
you study him. glasses slightly crooked. trying very hard not to look threatening. failing, because he looks like he could lift a car.
you almost smile. almost. “don’t follow me.” you say.
“i won’t.”
“tell the others.”
“i will.”
you start to walk off.
“hey.” he calls.
you turn, tired.
“you were really impressive.” he says. sincere. really.
you hold his gaze. “i know.”
then you leave him standing on the sidewalk, alone. alone with his horrible, evil soul. alone with this weird dumb crush he recently developed on you. alone with his biceps, flexing because he feels a lot and it just… happens when he feels a lot.
it’s the next day. normal day. sun’s out. people walking dogs. a delivery truck is parked. blablabla anything that says world goes on. you were paranoid this day, sure, but you survived so far. you’re currently locking your apartment building door after yourself so you could go grocery shopping when a voice behind you says:
“okay, don’t be mad.”
you close your eyes. slow inhale. you turn.
it’s felix. and this guy literally tried to shoot you once, you remember clearly, but he looks… perfect. perfect hair. expensive jacket. shoes that cost more than your phone. holding… a container?
you stare.
he smiles, so sweet. “i made you muffins.”
“…you what.”
“blueberry.” he says proudly.
you look at the container, suspicious. “i’m not eating that.”
he frowns a little. “that hurt my feelings.”
“you tried to kill me.”
“sorry.”
you rub your face. “why are you here.”
he shifts his weight. he’s nervous. it’s cute tho. “we voted.” he says.
“you VOTED.”
“yeah.”
“ON WHAT.”
“on not killing you.”
you just stare at him.
he brightens. “it was almost unanimous.”
“WHO voted no?”
“…minho.”
yoy try to step around him toward the street. he mirrors you accidentally.
“felix.”
he freezes. “yeah?”
“move.”
“oh. right. sorry.” he sidesteps so fast he almost falls off the curb.
“you cannot come here.” you say. calm. really hoping he’ll understand. “you cannot follow me. you cannot bake for me. do you understand how insane this is?”
he nods immediately. “yes.”
“then why are you here.”
he looks at the muffins. then at you. “okay. so. we— i— baked.” yes baby, we know. you told us already.
“i see that.”
“for you.”
“i gathered.”
he nods, satisfied that the point has been made.
you start walking. he starts walking. directly into a street sign. it’s loud.
he recoils. “ow.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose.
“is it bleeding?” he asks, pointing at his face, but he immediately goes cross eyed as you push his face away instead. his skin is warm. feels nice tbh. he blinks at you, unbothered. “you have strong hands.”
“go away.”
“okay.” he says.
he does not go away.
you reach the crosswalk and the light changes. felix steps forward without looking. a car honks.
you grab his hand and yank him back.
he stumbles into you.
“jesus.” you mutter, still holding his hand as you cross. “you’d be roadkill in five minutes.”
he looks down at your joined hands, his big eyes shining, absolutely taken aback by the fact that you would do this for him. well, all that until you drop his hand on the other side of the street.
“thanks.” he says cheerfully.
a man wearing a watch worth a month’s rent, carrying something he made for you that you won’t eat, who could absolutely overpower you, and instead just almost died to a car.
“don’t follow me.” you say.
“okay.” he says, still following.
you glance at him. “you’re unbelievably stupid.”
“thank you.” he says.
“that wasn’t—”
“i’ve been working on self-acceptance.”
pffft.
you stop. “felix, listen. i don’t want you guys here.”
he looks at you, tilting his pretty head in confusion.
“you scare me.” you clarify.
“oh.” he says quietly. that, he understood.
you point at the muffins. “those could be drugged.”
“they’re not!”
“i don’t know that.”
silence hangs between you. street noise fills it. someone laughs across the road. life just keeps going.
“i liked talking to you.” he says finally.
“you didn’t talk to me.” you reply. “you hunted me.”
“yeah. i’m sorry.”
you watch him. disappointed that something this beautiful can be this cruel. “you need to leave.”
he nods. but he doesn’t move yet. “do you…” he starts, then stops. tries again. “do you hate us?”
you don’t hesitate. “yes?” of fucking course bro???
his little brain absorbs that. shoulders drop a little. “okay.”
he holds out the muffins one last time, hopeful in the dumbest way possible.
you just look at him.
he lowers them.
“just go, felix. bye.”
“yeah. bye.”
he turns the wrong direction.
you grab his hood and spin him around. “that way.”
“right.” he says, walking off.
he makes it three steps. turns back. holds up the muffin container. “do you want—”
“no.”
“okay.”
he walks into a bike rack.
you watch him go. he looks beautiful.
you hate him.
you check to make sure he crosses the next street safely before you turn away.
that passed too. a few days later you are leaving a pharmacy in the afternoon, receipt crumpled in your fist, focusing on your surroundings now.
and across the street, leaning against a lamppost, is chan. he raised a hand, giving you a little wave, mouthing: you good?
you mouth back go away.
he nods once, then pushes off the pole and walks in the opposite direction. not chasing now. actually walking away.
then you’re in a grocery store, looking at pastas, deciding which one you want to eat tonight. a hand reaches past you and places the more expensive one in your cart.
you turn. it’s seungmin. black hoodie. baseball cap.
you immediately pull it back out. “no.”
he takes it. puts it back into the cart.
“no.”
back in.
“stop.”
it went on for a good five minutes.
at checkout, you unload your stuff, and when you’re about to pay, seungmin comes up behind you and wordlessly uses his card. do you process that in the head? no, only when he is already at the exit, hands in his pockets, not looking back.
he walks straight into the automatic door before it finishes opening. you hear the thud.
you rub your temples.
then you’re walking through the park because that’s the shorter way home. peaceful. sunlight. children playing. then the bush next to the sidewalk starts shaking.
you stop. you kick the bush. han tumbles out directly at your feet. face in dirt.
“…hi.” he says into the grass.
you look down at him. “were you hiding?”
he looks up at you, leaves in his hair, expression hopeful. “no.”
you start walking again. he scrambles up and follows, then trips on the sidewalk edge.
you catch his sleeve before he eats pavement. “use your brain.”
he nods seriously. “i keep meaning to.”
next time about days later, you see felix before he sees you. he’s staring into a store window, clearly confused by mannequins.
you walk past.
noticing that, he turns and his pretty little face lights up. “hi!”
“hi. don’t.”
“okay.”
he walks into a mailbox.
you only see hyunjin once, at a distance. not close enough to speak. just standing outside a train station, hands in his coat pockets, watching the crowd, not just you.
when your eyes meet, he doesn’t smile, just gives a small nod. then he leaves.
days after that it’s seungmin again. at night. parking lot. you only came with car because it was too far. you’re unlocking your car and a shadow leans against the hood.
“you’ve been avoiding me.” seungmin says, casual as hell, like he didn’t once swing a fire poker at your skull. “man.” he continues “small world, right?”
you turn, pepper spray in hand, and spray it directly into his eyes.
he screams, drops to his knees, clawing at his face. “OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE SATAN PISSED IN MY EYES—”
“stop finding me!” you yell.
he’s laughing through the pain. laughing. “you look good today.”
you drive off while he’s still swearing.
the next time minho follows you through a bookstore. keeps pretending to browse. picks up a book upside down. so you turn a corner and wait. he walks right into it. he also gets a taste of your pepper spray.
“SON OF A BITCH.” he chokes, doubling over between romance and self help. “you fucking—”
“YOU’RE STALKING ME.”
they find you in different places. weeks apart. or days apart. but they always come back.
something is clearly wrong with them. like, all eight are sick in the head. but it doesn’t seem like they’re following you around to kill you. they talk too long. they get distracted. they bring you things. they absolutely eat shit every time you fight back. and you do fight back. diva.
minho and seungmin have been pepper sprayed so many times they flinch when you reach into your bag. jeongin tries every possible pickup line on you. han once tried to sneak up on you and got hit in the face with your tote bag and apologized.
it’s ike they’re still in hunting mode. after you. into you. but now they’re… unsure. they don’t seem to want you dead anymore. they just… want you around now. or to just be around you, at least.
it’s the middle of the night right now. you’re in old sweatpants, hair a mess, waiting for the food you ordered. and soon enough, the doorbell rings. you shuffle over and look through the peephole for a second. delivery uniform. cap. bag. seems normal. so you open the door.
it’s felix. smiling ear to ear, holding your takeout, wearing the uniform jacket and cap. “hi!”
“absolutely not.” you say, already closing the door.
he sticks his foot in. “wait, wait—don’t slam it, the soup’ll spill—”
that’s when you see it, behind him, in the hallway. a man on the floor. the delivery uniform pants still on him, only his jacket gone, the one on felix right now. there’s blood under the man.
your stomach drops. your organs drop. after staring for about a minute, you slowly look back at felix. “…is that—”
“okay.” he says quickly. “before you freak out—”
“BEFORE I FREAK OUT?? YOU KILLED THE DELIVERY GUY?!”
jeongin leans into view, coming next to felix, hands in pockets. “it wasn’t him who killed the guy.”
you point wildly, not even concerned about the fact that there’s two of them now. “THAT IS A PERSON ON THE FLOOR.”
“yeah but like…” minho says, stepping into the doorframe, arm around felix’s shoulders now. “he’s not using the uniform anymore.”
your mouth opens. nothing comes out.
and then, without a word, chan walks past you. into your home. into your fucking home. felix shrugs and follows him. the other six too, actually taking their shoes off.
YOU ARE STILL HOLDING THE DOOR. THEY JUST WALK AROUND YOU.
“what—no—no—no—” you manage, backing up as they enter.
han closes the door gently behind them. “heat’s nice in here.” he says.
hyunjin looks at you and mutters a quiet but confident “hi” before going further into your living room.
changbin walks past you and spins slowly, taking in the room. “oh this is cute. this is very you.”
“YOU BROUGHT A CORPSE TO MY DOOR.” you choke.
felix is still holding the food bag. “your noodles are getting cold.” he says softly.
you make a noise that doesn’t exist in human language. (imagine something close to a windows crash sound)
seungmin tosses his jacket over a chair. there’s a smear of blood on his sleeve.
you gag.
he notices. “oh, relax. it’s mostly the delivery guy’s.”
“OH MY GOD.”
“hey, where’s the hand soap?” han asks, already at your kitchen sink, washing blood off his fingers.
you stare at the red swirling down your drain.
jeongin flops onto your couch. “i like what you did with the lighting in here. mood.”
“GET OUT.” you say, voice coming back in bursts. “GET—OUT—OF—MY—APARTMENT.”
they all look at you. it’s obvious that they don’t really understand what’s your problem.
chan gestures toward the takeout bag. “eat first.”
“I DON’T WANT THE FOOD.”
felix looks devastated. “you picked the combo meal…”
changbin is by your bookshelf now. “you alphabetized? that’s hot.”
“a— i— eugh— what is HAPPENING.”
minho leans against the wall. “okay, in our defense—”
“there is NO DEFENSE.”
“—we didn’t come to kill you.”
“YOU’RE TRACKING BLOOD ON MY FLOOR.”
they all look down.
han lifts his foot. “…shit.”
jeongin points at him. “mop boy.”
han salutes and grabs paper towels.
“listen.” chan says, turning to be in front of you. “we just wanted to see you.”
you stare at him. then at the door. “…you couldn’t text?” you ask hoarsely.
eight grown ass serial killer men exchange glances.
jeongin shrugs. “didn’t have your number.” that’s alright sweetie, not like you can’t find a phone number when you can find an address perfectly. not like you can’t ask for it from HYUNJIN.
you make another sound.
changbin steps closer, hands up, gentle. “okay, hey. we know this looks bad.”
“LOOKS—”
“bad phrasing.” he admits.
seungmin rubs the back of his neck. “we didn’t plan the delivery guy part.”
“that’s WORSE.” you sag against the wall. “you have got to be shitting me.” you whisper to yourself. then you look at them. all of them. in your apartment. on your couch. at your sink. in your life. “out.”
they don’t move.
jeongin tilts his head. “we just got here—”
“OUT.”
changbin actually flinches.
seungmin raises his hands. “okay, volume—”
“you killed someone. again, i assume. and brought it to my DOOR. do you understand how fucking insane that is?”
silence.
“i can’t sleep normally. i check reflections everywhere. i don’t walk with headphones anymore. do you get that? do you get what you did to my brain? i couldn’t function for weeks. every sound was footsteps. every guy walking behind me was one of you. i have three different hiding spots in my own apartment.”
han raises a hand slightly. “this one’s not great.”
“NO IT IS NOT GREAT.”
felix looks genuinely confused. “we didn’t think about… after.”
“YEAH. THAT’S THE PROBLEM. you don’t think about after. you don’t think about people being PEOPLE. you think about adrenaline and teamwork and your little murder club hangouts.”
changbin crosses his arms. “okay when you say it like that—”
“how else is there to say it??” you gesture wildly at the room.
they don’t look guilty. they look… attentive. they’re paying attention. trying to understand you.
you swallow. “no, seriously. i want to know. when you followed me for weeks? when you showed up at my job? when i thought every man walking behind me was about to grab me? that was fun for you?”
seungmin shrugs. “engaging.”
you grab the nearest thing, a throw pillow, and launch it at his face. then relax your shoulders and sigh. “i am a person. with a nervous system. i had a normal life before you guys.”
there’s a long pause.
felix raises a hand slightly. “your food is still warm.”
“READ THE ROOM.”
he lowers it.
han whispers to him: “she’s upset-upset.”
“no shit.” you snap.
chan has his hands on his hips. “you’re saying we made you paranoid and ruined your life.”
you stare. “…are you fucking for real right now.”
“trying to understand the damage.”
“DAMAGE???”
jeongin leans forward on the couch, elbows on knees. “we don’t feel fear like that, or guilt the way you do.”
“yeah, i noticed.”
“but we’re not dumb.” hyunjin says quietly.
your eyes flick to him.
he meets them. calm. honest in a deeply unsettling way. “we know we changed your life. we can see the behavioral shifts. we know what we did. we just don’t care.“
you blink. does this fucking asshole hear himself.
he continues. “and what you’re saying is that our continued presence equals harm.”
you blink “yes.”
“even without immediate violence.”
“YES.”
he nods once. processing. filing it somewhere in his terrifyingly organized brain.
chan takes over. “we’re saying, we understand the outcome. even if we don’t experience the emotion attached.”
changbin rubs his neck. “we didn’t think about the after. usually there isn’t one.”
you let that sit. “yeah.” you say. “because people die.”
quiet.
han finally says, softly: “you didn’t.”
you look at him. “no. i didn’t. and now i have to live with what you did.”
there’s a long silence.
then jeongin claps his hands once. “so. solution. anyone? ideas?”
you point at him without looking. “you are on thin fucking ice.”
he mimes zipping his mouth.
seungmin rubs his face. “okay, but question.”
you glare.
“when we stopped trying to actually kill you… that didn’t help?”
you just stare at him. “…you hear yourself, right?”
he thinks about it. “…yeah.”
felix looks like he’s actually using his brain for once. “we thought… not finishing the job was growth.”
“that is the lowest bar i have ever heard in my LIFE.”
but you see, the thing is, this is a system error for them. you’re not prey right now. you’re not running. you’re furious, first of all. human. loud. hurt. they don’t know this game. they only know the killing and manipulating one, but they want to have you. they just… don’t know how to get you.
chan clears his throat. “so the correct action would be… removal of our presence.”
“yes.”
“immediately.”
“so fucking immediately.”
“we don’t want to kill you.” minho cuts in, hoping that this saves their situation a bit.
“yeah, you told me a hundred times already. your point?” you ask
“we like you.”
you make a face like you bit into soap. “that is not how liking works.”
“for you.” he agrees.
chan exhales. decisive. “we adjust behavior.”
you cross your arms. “into WHAT?”
silence.
felix brightens. “dinner?”
you stare at him.
han nods eagerly.
you look around the room at eight serial killers in your living space, one of them holding a roll of paper towels covered in someone else’s blood. “…dinner.”
changbin shrugs. “low pressure environment. public. you feel safer. we practice acting normal.”
minho adds: “exposure therapy. for all parties.”
“i just gave a speech about how you ruined my sense of safety.” you whisper, voice defeated.
hyunjin nods. “we heard you.”
“and you want to take me to DINNER.”
“yes.”
“why.”
he doesn’t hesitate. “because harming you is now counterproductive to the thing we want.”
you are actually taken aback by the words this guy uses. “…which is?”
he holds your gaze.
“you.”
the room goes quiet.
then han whispers to felix, way too loud: “is this flirting?”
“yeah.” felix whispers back. “i think this is the good kind.”
you drag a hand down your face. “…get the fuck out of my apartment.”
they stand, immediately obedient. getting their shoes on and whatnot.
changbin gives you a small wave. “we’ll text?”
“you do not have my number.”
jeongin points at hyunjin. “he’ll give it to us.”
“I WILL CALL THE POLICE.”
they walk out.
han pauses at the door. “sorry about the sink.”
door closes. silence. your apartment is a disaster. your life is worse.
but… they looked weirdly sincere, actually. and they were.
soon, they stopped showing up unannounced. mostly. they also stopped bringing weapons into your line of sight. mostly. and they stopped treating you like prey. completely.
how were they about you, comes the question.
obsessed.
and they did not process attachment normally. if they processed it. they did not understand love. but they understood preference, and if you told them enough times, then eventually they understood your emotions too. well, not understood, but they processed the fact that you feel the way you feel and they can do something about it if they actually try.
han once fell down an entire staircase because someone said your name and he turned too fast. chan pretended he wasn’t competitive about board games and then absolutely lost his mind over monopoly. hyunjin brought you flowers all the time. you learned that seungmin always had to sleep on his stomach.
you started to understand the function of them. not excuse, no. absolutely not. just understand and process the fact that they’re how they are. and you couldn’t do shit about it, and you couldn’t get rid of them now. so you lived with it.
they still killed, of course. that was one of the few things that brought them happiness in life, so you couldn’t expect them to stop doing it. they didn’t kill around you, though.
but you knew they still did it. and you could feel when the tension built when they haven’t hurt anybody in a long time.
it also… what’s the right word, scared? impressed? took you aback? could be either, what matters is that when you saw that all of them had it in them, even han and felix who behaved like total angels throughout the day, it… upset you. or just moved something in you, seeing that each of them has that empty place where fear or guilt or empathy should go.
they didn’t kill out of anger. it was release. their brains were wired wrong. thrill, control, mastery, stimulation, those hit the reward centers. violence scratched an itch they couldn’t reach any other way.
and after, they were calmer. lighter, like they’d gone for a run. when they were satisfied with themselves, they tried to tell you about it. you always stopped them, because you did NOT need to hear the horrible things they did. no matter how much they wanted to brag about it, how much they wanted to make you proud.
you weren’t safe in the world, but you were weirdly safe with them. and they would have died for you.
but you had to set rules. actual rules. “do not follow me into bathrooms.” “do not threaten my coworkers.” “do not kill anyone within a five-mile emotional radius of me.” the basics. and they tried. god, they tried. but they didn’t really… do well.
once you opened your door to seungmin at one in the morning, and he stood there, breathing a little heavy, COVERED in blood.
you just stared.
he stared back.
“…you good?” he asked.
“are you good??”
“oh. yeah. not mine.”
you almost slammed the door. he stopped it with a hand, but gently. always that now.
“didn’t come here for that.” he said.
“for what, seungmin, WHAT possible reason makes this a normal social call.”
he shrugged. “adrenaline crash. didn’t wanna be alone.”
that did something weird to your chest. not forgiving, just… information. because you realized that now they wanted you. your company, your voice, your hands. and it felt good.
anyways, you told him to take a shower, then you let him hang out with you.
they also fought each other more than they ever fought you.
once minho and jeongin, two extremely capable men mind you, actually went for each other’s throats in your kitchen while hyunjin and chan tried to separate them.
you yelled at them then. they paused and looked at you.
jeongin, bleeding from the lip, grinned. but like in that hot way. “sorry.”
“take it outside if you’re gonna be like this.” you told them.
“fair.” chan said, dragging minho back by the collar.
you weren’t scared of them like prey anymore. you were scared of the capacity. the strength. the speed. the way the air changed when something in them flipped.
you’d seen what they could do, you just weren’t the target now.
they were on your dick constantly, though. emotionally. socially. existentially. texting wasn’t their thing, but presence was. which meant they showed up unannounced a lot. but the reason for that was that they didn’t want to lose access to you, to be honest. didn’t like the thought of that.
one night you opened the door to changbin. he told you he was going to come over later. well, it was late. around midnight.
when he saw you, his eyes lit up, and wrapped you in the warmest, most affectionate, full-body hug of your life.
you froze.
because he was sticky.
wet sleeve. iron smell. your cheek against his skin. your hands touching the back of his shirt.
he squeezed tighter, cheek against your hair. “missed you.”
you pulled back.
looked down.
this boy was covered in blood.
he smiled, soft, relieved. “hi.”
you shoved back, stumbling, hand over your mouth, already shaking your head like that would stop it. you barely made it to the sink before you threw up in it.
from the hallway, jeongin yelled: “did you forget again??”
“I GOT EXCITED.”
hyunjin was the only one who followed you then, already grabbing a towel, turning on the sink. he didn’t look at changbin, and he didn’t look at the blood. he looked at you. “i’ve got you. you’re okay. breathe.”
they kept forgetting what you were. alive. normal. human. that for you it was a body, a person, a life.
it wasn’t the only time, of fucking course. they’d be loose, relaxed, calm. you’d be staring at hands that had done something irreversible two hours ago. there were a few nights like that, a sleeve not changed, a stain not noticed, you throwing up in your own kitchen while eight men who could disassemble a human being panicked because they’d upset you.
not because they felt guilt like you did. because they’d hurt something important in the environment. you. you, who sometimes made it to the sink, sometimes didn’t.
they did learn, though. slowly. painfully. they didn’t feel what you felt, but they learned it mattered. which, for them, was the closest thing to empathy available in the system.
you fell asleep on the couch once while they were over. you didn’t mean to. how could you mean to, when you knew what they were capable of?
and you woke up pinned. well, luckily not trapped, just surrounded. han was hugging your ankle. felix was using your shoulder as a pillow. changbin had an arm across your middle. jeongin was half off the couch but anyways. seungmin pretended he wasn’t involved but his foot was hooked under your leg.
they didn’t experience comfort like most people did. but proximity? pressure? familiar scent? that, they liked.
they were really, really glad that you survived them. and because of that, somewhere in their broken little predator brains, you became home. and what do predators do? bring things home.
once han showed up beaming, holding something behind his back.
“i got you flowers.” he said.
you blinked. that was… new.
he revealed it.
you stared.
it was technically arranged like a bouquet. the only problem was that… they were human lower arms. a lot of them. like flowers. just… arms.
you made a noise. you looked away, then back at it, then had to look away again.
“i thought it was romantic.” he said, crushed.
“honey, i appreciate that, but—“ you gagged. held the doorframe. teared up.
he watched you throw up then. patted your back after.
felix once brought you a wallet because “you’re always losing yours.”
you opened it. immediately closed it. “felix.”
“yeah?”
“return that.”
chan was… fucking brutal. he didn’t bring objects. he brought information.
“found a guy who’d been stalking women in your area.” he said once.
you went cold. “…what did you do.”
he met your eyes calmly. “took care of him, of course.”
you didn’t know whether to scream or say thank you. this one wasn’t bad, actually. you just had to sit down for a minute.
they were not house trained though, not even a little. one time you caught seungmin about to piss in your giant houseplant.
“seungmin.” you sighed.
he froze midzip. “…yeah?”
“if you water that plant with your BODY i will end you.”
“okay, okay.” he said, offended. “god. boundaries.”
felix once wiped his hands on your curtains. han sat on your coffee table. minho had to be told three separate times that knives did not belong “wherever feels right.” changbin once tried to “air out” your apartment by opening every window during winter.
and jeongin was just really spontaneous in general. if a guy talked to you, he would insert himself into the conversation, no matter what. “bro.” he’d say, arm slung over the stranger’s shoulders. “i love your confidence. truly. quick question, how attached are you to having kneecaps?”
you hit him. he’d grin. the stranger would evaporate.
hyunjin was the only one who got you normal gifts. they were… brutally expensive, yeah, and you had no idea where he had that kind of money from, but you appreciated every gift from him.
and oh my fucking god, the mailman. felix hated the mailman. for no reason. the man was fifty something and friendly. still, every time the mail arrived, felix would appear at your window, talking bout sum “he’s back.” ???
“felix, that’s his job.”
“yeah but why is he always here?”
“because i live here. that’s how mail works.”
the suspicion remained.
but beneath all the insanity, the red flags, the daily reminder that they could bring a corpse to your doorstep any day, they were sincere. they never played with your feelings. never lied about what they were. never pretended.
they just… adjusted their behavior around one central rule, which was not to lose you. to keep you safe, even if they didn’t understand why they wanted to keep you so safe. or why did you find so many things they did wrong.
you had, at one point, physically grabbed felix by the hair and yanked him backward because he was halfway out your front door, whispering “i just wanna talk to him.” about the mailman.
“NO.” you barked, fist in his hair.
“he’s BEEN HERE THREE TIMES THIS WEEK.” felix insisted.
“THAT IS HOW MAIL WORKS.”
he did not agree with you.
changbin loved cheek kisses. loved them. unfortunately, changbin also had a chronic issue where he just… forgot he was holding things. knife. wrench. crowbar. gun.
you’d feel a gentle kiss on your cheek and open your eyes to see cold steel six inches from your face.
“baby.” you’d say.
“oh, shit.” weapon would go on the table like car keys. “sorry.” he’d say, and kiss your other cheek, now technically unarmed.
then once you mentioned to hyunjin that you were cold and he wordlessly took off his jacket. it had a suspicious stain. he saw you notice.
“…i’ll get another one.” he said immediately.
because he really didn’t want you to be cold. not like he understood what your problem was with a little blood, but alright. anything for you.
now that i’m getting carried away with the stories, i’ll tell you that han did not understand personal space.
for an example, if you scolded him? immediate cling. you’d finish saying “you cannot threaten the barista for writing my name wrong” and suddenly he’d be attached to your side, rubbing his face into you, arms around your shoulders, chin on your head.
“okay, but we’re good though, right?”
“sweetie, i’m trying to pay.”
he’d nod against your hair, not moving. that went on for twelve minutes until a woman asked if he was concussed.
they clung like that a lot, they didn’t understand a lot, they acted up a lot, they hated a lot, but they loved one thing.
you.
they didn’t understand jealousy as an emotion. they understood it as something wrong with their insticts, and you in danger. how did that make sense? it didn’t. it just sounded horrible. because it was. but it was also the most sincere attachment they were capable of.
you were still scared sometimes, still human, compared to them(they’re literally almost not human in their senses). still deeply aware of what they were, and reminded of it a lot of times, of course.
but they’d learned one thing with absolute certainty.
you were not a victim anymore, you were something new to them, to their lives, something…. let’s say home.
and they were trying, badly, incorrectly, concerningly, to deserve to be there.
