✮ Summary: Vernon's back from the military, and he's at your door waiting for you to give him another chance.
✮ Word Count: 2,520
✮ Author's Note: hello. i am back with part twooooo. eeeek i'm so scared, this is my first time writing this kind of stuff.. i hope you guys like it! it's also not proof read so act like you don't see any typos or grammar issues. If you haven't already, read part one!
The four years passed by slowly for you. The day after you dropped Vernon off at the airport, you took time to slowly get rid of the things he left behind with you. His hoodies, small trinkets, and the guitar he played for you the day you asked what your relationship was.
Chirps filled your ears the moment you entered the park. Walking towards a bench, you carry a bag full of your favorite snacks. The park was full of wildlife and nature; and a solution you quickly found was one of your coping mechanisms. After you took a seat, you reached into the bag and opened one of the snacks. The flavor was good. It was always good, something constant that you could rely on.
The scenery was grounding. You just took a moment to take it all in. Different thoughts circled in your head. One about your family, friends, and then your brain settled on one about someone you used to know. Someone who was very special.
The way he treated you was not the greatest. Although you didn't really treat yourself the best either. Despite knowing he would leave for the military, you still stayed by his side until the very end. The result was a devastating heartache that never went away. All these years, you have been yearning for him to come back. For him to welcome you into his arms and say that it was all a mistake. That he should have never left you in the past.
All of those thoughts are unchased dreams that feel like they should never be fulfilled. Ones that you thought would never come true. So, you came to the conclusion that you had to make yourself busy. That's why you took up so many new hobbies. Baking, cycling, pet sitting, and many more that were left untouched after you found them very difficult.
You hear your phone chime, bringing you out of your daydreams. You picked up your phone from the bench and scrolled through your notifications.
Messages: Hi Y/n. I know this is sudden, but I really want to...
Instagram (6): trulygnomed sent you a reel by bxkugc.
Tiktok (2): junnylunny liked a video you reposted.
The notification from the messages app was unusual. None of your friends texted like that. You tapped on the notification to open it up. The sender's number wasn't saved.
?: Hi Y/n. I know this is sudden, but I really want to see you again.
You: sorry, who is this?
?: You don't have my number saved anymore?
You: no, i don't.
?: That's understandable.
The two words rattled in your brain. You really had no idea who this unknown number could be, and they're acting like they have a lot of history with you? You took a moment to ponder who could be messaging you right now. Your phone vibrated again, and your eyes moved back to the screen.
?: I'm Vernon.
You almost dropped your phone from the shock. Is Vernon already back from the military? You stopped keeping count of the days a few weeks in, but it has already been four years? You couldn't believe it. You couldn't believe any of this.
You: I don't want to see you.
After you sent the message, you quickly grabbed all of your things. You needed to gather yourself, and the best place was to do it at home. As you were on the way home, you felt your phone vibrate a few more times before stopping completely when you were halfway.
You rush out of the car and get into your house. As soon as you locked the door, you fell flat onto your couch. You took repeated deep breaths and desperately tried to regain your composure. After all of those years of pining, you declined the one offer that you've been wishing for.
To you, it seemed rational. The right choice to make. You deserve better, and going back to a man who treated you horribly is not good at all. But it still hurts you either way. It felt like you were at a crossroads, with both decisions being emotional pain. But you already made your choice with that text. There's no point in dwelling on it for long.
All of the thinking made you tired. Your eyes slowly lull into sleep. Hours pass, and the sun goes down, the moonlight becoming the only source of light in your house. When you wake up, you're disoriented. You almost never take naps on the couch, let alone in the same clothes you went out in. You get up off the couch and shower, freshening up before making yourself some dinner.
Throughout your dinner, you couldn't stop thinking about what happened earlier. You tried to distract yourself with tiktoks but they weren't working. Your brain always drifted off to the past events. During your internal conflict, the doorbell rings. You glance at the clock, checking to see if it's a reasonable time for someone's doorbell to ring. 8:30 pm. The sight makes you even more worried. You had no online packages coming today either.
Slowly, you made your way to the front door. You armed yourself with pepper spray in your right hand and 911 on speed dial in your left. When you reach the door, you peer through the peephole. You felt your stomach drop. It was Vernon. He's knocking and saying something, but it was all mumbles on your end.
Your heart beats fast as you turn the doorknob.
After cracking the door open just a bit, you ask, "Why are you here?'
"I'm here to see you, Y/n," He responds.
"What are you talking about? I clearly told you that I didn't want to see you," You say.
"Please, just let me explain myself. It took a long time to get your new address from your friends."
The statement makes you back up. What does he mean by that?
"A long time? What exactly were you doing? And why did my friends give up my address?!"
"I was forced to prove myself to them. That I changed and was a better person for you."
You're fully off the door by now, and you back up until your back hits the wall. The door opens slightly, and he looks in to see you on the wall.
"Y/n? Are you okay?" He says.
He lets himself in and checks you for any injuries. His eyes dart all around your face as his hands explore it as well.
You grab his hand and say, "Vernon, stop. I'm fine."
He moves his hand to hold yours and says, "You're obviously not fine. Here, let me help you get to the couch."
Before grabbing your hand, he closes and locks the front door. He leads you to your couch, slowly and steadily. Each step was accompanied by affirmations, telling you that you're doing great. The two of you sit down on the plush couch in silence.
The room was dead silent. Just you and Vernon. Strangely enough, you didn't feel pressured to speak up. The silence felt comforting for both of you. It took a while for you to speak up. You didn't want to say anything you didn't mean.
"I... I want to see for myself. How you've changed over the past four years," You say.
"I never stopped thinking about you, Y/n. The day I left, the one where I kissed you, it replayed in my head at least a thousand times while we were apart. As each day passed, it became harder and harder to get you out of my head. You took over every aspect of my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I know that I treated you horribly with a lousy excuse that I was going to leave. I know that I could have handled things better between us. That's why I'm here. I want to try things again with you, treat you so much better than I did before. You don't have to give me an answer now. I can wait until you're ready, however long that may be," He says.
You clearly felt his emotions through his words. Hearing all of that made you way more emotional than you were before you two began talking. It was hard to even get a single word out of your mouth.
"I've... waited a very long time to hear that. Now that I have, I really don't know how to feel. It's so overwhelming."
You close your eyes, trying to take in everything he just said. Even though it was a lot to handle, you've thought about your response to that for years. Despite attempting to cut him out of your life, he always found a way to make it back. Naturally, you thought about what you would say if you were given this opportunity.
"Vernon, I think I'm ready to give it another try. I've dwelled on this moment for a long time and went through so many possibilities in my head. This one felt right," You say.
MINORS PLS PLS PLS STOP READING AFTER THIS POINT!!!! 😭😭😓
"I've been wanting to hear that from you the entire time I was in the military," He says.
He grabs your face and says, "Stop me if you don't want this."
Shortly after, he closed the distance between you. You didn't even bother raising a hand to stop him since your heart already took control of your body. The kiss was hot and passionate. His hands travelled all over your body, searching for a place to stay.
They rested on your hips as if they perfectly fit together. You leaned into the kiss as your own hands found their place under his shirt. You drag your hand across his stomach, feeling his toned stomach.
In between kisses he says, "I worked out just for you. You can touch anything you like."
His kisses became more desperate as he began to get harder. You feel yourself slowly being pushed to the cushions of the couch as he rubs against your thigh, seeking to relieve himself of the aching tent in his pants.
You felt yourself getting progressively harder as his own thigh rubs against your own dick. Small moans and gasps leave both of your mouths, filling the silence.
"Fuck, I need you so bad," He says while dry humping your leg.
He gives you one last kiss before finally sitting up to unbuckle his pants. You watch as he pulls down his pants and underwear to reveal his aching cock. He grabs it and starts slowly stroking.
"You look so hot," You say.
The sight of Vernon jerking himself off while saying and moaning your name repeatedly unlocked something in you. It was as if all of your restrictions faded away just for this moment.
You lean down between his legs and look up at him for approval. He gives you a hurried nod and you quickly get to work. You move your tongue across the vein that is on his shaft, earning a long groan from him. His hands find your hair and slightly tighten whenever your tongue reaches his tip. You alternate from bobbing your head up and down to swirling your tongue in between his slit.
"Shit, I'm gonna cum soon" He groans.
In the middle of you bobbing down, you suddenly feel a warm substance hit the back of your throat repeatedly. At the same time, he moans and twitches in your mouth.
"Fuck. fuck. f-fuuuuck."
You remove your mouth from his dick and heavily pant. Looking up, he's laid back with an arm covering his eyes and his mouth wide open.
He grins and says, "That... was the best thing I've ever experienced. I have to pay you back."
He gets up from the couch and picks you up, leading you to the bedroom. You get placed on the bed and slowly stripped. He follows suit, taking off his clothes with agonizing slowness.
"You got any condoms?" He asks.
"They're in my bedside table drawer," You respond.
He reaches over and opens it up, finding a box of condoms and lube. Picking up the lube first, he squeezes a good portion onto his fingers and pushes you down to lie flat while pulling up your legs.
"Are you good? You need a break?" He asks.
You give him a nod.
"I need words, baby."
"Y-yes, I'm fine."
He smiles and slowly inserts his middle finger into your ass. The feeling is foreign, causing you to tense up.
He rubs your thigh with his thumb and says, "Baby, I need you to relax. I won't be able to stretch you if you're always tense like this."
"O-okay.." You say while mentally preparing yourself for the next finger.
The rest of the prep went well. So well to the point your almost came just from him curling his fingers inside of you. He has a lot of interest in making you moan as loud as you can.
"I think you're just about ready for me. How do you feel?" He asks.
You could barely respond, "I.. need you..."
He grins, "I'm all yours baby."
He slips on one of the condoms and lines himself up with your hole. He pushes himself in, letting you get used to his shape. The feeling is overwhelming and your eyes roll back. You were a mess, moaning his name, and desperately grabbing onto his shoulders to stabilize yourself. The deeper he went, the more crazy it felt. The moment he bottomed out, he started to check on you.
"How are you feeling baby?" He asks while pushing your hair out of your face.
You could only mumble coherent responses.
"I'm gonna start moving, okay?"
You give him a nod and he pulls back, letting out a huge groan.
"F-fuck, you feel so good."
He pushes back into you and moans fill the room. As he repeatedly fucks you, your head falls back onto the mattress. He kisses you while moaning your name over and over. Your hands scratch at his back.
You could feel a tension deep in your stomach trying to get out.
"V-vernon.. I think.. I think I'm go-" Your breath hitches as he hits your g-spot.
He groans, "I know, I know baby. I'm almost there. Let's cum together yeah?"
He pushes into you three more times before he buries himself at the hilt. You could feel his cock twitch as he tries to push himself deeper into you. Your own orgasm bursts through your body as you cry out for him, making you see white sparks in the pitch black room.
You were exhausted. Vernon was too but he still got up and tidied up the place. He wanted to sleep in with you without any distractions. While he was cleaning, you repeatedly thanked him for doing so. Each time he would tell you to not worry about it or that it was his purpose to do things for you. His statements entailed a life that you could get used to.
synopsis: Two elite ice hockey players from rival national teams collide season after season, their on-ice hatred bleeding into something far messier off it. What starts as anonymous hookups and reckless make-outs turns into a heated rivalry fueled by jealousy, ego, and the growing terror of wanting something real. By the time they finally stop pretending it’s just sex, it might already be too late to walk away clean.
content warnings: 18+, smut, (making out, oral sex, eventual full sex), rivals-to-lovers, emotionally repressed men, bottom male reader, possessiveness, jealousy, public/private tension, fame pressure, unhealthy coping mechanisms, arguments, emotional avoidance, power dynamics, minor injuries, locker room scenes.
word count: 10.2k (i did NOT think it would be this long lmaoo) [req]
The Zurich tunnel was a concrete wind tunnel that smelled like damp equipment and floor cleaner. It was the kind of place that amplified every noise, making the post-game headache behind your eyes pulse with every distant shout from the fans still hanging around the stands. You stood there with your gear bag heavy on your shoulder, leaning your weight against the cold wall. You were just waiting for the Japanese media swarm to clear out so you could get to the bus without being shoved aside by a cameraman.
Then you heard him.
Satoru Gojo had a laugh that was built for stadiums. It was loud and effortless. He rounded the corner with a dozen reporters trailing him, his jersey draped over his shoulders. He looked pristine. You felt like you’d been through a rock tumbler. Your jersey was damp with sweat, and your hair was a flattened mess from the helmet.
He saw you and detoured away from the microphones, ignoring a reporter mid-question. He stepped into your space, stopping just short of actually touching you. He smelled like mint and the sharp, metallic scent of the rink. Up close, he was tall enough that you had to lock your neck back just to keep him in view.
"Great game, Miller," he said. He flashed a grin that was all teeth.
"My name isn't Miller," you said. You kept your voice flat. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even if your pulse was jumping in your throat.
"Right. Close enough." He leaned a hand against the wall next to your head, pinning you in place. "You were fast out there today. A little desperate on that last break, but fast."
"I was playing hockey. You were putting on a show," you replied. You could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a physical weight in the cramped hallway. "There’s a difference between a teammate and a mascot, Gojo."
The grin on his face didn't disappear, but it got sharper. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes scanning your face. He was looking at the sweat on your forehead and the way your jaw was locked. He was looking for a crack. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but wanted to take apart anyway.
"Is that what we're calling it?" he asked. He spoke softly, his voice dropping below the noise of the reporters ten feet away. "I thought I was just winning. You should try it sometime. It might help with that miserable look you've got going on."
"Move your hand, Gojo. My bus is leaving."
"Let it leave," he murmured.
He didn't move. He stayed there for several seconds, long enough for the silence to turn heavy and weird. You could see the individual spikes of his white hair and the way his pupils didn't even flinch under the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn't Sparks. It was static. It was the feeling of a thorn in your side that had been there since the first time your names appeared on the same scouting reports. You hated how everyone compared you to him. You hated that he seemed to know exactly how much that bothered you.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and snapped his fingers. He turned back to the cameras without a backward glance, leaving you standing in the hum of the tunnel with your skin crawling. He was already laughing at another question before you could even get your breath back.
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The training facility gym was tucked into the basement of the arena, a windowless box that smelled of industrial rubber and the heavy, metallic scent of iron. You were four sets into a back routine, trying to work out the knot that had settled in your neck after the tunnel incident. Every time you pulled the bar, the friction of your shirt against your skin felt like an irritant. You were focused on the rhythmic clanging of the plates, trying to drown out the fact that your team’s loss was the only thing on the morning news.
The door swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud. Gojo didn't just walk in; he took up the entire doorway. He was with Suguru Geto, both of them dressed in black training gear that looked like it had never seen a drop of sweat. Gojo was tossing a medicine ball into the air with a casual, annoying ease. He didn't look at you, but he parked himself at the squat rack directly in your line of sight.
You focused on the mirror, watching your own form, but his reflection kept drifting into the frame. He was leaning back against the rack now, watching you with a look that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't friendly either.
"I've noticed some guys lift like they’re trying to punish the equipment," Gojo said. He wasn't looking at you, but his voice carried perfectly over the gym’s playlist. "Too much ego in the grip. It’s a miracle they don’t snap a wrist before they even hit the ice."
You dropped your dumbbells. The noise echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and final. You grabbed your water bottle and wiped your face with a towel, staring at him through the glass.
"And some people talk because they’re afraid of what happens if it gets quiet," you said.
Gojo finally turned his head. He let the medicine ball drop and walked over. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes dragging over your shoulders with a clinical interest that made your skin itch.
"I'm just offering an observation," he said. "You're stiff. Your shoulders are up around your ears. You play the same way you lift, like you’re waiting for a car crash."
"I play with discipline. You wouldn't know what that looks like."
"Discipline is a boring word for being scared," Gojo countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice so it stayed between the two of you. "You’re so worried about making a mistake that you're missing the actual game. I saw it yesterday. You had the lane, but you passed it off because you didn't want the weight of the miss."
"I played the smart move," you snapped. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.
"You played the safe move," he corrected. He reached out, his hand stopping just short of the collar of your shirt. "Safe doesn't win tournaments. Safe just gets you a seat on the bus home."
You stepped back, breaking the proximity. The heat in your face had nothing to do with the workout. "Stay out of my head, Gojo. And stay away from my rack."
He laughed, a sharp sound that felt too loud for the basement. "I'm already in your head. I've been there since Zurich. Just admit it."
You didn't give him an answer. You turned and walked toward the showers, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back the entire way.
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The communal shower was a cavernous, tiled box that echoed with the heavy spray of water and the distant shouting of players further down the hall. Steam hung thick in the air, blurring the edges of the room into a grey haze. You stood under one of the corner heads, eyes closed, letting the hot needles of water hit the tension in your shoulders.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps on wet tile approached. A shower turned on two stalls over. You didn't have to open your eyes to know the silhouette.
You reached for the soap, blinking through the water, and your gaze inadvertently drifted. Gojo was standing with his back to the wall, head tilted back as he let the water wash over his face. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He never did.
Your breath hitched. You’d spent your life in locker rooms around athletes, but this was a different league entirely. Even flaccid, he was huge. It was hanging with a weight that made your own stomach do a strange, tight flip.
You looked away quickly, staring at the grout between the tiles until your eyes burned. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat that had nothing to do with the steam. It was an intrusive, vivid thought of exactly how that would feel, and it made your throat go dry.
Gojo didn't say a word. He didn't even look at you. He just went through the motions of showering with a casual, bored grace, as if he wasn't currently making every other man in the facility look like an afterthought.
The silence followed you back into the locker room. It was that heavy, pressurised quiet that happens when two people are thinking about the same thing but refuse to acknowledge it. You sat on your bench, eyes fixed on your gym bag, tugging on your socks with trembling fingers.
Gojo was across from you, pulling a grey hoodie over his head. He didn't look like the stadium-filling star right now. He just looked like a guy in a locker room. He leaned over to lace his sneakers, the fabric of his sweatpants straining against his legs.
He sat back up, catching your eye for the first time since the showers. The smirk wasn't there. Instead, there was a look of quiet, pointed observation. He knew you’d looked. He definitely knew.
"My hotel has a private lounge on the penthouse floor," Gojo said. His voice was casual, but the volume was low enough that it didn't travel past the row of lockers. "They serve the good Scotch. Not the watered-down shit they give the teams in the common area."
You stopped mid-motion, your hand resting on the zipper of your bag. You didn't look up. "I'm not a big drinker, Gojo."
"It's not about the drink," he replied. He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He took a step closer, stopping just short of your knees. "I’m staying at the Grand—room 402. Come over after the media briefing. Or don't. But stop looking at me like you’ve got something to say and just come say it."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. You sat there in the sudden silence, the image of him in the shower burned into the back of your eyelids.
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The walk to the Grand was long enough for the cold air to settle into your bones, but not long enough to talk yourself out of it. You stood outside Room 402, staring at the brass numbers. Your brain told you to turn around and get back to your own hotel before this turned into something you couldn't undo, but your hand was already knocking.
Gojo opened the door almost instantly. He’d ditched the hoodie and was just in a black t-shirt and those grey sweatpants. The room behind him was a massive suite that looked out over the city lights, but the only thing you focused on was the way he looked at you.
He didn't say hello. He just stepped back to let you in.
"You actually showed up," he said, closing the door. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.
"I wanted the scotch," you said, though the lie felt thin the second it left your mouth.
"Sure you did." Gojo didn't move toward the bar. He just stayed by the door, watching you stand in the middle of the room with your jacket still on. "You’ve been looking at me for weeks. In the gym, the hallways, the showers. You've got this look on your face like you want to swing at me or crawl under my skin. Which one is it tonight?"
"You're full of yourself," you said, but your voice lacked any real bite.
Gojo crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was right in your space, forcing you to look up. He smelled like that same sharp mint and expensive soap from the locker room. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your head back.
"Then do something about it," he said.
You reached out and shoved him back a step, but only so you could grab the front of his shirt and haul him down.
The first time your mouths hit, it was messy. There was no grace to it, just a lot of built-up frustration finally snapping. Gojo made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and crowded you backwards until your heels hit the edge of the sofa. He didn't let up, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like the gin he’d been drinking.
His hands came up to frame your face, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you still as he tilted your head to get a deeper angle. You gripped his waist, pulling him as close as the layers of your clothes would allow. Every time you tried to pull back for air, he followed you, his mouth staying glued to yours.
You heard the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as you tried to get a better grip on him. Gojo’s hands drifted down, his palms flat against your back, pressing you flush against his chest. You could feel the heat coming off him, and lower down, the heavy, hard weight of him pressing against your thigh. Having it that close, knowing what was under those sweatpants, made your head swim.
He broke the kiss long enough to trail his mouth down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just above the collar of your shirt. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, your head falling back against the cushions.
"The bed," he rasped against your skin.
"Now," you said.
He didn't let go of you as he led the way, his hand locked firmly around yours. The clothes were gone before you even hit the mattress, a mess of discarded shirts and kicked-off shoes left on the floor.
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The sun hit the white hotel sheets with a brightness that made your eyes sting. You woke up with the weight of Gojo’s arm draped heavily across your chest, his skin hot even in the air-conditioned room. For a minute, you just lay there, staring at the expensive crown moulding on the ceiling and trying to piece together the last few hours.
The bed was a mess, but you were both still in your underwear. There were no discarded condoms, no lingering ache of having been taken. Just the heavy, sugar-sweet smell of spilt scotch on the nightstand and the hazy memory of a make-out session that had been so intense it felt like a physical bruising. You had stayed up until four in the morning, mouths raw, eventually passing out mid-sentence while Gojo was trying to explain why he hated the Swiss team's defensive structure.
Gojo stirred, shifting his weight and pulling his arm back. He didn't do the awkward morning-after flinch. He just opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and reached for his phone.
"You're late for your team meeting," he said. His voice was thick and raspy with sleep, but the smugness was already back in place.
"I know," you muttered, sitting up and rubbing your face. Your head was pounding from the alcohol and the lack of sleep.
You felt his eyes on your back. The room felt smaller now that you were both awake. You looked over your shoulder and saw him watching you, his white hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. He looked soft for about three seconds before he smirked.
"Don't look so worried," he said, propping himself up on an elbow. "We didn't actually do the deed. You just fell asleep on me while I was getting to the good part of my story. It was a little insulting, honestly."
"I was drunk, Gojo."
"You were exhausted." He hopped out of bed, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes. He headed for the bathroom, his stride easy and confident. "But don't worry. I won't tell your coach you were busy failing to keep up with me."
You winced at the jab. It was a joke, a way to reset the board. By making it about the rivalry again, he was giving you both an out. If he treated it like a comedy of errors, it didn't have to be a secret. It didn't have to be anything real. You got dressed in the silence, listening to the water of the shower start to run.
You left the room before he came back out. The hallway of the Grand was quiet and smelled like expensive lilies, a sharp contrast to the way your skin still felt like it was humming with the static of his touch. You had a game in six hours, and all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you right before you fell asleep—like he was waiting for you to say something that wasn't a joke.
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The door clicked shut, and the lock turned with a heavy metallic thud. The sound was deafening in the small space. You were standing between two rows of tall shelving units packed with team bags and industrial-sized boxes of tape. The only light came from a single, buzzing bulb overhead that made the dust motes dance in the air.
"You're avoiding me," Gojo said. He didn't move from the door. He was still in his practice gear, the black compression shirt damp and clinging to the muscle of his chest.
"I'm busy," you said, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. You reached for a crate of pucks, but your hands were shaking.
"You're hiding." He moved toward you, his skates gone but his presence still taking up every inch of the room. He didn't stop until he was chest-to-chest with you, pinning you against the metal shelving. The scent of him—salt, ice, and that sharp mint—filled your head. "You left the hotel before I even woke up. No word. Just ran away like I’d done something wrong."
"We didn't do anything," you snapped, looking up at him. "We got drunk and made out. It wasn't a big deal."
"It felt like a big deal to me." He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His palm was hot, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He leaned in, his breath hitting your lips. "Or maybe you're just scared of what happens when we aren't drunk."
You grabbed his wrists to push him away, but the contact only made it worse. You felt the static from the tunnel, the gym, and the showers all converge into one point of heat. You didn't push. You pulled.
The kiss was frantic. It was a mess of teeth and tongue, an outlet for a month of suppressed irritation. Gojo groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own throat. He hiked your hips up, shoving you onto the edge of a heavy wooden crate. The wood bit into your thighs, but you didn't care. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since the showers," he rasped.
His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, gripping your thighs, fumbling with the button of your pants. He worked them down with a single-minded focus, his breathing coming in jagged stabs. When he finally had you exposed to the cool air of the room, he didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the thin rubber floor mat.
You gripped the edges of the crate so hard the wood splattered into your palms. Looking down, you saw the crown of his white hair between your knees. The sight of him—the most famous player in the league, the man everyone wanted to be or be with—kneeling on a dirty floor for you made your head spin.
He took you into his mouth with a slow, deliberate suction that made your back arch. He didn't rush. He used his tongue to trace the length of you, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. He wanted to see you break. He wanted to see the moment you stopped being the "boring wall" and started being a mess for him.
"Gojo," you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. You were past the point of worrying about the thin walls or the janitor in the hall.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your gut. He picked up the pace, his hand wrapping around the base of you to steady the friction. It was intense and overwhelming. Every time you thought you were about to reach the edge, he slowed down, teasing the sensation until you were practically begging him to finish it.
He swallowed you deep, his throat working as he pushed you over the limit. Your world narrowed down to the feeling of his mouth and the frantic beat of your own heart. When you finally came, you let out a strangled sound, your head falling back against the jerseys hanging on the rack behind you.
Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there for a moment, holding you, before he slowly sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his blue eyes dark and blown wide with his own heat. He looked at you with a look that wasn't smug for once. It was hungry.
He stood up, his breath still heavy. He didn't help you with your pants. He just watched you adjust yourself, his gaze lingering on the flush of your skin.
"See?" he said, his voice finally regaining that sharp, playful edge. "Everything is better when you stop overthinking it."
He turned and slipped out the door before you could even find your voice, leaving you in the quiet, dusty dark of the storage room.
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The Gala was one of those high-stakes social traps where everyone pretended to be friends while checking for weaknesses. You stayed near the bar, the gin in your glass doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of your nerves. Across the room, Gojo was doing exactly what he was built for: dominating the space. He was leaning against a marble pillar, looking effortless in a tuxedo that probably cost more than your first car. He was deep in conversation with a blonde from the Swiss delegation, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughed at something he’d whispered.
You watched him. You watched the way he didn't pull back, the way he tilted his head toward her with that focused, intense charm he usually reserved for a puck. It shouldn't have mattered. You weren't his. But seeing him act like a free agent while your skin was still buzzing from the equipment room made your blood boil.
"He's a lot to look at, isn't he?"
You turned to find Elena standing next to you. She was a reporter you’d known for a couple of seasons. She was attractive and always easy to talk to. You’d gone out with women your whole life; it was familiar territory. It was safe.
"He's a headache," you muttered, offering her a tired smile.
"Come on," she leaned in, her perfume a soft, floral scent. "The music is terrible, and the drinks are worse. Let's go somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."
You looked back at Gojo one last time. He caught your eye over the blonde's shoulder, his expression shifting into something cold and unreadable. Out of pure, jagged spite, you finished your drink and followed Elena out.
Her hotel room was a few floors up. The transition felt natural; the dimming lights, the soft click of the door, the way she pulled you toward her. This was what you knew. You’d been with girls since high school; you knew the rhythm, the expectations, the way it was supposed to feel.
When she pushed your jacket off and leaned in to kiss you, you leaned into it. You wanted to feel that familiar spark, that easy comfort of being with a woman. But as her hands moved over your chest, something was off. You weren't disgusted—you liked Elena, and she was doing everything right—but your brain was somewhere else.
It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. You felt the physical contact, but the electricity was missing. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see her. You saw the flash of white hair in a dark storage room. You felt the ghost of a much larger, heavier hand on your neck. You tried to focus, tried to stay in the moment with her, but the more you tried, the more clinical it felt.
You pulled back, breathing hard, your heart hammering for all the wrong reasons.
"I... I can't," you whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Elena, I’m sorry. I think I’ve just had too much to drink."
"It's okay," she said, sounding more confused than hurt. "It happens. Long tournament, right?"
"Yeah. Long tournament."
You got out of there as fast as you could without making a scene. By the time you reached your floor, the frustration was a physical weight in your chest. You’d spent your whole life knowing who you were, and in one week, some arrogant Japanese superstar had dismantled all of it.
You rounded the corner to your room and stopped dead. Gojo was leaning against your door, his tie pulled loose and hanging around his neck like a noose. He looked like he’d been waiting for a fight.
"You took your sweet time," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
"Get away from my door, Gojo." You fumbled for your key card, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and shame.
"The reporter? Seriously?" He stepped into your space, his shadow looming over you. "I didn't think you were that desperate for a distraction. Was it worth it? Did she give you that 'discipline' you’re always bragging about?"
"It’s none of your business who I spend my time with," you snapped, finally getting the door to click.
He didn't let you close it. He shoved his way inside, forcing you to back up into the dark room. "It becomes my business when you’re out there making a fool of yourself just to get a rise out of me."
"I wasn't trying to get a rise out of you! I was trying to have a normal night with a normal person! Something you wouldn't understand!"
"Normal?" Gojo laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He slammed the door shut behind him. "You think you can just go back to that? After the locker room? After the storage wing? You’re lying to yourself."
"I’m not lying about anything! I’ve always been with women, Gojo. This—whatever this is with you—it’s the mistake. It’s the outlier."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He grabbed the front of your shirt, his grip tight enough to choke. "A mistake? You looked at me in that shower like I was the only thing in the world, and now you’re going to pretend you’d rather be with some girl who doesn't even know your middle name?"
"At least she respects me! At least she doesn't treat me like a trophy she can win and then ignore!"
"I don't ignore you," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "I can't stop looking at you. That’s the problem. And it’s eating you alive that you feel the same way."
"I hate you," you whispered, though your grip on his forearms was tightening, pulling him closer.
"Good," he muttered, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and hunger. "Keep hating me. Just don't you dare go looking for a replacement again."
Neither of you mentioned the truth. Neither of you mentioned that you were terrified. You just stood there in the dark, the "no feelings" rule in absolute tatters on the floor.
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The semi-final against Canada was a mess. You were watching from the bench when Gojo took a hit that made the whole arena go quiet. He didn't just bounce off the boards this time. He hit the wood at a bad angle and stayed down, clutching his side. It took two trainers to help him off the ice, and for the rest of the game, the stadium felt weirdly empty without him peacocking around the blue line.
An hour after the final whistle, the arena was mostly dead. The cleaning crews were working way up in the stands, but the hallways downstairs were silent and smelled like floor cleaner. You found him in the back medical room, a tiny space that was basically just a closet with a padded table.
Gojo was sitting there with his shirt off, a huge pack of ice taped to his ribs. He wasn't on his phone, and he wasn't surrounded by reporters. He was just staring at a crack in the floor tiles.
"You're missing the press conference," you said. You stayed by the door, leaning your shoulder against the frame.
He didn't look up. "Suguru is doing it. He’s better at the corporate talk anyway."
His voice was flat. The usual energy was gone, and without it, he looked exhausted. The bright overhead lights showed every bruise and every scratch from the game. He looked less like a superstar and more like a guy who had just been through a car wreck.
"Trainer says it’s a hairline fracture," he said, finally glancing at you. His eyes were tired. "I’m playing the final, though. I’ll just get them to numb me up."
"That’s a bad idea. You’ll be slow. You won't be able to rotate your torso for a shot."
"I have to play." He reached for a water bottle and winced as he moved. He took a sip and then just stared at the label. "If I'm not out there winning, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. People don't care about Satoru. They care about the guy who puts up four points a night. If I can't do that, I'm just a tall guy with a loud mouth."
You didn't try to comfort him with some cheesy line about how he was more than just a player. You knew as well as he did that in this sport, your value was usually tied to the scoreboard. You walked over and sat on a low stool a few feet away. You didn't touch him or try to be sentimental. You just sat there in the quiet.
"I don't really know who I am when the game stops," he said. He said it casually, like he was talking about a boring movie he'd seen. "Everything gets too quiet. I think that’s why I act the way I do. If I stop moving and making noise, I feel like I might just disappear."
You looked down at your shoes. "The noise is a lot of work, Gojo."
"Yeah," he whispered. "It is."
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. You stayed there for a long time. You didn't talk, and you didn't move. It wasn't some big romantic moment. It was just two people sitting in a cold room, hiding from the expectations waiting for them outside the door. For the first time, the wall between you didn't feel like a competition. It just felt like a place to rest.
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After the night in the medical room, the silence between you changed. It wasn't the competitive silence from before; it was heavy and awkward. You realised that seeing him look that human made it impossible to keep going the way you were. If you didn't stop now, the "no feelings" rule was going to collapse, and you weren't ready for what was on the other side of that.
You told him it was over on the bus back to the hotel. You didn't make a scene. You just leaned over the back of the seat and told him the equipment room was the end of it. Gojo didn't even look at you. He just kept his headphones on and nodded once, his jaw tight.
That lasted exactly six days.
It was the longest week of your life. Every time you were on the ice together, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He didn't make jokes anymore. He played with a jagged, mean energy, taking runs at people during practice and ignoring your existence entirely. You were just as bad, over-committing to hits and spending your nights staring at the ceiling of your hotel room, your body feeling restless and high-strung.
It snapped the night before the gold medal game.
You were in the hotel gym at 11:00 PM, trying to exhaust yourself on the cable machine so you could finally sleep. The door opened, and Gojo walked in. He wasn't wearing his gym gear. He was still in his suit from the team dinner, his tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
You didn't look at him. You just kept pulling the weights, the metal clanking rhythmically.
"Stop," he said. His voice was low and rough.
"I'm working out, Gojo. Leave."
He didn't leave. He walked over and grabbed the cable, forcing the weights down with a loud crash. You spun around to shove him, but he caught your wrists. He pinned them against the machine, his body slamming into yours. He smelled like heavy cologne and the scotch he’d clearly been drinking.
"A week," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "You think you can just turn it off? You think I’m just some drill you can finish and move on from?"
"I said we were done. It was getting messy."
"It was already messy!" He let go of your wrists only to grab the back of your head, his fingers digging into your hair. "You think I don't see you looking at me? You’re practically vibrating every time I walk into the room."
He shoved you back against the equipment and kissed you. It was nothing like the first time. This was angry. It was desperate and rough, a release of all the static from the last six days. You didn't fight him. You pulled him in, your hands clawing at the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the contact just as much as he did.
He didn't lead you to a bed. He pushed you down onto one of the weight benches in the corner of the gym, away from the door. He was frantic, his hands shaking as he worked your pants down. He didn't wait. He dropped to his knees, his white hair a stark contrast to the dark floor, and took you into his mouth.
It wasn't the slow, teasing pace from the storage room. He was focused, his tongue and throat working with a desperate intensity that had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders. You looked down at him, seeing the way his eyes were shut tight, his brow furrowed like he was in pain. It felt like he was trying to vent a week's worth of frustration out on you.
When you couldn't take the friction anymore, you pulled him up by the shoulders. You didn't want to just watch; you needed to feel him. You kicked your pants off and reached for the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down past his hips.
He was already hard, heavy and leaking, and the second you were skin-to-skin, the air seemed to leave the room. You gripped him, your hands slick, and pulled him flush against you. The feeling of him rubbing against you—frotting with a frantic, rhythmic heat—was almost too much to handle.
Gojo let out a low, broken sound against your neck, his weight pressing you down into the vinyl of the bench. It was raw and blunt. There was no finesse to it, just two bodies trying to grind the tension out of each other. You wrapped your leg around his waist to pull him closer, your heart hammering against your ribs as the friction built toward something white-hot.
You both came at the same time, a messy, shuddering release that left you both gasping for air in the dark gym. Gojo stayed slumped over you for a long minute, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
He pulled away slowly, the silence in the room feeling heavier than before. He didn't help you up. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking down at you with an expression that was almost a challenge.
"Still done?" he asked, his voice shaking.
You didn't answer. You just started reaching for your clothes, your hands trembling. The rule hadn't changed, but the stakes had. You weren't just sleeping together anymore; you were destroying each other.
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The gold medal game was brutal. You were playing the game of your life, logging heavy minutes because your team needed you to shut down the Japanese offence. Japan was leading 2-1 in the third period, and the energy in the arena was vibrating.
Gojo was stuck on the bench. He was dressed in his full gear, but his helmet was off, and he had a heavy coat draped over his shoulders to keep his core warm. He looked miserable. Every time you laid a hard hit on one of his teammates or cleared the puck, the camera found him. They wanted to see the frustrated star.
The incident happened during a puck battle along the boards. You took a heavy elbow to the ribs—the same spot Gojo had injured days prior—, and you went down for a second, gasping for air. You weren't badly hurt, but the wind was knocked out of you, and you stayed on one knee to catch your breath.
The Jumbotron didn't show the replay of the foul. It cut straight to the Japanese bench.
Gojo wasn't just watching; he was standing up, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the top of the acrylic glass. He’d pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes were wide, fixed on you with a raw, terrifying intensity. He looked like he was about to climb over the partition. There was no smirk, no arrogance, just a frantic sort of hunger as he tracked your movement.
The feed stayed on him for five long seconds. The entire stadium saw the mask slip. The commentators went silent for a beat before trying to pivot back to the play, but the damage was done.
By the time the final buzzer rang and Japan secured the 3-1 win, the clip was the only thing anyone was talking about.
The press conference was a disaster. You sat at the table with your silver medal around your neck, feeling the weight of the loss and the headache from the game. Gojo sat three chairs down, looking perfectly composed in his team jacket, but he wouldn't look in your direction.
"Gojo-san," a reporter asked, "your reaction to the hit on the opposing defenseman has gone viral. It looked very... personal. Would you care to explain your relationship with him?"
Gojo didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp, practised laugh. "I was just checking the officiating. It was a missed call, and I hate seeing a good game ruined by bad refs. I want to beat my rivals on the ice, not see them get handed free passes because they dived. There's nothing personal about wanting a fair game."
It was a cold, effective lie.
Then they turned to you. "And you? Did you notice the concern from the Japanese captain?"
"I was busy playing a game," you said. Your voice was flat and tired. "I don't watch the bench. People see what they want to see, but there’s no story here. We’re rivals. That’s the beginning and the end of it."
You felt Gojo’s hand tighten on his water bottle. The denial felt like a physical blow to the chest. You had both just stood in front of the world and called the only real thing in your lives a hallucination.
When the cameras finally cut, you stood up and walked out. You didn't wait for him. You didn't want to see the lie in his eyes anymore.
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The parking garage was a place that smelled like dust and melting ice. The celebration from the Japanese locker room was a distant, muffled throb several floors up. Gojo was leaning against a support pillar near the team bus, his gold medal tucked inside his jacket like it was something he was ashamed of.
"You're a coward," you said. You didn't raise your voice. In the empty garage, the words carried perfectly, flat and cold.
Gojo didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "I just saved your career and mine. You should be happy we still have jobs tomorrow."
"I'm not talking about the press conference. I'm talking about the way you live." You walked closer, stopping just outside his reach. "You spend every second of your life performing. You hide behind that plastic charm and the jokes because you're terrified. You think if you stop smiling for one minute, people will see that you’re actually just a hollow person who doesn't know how to exist without a crowd."
Gojo finally looked up. His eyes weren't bright or playful. They were dark, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. "And you're any better? You spend all your time pretending you're some stoic wall that nothing can touch. You act like you don't care about anything, so you never have to risk losing. It's a pathetic way to live."
"At least I'm honest about who I am," you replied. "I don't need a script to get through a conversation."
"You aren't honest," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. He stepped into your space, his height looming over you. "You're just scared. You’d rather feel nothing than admit that I’m the only thing that’s made you feel alive in years. You’re using me as a distraction from your own boring life."
"I'm not using you. I was trying to find something real."
Gojo let out a short, bitter laugh. "There is nothing real here. You’re just another person who wants a piece of the 'Satoru Gojo' show, and I was stupid enough to think you were different. You’re just a fan with a jersey, and I'm bored of playing with you."
The air in the garage felt like it turned to glass. It was the kind of thing you couldn't take back. It wasn't a joke or a jab. It was a dismissal.
You looked at him for a long beat, waiting for the smirk or the punchline that would soften the blow. It never came. He just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and distant.
"Fine," you said. Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "Enjoy the show, Gojo."
You turned and walked toward the exit. You didn't run. You just kept a deliberate pace, the sound of your boots on the concrete the only noise in the space. You didn't look back to see if he was watching. You just left him there, standing in the shadows of the pillar with his gold medal and his lies.
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The flight home was a ten-hour vacuum. You sat in the middle of your teammates, the silver medal heavy in your bag, listening to them talk about the next season. You didn't join in. You just looked out the window at the clouds and felt the physical weight of the distance growing between you and Tokyo.
The silence that followed wasn't a relief. It was pressure.
You went back to your domestic league. You showed up to practice, you hit the weight room, and you played your minutes. You were perfect on paper. You didn't take penalties, and you didn't miss assignments. Your coach called it "professionalism," but your teammates stopped joking with you in the locker room. You were a ghost in a jersey. You did your job, went home to a quiet apartment, and stared at your phone until the screen timed out.
Gojo’s name still popped up in your feed. You couldn't avoid it.
He was spiralling, though the media called it "unpredictable brilliance." He was taking dangerous risks on the ice, getting into fights with refs, and blowing off mandatory team events. There was a photo of him leaving a club at 4:00 AM, looking haggard and sharp, his hair a mess and his sunglasses crooked. He looked like he was trying to burn himself out from the inside.
You drafted a dozen texts. Are you okay? That was a low blow. I'm sorry. You never sent them. You would type a sentence, look at the blinking cursor, and realise there was no way to bridge the gap without breaking the silence you’d both built. You deleted every draft.
He never called. He never texted. There were no "missed you" notes or cryptic social media posts. There was just a total, crushing absence. You slept on one side of the bed. You stopped buying the mint tea he liked.
The months didn't make it easier. Time didn't heal the argument in the parking garage; it just let the words sink in until they felt like part of your bones. You weren't a fan with a jersey, and he wasn't just a performer, but you were both too proud to be the first one to admit that the lie had hurt.
By the time the rosters for the next international meet were announced, you felt like you’d aged a decade. You saw his name on the Japanese list. You saw your own on yours.
The prospect of seeing him again didn't feel like a reunion. It felt like a collision you couldn't avoid.
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The hotel in Prague was a labyrinth of limestone and heavy carpets. It was the kind of place that felt too old and too quiet for a bunch of hockey players. You saw the Japanese team bus pull up while you were standing at the lobby window. You didn't wait around to see him get off. You went straight to your room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed until the sun went down.
The first time you actually ran into him was at the morning skate the next day. You were coming off the ice; he was heading on. Usually, this was when he’d lean over the rail and say something to get under your skin.
This time, he stopped three feet away. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long flight, but a deep, structural exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his shoulders. He didn't have his usual designer glasses on. He just looked at you, and for the first time, he didn't have a comeback ready.
"You changed your hair," he said. His voice was scratchy and thin.
"You look like hell, Gojo," you replied. You didn't mean it as an insult. It was just a fact.
"Yeah." He shifted his weight, his skates scraping against the rubber matting. "I haven't been sleeping much. The noise in Tokyo is loud this time of year."
It was a clumsy conversation. It was restrained and careful, like you were both walking on ice that was way too thin to hold your weight. There was no heat in it, just a dull, aching awkwardness that made your chest tight. He lingered for a second longer than he needed to, then turned and skated onto the ice without another word.
That night, you didn't even have to wonder if he’d show up. You left the door unlocked.
When he walked in, he didn't turn on the lights. He just kicked his shoes off and moved toward the bed in the shadows. There was no bravado. No arrogant comments about how much you’d missed him. He just sat down beside you and stayed there for a long time, the only sound in the room being the distant hum of the city outside.
When you finally moved in together, it was slow. It was the quietest it had ever been. There was no frantic tearing at clothes or bruised skin. It was just skin on skin, a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like a confession than a hookup. You stayed close, your hands moving over the familiar lines of his back, feeling the way his heart was thudding against your own.
You frotted against him, the heat between you building in a slow, steady climb. It wasn't about the release this time. It was about the fact that he was actually there, his weight heavy and real against you. When he finally came, he didn't make a sound. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck and held on until his breathing levelled out.
Afterwards, the room stayed dark. Gojo didn't get up to find his clothes. He didn't make a joke about your hotel room or ask if you were still "bored" with him. He just lay there on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes, silent.
That was the terrifying part. The jokes were his armour. They were how he kept the world at a distance. Without them, he was just a man lying in a dark room with nothing to hide behind. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating, and for the first time, you realised that the game was truly over.
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The practice rink was scheduled for maintenance at 3:00 AM. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low, orange hum, casting long shadows across the fresh sheet of ice. You were sitting on the player bench, your skates laced but your jersey left in the locker room. The cold was steady, the kind that got under your skin and stayed there.
You heard the heavy thud of the door, then the rhythmic scrape of blades on the rubber matting. Gojo didn't get on the ice. He sat down on the same bench, three feet away from you. He was wearing his team tracksuit, his hands tucked into his sleeves to stay warm.
"I can't play tomorrow if I don't get this out of my head," he said. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the goal crease on the far end of the rink.
"Then say it," you replied.
He let out a breath that puffed into a white cloud in the freezing air. "I've spent my whole life making sure everything I did was for the win. Every person I talked to, every girl I went home with, every interview. It was all just fuel for the image. It was easy because none of it was real."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were tired, stripped of the performative spark that usually defined him. "I'm scared. If I keep this up with you, it’s going to cost me the only thing I know how to be. I’m scared I’ll lose the version of Satoru Gojo that everyone wants, and I don’t know who’s left underneath that."
You looked at the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the dim light like a mirror. "It already cost me, Gojo. I haven't been the same player since that parking garage in Japan. I've been a ghost on the ice. I lost the peace I had when I was just a defenseman doing a job."
"I know," he whispered.
"We aren't the same people we were in Zurich," you said. "The 'rivalry' was a lie we told ourselves so we could keep touching each other. But the lie is dead now. We killed it at the press conference."
Gojo leaned back against the hard plastic of the bench. He didn't offer a promise. He didn't tell you he would change or that everything would be fine once the tournament was over. He didn't say he loved you, and you didn't say it back. Those words were too heavy for a cold bench in an empty rink.
"I don't know what happens next," he admitted. "I don't have a script for this. I don't know if we can even do this without ruining our careers."
"Neither do I," you said.
For the first time in months, the air didn't feel like it was about to snap. There was no performance, no ego, and no jagged edges. Just two people sitting in a cold, dark building, admitting they were lost. It was the most honest conversation you’d ever had, and it felt more permanent than any of the secrets you’d kept before.
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The hotel room was quiet when you returned, the only sound being the low hum of the heater fighting the Prague chill outside the window. There was no frantic fumbling for the key card this time. No slamming each other against the door out of spite or adrenaline. You walked in, and Gojo followed, closing the door softly behind him. The lock clicked, but it didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a boundary.
Gojo sat on the edge of the bed and just watched you. The light from the bedside lamp was a warm, dull yellow that caught the frayed edges of his hoodie. He looked like a man who had finally run out of things to say. When you moved toward him, it wasn't an impulse driven by a bad game or a bruised ego. It was a choice. You stood between his knees, and he rested his forehead against your stomach, his hands curling loosely around your waist. He took a long, shaky breath, the kind that sounded like he was finally letting go of a weight he’d been carrying since Japan.
He started undressing you with a slow focus. His fingers were steady, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, his eyes following the movement of his own hands. There was no performance for a hidden camera, no mask of the "greatest player in the world" to maintain. When it was his turn, you helped him out of his layers, feeling the solid, heavy muscle of his shoulders under your palms. He had a faint scar near his collarbone you hadn’t noticed before, and a few fading bruises on his ribs. He was just a guy.
He leaned over to the nightstand, pulling a small tube of lubricant from his travel kit. He didn't make a joke about it or try to deflect the intimacy with a smirk. He didn't try to be "cool." He just looked at you, a silent question in his eyes, and you nodded.
You lie back against the sheets, the fabric cool against your skin. Gojo moved between your legs, his weight a grounding, physical presence. He was patient. He used his fingers first, coated in the slick gel, moving with a careful, rhythmic pressure. He wasn't trying to get to the finish line; he was just making sure you were comfortable. He watched your face, his thumb occasionally brushing over your hip bone, waiting for your breath to hitch or your muscles to relax before he moved deeper. It was clinical in its care, but deeply human in its tenderness.
When he finally lined himself up, he paused. He stayed there for a beat, his forehead resting against yours, his white hair tickling your skin. The air between you smelled like hotel soap and the faint, metallic scent of the ice rink that always seemed to cling to your skin.
"Okay?" he whispered. His voice was low, stripped of all its usual theatrics.
"Yeah," you breathed out, your hands finding the back of his neck. "I'm okay."
He pushed inside slowly. It was a heavy, overwhelming sensation, a fullness that made the rest of the world feel like it was disappearing into the background. You gripped his shoulders, your knuckles white, but it wasn't out of pain. It was just the sheer reality of him finally being there, without the rivalry, without the lies. Gojo didn't rush. He stayed still for a long moment, letting your body adjust to the weight of him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that felt more exposing than being naked.
When he started to move, it was with a deep, steady pace. There was no frantic friction, just a quiet, shared heat. Every thrust was a slow climb that felt like it was pulling something out of your chest. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, wanting to close every millimetre of space left. It felt like a conversation you’d been trying to have for months—one where you finally didn't have to keep your guard up.
Gojo's composure eventually started to break. His breathing turned into jagged, uneven gasps, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip on your hips tightening. He wasn't the "sun”, or a "god”, or a "superstar." He was just a man who was terrified of being alone, clinging to the only person who actually knew the difference.
The release wasn't an explosion; it was a slow collapse. You both came in the quiet, your gasps muffled against each other’s skin. Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his head tucked against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as his heart rate eventually slowed down. He felt heavy, warm, and real.
The silence that followed wasn't scary anymore. It was just a shared space. No one was running for the door. No one was reaching for a drink or a distraction. You just lay there in the dim light, two people who had finally stopped playing a game they couldn't win.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The morning sun in Prague was weak, filtering through the heavy hotel curtains in dusty slats of grey light. Gojo didn't leave in the middle of the night. When you woke up, he was still there, taking up more than his fair share of the bed, his face smashed into a pillow. Without the gel in his hair or the glasses on his face, he just looked like a person—one who happened to be a world-class athlete with a very loud mouth.
You sat at the small hotel desk, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the city wake up. You heard the bedsheets rustle.
"You're thinking too loud," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blankets pooling at his waist.
"I'm thinking about the flight schedules," you said. "And the fact that my coach is going to kill me if I’m late for the bus."
Gojo stayed quiet for a second. He looked at his hands, then back at you. The bravado was still missing, but he didn't look scared anymore. He looked resolved. "My season ends in three weeks. I have a gap before the summer camps start. I could... fly out. It’s a long trip, but I’ve got the miles."
It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a logistical nightmare. Different leagues, different continents, two massive reputations that would eventually collide again under the glare of a Jumbotron. It was going to be complicated, invasive, and probably a little bit miserable when the media eventually found out.
"It's going to be a mess, Satoru," you said, leaning back in the chair.
He stood up, stretching until his joints popped, and walked over to you. He didn't lean over you with that predatory smirk from Zurich. He just rested a hand on the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against your shoulder.
"Yeah," he admitted, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's going to be a disaster. But I'm bored with playing it safe. Aren't you?"
You looked up at him and felt a strange, quiet sense of relief. The weight of the silver medal, the gold medal, and the lies didn't feel so heavy anymore. "I've been bored for a long time."
An hour later, you were standing in the lobby, gear bags at your feet. The Japanese team was boarding their bus out front, and a crowd of fans already gathered behind the barricades. Gojo was standing by the glass doors, adjusting his dark glasses, the "superstar" mask sliding back into place as he prepared to face the cameras.
He caught your eye across the busy room. He didn't wink. He didn't blow a kiss. He just waited until you walked toward the exit, passing him one last time.
"Watch your step," he said, his voice low and smooth, a soft echo of the very first time he’d stopped you in that tunnel.
You stopped, looking at him over your shoulder. You didn't roll your eyes this time. You just gave him a faint, steady nod.
"Try not to get in my way, Gojo."
He let out a short, real laugh—the kind that didn't care about the acoustics—and watched you walk out into the light.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S LEAVING ME FOR 4 YEARS AND WE DIDNT HAVE ENOUGH TIME?! PLEASE LET HIM BE SAFE ADN RETURN TO ME SAFELY!!
Jokes aside I need a part 2 because that can’t be it! He needs to return and be hardened and determined that he wants to be with y/n after being a part for 4 years!!😭
✮ Summary: Your relationship with Vernon is confusing. It's like he's only into you whenever it's just you two. People who come across you guys when you hang out always say that it seems like you're together. Eventually, you've had enough and mustered up enough courage to ask him the infamous question. "What are we?"
✮ Word Count: 1,412
✮ Author's Note: hi gays! i'm back to my roots and made a seventeen fic this time. hope you guys enjoy!!!!!! also read part two here!
Every day until now has been a struggle to keep your focus on what matters. All because of a man. It all started back in college. You chose to sit at the front during your first day of guitar class. Mainly to be able to see whatever the professor is showing the class.
The chair next to you shifts a bit, and you hear an unfamiliar voice say, "Hello."
You turn to face the person who seemingly started a conversation with you. He was unbearably attractive, and it threw you off. Obviously, you wouldn't let him know that through your actions, so you steadied yourself before you responded.
"What's up?" You say.
He smiles and says, "Just wanting to make some friends. I'm Vernon. What's your name?"
"That's cool, I'm Y/n." You say, trying to maintain your nonchalance.
There was a pause between you two. It looked like he was studying your face.
"So, what brought you here?" You question.
He shrugs and responds with, "Just wanted to brush up on my guitar skills."
You ask, "How long have you been playing guitar?"
"About 6-7 years, I don't really keep count. I took a break because of personal stuff, but I wanted to get back into it." He says.
Just as you were about to respond, the professor started their lecture, cutting you off. The two of you turn your attention to them and listen for the rest of class.
This kind of conversation became a routine. You sat down first, he a minute after. He starts a conversation, and you ask questions until the professor begins to talk. Your friends even knew of this and egged you on to go "talk to your boyfriend". Despite this, the two of you barely talked outside of class. Which was weird because every time you saw him around campus, he would wave to you. That is, until one fateful day.
Everything seemed normal; you guys had your normal routine of talking. But this time he broke the peace. After the professor dismissed the class, he turned to you and looked earnest.
"Do you have some time?" He asks.
You check the time on your phone and say, "I should have the rest of the day free."
"Great, come with me." He says.
You feel your hand get pulled towards his body. Looking down, you see that your hands are actually intertwined. Butterflies filled your stomach to the brim. He gets pulled back because you were staring instead of moving.
"What? Let's get moving, Y/n."
Your mind was racing. Does he seriously not see this as romantic? Is it just you?
"Oh uh... sorry." You say, while finally beginning to follow him.
---
He takes you around town, stopping to get food and to go to an arcade. It was like a forceful date that wasn't really a date. Nearing the end of this so-called "date", he asks if he could take you to his place. Not to do anything really, he just needed to pick up something.
On the car ride there, you debriefed to yourself. The whole day, your brain went haywire. All of these actions felt like he was romantically interested in you, but it wasn't apparent in any of his words.
Once the two of you reach his place, he gets out of the car. When you tried to open the car door, it wouldn't budge. After a few more pushes, you check the outside and see Vernon in front of it.
With a muffled voice, he says, "I told you, I can't let you do that."
He opens the car door and holds out his hand to you.
"I can open a car door by myself." You say.
"Yeah, but I wouldn't want you not to be treated like this." He responds.
"Like what?" You ask while chuckling.
"Like a prince." He says while bowing.
Your face flushes, and you nudge his shoulder, causing a laugh to come out of him. He takes your hand and starts to guide you to his place.
You laugh, remembering what he said earlier, and say, "You're so corny."
"I'm corny for you." He says while looking back.
His statement stops your laugh abruptly. He already turned his head to the front, but you were still staring at him. "He is so confusing," you thought to yourself.
He stops in his tracks to open his door. While he was fumbling with his keys, you were staring at him. The way the moonlight fell on his face made him look ethereal.
"Do I have something on my face?" He questions.
Your face turns a shade of red, and you say, "N-no..."
He laughs and takes your hand again to lead you inside. His place is neatly organized and very minimal. After you stepped in, two cats came up and started rubbing against your legs. You gave them a quick pet before following Vernon's voice.
When you catch up to him, you find that he's in his room. He's on his bed with a guitar in hand. He gestures you over and you listen, sitting next to him.
"Cool guitar," You say.
"Thanks, I've had it for a while." He says.
An awkward silence fills the space, and he strums the guitar before actually plugging it into an amplifier. He starts playing a familiar tune and sings to you.
This feels like summer
Boy, you make me feel so alive
♪
Just be my lover
Boy, you'll lead me to paradise
Once he finishes the song, you just stare at him. There was no cheering, no applause. Just you and him. Looking at each other with an immense tension surrounding the two of you. It felt like the right time to finally ask. To get the answers you've been so desperately looking for. What his intentions are with you.
"Can we talk? About us." You ask.
"Sure." He responds.
"Do you see a future with me?"
He was quiet for a while. It made you anxious.
His response was the one you were expecting.
"I'm going to be honest with you. No."
The words sliced you up, and you felt a lump forming in your throat.
You mustered up enough strength to ask, "Why?"
He sighs and says, "I'm not going to be here for a while. I've already enlisted, so I'll be gone for at least four years. I also don't like doing long distance."
You felt tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. He couldn't at least try with you?
"Don't get me wrong. I really do like you, Y/n. It's just that I don't want to date anyone right now. It's difficult for me to keep in contact."
You pleaded, "Can't we write to each other?"
He shakes his head and says, "It takes months for letters to arrive. There's also not much we'd say to each other."
His excuses felt empty, and it was as if he really did not want to be with you. But he just said that he liked you earlier. Shouldn't he be fighting some more?
As a final effort, you made a compromise with him. The two of you agreed to keep in touch until his final day. Once he leaves, you'll be out of each other's hair.
And you did just that. The sense of impending doom became stronger as each day passed. Your routine wasn't the same, knowing it would all crumble soon. It didn't seem to affect him as much, though. He still acted the same. Talked the same. Gave you the same routine every day. Up until the very end.
You took on the job of dropping him off to get shipped. It was the most gut-wrenching thing for you. But you wanted to see him one last time.
"So I guess this is it." He says while hugging you.
You choke back a sob and say, "I guess so."
He pulls away and stares at you. Really stares at you. You do the same. Taking in every inch of his being for the last time. You were so entranced, you didn't see him getting closer. He stops just inches away from your lips.
"I wish we had met later in life. Maybe we'd have a happy life together." He says before closing the distance, kissing you passionately.
Tears fall as he breaks away, leaving you there for good. His figure slowly getting farther and farther forever being etched in your brain.
Jay is your “straight” frat roommate, and a walking headache. one night, Y/n’s just trying to sleep, but Jay stumbles in drunk from another party. things get loud. and messy.
warnings: dubcon, power dynamics, degrading, rough sex, unprotected sex, drugs use, masturbation, drunk sex, mention of public sex, use of f slur.
In Isla Vista, you didn’t have to look for a party — the party found you. On any given night, half the houses on Del Playa had music spilling out their doors, beer bottles stacked on porch railings, and people drifting in and out like the tide. The air always smelled faintly of salt, weed, and something sizzling on a grill. Even if it was a Tuesday, someone was celebrating something — a midterm being over, a midterm being postponed, or just the fact that the ocean was five minutes away and the beer run was successful. Days bled into nights, nights into mornings, and the cycle never really stopped.
Y/n hadn’t come here chasing that. At first, Isla Vista was just the cheapest option close enough to campus that he could bike to class without killing his legs. He’d been looking for a sublet when a friend of a friend mentioned an open room in one of the bigger houses on Sabado Tarde — “a frat house, kind of, but not official” — which basically meant no dues, no formal pledging, and no one cared if you weren’t in the actual Greek system. Rent was cheap, the beach was two blocks away, and he didn’t have to share a room with three other guys. That was enough for him.
He fit in without much effort. He wasn’t the loudest at the parties, but he was there often enough to be familiar — leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, posted up on the porch with a beer in one hand, chatting with whoever drifted by. He wasn’t shy, but he wasn’t trying to be the center of attention either. And as for who he went home with, that was nobody’s business but his. He didn’t hide the fact that he was into both guys and girls; he just didn’t go around explaining it. If someone was hot and the vibe was right, that was reason enough.
Most of the house was a rotating cast of half-strangers and close friends, but his roommate was Jay — the kind of guy who could make friends in line at the liquor store and have them show up to the house party that same night. Jay was loud, perpetually wearing a backwards cap. He treated everything like a joke, especially when it came to Y/n, and somehow always managed to get under his skin without crossing the line.
Jay was a different breed of Isla Vista frat boy. Not the type to wake up early for surf, not even the type to pretend he had a morning routine. He was more about late nights with a blunt in one hand and a beer in the other, disappearing into a crowd of people you swore you’d never seen before, only to reappear in the kitchen with a whole pizza he didn’t pay for. His parents had money — the kind of money that meant rent was a formality and “broke” meant his Venmo transfer was taking longer than usual. It showed in small ways: the watch he “forgot” to take off before beer pong, the sneakers that cost more than Y/n’s monthly groceries, the fact that his mini fridge was always stocked with brand-name drinks.
Living with Jay meant you were never really off the clock socially. Even on the rare nights the house wasn’t packed, he’d wander into Y/n’s space just to start a conversation, throw a Nerf dart at him, or flop down on his bed like it was his own. He called Y/n “bro” like it was a comma and talked like he was narrating a reality show, always halfway between a joke and a dare.
Y/n didn’t exactly encourage him, but he didn’t shut him down either. There was an ease to their back-and-forth — Y/n with his quieter, steadier presence, and Jay with his constant need to push, tease, get a reaction. They shared the kind of unspoken rule that if one of them brought someone home, the other would make himself scarce without asking questions. And if they ended up at the same party, there was always that half-smirk of acknowledgment across the room, like they were in on something the rest of the house wasn’t.
It wasn’t that they were close, not in the way people usually meant. But in a house full of rotating noise — new faces every month, music rattling the walls — Jay was the one constant Y/n could always count on to be there. Usually shirtless. Usually talking shit.
Everything started as a one-off joke — something Jay tossed out one night after a few too many beers, leaning against Y/n’s doorway with that shit-eating grin he wore when he thought he was being clever. But it didn’t stay a one-time thing. Somewhere along the way, it became part of the rhythm between them, another inside joke in a long list of ones that would make no sense to anyone else. Jay had this habit of pushing the line and then yanking it back with a lazy “no homo,” like a magician’s flourish after a trick. Y/n, for his part, didn’t give him the satisfaction of acting flustered. He just threw it back at him, keeping his voice as steady as if they were talking about the weather — which somehow made Jay double down every time.
It happened in all kinds of ways. Sometimes Jay would wander into their room after a party, half-drunk and smelling faintly of weed, and flop down on Y/n’s bed without warning. “Bro, gimme a kiss for good luck,” he’d mumble, like it was the most normal request in the world. Y/n would snort, shove a pillow in his face, and say something like, “Sure, dude! right after I brush my teeth with bleach.” Other times, they’d be sitting on the couch during a quiet afternoon, some game on the TV neither of them was really watching, and Jay would lean over, way too close, just to whisper, “Bet you’d fold if I actually went for it.” Y/n wouldn’t even look at him — just sip his drink and reply, “Bet you’d miss.”
Even in the middle of bigger gatherings, Jay found ways to slip it in. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen counter during a house party, voices and music blurring around them, he’d nudge Y/n with his elbow and say, “If we made out right now, people would lose their minds.” Y/n would keep his eyes on the beer pong table across the room and answer, “Yeah, from second-hand embarrassment.”
It was a game neither of them had named, but both played like pros. Jay’s goal seemed to be getting Y/n to break, to blush, to stammer — something. But Y/n never did, and maybe that was what kept Jay coming back for more. And underneath all the fake-offended snorts, the lazy comebacks, and the “no homo” disclaimers, there was a weight to it that neither of them acknowledged. Not out loud, anyway.
By the time the sun dipped low over the ocean, the house was already buzzing in that pre-party way — music low but steady, doors opening and closing, the faint hiss of beer cans cracking somewhere down the hall. Y/n sat at his desk with his laptop open, a stack of notes fanned out beside him, highlighter in hand. His midterm was the next morning, the kind of exam you couldn’t bluff your way through, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get pulled into whatever chaos the night was about to become. From his window, he could see the street slowly filling with people — girls in oversized sweatshirts and tiny skirts, guys in backwards caps and patterned button-ups, all moving in loose groups toward the sound of bass drifting from somewhere farther down the block. Isla Vista had a way of making every night feel like a Friday.
Jay’s side of the room looked like a hurricane had passed through. Drawers half-open, sneakers scattered in pairs that didn’t match, a hoodie tossed over his desk chair. He was standing in front of the mirror, spritzing cologne like he was trying to fumigate the place, already dressed in his real uniform: athletic shorts, a loose button-up shirt thrown on without bothering to fasten the top half, his gold chain flashing every time he moved. The cap on his head was turned backwards, his hair sticking out just enough to look intentional, and he had that grin — the one that meant he was about to make bad decisions and somehow get away with all of them. “You’re seriously not coming?” he asked, glancing at Y/n’s reflection in the mirror instead of turning around.
Y/n didn’t look up from his notes. “I have a test, man. Like, an actual important one. Can’t exactly show up hungover and smelling like tequila.”
“That’s quitter talk,” Jay said, smirking as he adjusted the brim of his cap. “Come on, just for an hour. Get some air, talk to some girls… or guys, whatever you’re feeling.” The last part came with a pointed look, a deliberate spark in his voice, like he was prodding at one of their ongoing bits.
Y/n only shook his head, flipping to the next page of his textbook. “That’s how you end up failing stats and moving back in with your parents.”
Jay laughed, low and amused, and crossed the room until he was standing right behind Y/n’s chair. He leaned down just enough for Y/n to catch the scent of his cologne over the faint smell of weed that seemed permanently etched into him. “If I bring someone back, you’re cool to disappear for the night, right?”
Y/n’s pen stilled over the page. “We’ll see,” he said after a beat, not quite committing either way.
Jay lingered for a moment, searching his face like he was trying to read something in it, then tapped the brim of his cap in mock salute. “Don’t study too hard, bro. You might start dreaming about me.”
“Nightmare fuel,” Y/n muttered, but there was the faintest trace of a smile under it.
And then Jay was gone, swallowed by the growing noise downstairs, leaving the room quiet except for the hum of Y/n’s laptop and the muffled thump of bass from the street — a reminder that, outside, Isla Vista was just getting started.
The party on Del Playa was already in full swing by the time Jay got there. The living room had been stripped of anything breakable, replaced with two beer pong tables and a speaker big enough to rattle the windows. The air was hot and crowded, smelling like a mix of sweat, perfume, and whatever was burning on the grill out back. He moved through the space like he owned it, nodding to people he half-knew, dapping up guys he’d met once at another party, accepting a red cup from someone without asking what was in it. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular — the night was just another night, the party just another backdrop. But every so often, in the middle of a conversation or a game, his mind drifted back to the room he’d left behind.
It wasn’t that he was worried about Y/n — Y/n could handle himself just fine — but the image of him sitting there with his head bent over a textbook, highlighter in hand, hadn’t left. Something about the stubborn way he’d said “we’ll see” when Jay had asked about disappearing for the night stuck in his head, like a splinter he couldn’t quite shake loose. Maybe it was the challenge in it, or maybe it was just knowing that Y/n wasn’t out here, wasn’t leaning against the kitchen counter trading jokes, wasn’t part of the noise. He caught himself picturing walking back into the room later, Y/n still there, still studying, and it made the beer in his hand taste different — sharper, somehow. He laughed at himself, shook it off, and went back to the game. Still, the thought kept circling.
Across town — though in Isla Vista “across town” meant a five-minute walk — Y/n was hunched over his desk, pen in hand, eyes scanning the same line of notes for the third time. The muffled bass from the street below throbbed through the walls, a reminder that the world outside was still moving, still loud. His phone lit up every now and then — group chat messages, Instagram notifications, someone asking if he was coming out tonight — but he ignored them all. His focus was razor sharp, not because the material was thrilling, but because he knew exactly what was on the line. He had no time to entertain distractions, no room in his head for thoughts about what Jay might be doing right now.
Every so often, a burst of laughter or the faint echo of a cheer from outside would pull him out of the words on the page, but only for a second. He’d take a sip of water, adjust in his chair, and dive back in. There was no imagining himself at the party, no wondering who was there or what was happening. The test was the only thing in his orbit. Whatever Jay was doing out there didn’t factor in — not tonight.
And while Y/n was busy drilling formulas into his brain, Jay was standing in a kitchen full of strangers, beer pong balls bouncing off the floor, wondering why the hell he was thinking about his roommate instead of the girl across from him who’d just asked for his name.
By one in the morning, Y/n’s desk was a disaster zone of open notebooks, loose papers, and half-dead pens. He’d been at it for hours, the numbers and terms on the page starting to blur together until they felt like they were slipping right out of his head. Every so often, he’d pause and stare blankly at a formula, his brain trying to cling to it while a creeping dread whispered that by the time he woke up, it would all be gone. That was the part that really made his stomach knot — the realization that no matter how much you stuffed into your head now, there was no guarantee it would still be there in the morning. He rubbed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and listened to the muffled bass from somewhere down the street, each thump a reminder that the rest of Isla Vista was alive and loud while he was buried in notes.
Meanwhile, over on Del Playa, the party was at its peak. The living room had become a humid crush of bodies, the walls practically sweating under the heat. Jay had lost count of how many drinks he’d had, his head pleasantly light, his grin loose and lazy. Someone had passed him a blunt, and now the weed and alcohol blurred together into that warm, slow buzz that made it feel like the night could stretch on forever. He moved from the kitchen to the backyard to the living room without really thinking about it, nodding at people he didn’t know, letting conversations wash over him. And every so often, for no good reason, his thoughts drifted back to Y/n — sitting under that desk lamp, bent over his notes like the fate of the world depended on his midterm.
Y/n’s pen tapped a restless rhythm against the desk, matching the faint bass outside. His highlighter had died half a chapter ago, and now he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, weighing whether to power through or risk a break. But every pause felt dangerous — one glance at his phone, one stretch too long, and he might lose the fragile thread of focus holding him together. He told himself he just needed to finish this chapter. Just one more. But his leg was bouncing under the desk now, his handwriting getting sloppier as fatigue crept in.
Jay was back in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a beer in one hand, the blunt making its way to him again. The music thumped hard enough to rattle the bottles on the counter, but his mind kept flicking back to the room he’d left hours ago. He wondered if Y/n had opened the window to let in some air, if the faint vanilla scent from his side of the room was still there. Stupid, random thoughts that didn’t belong here, but they came anyway. He took another drag, another sip, and tried to shake it.
By almost two, Y/n felt the first real wave of panic. His eyes were sore from staring at the page, his brain sluggish, and every line he read felt like trying to catch smoke with his hands. Outside, Isla Vista was still going strong — shouts, laughter, bass lines bleeding into each other from house to house — but up here, the only thing moving was the tip of his pen scratching paper.
And somewhere in that humid, crowded party, Jay was tipping his head back with a laugh, feeling the room tilt just slightly, and thinking — without meaning to — that maybe he’d head back soon.
By the time the clock on Y/n’s laptop clicked past two-thirty, his vision had gone soft around the edges. He’d been reading the same paragraph for at least five minutes, his brain catching on every other word and then letting go before it could stick. The desk lamp cast a small, concentrated pool of light over his notes, the rest of the room sitting in shadow. His head was heavy, neck stiff, the weight of the all-nighter dragging him down. He’d fought off sleep for hours, pushing through the ache in his eyes, telling himself that just one more page, one more problem set, would make the difference between knowing the answer tomorrow or staring blankly at the paper. The thought of all that effort evaporating in the morning — of waking up and feeling like he’d learned nothing — was enough to keep him upright. Barely.
He was mid-sentence, pen in hand, when the sound of the front door downstairs slammed over the muffled bass outside. Voices followed — loud, unfiltered, laughing in that slurred way that only happened after too many drinks. The thump of footsteps on the stairs came next, heavy and uncoordinated, and then the door to his room creaked open. Jay stumbled in, cap still on, chain catching the light, his grin a little too wide. Beside him was a girl Y/n had never seen before — tall, in a tiny black dress, leaning on Jay like her balance depended on him. She was laughing at something he’d just said, her arm slung lazily around his neck.
Jay’s eyes found Y/n instantly, that lazy smirk spreading. “Bro,” he started, his voice thick with alcohol, “do me a solid, yeah?” He gestured vaguely toward the door with the hand not holding the girl’s waist. “Give us, like… an hour. Two, tops.”
Y/n blinked at him, slow and flat. “You’re kidding.”
Jay shook his head, still grinning like this was the most reasonable request in the world. “C’mon, man. I’ll owe you. Big time.”
Y/n leaned back in his chair, the exhaustion sharpening into something else entirely. “Jay, I have a midterm in—” he glanced at the clock, “—five hours. I’m not leaving so you can… whatever.”
The girl stifled a laugh against Jay’s shoulder, clearly catching the edge in Y/n’s tone. Jay just grinned wider, like he thought he could charm his way through it. “You could crash on the couch. It’s, like, prime nap weather out there.”
“I’m not moving,” Y/n said, and there was no hesitation in it. His pen was still in his hand, but his focus on the page was gone — replaced by the frustration of being pulled out of his fragile concentration right when he was about to give in to sleep.
Jay lingered in the doorway, shifting his weight like he was considering pushing it further. “Bro…” he started, but Y/n cut him off.
“Not tonight,” he said, voice steady but tired in a way that didn’t leave room for argument.
For a beat, the only sound was the faint throb of music from somewhere down the street and the girl’s soft, amused exhale. Jay finally raised his hands in surrender, his grin still stubbornly in place. “Alright, alright. No big deal.” He turned to the girl, muttering something under his breath that made her laugh again, and the two of them disappeared back into the hallway, their footsteps retreating down the stairs.
The room was quiet again, but the damage was done. Y/n sat there, staring at his notes without reading them, his exhaustion now buzzing with irritation. Outside, Isla Vista kept on raging, and inside, the clock kept ticking toward morning.
Y/n eventually closed his laptop, shoved his notes into a pile, and switched off the desk lamp. The darkness felt immediate, swallowing the room in that way that made it seem quieter than it really was. He slid under the blanket, eyes already closing, body sinking into the mattress like it had been waiting all night for permission to shut down. He told himself he needed at least three hours of sleep before the midterm — three hours where his brain could rest, maybe hold onto the fragile grip it had on everything he’d been cramming.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later when the door eased open again. The hallway light spilled across the floor, cutting into the darkness, and Jay’s laugh — low, slurred — crept in with it. The girl from earlier was with him, her heels clicking softly against the floor as they slipped inside.
“Shhh,” Jay half-whispered, half-laughed, like the word itself was a joke.
Y/n’s eyes snapped open. He stayed still, hoping — against all logic — that they’d just grab something and leave. Instead, the door shut, the click of the lock following, and muffled voices started up on the other side of the room. He could hear the rustle of fabric, the creak of Jay’s bed frame. Then the first quiet laugh from the girl, followed by something lower — indistinct, but enough to make Y/n’s jaw tighten under the blanket.
He rolled onto his side, facing the wall, trying to will himself to ignore it. But the noises only got more distinct — a mix of breathy giggles, the soft thud of movement, Jay’s voice dropping into something Y/n couldn’t quite make out. The bed across the room creaked again, a steady rhythm beginning to form, and Y/n’s hands curled into the fabric of his pillow.
Every sound felt amplified in the dark: the shift of weight, the quick inhale of air, the little hitch of laughter between kisses. He shut his eyes, jaw tense, heat rising in his chest that had nothing to do with the blanket. His brain had been fried enough from hours of studying — now it was being pelted with this, and the thought of getting any real sleep started to feel like a joke.
Jay muttered something, the girl answered with a soft hum, and the bedframe let out another groan. Y/n exhaled sharply into his pillow, not trusting himself to speak, because he wasn’t sure if it would come out as irritation or something sharper. All he could do was stare into the darkness, every tick of the clock pushing him closer to morning, while Jay’s side of the room stayed very much awake.
By the time it was over, the room felt like it had been split in two. Jay’s side was thick with the heat of it, the sheets twisted, the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to the air. Y/n’s side was rigid and silent, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest as he stared at the wall, eyes wide open in the dark. He hadn’t slept a minute. Every creak of the bed, every muffled sound, had dragged him further from the thin thread of calm he’d been trying to hold onto.
The girl giggled softly, gathering her things in the dim glow of Jay’s phone light. Her heels clicked on the floor as she leaned down, kissed him quick, and whispered something that made Jay laugh, low and lazy. Then the door opened, spilling another thin slice of hallway light across the room, and she slipped out without looking back. The door clicked shut, and silence folded in again.
Jay flopped back against his mattress with a satisfied groan, his laugh echoing in the dark like he’d just won a game no one else was playing. “Bro,” he muttered, voice still thick with alcohol, “you awake?”
Y/n didn’t answer. He stayed facing the wall, eyes open, every muscle tight.
Jay chuckled, the sound half amusement, half disbelief. “C’mon, don’t be mad. You survived.” His bed creaked as he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, peering through the dark at Y/n’s still figure. “I told you — like, what, an hour? Not even.”
Y/n finally let out a sharp exhale, not turning around. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice was low, edged with exhaustion that sounded more dangerous than anger.
Jay smirked, not deterred in the slightest. “Unbelievably charming, yeah.”
Y/n rolled onto his back, finally meeting the shadow of Jay’s grin across the room. “I have a midterm in—” he squinted at the red digits of the clock, “—three hours. And you thought it was a good idea to turn this place into your personal motel?”
Jay laughed again, dragging a hand over his face like he could wipe the drunk off. “You’re acting like you didn’t hear worse in this house before. People hook up all the time.”
“Not in our room,” Y/n snapped, sharper this time.
That finally made Jay pause. He watched Y/n through the dark, the smirk faltering into something quieter. He let the silence hang for a second, then shrugged. “Fair. But you gotta admit, I was considerate. Didn’t even turn the lights on.”
Y/n groaned, dragging the blanket over his head like it could block him out completely. He didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to trade barbs, didn’t want to think about the fact that sleep was now even further out of reach. All he wanted was to shut down his brain for a couple of hours before walking into that classroom.
From his bed, Jay chuckled again, softer this time. “Don’t hate me, bro. You know you love me.”
Y/n didn’t answer. The silence that followed was heavy, but Jay only sighed, sinking back into his pillow with the loose contentment of someone who didn’t have to be anywhere in the morning.The room had gone quiet again after Jay’s little laugh, but it didn’t stay that way. Y/n had just started to convince himself he could maybe doze off for at least an hour when Jay shifted on his mattress, the springs squeaking loud in the dark.
“You’re really sulking, huh?” Jay’s voice was low, amused, and dripping with the kind of cocky confidence that only came from being half-drunk. “C’mon, dude, don’t act like you didn’t get a free show. She was hot.”
Y/n pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You’re disgusting.”
That only made Jay chuckle, the sound bouncing lazily across the small space between their beds. “Nah, you love it. Admit it — you were laying there, thinking about what you’d do if it was you instead.” He dragged the words out, savoring them, like he wanted to see if they’d stick.
Y/n groaned and rolled onto his side again, facing the wall, jaw tight. “I have an exam in three hours. Go to sleep.”
But Jay wasn’t letting it go. He shifted again, and suddenly his voice was closer — he’d sat up, leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees like he was closing the distance even in the dark. “Don’t front, man. You’re always so serious. Bet you’re wound up as hell.” His laugh was soft, low, the kind that curled under Y/n’s skin whether he wanted it to or not. “You’d probably crack if someone kissed you right now. Just fold. Easy.”
Y/n squeezed his eyes shut, pulse ticking in his temples. “Jay.” His voice was sharp, but underneath was the exhaustion, the near edge of breaking.
Jay grinned in the dark, drunk enough not to care about the line he was toeing. “Relax, bro. No homo.” He said it like it was a magic spell, like those two words erased the weight of everything else. Then, quieter, more taunting: “Unless you wanted it to be.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pressed against both of them. Y/n’s hand curled tighter around the edge of his blanket, fighting the urge to answer, to give him even one more reaction. Across the room, Jay smirked to himself, stretching back against his pillow, smug in the knowledge that his words were still hanging in the air like smoke.
For Y/n, there was no sleep after that. Every time he shut his eyes, it wasn’t formulas or definitions that filled his head — it was Jay’s voice, smug and taunting, echoing in the dark.
Jay didn’t stay still for long. He sprawled out on his bed like he owned the whole room, one arm behind his head, the other draped lazily across his stomach. The mattress springs squeaked when he shifted, his lazy grin aimed right at Y/n. “Man,” he said after a beat, voice still low and rough from the night, “you should’ve seen her. Tightest little dress, fuckin’ legs for days. Whole time, I’m thinking—” he let the sentence hang just long enough to make it deliberate, “—bet you’d kill to be in her spot.”
Y/n’s head turned toward him, just barely, his brow creasing. “Jesus, Jay.”
“What?” Jay’s tone was pure innocence, but his smirk gave him away. “I’m just saying, she was… enthusiastic. You know?” He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was replaying it in his head. “Claw marks down my back and everything. Bet you’d leave worse.”
“Shut up,” Y/n muttered, rolling onto his side so his back was to him.
But that was the thing about Jay — telling him to shut up was just blood in the water. He chuckled, low and warm, shifting so the bedsprings groaned again. “Don’t be like that, bro. We both know you were awake for some of it. You heard me, huh?”
Y/n didn’t answer, which was exactly the wrong move.
Jay kept going, his voice dropping a little. “Bet you were laying there, all tense, tryin’ not to picture it. Tryin’ not to picture me.” There was an edge of laughter under the words, but something slower too — not quite serious, but not entirely a joke.
Y/n sighed sharply. “You’re drunk.”
“Drunk,” Jay agreed, “and high. Which means no filter, baby.” The last word was drawn out, playful but sitting heavy in the space between them. “You gonna tell me you’ve never thought about it? Even once? I mean…” He laughed under his breath. “You’ve seen me in a towel, man. Hell, you’ve seen me naked by accident. That’s enough to get anybody curious.”
Y/n turned his head toward the wall, his jaw tight. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jay’s grin deepened, like that was the exact response he’d been fishing for. “Ridiculous and right.” He shifted again, the bedframe creaking, and when he spoke next, his voice had that lazy, post-party drawl that slid under your skin. “C’mon, you’ve never wondered what it’d be like if I just… climbed into your bed right now? No ‘no homo,’ no jokes. Just me and you.”
Y/n swallowed, the room suddenly feeling warmer than it had a minute ago. “You need to sleep, Jay.”
Jay laughed again, low and quiet, and finally rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said, still grinning, “but you’d be more fun.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t exactly hostile either — the air between them thick with something unspoken, something that felt too big for either of them to name. And in that late, heavy hour, it lingered.
And again, the silence didn’t last long. Jay shifted one more time, the sound of the bedsprings giving him away, and then his bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud. Y/n could hear him moving even before he saw the shadow fall across his side of the room.
“Man…” Jay’s voice was quieter now, but no less smug, “you’re seriously over there acting like I didn’t just put on the performance of the century.”
Y/n didn’t roll over. “You woke me up. Again.”
Jay snorted. “Pfft. You weren’t even asleep. I know you, bro. You were laying there, pretending not to listen. That’s why you’re all tense now. You’ve got…” He paused, letting the word come out slower. “…energy.”
Y/n finally rolled onto his back, eyes half-open, irritation and exhaustion bleeding together. “Jay, I have a midterm in some hours. I’m not in the mood.”
Jay crouched down beside the bed, resting an elbow on the edge like they were just having some casual midnight chat. His grin was still there, lazy and taunting. “C’mon, dude. You know it’s bros before hoes, right? That’s like… code. Guy code. Top-tier roommates type shit.” He made a vague hand gesture between them, like that was supposed to explain everything. “If your bro needs something, you hook him up. And right now…” His grin widened, “—I think you need somethin’.”
Y/n huffed out a laugh that wasn’t amused. “What I need is for you to get the fuck back in your bed, bro.”
Jay shook his head slowly, like Y/n was the one being ridiculous. “Nah, nah, nah. That’s quitter talk. Look at us, man — two dudes, late at night, doors locked, no one else around…” He leaned in just a fraction, voice dipping lower. “If I was into dudes — which I’m not, obviously — I’d say this is the perfect setup.”
“You’re drunk,” Y/n said again, but his voice didn’t sound as steady this time.
“AAAAAANDD… having a great night.” Jay’s smirk didn’t falter. “You could be having a great night too, bro. You just gotta stop overthinking it. It’s not even gay if it’s with your roommate. That’s, like… a law or something.”
Y/n let his head fall back against the pillow, eyes narrowing. “That’s not a law.”
“Okay, maybe not, but it should be.” Jay’s voice softened just slightly, enough to slide under Y/n’s skin. “Don't tell me it never crossed your mind.”
Y/n didn’t answer right away, and that was all the opening Jay needed. He reached out, fingers brushing the blanket near Y/n’s hip — not grabbing, not even pressing, just enough to let the weight of the touch hang there.
“See?” Jay’s grin deepened. “You didn’t say no.”
The air between them felt heavy now, the late-night quiet amplifying every small sound — Y/n’s slow inhale, Jay’s faint laugh, the creak of the floor under his crouch. It was the kind of moment that could tip either way, and Jay seemed determined to keep pushing until it did.
Jay stayed crouched there for a long moment, his smirk daring Y/n to say something that would end it. When it didn’t come, he leaned his weight forward, elbows on the mattress now. The dip in the bed made Y/n shift slightly, and Jay noticed — his grin pulling wider like he’d just scored a point in a game only he was playing.
“Bro, you’re so fucked up right now,” he murmured, voice somewhere between taunt and observation. “Like, I can feel it from here. You need to… relax. Let your bro take care of you.”
Y/n’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not ‘taking care’ of me.”
Jay chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like Y/n was being dramatic. “Not like that, man. Chill. I mean—” he shrugged one shoulder, still leaning in, “—unless you’re into it. Which… you don’t seem to be saying no to.”
Before Y/n could reply, Jay shifted again, climbing up onto the edge of the bed without asking. He moved slow, exaggerated, like he was giving Y/n plenty of time to push him away if he wanted — but there was a confidence in the way he did it, a certainty that he wouldn’t be stopped. His knee sank into the mattress beside Y/n’s hip, the faint scent of beer and weed trailing off him as he leaned closer.
“You know what I think?” Jay said, low enough that it was almost a whisper. “I think you lowkey need that. Not all the time — you’re not obsessed or whatever — but I think there’s been a night or two where you were like, ‘yeah, I’d let Jay fuck around.’”
“Jay…” Y/n’s voice was warning, but his tone lacked the sharp edge it usually carried when he was serious.
Jay caught it immediately. “What? It’s not like I’m saying I’d actually do it.” His grin turned sly. “Unless you asked.”
Y/n’s blanket was still pulled halfway up his torso, but Jay’s hand landed casually on top of it, fingers drumming idly near his ribs. Not quite touching, but close enough to be felt through the fabric. “See, this is where the whole ‘bros before hoes’ thing comes in, dude. Sometimes your bro just… steps up. Helps you out. No labels, no drama. Just… bro shit.”
“‘Bro shit’ doesn’t usually involve…” Y/n trailed off, the words catching before he could finish them.
Jay tilted his head, eyes locked on his. “Involve what?”
The air between them felt thick now, the faint streetlight slipping through the blinds cutting narrow stripes across Jay’s jaw, his neck. He was close enough that Y/n could see the glaze of alcohol in his eyes, the lazy pull at the corner of his mouth, and the way his chest rose and fell slow from the weed.
Jay smirked again, leaning just a little closer, voice dropping into something heavier. “You say the word, and I’ll make this the best all-nighter you’ve ever had.”
For a moment, Y/n didn’t move, didn’t even blink — the weight of Jay’s words hanging in the late-night quiet, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.
Jay didn’t wait for a yes. He moved in that lazy, unhurried way that came with being sure of himself, one knee sinking deeper into the mattress until he was braced half over Y/n. His hand slid up from the blanket to Y/n’s jaw, his thumb pressing lightly along the edge of it. Not rough, not soft — just enough pressure to make it clear he was steering the moment.
Y/n’s breath caught, and Jay’s smirk sharpened. “Relax, dude,” he murmured, voice low enough to feel rather than hear. “Just bros. Just… testing boundaries, right?”
Y/n didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. Jay’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked there like he was studying the way it moved. Then, with that same half-grin, he leaned down until their faces were close enough that Y/n could smell the mix of weed, beer, and faint cologne clinging to him.
“You ever notice,” Jay said slowly, “how easy it is to just… not think about it? You do what feels good, and that’s it. No labels, no deep shit. Just…” His hand slid down Y/n’s neck, fingers curling against the warm skin there. “…two guys helping each other out.”
Y/n’s pulse was hammering now, the heat under his skin clashing with the exhaustion still weighing on him. Jay must’ve felt it, because his grin deepened, his thumb dragging lightly against the hollow of Y/n’s throat before dipping lower.
“Bet you’ve been tense all night,” Jay added, his voice almost a taunt. “All that studying, no break, no fun. You’re too worried, man.”
He shifted his weight, bringing his face even closer until his lips brushed — not kissed, just brushed — against Y/n’s ear. “I could fix that.”
The words landed hard, and before Y/n could stop himself, a quiet, involuntary sound slipped past his lips — barely more than a breath, but unmistakably a moan. Jay froze for half a second, then laughed under his breath, smug and low.
“There it is,” he murmured. “Knew you had it in you.”
His hand slid lower, over the blanket but firm enough that Y/n could feel the weight and heat of it through the fabric. The mattress dipped more as Jay leaned in, his mouth close enough to ghost over Y/n’s jaw now. “C’mon, man. Just say it. Just say you want me to keep going, and I will. We can call it… what’s the word…” He smirked. “Team-building.”
Y/n’s fingers had curled into the sheets without him realizing it, the tension in his body now something entirely different from the stress of studying. Jay’s eyes tracked that, the grin never leaving his face, his touch lingering in a way that made it very clear he had no intention of pulling back unless he was told outright.
Y/n’s grip on the sheets tightened, the last scraps of his stubborn pride slipping through his fingers like sand. The logical part of his brain — the one that had been clinging to his midterm as an excuse — was drowned out by the heat pooling low in his body. His cock was hard now, straining against the thin fabric of his shorts, the pulse of it impossible to ignore. He hated how quickly it had happened, hated how easy Jay made it without even trying.
Jay noticed. Of course he did. His grin shifted into something sharper, hungrier. “Yeah… there it is,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, satisfied tone. “Knew you’d crack eventually, bro.” His hand slid down the blanket again, slower this time, deliberately brushing over the shape between Y/n’s legs. Even through the fabric, the contact made Y/n’s breath hitch, his back arch just slightly.
“Fuck…” Y/n muttered, half to himself.
Jay’s smirk deepened. “Nah, not yet. But we’re gettin’ there.”
With a casual ease that made it worse, Jay grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it down, exposing Y/n’s bare legs and the obvious tent in his shorts. “Dude…” Jay laughed under his breath, eyes flicking down and back up, “you’re fuckin’ hard as fuck. For me?” He tilted his head like it was just a joke, but his hand was already pressing down on the bulge, testing the weight of it through the fabric.
Y/n’s eyes shut, another soft sound slipping out before he could bite it back.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jay murmured, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “You’re not in charge here, bro. You’re mine for the night.”
The words sent a shiver through Y/n, heat crawling up his neck. Jay’s free hand braced beside his head, boxing him in, while the other started stroking him slowly over the shorts. The friction was maddening — not enough to get him off, just enough to keep him on edge.
“You’re a fag, huh?” Jay said it like he was confirming a theory he’d had all along. “You just lay there and take it, let your bro do all the work. Bet you’d be good at it too.”
Y/n’s chest rose and fell faster now, his hips shifting involuntarily into Jay’s hand. “Jay…”
“Say it,” Jay ordered, his tone still laced with that lazy smirk but harder underneath. “Say you want me to take care of you.”
Y/n hesitated for half a breath, then gave in completely, his voice low but steady. “I want you to.”
Jay’s grin turned wicked. “Good boy.”
He didn’t waste another second — his hand slipped under the waistband of Y/n’s shorts, warm fingers wrapping around his cock directly. Y/n gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, and Jay watched him like he was committing every reaction to memory. “Yeah… that’s more like it,” Jay said, jerking him off slow and firm. “Knew you’d feel good in my hand. Knew you’d let me do whatever I want once you stopped pretending you didn’t want it.”
Y/n couldn’t even argue — every thought was lost to the sharp, steady pleasure building between his legs, Jay’s weight over him, and the low, smug voice in his ear that kept reminding him exactly who was in control.
Jay’s grin didn’t let up, his eyes locked on Y/n like he was studying the way every tiny shift gave him away. “Look at you, man. Didn’t even take a full minute for you to fold. Now you’re all soft in the head, starin’ at me like you forgot what you were so uptight about.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dripping with that lazy, taunting drawl. “You’re such a fuckin’ fag, bro. The kinda guy who plays all cool in the daylight, then melts the second someone grabs you like this. Bet you’ve been waiting for me to do this since day one.” He gave a slow, knowing laugh. “You don’t gotta say it — your face is saying it for you.”
Y/n’s breath came heavier, his grip on the sheets tightening like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
Jay tilted his head, grin widening. “Yeah… you’re gone already. Fuckin’ gone. Eyes half-shut, lips parted, lettin’ me do whatever I want. You like me runnin’ my mouth while I’ve got you like this, huh? Gets in your head. Makes you feel it more.” He paused, his gaze dragging down and back up in one long sweep. “You’re not even thinking about your little midterm anymore. You’re thinkin’ about me. About how deep I could get if I wanted to.”
Y/n’s eyes flicked up to his, the heat there impossible to hide.
Jay smirked deeper, leaning until their foreheads almost touched. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, bro. You’re gonna let me call the shots. You’re gonna let me take my time with you. And you’re gonna remember exactly how this felt every time you try to act like you’re not into me.”
He stayed close, his words low and deliberate. “By the time I’m done, you’re gonna be limp, sweaty, and thinkin’ about me every time you close your eyes. I’m gonna make sure of it. ‘Cause you’re my boy, and I take care of my boys.”
The way Jay said it — that mix of claim and challenge — made the air between them hum. And under the heavy weight of his voice, Y/n stopped trying to hold onto the last pieces of his composure and just let himself sink into whatever Jay had planned.
Jay shifted even closer, so close Y/n could feel the warm brush of his breath on his lips. His grin turned cockier, like he knew exactly how far he was pushing it.
“You know what I’ve been thinkin’ all night, bro?” he said, eyes locked on Y/n’s. “Kissing your bro isn’t even gay. It’s just… closin’ ranks. Sealing the deal. Like a handshake, but better.”
Y/n almost laughed, but the sound got caught in his throat when Jay’s gaze dipped to his mouth.
“I mean, c’mon,” Jay went on, voice low and almost conspiratorial. “You and me, in here, no one else watching. Who the fuck cares? We’re just messin’ around. Bros fucking messin’ around.” His smirk tilted higher. “But I promise you — I’m a good kisser. Better than anyone you’ve pulled in this house.”
Before Y/n could throw back a comment, Jay closed the gap, his mouth pressing against Y/n’s in a kiss that was anything but polite. It was sloppy, hot, all tongue and teeth — the kind of kiss that felt more like claiming territory than anything romantic. Y/n felt his head tilt back, the way Jay’s hand came up to hold him there, keeping him still while he deepened it.
Jay pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth, his tone smug and rough. “Yeah… that’s it. You taste like you’ve been waiting for this.” He went in again, messier this time, the kiss wet and breathless, their lips sliding together in a rhythm that left Y/n’s mind buzzing.
Y/n could feel every inch of Jay pressed up against him now — the heat, the weight, and the undeniable fact that Jay was hard too. Jay didn’t bother hiding it; in fact, he leaned into it, grinding just enough to make his point without breaking the kiss.
He broke away for a second, grinning against Y/n’s jaw. “See, bro? Told you it’s not gay. Just two dudes takin’ care of each other. Nothin’ wrong with that.” His voice dipped lower, dirtier. “You’re lucky I’m a good friend.”
Whatever Jay’s hand was doing under the blanket, it made Y/n’s hips shift involuntarily, his breath catching again. Jay noticed instantly, his grin sharpening as he pressed another quick, filthy kiss to Y/n’s lips. “Yeah… there you go. That’s my boy.”
Jay stayed close enough, his breath coming in short bursts against Y/n’s lips. His hand kept moving under the blanket — steady, deliberate — and the faint shift of fabric and skin created a rhythm that was impossible to ignore. The air between them was filled with it, a faint, wet-slick sound every time his grip worked over Y/n in a slow pull.
“Yeah… just like that,” Jay murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t fight it, bro. Let me run the pace. I’ve got you.” He dipped in to kiss Y/n again — hot, sloppy, lingering — their mouths breaking with a faint wet noise that almost matched the quiet rhythm under the blanket.
The movement was unhurried at first, almost lazy, Jay’s hand working with a steady consistency that made Y/n’s breathing hitch every few seconds. Then, as if deciding he’d played around enough, Jay let the pace build — the slick sound quickening, his hand working in firmer, more precise pulls.
“Listen to that shit,” Jay said, his grin audible in his voice. “That’s you, man. That’s how bad you needed me tonight.” His tone was taunting but there was heat in it, too, the kind that made every word dig in deeper. “You’re fuckin’ leaking for me. Bet you didn’t think this would be how you ended your night, huh?”
Y/n couldn’t even answer — his focus was locked on the rhythm, the heat pooling in his stomach, the way Jay’s movements stayed just this side of perfect. Jay noticed the tension creeping into his body, the way his hips wanted to move with the pace, and adjusted instantly, the slick noise growing sharper with each stroke.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jay muttered, keeping his eyes locked on Y/n’s face like he was reading every microexpression. “I can feel you getting close. Don’t hold back on me, bro. You let me have it.”
The sound under the blanket had gone from subtle to undeniable, each wet move syncing with the thud of Y/n’s heartbeat in his ears. Jay’s grin didn’t falter once — if anything, it got wider, hungrier, knowing exactly what he was doing to him.
Jay’s grip stayed relentless, the pace sharp now — just on the edge of overwhelming. The wet, rhythmic sound under the blanket filled the space between them, syncing with the way Y/n’s breath kept stuttering out in uneven bursts. Jay’s eyes were locked on him the whole time, reading every twitch, every flinch, every moment Y/n’s control slipped.
“Yeah… you’re right there,” Jay muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Eyes all glassy, lips all wet from kissin’ me… fuck, bro, you’re a sight.” His grin turned sharper, more possessive. “Don’t even try to hold back — I want it. I wanna feel you lose it in my hand.”
Y/n’s hips shifted helplessly into the rhythm, his knuckles white in the sheets.
“That’s it,” Jay urged, his tone going darker. “Let go for me. Let me see what it looks like when my boy falls apart. This is all me, dude. Every sound you’re makin’, every fuckin’ twitch — I did that.”
The moment Y/n’s body tensed in that unmistakable way, Jay’s smirk widened, his voice dropping to a rough murmur against his ear. “Yeah… give it to me. Give it all to me, just like that. Good fuckin’ boy.”
Even as Y/n slumped back, breathless, Jay didn’t stop — the pace easing but still there, his hand keeping that slick, possessive rhythm like he wasn’t ready to let him go.
“Nah, we’re not done,” he said, grinning like a wolf. “You think I’m stoppin’ here? I’ve been hard this whole time, man. I’m not lettin’ you off that easy.” He leaned in, pressing a messy kiss to the corner of Y/n’s mouth. “Gonna fuck you, bro. Gonna make sure you remember exactly who made you feel like this.”
He pulled back just enough to meet Y/n’s eyes, the weight of his stare heavy and certain. “You’re mine tonight. And I’m not done with you ‘til I say so.”
Jay didn’t give Y/n more than a few seconds to breathe before he was shifting his weight, one knee digging into the mattress as he loomed over him. The grin was still there — cocky, wolfish, the look of a guy who knew he had the upper hand and was in no rush to give it up.
“Flip over,” he said, the words casual but laced with that tone that wasn’t really asking. “Yeah, you heard me. On your stomach.” When Y/n didn’t move right away, Jay laughed low. “Don’t make me manhandle you, bro. I will. And you’ll like it.”
Y/n hesitated, still catching his breath, but Jay’s hands were already on him — firm, insistent, guiding him where he wanted. It wasn’t rough, not exactly, but there was zero doubt who was steering. “That’s better,” Jay murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Knew you’d listen to me. Good boys always do.”
He stayed close, his chest brushing Y/n’s back, his mouth hovering by his ear. “You feel that?” Jay pushed forward just enough for Y/n to notice the heat, the pressure. “Been like this the whole time. You did this to me.”
Y/n could hear the faint shift of fabric, the sound of Jay getting himself in hand, the low groan he let out when he did. “Holy shit… I’ve been thinking about this all night. You’re lying here all tense, all pretty, actin’ like you didn’t want me — meanwhile, I’m picturing bending you over this bed and goin’ until you can’t think about anything but me.”
His hands roamed with that same casual claim as before, gripping Y/n like he owned every inch. “You ever been fucked by your bro before? Huh? Bet not. Bet no one’s had you like I’m about to.” He chuckled under his breath, filthy and amused. “It’s not gay, man. It’s just… efficient. Two dudes, one room, no problem.”
Jay’s pace behind him was slow, deliberate — just enough movement to make his point, the faint, wet rhythm from earlier starting up again. “I could go all night,” he said, his tone going lower, hungrier. “You think you’re done? Nah. You’re not done ‘til I say you’re done. And I’ve got a lot I wanna do to you.”
Y/n felt him lean in, pressing a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the back of his neck, the words coming hot against his skin. “You’re mine tonight. Start getting used to it.”
Jay’s breathing was heavier now, uneven, like whatever control he’d been holding onto was starting to slip. His hands tightened on Y/n’s hips, thumbs pressing into the bone like he was staking a claim. “Fuck… bro… you have no idea. No idea what you’re doing to me right now.”
His voice had gone rougher, almost drunk on the feeling, that lazy confidence turning into something messier. “Been thinkin’ about this all night. Hell, probably since the day you moved in. That—” he broke off with a low groan, pressing forward again, “— That ass is fuckin’ perfect for this. You just take it. You don’t even fight me on it.”
The rhythm behind Y/n picked up — steady, insistent — and Jay’s words started tumbling out between his heavier breaths. “Yeah… yeah, that’s it. That’s my boy. Let me in… fuck… I’m not stoppin’. Not ‘til I wring you out completely.” He laughed under his breath, filthy and gone. “I’m gonna wreck you, man. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about this in class tomorrow. Tryna take your little test with your legs sore as hell, and all you’ll hear in your head is my fuckin’ voice.”
Y/n shivered under him, and Jay caught it instantly. “You like that? You like me talkin’ to you while I’m—” another groan, low and strained “—while I’m inside your head like this?” His tone went almost giddy, the way guys did when they were too far gone to care. “God, you’re makin’ me so fuckin’ dumb right now. Just— shit— just a hole for me, bro. Just my boy, takin’ what I give you.”
He leaned over him more, chest against Y/n’s back, mouth at his ear. “You’re not leavin’ this bed ‘til I’m satisfied. And I’m a greedy motherfucker.” His laugh was breathless, high on his own control. “By the time I’m done, you’re gonna be ruined for everyone else. You’ll try to hook up with someone else and all you’ll be thinkin’ is ‘yeah, but they’re not Jay.’”
Whatever rhythm he had was deeper now, heavier, each push making him curse under his breath like he couldn’t hold it back. “Yeah… fuck yeah… that’s it, man. Take it. Take all of it.”
The room had gone thick with heat and noise. Every shift of Jay’s body against Y/n’s sent the mattress creaking under them, the steady, insistent rhythm echoing in the small space. There was a wet, slick sound in the air — quiet at first, then louder as the pace built — the kind of sound that made Y/n’s breath hitch without him meaning to.
Jay heard it too. “You hear that, bro?” he said between breaths, his voice low and almost laughing. “That’s us. That’s how soaked you are for me.” His tone turned more ragged with each word. “You’re gettin’ messy, man… fuck… you’re making me messy.”
The pace picked up, and with it the sound — that sticky, fast rhythm underscored by the muted thud of their bodies meeting again and again. Y/n could feel his own sensitivity spiking, every push and pull lighting up nerve endings that were already raw. His hands twisted tighter in the sheets, trying to ground himself against the overwhelming pace.
Jay leaned over him, mouth at his ear, breath hot and uneven. “You feel that? You’re clenching up on me. Gettin’ all twitchy. You’re sensitive as hell right now, aren’t you?” He laughed breathlessly, the sound cracking into something deeper. “Good. I want you like that. I want you on edge, whining for more while I keep giving it to you.”
The rhythm didn’t falter — the wet slap of contact and Jay’s breathy curses filling every second, his voice going hazy and repetitive like he was too far gone to filter it. “Yeah… yeah… that’s it… take it, bro… fuck… that’s my boy.”
Jay shifted, adjusting his position until the mattress dipped sharply under his weight. He swung a leg over and settled himself squarely on top of Y/n, his knees bracketing Y/n’s sides, his full weight pressing down in a way that made it impossible to move. The air left Y/n’s lungs in a quick rush — not painful, but enough to remind him just how much bigger and heavier Jay felt above him.
“Yeah… that’s better,” Jay said, voice low but dripping with satisfaction. “Now I’ve got you pinned. Now you’re not going anywhere.” His hands found Y/n’s shoulders, pushing him down into the bed, his smirk widening like he was enjoying every second of it.
Then, with the kind of casual arrogance only Jay could pull off, he shifted one knee higher and let one foot slide up until it was brushing Y/n’s cheek. The move wasn’t fast — it was deliberate, teasing — like he wanted to see exactly how Y/n would react.
Jay chuckled, leaning forward just enough for his shadow to fall over Y/n’s face. “What’s the matter, bro? Can’t handle a little extra?” His tone was pure frat-boy mockery, that mix of playful and mean. “You look good like that. All under me, takin’ whatever I give you. Even this.”
He pressed down just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the point that Y/n was exactly where he wanted him. “You’re not fighting it either,” Jay added, grin turning smug. “You’re lettin’ me do it. Kinda hot, bro.”
With Jay’s weight bearing down and the press of his foot against his cheek, Y/n felt completely claimed, the rhythm of Jay’s movements above him making the whole bed shift. The combination of dominance, heat, and the cocky way Jay kept talking was enough to make every nerve fire at once.
Jay’s weight stayed heavy, pinning Y/n down like he was welded into place. The rhythm of their bodies was quick now, messy, the sound of it filling every corner of the room — wet, urgent, relentless. Y/n’s breathing had gone ragged, every inhale sharp, every exhale a low, involuntary sound.
Jay’s own voice was fraying at the edges, his words spilling out in short bursts between breaths. “Yeah… yeah… that’s it… you’re right there… you’re gonna give it to me, bro, I can feel it.” His tone was half command, half plea, the kind of unfiltered need that came when he was too far gone to pretend he wasn’t obsessed with the moment.
Y/n’s fingers twisted tight in the sheets, his whole body tense under the weight holding him down. Every movement pushed him closer to that point where everything blurred — Jay’s voice in his ear, the heat pressing into him, the slick, fast rhythm that had him spiraling.
Jay leaned forward until his mouth was right at Y/n’s ear, his words hot and unsteady. “Don’t hold it… don’t hold back… give it to me, all of it… fuck— you’re mine, man, you’re all mine.”
The pace hit its peak — sharp, fast, almost sloppy now — the sound of it louder, wetter, punctuated by Jay’s low groans and Y/n’s quiet, breaking noises. There was no room left to think, no space for anything but the way their bodies moved together and the heavy air between them.
Y/n was the first to go, the tension snapping all at once, his breath catching in one long, shaky exhale as his body gave in completely. Jay wasn’t far behind, his voice dropping into a rough, unsteady string of curses, his weight pressing even harder for a second before he finally slowed.
For a moment, neither of them moved — just breathing hard, the room thick with heat and the lingering sound of what had just happened.
Then Jay chuckled low, lazy, and smug. “Told you I’d take care of you, bro.”
note: hi. this one’s different from what i usually write. it’s purely nsfw, full of dirty words, and i’m still figuring out how to do this in english. the prompt for this story won the voting, so here we are, and i wanted to push myself with it.
writing it was weird and exciting at the same time. there were moments where i stumbled over words, where it didn’t feel quite right, but i let the story take over. the tension, the heat, the messiness!! it all guided me. it’s raw, it’s bold, and it’s me trying something new. hehe!
i hope it lands the way it should; intense and unfiltered. exploring this side of writing it’s kind of fun! especially letting it go all the way. thank you guys for all the love! always.
♡ luke
this work was originally written in portuguese and manually translated into english.
⋆｡°✩ cloudy with a chance of an encore ✦ sim jaeyun
three months of silence. one concert alert, and the terrifying, beautiful gamble of maybe, just maybe, finding your way back through the hurt.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — sim jaeyun x male!reader
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — some angst … hooh lordie … ITS OKAY I SWEAR, yearning jake is so sexc aha, male reader yall
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — severe pining-induced chest aches (temporary, cured by kissing), swearing, the concert is the catalyst, but the softness? that's all them, also bring tissues
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 3.9k
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — looking for past works? here's the legacy one!
The notification ping felt like a physical blow to your sternum. Three months of radio silence, a carefully constructed barrier against the ache, shattered by a single, innocuous calendar alert: ‘BTS RE: TOUR - Sofi Stadium - TONIGHT w/J’.
You stared at the screen, the glow illuminating your darkened living room – the aftermath of another late shift at the network station. ‘w/J’. Jake. Of course. You’d bought the tickets together in a frenzy of excitement six months ago, back when "forever" felt tangible, not like a fragile glass sculpture Jake had accidentally knocked off the shelf.
Three months ago, that glass had shattered spectacularly.
It hadn't been one cataclysmic explosion, but a slow erosion. Jake, soaring in his new career as a sought-after fashion model, has a chaotic whirlwind of shoots, castings, and freelance gigs connected to the industry. You, entrenched as Head of Production for a major news network, your own life dictated by breaking news cycles and relentless deadlines.
The distance wasn’t just geographical; it was emotional. Promises broken, not out of malice, you knew that intellectually, but out of sheer, infuriating carelessness. Important dates forgotten. Late-night calls missed because he’d fallen asleep after a shoot halfway across the world. A crucial family dinner for you, overshadowed by a last-minute campaign launch he had to attend.
From where you stood, it became a pattern that solidified.
It was you, standing alone at the engagement party of mutual friends, fielding awkward questions about Jake’s absence. It was the hollow ache when you saw his face, impossibly handsome and carefree, splashed across a billboard downtown. It was realizing your resentment had begun to outweigh the love, a toxic equation with no solution.
The breaking point felt almost mundane in its disappointment. Your third anniversary. You’d meticulously planned a quiet weekend getaway, a digital detox just for the two of you. You’d cleared your insane schedule, fought tooth and nail for the time. Jake had promised, sworn on everything, he’d be there.
You’d arrived at the secluded cabin first, lit the fireplace, and set the table. His flight landed… and then silence. Hours of silence. When he finally called, voice thick with exhaustion and genuine remorse, it was from a different city. A major brand had offered an impromptu, career-making shoot. He’d panicked, said yes without thinking, and assumed he could still make it to you after. He couldn’t. The disappointment wasn’t fiery anger; it was a cold, heavy weight settling in your chest.
The realization that you were perpetually sliding down his priority list, replaced by the next shiny opportunity. You couldn’t handle being an afterthought anymore. The conversation that followed was quiet, devastatingly mature. Mutual recognition that this pattern was unsustainable. Mutual heartbreak.
So, you’d ended it. Calmly, sadly.
There was no blame, just a shared, crushing defeat. Mutual. Necessary. Brutal.
Three months. The supposed magical reset button for dating flings or even starting new ones, and realizing what it means to be in love. Utterly laughable when applied to actual three years of intertwined lives, shared dreams whispered in the dark, and a fracture born of accumulated, soul-crushing letdowns.
You hadn’t spoken since, hadn’t texted. Seeing his face on billboards or fashion spreads was a sharp, unwelcome reminder. You missed the warmth of him, his stupidly infectious laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy. But the trust? That felt irreparably broken.
And now this. The tickets. Non-refundable. A relic of a happier past, demanding participation in the present. You could skip it. Let the expensive pieces of digital paper gather dust. But something stubborn, perhaps masochistic, wouldn’t let you. Maybe it was closure. Maybe it was just seeing BTS.
Or maybe, a treacherous voice whispered, it was seeing him.
—
The energy outside Sofi Stadium was electric, a palpable wave of pure, unadulterated joy that felt jarring against the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. ARMY buzzed everywhere, clad in merch, faces painted, singing snippets of songs. You felt like an imposter in your simple dark jeans and hoodie.
Then you saw him.
Leaning against a pillar near the designated meeting spot, Jake looked… different. Not just the model-polished version plastered everywhere but subtly changed. He’d grown his hair slightly longer, the styled waves a bit less rigid. He wore some kind of designer jeans and a simple, well-cut sweater that really looked expensive, but his posture lacked its usual confident ease. He looked tense, scanning the crowd, his gaze sharp until it landed on you.
His eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable – surprise, nervousness, pain? – before settling into careful neutrality. He pushed off the pillar, offering a small, tentative smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey."
"Hey," you replied, your voice thankfully steady. The awkwardness descended instantly, thick and suffocating.
Three months vanished, replaced by the visceral memory of his scent, the specific curve of his jawline. You shoved your hands deep into your hoodie pockets. "Made it."
"Yeah. Traffic was… something." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you remembered well. "You look good."
"Thanks. You too." The pleasantries felt like shards of glass. The roar of the crowd seemed to amplify the silence between you. "Should we…?" You gestured vaguely towards the gates.
"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely."
The walk-through security and into the cavernous bowl of the stadium was excruciating. You walked side-by-side, yet miles apart. Conversations died before they started. Stilted observations about the sheer size of the venue, the impressive stage setup, felt hollow. Every accidental brush of his arm against yours sent a jolt through you, a confusing mix of familiarity and painful distance.
Finding your seats – good ones, center stage, a testament to how frantically you’d clicked when sales opened a lifetime ago – was a new level of torture. Squeezing past people, brushing arms accidentally, the proximity was a cruel reminder of how natural closeness used to be.
You sat down, leaving an empty seat-width between you on the plush stadium chairs. The pre-show music pulsed, the massive screens flickered with graphics, and the crowd buzzed.
It was deafening, yet the silence between you two was the loudest sound in the universe.
Jake cleared his throat. "Forgot how big this place is."
"Yeah," you agreed, staring straight ahead at the empty stage. "Massive."
And that was it. The chasm remained. You stole glances when you thought he wasn’t looking. He seemed thinner, maybe. The confident model posture was there, but there was a tightness around his jaw, a vulnerability in the way he occasionally chewed his lower lip – a habit he only had when nervous or deeply unsettled. You saw it. You recognized it. And it twisted something inside you. He misses this too. He misses you.
The knowledge was a sharp ache, tangled with the lingering hurt.
Then the lights died. A collective gasp, then a roar that shook the stadium floor. The opening notes of "ON" exploded from the speakers, a barrage of drums and fierce energy. The members appeared, silhouetted against blinding light, and the world erupted.
You were swept up. How could you not be? It was BTS. It was history. The sheer scale, the precision, and the raw power of the performance were overwhelming. You found yourself yelling, clapping, momentarily forgetting the man sitting rigidly beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake leaning forward, captivated, a flicker of the old, unguarded excitement on his face. For a few minutes, the music was a buffer, a shared experience that didn’t require words, just shared awe.
But then came the transition. The fierce energy of "ON" faded, replaced by the soft, melancholic piano intro of "Spring Day". The giant screens are filled with poignant imagery. The crowd’s roar softened into a wave of swaying phone lights, a sea of longing.
I miss you…
The yearning in the lyrics, the imagery of separation, waiting, and the fragile hope of reunion… it sliced through the temporary distraction. It felt personal.
Too personal.
You felt Jake shift beside you. You didn’t dare look. The space between you, previously just physical, suddenly felt charged with the unspoken grief of the past three months. The shared memories flooded back – lazy Sundays listening to this song, Jake humming it beautifully while cooking, the comfort of his presence during times when the world felt heavy.
Now, that comfort was replaced by a chasm of hurt, and the song felt like salt rubbed directly into the wound. A tear escaped, hot and traitorous, before you could blink it away. You kept your face resolutely forward, body tense.
The setlist was a rollercoaster. They slammed into "Dope", the playful bravado and infectious rhythm impossible to resist. The sheer fun of it broke the suffocating tension again. You caught Jake’s eye during a particularly sharp dance break. He offered a tentative, small smile. It wasn’t the wide, crinkly-eyed grin you loved, but it was something. Something real. Against your better judgment, you gave a tiny nod back.
A flicker of connection.
"Butter" had the entire stadium dancing, a wave of pure, unadulterated joy. You found yourself moving, bouncing slightly in your seat. You glanced at Jake. He was moving too, looser now, a hint of the easy rhythm he used to have.
He caught you looking. This time, his smile was wider, brighter. It punched the air from your lungs. He looked like your Jake again. He nudged your shoulder lightly with his own. "Still got the moves?" he yelled over the music, a ghost of his old playful teasing.
You surprised yourself by laughing. A genuine, if slightly strained, laugh. "More than you, probably!" you yelled back.
The distance was closing. Song by song, beat by beat, the shared euphoria, the powerful nostalgia woven into the performance, was chipping away at the walls you’d both built. During "Life Goes On", with its gentle acceptance and quiet resilience, you found your hand resting on the armrest.
A moment later, Jake’s hand brushed against yours. Neither of you pulled away. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, terrifying recognition. Your fingers twined together, almost of their own accord. It felt terrifyingly right. Like coming home. You could feel his pulse thrumming against your skin, rapid and alive.
He squeezed gently. You squeezed back.
The stadium sang along to "Magic Shop", a collective promise of comfort and understanding. You leaned closer to hear Jake’s voice blend with yours, rough but earnest. Your shoulders touched. The scent of him, the warmth radiating off him, the solidity of his presence beside you after three months of aching absence… it was overwhelming.
The hurt was still there, a dull ache beneath the ribs, but it was momentarily overlaid by a powerful, undeniable wave of love and longing.
You felt… better. Closer. Hopeful, against all reason and experience. The carefully constructed fortress of ‘moving on’ felt dangerously fragile.
As the stage’s next number exploded into its final, glittering chorus, the stadium a pulsing mass of pure joy, you turned fully towards Jake. He was already looking at you, his eyes wide, reflecting the stage lights and something else – something raw and hopeful and terrified. The connection was magnetic. The music, the crowd, the shared history, the simple, undeniable fact of missing him… it was too much.
You leaned in. He didn’t pull away.
Your lips were inches apart.
You could feel his breath warm on your skin. The promise of a kiss hung in the air, potent and terrifying.
No.
The thought slammed into you like a physical blow. Cold, hard reality. He forgot you at the airport. He missed your promotion dinner. He let work consume every promise. The trust was shattered. This feeling, this closeness blooming in the artificial, emotionally charged atmosphere of a concert… was it real? Or just a temporary high fueled by nostalgia and shared adrenaline? Was three months enough to rebuild what took a year to break?
Panic surged, sharp and cold, dousing the warmth. You pulled back abruptly, breaking the contact, untangling your hand from his. The hurt flashed across Jake’s face, immediate and profound.
"Sorry I … I-I need air," you stammered, already standing up, pushing past knees, desperate to escape the suddenly suffocating closeness, the intensity of his gaze, the terrifying allure of falling back into old patterns. "B-Bathroom."
You didn’t wait for a response. You plunged into the moving crowd, the pulsing music now feeling oppressive, the joyful screams grating.
You needed a concrete, quiet space to think. To breathe. To remember why you walked away.
You pushed through the stadium concourse, the bright lights and smell of popcorn suddenly nauseating, until you found a quieter hallway leading to restrooms.
You leaned against the cool tile wall just outside the men’s room entrance, taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to steady the frantic pounding of your heart. The muffled roar of the concert was a dull throb here. You closed your eyes, pressing the heels of your hands against them.
Idiot. Stupid, sentimental idiot. You know better. You know what happens. The pattern repeats. The disappointment returns. You can’t trust him not to get swept away again.
The sound of hurried footsteps made you open your eyes. Jake stood a few feet away, breathing heavily, his expression a mix of confusion, hurt, and determination.
"What was that?" he demanded, his voice tight. "Back there? You… you felt it too. I know you did—"
"Jake, don’t," you warned, pushing off the wall, wanting to retreat further.
"No," he stepped closer, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a fierce intensity you rarely saw. "Don't shut me out. Not now. Not after… after that. What happened? Why did you pull away?"
"Because it’s not real!" The words burst out, louder than intended, echoing slightly in the tiled hallway. "This! The lights, the music, the fucking nostalgia! It’s a fucking drug, Jake! It makes you forget! But I can’t fucking do that!" The dam broke.
Months of suppressed hurt, disappointment, and the terrifying vulnerability you’d just felt poured out.
"I miss you! Okay? God, I fucking miss you so much it feels like I’m missing a limb most days! Seeing your stupid face on billboards, hearing your laugh in a stupid ad… it kills me! Because I remember what it was like. I remember us."
Jake flinched, but he held his ground, his eyes locked on yours.
"But then," your voice cracked, thick with unshed tears, "I remember waiting at the airport. For an hour, Jake. After three weeks of hell at work, all I wanted was to see you. And you forgot. I remember sitting alone at Minho and Soojin’s engagement, smiling while people asked where my boyfriend was. I remember the promises, Jake! The ‘I’ll slow down’, the ‘next week will be better’, the ‘I’ve got you’ whispered in the dark that just… evaporated. You made me feel like an afterthought. Like I was just another item on your chaotic, overbooked schedule!"
He looked stricken. "I know," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I know I did. And I hate myself for it. Every single day."
"Do you?" you challenged, the anger a brittle shield against the raw pain. "Because it felt like you just… got swept up. Like you couldn’t help it. Like your career, the shoots, the travel, the excitement… it was just this force that pulled you away, and I was supposed to understand. To just… wait. Indefinitely. Until you remembered I existed."
"That’s not true!" Jake’s voice rose, matching your intensity. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "It was never about you not mattering! You mattered too much. That’s the fucked-up part!" He took another step closer, his eyes pleading.
“Look at me. Please."
Reluctantly, you met his gaze. The pain there was raw, undisguised.
"I got scared," he admitted, the words tumbling out. "It happened so fast. The modeling, the attention, the pressure to say yes to everything… it was like being caught in a riptide. And I panicked. I thought… I thought I had to prove I deserved it. That I had to chase it all, now, before it vanished. And I was so fucking stupid, thinking I could handle it all at once." His voice dropped, thick with emotion. "I thought juggling was possible. That I could keep all the balls in the air. But I dropped the most important one… you."
He gestured helplessly. "I never meant to deceive you. Never. I’m not that guy. You know me. I’m just… I’m just a guy who gets overwhelmed. Who gets into dumb situations because he doesn’t know when to say no, or ask for help, or just… fucking stop. I got lost in the noise.”
A tear tracked down his cheek. “And I lost you." He didn’t wipe it away.
"But these three months… God, Y/N. They haven’t been healing. They’ve been hell. Pure fucking hell. Walking into an empty apartment that used to feel like home? Seeing your coffee mug still in the cupboard? Hearing a song we loved? It’s like a knife. Every single day."
He moved even closer, his presence filling the small space. "I miss us. Not just the good times. I miss the stupid arguments about takeout. I miss watching you rant about work dramas. I miss falling asleep with your head on my chest. I miss the life we were building. I still picture it. Every damn day. I picture coming home to you, really coming home, not just crashing between flights. I picture quiet Sundays. I picture… a future. With you in it. Because it’s the only future I want." He swallowed hard.
"I know I screwed up. Monumentally. I know trust isn’t a switch I can flip. But I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking… begging… for you to consider if it’s possible to start rebuilding. Slowly. Carefully. With me showing you, every single day, that I learned. That I’m learning. That you are the priority. That you always should have been."
His words hung in the air, raw, honest, terrifyingly vulnerable. He laid his heart bare, no defenses, no excuses beyond the fundamental truth of his nature – a good person prone to chaotic stumbles. The anger in you flickered, replaced by a profound ache. He saw your hesitation, the fear warring with the undeniable love you still felt.
"I know you want it too," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I felt it back there. I see it in your eyes right now. Please. Don’t shut the door because you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I’m willing to be terrified with you, if it means trying again."
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant thump of the concert and the frantic beating of your own heart. The fear was paralyzing. The memory of disappointment was sharp. But the love… the deep, ingrained, stubborn love you felt for this chaotic, beautiful, remorseful man… was stronger. It had survived the break. It had fueled the missing. It had drawn you back together in this absurd, painful way.
And looking into his eyes, seeing the raw hope mixed with the fear of rejection, the genuine remorse… You knew he meant it. He wasn’t promising perfection. He was promising effort. Honesty.
A chance.
The dam holding back your own truth finally shattered.
"You have no idea," you choked out, the words raw and ragged. "You have no fucking idea how much I missed you. How much it hurt. How angry I was. How angry I still am sometimes." You took a shuddering breath, the final wall crumbling. "But…" You met his gaze, letting him see everything – the pain, the fear, the undeniable, unkillable love. "Damnit, I still love you!"
The confession echoed off the tiles, loud and desperate and utterly freeing.
Jake didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. A wave of profound relief, mixed with overwhelming emotion, washed over his face. He closed the final distance between you in one stride. His hands came up, framing your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.
"...And so do I," he breathed, his voice thick with tears, yet filled with a certainty that resonated deep within you. "So do I! Okay! So much it feels like breathing!"
He didn’t kiss you immediately. He searched your eyes, asking permission, seeking confirmation. And in that suspended moment, you saw it. The regret. The love. The determination. The fundamental goodness beneath the foolish mistakes. You saw the man you fell in love with, humbled but not broken, asking not for a guarantee, but for a chance.
You closed the gap.
The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t the desperate heat of reunion. It was softer. Deeper. A homecoming. A salty mix of tears, the familiar taste of him, and the profound relief of surrender. It was an apology, a promise, and a fragile new beginning all tangled together. It felt like the first solid ground you’d stood on in months.
When you finally pulled back, just inches, foreheads resting together, breathing the same air, a shaky, watery laugh escaped you. "Three months," you murmured, your voice rough. "It really took you three months to figure it all out?"
Jake smiled, a real, full, crinkly-eyed smile that lit up his whole face, chasing away the shadows. He brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. "No," he corrected softly, his eyes holding yours with unwavering sincerity. "I waited three months. Every single agonizing day of it. Just to prove to myself I meant it. Just to be sure I could be better. Just to have the chance to tell you…" He leaned in, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "...that I regret being that foolish. More than anything."
You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight, burying your face in the familiar curve of his neck. The distant music swelled, a hopeful anthem. The fear wasn't gone. The work ahead loomed large. But holding him, feeling his arms tighten around you in return, the solid, undeniable truth of his presence and his words…
"...And I love you anyway," you whispered against his skin, the words settling into your bones, feeling like the most honest thing you’d ever said.
He held you tighter. "Me too," he breathed. "And I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough at showing just how much I do."
The concert roared on, unseen, unheard by you both. You stood in the quiet hallway, wrapped in each other, the echoes of confessions and the fragile warmth of a tentative new start filling the space where only awkwardness and hurt had been an hour before.
Three months hadn't been enough to heal the wound. But maybe, just maybe, it had been enough time for the roots of something new, something stronger and more aware, to begin to grow.
It wasn't an ending. It was a quiet, tear-streaked, hopeful beginning, forged in honesty and the terrifying, beautiful gamble of love offered a second chance.
EN—D
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — sorry guys i just had the most angsty take from a silly tiktok video HJSFAHFJAS
!synopsis: Since freshman year, Y/N has been captivated by Heeseung—the university’s irresistibly handsome but emotionally distant playboy. After finally catching his attention, her next challenge is winning his heart. But can she break through his cold exterior and change the man who’s never stayed for more than a night?
!word count: 582
=======================
The motor roared as the motorcycle zoomed past the light traffic of LA streets. Heeseung, the university’s known playboy, and Y/N, just another piece in one of his games, were driving back to Y/N’s place after a date. Y/N had worked hard to get Heeseung's attention after her second year in university. They met at a frat party, Y/N wearing less than usual, hoping to catch his eye. As a result, they had made out all night- but without any real progression.
The cold night fought against Y/N and Heeseung’s warmth, Y/N’s body and arms wrapped around Heeseung’s waist, as he drove off the freeway. Heeseung parked in front of Y/N’s driveway once they arrived. Y/N climbed off first, her arms slipping away from Heeseung’s waist. She removed her helmet, revealing her brunette hair, now black in the dark. He followed, raking a hand through his helmet-mussed hair.
“So. What did you think of the ride?” He gave a smirk, taking her helmet and placing it under the seat.
“It was scary at first but once it sped up, I thought it was fun.” She said, smiling, as they both walked towards her front door. He nodded as she spoke.
“See? What’d I say?” He chuckled as they stood in front of her door.
He took her hand to plant a kiss on the back of her hand, a good bye ritual he gave to each of his dates.
“Thanks for dropping me off.” Y/N smiled, her chest tightening as his lips brushed the back of her hand. It wasn’t much—but it was enough to make her heart trip. “I really had a great time.”
“No problem, Y/N. Have a good night.” He said, giving a soft smile before beginning to turn to walk back to his motorcycle.
“Wait-” Y/N said, grabbing his wrist and making him look back.
She released his wrist slowly, biting her inner lip, too nervous to meet his gaze.
Heeseung turned around to face her completely, now putting his hands into his pockets with a bit of an annoyed look, a completely different demeanor from earlier.
“Did you want to stay overnight?” She asked, her voice shaking, looking up at him.
“Y/N.” He said coldly.
“Why not me?” She said, bursting out in frustration and hurt. “You go on dates with these other girls and always sleep overnight. Do you not find me attractive?”
Heeseung stayed quiet to observe all her raw emotions closely; her eyes wet but holding back from exploding, and her hands gripped together in anger.
“Y/N. I know I have a bad reputation for not being a nice guy but I’m not completely trash.” He said and paused once more.
“I know you like me.” He stopped to sigh.
“I wasn’t going to tell you because it’s not your business, but these girls that I sleep with have the same intentions as me. They don’t want a relationship with me, Y/N. But you do.” His voice wavered—not in anger, but in something that sounded dangerously close to guilt.
“Is that so wrong?” Y/N frowned, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“No. But it’s tiring.” He sighed again, looking down at her with no empathy.
Y/N wiped her tears and sniffed her nose.
“I’m going now. Don’t contact me.” He didn’t look back. The sound of the motor starting was louder than her silence.
A truth-or-dare kiss leaves Sunghoon, the campus's famously straight hockey star, haunted by the taste of something he can't explain. Now he's chasing down the one person who might hold the answer – the guy who kissed him and won't stop running.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x male!reader
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 3.9k
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, sunghoon x reader, hockey star x timid reader, "why can't i forget?", truth or dare consequences, chasing trope, gay panic™, soft sunghoon??, confused boy hours, established feelings??, angsty but soft, "we need to talk", touch-starved desperation
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — male pronouns … swearing … kissing (lots!) … internal screaming … messy gay panic … angst with hopeful vibes … they’ll figure it out (eventually)
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — looking for past works? here's the legacy one!
The fluorescent lights of the dorm hallway buzzed like trapped wasps, casting a sickly pallor over the scuffed linoleum. Your heart hammered a frantic tattoo against your ribs, a drum solo of pure panic echoing the slap of your worn sneakers against the floor. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He’s still there.
Park Sunghoon, uni’s golden boy, ice prince of the hockey rink, and certified heartbreaker, was chasing you. Not in the playful, flirty way he pursued the endless stream of girls who sighed over his sharp jawline and effortless cool. No, this was different. This was raw, relentless, fueled by a confusion that radiated off him like heat haze. His usually immaculate dark hair was ruffled, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his shirt and jacket, his eyes locked onto you with unnerving intensity.
"Please, just stop for a second!" His voice, usually smooth and controlled, held an edge of desperation that scraped against your nerves.
You didn't stop. You couldn't. Seven days. Seven days since that stupid, life-upending truth or dare game in Jake’s cramped apartment—seven days since the spin of an empty bottle had landed on you like a curse. Dare. And the collective, drunken cackle that followed: "Kiss Sunghoon! Right now!"
It was meant to be a joke. A hilarious, slightly cruel prank targeting both the notoriously unattainable Sunghoon and you, the guy most famous for sitting out dares and loved lingering on the edge of the party. You’d expected disgust, a flinch, maybe a cold dismissal. You hadn’t expected… what happened.
He’d done it quickly, and mechanically, you felt compelled as well — fueled by the cheap taste of alcohol and a desire to get the humiliation over with. Within a second, you’ve pressed your lips against his, firm and brief.
And then, it lasted three seconds. But in those, something snapped. You felt it – the unexpected softness of his lips against yours, the faint intake of his breath, the way he hadn't pulled away instantly.
He was frozen, his dark eyes wide and utterly stunned as you jerked back, face burning hotter than the soju. The room had erupted in drunken cheers and whoops, the moment swallowed by the party’s noise. But the look in Sunghoon’s eyes… wasn’t anger. Hell, it wasn’t even disgust.
It was pure, unadulterated shock. And something else, something deeper and infinitely more terrifying: confusion.
And now he wouldn’t leave you alone.
He’d tried cornering you after your shared econ lecture yesterday, but you’d ducked out the side door. He’d lingered near your usual lunch spot, but you’d scarfed down your sandwich in the library basement. He’d even shown up at the campus coffee shop where you worked part-time, four times, but you’d conveniently been on your break.
Each time, you saw that same look – the mask cracked, revealing a bewildered man chasing a phantom feeling he couldn't name.
Your dorm room door was in sight. Sanctuary. Just ten more strides. You fumbled in your pocket for the keycard, fingers clumsy with adrenaline.
"I know you can hear me!" Sunghoon’s voice was closer, almost at your shoulder. "I just need you to listen to me—"
You slammed the keycard against the reader. The light blinked green. You wrenched the door open and lunged inside, spinning around to slam it shut.
A hand shot out, stopping the door with jarring force. Sunghoon wedged his shoulder into the gap, breathing hard, his face inches from yours through the narrowing space. His eyes, usually so cool and assessing, were wide, almost wild.
"Go away!" you snapped, pushing against the door with all your weight. It was futile. He was taller, broader, and an athlete used to physical dominance. "Leave me be!"
"Just listen to me—" He insisted, his voice low and strained, pushing back. “Please.”
He pleaded. That made you stop in less than a second.
"About... about what happened." He cleared his throat.
"There’s nothing to talk about." You spoke like it was done, yet the memory of the kiss, the unwanted heat it had sparked in your own traitorous body, all came flooding back.
"It was a stupid dare … and a stupid game! So carry on and just forget about it!"
"Well, that's a shame, because I can't!" The admission burst out of him, raw and ragged. He stopped pushing for a second, his expression crumbling into pure, agonized confusion. "I can't forget it. That's the fucking problem.”
The raw vulnerability in his voice, so alien coming from him, made you hesitate for a fraction of a second. It was enough to lose leverage. He shoved the door open fully, forcing you to stumble back into your small, utilitarian dorm room. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the sudden silence. He leaned back against it, blocking your only escape, his chest still heaving.
The space felt instantly smaller, charged with his presence and the frantic energy he brought with him. Posters of stuff you liked suddenly seemed childish. The textbooks stacked on your desk felt like irrelevant clutter. All that existed was the tension coiling between you and Park Sunghoon, pressed against your door like a hunted animal, just as lost as you felt.
"We have nothing to talk about, Sunghoon," you repeated, your voice tight, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. You took another step back, putting the small desk between you. Your crush on him? That had died months ago, suffocated by witnessing the careless way he’d shattered your friend Mina’s heart when she’d confessed her feelings. He’d been kind, perhaps, but brutally clear. Not interested. Then he’d been seen with another girl the very next weekend. He was a beautiful chaos, and you wanted no part of it. Especially not now, tangled up in this bewildered display of sexuality.
"We do," he insisted, pushing off the door. He didn’t advance, but his presence filled the room. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "I have time, and it seems you do too. We’re here right now.”
He looked at you, his face still ridden with confusion. “Why are you running? Why won’t you just… talk to me?"
"Because there’s nothing to say!" Your voice rose slightly. "You kissed a fucking guy on a dare. Big deal. It happens. Move on!"
"But I can't!" The words exploded from him. He took a step forward, then stopped himself, clenching his fists at his sides as if physically restraining himself. His gaze was intense, almost pleading. "That’s what I’m trying to tell you! It wasn’t just… nothing. It wasn’t just a stupid dare kiss."
He paused, swallowing hard. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. You could see the conflict warring on his face – the ingrained confidence of the popular guy battling this terrifying new uncertainty. His voice dropped to a near whisper, rough with confusion.
"It… it felt different. It lingered. Like… I can still feel it." He unconsciously raised his fingers to brush against his own lips, his eyes distant for a second before snapping back to yours, wide and searching. "Why? Why does it feel like that? Why can’t I get it out of my head? Why are you the only thing I’ve thought about for almost seven fucking days?"
The directness, the raw admission, hit you like a physical blow. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t playing games. He was genuinely, desperately confused. And it was … really terrifying.
"You’re straight, Sunghoon," you stated flatly, clinging to the known quantity, the safe label. "Fucking straight as hell. Everyone knows it. You date girls. You kiss girls. That’s your lane. This?" You gestured vaguely between you. "It was a weird blip. A misfire. Adrenaline, maybe. The shock of it. Just… let it go."
"But it didn’t feel like a blip!" he countered, frustration boiling over again. He paced a short, agitated path in the limited floor space. "It felt… I don’t know! Intense. Real. More real than half the kisses I’ve had that weren’t fucking dares!" He stopped pacing, pinning you with his gaze. "How did you feel? Did it feel like nothing to you?"
The question caught you off guard. Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, focusing on the chipped paint on the windowsill. How did it feel? It felt like lightning in a bottle. It felt like every stupid, repressed fantasy you’d ever entertained about him condensed into three unbearable seconds. It felt like falling off a cliff. And then it felt like hitting the ground when you remembered who he was, what he did. But you couldn’t tell him that. You wouldn’t give him that power.
"It felt like a fucking dare, that’s what." You lied, forcing your voice to be steady. "Uncomfortable. Embarrassing. Something that should be easy to forget."
He stared at you, his expression shifting from frustration to something like disbelief, then suspicion. "You’re not a good liar, I can tell." It wasn’t an accusation, more a quiet realization. "You flinched when I asked, and you keep avoiding my eyes. It wasn’t nothing to you either, was it?"
Panic flared. "It doesn’t matter how I felt! The point is, you shouldn’t be feeling anything! You’re Park Sunghoon! You skate through life charming everyone, breaking hearts without a second thought! You don’t get to be confused! You don’t chase people, let alone a guy like me, down hallways because of a stupid kiss!" Your own frustration, fueled by weeks of avoidance and the sheer absurdity of the situation, spilled out. "You rejected Mina, remember? Sweet, amazing Mina who actually liked you? You broke her heart without blinking, and then you were probably kissing someone else by Friday! That’s who you are! So why are you suddenly having an existential crisis over me? What’s so special about this kiss?"
The mention of Mina seemed to land like a physical blow. Sunghoon flinched, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his features before being swallowed by sheer bewilderment. "I… Mina… that was different. That wasn’t…" He trailed off, running both hands over his face. "This isn’t about Mina! This is about that kiss! And I don’t know why it’s different! That’s why I’m here! That’s why I’m chasing you, okay? Because I need to understand! I need… I need to know if it was just the shock, or the alcohol, or…" He looked at you, his eyes filled with a terrifying vulnerability. "Or if it was you."
The air crackled. His words hung between you, charged and dangerous. If it was you. Your carefully constructed walls trembled. The crush you thought was dead stirred uneasily in its grave.
"Pure and utter shit. You don’t know what you’re saying," you whispered, your voice hoarse.
"I know I don’t!" he shot back, taking another step towards the desk. The barrier felt flimsy now. "That’s the whole point! I’ve never felt like this before. Never questioned… questioned this." He gestured vaguely at himself. "I liked the feeling … of kissing you. A lot. More than I should have. More than makes any fucking sense. And it’s driving me crazy that I can’t figure out why. And you… you won’t even look at me. You run. You hide. It’s like you know something I don’t. Like you have the answer and you’re just… torturing me."
"I don’t have any answers!" you protested, finally meeting his eyes. The pain and confusion you saw there were staggering. "What do you want me to say, Sunghoon? That maybe you’re not as straight as you thought? That maybe you liked kissing a guy? Is that what you want to hear? Are you ready for that?"
He paled slightly, the implications hitting him. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of your desk. "I… I don’t know," he admitted, the words dragged out of him. "All I know is what I felt. And what I feel now. This… this obsession. It’s not normal. Not for me. You’re all I think about. That kiss. The way your lips felt. The look in your eyes when you pulled away. I replay it constantly. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus in practice. Coach yelled at me today because I missed an easy pass. Because I was thinking about you." He laughed, a short, humorless sound.
“Your kiss felt like a lingering side effect of some kind of strong venom.” He spoke lowly. “And it tasted so fucking sweet that I couldn't forget it.”
The sheer desperation in his confession was disarming. He wasn’t the cool, collected, silent charmer right now. He was a lost boy, adrift in uncharted territory, and he’d latched onto you as the only landmark in the fog. Your anger began to ebb, replaced by a confusing mix of pity and that treacherous, reawakened spark.
"You think it’s easy for me?" you asked quietly, your own defenses lowering. "Having you chase me? Uncovering by myself that it’s my kiss… that affected you? That it wasn’t just meaningless to you? I avoided you for a reason. Because seeing you confused, seeing you like this… it brings it all back.” You took a long second to sigh. “I had this … stupid crush on you when I first got here. Then I came to know who you are, and I still looked at you that way. It was like gambling all my savings and chocking it down a pit to hell."
Sunghoon’s eyes widened slightly. "You… you had a crush? On me?" He sounded genuinely surprised, as if the idea had never occurred to him.
"Had," you emphasized firmly. "Past tense. Mina was my friend. Seeing how you treated her… it killed it. Dead and buried. Or so I fuckin’ thought." You sighed, rubbing your temples. "You have become an undeniable burden inside my head right now."
Silence descended again, thicker this time, charged with shared confusion and the ghosts of past feelings. Sunghoon leaned heavily on the desk, his head bowed. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt Mina," he mumbled, not looking at you. "I just… I wasn’t into her like that. I told her the truth. Thinking about it … maybe I could have been… gentler. But I wasn’t trying to be cruel. That’s just… dating. People get rejected."
"Not everyone moves on to the next conquest quite so quickly," you pointed out, unable to keep the slight edge from your voice.
He winced. "Okay." He finally looked up, his gaze searching yours. "But this… this thing with you… it’s not like that. It’s not about conquest. It’s about… figuring out why my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. Why you." He took a shaky breath. "Look, I don’t know what any of this means. Maybe I’m having a breakdown. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe… maybe I just need to know if it was a one-off thing. If it was just the context."
“What do you mean—”
His eyes held yours, intense and pleading. "Please. Just… let me try again?"
Your breath hitched. "Try what??"
"Isn’t it obvious?" He spoke in such cadence that you couldn’t believe your ears right now. "Not… not as a dare. Not in a game. Just… me. Trying to understand. One more time. So I can know. So I can figure out if it was the kiss… or if it was you."
The audacity was breathtaking. The vulnerability, terrifying. He was offering himself up like a test subject, risking everything he thought he knew about himself. Your mind raced. It was insane. Reckless. Potentially disastrous. He was Park Sunghoon. He broke hearts. He didn’t do confusion. He didn’t chase guys into their dorm rooms begging for experimental kisses.
But the look in his eyes… the raw, bewildered need for answers… the echo of that kiss that had felt electrifyingly real…
"You’re out of your mind," you breathed.
"You might be correct," he agreed, a ghost of his usual wry smirk touching his lips, but it vanished instantly, replaced by earnestness. "But I need this. I need to know. And you…" He hesitated. "You seem to be the only variable in this equation. Please. Just… help me figure this out?"
He wasn’t demanding. He was asking. Pleading. The silent yet deadly Park Sunghoon, the untouchable heartthrob, was reduced to asking for your help navigating his own identity crisis. The absurdity was almost comical. The danger was palpable.
"What if you kissed me again," you asked slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, "and you still like it?"
He swallowed hard, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He looked terrified. "Then… then I guess I have some serious thinking to do."
"And what if you kiss me," you pressed, your heart hammering again, "and you don’t like it? What then? Do I just become the weird guy you kissed twice? Another story for the locker room?"
His expression hardened with unexpected seriousness. "No. Never. This… whatever this is… it’s not a joke to me. It’s not a story. It’s… it’s real. And it’s scary as hell. But I need to know. And also, I don't do locker room talk. That's what attention seekers are for." He took a tentative step around the desk, closing the distance slightly. "Whatever happens… it stays between us. I promise.”
The space between you crackled. His scent – rich parfum, faint sweat, something uniquely Sunghoon – filled your senses. You saw the faint tremble in the hand resting on the desk. You saw the vulnerability warring with his ingrained confidence. You saw the genuine, bewildered need in his dark eyes.
It was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness.
But the kind of madness that felt inevitable.
"One kiss," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. "Just… to see. Then you leave. And we figure out… whatever comes after. Or we don’t."
Relief, stark and overwhelming, flooded his features, followed immediately by a fresh wave of nervous tension. He nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin. "Okay. One kiss."
He didn’t move. Neither did you. The air felt thick, charged with anticipation and fear. The memory of the first kiss – quick, public, fueled by alcohol and peer pressure – was a blur. This was deliberate. Conscious. Terrifyingly intimate in the quiet solitude of your dorm room.
Slowly, hesitantly, Sunghoon closed the remaining distance. He stood before you, tall and imposing, yet radiating a fragility you’d never seen. His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips and back again, a silent question hanging in the air.
You didn’t nod. You didn’t speak. You simply held his gaze, your own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This was his experiment. His journey. You were just… the catalyst.
He took a final, shallow breath, then leaned in.
It wasn’t like the first kiss. Not at all.
The first kiss had been a collision. This was an exploration. His lips met yours softly, tentatively, a brush of warmth and pressure that sent an immediate jolt through your system. It was hesitant, questioning. He pulled back slightly, just a fraction, his eyes searching yours, looking for permission, for a sign.
Yet you didn’t pull away. The spark you’d felt before ignited instantly, brighter, hotter. Your traitorous body leaned into it, just a little.
Encouraged, or perhaps driven by the same bewildering pull, he leaned in again. This time, the kiss deepened. Still soft, still questioning, but with a growing certainty. His lips moved against yours, not demanding, but learning. One hand tentatively came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheekbone. The touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.
He tasted faintly of mint. His breathing hitched, warm against your skin. The world narrowed to the point where your lips met, to the feel of his hand on your face, to the frantic beating of your own heart. The confusion, the fear, the past hurts… for a moment, they all receded, drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming sensation. It wasn’t just physical. It felt… profound. Like a connection snapping into place, something fundamental is shifting beneath the surface.
Sunghoon made a small, involuntary sound against your lips – a sigh, a gasp, a gravelly moan that was something raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t indifference. It was discovery. It was liking. And it was more than liking. His hand tightened slightly on your jaw, not painfully, but possessively, as if anchoring himself to the moment. To you.
The kiss lasted longer than the dare. Seconds stretched into moments that felt suspended in time. When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant, almost hesitant to part ways. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, breathing ragged. His hand remained on your jaw, trembling faintly as he felt it with his thumb.
You were both breathing heavily. The silence in the room was deafening, filled only by the sound of your shared breaths and the frantic thudding of your hearts.
Sunghoon slowly opened his eyes. They were wide, dark pools reflecting pure, unadulterated shock. But beneath them, shimmering like sunlight through deep water, was something else. Wonder? Dawning realization? Terror mixed with awe?
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, his gaze tracing your face as if seeing you for the first time – the curve of your lips, the shape of your eyes, the faint flush on your cheeks. The confusion was still there, yes, but it was transforming, morphing into something deeper, more profound.
He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, a soft, almost reverent touch.
"Oh," he breathed, the single syllable laden with a universe of meaning. It wasn’t a conclusion. It wasn’t an answer. It was the beginning of a terrifying, exhilarating question.
Oh.
He didn’t leave. He stayed there, forehead resting against yours, his hand warm on your face, breathing in the shared air of the small room where his entire world had just tilted on its axis.
The chase for answers wasn't over. If anything, it had just become infinitely more complex. But the frantic, confused pursuit had ended. Now, there was only the quiet, shared dawning of something entirely new, fragile, and terrifyingly real.
The settlement wasn't a neat resolution, but a hesitant, breathless agreement to step onto uncharted ground together. The panic was still there, thrumming under the surface, but it was now intertwined with a fragile, burgeoning hope.
“It is you.” He spoke in just the right tone.
He’d found his answer, or at least the first step towards it. All in the lingering warmth on his lips and the wide, startled wonder in your eyes.
The playboy was gone. In his place stood a young man utterly lost, yet somehow, finally found.
EN—D
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — HAHAHAHA ANOTHER SUNGHOON FIC ARRIVES also for the kiss, imagine that one kiss they did in lovely runner after she jumps back in time and ryu sun jae just kisses him by the door!? HELLO!?! and yeah, I made YOU a good kisser, AND WHAT OF IT
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!
scenario one, maybe i picked up the wrong keys because the landlord explaining the rules was booooring; scenario two, maybe the keys are sooo ancient they started crumbling when they approached the lock; or scenario three, im totally unlucky today. (jake, probably)
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — sim jaeyun x male!reader
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, really fluffy, just jake being a certified dumbass for fidgeting the keys to his new apt, bro's a giggle boy, bro kicking his feet when he realizes he's in love, bro down bad
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — too much sim jaeyun liking, like i'm in love with this man too much HSAGSHGFDAGEGH!!!
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.7k
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!
It was just another quiet evening in your cramped but cozy apartment—the kind of evening that should’ve been spent buried in textbooks, cursing your life choices, and drinking lukewarm coffee.
And that’s exactly what you were doing.
You slumped over your desk, damp highlighter ink smudged on your cheek, squinting at a paragraph that might as well have been written in ancient Greek. The walls were thin in this building, but normally, the worst you had to deal with was your neighbor’s questionable taste in late-night TV.
Then the noises started.
At first, it was just a few thumps. Maybe someone dropping something heavy. No big deal.
Then came the scratching.
Then the jiggling.
You froze, pen hovering mid-air. That… didn’t sound like a dropped textbook. That sounded like someone … was trying to break into the apartment next door.
Your heart kicked into overdrive. Robber? Your grip tightened around your pen like it was a weapon.
You crept to the door, pressing your ear against the wood. More rustling. More jiggling. A frustrated groan—definitely not your usual neighbor.
Adrenaline surged. You weren’t about to let some thief waltz in and steal Mrs. Park’s collection of ceramic frogs.
You swung your door open, ready to fight.
And there he was.
A guy who’s tall, disheveled, and stupidly attractive — frozen mid-struggle with a key that clearly wasn’t working. He had one foot braced against the doorframe, hands wrestling with the lock like it had personally offended him. His dark hair was mussed from frustration, cheeks slightly flushed, and when he turned at the sound of your door, his wide, startled eyes locked onto yours.
For half a second, time stopped.
Then you lunged.
"HEY—"
You didn’t just grab the poor thing—oh no. You full-body tackled him and flipped him upside down.
The second his back hit the hallway carpet with a thud, you were on top of him, knees pinning his hips, hands gripping his wrists like you were some kind of action hero.
"WAITWAITWAIT—!" He threw his hands up, stumbling back as you grabbed his arm in what you thought was a martial arts move but was probably closer to a desperate octopus attack.
"I'M NOT A ROBBER!"
You didn’t let go. "Then tell me why did I just catch you breaking in?"
"Breaking i- I live here!" His voice cracked. "I just—ugh—moved in today and my key won’t work!"
You squinted. He looked… sincere. Also slightly pathetic, still disheveled under your mercy against the floor, looking like a kicked puppy.
Slowly, you loosened your grip. "…You’re serious?"
"Yes!" He exhaled, rubbing his arm where you’d grabbed him (oops). "I’m Jake. New student. Just transferred. Landlord gave me the wrong key, I think." He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I’ve been out here forever."
Oh.
Oh no.
Because now that the adrenaline was fading, you really looked at him.
This Jake guy? Boy was he unfairly pretty.
His brown eyes were warm, even when stressed. His lips were pursed in a pout that should not have been cute. And his voice—slightly heavy and thick with an accent, slightly whiny too—was doing things to your pulse that definitely weren’t fight-or-flight anymore.
You cleared your throat, scratching your itchy nape and about. "Uh. Right. Sorry about the—" You mimed strangling him.
He laughed. Actually laughed, head tilting back, and wow, okay, that was a problem. "It’s fine," he grinned. "I’d have freaked out too."
You scratched the back of your neck. "I can call the landlord for you?"
His whole face lit up. "Please?"
Just as you were about to pull out your phone, the door across the hall creaked open.
Old Mr. Kim, your perpetually grumpy neighbor, stood there in his pajamas, squinting at the scene: You still hovered over Jake at the floor, his shirt rucked up from the struggle, both of you flushed and breathing hard.
A beat of silence.
Then Mr. Kim smirked.
"Tch. Kids these days," he muttered. "Can’t even wait until inside the apartment, huh?"
Your face burned. "No—we weren’t—"
He waved a hand. "Save it. Just keep the noise down."
Then, with a knowing chuckle, he added:
"I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone."
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
You were still hovering over Jake.
Jake’s face was now the color of a ripe tomato.
Slowly, painfully aware of how this looked, you rolled off him and onto the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"Ugh …" you said, voice strained. "That happened."
Jake covered his face with his hands. "I’m never recovering from this. This is definitely a lesson about shame and dignity."
You groaned. "Same."
A pause.
Then, despite everything—you both started laughing.
Jake peeked through his fingers, grinning. "Guess we really made an impression on the neighbors."
You snorted. "At least now they won’t call the cops when we actually break in."
Jake’s smile softened. "...Worth it."
And oh, the way he was looking at you—all warm and fond and interested—made your stomach flip. Again. Did I mention ‘again’? Whatever technicality it might seem, your guts just couldn’t handle this much fuzz.
Ten minutes later, the landlord arrived, grumbling about "kids these days" as he fixed the lock. Jake stood next to you, arms crossed, his shoulder brushing yours every time he shifted.
And that’s when you noticed.
The glances.
The way his eyes kept flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.
The smile he tried (and failed) to hide when you cracked a dumb joke about the landlord’s choice in keychains.
By the time the door finally creaked open, Jake hesitated before stepping inside.
"Hey," he said, softer now. "Thanks for, uh. Not actually murdering me."
You snorted. "Anytime."
He bit his lip. Then, in a rush: "We should hang out. Since we’re neighbors. And, y’know. You’re cool."
Cool? Cool?! Jake wanted to kick himself.
Ask his name, you idiot, you didn’t even ask for his name!
Flooded with unspoken thoughts, Jake just smiled—slow and sweet. And you? You knew exactly how flustered Jake was.
"Yeah," he said, soft. "I’d like that."
Jake’s heart then stuttered.
He was so screwed.
—
The glow of streetlights bled through the thin curtains, painting stripes of gold across Jake’s ceiling. He lay there, limbs splayed like a starfish, one arm thrown over his eyes as if that could block out the memory—the phantom weight of you pressed against him, the way your knee had dug into his hip just shy of painful, the sharp inhale you’d taken when he’d blurted out We should hang out like some clumsy teenager.
His skin still burned where you’d touched him.
God.
He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow hard enough to stifle the pathetic noise crawling up his throat.
Who falls for someone like this?
Who got pinned to the floor in a half-assed wrestling move and walked away with his pulse hammering for hours? (Him. Obviously.)
The worst part wasn’t the embarrassment—though that was bad, sure, especially with old neighbor’s knowing smirk burned into his brain. No, the worst part was the way his chest ached with it, the way his fingers twitched against the sheets like they were searching for something to hold onto.
The way he could still smell you—that stupidly good smelling shampoo, the sharp bite of adrenaline-sweat, the warmth of your breath when you’d leaned in to apologize.
He groaned, kicking at the tangled sheets. He was kicking his feet in the air like a giggly young girl.
He was never going to sleep again.
—
Dawn came too soon, pale and insistent, creeping through the gaps in the blinds. Jake blinked gritty eyes at the ceiling, vaguely aware that he’d dozed off at some point—though rested was too generous a word for the way his thoughts had spun in frantic circles all night.
He dragged himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His mouth tasted like regret and stale toothpaste.
The floor was cold under his bare feet as he shuffled to the door, half-convinced last night had been some sleep-deprived fever dream.
Then he saw it.
A scratched note from a pad, brightly lined and white against the hardwood floor, snuck underneath the apartment door.
Jake’s breath caught.
He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish under his fingertips. The paper was slightly wrinkled at the edges, like you’d hesitated before sliding it there.
"Sorry again for the assault. Here’s a peace offering. —Your (Hopefully) Favorite Neighbor"
Curious, Jake opened his door and saw a set of goods sitting in the entrance, as if it were diligently waiting for him.
Inside a large paper bag was a large cup of freshly brewed espresso from the café across the street, still warm to the touch, condensation beading along its sides. Next to it, a small plastic case, its still warm with moisture—inside, two glazed donuts, perfectly golden, their sugary surfaces gleaming under the hallway light.
Jake’s fingers lightly tingled as he picked up the coffee.
He took a sip.
Perfect.
Not too bitter, not too sweet—just right, the way he always took it. Was it a lucky guess?
Jake pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he could physically shove down the thing fluttering behind his ribs.
The note crinkled in his grip.
He should not be this affected by a goddamn scratched letter.
But then he traced the curve of your handwriting—messy, hurried, the Y in Your looping like you’d started to write something else—and his throat went tight.
He pressed the note to his chest before he could stop himself, closing his eyes.
The coffee was perfect.
The donuts were perfect.
You were—
Jake exhaled, long and shaky, and took another sip to hide the smile tugging at his lips.
Yeah.
He was so, so screwed.
EN—D
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — ANADA JAKE HIT BRUHHHHH also i missed you all .. i will write more i was just stuck in uni but also AAAAAA JAKE JAKE I LOVE YOU i just know this guy is too adorable when he realizes he's in love bruh
✮ Summary: Your best friend encouraged you to go out with the guy that she previously dated. Even though he wanted you first and the two of you got together, it seemed like he wasn't as interested as he made himself look.
✮ Genre: Fluff and Angst
✮ Word Count: 3,708
✮ Author's Note: i finally uploaded a fic this year! who else cheered? this was a request from an anonymous person from like a year ago... sorry for taking so long and tysm for the idea! this is also not proof-read so sorry for any mistakes in advance.
The sound of pencils on paper filled the classroom. Some students were overflowing with despair due to their lack of studying for the exam and you were one of them. Every time you tried to answer a question, your mind drew a blank.
Your professor makes an announcement, ripping you out of your thoughts, "By the way guys, you have around 15 minutes left until you turn in your exam to me".
You quickly start to fill out your test, not caring if the questions were correct. As long as they were answered you were bound to get some right. After finishing your exam, you take a look around the classroom. Many of your classmates were still working and looked stressed out. The only other person who wasn't writing was Niki. The guy that your best friend dated a while back. She broke up with him because they "weren't compatible". But to just about everyone else, they seemed perfect together.
Time passed while you were daydreaming about Niki and by the time you noticed, everyone was turning in their tests.
"Y/n. Did you not hear me when I called everyone up to hand in their exam?" Your professor asks.
"I'm sorry, I didn't but here," you say while handing her your exam.
She grabs the exam and says, "Please pay attention next time."
You give her a nod and walk back to your desk to grab your bag. Your best friend is waiting at the door so the two of you can go home.
"Y/n, what were you dreaming about during the exam?" She asks.
"Oh- um.. not much. I was just trying to pass the time," you respond.
Her eyes lower and she says, "Hm. Okay. Let's go then!"
---
"You should totally try dating Niki," she says.
Your face contorts and you say, "Wh-what?! Where did this come from?"
"I don't know, I just think the two of you would be good for each other."
"Isn't that weird though? You guys dated before."
"I don't really mind, plus I'm the one telling you to try it out."
She sees that you still don't seem convinced and says, "It's fine, really. I want to see how this plays out anyways."
So it started. Little nudges from your best friend eventually got you and Niki close to each other. It began with her forcing you to ask him for a pencil. Then it was asking for help on certain questions you knew how to do. Finally, you asked for his number since the two of you were going to do a group project together.
Niki: hey
Y/n: hii
Niki: when do you wanna meet up to work on the group project?
Y/n: i can do this weekend. is saturday good for you?
Niki: yeah, there's this cafe i've been wanting to go to, can we go there and do it?
Y/n: sounds like a plan! see you there.
After sending that last message, you quickly switch to messaging your best friend to inform her of your newfound plans with Niki.
Y/n: soooooo i may or may not be seeing Niki this weekend...
Bff/n: omg! really??
Y/n: yeah we kinda planned it rn
Bff/n: this is great progress! i'll be expecting an update soon then.
Y/n: alright, alright. don't expect too much though. we're just working on a project.
Bff/n: whatever you say..
---
You arrive at the cafe just a bit before your agreed meeting time with Niki. After stepping in, you look around to see if he made it there before you did. You were slightly surprised to see his face in the room and make your way over to where he was sat.
You wave and say, "Hey."
He looks up from his phone and says, "oh, you're here early."
"You were here earlier than me." You say while chuckling.
He laughs and gestures you to take a seat across from him. You pull out you laptop and other items you needed to make the project. The two of you spent hours in that cafe, attempting to get as much done as you guys could. The cafe slowly cleared out while you were hard at work. By the time you decided that you were finished for the day, it was already dark out and the cafe was pretty much empty.
"Should we head out?", Niki says while looking at his phone to check the time.
"Yeah, it's gotten pretty late." You respond.
You pack your things up and head outside with Niki. The moment you step out of the cafe, you feel something wet land onto your nose. Then it was your cheek and then it was your lip.
While reaching out to see if it more would fall onto your arm you say, "Is it seriously raining right now?"
Your arm was met with many, many droplets of water causing you to sigh loudly. Unfortunately, you didn't bring an umbrella with you to the cafe, so now you're left to make a run for it to your apartment. Just as you psyched yourself up and were about to book it, you were pulled back by your arm. You turn to look at what forced you to stay and you see that it was Niki.
"Here, take this." He says while holding an umbrella towards you.
"Oh, thank you but I'll be fine. You should take it." You say.
"You should take it, I don't want you getting sick."
"I'll be okay, really. I don't get sick often!"
His expression changes, showing that he doesn't fully believe you.
"Alright, let me just walk you home then."
He opens the umbrella and steps out into the rain. He turns around and gestures you to join him under the umbrella. You cautiously duck under the umbrella, avoiding getting any more rain drops on you and the two of you began to head to your place.
---
The rain seemed to let up a bit by the time you guys got to your apartment. Niki walked you all the way to your door, which you didn't expect.
You turned around to face Niki and said, "Thank you, for walking me all the way to my door even though you didn't have to."
"No problem, I wanted to make sure you got home safe. Can't have my partner go missing before we finish the project." He says while chuckling.
You roll your eyes and say, "Ha. Ha. Very funny."
You find yourself staring at him while he laughs at his own joke. His smile might just make you melt. But, these thoughts are unfamiliar to you. This guy who you thought you didn't really like is starting to creep into your mind and pitch a camp there. Would it be bad if he did? Surely not. While you were clouded by your thoughts, you failed to see that Niki was already done laughing and was looking at you. He noticed that you were deep in thought and was holding his gaze onto you for a while.
"Uh-, I think I'll get going now." He says and coughs into his hand.
His words pull you out of your head and you say, "Oh yeah, sorry. Thank you again!"
This time, you notice that he's staring at you. His eyes lingering on your face. The way he's looking at you makes you nervous and you start to feel itchy.
"Is there... something on my face?" You ask while tilting your head.
His face contorts, as if he's embarrassed you caught him staring and he says, "No... I just um... can I hug you?"
"S-sure." You say while holding out your arms.
He moves in between your arms and wraps his arms around you. His body is quite warm, and you start to relax. You feel his grip tighten a bit before he lets go and takes a few steps back.
"Okay, um. I'll see you around." He says and turns around to leave.
"Bye!" You yell after he's a good distance from you.
After entering your apartment, you pull out your phone to text your best friend.
Y/n: so um... i'm back home
Bff/n: tell me everything.
Y/n: not much happened really
Bff/n: still! i wanna hear
Y/n: okay, okay. all we did was just meet up at a cafe to work on the project.
Bff/n: he didn't make any advances towards you?
Y/n: no, not that i know of
Y/n: he did walk me home though
Y/n: it was raining
Bff/n: omg.
Bff/n: he's literally obsessed with you.
Y/n: he's literally not, he just walked me home 🙄
Bff/n: if that's not a sign, idk what is
Y/n: we also hugged before he left
Bff/n: Y/n.
Bff/n: there's no way he doesn't have some sort of feelings towards you.
Y/n: idk... he's just being nice
Bff/n: talk to me when you wake up.
You scoff while locking your phone, not believing that she told you to "wake up". After recalling the past events, you ultimately decided that Niki doesn't like you the way that Bff/n thinks he does. It's just that he's being nice and wants to become friends. You think. Right?
---
The next few weeks were full of studying and hard work, especially with the due date of the project you and Niki are working on coming up fast. The two of you made good progress, finishing around 4 days before the project is due. Every time you guys met up to work on the project, you found yourself staying longer and getting closer with Niki. It was only natural. Meeting up all the time would eventually get you close to someone. Niki did get really comfortable with you though. He moved from sitting across from you to next to you. Sometimes, he would fall asleep and wake up whenever his head hit your shoulder. A playful banter was often shared between you two and he would buy you food almost every time, taking note of which foods you said you liked and bringing them to your study "dates".
Your texts with Niki also changed. He would send you videos he found funny or of places that he says he wants to visit with you. Bff/n said again and again that Niki wants you, bad. You always brushed her belief off though. Until you received a text from Niki during the weekend.
Niki: are you busy today?
Y/n: no, what's up?
Niki: be ready in 15 minutes.
Y/n: um, okay...
Your mind starts to race. Why did Niki just invite you to go out with little to no time for you to get ready? If he were to take you to somewhere nice, he would've given you more time no? You decided to wear something casual and barely managed to get everything else situated before he texted you that he was outside. After stepping out, you see that he's standing there with his arm behind his back. He's dressed casually as well and you let out a sigh of relief.
He smiles and says, "Hi."
"Hey. What's all this about?" You ask.
"I wanted to hang out today." He says while moving his arm from behind him to in front.
He reveals a bouquet, full of an array of your favorite flowers.
"This is for you, I didn't know if you'd like just one so I got you a lot."
You take the bouquet out of his hands and say, "Wow, thank you. I'm surprised you remembered what my favorite flowers are."
"Of course, I remember a lot of things." He says.
He watches you admire the flowers and smiles to himself, feeling proud.
"Alright, let's go. There's a lot to do today." He says.
You look at him and say, "Oh, okay."
He leads to his car and he opens the passenger door for you and takes the bouquet out of your hands. He gets into the driver's seat and carefully places the bouquet in the back seat. After turning on the car, he puts on one of your playlists and starts to drive.
"If you don't mind me asking, where are we headed to?" You ask.
"We're headed to the park. I wanted to paint and have a picnic." He responds.
You smile at his idea and say, "That sounds pretty fun. I'm glad you're taking me along."
He smiles and says, "Yeah, me too."
He pulls into the park's parking lot and tells you to stay put. You check your phone and respond to some messages. You hear the passenger door unlock and you look up to see Niki holding his hand out for you to grab. He's carrying a bag filled to the brim. You take his hand and he guides you out of the car.
You smile and say, "Thank you."
He says, "Of course.", and then closes the door and locks his car. With your hands still together, he takes the chance to lead you to a nice spot under a tree near a lake. You watch as he lays down a picnic blanket and sets up an easel, the paints, and paintbrushes. He motions you to take a seat across from him and you do it.
While sitting down you say, "We should do that trend where they paint each other."
"We should! I was going to say that too." He says.
You both start to paint each other and there were some obstacles. He kept moving and you had to tell him to stay still multiple times. He accidentally flicked a bit of paint onto you which started a little paint fight. After about 30 minutes, you decided that you were done with painting. When you told Niki you were done, he smiled and said he was too. He tells you to go first and you show him your painting.
He stifles a laugh and says, "It's amazing. You should pursue art as a career."
You roll your eyes knowing he's joking around but you notice there was some sincereness in his tone.
"Alright, are you ready for mine?" He asks.
You give him a nod and he turns his painting around. It takes you a while to register but once you do, you see it says "Y/n, will you let me be your boyfriend?". It was as if the world stopped and it was only you and Niki. You slowly look up and see the Niki is eagerly waiting for your response. Surprisingly, it didn't take you much thought before you gave him your answer.
"Yes, Niki, you can be my boyfriend." You say.
It doesn't take long before you're lifted off of your feet. Niki quickly gets up and pulls you in for a hug, spinning you around.
He stops spinning you and looks into your eyes.
"You don't know how long I've wanted to hear that."
---
Your relationship started off great. Niki took you on dates often, gave you gifts on every holiday, and saw you as much as he could. When you guys graduated from college, you decided to take your relationship a bit further and move in with Niki. During the second year of living with him, he brought home a puppy for you because you kept talking about wanting to have one.
Bff/n and you slowly started to grow apart. It began just after you graduated and moved away to live with Niki. At the start, she would text and call you about meeting and catching up almost every week but as time went on she stopped. There were times that the two of you would text but it would only be brief. You were left thinking about what happened and why you guys grew apart.
That is until you saw Bff/n while you were out. You needed to run some errands and Niki was at work so you went by yourself. After picking up the things you needed, you decided to stop by the cafe where you and Niki worked on the project during college. You ordered your drink and looked for a place to sit. While scanning the room, you saw a familiar face. It was Bff/n and she was alone at a table doing something on her laptop. Looking for answers, you take the chance to question her about her actions.
"Bff/n?" You say.
"Ye-" She looks at you and her face drops.
"Y/n? What are you doing here?" She asks.
You take a seat across from her and say, "I just wanted to get a drink but I saw you. It's been a while, how have you been?"
She looks at you nervously.
"I've been good, what about you?"
"Life's been great! I've been enjoying work and now I have a dog so there's a lot to do at home. You know, taking care of Niki and the dog is a lot of work."
"Yeah... I'm sure it is. Speaking of Niki, how is he?"
"He's doing good as well, work's been pretty tough on him though. He's been forced to do overtime almost every week now. I just hope his boss gives him an easier time soon."
"That sucks. I hope his boss lets up soon too."
"Oh, I almost forgot. There's been something I've wanted to ask you for a while."
"Wh-what is it?"
"How come you just up and left? I honestly expected to get an explanation at least."
She pauses. Her mouth slightly open as if she was going to say something but stopped.
"Look, Y/n. I didn't want to be the one to tell you this. Can I just ask you to keep this between us?"
"Of course."
"Niki... he was texting me."
You give her a confused look.
She picks at the edge of her thumb and says, "At first he was just being friendly, but I'm not so sure about after that."
"What are you trying to say?" You ask.
"He used ask me how my day was and wanted to meet and catch up. Then, he moved onto asking me if I wanted him back. It was almost everyday and I felt disgusted knowing that he was texting me about how much he wanted to be with me again. So, I left. I thought that if I disappeared from your life, he would stop texting me and you wouldn't ever have to deal with this."
You felt your heart drop. Niki was texting Bff/n and asking her to get back together with him?
"Bff/n." You say.
"yes..?" She responds.
"When did this start?"
"Just before we graduated."
It was like your heart and lungs were constricted. You couldn't breathe properly and held onto the edge of the table to stabilize yourself.
"Y/n... I'm sorry." She says.
You mustered up enough strength to say, "You should've told me instead of leaving."
After barely getting those words out, you get up and leave. You didn't know where you were going to end up, but you needed to get away from everything.
---
You walked for what seemed like hours. The sun set and the moon rose as you wandered aimlessly. During your walk, you felt and heard your phone buzz multiple times. It must've been Niki texting and calling you. Not that it mattered because you didn't want to talk to him. Looking up, you find that you're in a park. You search for an empty bench to sit on. Once you hit the seat, you slowly let out everything.
The tears started off slow and then gradually came out faster and faster. Each time you wiped your face, there would already be another one leaving your eye. You pulled your legs into your chest and wrapped your arms around them. Looking off into the distance, you see a lake. You wonder if this is the same park that Niki asked you out in. There were also a couple silhouettes of people walking along the side of the lake.
You take your eyes off the lake and put your head down onto your knees. You thought about what you would say to Niki but couldn't think of anything. It was just too much for you right now. There were hurried footsteps that filled your ears. You brushed it off, thinking that it was just someone going for a late night jog.
A familiar voice yells out, "Y/n!"
You didn't need to look up to know who was calling out for you. His voice is like fire, making you burn up and want to run and look for something to get it off.
Throughout Niki's heavy breathing he says, "Y/n, Look at me."
You raise your head a bit, looking at him through a sliver in your arms.
"Where have you been? I've been trying to get in contact with you for ages and I was worried that something bad happened to you." He says.
"Something bad did happen to me." You say.
"What? Look, let's go home and we can talk about it there."
"I know what you did."
"what..?"
"Niki I'm not doing this with you anymore. This little game that you've been playing, it's over because I know what you did. Did you have fun messing around and toying with me?"
"Y/n, I seriously have no idea what you're talking about."
"Bff/n."
His expression changes. He knows what you're talking about now.
"I just want to ask, did you ever love me? Because I sure as hell never heard you say it." You question.
Niki's mouth opens and nothing comes out. When it closes, you've got your answer.
You raise your head fully and say, "I really can't believe you. I was ready to get married to you and you do this behind my back?"
Niki's hand balls up into a fist and he says, "Y/n I- I really am sorry. I do love you and I don't know what's wrong with me. I just kept thinking about Bff/n and I made stupid decisions."
By the time he finished talking you've had enough of his lies. You got up from the bench and turned away from Niki. It was time for you to walk away from this, from him.
You turn your head to look at Niki one more time to say, "Goodbye, Niki."
summary : boring days lead you to download the stupidly popular ai matchmaking app, 'heartsync,' thinking that you would be matched with a bot. next thing you know, you have to maintain a dating score with this loser guy in order to avoid a hefty cancellation fee
a/n : i am addicted to losers. also writers block lwk hitting me so sorry if this isn't that good :(
— wc : 9.2k — not proof read —
notification !
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you should’ve known something was up the second kazuha slid her phone across the table with a sly grin.
"you need this," she says, all too pleased with herself.
sungho leans in beside her, chin resting on his hand. "oh, absolutely. it’s the next big thing."
you glance down at the screen, unimpressed. "heartsync™? that sounds like a scam."
"it’s not," kazuha insists. "it's a revolution."
you narrow your eyes at her. "revolution is a strong word for a dating app."
sungho gestures wildly. "no, listen! this isn’t some basic swiping app. heartsync is, like, the future. ai-driven, hyper-accurate matchmaking." he wiggles his fingers in an attempt to look mysterious. "it scans all your online activity, text patterns, subconscious preferences—"
"wait, subconscious preferences?" you interrupt. "how the hell does it know what i subconsciously want?"
"science," kazuha says, as if that explains anything.
you stare at them, unimpressed. "so you’re telling me this thing invades my privacy, judges me, and then picks out some rando for me to date?"
"yep," sungho grins.
"hard pass."
kazhua sighs dramatically. "you’re so boring. come on, think about it. what if it actually works?"
"it won’t."
"but what if it does?"
you cross your arms. "i give it a week before i get matched with some weird middle-aged man who lives in his mom’s basement."
sungho gasps. "have a little faith, will you?!"
you snort, but kazuha suddenly looks too smug for your liking. before you can question it, your phone buzzes. you glance down.
"your friends are looking out for you! 💖 kazuha has sent you an invite to join heartsync™! experience true compatibility today. 💘"
you slowly raise your head. "zuha, did you just—"
"yep," she says.
"you—"
"it’s already downloading," sungho chimes in.
you look down at your phone in horror. sure enough, the app is installing.
"oh my god.”
jaehyun doesn’t even look up from his drink when taesan slides into the seat across from him, grinning like he’s about to be a menace.
"bro," taesan says, setting his phone down dramatically. "i found the solution to your dry-ass dating life."
jaehyun finally glances up. "i have a dating life."
woonhak, sitting beside him, lets out an exaggerated cough.
jaehyun glares. "shut up."
"he's not wrong," taesan snickers. "c’mon, look at this." he turns his phone around, revealing a sleek interface. jaehyun squints.
"heartsync?"
"ai-powered matchmaking, man. scientifically proven to find your perfect match."
jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "you sound like a bad infomercial."
woonhak leans in. "we already signed up. it’s, like, next-level tech. the app literally studies your habits, patterns, even your subconscious preferences."
jaehyun blinks. "that sounds illegal."
"nah, nah, just invasive," taesan says. "but in a good way."
jaehyun scoffs. "no such thing."
"just try it," woonhak says. "worst case, you get matched with someone weird and you ghost them."
"oh, so now i’m ghosting people?"
"what, like you don’t?" taesan smirks.
jaehyun rolls his eyes, but his phone suddenly buzzes.
"your best bros have your back! 💙 taesan has invited you to join heartsync™! what are you waiting for? your perfect match is waiting! 😉"
he looks up slowly. "you did not just—"
"i did," taesan grins.
woonhak claps him on the back. "welcome to the future, buddy."
jaehyun sighs. "you guys are the worst."
"and yet, here you are, downloading it," taesan singsongs.
jaehyun looks down at his phone. the app is downloading.
"...i hate you both."
setting up the app is way too easy. after a quick sign-up, a series of personality quizzes appear. you answer them halfheartedly, picking whatever feels right in the moment.
you expect a generic dating profile, but instead, a contract pops up.
"welcome to heartsync™'s exclusive perfect pair program! 💖 congratulations! by signing up, you agree to a 30-day trial relationship with your most compatible match. failure to complete the program will result in a penalty fee. please review the terms carefully. 📝"
you frown. "wait. penalty fee?"
kazhua leans over. "probably just a deterrent. no way they actually charge people."
"i don’t like this."
"it’s fine, just hit accept."
you squint at her, but against your better judgment, you press the button.
jaehyun does the same thing across town, equally suspicious.
then, both your phones buzz simultaneously.
"congratulations! 🎉 you’ve been matched! meet your perfect pair: myung jaehyun."
"congratulations! 🎉 you’ve been matched! meet your perfect pair: y/n."
jaehyun squints at his screen. "who the hell is y/n?"
you stare at yours. "who the hell is myung jaehyun?"
then, another notification.
"your first date has been scheduled! 🥰 see you at [reastaurant] tomorrow at 7 PM! remember: love is about commitment! 💞 failure to attend will result in a violation of your contract. 😘"
your stomach drops.
"...i think i just got scammed."
jaehyun, staring at the exact same message, mutters, "what the fuck?"
sungho and kazuha are dying.
"you’re stuck in a relationship for 30 days?!" sungho wheezes. "oh my god, i’m crying."
"this is the best thing that’s ever happened," kazuha says, wiping a fake tear.
you glare. "it’s not funny!"
"it’s hilarious," sungho corrects.
you groan. "this is the worst decision of my life."
kazhua gasps. "are you saying you regret trusting me?"
"yes."
"rude."
meanwhile, jaehyun is getting absolutely clowned on by his friends.
"so let me get this straight," taesan says, grinning like an idiot. "you’re contractually obligated to date this person?"
jaehyun rubs his temples. "apparently."
woonhak snickers. "bro. you’re trapped."
"i hate you both."
"nah," taesan says. "you love us. just like you’re about to love your new partner."
jaehyun looks up with dead eyes. "i hope the app malfunctions and matches you with each other."
woonhak gasps. "how dare you!"
"that would be so tragic," taesan grins. "imagine getting stuck in a relationship with woonhak."
woonhak shoves him. "shut up! i’d be a great boyfriend!"
jaehyun groans. "i cannot believe i let you guys talk me into this."
but before either of them can reply, his phone buzzes again.
"just a reminder! ❤️ your first date is TOMORROW at 7 PM! 💕 don’t keep your perfect match waiting! 😘 failure to attend will result in consequences. 🔥"
jaehyun stares at it.
"...i think i just signed my soul away."
you, staring at the exact same notification, sigh deeply.
what have you gotten yourself into?
...what?
you quickly scroll down. there’s a long wall of text in tiny font. definitely the terms and conditions you skimmed through without reading.
"effective immediately, you are required to actively participate in this relationship for the full 30-day duration. early termination will result in a penalty fee of—"
you freeze.
oh, hell no.
the penalty fee is HOW MUCH?!
"guys," you say, voice flat. "i think i just got scammed."
kazuh and sungho exchange glances. kazuha grabs your phone again and scrolls. her eyebrows shoot up. "holy shit. you’re stuck?"
"define stuck," you say, already dreading the answer.
sungho reads further. "...yep. stuck. you gotta go on dates, talk to this guy, and if you try to ignore him, the app gets passive-aggressive about it."
as if on cue, a new notification pops up.
"ghosting is unhealthy! say hi to your partner within the next 12 hours to maintain a positive relationship score. 💕"
you stare at the screen in horror.
kazuha and sungho? already laughing their asses off.
"this is the best thing that’s ever happened," sungho wheezes.
"no, no, this is cursed," you say, shaking your head. "there has to be a way out of this."
sungho grins. "you could pay the fee."
"i’m not paying that much just to escape some ai-manufactured relationship," you grumble.
kazuh, still laughing, pats your shoulder. "guess you’re dating myung jaehyun now."
somewhere else, jaehyun is also freaking out.
"taesan, what the hell did you make me sign up for?"
jaehyun stares at his phone like it just personally betrayed him.
"you got matched?" taesan asks, amused. he leans over jaehyun’s shoulder to check. "ohhh. wait. you actually got someone decent-looking. nice."
"not nice!" jaehyun exclaims, shoving his phone in taesan’s face. "look at this! it’s a contract. i have to date this person for 30 days or i have to pay an insane fee."
taesan reads for a second, then bursts out laughing. "holy shit. you’re trapped."
"why didn’t you tell me this could happen?!"
"because i didn’t think you’d actually get a match."
"what do i do?" jaehyun groans, scratching the back of his head.
"just go with it," taesan says. "it’s only a month. fake-date them, get some free meals, and worst-case scenario, you make a new friend."
jaehyun grumbles. "what if they suck?"
"what if you suck?"
"i mean, yeah, probably," jaehyun admits. "but still."
his phone buzzes.
"say hi to your partner within 12 hours to maintain a positive relationship score! 💕"
jaehyun stares blankly at the notification. then he looks at taesan.
"okay, but, like… do i get a refund if i cry?"
taesan cackles. "nope. no refunds, buddy. enjoy your new relationship."
jaehyun groans and flops onto the couch, phone balanced on his chest, already regretting everything.
you’re still convinced you’ve been scammed.
it’s not just the fact that you’re contractually obligated to go on this date, it’s the restaurant.
"how the hell did it know?" you mutter, staring at the notification again.
sungho leans over your shoulder, reading it for the tenth time. "i mean… it’s a little creepy."
"it’s very creepy," you correct. "i’ve never put this place in my location history, never mentioned it online, never even texted about it."
kazuha hums, sipping her drink. "maybe you thought about it too hard and the app just knew."
you look at her like she’s insane. "you’re telling me heartsync can read my mind now?"
"i mean, why not? it already owns your soul."
"not helping."
sungho suddenly perks up, squinting at the name on your screen. "wait. myung jaehyun?"
"yeah?"
he snaps his fingers. "oh! i had a class with him last year."
you blink. "and you’re only mentioning this now?"
sungho shrugs. "i forgot. but, uh…" he pauses. "he’s kinda a loser. in a cute way."
you stare at him. "define cute loser."
"like, y’know. a little awkward. kinda clumsy. but he’s not a bad guy."
kazuha raises an eyebrow. "so what i’m hearing is, you’ve already got an advantage."
"what advantage?" you ask flatly.
"you can be the cool one in this relationship," she says, smirking.
sungho grins. "oh yeah, you’ve already won."
you groan, sinking into your seat. "why am i even doing this?"
"because you’re legally bound by a contract," kazuha reminds you.
"right. love that for me."
jaehyun has the same problem.
"this is weird," he mutters, staring at his phone.
woonhak peeks over his shoulder. "dude, how did it know your favorite restaurant?"
"i don’t know."
"have you ever posted about it?" taesan asks.
"nope."
"checked in there?"
"never."
woonhak whistles. "yeah, that’s terrifying."
jaehyun groans. "why am i even going?"
taesan pats his shoulder. "because you’re legally bound by a contract."
jaehyun glares. "i hate you."
you arrive at the restaurant five minutes early, because despite your skepticism, you do respect punctuality.
what you don’t expect is to see someone already waiting at the entrance.
he's tall, a little awkward in the way he shifts on his feet, checking his phone. glasses slipping down his nose.
you approach cautiously. "...myung jaehyun?"
he looks up, blinking.
oh.
he’s kinda cute. in a loser-y way.
"oh," he says. "uh. hey."
you stare at each other for a beat.
jaehyun scratches the back of his neck. "so, uh… this is weird, right?"
"extremely."
he lets out a short laugh. "cool, just making sure."
you glance at the restaurant. "wanna get this over with?"
"yep."
you head inside together.
the weirdness doesn’t stop there.
you both open the menu, and your phones buzz at the same time.
"feeling indecisive? 💡 you both love the same dish! try the spicy seafood pasta! 🍝💖"
you slowly look up at jaehyun.
he looks back, expression unreadable.
"...so, uh," you start.
"are we just gonna ignore that?" he asks.
"we could."
jaehyun nods. "cool. because that was terrifying."
you both order the pasta anyway.
somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, the awkwardness starts to fade.
you’re still skeptical, but… conversation with jaehyun is weirdly easy.
he’s funny in an unintentional way. a little clumsy with his words, but quick to laugh at himself. it’s not what you expected.
"so," he says between bites, "are you, like, willingly doing this, or were you also tricked by your so-called friends?"
you groan. "tricked. sungho and kazuha set me up."
"ah," jaehyun nods. "taesan and woonhak did the same to me."
"so we’re both victims."
"basically."
you clink your glasses in mutual suffering.
then, another notification.
"running out of things to talk about? try reminiscing about your childhood talent show disaster! 😆✨"
you both freeze.
jaehyun slowly looks up. "...did your phone just say—?"
"yep," you cut in.
"what the hell?"
"no idea."
you stare at each other.
then jaehyun cautiously asks, "...did you actually have a childhood talent show disaster?"
you hesitate. "...maybe."
his eyes widen. "no way."
"look, it wasn’t that bad—"
"tell me everything."
you sigh, defeated. "i was seven, okay? i was supposed to sing. i got up there, forgot all the words, panicked, and ended up just dancing instead."
jaehyun claps. "improv! i respect that."
"bad improv," you correct.
"still, you committed. that’s what matters.”
and just like that, the skepticism eases.
then the app sends another notification.
"bonding over past failures? we love to see it! 😍💕 by the way, your partner thinks the nickname 'woonbaby' is hilarious. go ahead, try it! 😏"
you blink.
jaehyun reads his own notification.
then he looks at you, face slowly turning red.
"...what the fuck?"
you can’t help it. you laugh. "what the hell is woonbaby?"
jaehyun groans, covering his face. "it’s—it’s stupid. my friend woonhak. someone called him that once and it just stuck."
"oh my god," you grin. "you definitely still call him that."
"i do not," jaehyun lies.
you raise an eyebrow. "so if you text him right now and ask, he won’t confirm?"
jaehyun opens his mouth, then closes it.
"...no comment."
you cackle.
"oh my god," jaehyun mutters, slumping in his seat. "i hate this app."
"i love this app," you say gleefully.
by the time the bill arrives, you have to admit something.
this was not a disaster.
you’re still weirded out by the app’s accuracy. it’s unsettling how well it seems to know you both.
but jaehyun?
...he’s not so bad.
"so," he says as you both step outside, hands in pockets. "same time next week?"
you blink. "what?"
he holds up his phone.
"congrats! 🎉 your next date is scheduled for next friday! love takes consistency! 💖 ditching is not an option. 😉"
you groan. "again?"
"yep."
"...fine."
jaehyun grins. "see you then, partner."
you shake your head, but you can’t help the small smile forming.
what the hell have you gotten yourself into?
—
you’re in the middle of something important when your phone buzzes.
"surprise! 🎉 we’ve scheduled a spontaneous date night for you and jaehyun! quality time is crucial for growing relationships! 💕 see you at 7PM! 😘"
you stare at the screen.
then you glance at the time.
6:20PM.
"are you kidding me?" you say aloud.
sungho and kazuha look up from where they’re sprawled across your couch, watching a drama. "what?" kazuha asks.
"this stupid app just scheduled a date."
"wait, i thought your next one wasn’t until friday," sungho says.
"it was," you emphasize. "now it’s tonight. at seven."
sungho winces. "oh, that’s rough."
kazuha squints. "can’t you just cancel?"
you shake your head and turn your screen to them.
"cancelling is NOT an option! 🫵😤 love takes EFFORT! 💖"
kazuha snorts. "damn. that app is really holding you hostage."
you sigh. "i hate this."
sungho shrugs. "on the bright side, at least jaehyun is fun to mess with."
you scowl, but you don’t argue.
jaehyun is having an equally miserable time.
"you have got to be kidding me," he groans.
taesan and woonhak glance up from where they’re messing around on the studio couch. "what?" woonhak asks.
jaehyun turns his phone to them.
taesan squints. "another date? bro, you just had one."
"i know," jaehyun says, exasperated. "i have work to do!"
"just reschedule," woonhak suggests.
jaehyun gives him a deadpan look and flips his phone back around.
"cancelling is NOT an option! 🫵😤 love takes EFFORT! 💖"
woonhak bursts out laughing. "nah, this is hilarious."
"i hate this app," jaehyun mutters.
"okay, but like," taesan leans forward, "where are you even supposed to take them? don’t you have to finish your demo?"
jaehyun groans, rubbing his face. "yeah. i do."
he stares at his screen for a second, then sighs. "i guess they’re just coming here."
woonhak and taesan exchange glances.
"bold," woonhak comments.
"risky," taesan adds.
jaehyun throws a notebook at them.
you’re about five seconds away from ghosting when your phone buzzes.
myung jaehyun: uh. slight change of plans
myung jaehyun: i’m stuck in the studio bc i have work to finish
myung jaehyun: so if you’re cool with it, you can just come here?
you stare at the message.
then you sigh.
you: send me the address
a moment later, it comes through.
you grab your things and head out, still half-annoyed, half-curious about what you’re walking into.
jaehyun’s studio is tucked away in a quieter part of the city, the kind of place you’d probably never stumble upon unless you were looking for it.
the building itself is older, but inside, it’s got that warm, slightly chaotic energy of a space that’s lived in.
post-it notes are stuck to random surfaces. half-full water bottles clutter the desks. a worn couch sits against the wall, surrounded by tangled cables and spare equipment.
jaehyun is hunched over the desk, headphones around his neck, messy hair even messier than usual. he spins in his chair when you walk in, eyes slightly wide.
"oh. hey."
"hey," you say, glancing around. "so this is where the magic happens?"
"uh," jaehyun scratches the back of his neck, "something like that."
you step further inside, taking in the mix of instruments, wires, and open project files on the screen.
"you work here alone?"
"nah," jaehyun gestures vaguely. "woonhak and taesan share this space with me, but they’re not here right now."
"cool."
an awkward pause.
jaehyun clears his throat. "so, uh… i do have to work, but you can hang out? there’s snacks in that cabinet, and the couch is—"
you flop onto the couch before he can finish his sentence.
jaehyun blinks. "—yeah. okay. make yourself at home."
you grin. "thanks, host."
jaehyun groans but turns back to his screen, muttering something about "stupid app forcing dates at the worst times."
you watch him for a moment as he scrolls through his project.
his sleeves are pushed up, revealing the faint ink stains on his fingers. his foot taps absently against the floor as he listens to the playback.
you close your eyes and let the soft hum of music fill the space.
time passes.
jaehyun works. you scroll through your phone, occasionally glancing up to watch him tweak something in his file.
it’s… oddly peaceful.
you get up and sit down at the desk next to him, he’s too immersed to acknowldge you.
despite the forced nature of this whole situation, there’s something nice about sitting in a space where someone is just doing what they love.
you start to relax.
and at some point, without even meaning to, you start to drift off.
jaehyun only notices when he turns around to say something and sees you slumped over the desk next to him, head resting on your arms.
he freezes.
stares.
panics.
oh shit oh shit oh shit.
you’re asleep.
here. in his studio.
jaehyun is hyperaware of everything. the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. the way your fingers are curled slightly, like you were mid-scroll before you passed out.
he has no idea what to do.
should he wake you up? would that be rude? but if he doesn’t, is that weirder?
jaehyun can feel the moment taesan processes the scene in front of him.
then—
"holy shit."
jaehyun whips around. "shut up."
taesan grins. "no way. you’re actually—"
"shut. up."
taesan snickers. "oh, this is amazing."
jaehyun glares. "don’t. start."
but it’s too late. taesan is already pulling out his phone.
"bro," he whispers, cackling, "you’re literally watching them like they’re a rare bird species."
"i am not," jaehyun hisses.
"you so are. oh my god."
jaehyun is about to throw something when you shift slightly, letting out a soft sigh.
both of them freeze.
taesan vibrates with silent laughter.
jaehyun, who is now very much contemplating murder, snaps, "get your stupid charger and leave."
taesan holds his hands up in surrender, still grinning. "alright, alright. relax, lover boy."
jaehyun throws a notebook at him.
taesan leaves.
jaehyun exhales, running a hand through his hair.
he turns back to you.
you’re still asleep, breathing steady, face relaxed.
he sighs.
and despite himself, despite the utter embarrassment of this entire situation…
he can’t help the small, stupid smile that tugs at his lips.
this app is so dumb.
but maybe…
just maybe…
it’s onto something.
you wake up slowly, the kind of hazy drift between sleep and awareness where you don’t quite remember where you are.
there’s the soft hum of music. the faint scratch of a pen. the scent of something vaguely citrusy, mixed with the underlying warmth of a well-used space.
then—
"finally awake?"
you blink blearily. jaehyun is sitting at the desk, spinning a pen between his fingers, watching you with an amused expression.
reality clicks into place.
the studio. the forced date. you, falling asleep like an idiot.
you groan, rubbing your face. "how long was i out?"
jaehyun shrugs. "an hour? maybe more?"
you wince. "why didn’t you wake me up?"
"you looked comfortable," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
you stare at him.
jaehyun stares back.
heat creeps up the back of your neck. you push it down and scowl instead. "so you just let me drool all over your desk?"
"you didn’t drool," jaehyun says. then, after a pause, "probably."
you groan again and stretch, the stiffness in your neck making you regret everything. "well, thanks for that. i guess."
jaehyun chuckles, spinning back to his screen. "anytime."
you roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile threatening to form.
you end up staying.
it’s not like you planned to, but the vibe is easy, and jaehyun is… well.
he’s kind of nice to be around.
he works while you scroll through your phone, occasionally showing him something stupid that makes him snort. at one point, he grabs a bag of chips from a shelf and wordlessly hands it to you.
"what’s this for?" you ask.
"you skipped dinner."
you blink. "how do you know?"
jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "because i also skipped dinner, and i didn’t see you eat anything either."
…fair point.
you take the bag and mumble a thanks. jaehyun just shrugs like it’s no big deal.
somewhere between talking about absolutely nothing, watching him edit his project, and accidentally getting crumbs all over the desk, you start to forget that this whole thing was a forced date.
it doesn’t feel like one anymore.
and you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
it’s nearly midnight when you check your phone and realize how late it’s gotten.
"shit," you mutter.
jaehyun glances up. "huh?"
"i should probably go."
he blinks, like he just processed the time himself. "oh. right."
you stand, stretching again, then glance at him. "you gonna keep working?"
"for a bit," jaehyun says, rubbing his neck. "i’m almost done."
you nod, then hesitate.
you’re not sure why you hesitate.
but before you can overthink it, you blurt out, "this wasn’t that bad."
jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "wow. high praise."
"shut up," you say, rolling your eyes.
he grins. "but yeah. wasn’t that bad."
you huff, grabbing your things. "see you friday, loser."
"see you, drooler."
you flip him off as you walk out the door.
jaehyun just laughs.
as you head home, your phone buzzes.
"congrats! 🎉 you’ve just completed an unplanned date! we bet you had a GREAT time 😘💖 can’t wait for friday! 😍"
you stare at the notification.
then you scoff, shaking your head.
stupid app.
—
you just want your morning coffee.
that’s it. just a simple, peaceful start to your day before dealing with actual responsibilities.
but when you step into the coffee shop, your usual one, the one you’ve been going to for years, you freeze.
because sitting right there, hunched over his phone with slight dark circles under his eyes and a half-finished iced americano in front of him, is myung jaehyun.
he doesn’t notice you at first. he just stares blankly at his screen, blinking slow like a loading error. he’s so out of it that when the barista calls out his order, he doesn’t even react.
so, naturally, you decide to make his life harder.
"myung jaehyun," you say, loud enough for half the café to hear.
he flinches like you just smacked him.
"huh?!"
"your coffee," you deadpan, nodding towards the counter.
he follows your gaze, then blinks again. "oh. right."
you snort as he stumbles up to grab it, still looking half-asleep.
when he returns to his seat, you’re still standing there, arms crossed.
"what?" he mumbles.
"this is my coffee shop."
jaehyun squints at you. "…what?"
"i come here every morning," you say, pointing at the barista like they can somehow confirm this.
jaehyun shrugs. "cool. i came here because my app said it had ‘the best morning recharge.’"
you frown. "your app?"
"heartsync," he says, yawning. "you know. the app that ruined our lives?"
your stomach drops. "you’re kidding."
jaehyun pulls out his phone and flashes the notification at you. sure enough.
"rise and shine! 🌞 grab your perfect morning pick-me-up at caffeine fix! ☕✨"
your jaw clenches. you also got a similar notification this morning.
slowly, your eyes meet. "okay," you say. "this is weird."
jaehyun hums, sipping his coffee. "yeah. but whatever. i needed caffeine."
you stare at him, offended. "so you’re just accepting this?"
"i mean, if the app is forcing me to get good coffee, i won’t complain," he says, completely unserious.
you hate that he’s taking this so lightly. you hate that he doesn’t even seem surprised.
you snatch his coffee and take a sip.
"hey!" jaehyun protests.
you smack it back down on the table. "that’s for being weirdly okay with this."
he just glares at you, rubbing his temples. "i just woke up. can you at least let me suffer in peace?"
you sigh, pulling out a chair. "fine. but i’m sitting here now. just to make sure you don’t pass out or something."
jaehyun looks at you, surprised. then he grins. "aww. you care."
you grab a sugar packet and chuck it at his forehead.
after that, you make a decision.
you’re not going to see jaehyun for a while.
not because you mind him. he’s fine. whatever. but because there’s something unnerving about the way this stupid app is leading you to each other like rats in some kind of romantic lab experiment.
so the next morning, you take a different route to work.
and by "different," you mean you add twenty minutes to your commute just to be safe.
you’re feeling pretty good about yourself until you stop by a grocery store later that evening—
and jaehyun is right there, staring at a shelf of instant ramen like it personally betrayed him.
you freeze. he looks up.
silence.
"are you kidding me?" you groan, dragging a hand down your face.
jaehyun just stares at you. "you’re the one who just walked in."
"yeah, but i specifically avoided my usual route just to make sure this wouldn’t happen," you argue.
"okay, well, i was just trying to get food," he says, exasperated. "i ran out of ramen."
you narrow your eyes. "don’t tell me your app told you to come here."
he hesitates.
then he holds up his phone.
"craving a late-night snack? 🤤🍜 don’t worry, we got you! swing by mart express—you never know who you might run into! 😉"
you want to throw something.
instead, you march up to him, grab his phone, and put it on airplane mode.
jaehyun blinks. "…what are you doing."
"fixing our problem," you say, pulling out your own phone and doing the same.
jaehyun stares at you for a moment. then, to your surprise, he actually nods. "okay," he says. "good plan."
you blink. "wait. you’re not gonna fight me on this?"
he shrugs. "nah. the app is getting creepy."
you fold your arms. "so you do think it’s weird?"
"i always thought it was weird," jaehyun says. "i just don’t care as much as you do."
you glare at him, but he’s already turning back to the ramen shelf like this whole conversation didn’t just happen.
unbelievable.
you leave the store together, mostly because your places are in the same general direction.
except five minutes in, jaehyun suddenly stops walking.
"shit," he mutters.
"what?" you ask.
he sighs. "i don’t know how to get home."
you stare at him. "you what."
"i always use my phone for directions!" he says, waving his arms. "but i turned it off, and now i’m lost."
you pinch the bridge of your nose. "you’re unbelievable."
"hey, you told me to turn it off!"
"because we were being manipulated!"
"well, congrats, now i’m gonna die on the street because of you."
"oh my god," you groan. "just—fine. where do you live?"
jaehyun tells you the address. you stare at him.
"jaehyun," you say. "that’s literally ten minutes from my place."
jaehyun blinks. "…oh."
you squint at him. "have you been taking the long way home this entire time?"
he scratches his head. "maybe?"
you don’t know whether to laugh or hit him.
instead, you just sigh and grab his wrist.
"come on," you say, dragging him in the right direction. "i’ll walk you."
jaehyun doesn’t protest.
but when you glance at him, he’s smiling.
you get him home without issue.
when you stop in front of his building, jaehyun turns to you.
"thanks," he says, rubbing his neck. "and, uh. good job fighting the system, i guess."
you snort. "yeah. whatever."
he grins, but there’s something softer in it this time.
"see you around?" he asks.
you hesitate.
then you sigh. "probably."
jaehyun laughs. "probably."
you don’t check your phone again until you’re home.
when you do, you have one new notification.
"aw, how sweet! 🥰 you make such a great team! 💕"
you groan, rolling your eyes. the off the grid mode didn’t work.
“so,” sungho says, dragging out the word like he’s about to be annoying.
you look up from your phone, raising an eyebrow. “so?”
sungho smirks. “how’s myung jaehyun?”
you blink. “why are you asking like that?”
“oh, no reason,” he says, very unconvincingly. “you just seem to see him a lot.”
you scoff. “that’s because this stupid app won’t leave us alone.”
“mhm.”
“it literally forced us to meet up.”
“sure.”
you glare at him. “i don’t like him, if that’s what you’re implying.”
sungho just hums. “never said you did.”
you hate him.
“anyway,” you say, aggressively changing the subject. “when are you free? let’s get dinner or something.”
sungho shrugs. “ask jaehyun. you seem to hang out with him more than me these days.”
you chuck a pillow at his face.
on jaehyun’s end, taesan is just as bad.
“so, you and your soulmate have been seeing each other a lot.”
jaehyun groans. “don’t call them that.”
“why not? isn’t that what the app says?” taesan teases.
jaehyun sighs, tilting his head back against the couch. “we don’t even take it seriously.”
“and yet you still see them outside of what the app says.”
“it just happens,” jaehyun defends.
“right.”
jaehyun doesn’t even bother arguing. it’s taesan. nothing he says will change his mind once he starts being annoying.
instead, he just mutters, “i don’t even like them like that.”
taesan snorts. “yeah. okay.”
jaehyun scowls at him. “i don’t.”
taesan grins. “never said you did.”
jaehyun glares at him.
taesan only laughs.
but the truth is—
neither of you mind seeing each other.
the notification hits your phone at the worst possible time, mid-bite into a sandwich, your mouth too full to properly react as you stare at the bolded text on the screen.
💖 heartsync™ challenge: surprise your match with a meaningful gift! don’t forget! thoughtfulness is key! 🎁
you narrow your eyes. a meaningful gift?
sungho, sitting across from you, glances at your phone and snorts. “oh, this is good. what are you gonna get him?”
you finish chewing before deadpanning, “a rock.”
sungho almost chokes on his drink.
jaehyun gets the same notification while lying on his bed, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. he barely processes it at first, but then—
a meaningful gift.
he groans, rubbing his face. "why is this starting to feel like a real relationship?"
“because it is a real relationship,” taesan says from his desk, not looking up from his laptop.
“it’s not,” jaehyun argues immediately.
“sure,” taesan replies, unconvinced.
jaehyun sighs. “what even counts as meaningful?”
taesan finally looks at him, unimpressed. “you’re the one dating them.”
“fake dating,” jaehyun corrects.
“sure,” taesan repeats.
jaehyun groans again.
you decide to put some effort into it.
not because you care or anything, but because you know jaehyun will definitely try, and you don’t want to look like an asshole in comparison.
you wander through a store, scanning the shelves for something that could count as thoughtful.
jaehyun gives off dog energy, doesn’t he?
you frown. that’s weird to think about. but it’s true. he’s clumsy, a little dumb, but weirdly endearing.
then, you spot it.
a plush keychain. a little golden retriever with floppy ears and big, round eyes.
you hesitate before picking it up.
it’s stupid. but it’s also… kind of perfect.
you buy it before you can second-guess yourself.
jaehyun, meanwhile, is just as lost.
he walks through a store with woonhak, who has been absolutely no help.
“why don’t you just get them a candle?” woonhak suggests.
jaehyun sighs. “that’s not meaningful.”
“depends on the scent.”
“woonhak.”
“fine.” woonhak gestures vaguely. “what do they even like?”
jaehyun pauses.
he… actually knows quite a bit. their favorite color, the snacks they always buy, the way they take their coffee—
he stops. when did he start noticing so much?
woonhak stares at him. “dude, you’re so gone.”
jaehyun immediately shakes his head. “shut up.”
but he grabs something off the shelf anyway, a small coffee cup for the coffee addict that is you.
just because it makes sense. not because he cares.
you agree to meet at the studio.
it’s not that weird, jaehyun spends most of his time there anyway, and you’ve been there before.
when you walk in, however, you’re met with the sight of woonhak sitting at the desk, staring intensely at his laptop screen.
you blink. “you’re here?”
woonhak looks up. “you’re here?”
“uh. yeah?”
jaehyun walks in behind you, closing the door. “we’re doing that stupid challenge.”
woonhak frowns. “what challenge?”
you smirk. “the one that made him tell me about woonbaby.”
there’s a beat of silence.
“YOU TOLD THEM?!” woonhak exclaims, turning to jaehyun with betrayal in his eyes.
jaehyun looks genuinely alarmed. “IT WASN’T MY FAULT! THE APP TOLD THEM.”
woonhak glares. “i don’t care! you let it happen.”
you watch, amused, as they bicker.
eventually, jaehyun gives up with an exasperated sigh. “whatever, let’s just do this.”
you sit down, pulling out the little plush keychain.
jaehyun stares at it.
“what?” you say.
he blinks. “…is that a dog?”
you nod. “it reminded me of you.”
woonhak howls with laughter.
jaehyun scowls. “what does that mean?”
you shrug. “you figure it out.”
woonhak is practically crying. “bro, you’re literally a golden retriever.”
jaehyun grumbles, but you catch the way he turns the keychain over in his hands, quietly pressing at the plush fabric.
then, he clears his throat, pulling out his own gift.
a simple and cute coffee cup, one you can reuse for your favorite coffee shop.
you pause.
you recognize this brand. it’s the one you always buy from.
you turn back to him, suddenly unsure what to say.
he shifts in his seat. “so. we did the challenge.”
you nod. “yeah.”
there’s a silence.
“…i actually really like this,” jaehyun admits, still holding the plush keychain.
you blink. the silence is loud.
he glances at you, a little sheepish. “i know you probably just picked it because it’s funny, but… i like it.”
you feel something unfamiliar stir in your chest.
“…i like mine too,” you say.
he looks up, a little surprised.
you clear your throat. “it’s thoughtful.”
a small smile tugs at his lips.
“good,” he says.
later that night, you add the keychain to your bag.
and jaehyun clips his onto his.
not that it means anything.
—
💖 heartsync challenge: write a letter to your partner about what this experience meant to you. be honest! no holding back! 💌
you stare at your phone.
your stomach turns.
this is different from the other challenges. those were fun, stupid, even. buying a gift? easy. going on a last-minute date? frustrating but manageable.
but this?
you put your phone down and ignore it.
jaehyun, on the other hand, groans dramatically and flops onto his bed.
taesan and woonhak glance at each other.
“what now?” taesan asks.
jaehyun lifts his phone, showing them the notification.
woonhak snorts. “damn. that’s deep.”
“yeah,” jaehyun mutters. “stupid app.”
taesan raises a brow. “you’re actually gonna do it?”
jaehyun pauses. “...it’s just a challenge.”
woonhak smirks. “uh-huh.”
jaehyun rolls onto his stomach, hiding his face.
taesan leans back in his chair. “so… what has this experience meant to you?”
jaehyun groans into his pillow.
woonhak cackles. “this is hilarious.”
jaehyun throws a pillow at him.
you don’t write the letter.
you could.
but you don’t.
because writing it down makes it real. and you don’t want to think about what this actually means.
so, you pretend it doesn’t exist.
the app can’t force you, right?
right.
jaehyun stares at the blank page in front of him.
just write something dumb and get it over with.
but when he tries to start, nothing feels right.
so, he sighs, taps his pen against the desk, and just… writes what comes naturally.
woonhak picks up the folded letter before jaehyun can stop him.
jaehyun nearly tackles him.
“GIVE IT BACK.”
woonhak dances out of reach, grinning. “ooooh, what’s this?”
“IT’S NOTHING.”
taesan, completely unbothered, takes a sip of his drink. “so you did write one.”
jaehyun glares. “it’s just a stupid challenge.”
woonhak dodges another grab. “damn, you really poured your heart into this, huh?”
jaehyun huffs. “i hate both of you.”
woonhak finally tosses it back, laughing.
jaehyun stuffs it into his bag, scowling.
“…so when are you giving it to them?” taesan asks.
jaehyun freezes.
“uh.”
“…you are giving it to them, right?” woonhak says, amused.
jaehyun looks away. “i don’t know.”
“…bro.”
“i just—” jaehyun sighs. “what if they don’t care?”
woonhak and taesan exchange a look.
then, woonhak shrugs. “i guess you’ll find out.”
you don’t ask if jaehyun wrote his letter.
you don’t want to know.
because if he did, then you’d have to think about why you didn’t.
when jaehyun sees you next, he almost gives it to you.
almost.
but then he sees the way you act like nothing is different.
so, he keeps it in his bag.
not that it matters.
—
💖 heartsync update: your 30-day trial is almost over! it’s time for your final compatibility assessment!
will you renew? yes or no? make your choice carefully! 😘
your thumb hovers over the screen.
your chest feels tight.
final compatibility assessment.
it’s just a stupid button. just a choice.
but it feels heavier than that.
yes or no. stay or leave.
do you want this to continue?
and that’s the problem, isn’t it?
because you do. but you also don’t.
or rather, you can’t.
if you say yes, what does that mean? that the app was right? that this was real? that you’re willing to risk whatever this has become?
that’s too much.
that’s terrifying.
so, instead of thinking, instead of wondering, instead of feeling—
you press no.
and just like that, it’s over.
jaehyun gets the notification when he’s halfway to the café.
he’d planned to meet you there, casually slipping you the letter like it wasn’t a big deal. but then—
💔 heartsync update: your trial has ended. thanks for participating! your match has chosen not to renew. we’ve removed them from your contacts. no hard feelings! 💕
he stops walking.
stares at the screen.
his stomach sinks.
his heart—
no renewal.
he scrolls through his messages, but your contact is gone. every conversation, every stupid joke, every awkward late-night text—erased.
like you were never there at all.
like he imagined it.
like it meant nothing.
he swallows.
turns on his heel.
walks away.
when you check your phone again, it’s like jaehyun never existed.
your chat history? gone.
your notifications? empty.
you type his name into your contacts. nothing.
it feels like a punch to the stomach. you should’ve expected this. you did expect this.
but it still hurts.
did he pick no, too?
…or did you delete something that he actually wanted?
you close your phone.
this is for the best.
you keep telling yourself that. so why doesn’t it feel true?
jaehyun stares at the letter in his hands.
it’s stupid.
he shouldn’t care.
but he does. and that pisses him off.
woonhak notices. “what’s up with you?”
jaehyun doesn’t answer.
taesan glances over. “hey. you good?”
jaehyun laughs, but it’s hollow. “yeah.”
woonhak raises a brow.
jaehyun crumples the letter in his fist.
“i just wasted my time, that’s all.”
he gets up.
leaves before they can ask anything else.
you tell sungho and kazuha that it’s fine.
that you’re fine.
sungho doesn’t buy it. “so, you just… ended it?”
you shrug. “it was gonna end anyway.”
kazuha frowns. “but… did you want it to?”
you open your mouth. hesitate.
sungho sighs. “you’re an idiot.”
you glare. “thanks.”
“i’m serious. if you actually liked him—”
“i don’t.”
“…right,” kazuha says, unconvinced.
sungho crosses his arms. “you know, he could’ve said yes.”
you look away.
because that thought is the worst one of all.
jaehyun avoids the café.
he avoids the places he might see you.
he pretends it doesn’t sting.
but when he’s alone, when the studio is quiet, when there’s nothing left to distract him.
he pulls out the letter.
the one you’ll never read.
and he wonders if he had given it to you, would it have made a difference?
—
jaehyun is not the kind of guy who does this.
he’s not the type to chase after people. he doesn’t do big confrontations. he doesn’t throw himself into situations where his feelings are laid bare, where rejection is a very real possibility.
but here he is.
sitting in a café across from woonhak, gripping a coffee cup like it’s a lifeline, his foot tapping against the floor so fast it’s a miracle the ground isn’t shaking.
woonhak, for his part, is staring at him like he’s experiencing secondhand embarrassment in real time.
“so… let me get this straight,” woonhak says, setting his drink down. “you got matched with someone on a dating app. spent a whole month with them. actually liked them. and now, instead of talking to them like a normal person, you’re here, asking me to help you find them?”
jaehyun scowls. “when you say it like that, it sounds weird.”
woonhak leans back in his chair. “because it is weird.”
jaehyun groans, running a hand through his hair. “i just—” he hesitates, voice quieter. “they pressed no.”
woonhak’s eyebrows lift.
jaehyun clenches his jaw. “they chose to end it.”
woonhak watches him for a moment. then, slowly, he folds his arms.
“so? that’s it? you’re just gonna let the app decide how this ends?”
jaehyun exhales sharply. “no.”
“good.” woonhak cracks his knuckles. “let’s find them.”
jaehyun blinks. “wait, you’re actually helping?”
woonhak smirks. “are you kidding? this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”
jaehyun rolls his eyes, but his heart is beating a little faster now.
step one: figure out where you work.
woonhak, surprisingly, is really good at this. almost too good.
“didn’t you mention that sungho is their friend?” he asks, scrolling through his phone.
jaehyun blinks. “uh. yeah?”
woonhak hums. “i think i saw something on his page last week. something about dropping off lunch at their job.”
jaehyun leans over. “you can find that?”
“duh. i have skills.”
jaehyun doesn’t question it.
a few minutes later, woonhak tilts his screen toward jaehyun. “bingo. looks like they work at that bookstore near the subway station.”
jaehyun’s stomach twists.
this is actually happening.
woonhak smirks. “you ready?”
jaehyun doesn’t answer. just grabs his jacket and walks out the door.
the bookstore is quiet when jaehyun steps inside.
the warm scent of paper and ink fills the air. soft lighting casts golden hues against the wooden bookshelves. the faint sound of pages turning and the occasional murmur of conversation drifts through the space.
he scans the store, heart hammering.
there.
you’re stacking books near the back, moving with the easy rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
jaehyun’s feet move before he can think.
you don’t notice him at first.
but then you glance up.
your hands still. your eyes widen.
“…jaehyun?”
his throat is dry. he almost forgets why he’s here.
almost.
“you really didn’t care, huh?”
your expression falters. “what?”
jaehyun exhales sharply. “you didn’t even hesitate. you just—” he gestures vaguely, frustration bleeding into his voice. “you pressed no.”
you swallow. “i—”
jaehyun reaches into his pocket.
pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.
your breath catches.
“you didn’t read mine,” jaehyun says.
his voice is quieter now. rough around the edges.
you stare at the letter.
the ink is smudged. the paper is creased, worn like he’s been holding onto it for days.
like he was going to give it to you, like he wanted to stay.
your stomach twists.
“jaehyun.”
he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “i just don’t get it.”
his voice cracks on the last word.
you don’t know what to say. you don’t know how to fix this.
but maybe… maybe it’s not too late.
silence stretches between you.
you don’t look away from the letter.
jaehyun doesn’t either.
there’s a tension in the air, thick and heavy. you try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t go away.
finally, jaehyun exhales.
he shoves a hand into his jacket pocket, gaze dropping to the floor. “you don’t have to say anything,” he mutters. “i just—i needed you to know.”
your throat is tight. your fingers twitch at your sides.
you didn’t read mine.
he said it so simply, like it wasn’t the most painful realization of all. because you should have.
you should have waited.
you should have listened.
but you were afraid.
afraid that reading it would mean accepting something real. afraid that pressing yes would mean opening yourself up to something you weren’t sure you could handle.
but now, looking at him, his tense shoulders, his furrowed brows, the way his hands grip the letter like it’s the only thing holding him together. he’s so cute.
you wonder if you made the wrong choice.
you take a shaky breath. “jaehyun…”
he lifts his gaze.
your fingers brush against the edge of the letter. hesitating.
you take it.
jaehyun stills.
you smooth it out carefully, trying not to focus on the places where the ink has bled.
you glance up. “can i—?”
jaehyun nods, once.
so you read.
jaehyun’s letter is messy.
his handwriting is uneven, like he kept pausing, rewriting, second-guessing.
but the words—
the words hit you like a punch to the chest.
it’s not poetic. not perfectly structured.
but it’s real.
and for some reason, that makes it hurt even more.
hey.
i don’t really know what to say, which is probably a bad start to a letter.
i don’t know what i was expecting when i signed up for this. definitely not this. i thought it’d be a joke. just something dumb i’d try and then delete. but then, somehow, it was you.
and i don’t know how that happened, but i’m not really mad about it.
it was weird at first. and sometimes it still is. but somewhere along the way, i stopped thinking about it like an “experiment” or a “trial.” it just became normal.
i don’t know if that means anything. but i think i like this. i think i like… you.
not that it matters.
but yeah. that’s it.
- jaehyun.
you can tell when he started to get frustrated. some sentences trail off, like he wasn’t sure how to end them. some are underlined, like he wanted to make sure you understood.
but the part that makes your breath catch, the part that makes your fingers tighten around the page—
is near the end.
"i don’t know if that means anything. but i think i like this. i think i like… you."
you stare at the words.
your hands shake.
your vision blurs.
you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look up.
jaehyun is watching you, expression unreadable.
you open your mouth. but no words come out.
so you do the only thing you can.
you fold the letter carefully. tuck it into your pocket.
and whisper, “i think i made a mistake.”
jaehyun exhales.
his lips press into a thin line.
“yeah,” he says softly. “i think so, too.”
it should be easier than this.
it should be simple. if you like someone, you tell them. if you want to stay, you stay.
but it’s never that easy, is it?
because standing here, in the quiet of the bookstore, with jaehyun staring at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels impossible to say what you want to say.
your heart is in your throat.
your fingers tighten around the crumpled letter in your pocket.
“so,” jaehyun says, voice quiet. “what now?”
you don’t know.
but you do know one thing:
you don’t want to walk away again.
you meet his gaze.
hesitate.
“i think i liked you before i even realized.”
jaehyun’s breath catches.
your chest feels tight.
you swallow, forcing yourself to keep going.
“i just… i didn’t want to admit it,” you say, voice softer now. “because if i did, then it wouldn’t be because of the app. it wouldn’t be because of some stupid algorithm. it would just be me.”
you take a shaky breath.
“and that scared me.”
jaehyun exhales sharply.
he’s quiet for a long moment, and just when you think he’s going to say something,
he takes a step closer.
then another.
your heart stutters.
he stops just a few inches away.
when he speaks, his voice is steadier than before.
“i don’t care what the app says,” he murmurs.
his gaze is unwavering.
“i like you.”
your stomach flips.
your fingers twitch at your sides.
you want to say something.
but before you can, jaehyun suddenly exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
“god, that was so embarrassing,” he groans. “i can’t believe i actually said that out loud.”
you blink.
a laugh bursts out of you, unexpected and unfiltered.
jaehyun groans again, covering his face. “no, don’t laugh. i was trying to be cool.”
“cool?” you wheeze. “you?”
he glares at you from between his fingers. “i take it back. i don’t like you.”
you grin. “too late.”
jaehyun groans dramatically, but there’s no real frustration in it.
just warmth. just relief.
and when your laughter fades, when the bookstore falls quiet again—
he looks at you. and you look back.
something shifts.
something settles.
and just like that—
it doesn’t feel so impossible anymore.
later, at a coffee shop.
“so,” you say, stirring your drink. “was any of it real?”
jaehyun blinks. “huh?”
“the app,” you clarify. “the ‘fated’ moments. was any of it real?”
jaehyun thinks about it.
“well.” he tilts his head. “the coffee shop thing was definitely on purpose.”
you nod. “and the grocery store?”
“i think you just have bad luck.”
“excuse me?”
jaehyun shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “i mean, statistically speaking, you were bound to run into me eventually.”
you narrow your eyes. “statistically speaking, i should throw my drink at you.”
jaehyun grins. “you could. but then you’d have to buy me another one.”
you stare at him for a long moment.
then you sigh, leaning back in your chair.
“so… no magic algorithm,” you murmur.
“no magic algorithm,” jaehyun agrees.
it’s strange.
you spent so much time wondering if any of it was real, if the app had manipulated you, if the connection was artificial, if your feelings were manufactured.
but now, sitting here, watching jaehyun poke at the ice in his drink with his straw, you realize something.
you don’t care.
because maybe the app pushed you together. maybe it forced you into situations that you wouldn’t have chosen otherwise.
but the moments you shared?
the conversations, the laughter, the quiet nights at the studio—
sometimes, healing isn’t a grand gesture—it’s sunflowers from a soft-spoken boy who believes in second chances.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x reader
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — sad to fluff, generally gn reader, sunghoon x reader, finding love after a breakup, silent boy sunghoon, healing bit by bit, blind date, slighty love at first sight, more to come!
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — kinda wrote this first as implied male reader, but i didn't really put any male pronouns HAHA, was listening to winner takes it all and read several prompts, plus the music felt really gutwrenching and so thanks for that, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl~
The world had faded into a monotonous gray since the breakup.
You moved through your days like a ghost, burdened by the stress of work, the fatigue of insomnia, and the empty coffee cups piling up on your bedroom desk—each one a relic of a life you no longer recognized.
The split hadn’t merely ended a relationship; it had erased the version of yourself that once believed in good things.
You couldn't believe that you fell for someone who made you lower your expectations. Was this what love had to be? A constant struggle to compensate for another's flaws? It was a harsh realization, yet you didn’t want to blame the other person. You never wanted to taint their memory in your mind, but the pain lingered like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
Friends tiptoed around your grief, their pitying glances a constant reminder that you were now the "sad friend," the one who wore melancholy like a second skin.
You felt utterly ... pathetic.
Flopping over your large bed, you heard the light buzz of your phone. Flipping it open amid the dimly lit room, you saw a message from your overly enthusiastic friend.
"Got you a date! Tomorrow. 5 PM. 7th Street Cafe. He’s sweet. Take the chance!”
You lingered, casting a heavy gaze on your screen, your finger hovering above the delete button. Yet a part of you—one that craved to feel anything again—won this time.
Hope, irritation, curiosity—these emotions bubbled to the surface, and you hesitantly decided to accept the invitation.
Maybe this time ... maybe you were ready again.
˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .
The noise of the city blurred into the background of your mind as you walked mindlessly through a sea of pedestrians, each person living life as it was intended.
Approaching the cozy café, nestled just beyond the street sign, you paused for a moment. Taking a small breath, your feet unwittingly dragged you toward the entrance of the establishment.
Inside, the café was warm, a comforting contrast to the melancholic grays outside that dripped with the fresh kiss of rainfall. You lingered at your spot, only hearing your heart throbbing in your ears.
What are you even doing here? A last-minute thought crawled into your mind. In this moment of doubt, you realized you’d forgotten how to be someone worth meeting.
And then you saw him.
A tall guy sat near the cafe window, an old sketchbook open in front of him, fingers smudged with charcoal.
He wasn’t striking in the way that demanded attention; he was … soft. Welcoming, with a sense of just the right gentleness in your eyes.
He wore an almost fluffy comfy white sweater, his hair tousled as if he’d run a hand through it to get a quick fix moments ago.
His eyes were downcast as he scribbled, but when he finally glanced up and saw you, his smile unfurled like the break of dawn.
“Hi,” he said, standing too quickly and nearly knocking over his mug. A warm, unguarded laugh escaped him. “H-Hi! I… brought these.”
From beneath the table, he revealed a bouquet of sunflowers, their bold, golden petals contrasting sharply with the muted café and your frayed sweater, somehow defying the storm that brewed in your chest.
"For you ..." He offered with a shy smile.
“F-flowers on the first date, huh?” you croaked, your throat tight.
“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing his neck, suddenly shy. “People say bringing flowers on the first date is overrated and boring, but I disagree."
Unknowingly, a smile crept onto your lips.
He was gentle, yet there was an air of confidence about him — he genuinely wanted to make a connection.
“Sunflowers are stubborn, you know? They grow even in bad soil. Kinda… kinda like people, I guess.”
˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .
"And that's how they saw you?" You spoke, coming in as enthusiatic as you could.
"Yeah!" He spoke, his tone as giddy as his story. "Park Sunghoon. My name, written all over the screen!"
"Ugh ... to have such silly friends, am I right?" He nodded, agreeing with you.
You talked. Or rather, he talked — about his close friends, his fascination with charcoal art, his obsession with indie films, and his silly dog who had it out for his houseplants.
You listened, startled by how his voice anchored you, how the flowers in your lap seemed to radiate warmth into your bones. His enthusiasm made you forget that this was your first date together.
He felt like an old song playing softly on the radio, a familiar breeze you were willing to feel on your skin.
When silence fell, it wasn’t heavy. He tilted his head, studying you. “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know? But… I’m glad you came.”
Something cracked then — not a collapse, but a thaw.
You laughed, shaky but real.
He reached for his sketchbook, tearing a page from it — a beautifully drawn bouquet of sunflowers, folded into fourths and placed under your palm.
“Keep this."
"Hmm?"
"It's ... proof I’m not a total stranger anymore.”
You smiled, seeing him talk to you so openly.
In your trance, you never noticed how the sunset tore through the windows, illuminating the room with a golden glow.
The rain had finally stopped, and the sun was setting on the distant horizon, casting a warm light over everything.
˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .
The night ended with a stroll under the streetlights, the bouquet cradled in your arms, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the shadows of your past.
You didn’t kiss, didn’t make promises. But when you got home, you placed the sunflowers in a vase, their faces turned toward the window where the moonlight peeked through.
For the first time in months, you dreamed of something other than what had been lost.
For the first time, you looked forward to what was yet to come.
EN—D
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — like i said, was really inspired by those tiktoks and prompts about breakups, then having some ideas about finding new love after what seems to be a dump of sadness and gloom. personally experienced that too but, life goes on! if you ever feel sad, just know that there are people around you. let them know and they'll help you out. you've got help, even if you feel like you don't. stay strong!
summary : taesan, the well known skater, slacker, and band member of boynextdoor, catches the eye of one of the top students in school which leads to a flurry of complications.
warnings : a.n.g.s.t, fluff, band au, woonahk + leehan are wingmen, LOTS of insecurities and insecurites, featuring sung hanbin from zb1 and leeseo from ive as the readers friends.
a/n : IT FINALLY DROPPED !! i've been too obsessed with this song i think i might die. taesan was soooooo sk8er boi coded so like yk i had to.
— wc : 11.6k — not proof read —
the first time you really see han taesan, it’s not at school. it’s not in the hallways where he leans against lockers, talking lazily to his friends, or in the cafeteria where he slouches in a chair, kicking his feet up on the table while jaehyun smacks them off. it’s not even in the skatepark where he spends most of his free time.
it’s in the library.
it’s late. later than you usually stay, but leeseo convinced you to help her cram for an upcoming quiz, and sung hanbin, the responsible one, promised to treat you both to coffee afterward. the library is quieter than usual, the overhead lights buzzing softly as the three of you sit in one of the far corners.
“if i fail this,” leeseo groans, pressing her forehead against the table, “i’m going to cry. like, actual tears.”
“you won’t fail,” hanbin reassures her, flipping through his neatly highlighted notes. “just focus. here, try this question—”
but leeseo isn’t listening anymore. her eyes widen as she nudges you, not-so-subtly gesturing toward the entrance. “look who just walked in.”
you glance up, expecting a teacher or maybe some last-minute studier like yourselves. leeseo has been mentioning a teacher she found cute but you had to cut her out of her delusions.
instead, you see him. han taesan, pushing open the library door with one hand while holding his skateboard in the other. he doesn’t belong here. not in this quiet, studious atmosphere. and yet, here he is, wearing a black hoodie over a band t-shirt, ripped jeans, and the same scuffed sneakers he always wears.
behind him, the rest of boynextdoor trails in. sungho looks bored, running a hand through his hair as he scans the room. riwoo has his headphones on, already bopping his head to whatever he’s listening to. jaehyun is carrying a backpack, which means someone is actually planning to study. leehan is whispering something to woonhak, who nods before laughing under his breath.
they stand out in every way possible. loud personalities forced into a silent space.
“what are they doing here?” leeseo mutters, wrinkling her nose.
“probably failing their classes,” hanbin says, not unkindly but matter-of-fact. “jaehyun’s the only one who actually studies, i think.”
“doesn’t matter,” you say, turning your attention back to your notes. or at least, you try to. but as you read the same sentence over and over, you can’t help but be aware of taesan.
he moves differently from the others. while the rest of his friends slink toward an empty table, he pauses by the bookshelf near yours, scanning the spines of the books with mild interest. it’s weird. you’ve never seen him hold a book before, let alone look for one.
you try not to stare, but then his fingers brush against a book, flipping it open casually. for a moment, he looks genuinely focused, eyes scanning the page like he’s actually reading. but then he shuts it just as quickly, sighing before shoving it back onto the shelf.
“he’s so full of himself,” leeseo says under her breath, watching as taesan finally joins his group. “have you seen the way he acts? like he doesn’t care about anything.”
“he doesn’t care about anything,” hanbin corrects. “except skating. and his band.”
“oh, right, his band,” leeseo scoffs, making air quotes. “like that’s gonna get him anywhere.”
you don’t say anything. it’s not like you disagree after all. taesan’s reputation is as solid as stone. he’s the guy who barely passes his classes, who gets detention for skipping, who spends more time perfecting a kickflip than doing actual homework. your friends see him as a lost cause, and you’ve never had a reason to question that.
but then, as if he can feel you thinking about him, taesan glances up.
your eyes meet for a split second.
it’s nothing. it’s barely anything.
but instead of looking away, he holds your gaze. and then, he smirks. just the slightest twitch of his lips, like he knows something you don’t.
you snap your head down, suddenly very interested in your notes. re-reading the same word again.
“gross,” leeseo mutters. “he’s so arrogant.”
“he really is,” hanbin agrees. “come on, let’s focus. we need to finish this before the library closes.”
you nod, forcing yourself to concentrate, but your mind keeps drifting back to that one moment. his gaze, his smirk, the way he seemed completely unbothered by everything around him.
it was nothing.
but for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way.
you tell yourself it was nothing. a look. a stupid, meaningless look in the middle of the library, a place han taesan doesn’t even belong in. you convince yourself it wasn’t directed at you. maybe he was looking at something behind you. maybe he smirked because of something his friend said.
maybe you’re just imagining things.
but the problem is now you notice him.
it’s not on purpose. it’s not like you want to be aware of him. but suddenly, han taesan is everywhere.
in the mornings, when you walk into school, he’s there in the courtyard with his skateboard, practicing tricks while his friends watch. sungho claps him on the back when he lands a difficult one, and riwoo films clips for their social media. sometimes he messes up, but he never looks embarrassed, he just laughs, shakes out his legs, and tries again.
in the halls, you catch glimpses of him leaning against lockers, chatting with jaehyun or leehan about something you don’t understand. his hoodie is always slightly oversized, his hands tucked into the front pocket like he has nowhere important to be.
in class, he’s not as disruptive as people make him out to be. sure, he zones out, tapping his fingers against his desk like he’s drumming to a song in his head, but he isn’t rude. he doesn’t talk over the teacher or make a big scene. sometimes, you even catch him sketching in his notebook, half-finished designs of skateboards, little doodles in the margins of his notes, messy but interesting. even some lyrics he thinks about while bored.
you don’t realize you’re staring until hanbin nudges you.
“earth to y/n. you okay?”
you blink, tearing your gaze away from where taesan is sitting a few rows ahead. he’s slouched in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers, not paying attention to the lesson at all.
“yeah,” you say quickly, feeling heat creep up your neck. “just zoning out.”
hanbin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it.
but it doesn’t stop there.
one afternoon, on your way home, you take a shortcut through the park. it’s quiet, with only a few people scattered around, mostly kids playing or joggers passing by. but then, near the skatepark, you hear music.
you pause.
it’s a song you don’t recognize, but it’s good. raw, unpolished, but good. you follow the sound until you spot them. boynextdoor, huddled together on a set of stairs near the skate ramps. sungho has a guitar in his lap, strumming casually. jaehyun is humming along while woonhak taps out a beat on his knee. riwoo is messing with his phone, recording bits of their practice.
and then there’s taesan.
he’s sitting on his skateboard, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted back as he listens. his dark hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“again,” he says after a moment. “start from the top.”
sungho rolls his eyes but starts playing again, and this time, taesan sings.
you freeze.
you’ve never heard him sing before. you know his band performs at underground gigs, but you’ve never gone. you’ve never had a reason to.
but his voice. his voice is rough around the edges, not perfect, but there’s something real about it. something honest.
you don’t mean to linger, but before you can move, taesan’s eyes flicker toward you.
your breath catches.
for a second, neither of you move.
then, instead of looking away, he lifts his hand in a lazy wave, like he’s not surprised to see you there at all.
panic jolts through you, and you do the first thing that comes to mind. you turn around and walk away.
fast.
you don’t stop until you’re a safe distance from the park, heart hammering in your chest.
why are you acting like this? why does it feel like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t?
it’s not a big deal. it’s not.
except now, han taesan knows you were watching.
and the next day, he makes sure you know he knows.
it happens between classes. you’re at your locker, organizing your books, when a shadow falls over you.
“did you like the song?”
you nearly drop your notebook.
slowly, you turn your head, and there he is. the han taesan, standing next to you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. he smells faintly like cologne and something else, something warm, like sun on pavement.
you open your mouth, then close it.
“what?”
“the song,” he repeats, tilting his head. “you heard it yesterday, right?”
your throat is dry. “i was just passing by.”
he hums, unconvinced. “sure.”
you grip your notebook tighter. “why are you even talking to me?”
taesan shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. “dunno. you’re interesting.”
your brain short-circuits.
you? interesting?
before you can process that, leeseo’s voice calls out from behind you.
“y/n ! come on, we’re gonna be late!”
taesan steps back, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket.
“see you around, genius.”
and then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like he didn’t just completely ruin your entire day.
leeseo and hanbin catch up to you, and leeseo frowns. “what did he want?”
“nothing,” you say quickly. too quickly.
hanbin eyes you but doesn’t press.
still, as you walk to class, you can’t stop replaying his words in your head.
“you’re interesting.”
this is bad.
this is really bad.
the worst part is that taesan doesn’t even try to prove your friends wrong.
after that weird conversation at your locker, you expect him to keep bothering you, to tease you every time he sees you. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t go out of his way to talk to you. he doesn’t change anything about the way he acts.
he just keeps being himself. skating in the mornings, goofing off with his band during breaks, sketching in his notebook when he’s bored in class.
but the damage is already done. because now, whenever he walks past, your stomach tightens. when he laughs with his friends, you find yourself looking before you can stop yourself. and when he catches you and smirks, like he knows you’re paying attention, you have to force yourself to look away.
your friends notice, of course.
“you’re acting weird,” leeseo says one afternoon as the three of you sit in the cafeteria. “ever since he started talking to you.”
“i’m not acting weird,” you say. too quickly.
“you so are,” she insists. “right, hanbin?”
hanbin sighs, poking at his food. “it’s not weird, it’s just… unexpected. taesan’s not exactly the type to take interest in school stuff.”
“yeah, which is why y/n needs to be careful,” leeseo says. “guys like him? they’re fun to look at but nothing else.”
you don’t say anything.
they aren’t wrong. han taesan isn’t like you. he’s a skater, a musician, the kind of guy who doesn’t think too far ahead. and yet…
“maybe he’s not that bad,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.
leeseo stares. “excuse me?”
“i just mean—” you hesitate. “i don’t know. he’s not rude or anything. he’s just… himself.”
“that’s exactly the problem,” she argues. “he doesn’t care about anything. he’s never going to take life seriously.”
you want to disagree. but you don’t.
because if you defend him too much, they’ll know.
they’ll know about the way your heart jumps when he looks at you. the way your brain replays his stupid voice saying see you around, genius.
so you stay quiet.
and you try to push it all away.
but then there’s woonhak.
you don’t know much about him aside from the fact that he’s the youngest in taesan’s group. he’s always laughing, always cracking jokes, always the most energetic of the bunch.
so it catches you off guard when, one day after school, he falls into step beside you as you’re walking out.
“hey,” he says cheerfully.
you blink. “uh… hey?”
“you’re y/n, right?”
“…yeah?”
he grins, nodding. “thought so. you know, taesan’s been talking about you.”
your stomach flips. “what?”
woonhak laughs at your expression. “not in a weird way! just, like—he thinks you’re cool.”
you stare at him.
taesan thinks you’re… cool?
“why are you telling me this?” you ask suspiciously.
woonhak shrugs. “dunno. you seem chill. also, i figured you should hear something about us that isn’t from your friends.”
you tense. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he gives you a knowing look. “we know how people see us. dumb kids who don’t care about school, right?”
you shift uncomfortably. “i mean—”
“you don’t have to lie,” he says, still smiling. “i get it. we mess around a lot, and taesan’s got his whole too cool for everything vibe, but…” he pauses, tilting his head. “you ever actually talked to him? like, really talked to him?”
you don’t answer.
because the truth is… you haven’t.
taesan has spoken to you, sure. teased you, smirked at you, made your heart do all sorts of annoying things. but you’ve never sat down and had a real conversation. never actually asked him about his music, his art, his life.
“he works harder than people think,” woonhak continues. “he just doesn’t show it in the same way you do. and he really does like you, you know.”
your breath catches. “what?”
“not, like, in a romantic way,” woonhak clarifies quickly, though his grin suggests otherwise. “he just thinks you’re interesting.”
there it is again. interesting.
you don’t know what to do with that.
so you do what you always do.
you ignore it.
“cool,” you say, trying to sound unaffected.
woonhak doesn’t look convinced, but he just chuckles. “anyway, just thought i’d say hi. see you around, y/n.”
and with that, he jogs off, leaving you standing there, brain spinning.
you should just let this go. you should listen to your friends, stick to your world, and forget about taesan entirely.
but as you watch woonhak disappear down the street, you feel something shift inside you.
something that tells you, this situation isn’t going away anytime soon.
—
you try your best to forget about han taesan.
after woonhak’s little chat, you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. what he said. ‘he really does like you, you know’ was probably just him messing around. taesan barely even talks to you. he’s just being his usual, reckless self, getting involved where he doesn’t belong.
but no matter how much you try to ignore it, you keep running into him.
and each time, it gets harder to pretend that something isn’t pulling you closer.
the library incident happens on a tuesday.
it’s supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. you’re at your usual table, buried in your notes, trying to focus on your upcoming exams. hanbin and leeseo sit across from you, whispering about something that isn’t school-related.
everything is normal. until the door swings open.
“i cannot believe you actually dragged me here,” taesan groans, his voice breaking the quiet.
you stiffen.
you don’t even have to look to know it’s him. but, unfortunately, you do look—because his voice is impossible to ignore, because your brain is stupid and wants to confirm that, yes, han taesan is standing in the library, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
sungho and jaehyun flank him on either side, looking much more comfortable than he does.
“we dragged you here because you’re failing, dumbass,” jaehyun mutters, shoving him forward.
“i am not failing,” taesan protests. “i’m just… struggling.”
“struggling to even open your textbook,” sungho deadpans, leading him toward a table.
leeseo makes a noise of disapproval. “ugh. them?”
“just ignore them,” hanbin says, flipping a page in his notebook. “not our problem.”
but it is a problem. because now, taesan is sitting just a few tables away from you, slumped over his books, looking absolutely miserable.
you try to focus.
you really, really try.
but then—
“psst. genius.”
your pen stills against your notebook.
you don’t have to turn around to know it’s taesan.
you turn around anyway.
he’s leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking right at you.
“how do you do this?” he asks, pushing a book toward you like it personally offended him.
“do what?” you say flatly.
“study,” he groans. “it’s so boring.”
jaehyun smacks him upside the head. “shut up and focus.”
you should turn back to your work. you should.
but instead, you sigh. “maybe if you actually read instead of whining, it wouldn’t be so hard.”
sungho snorts. “finally, someone who says it straight.”
taesan huffs. “wow, okay. you could just offer to tutor me.”
“not happening,” you say immediately.
he grins, like he expected that answer. “worth a shot.”
you roll your eyes and go back to your notes. but even as you pretend to ignore him, you can still feel his eyes on you, like he’s waiting for you to slip up and react.
and the worst part?
you kind of want to.
the next time you see him, it’s at the skatepark.
you don’t mean to go there. you’re just walking home, taking a longer route because the weather is nice. and somehow, your feet lead you to the park, where you hear laughter and the familiar sound of wheels against concrete.
you could leave.
you should leave.
but instead, you linger at the edge, watching.
taesan is mid-trick, flipping his board with practiced ease. he lands smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face as riwoo claps.
“finally,” riwoo says. “took you long enough.”
“shut up,” taesan laughs, grabbing his board.
you don’t realize you’re staring until woonhak pops up beside you.
“you so have a crush.”
you nearly jump out of your skin. “what—“
woonhak just grins. “don’t even try to deny it. i see you.”
“i don’t have a crush,” you say quickly. too quickly.
“uh-huh,” he hums, clearly unconvinced.
before you can argue, someone else joins you—leehan, quieter than woonhak but just as observant.
“are you coming to the show?” he asks casually.
you blink. “what show?”
“we’re playing this weekend,” he explains. “you should come.”
“i don’t think—”
“taesan would love it if you did,” woonhak says, grinning.
you freeze.
leehan elbows him. “stop making it weird.”
“what? i’m just saying.”
“you’re implying things,” leehan mutters. then he turns back to you. “seriously, though. you should come. it’ll be fun.”
you hesitate.
your friends would definitely disapprove.
but then you glance back at taesan, who’s laughing at something sungho said, looking so effortlessly cool, so different from the type of people you usually surround yourself with.
and before you can stop yourself, you say—
“okay. maybe.”
woonhak cheers, clapping you on the back. “knew you had it in you!”
you shake your head, already regretting it.
but deep down, a part of you is excited.
the night of the concert comes faster than expected.
you almost don’t go.
hanbin and leeseo invite you to study, and for a second, you consider it… going back to your routine, pretending like han taesan doesn’t exist.
but something stops you.
something pulls you there.
so now, you’re standing in the middle of a dimly lit venue, surrounded by people who actually belong in this crowd. the air buzzes with energy, anticipation thick as the stage lights flicker.
and then the band steps on stage.
and then he steps on stage.
han taesan doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t falter.
he owns it.
he grabs his mic, runs a hand through his hair, and smirks at the crowd like he knows he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
the music starts, loud and raw and alive.
and then he’s singing.
his voice isn’t perfect. it’s a little rough, a little unpolished, but it fits. it’s real. it’s him.
and then, in the middle of the song, his eyes scan the crowd...
and lock onto yours.
your breath catches. for a second, the world tilts.
he doesn’t look away.
neither do you.
and in that moment, with music thrumming through your veins and taesan’s voice filling the air, you realize
you’re completely screwed.
you can’t breathe.
not because the room is stuffy, or because the music is loud, or because the crowd is pushing in from all sides.
but because han taesan is looking right at you.
the stage lights flicker, flashing over his face, highlighting the smirk curling at his lips. the microphone is gripped loosely in his hand, the strap of his guitar slung over his shoulder. he sings like the stage belongs to him, like the music was made for him, and yet...
his eyes don’t stray from yours.
you feel rooted to the floor, like if you move, you’ll break whatever invisible thread is keeping the two of you connected.
and you hate it. you hate how much your heart reacts to him, how your stomach tightens every time his voice rasps into the mic.
this is bad.
this is really bad.
and it only gets worse when, from the corner of your eye, you see woonhak grinning at you from across the room.
he’s standing near the side of the stage, watching the exchange like he’s witnessing the most entertaining thing in the world.
and then, because he’s the absolute worst, taesan winks at you.
you snap your gaze away, face burning.
but the damage is already done.
because now, you can’t not notice taesan.
the way his fingers glide over the guitar strings so effortlessly. the way his hair falls into his eyes when he tilts his head. the way he smirks between lyrics, like he’s enjoying this.
like he knows what he’s doing to you.
this was a mistake and you shouldn’t have come. but god, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.
because even though everything inside you is screaming that this is dangerous, that getting involved with him will only make things complicated.
but still. you don’t want to look away.
not now. not ever.
when the set finally ends, the room erupts into cheers. people push forward, clapping, whistling, shouting their names.
you try to steady yourself, try to ignore the way your pulse is racing, hand gripping your shirt for stabilty, but you feel a graze on your shoulder.
woonhak appears at your side.
“so,” he says, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “you’re definitely in trouble.”
you glare at him. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
he snorts. “oh, please. i saw that whole thing. he saw that whole thing.”
“he was just looking at the crowd,” you say, even though you know it’s a lie.
“right. because taesan always makes intense eye contact with random people while singing,” he deadpans.
you groan, rubbing your face. “i hate you.”
“nah, you love me,” he grins. “but not as much as you love him.”
“woonhak—”
“i’m just saying,” he singsongs. “you might wanna start being honest with yourself. and maybe with him, too.”
you don’t dignify that with a response.
but as you glance toward the stage, where taesan is still lingering, laughing at something jaehyun said—
you know woonhak is right.
and that terrifies you more than anything.
—
taesan doesn’t come to practice.
he never skips practice.
it’s something you hear from sungho after school, when he finds you by the front gates, watching the sky darken as you wait for your usual bus. you’re trying really hard not to think about what happened earlier. about the way taesan looked at you before walking away, about the heavy silence he left behind. but sungho showing up with that look on his face makes it impossible to ignore.
“he didn’t show up,” he says, standing next to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you glance at him. “who didn’t?”
sungho gives you a flat look. “you know who.”
your stomach twists, but you force a shrug. “maybe he had something else to do.”
“he never skips,” sungho repeats, more firmly this time.
you don’t answer.
because what are you supposed to say? 'yeah, it’s probably my fault. i didn’t defend him when i should have, and now he’s upset. i didn’t mean to hurt him, but i still did.'
sungho sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“what happened?”
you swallow. “nothing...”
“don’t lie.”
“i’m not lying.”
he levels you with a stare, unimpressed. “you totally are.”
you exhale sharply, looking away.
“look,” he says, voice softer now, “he’s been acting weird all day. he barely talked during lunch, barely even looked at his board, and now he’s skipping practice? that’s not taesan.”
“i don’t know,” you mumble.
sungho raises a brow. “don’t know, or don’t want to say?”
you press your lips together, gripping the straps of your bag.
because the truth is...
you do know.
and you hate yourself for it.
it started during lunch.
your friends were scrolling through their phones, passing around a video of boynextdoor performing.
“god,” leeseo groaned, wrinkling her nose. “he’s so obnoxious.”
“who?” hanbin asked, leaning over to look.
“han taesan.” she jabbed a finger at the screen. “look at him. he acts like he’s a rockstar or something.”
your grip tightened around your drink.
“he is in a band,” hanbin pointed out.
“yeah, but he takes it so seriously. it’s kinda embarrassing.”
they laughed.
but you didn’t. and you didn't say anything either
you just sat there, staring at the table, pretending like the words didn’t make something in your chest ache.
but just then.
taesan walked by.
he wasn’t close enough to hear everything, but he did hear enough. his steps faltered just slightly, his easygoing expression slipping for just a second before he schooled his face back into something unreadable.
and then his eyes met yours. not angry. not annoyed.
just… disappointed.
like he expected this... like he expected you to be different.
but you weren’t.
you didn’t speak up. you didn’t say anything.
so he walked away.
and now, he’s gone.
—
sungho watches you carefully, waiting.
when you still don’t answer, he tilts his head. “so… it was you.”
“i didn’t do anything,” you say quickly.
“exactly.”
you flinch.
sungho sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“look,” he says, “i don’t know what’s going on between you two, but if this is about your friends—”
“it’s not,” you cut in.
his brows lift. “isn’t it?”
you exhale sharply, looking away.
because it is.
and it always has been.
from the moment you met taesan, you knew your friends wouldn’t approve. you knew they’d see him as reckless, as trouble, as someone you shouldn’t be around.
so you held back.
you pretended you didn’t care, pretended that the way he looked at you didn’t make your heart race, that his stupid grin and sharp comebacks didn’t make you want to keep talking to him.
but you do care. you care too much. and now, it’s hurting him.
“you know he likes you, right?” sungho says, breaking the silence.
your breath catches. “what?”
sungho gives you a look. “don’t play dumb. it’s so obvious.”
you open your mouth, then close it again.
“you like him too, don’t you?”
your heart pounds. “i—”
“you do.”
he says it like it’s a fact. like it’s undeniable.
you swallow, gripping your bag tighter.
“so what are you so afraid of?”
you inhale sharply because the answer is simple.
you’re afraid of what people will say. afraid of how things will change. afraid of being wrong about him.
but most of all...
you’re afraid of how much you want this. how much you want him.
sungho watches as the realization washes over your face.
then, after a beat, he sighs.
“look,” he says, voice gentler now, “i’m not telling you what to do. but if you don’t talk to him soon, you’re gonna lose him.”
the words hit harder than you expect.
“i just want my friend back to normal so just… think about it, yeah?"
you don’t respond... but you don’t need to.
because the moment sungho walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts, you already know.
you have to fix this.
before it’s too late.
—
days pass, and taesan doesn’t talk to you.
he doesn’t show up at school, and every time you hear the familiar buzz of a new notification, you convince yourself it’s not boynextdoor. not that you’d check it, anyway. not that you’re even tempted.
except you are.
the silence is suffocating.
the whole thing has weighed on you. his disappointment, your hesitation, the stupid comment from leeseo and hanbin earlier, everything. the guilt keeps clawing at you from the inside. and each time you see a new picture of taesan or one of his bandmates posted online, each time you hear about them playing a new show, you feel like you’re suffocating in your own indecision.
but you don’t do anything about it.
because you’re scared.
scared of what your friends will think. scared of what your whole reputation means, scared of breaking the illusion that you’ve built up for all these years. you’ve worked so hard to maintain this image, to fit in with the people you’ve always been around, the friends you’ve known for years. how can you just throw that all away for some guy you barely know?
for taesan?
no.
it’s safer to stay where you are.
so you do what you’ve always done. keep your distance. make yourself busy. keep your head down. you don’t need to deal with whatever feelings you’ve got swirling in your chest. you don’t need to question everything.
but when you hear the news about BOYNEXTDOOR performing at an underground gig that weekend, something in you snaps.
it’s all too much.
you can’t just keep pretending.
you can’t keep telling yourself that everything’s fine when you know it isn’t.
you’re standing in the middle of the hallway when the poster catches your eye. the colors are bright, the date is bold. BOYNEXTDOOR. their name plastered across the top in big letters, their faces a reminder of everything you’ve been trying to ignore.
the gig is that Saturday.
you don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the poster, feeling the weight of your own indecision. your heart is hammering in your chest, a familiar sense of unease gnawing at your insides.
but this time, you don’t look away.
this time, you’re not running from it.
you don’t tell anyone about it. not leeseo, not hanbin. not even sungho. you don’t need their opinions right now. you’ve heard enough of them. you just… need to make a decision. your own decision.
when the night of the gig arrives, you feel sick to your stomach.
your heart thuds against your ribcage, the adrenaline buzzing through your veins like you’re about to jump off a cliff. you’re standing outside the venue, the doors just up ahead, with a small crowd already lining up in front of you. the building’s dark, unmarked by anything other than the small neon sign above the entrance. the thumping music from inside pulses through the walls, and for a second, you think about turning around, walking away.
but you don’t. you walk forward.
because for the first time in ages, you don’t care about what anyone thinks.
and you want to see taesan.
you want to see him so badly that it almost hurts.
you missed him. his smirk, his teases, his presence.
the crowd outside is packed with people, but you push through, feeling the warmth of the others as they chat amongst themselves, their energy high. you walk in, and the moment you do, the music hits you. the bass reverberates in your chest, and for a split second, you forget everything.
until you see them.
you see BOYNEXTDOOR on the stage, taesan right at the front, his guitar slung across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the crowd. when they meet yours, something shifts in his expression. he doesn’t smile, but there’s something there, something that makes you freeze in place.
but he doesn’t come over.
he doesn’t even move.
and you don’t know if that’s worse. if you should be relieved, or if you should be disappointed that he’s not even trying anymore.
you’re frozen, staring, and then you feel a tap on your shoulder.
woonhak.
he grins, the usual playful glint in his eyes. “hey, didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
you swallow, blinking, trying to force your heart to calm down. “yeah. well… i guess i changed my mind.”
woonhak studies you for a second, his smirk softening into something that’s just a little too knowing for your liking. “you’re here for taesan, huh?”
“i—” you start, but you can’t finish the sentence. because it’s true. you are here for him.
woonhak laughs, nudging you with his elbow. “you’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
you look away, not answering.
he doesn’t press. instead, he just leads you to a spot near the front, a little closer to the stage. you can see the others now: jaehyun, riwoo, leehan, sungho. all of them lost in the music. and then you see taesan again, this time a little closer, his fingers moving across the strings of his guitar as if nothing in the world matters but the rhythm.
it’s intoxicating.
and, as you stand there, all you can think about is how badly you want to be a part of his world.
you glance at woonhak, and there’s a glint of something in his eyes, like he knows exactly what’s going through your mind. he catches your gaze and gives you a little nudge with his shoulder. “maybe you should talk to him after the set,” he says, his voice light, teasing.
you bite your lip. you want to say something, anything, but instead you just nod.
because the truth is, you’re terrified.
you’re terrified of what taesan might say. terrified of what might happen if you admit how you feel, how wrong everything has felt without him around, how much you’ve been hurting without the chance to make things right.
the set continues, and you find yourself caught in the music, in the connection between the band and the crowd. for the first time in forever, you feel like you belong. you feel like you could belong.
and when the music finally dies down and the crowd goes wild, cheering for an encore, you glance over at woonhak. he looks at you, then at taesan, and then back at you, his knowing grin widening.
“he’s waiting for you,” he says quietly.
you can’t breathe for a second, your heart thudding louder than the sound of the crowd.
you finally nod, the decision clear now, undeniable.
you’ve kept up appearances for too long. it’s time to stop running.
you push your way through the crowd, heading straight for the backstage area. you don’t look back. you don’t care who sees.
because, finally, you’re choosing him.
you can feel woonhak and leehan’s eyes on you as you make your way through the crowd. it’s like the air is thicker, charged with anticipation, but you don’t stop. your feet move on their own, pulling you toward the backstage area where the rest of BOYNEXTDOOR is winding down after the set.
the music fades behind you, but the echo of the bass still thrums in your chest. every step feels heavier than the last, but somehow, you don’t want to turn back. you’ve already made the decision, and now all that’s left is to face him.
taesan.
the backstage area feels quieter now that the excitement of the performance has died down. the crowd’s energy is still buzzing in the air, but it’s starting to feel distant, like an echo that doesn’t quite reach the calm of the space you’re standing in.
taesan’s there, still leaning against the wall with his guitar case by his side, but now there’s an air of distance about him. he barely looks at you when you enter. his attention drifts elsewhere, to the other band members, to anything but you.
your heart sinks at the coldness, the disappointment you see reflected in his posture. you want to go to him, to explain everything, to make it right, but you can’t. something’s stopping you. he’s clearly upset, maybe even mad, and you’re not sure how to fix it.
woonhak, the youngest, is still grinning over the fact that you’ve come here tonight. leehan, always the one to watch everything unfold with an amused look, exchanges a knowing glance with him. both of them seem to be aware of something that you aren’t yet, but you can’t quite place what.
the tension in the air is thick, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t walked in here at all.
then, jaehyun breaks the silence.
“isn’t that y/n?”
he’s pointing at you with a raised eyebrow, clearly surprised to see you standing there. taesan’s wiping his face off with a towel, but his gaze never leaves you.
you freeze, a bit caught off guard by the attention. jaehyun, always so direct, seems more curious than anything. but his question lingers in the air, and all eyes are now on you.
you glance at taesan, but his expression is unreadable. his gaze is fixed on the ground, his body language telling you all you need to know: he’s not ready to engage, not yet.
“yeah,” leehan says, his tone teasing. “didn’t expect to see you here, y/n.”
you swallow, trying to steady yourself. “i wanted to see the performance,” you say, voice quiet, but clear. “i told you i would.”
you can’t tell if they believe you or not.
woonhak’s grin is still there, his eyes glinting with mischief. he looks between you and taesan, sensing the tension before anyone else. “yeah, sure,” he says, as if he knows something you don’t. “we all know how much taesan cares about you coming to the show.”
taesan doesn’t react, but you can feel his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. it’s impossible to ignore.
there’s a long pause, and in that moment, you wonder if you’ve made the wrong choice. if you shouldn’t have come, if you shouldn’t have tried to make things right, because it feels like taesan is shutting you out more with every passing second.
but then, just as you’re about to leave, something unexpected happens.
taesan looks up. just a glance, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. you meet his gaze, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the room.
then, without a word, taesan walks past you, ignoring you as if you’re not even there. you can feel the sting of it, the weight of the unspoken disappointment in his actions. your chest tightens, and for a second, it feels like your feet are stuck in place.
you want to call out to him, to stop him, but you’re frozen. you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to make this right.
woonhak watches you, his grin still there but a little less playful now. he gives you a knowing look. it’s like he’s aware of the struggle inside you, aware of the way taesan is pulling away even though he knows you’re standing there
“he’s not mad at you,” woonhak says softly, catching your eye. “he’s just… not sure how to act around you, y/n.”
you don’t reply at first, still processing the way taesan ignored you, the way his distance felt like a rejection. but woonhak’s words sink in.
“he likes you,” leehan adds, his tone more serious now. “but he’s not good at showing it.”
the words hit you harder than you expect. they settle in your chest, a mix of confusion and longing. taesan likes you? it doesn’t feel like it, not when he won’t even look at you.
“why doesn’t he just... say it then?” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.
woonhak shrugs. “he’s still trying to figure it out, y/n. he doesn’t want to mess things up, especially when you’ve got so much going on with your friends and everything.”
you stare at him, your heart beating faster. you can’t deny it now. it’s clear that something is there between you and taesan. something you haven’t been able to admit to yourself until now.
and yet, despite everything, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re caught between two worlds. your friends, your reputation, and then taesan, someone you never expected to feel this strongly about.
“he’s scared, y/n,” leehan says, his voice quieter now. “he doesn’t want to be the reason you ruin your life.”
you look at taesan again, still standing off to the side, conversing with jaehyun, his face unreadable. his posture is stiff, almost like he’s bracing for something. maybe he’s bracing for you to walk away, for you to choose the people you’ve always been with instead of him.
you feel the weight of it all. the pull of your friends, the pressure of their expectations. and then there’s taesan, standing there, vulnerable in his own way, waiting for you to decide.
the silence between you two feels like it could last forever, and yet, it’s the moment you need to make the choice.
but you’re scared.
you don’t want to lose your friends, don’t want to mess up everything you’ve worked so hard for. but you also don’t want to lose taesan.
the choice weighs heavy on your chest, but you can’t stay frozen forever. you can’t keep ignoring what you feel.
and, maybe for the first time, you finally make a decision.
time to come clean.
the quiet hum of the room feels more suffocating than peaceful. you’re sitting on the edge of one of the couches backstage, fiddling with your phone aimlessly. it’s been a few minutes since taesan walked away, and you’re still left with this gnawing feeling that you could have done something different.
the members of BOYNEXTDOOR are scattered around the area, some talking amongst themselves, others sitting with instruments or music sheets in hand. it’s almost like nothing happened. but you know that’s not true. you can feel the weight of the tension hanging in the air, especially when you catch woonhak’s gaze across the room. he’s giving you a sympathetic smile, though it doesn’t make you feel much better.
you want to walk up to taesan, to explain everything, but you can’t. he’s still standing there, staring off into the distance, his arms crossed.
instead, you settle for hanging out with riwoo.
“you okay?” he asks, sitting next to you with a curious look. his voice is light, but there’s an edge of concern in it.
you nod, offering a tight smile. “yeah, just…” you trail off, unsure of how to explain what just happened. you don’t want to sound like you’re complaining about taesan. it’s not like you’re angry with him. in fact, you can’t even be angry with him when you’re just as confused.
“he’s hard to read, huh?” riwoo says, his voice calm but knowing. it’s like he’s read your mind.
you glance at him, surprised. “yeah. i don’t know what’s going on with him. it’s like, one minute, he’s all… well, taesan, and then the next, he’s distant. it’s frustrating.”
riwoo leans back on the couch, resting his head against the backrest as he watches the others in the room. “taesan’s always been like that. he’s not great with… emotions, you know?”
you blink at him, unsure where this conversation is headed. “so what, he just shuts people out?”
“basically,” riwoo says with a slight shrug. “he’s not really used to being honest about how he feels. but I think he does like you, y/n. he just doesn’t know how to show it without pushing you away.”
the words hit you like a freight train. taesan likes you? all this time, you’ve been so unsure of what he wanted, what he needed, and now it feels like it’s been right in front of you.
“but he’s been ignoring me…” you say quietly, almost to yourself.
“he doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that you’re... well, you’re you,” riwoo adds, his tone light but thoughtful. “you’ve got your own friends, your own reputation. taesan doesn’t want to mess that up for you. he’s scared of it, y’know?”
that was the second time it's come across you. taesan cares about your reputation, maybe more than you.
the pieces start to click together. you’ve been dancing around your feelings for taesan, unsure whether to admit them or not, and now it seems like he’s been doing the same thing. the difference is, you’ve been letting the fear of judgment hold you back. taesan’s fear is different. he’s afraid of losing you.
the realization makes you uneasy, but in a good way. there’s something so real about the way riwoo describes taesan, and for once, you can’t help but want to believe it.
just as you’re about to respond to riwoo's comment, woonhak appears, practically bouncing into the room. his eyes are wide, and there’s a mischievous grin on his face.
“you should go talk to taesan,” he says, the grin never leaving his face. “he’s still being stubborn, but I think he’s ready to listen.”
you frown. “how do you know?”
“because,” woonhak says with an exaggerated shrug, “he’s been pacing around like a lost puppy ever since you saw eachother.” he looks between you and riwoo. “and leehan’s not much better. he’s the one who convinced him to talk, so… yeah. go talk to him. he’ll listen... eventually.”
you want to tell woonhak you’re not ready, that you don’t know how to fix things with taesan, but something in the way woonhak says it makes you feel like you have to.
“just go for it,” riwoo says, giving you an encouraging nod. “you’ve got nothing to lose.”
you nod, though your heart is pounding in your chest. you stand up slowly, feeling a little out of place in the midst of all the quiet chaos around you. taesan’s still by the wall, his posture tense. you can tell he’s trying to convince himself that it’s fine, that everything is fine, convincing himself you’re just here for the music, just like the others.
but you know that’s not true.
he knows that's not true.
as you approach him, you hesitate for a second, unsure of what to say. but before you can even open your mouth, taesan speaks first, his voice low and a little defensive.
“you didn’t have to come, you know,” he says, not looking at you. his voice is almost too casual, as if he’s trying to brush off the seriousness of the moment. “I mean, this isn’t really your kind of music.”
you bite your lip, fighting the urge to just walk away. his words sting, but you know he’s just trying to protect himself.
“I came because I wanted to see you,” you say, your voice steady even though you’re terrified of how it sounds. “I didn’t come for the music, taesan. I came for you.”
there’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think you’ve said the wrong thing. but then taesan finally looks up at you, his eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place.
“you don’t have to pretend for me, y/n,” he says, his voice quieter now. “you don’t need to act like you like this stuff just to be around me. I get it.”
you shake your head, your heart racing. “I’m not pretending. I… I like you, taesan.”
taesan freezes, his expression softening slightly. he opens his mouth to say something, but the words get caught in his throat. instead, he exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“you’re not just saying that because you’re here, right?” he asks, his voice uncertain.
“no,” you reply, taking a step closer. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I like you, taesan. I’ve liked you since you looked at me in the library, and I’m sorry I was too scared to admit it before.”
there’s a brief silence, and then taesan finally lets out a breath he seems to have been holding for a long time. his lips curl into a small, almost shy smile.
“you’ve always liked me?” he asks, his voice soft with a hint of disbelief.
“yeah,” you whisper. “I just… I was worried about what people would think. about what my friends would think.”
taesan’s expression softens even more, and he steps a little closer to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to choose, y/n. I never wanted you to. I just wanted you to be honest with yourself.”
you blink, surprised at how easy it is for him to say that. “honest with myself?”
“yeah,” he says, his voice low and steady now. “I just needed you to admit that you feel the same way about me. I didn’t want you to choose between me and your friends.”
you stare at him, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. it’s like a weight lifting off your shoulders, the tension you’ve carried with you for so long melting away.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, stepping closer. “I was scared.”
“it’s okay,” taesan says softly, his hand reaching for yours. “you don’t have to be anymore.”
and for the first time in a long time, you feel like everything’s finally making sense.
the moments following your confession feel like the longest stretch of time. taesan is standing in front of you, his presence almost suffocating, and for a split second, you’re unsure if he believes you. it’s the kind of silence that hangs in the air, thick and heavy, like it’s too much to fill with anything but the things unsaid.
taesan takes a step back, running a hand through his messy hair, his eyes not quite meeting yours. it’s clear he’s thinking hard about something, but what? you can’t tell. your heart is pounding in your chest, and a part of you is terrified you’ve said too much, too soon, but another part is relieved. you’ve finally admitted it. finally let the truth out into the open.
and then taesan looks at you, his gaze softer now, and you can see the conflict in his eyes. “you really do like me?” he asks, his voice still unsure but laced with something else. maybe hope? maybe fear?
you nod, your breath catching in your throat. “yeah. I do.”
there’s a long pause, and you watch him carefully. his hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, his lips pressed together as though he’s trying to figure out what to do next. you’re not sure if he’s angry, confused, or just processing everything, but you wait, giving him space to think it over.
“you should’ve told me sooner,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “I’ve been waiting for you to admit it. but I guess I didn’t want to push you.”
you take a step closer, your heart fluttering nervously. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I didn’t want to mess things up with my friends, you know? I’ve had this group for years, and I didn’t want to seem like I was changing everything just because of you.”
taesan’s eyes soften as he watches you, and he takes a deep breath, clearly trying to wrap his head around what you’re saying. “I get it,” he says quietly.
his words settle into you, and you realize for the first time that maybe taesan’s always understood more than you gave him credit for. he’s not asking you to give up your friends, and he’s not trying to pull you away from the life you’ve built.
“so… what happens now?” you ask, a little unsure of where to go from here.
taesan shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, almost playful smile. “we figure it out. I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
you breathe a sigh of relief, the weight on your shoulders finally lifting. you’ve said what needed to be said, and taesan isn’t pulling away. instead, he’s looking at you with a new understanding, and it makes your heart feel lighter than it has in a long time.
just then, you hear footsteps approaching, and you turn to see woonhak and leehan walking toward you, both of them wearing knowing grins. leehan gives you a teasing wink, while woonhak’s grin is a little wider, almost smug.
“well, well,” woonhak says, his voice loud enough for taesan to hear, “looks like someone’s finally come clean.”
you feel your face heat up, and taesan groans softly, running a hand through his hair again in that familiar frustrated gesture. “don’t start,” he mutters under his breath.
leehan raises an eyebrow, clearly not willing to let taesan off the hook. “we saw the whole thing. looks like y/n’s got the guts after all.”
you glance over at taesan, who’s still avoiding eye contact, and let out a soft laugh. “it wasn’t exactly how I planned it.”
“hey,” woonhak says, his tone suddenly much more serious. “we’re not here to mess with you two. but, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you told him.”
taesan looks up at him, his expression softening, though he still doesn’t seem to know how to react. “you guys were waiting for this to happen?”
“obviously,” leehan replies, flashing a grin at you. “we could see it coming from a mile away. it was just a matter of time.”
woonhak chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “honestly, I’m just glad y/n showed up at the concert. I knew you’d figure it out.” he looks at you with a smile that feels almost reassuring. “you were meant to be here, y/n. not just for the music.”
you can’t help but smile, feeling the warmth in woonhak’s words. it’s as if, for the first time, you realize that taesan and his friends aren’t the strangers you’ve built them up to be in your head. they’re people you can trust. and taesan… well, taesan is someone who’s been waiting for you to figure out what your heart really wants.
taesan doesn’t say anything right away. instead, he just looks at you, his gaze softening. there’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes that you haven’t noticed before. he’s not the tough, unapproachable guy you assumed him to be. he’s someone who just needed you to meet him halfway.
“I guess it’s about time I stopped running from it,” taesan finally says, his voice quieter now, almost like he’s admitting something to himself. “I don’t want to lose you, y/n.”
you step closer, feeling the warmth of his words settle into your chest. for the first time in a long time, the uncertainty you’ve carried around fades, and you can finally breathe easy.
“I don’t want to lose you either, taesan,” you say, your voice steady.
taesan looks at you, and for a brief moment, there’s this look of understanding that passes between the two of you. he doesn’t need you to make a choice between him and your friends. he just needs you to be true to yourself.
“so,” leehan starts, breaking the silence with a grin. “what now? you two gonna kiss, or what?”
you and taesan both freeze, the air suddenly feeling thicker than ever. taesan blushes, his face turning a shade of red that matches yours, while woonhak laughs loudly, clearly amused by the awkwardness he’s just created.
“shut up, leehan,” taesan mutters, clearly embarrassed but secretly relieved.
you chuckle softly, feeling the warmth of his presence next to you. it’s a different kind of silence this time. comfortable. familiar.
“you know,” you say after a beat, your voice teasing, “I think we’ll figure it out.”
taesan looks at you, his smile finally breaking through the tension. “yeah. we will.”
and for the first time, you realize that maybe the hardest part wasn’t admitting your feelings. maybe the hardest part was just letting yourself be honest.
—
the weeks following your confession feel like an endless rollercoaster, full of highs and lows. at first, your friends, especially leeseo and hanbin, don’t take the news as well as you’d hoped. you knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you didn’t expect it to hit this hard.
when you first told them about taesan, about how you felt, the reactions were... well, less than ideal. leeseo had stared at you like you’d just announced you were leaving the country, and hanbin had seemed more confused than upset. but the hardest part was seeing the disappointment in their eyes.
it wasn’t that they didn’t care about you. in fact, it was the complete opposite. they cared about you so much that it was more that they couldn’t understand why you would want to throw away years of reputation you built up, for someone who, to them, was nothing more than a rebellious skater.
"are you really sure about this?" leeseo had asked, her voice quieter than usual, her expression tight with worry. "taesan… he’s not like us. he’s part of a different world. why risk it?"
hanbin hadn’t said much at first, just quietly watching, as if waiting for you to change your mind. but the uncertainty was there, hanging between you all, heavy and uncomfortable.
you had tried to explain it to them, tried to make them understand that this wasn’t just some fleeting crush or an act of rebellion. it was real. but they just couldn’t see it. not at first, anyway.
it hurt more than you cared to admit, seeing their disapproval. these were your friends. the people you’d known since childhood. and suddenly, it felt like you were standing on the edge of something, unsure whether to jump or pull back. the fear of losing them, of being alone in your decision, gnawed at you, but something deep inside you knew that you couldn’t keep pretending. you couldn’t keep hiding how you felt.
you just had to trust that the people who truly mattered would eventually see the truth in your actions. that they would come around and accept you for who you were becoming.
and in the end, they did.
it wasn’t immediate, but as time passed, leeseo and hanbin began to understand. it wasn’t about taesan being a skater or part of a different crowd. it wasn’t about the fact that he was in a band or that he lived a life they didn’t understand. it was about the way he made you feel seen, understood, and for the first time in a long time, happy.
"so, when are you bringing him to hang out?" leeseo had asked one afternoon, her voice teasing but genuine. "I want to see what the big deal is with this guy."
hanbin had smiled too, though there was still a hint of hesitation in his eyes. "yeah, he’s got to be something special for you to stick with it this long."
and that was when you realized they weren’t just accepting your decision. they were supporting it. and that, more than anything, was all you needed.
taesan, for his part, had been more than understanding. he’d known how hard it had been for you to get to this point, to finally let go of the mask you’d been wearing, the one that kept you safe in the comfort of your old life. but he never judged you for it.
he made sure you never regretted your decision, pulling you into his world with open arms.
he showed you his music, the songs that were both raw and beautiful, filled with emotions he couldn’t always express in words. you’d always been the academic type, focused on grades and assignments, but now you found yourself getting lost in the music, in the way taesan played his guitar with such passion, as if the notes were extensions of his very soul.
late-night skating became a regular part of your life, too. at first, you were hesitant, worried you’d embarrass yourself or make a fool of yourself in front of his friends. but taesan had a way of making you feel like you belonged. the others, woohak, leehan, riwoo, and jaehyun, had all accepted you with open arms. they didn’t care that you didn’t have the same history with skating that they did. they just cared that you were there, trying something new.
taesan would always smile, his gaze softening as he watched you push yourself, getting better each time. "you're doing great," he’d say, always encouraging, never dismissive. "just keep at it."
and the laughter, oh, the laughter. you had never known what it was like to be this carefree, to just let go and enjoy the moment. taesan had a way of pulling you into his world of easy-going fun, where everything seemed light and full of possibility. the worries that had once weighed you down melted away whenever you were with him.
one evening, after a long session of skating under the city lights, you sat together on the rooftop of a building, the wind blowing softly through your hair. taesan leaned back, his head resting on the edge of the roof, looking up at the stars.
"you know," he said, voice low and casual, "I never thought I’d find someone who’d get me this way."
you glance at him, feeling a smile tug at your lips. "what, you’re not that hard to get."
taesan laughs softly, turning his head to meet your gaze. "you’d be surprised. i mean, maybe when you're not putting up a front it might be different," he jokes,
you nod, understanding more than you ever had before. "yeah, I get that."
he smiles, that real smile of his that always makes your heart skip a beat.
it’s in moments like these that you realize just how much you’ve changed, how much you’ve grown since you met him. you stop worrying about what others think, stop pretending to be someone you’re not. the people who truly matter, the ones who care about you for who you really are, will always be there for you. and those are the people you need to focus on.
you’ve stopped hiding. you’ve stopped pretending. and now, with taesan by your side, you feel like you can face the world as yourself. no masks, no fear. just you and him, and whatever the future holds.
—
it’s been a few months since you stopped hiding, since you started living life as yourself, unashamed, and unafraid. taesan’s world has become your world, and yours became his. BOYNEXTDOOR has started gaining more traction, the band’s energy electrifying, pulling in more fans with every performance. it’s not just the music that’s drawing people in, though. it’s the rawness. the authenticity that the group radiates. and as they grow, so does your connection with them.
sungho, riwoo, jaehyun, leehan, and woonhak. each of them has become an important part of your life. you’ve spent so many late nights with them now, at shows and skateparks, in studios and cafés, and each moment feels more natural than the last. the guys have all grown to appreciate your company, your unguarded nature, your willingness to let go of the walls you once had up.
woonhak’s grin is constant whenever you’re around, and he’s never shy about throwing playful remarks your way. “you know, if you hang out with us more often, you might start getting better at skating. or maybe you’ll just get really good at cheering us on,” he teases, elbowing you gently as you both watch taesan show off his latest tricks at the skatepark.
you laugh, shaking your head. “I think I’m good with cheering for now.”
“yeah, yeah,” he says with a wink. “we’ll see.”
leehan, quieter than the others but equally as kind, has begun to open up to you more too. you find yourself in deep conversations with him after practice, talking about everything from music to fish, which makes you wonder why he has a huge interest in fish. he’s got a way of listening that makes you feel heard, truly heard, and it’s something you’ve come to value in a way you didn’t expect.
“you know,” leehan says one night as you sit beside him on the band’s tour bus, “sometimes, I think you understand us more than we give you credit for.”
you smile softly, a little surprised. “what do you mean?”
he shrugs, staring out of the window. “well, it’s just… you fit in, y’know? and I don’t think you’ve ever tried to be anything other than who you are. it’s refreshing.”
the compliment hits you harder than you expected, and you realize just how far you’ve come since that first day of being unsure about yourself, hiding in plain sight.
jaehyun, the loud and often mischievous member, is always up for a laugh. he’s started making jokes about you and taesan, though it’s never mean-spirited. “so, you two are still doing that whole ‘silent romance’ thing, huh?” he teases one afternoon as the band gathers for a quick break before the next performance.
you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “we’re not silent, jaehyun. we just don’t broadcast everything.”
he raises an eyebrow, his grin mischievous. “uh-huh, sure. whatever you say.”
taesan, of course, just watches the back-and-forth with a small smile, his gaze soft. you’re starting to learn how to read him, how his eyes light up with affection and pride when he looks at you, even when he tries to hide it.
“you’re in trouble now,” riwoo adds from the side, glancing between you and taesan.
but there’s something deeper there in the way the group interacts now. it’s not just about the music or the laughs. they’ve truly embraced you as one of their own. you’re no longer just the outsider; you’re part of their family.
and you realize, as the weeks go by, that taesan’s music is beginning to reflect the change you’ve both undergone. he’s been writing more, pouring his heart into the lyrics, and it’s clear from the way he talks about the process that it’s more than just songs to him. it’s his way of expressing everything he’s ever wanted to say, but never could.
one day, as you sit in the studio, scribbling down some notes for your own personal project, taesan walks in, his usual calm demeanor now mixed with a hint of excitement.
“I finished something new,” he says, looking at you. “I want you to hear it.”
you raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “what’s it called?”
“it’s… well, it’s about us,” he explains, shifting a little nervously. “about how I felt when you finally stopped pretending you didn’t care.”
your heart skips a beat as you look up at him, but you don’t say anything. you just follow him to the music setup, where he starts fiddling with his guitar.
he strums the first few chords, and instantly, you know it’s something different. it’s raw and honest, with a touch of rebellion, the sound of someone finally coming into their own after fighting their own doubts.
(listen to sk8er boi during this part guys !!)
when the final chord rings out, the room is silent. you’re sitting there, stunned, unable to process the feelings swirling inside you. it’s a song about you, about how taesan has always been there, quietly waiting for you to see him for who he truly is
he looks at you, his expression soft, almost unsure. “do you like it?”
you can’t say anything at first. your throat feels tight, and there’s a lump in your chest that you can’t shake. finally, you nod. “taesan… it’s perfect.”
he smiles, though it’s shy, as if he’s relieved. “I’m glad.”
later that evening, you’re in the crowd at one of BOYNEXTDOOR’s shows, feeling the energy buzz around you. the crowd is loud, excited, the air electric with anticipation. the lights dim, and the first notes of a familiar tune fill the air.
you recognize the song immediately. it’s the one taesan wrote. and as he steps forward, microphone in hand, he scans the crowd, his gaze lingering on you for a brief moment. there’s no hiding the way his eyes soften when he spots you.
you stand there, in the middle of the crowd, heart racing, as taesan sings the song he wrote for you. the lyrics are even more powerful live, the music thrumming through your body.
woonhak, stands beside you after the set, noticing the way you were both looking at each other. he grins, making eye contact with leehan, who’s watching from the side. they share a knowing look, as if they’ve been expecting this moment all along.
“hey,” woonhak says quietly, elbowing you. “looks like someone’s got the spotlight.”
you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. you’re finally here, in this moment, with taesan. no more hiding, no more pretending.
and as the final chords ring out, you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
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