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from the bottom of our hearts, we'd like to thank you for supporting the network and its residents.
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FACING MY FEARS SO I CAN BOND WITH MY BOYFRIENDâS CHILDREN! (KITTY EDITION) | Park Sungho
pairings. boynextdoorâs sungho x reader
genre \ romance, slice of life, established relationship
warnings. none \ wc. 800
note. this was a req from this anon!! Also newâŠformat.? Not sure if Iâll stick to this but Iâm trying to find a new one for 2026!!!
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
SUNGHO TELLS YOU to take off your shoes at the door.
Not in a rude wayânever thatâbut in the calm, gentle tone that somehow makes you straighten your posture anyway. Like youâve just stepped into a space that matters. His apartment is spotless in that lived-in, intentional way: counters wiped, shoes aligned, throw blanket folded just so.
And then you hear it.
A soft mrrp.
You freeze.
Sungho, who had been reaching for your bag, pauses. Slowly turns to you. âTheyâre awake,â he says, like heâs announcing the weather.
They.
You clutch your cardigan tighter. âSungho.â
âYes?â
âI think one of your children just made a noise.â
He smiles. Not teasingâfond. âThatâs Bori. She always announces herself.â
As if summoned, a fluffy gray blur pads into the hallway, tail held high, eyes curious and unbothered. She stops a safe distance away, sits, and stares at you like sheâs evaluating your credit score.
You squeak. Quietly. Respectfully.
Sungho steps closer to you, not touching yet, just close enough that you can feel his warmth. âSheâs just looking,â he murmurs. âShe wonât jump.â
As if on cue, another cat appearsâblack and sleek, hopping onto the shoe cabinet with a graceful flick of his tail.
Sungho sighs. âOkay, that one might jump. Thatâs Taro. He doesnât listen.â
âSungho,â you whisper, panic rising. âWhy does he look like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike he knows Iâm scared.â
Sunghoâs hand finds yours then, fingers warm and grounding. He squeezes gently. âHey. Youâre okay. Youâre doing really well already.â
You look up at him. Heâs soft like thisâeyes kind, voice steadyâbut thereâs something else too. A quiet confidence. Like heâs used to taking care of things. Of them.
You breathe in. Nod. âOkay. I can do this.â
âThatâs my girl,â he says without thinking, and the words settle into your chest like they belong there.
Later, youâre perched on a dining chair, feet tucked up, while Sungho moves around the kitchen.
He washes his hands for a full twenty seconds. Dries them. Ties his apron neatly. The cats sit in a line near the counter like theyâre attending a lecture.
âDo they always⊠do that?â you ask.
âThey know the rules,â he replies. âNo counters. No begging. They wait.â
You watch him chop vegetables with precise, practiced movements. He glances over at you every so often, always checking in without hovering.
âYou can sit normally, you know,â he says gently.
You glance down. One of the catsâBoriâis now loafed on the floor near your chair. Very close. Too close.
He nods. âShe doesnât warm up to just anyone.â
As if to prove his point, Bori stretches, thenâslowly, deliberatelyâleans against your ankle.
You gasp. Sunghoâs hand is on your knee instantly. âBreathe. Sheâs just saying hi.â
âI am going to pass away,â you whisper.
âYouâre not,â he says, smiling softly. âIâve got you.â
You survive. Barely. But when she pulls away and settles again, you realize something terrifying.
You didnât hateâŠit.
By the time dinner is done, youâre sitting at the table, legs back down, posture relaxed. Taro is asleep on a chair across from you. Bori is⊠closer than before.
Sungho places a bowl of soup in front of you. âCareful, itâs hot.â
âThank you,â you say, then hesitate. âSungho?â
âYes?â
ââŠIf I wanted to try⊠touching her. How would I do that.â
He doesnât tease you. Doesnât make a big deal out of it. He just moves behind you, guiding your hand gently. âLike this. Slow. Let her sniff first.â
Your fingers brush soft fur.
You donât scream.
Sungho exhales like heâs been holding his breath the whole time. Proud. So proud.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âYouâre doing amazing.â
You glance back at him, cheeks warm. âYouâre very serious about them.â
âTheyâre my responsibility,â he says simply. Then, quieter, âAnyone important to me should feel safe here. Including you.â
Your chest aches in the best way.
Later, youâre curled up on the couch, Sungho beside you, one arm around your shoulders. The TV is on, forgotten. Bori is asleep at your feet.
You catch Sungho watching you.
âWhat?â you ask.
He smiles, small and real. âI like this.â
âLike⊠me being terrified?â
âLike us,â he corrects. âLike home.â
You lean into him, heart full, fear softened into something gentler.
Maybe facing your fears isnât so bad.
Especially when your boyfriendâand his very well-behaved childrenâare right there with you.
genre: smut
synopsis: You've been exchanging heated messages all week with Jaehyun, your secretive online lover, and when he finally visits your hotel room during a business trip, the tension explodes
warnings: cheating, impact play (spanking & slapping), sensory deprivation (handcuffs & blindfolds), breeding, unprotected sex, oral sex, marking (hickeys & handprints), aftercare
pairing: secretlover!jaehyun x fem!reader
wc: 1.8k
The hotel room door clicks shut, and his presence fills the space before your eyes even adjust. Jaehyun. Heâs taller than you imagined, his shoulders broader, and the look in his dark eyes is pure, undiluted hunger. All the filthy promises from your phone screen are made real in the tight set of his jaw.
âOn the bed. Now.â His voice is a low growl, a vibration you feel in your bones. âOn your knees, facing the headboard.â
You move without thought, the comforter soft against your shins. You hear the rustle of his suit jacket hitting a chair. A clink of metal. Handcuffs.
âWrists together behind your back.â
You obey, the cool steel closing around them with a definitive click. The loss of control is instant, terrifying, and the most thrilling thing youâve ever felt. Youâre completely his.
âYouâve been such a good girl all week, typing all those pretty, dirty things for me,â he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers work the buttons of your blouse open, one by one. âBut I need to know if you feel as good as you sound.â
A sudden swath of black silk covers your eyes, knotting firmly at the back of your head. The world vanishes. Every other sense ignites.
You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, not a slap but a firm, possessive press through your skirt. âThis sweet fucking ass has been driving me insane. Iâm going to mark it. Every inch of it.â
He pushes you forward until your cuffed hands press into the pillows and your ass is raised in the air. The air moves, and you flinch an instant before the first real spank cracks against your right cheek. A sharp, stinging heat blossoms, so intense you cry out.
âThatâs one,â he growls. Another smack lands on the same spot, the pain layering, deepening. âYou take that sting so well. Your skin is already getting so hot for me.â
His hand roams over the throbbing flesh, soothing and inflaming it at once. You feel his thumbs hook into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them both down to your knees in one rough motion. Cool air hits your exposed, burning skin. Youâre utterly exposed, completely vulnerable.
âFuck, look at you,â he breathes, his voice thick. âYour pussy is already gleaming for me. So fucking pretty and pink and puffy. Iâm going to ruin this perfect little cunt.â
You hear him shift, and then his tongue is on you. A long, flat, wet stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit. You jolt, a ragged moan tearing from your throat. He doesnât just taste you; he devours you. His tongue circles your swollen clit, flicking it hard and fast before sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.
âOh god, Jaehyun!â you whimper, pushing back against his face.
âStay still,â he commands, his voice muffled against your flesh. âYou donât get to fuck my face yet. You just take what I give you.â
He resumes his brutal, skilled assault. His tongue plunges inside you, fucking you with it, and you can feel your own slickness coating his chin. He laps at your inner lips, tracing every fold before zeroing back in on your clit, rubbing it in tight, relentless circles that make your thighs shake. The combination of the blindfold, the cuffs, and the searing pleasure is overwhelming. Youâre crying out, a constant stream of please and yes and donât stop.
Just as you feel the coil of your orgasm tightening, he pulls away. You whine in protest.
A sharp, open-handed slap lands on your inner thigh. The shock of pain is electric. âI decide when you come.â
You feel him move, his weight leaving the bed. The sound of a belt buckle, a zipper. Then heâs back, his hard, bare chest pressing against your cuffed hands. His cock, thick and veiny, slides through your soaked folds, the head bumping against your clit, making you gasp.
âTell me what you want,â he demands, his voice a raw scrape against your ear.
âI want you to fuck me,â you pant. âI want your cock inside me. Please, Jaehyun, I need it.â
âNeed what? Use your words.â
âI need your fucking cock in my pussy. Now. I need you to breed me. Please.â
He lets out a guttural groan. âMy good fucking girl.â
With no further warning, he slams into you. One hard, deep, perfect thrust that steals the air from your lungs. Your stretched walls clamp down around him, and he curses, his hips stuttering. âFuck. Youâre so goddamn tight. Gripping me like a fucking fist.â
He sets a punishing rhythm immediately, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, his balls slapping against your throbbing ass with every plunge. The handcuffs bite into your wrists with each powerful thrust, anchoring you in the storm of sensation. You can hear the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies joining, the sound of his ragged breathing, your own choked sobs of pleasure.
His hand grips your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruisesâmarks youâll cherish tomorrow. His other hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head back. âThis cunt is mine,â he snarls. âYou understand? This perfect, dripping pussy belongs to me.â
âYes! Yes, itâs yours!â you cry out, your voice breaking.
His pace becomes frantic, animalistic. Heâs pounding into you, hitting your cervix with each deep drive, a pain so sweet it borders on ecstasy. You can feel the pressure building again, higher and tighter than before, fed by his possessive words and the raw, physical power of his fucking.
âIâm gonna fill you up,â he grunts, his rhythm starting to fracture. âGonna pump my fucking cum so deep inside you. You want that? You want me to claim this pretty pussy?â
âYes! Fill me, please, I want it, I want to feel you cum inside me!â
His roar is your undoing. As his hips piston against you, his release triggering deep inside your depths, your own orgasm detonates. Itâs a silent, seizing shockwave that whites out your vision behind the blindfold. Your body clenches around his pulsing cock, milking him, your legs giving out completely as waves of intense pleasure crash through you, one after another, until youâre boneless and trembling.
He collapses over you, his weight a comforting pressure. You feel his breath, hot and ragged, on your nape. For a long moment, thereâs only the sound of your joint panting and the feel of his spend beginning to seep out of you.
Slowly, gently, he pulls out. You flinch at the hypersensitivity, a soft cry escaping you. He murmurs a soft âShhh,â and carefully undoes the blindfold. The light is blinding. Then, the cuffs unlock, and he rubs your sore wrists.
He turns you over onto your back, his eyes soft now, the possessiveness replaced by a deep warmth. He kneels between your legs, his gaze dropping to where his cum is leaking from your well-used, swollen pussy. He leans down and presses a tender kiss to your inner thigh, right over the red mark his hand left.
âYou were perfect,â he whispers, his voice hoarse. âSo fucking perfect for me.â He reaches for a towel from the bathroom, running it under warm water before returning to clean you up with a careful, almost reverent touch. The contrast to his earlier roughness makes your heart ache. He stretches out beside you, pulling you into his arms, his fingers starting to gently massage the soreness from your shoulders.
âJaehyunâŠâ you whisper, nuzzling into his neck.
âIâve got you,â he says, his lips brushing your forehead. âIâve got you now.â
He holds you closer, and you feel the warmth of his body surround you, steady and grounding, like heâs trying to shield you from the whole world. His hands move in slow, comforting strokes along your back, careful like heâs touching something fragile.
Your fingers curl weakly at his shirt. He notices.
âEasy,â he murmurs. âYou donât have to do anything. Just stay right here.â
He presses his cheek against the top of your head, exhaling like heâs releasing tension he didnât want you to see. His thumb sweeps a soft path along your arm, almost absentminded, like he needs the reassurance of feeling you there just as much as you need him.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly.
You nod, but he doesnât move. He waits.
âTalk to me, sweetheart.â
âIâm⊠still coming down,â you admit softly.
He hums, low and warm. âThatâs alright. You take your time.â
Another kiss to your forehead. Slower this time. âIâm not going anywhere.â
You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes search yours instantly, like heâs checking for signs of discomfort, overwhelm, anything he should fix.
But all you can do is whisper, âYouâre being so gentle.â
He smiles, small and warm. âOf course I am.â His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. âYou think Iâd ever be anything else with you?â
You swallow, leaning into his touch.
âCome here,â he murmurs, guiding you back against his chest when you start to drift away. âYouâre shaking.â
âIâm not,â you protest weakly.
He laughs under his breath. âSweetheart⊠you are.â
His fingers slip through your hair slowly, untangling the strands with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Every movement is slow, patient, purposeful. Like heâs trying to let your body know itâs safe before your mind fully catches up.
âYou did so well,â he whispers. âIâm proud of you.â
Your breath stutters, and he hears it. His arms tighten protectively, and he shifts you, adjusting the pillow behind you so you arenât straining.
âBetter?â
You nod.
âGood. Just relax.â He kisses your temple again. âIâve got you.â
You rest your ear against his heartbeat. Itâs steady. Solid. A quiet anchor pulling you back to yourself.
He traces small shapes on your back with one hand. Circles. Lines. Patterns with no meaning except the comfort they bring.
Then, quieter, almost shyly, he says, âIâve wanted to hold you like this for so long.â
âJaehyunâŠâ
âDonât say my name like that,â he murmurs. âI might fall apart.â
You manage a small smile. âYou?â
âYes. Me.â A soft laugh leaves him, warm against your hair. âBelieve it or not, Iâm human too.â
His hold shifts, not tighter, just closer. Closer in the way someone pulls you in when they want you to feel their heartbeat against your back, their breath near your ear, their presence wrapped around every inch of you.
âIâm here,â he whispers. âYouâre safe. You hear me?â
âI hear you.â
âGood.â He presses another soft kiss to your cheek. âNow rest. Iâll take care of the rest.â
And you do.
Because in his arms, you finally feel like you can.
THE PAIN FROM CRAMPS IS KILLING ME, CALL MY BOYFRIEND, I NEED HIM NOW! | Han Dongmin
pairings â boynextdoorâs taesan x reader
genre â slice of life, romance, comedy (WC. 1.6k)
warnings â period pain & smoochies. if you dislike dramatic readers then this ainât for you babes cus I LOVE dramatic readers
note â tweaked out while writing this bc WHY CANT I HAVE A BF LIKE THIS </3 genuinely pisses me off..
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
YOU WERE DYING.
Okay, not literally, but you certainly felt like it. Your lower abdomen throbbed like someone was playing the drums with a vengeance, your back ached, and your emotions were dangling by a single frayed thread. The simplest things set you offâlike the blanket being slightly crooked or the fact that your favorite mug wasnât in the same direction you left it yesterday.
But worst of all?
Taesan wasnât here.
He was supposed to be back from practice soon, but âsoonâ was way too vague for someone whose cramps were currently attempting manslaughter. So, naturally, you did what any reasonable, mature person would do:
You texted him fifteen times.
And called him.
Twice.
And left a dramatic voice message that you had immediately regretted but didnât delete fast enough.
Still, the second you heard your apartment door unlock, you threw one arm over your forehead like a Victorian lady ready to faint and announced:
âIâm dying.â
Taesan stepped inside, hair damp from a quick shower at the company before he rushed over, backpack slung over one shoulder. He blinked at your sprawled-out figure on the couchâwrapped burrito-style in your blanket of emotional support.
âBabyâŠ?â he said carefully, closing the door behind him. âYou good?â
You lifted your head one centimeter, eyes glassy. âNo. Iâm dying. The pain from cramps is killing me. I want my boyfriend. I need him now.â
There was a beat.
Then Taesanâs lips curled into a very obvious smile he triedâand failedâto hide.
He dropped his backpack instantly. âOh? Your amazing boyfriend, huh?â He walked toward you, voice dipping into that stupidly gentle teasing tone that made your toes curl. âYes, yes, heâs here now. Whyâs my baby whining?â
Your dramatic persona cracked, replaced briefly with indignation. âBecause it hurts,â you whined louder, burying your face back into the couch cushion. âIt feels like my uterus is folding itself into origami. The crane kind. The complicated kind.â
Taesan bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a laugh, but you saw it. You always saw it.
âDonât laugh at me,â you grumbled, your voice muffled.
âIâm not,â he said, already crouching beside you. âI would never laugh at my suffering baby.â
You peeked up at him with the most pitiful expression you could conjure. âTaesannie⊠it hurts.â
And there it wasâthat instant shift in his eyes. The fondness. The softness. The âmy partner is adorable and I must kiss them immediatelyâ look.
He brushed your hair away from your forehead, leaning down.
Thenâmwuah.
A tiny kiss.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
Until your entire face was being smothered by a billion soft, rapid-fire smoochesâcheeks, forehead, eyelids, nose, temples. He kissed everywhere except your lips, which of course only made you squirm more.
âTaesanâstopâwhyâareâyour lipsâsoâcoldââ You complained between attacks.
âThatâs because I rushed over here,â he replied, voice light, lips still moving between kisses. âDidnât even dry my hair properly. Had to come save my dramatic sweetheart from fatal cramps.â
âYouâre making fun of me,â you accused weakly.
He paused, lifted your chin, and pecked the tip of your nose. âMaybe a little. But only because youâre cute.â
You groaned, flopping flat on your back again. âUgh. I canât even be miserable in peace.â
âNope,â he said cheerfully, climbing onto the couch beside you and tugging you onto his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. âYouâre dating me. Peace is not part of the package.â
You shifted until your forehead rested against his collarbone. âI need a heating pad.â
âIâm your heating pad.â
âI also need food.â
âI brought you snacks,â he said proudly, gesturing toward a convenience store bag he dropped by the coffee table. âYour favorite chocolate, banana milk, and those weird chips you only want when youâre in pain.â
âTheyâre not weird,â you murmured.
âThey taste like sadness and seaweed.â
You glared weakly. âStill not weirder than the cereal you eat dry.â
He gasped dramatically. âYou did not just insult my cereal choices.â
âYou started it.â
You felt him sigh, chest rising beneath your cheek. âMy poor grumpy baby.â
You felt a little flutter in your stomach that had nothing to do with cramps. âDonât call me that.â
âWhy? Itâs true,â he whispered, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp. âMy baby. My dramatic, whiny, adorable baby who calls me like the world is ending because their cramps hurt.â
âI was in pain!â
âAnd I came running, didnât I?â
You blinked up at him.
He really did. Without question. Without complaint. Without even asking if you were exaggerating. Taesan might tease, but he always took care of you like it was instinct.
ââŠYeah,â you admitted softly.
His expression melted at the edges. âSo now relax. I got you.â
You let out a deep, agonized sighâmostly for dramatic flair, partially because the cramps really were awful.
Taesan chuckled under his breath. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âYouâre unbelievable,â you shot back lamely.
He kissed your cheek again. âI know.â
He helped you sit up just enough to slip a pillow behind your back, then pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, making sure your feet stayed tucked in. With one arm, he reached for the bag of snacks and placed everything within your reach like a full-service boyfriend.
âWater?â he asked.
You held up your hands. âCarry me to the sink.â
âBaby,â he stared at you. âItâs literally five steps.â
âIâm in pain.â
He shook his head but scooped you up anyway, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You clung to him, partly because you were needy and partly because Taesan carrying you bridal-style made your heart do suspicious gymnastics.
âYouâre lucky I love you,â he said as he set you on the counter.
âHm. I am lucky,â you admitted. âIâve got a hot boyfriend who takes care of me.â
His ears turned the faintest shade of pink. âDonât say it like that.â
âWhy?â you teased. âDoes it make you shy, Taesannie?â
He avoided your gaze, filling a glass with water. âNo.â
âLiar.â
When he handed you the glass, you smiled sweetlyâan expression that made him visibly lose composure for a second.
âThis is emotional manipulation,â he muttered, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. âIâm suffering. Youâre too cute when youâre like this.â
âYou called me whining and dramatic five minutes ago.â
âYes,â he said, taking your face between both hands. âBut youâre cute when youâre dramatic. Itâs a problem.â
Before you could respond, he kissed you againâslow, lingering, warmâjust enough to make you forget the pain for a moment.
You sighed into it, melting a little.
Then the cramps stabbed you again and you gasped. âOwâokay nope, still dying.â
Taesan pulled back with a sympathetic wince. âAlright, alright. Couch. Now.â
He carried you again, this time with the determined energy of someone rescuing a wounded princess from a castle. When he settled you back onto the couch, he grabbed a heating pad from your drawer, plugged it in, and placed it gently over your abdomen.
The warmth seeped in slowly, easing the worst of the ache.
You let out a relieved groan. âOh my god. I love you.â
Taesan sat beside you and tucked you into his side. âI know. You tell me a lot when youâre in pain.â
He brushed your forehead with his lips. âWant to watch something?â
âSomething comforting,â you mumbled. âNo angst. No plot twists. No complicated storylines. My brain canât handle it.â
âSo⊠kidsâ cartoons?â
âYes.â
He snorted but grabbed the remote.
Soon you were curled against him, heating pad in place, snacks open, and a cartoon theme song playing softly in the background.
Your cramps still hurt. Your back still ached. You were still emotionally unstable enough to cry at a cereal commercial if it came on.
But Taesanâs arm was around you. His thumb rubbed circles into your shoulder. Every few minutes he leaned down to kiss your head. And every time you whimpered even the tiniest bit, he kissed your cheek in apology on behalf of your uterus.
At one point, you shifted and murmured, âThank you for coming.â
He rested his chin on top of your head. âAlways.â
âYou donât have to deal with all this, you know,â you said quietly. âI know I get really⊠over the top.â
âYeah, you do,â he agreed without hesitation.
You smacked him weakly.
He grinned. âBut I like taking care of you. I like being here. And honestlyâŠâ
He kissed your temple.
ââŠyou being dramatic is cute.â
You rolled your eyes. âEverything I do is cute to you.â
âThatâs because everything you do is cute to me,â he countered easily. âYouâre my baby.â
You groaned. âStop calling me that.â
âNever.â
You looked up at him, cheeks warm despite the cramps.
He smiled.
Then he peppered your face with smooches againâjust to prove a point.
You whined, squirming. âTaesan! Enough!â
âNever enough,â he said between kisses. âYou need all the healing smooches.â
âNoâstopâyour lips are cold again!â
âThat means you need more kisses to warm them up.â
You pushed his face away gently, laughing despite the pain. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd you,â he said, grabbing your chin to plant one more kiss on your forehead, âare my favorite person to take care of.â
You went quiet for a moment, curled closer to him.
ââŠOkay. Maybe being dramatic isnât so bad,â you whispered.
âSee?â he said smugly. âMy baby knows.â
You glared. âSay âmy babyâ one more time.â
âMyââ
You put your hand over his mouth.
He laughed into your palm, eyes crinkling with affection.
And despite everythingâthe cramps, the discomfort, the melodramatic miseryâyou couldnât help smiling too.
Because Taesan, in all his teasing, gentle, heart-squeezing softness, was here.
Your boyfriend was here.
And somehow that made everything hurt a little less.
ìëìì€âidol!jaehyun, ââââââ f!reader đ đ€.đ: +2k ê° â angst to fluff ê± â· â°ditoral ! đ #DAY4 SYNOPSIS: As Jaehyunâs birthday arrives, you prepare something that is meant to lift his spirits during a time that everything has made him dim his usual brightness. What was meant to be a simple celebration quietly unfolds into a moment of honesty, comfort, and warmth, where both learn how much love can heal when words fall short.
ââââââ emotional distress, depictions of burnout and exhaustion, mentions of online hate, cyberbullying, and negative comments
You rolled the sleeves of Jaehyunâs hoodie, collecting all the pieces you have made since November alongside the glue, and bits of colored ribbon. The scent of cinnamon and apple from your candle is lingering in the room as you organise all the pages of the journal you had on your desk.
December was a special month for obvious reasons, but the day that was extra special is December 4thâyour boyfriendâs birthday.Â
And despite that important date, he could only talk about Christmas as if it were magic itself. You made sure to engrave in your mind the look of his eyes lighting up, and his smile showing the pure joy he felt when speaking about your date before his activities at the award shows or his family party.
You missed seeing the joy in his face.
You pressed your lips together as you arranged the pages and polaroids, your thumb caressing one picture in particular that you took when the group was shooting âIf I Say I Love Youâ. His no-teeth smile, his nose scrunched in that familiar way whenever he felt warmth from the people surrounding him. Lately, though, even that had faded from your camera roll.
He still smiled, of course. But the boy who used to interact with people who supported him and made their time worth it now came home quieter, heavier, which scared you and the members. You could feel it in hugs; they were tighter than usual, and far from those that come of full affection. The comeback was a full success; they were on the charts, the songs were doing well, and the fans loved it.
But online, the silence was loud. People started twisting his happiness into something performative, most of the comments saying the word âtoo muchââhe was too much in general. The worst part? The same people were the ones who knew by heart that the hate that mocked someone for being genuine was the one that hurt most. Of course, he hasnât said it out loud, but you couldnât turn a blind eye to how heâd scroll through his phone in silence before going to sleep. Lips pressed thin, and his smile faded too soon.
You were tired of the smell of the glue, of the few cuts you got on your fingers, and how they felt numb after cleaning and decorating your heart out. Every single part of your last gift made sure he could see from your point of you how he mattered, because he truly did.
You heard the bell, and your heart immediately jumped.
âOh my God, I forgot he would come early today.â You put the gift in the Christmas bag you had before rushing to open the door. You grabbed a towel when you walked by the kitchen, cleaning any traces of glitter from your hands.Â
You smiled at the view of your boyfriend, his hood was up, mask halfway down, hair was damp from the snow.
âHey, princess,â he greeted softly. You could see the eye bags caused by the lack of sleep due to the rough hours of practice, yet he smiled at you.
âHi, birthday boy.âÂ
That caused him to chuckle, stepping inside as you helped him remove his scarf. âI thought you forgot.â
âAs f I could,â you said, âyouâve been counting down to your birthday since last week. Plus, the city is surrounded by birthday messages.â
He grinned faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. âWell, you usually make it feel even more special.â
You couldnât ignore the crack in your chest at his tone, but you decided to sit him on the couch, and grab the remote to lower the volume of that random lofi playlist you found. You placed the small blanket that was sitting on the corner of the sofa on his lap.
âGive me two minutes, okay?â you said before darting to the kitchen just to come back a few seconds later. âHappy birthday to youâŠâ
His lips parted slightly before smiling, that genuine smile you loved. The small birthday cake was homemade and slightly uneven to your misfortune. There was only one candle on top, which made it easier to walk with it.
When you finished the song, he looked at you. âYou made this?â
âOf course, love,â you smiled, âwe both know youâll have plenty of fancy ones later with your group, so I decided to make this one just ours.â
He chuckled softly, the warmth returning to his face for a moment. âIt looks good.â
You set it down on the table in front of you. âMake a wish.â
He looked at the candle, then at you, and for a second, he didnât blink, but held your hand in the process. âI already got it,â he murmured. But he blew the candle anyway.Â
You had to clap softly to prevent him from seeing you blush, an useless attempt to something that he already saw, and softly touching your cheek.
After sharing slices of cake and a conversation to distract him from your nerves, it was time. You left the empty plate on the table, grabbed the Christmas-themed gift bag from under the tree, and placed it beside him.
âI know itâs your birthday, but since youâll be busy for the holidays and we canât celebrate it properly, I wanted to do our exchange today.â
He tore out the tape that was keeping the bag together, blinking in surprise. âYou made me something?â
âThe cake, this, and something else, actually,â you said, trying to hide your excitement. âGo on, open it.â
Apparently, your excitement was contagious. The first thing he took was the graphic T-shirt you made in a workshop. It was simple, but printed with a design you made of all their albums. He grinned immediately.
âThis looks so good,â he said, flipping it over.
âThey taught us how to screen print. Take care of it, itâs a limited edition,â you joked. He chuckled at your comment; you could see the corners of his eyes softening as his thumb ran over the ink.
âThank you so much,â he said, folding the shirt carefully and placing it on his lap as if it were something fragile.
âWellâŠâÂ
He blinked. âThereâs more?â
Instead of answering, you reached into the bag again, pulling out the reason for the cuts on the tips of your fingers. The journal had a handmade leather cover, tied together with twine, decorated with small pressed flowers that had taken you embarrassingly long to align.
âThis one took a while,â you said, offering it carefully. âYou can open it whenever your heart feels like it.â
He frowned in mock suspicion but opened it. The first page was titled âAnd if I say 100 âI Love Youâsââ
He was silent for a long time, eyes scanning your handwriting, the pasted polaroids of all the moments, the notes that held a reason alongside a story, and a random thought that popped out that day.
You wrote about everything. His laugh, his way of never giving up, his patience when helping others, even his dumb jokes, those that werenât captured on camera but were engraved in your heart.
By the time he reached reason number seventeen, he paused.Â
You watched the exact second his expression faltered. His throat bobbed, seeing how his eyes turned glassy, though he tried hiding it by lowering his head. His fingers trembled as they hovered over a picture of him hugging you backstage during their tour, face with undeniable happiness, and one of your favorites.
âHey,â you whispered, touching his shoulder. âYou okay?â
He didnât answer right away. Simply closed the journal gently and placed it over the T-shirt. When he finally looked up, he could see your worried look.
âYou wrote all of this for me?â his voice cracked at the last word. He exhaled shakily after you nodded. âWhy?â
Your heart tightened at his question, more at the fact that you knew he meant why would anyone go through this much trouble for me? For a boy that the internet had spent weeks convincing he was âtoo much,â
You cupped his cheeks gently, your thumbs brushing away the faint dampness at the corners of his eyes. âBecause someone needed to remind you of the truth before the noise drowned it.â
He moved everything he had on his lap to pull you onto it. His arms wrapped around your waist as your fingers slid into his damp hair, still cold from the snow. His forehead leaned against your chest.
âIâm so sorry, princess,â he murmured. âIâve been coming home like a ghost, yet you always see me even when I canât.â
âYouâre allowed to be tired,â you assured him softly. âBut youâre not allowed to face it alone. Not with me here.â
He nodded slowly, breathing in deep, settling in your warmth as if your hug could stitch him back together. You held him until his breaths evened out, feeling the tension in his shoulders loosen.
After a long moment, he sniffed once and straightened. âOkay,â he whispered, wiping his eyes sheepishly. âMy turn.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âMy gift,â he said. âWe are connected because I also made you something.â He rubbed his neck awkwardly. âItâs not as beautiful as what you made, butâŠâ
âJaehyun,â you warned playfully, âI will fight you in your living room.â
That earned a soft, breathy giggle you hadnât heard from him in weeks. He reached into his backpack and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper tied with red yarn.
Your brows rose. âThis looks handmade already.â
âThatâs the point,â he muttered.
You sat back onto your knees and carefully untied the yarn.Â
âOh my God,â inside was a wooden music box, completely hand-carved, delicately sanded, and decorated with etched constellations. Now it was your turn to have your vision blurred by the tears piling up. âIt looks exactly like the one I had as a child.â
He nodded shyly. âI asked your family if they had a picture of your old music box, and started to do it from scratch, took me several months.â His eyes softened. âBut I finished, so I can see that smile.â
You opened the lid, welcomed by a soft melody that began to play. âCanât Help Falling In Loveâ was rearranged into something that sounded exactly in your head when you were with him.
He rubbed the back of his ear shyly. âI asked our composer-hyung to help me arrange it. Then I learned how to tune the mechanism myself.â
Your heart felt like it flipped.
âJaehyunâŠâ You swallowed. âThis must have taken forever.â
âI wanted it to sound like home,â he murmured. âBecause thatâs what you feel like.â
You nearly dropped the box, but you looked at him, the glimpse of the boy whoâd been trying so hard to stay bright in a world determined to dim him. And the boy who had carved constellations into wood just so you could hear your song play from something made by his hands.
You set the music box down gently and cupped his face again. âCome here.â
He tilted his head. âWhatââ
Your kiss cut him off, filled with everything words couldnât carry, mixed with the faint flavor or your tears. He melted into you, fingers gripping the hem of your sweater as if anchoring himself. When you pulled away, he was really smiling. The characteristic nose scrunched with how his eyes turned into crescent moons.
The spark was back. Even if it flickered, it was there.
âThank you for making everything better,â he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.
âThank you for making it worth it,â you replied, brushing your nose against his.
He looked at the journal again, then at the cake plate, the shirt, and the tree lights reflecting in your eyes.
âYouâre my favorite thing Iâve ever loved,â he whispered. You smiled, cupping his head with your hands, brushing your thumbs over the ends of his eyebrows, the way he secretly loved.
âAnd youâre my favorite thing Iâve ever been given.âÂ
He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder, his warm breath against your neck, his warmth wrapping around you tightly enough that you squeaked.
âJaehyunâair,â you laughed between words.
âNope,â he muffled dramatically. âI live it here now.â
âOh, really?â you chuckled, lightly tapping his back.Â
âYes,â he said, all this while still hiding. âThis is my home. Iâm one with the sweater.â
You snorted, trying to pry him off, though your strength compared to his was laughable. âJaehyun, youâre crushing me.â
âThatâs the point,â You laughed harder, head falling back against the cushion. âYouâre impossible.â
âImpossible to resist,â he corrected smugly without lifting his head.
âOh my God,â you groaned. âYouâre back.â
He finally peeked up, âThere she is,â he teased, tapping your chin. âMy favorite human who makes dangerously adorable birthday cakes.â
You pushed his shoulder lightly. âIt was charming.â
âIt was slanted.â
âJAââ
He cut you off with a quick kiss full of the spark youâd been missing. When he pulled back, he was smiling, really smiling.
âI feel lighter,â he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek.Â
You cupped his face gently. âGood to have you back, sir.â
He grinned, pulling you closer again, but this time not crushing you, just holding you. âWell then,â he whispered into your hair, âget ready.â
âFor what?â
He nuzzled your temple, voice full of playful warmth.
âIâm going to be annoyingly affectionate before my promotions; you have been warned.â
You rolled your eyes, smiling at the only exception you gave hugs. âCanât wait.â
He kissed your forehead, âI love you,âÂ
âI love you more.â
And in that cozy December glow, wrapped in his arms and the soft hum of the music box, you knewâyour Jaehyun was truly back, slowly, maybe some features wonât change, but you knew that spark would come back for good and stronger.
âââ ONEDOOR UNITED! first collab ever, and i'm so glad it's with all these amazing people joining us with JAW DROPPING drabbles, please give it lots of love and happy December. Here's my masterlist! @onedoornet
In a small market town, youâre just the fruit sellerâs daughter until Sungho, a wandering bard, starts writing songs across from your stall. When you accidentally help him finish a lyric, he keeps coming backâasking for your thoughts, your voice, and slowly, a place in your quiet life. Between your daily work and his restless travels, the two of you form an unexpected connection, crafting songs together as a gentle romance begins to bloom.
GENRE â Romance, medieval era fiction, fluff, slight angst, soft yearning, and as slow burn as 4k words can get meâŠ
WARNINGS â Reader has a lot of internal problems with what she wants vs whatâs realistic to her. (WC. 3.9k)
NOTE â hi everyone!!! Iâm so glad you all seem excited for the collab! Itâs been something Iâve worked on since the week before the bnd x dc collab was even posted, and Iâm so glad itâs paying off <333 as usual no one took the first posting date haha so Iâm posting first!! I hope you have a great upcoming holidays and I wish you all a very onedoor Christmas!
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
YOU FIRST NOTICE HIM because he doesnât move like everyone else.
The market is all motionâvoices rolling over one another, carts rattling by, hands exchanging coins and produce. Your world is small and well-defined: crates of fruit, your motherâs voice, your fatherâs back as he lifts heavy baskets. You know where to stand so people donât bump you. You know how to smile just enough to sell more apples but not enough to invite anything else.
And then thereâs⊠him.
A boyâno, a young manâsitting on the low stone wall directly across from your stall. Boots dusty, hair a little mussed, a lute leaned against his leg, parchment balanced on his knee. Heâs still, but not idle. His quill taps the page. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. His brow furrows. He sighs. He stares at the sky like it offended him.
Youâre supposed to be sorting plums.
Youâre absolutely not supposed to be watching the way his lips move silently, like heâs testing lyrics in his head.
âStop staring,â your mother murmurs from behind you, not even looking up. âYouâll drop the fruit.â
âIâm not staring,â you say, nearly dropping a plum.
âMm.â
You turn away, cheeks hot, and focus on your hands. Fruit is easy. Firm vs. soft. Good vs. bad. One goes in the basket, one goes in the discard crate. You understand that.
You do not understand the boy with the lute who looks frustrated at paper.
Later, when the lunch rush has faded and the sun hangs lazily above the rooftops, you hear him again. Not musicâjust a groan of pure despair.
âOh, come on,â he mutters, voice just loud enough to carry. âWhy is this so bad?â
You sneak a glance.
Heâs leaned back, head tilted, eyes narrowed at the parchment like theyâre in a fight. From this angle, you can just barely see ink on the page. Lines. Words. One half-finished sentence that your brain, traitor that it is, tries to read.
The girl in the market, framed by the sunâ
Your heart stutters.
You shouldnât be reading that. Thatâs not your business. He could be writing about any girl. Probably is. The market is full of them. You clutch a plum too tightly and feel the skin give under your fingers.
âStupid line,â he sighs. âIt doesnât even mean anything.â
Without thinkingâwithout meaning toâyou mumble, âIt does.â
The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.
He heard you.
His head turns. Eyesâwarm, dark, surprising up closeâland on you. He blinks.
âOh,â he says.
You consider sinking into the cobblestones.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt out, hands flying up. âI wasnâtâI wasnât reading, I justâheard you, and Iâ Iâll stop talking now.â
He just⊠laughs. Not meanly. Itâs light and a little breathless, like he wasnât expecting to be entertained by the fruit sellerâs daughter.
âItâs alright,â he says. âI was sort of yelling at it. Kind of hard to miss.â
You stare down at the plum in your hands like it holds the secrets of the universe.
âI just meant,â you say quietly, âthat it did mean something.â
His attention sharpens. He sits forward a little, quill still between his fingers. âYeah?â
âItâs⊠a picture,â you say, feeling incredibly foolish. âYou can see her. The sun, the market. Itâs not meaningless.â
He lifts the parchment, squinting at the line. âHm. Maybe. It just feels⊠empty. Like Iâm pretending to know her.â
You swallow.
Your eyes flicker to the words again before you can stop them.
The girl in the market, framed by the sunâ
Hands stained with sweetness, a story begunâŠ
Your brain quietly offers an ending: Too busy to chase the dream sheâs spun.
You snap your gaze away. Absolutely not. No.
âMaybeâŠâ you say instead, voice barely audible, âitâs not that you donât know her. Itâs that she doesnât think sheâs worth knowing. So it feels incomplete.â
He blinks. âThatâs⊠strangely specific for a hypothetical.â
You flush. âI sell fruit,â you mumble. âI make up stories in my head sometimes. Thatâs all.â
He stares at you for a long breath.
âWhat was that line you just thought?â he asks.
You choke. âWhat line?â
âThe one you didnât say,â he says calmly. âYou looked at the page, then you looked extremely offended at yourself. There was definitely a line.â
You grip the edge of the stall. âIt was nothing. Just stupid.â
He stands.
You instinctively step back, heart hammering, but he only walks those few steps to your stall and holds the parchment between you, setting the scene like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âCan I hear your âstupidâ line?â he asks, eyes honest. âJust once. If itâs truly terrible I promise to mock it kindly.â
Youâre acutely aware of your father on the far end of the stall and your mother sorting crates behind you. Theyâre not paying attention, but they could, at any second. Your throat feels tight.
âItâs really notââ
âPlease?â
He says it softly, like he actually cares about your answer.
You take a shaky breath.
âJust⊠maybeâŠâ you whisper, ââŠâtoo busy to chase the dream sheâs spunâ?â
It sounds worse out loud. You wince, already regretting it.
He goes very still.
âThatâsââ He lets out a startled laugh. âThatâs good.â
You stare at him. âWhat?â
ââToo busy to chase the dream sheâs spunâ,â he repeats, trying the rhythm. âIt fits. And it gives her something. A conflict. A reason. Thatâs so much better than what I had.â
âIt was just a thought,â you say quickly.
âAnd sometimes thoughts are lines,â he says, like thatâs obvious. âIâm stealing it.â
He snatches his own quill up before you can argue and scribbles the words onto the parchment.
You watch, hands still hovering.
âYou donât have to use it,â you mumble. âItâs not⊠Iâm not aââ
âBard?â he supplies, glancing up with a crooked smile. âI noticed. We tend to come with instruments.â
You huff despite yourself.
He holds his ink-smudged hand out. âSungho,â he says. âLine thief. Bard. Occasional nuisance.â
You hesitantly put your hand in his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful.
You tell him your name.
âNice to finally meet you,â he says, and you realize with a jolt that heâs noticed you before. âYou should come to the inn tonight. Iâll sing your line.â
Your brain short-circuits. âIâ what? No. I canât. I have to be up before dawn, and the stall, andââ
He lifts his hands in surrender. âAlright. Busy girl in the market. Just thought Iâd ask.â Something sparkles in his eyes. âBut I am using the line.â
âThief,â you murmur.
âProudly,â he says. âIâll credit you under my breath where no one can hear it.â
He gives you one more bright grin and melts back into the flow of the market, like a piece of music fading into the background.
You stare after him, a little dazed.
Your mother nudges you with a crate. âHeâs trouble,â she says lightly.
âHeâs a bard,â you say.
âSame thing,â she replies.
You donât disagree.
But you do spend the rest of the day with the rhythm of too busy to chase the dream sheâs spun echoing in your head.
âŠ
You end up at the inn.
You tell yourself itâs because your father needed someone to bring over a late basket of peaches. Thatâs not technically a lie. The innkeeper did send a boy with a message. Your father did grumble about the timing.
You didnât have to be the one to deliver them.
The common room is loud and hot, full of voices and clinking cups and smells you could categorize with your eyes closed: roasted meat, spilled ale, burning wood. You keep your grip tight on the basket. It anchors you.
âAh, perfect, just in time,â the innkeeperâs wife says, taking the peaches from you. âYour father spoils us.â
You murmur something polite, shifting your weight, half turned toward the door already.
And then a familiar voice lifts above the murmur.
âThis oneâs new,â he says, adjusting his grip on the lute. âAbout a girl in the market who doesnât know she belongs in a song.â
Your head snaps up.
When he starts to play, the noise dims like someoneâs turned down a dial.
He meets your gaze across the room. Doesnât look away.
Your heart stutters.
His voice is⊠warm. Thatâs the first thing you notice. Not overly polished, not distant and perfect like some traveling minstrels. Itâs raw and bright and alive, threading through laughter and clinking mugs with an ease that makes you think of sunlight slipping through shutters.
The first verse is his. You can tell by the flow, the way the imagery unfurls a bit grandly. But then he reaches the second part, and you hear your words.
The girl in the market, framed by the sun,
Hands stained with sweetness, a story begun,
Too busy to chase the dream sheâs spunâ
Your breath catches.
He changed a few words, smoothed the line, but itâs still undeniably yours.
You feel exposed and hidden all at once. No one here knows. To them, itâs just another verse, another charming detail. But to you, that line is a secret, whispered in the space between you and the fruit crates, airing now in the open like laundry on a line.
The song goes on, painting a picture of a girl whoâs always working, always giving, always putting herself last. A girl who thinks dreams are for people with lighter baskets and fewer responsibilities. A girl who doesnât realize someone is watching, writing, turning her into something worth singing about.
He never says your name.
He doesnât have to.
When the song ends, the room applauds. You clap too, hands moving automatically, even as your chest feels too tight.
He bows. Looks at you again. His eyes are gentle.
Heâs not laughing at you.
Heâs trying to tell you something.
That thought is almost scarier than the idea of being mocked.
You try to avoid him the next day.
Itâs not that youâre upset. Exactly. Itâs just that you donât know what to do with the way your stomach flips when you think about that song, about your line, about the fact that he saw you so clearly when youâve spent most of your life trying not to be seen at all.
So you focus on work. On stacking fruit. On counting coins. On anything that is solid and simple and wonât look you in the eyes and ask you to sing your own fears out loud.
Itâs a good plan.
It lasts until mid-morning.
âBusy girl in the market,â a familiar voice says. âDo you ever take breaks?â
You jump, nearly dropping the basket of pears. âDonât do that,â you hiss, heart racing.
Sungho raises his hands in surrender, eyes wide with harmless innocence. âSorry,â he says. âI would have announced myself with a fanfare, but the lute isnât exactly⊠subtle.â
âI noticed,â you mutter, remembering the way his music filled the inn.
He leans against the stall, folding his arms. Heâs wearing the same shirt as yesterday, sleeves rolled and laces loose, but thereâs a new piece of parchment tucked into his belt. His fingers tap an absent rhythm against the wood.
âSo,â he says. âDid my performance earn your approval, oh mysterious critic of lines?â
You busy yourself with rearranging apples that donât need rearranging. âYou used it.â
âOf course I used it,â he says, scandalized. âWhy wouldnât I?â
You shrug. âIt was just⊠an example.â
He tilts his head. âDid you hate it?â
âWhat? No! I justâŠâ You bite your lip. âIt was strange. Hearing it like that. In front of everyone.â
âGood strange?â he asks, softer now.
You want to say yes.
You also want to say no, because if you admit it felt good, youâre admitting something bigger: that a part of you liked being seen. That a part of you liked the idea that your thoughts could matter beyond the stall.
You settle on, âI donât know.â
He nods like thatâs an acceptable answer. âFair.â
Silence falls, but itâs not uncomfortable. He watches the crowd. You watch him watching the crowd.
âNew song?â you ask before you can stop yourself, nodding at the parchment.
âTrying to be,â he sighs. âYesterday you made it seem so easy, I thought maybe you cursed me. The muse only visits when youâre nearby.â
Your ears burn. âDonât say things like that.â
âWhy not?â His tone is teasing, but thereâs a thread of sincerity underneath. âItâs true.â
You fidget. âWhat are you stuck on this time?â
He brightens instantly, like a candle catching flame. âYou are going to help me, then?â
âI didnât say that.â
âBut you asked,â he points out, grinning. âThatâs practically an invitation.â
He pulls the parchment free and smooths it on the counter between the baskets. You lean in despite yourself, breathing in the faint scent of ink and paper beneath the heavier smells of fruit and market dust.
âItâs supposed to be a duet,â he explains. âTwo voices. One who travels, one who stays. Iâve got the traveler.â He taps one side of the page, where lines are already spilling down in neat, slanting script. âI donât have the one who stays.â
Your fingers hover over the blank half of the page.
The lines heâs written are full of wide roads and open skies, cities and seas and songs sung in far-off taverns. Theyâre beautiful. Theyâre everything your life is not.
âWhat would someone staying even say to that?â you murmur.
âThat,â he says softly, âis exactly what I want to know.â
You exhale slowly. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
âI really should be selling these peaches,â you say weakly.
âNo oneâs here right now,â he counters. âI swear on my lute, the moment a customer appears, Iâll move aside and let you overcharge them for the best plums in the kingdom.â
âYouâre impossible.â
He smiles, not denying it.
Your gaze drifts back to the page.
I walked a hundred roads and still I roamâŠ
You hear a reply in your head, soft and stubborn at once: Iâve never left this town and still I call it home.
You clamp your mouth shut.
âAnything?â Sungho asks, watching your face like heâs trying to read the lyrics there.
You shake your head, stepping back. âI donâtâ Itâs not my place.â
âWho decided that?â His tone isnât sharp, just curious.
âItâs just⊠I help here,â you say, gesturing to the stall. âMy parents need me. I donât have time for songs.â
He studies you for a long moment.
âIs that what you want,â he asks quietly, âor what youâve accepted?â
The question knocks the breath out of you.
âI should get back to work,â you say, voice tight.
He nods, pushing the parchment away without argument. âAlright,â he says lightly. âBut if any lines happen to wander into your head while youâre stacking cherries, feel free to send them my way.â
âI wonât,â you say.
He chuckles. âWeâll see.â
And then heâs gone, weaving back into the market.
You stare at the empty space he leaves behind.
Iâve never left this town and still I call it home, your mind whispers traitorously.
You do not write it down.
âŠ
The push and pull becomes a rhythm of its own.
Sungho appears at your stall nearly every day after that, always at the edges of rushes when youâre too busy to talk muchâor when youâre just idle enough that he can steal your focus without feeling like heâs truly stealing it.
He brings half-finished verses, humming melodies under his breath. Sometimes he asks you specific questions: âDoes this sound too dramatic?â âIs this image too silly?â âDo you like ânarrow streetâ or âwinding laneâ better?â
Sometimes he just talks about nothing in particular: a funny thing he saw in the next town over, a song an old man taught him by the riverside, a story heâs heard about lands beyond the mountains. His life stretches far beyond the boundaries of your familiar streets, and every time he shares, you feel your world expand just a little more.
You never mean to help.
It just⊠happens.
But as he encourages you more,
âI have to work,â you say, your favorite shield. âThatâs the life I have.â
âLives can have more than one song,â he says softly.
You donât answer.
But when he leaves that day, you find heâs âforgottenâ a scrap of parchment on your stall. Itâs small, folded once, a little messy.
You unfold it that night in your tiny room, lamp flickering.
I walked a hundred roads and still I roam,
Youâve never left this town and still you call it home.
Your breath catches.
He wrote it.
The line you refused to say.
Your fingers tremble as you trace the ink.
Without meaning to, you whisper the next line aloud.
âI carry all these places in my chest,â you murmur, âbut youâre the only place that ever feels like rest.â
You fold the parchment back up like a secret and tuck it under your pillow.
Just for tonight, you tell yourself.
It stays there for many nights after.
âŠ
The budding romance doesnât appear all at once. It grows in the quiet spaces between songs and stalls.
You donât talk about it. Not directly. Thereâs no confession, no dramatic declaration under the moonlight.
Instead, thereâs this:
âItâs almost time for me to move on,â he says one day, voice light but eyes careful as he plucks at his lute near your stall. âAnother town, another inn, more people to torment with my endless verses.â
Your chest tightens. You focus on polishing a pear that doesnât need polishing.
âOf course,â you say. You knew he was a traveler. Youâve always known that this⊠whatever it is⊠exists in a bubble that would eventually pop.
âYouâll have to write without me,â he says, trying for teasing. âI expect at least three new songs about the market when I come back.â
âWho says Iâll be here when you come back?â you joke weakly.
He falters.
âYou leaving?â he asks quietly.
You look at your hands. Your parents. The stall. The town youâve never left.
âI donât know,â you admit.
Itâs the first time youâve allowed yourself to say that out loud.
He watches you for a long moment.
âYou could,â he says. âYou know that, right? Youâre allowed to want something else.â
âI donât know how,â you say. âIâm⊠scared.â
He nods.
âThen start small,â he says. âWrite with me today.â
You blink. âThatâs small?â
âItâs a step,â he says. âAnd steps add up.â
You look at the market. Itâs busy, but your parents are handling the other side of the stall. No one is at your counter right now. The world hasnât ended in the five minutes youâve stolen before. Maybe you can steal a few more.
âJust⊠a verse,â you say again, like a charm.
âJust a verse,â he agrees.
You work on the duet. On the lines between leaving and staying, between roads and doorsteps. He suggests something grand; you temper it with something grounded. You offer a quiet image; he finds the way to make it sing. Your words start to weave together, no longer easily separable into his and yours.
Your shoulders brush, and neither of you move away.
When you laugh at one of his more ridiculous rhymes, he looks at you, really looks, and the sound dies on your tongue as your eyes meet.
The world narrows down to ink and parchment and the space between your faces.
He leans in, just a little.
Your heart stutters.
Then someone calls your name from the other side of the stall, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble.
You jerk back, face burning. He clears his throat, fingers fumbling with the quill.
âRight,â he says, a little hoarse. âDuty calls.â
You force your thoughts back to baskets, coins, weights on scales.
But the line you write together that afternoon stays with you more than any sale.
You wander, I anchor, yet somehow we find,
A home in the verses where our worlds intertwine.
âŠ
He leaves a week later.
Not for good, he promises. âIâll be back when the stories here have grown without me,â he says with a lopsided smile. âCanât have you out-writing me while Iâm gone.â
You hug your arms around yourself, trying to hold yourself together.
âYouâll forget,â you say before you can stop yourself. âNew towns, new songs, new⊠girls in markets.â
His expression softens.
âHey,â he says, stepping closer. âLook at me.â
You do.
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a bundle of parchments. You recognize some of themâthe duet, the girl in the market song, half-finished verses you helped shape. Others are new.
âThese,â he says, pressing them into your hands, âare ours. Keep them safe for me, alright?â
Your throat tightens. âOurs,â you repeat quietly.
âOurs,â he confirms. âProof that youâre a bard, whether you admit it or not.â
You clutch the papers like a lifeline.
âAnd this,â he adds, reaching into his pocket, âis for when you miss me too much.â
You snort, an unexpected laugh bursting through the sadness. âThat assumes Iâll miss you at all.â
He grins. âYou will.â
He presses a small, folded scrap into your palm. You unfold it to find a single line.
I walked a hundred roads and still I roamâŠ
You look up, confused.
He taps your chest gently, right over your heart.
âYou already know the answer,â he says.
Your eyes sting.
âSungho,â you say, his name catching on something in your chest.
He inhales, like heâs about to say something important. Something heavy.
Then he seems to think better of it.
Instead, he smiles, soft and sure, and reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
âKeep writing,â he says. âEven if itâs just in your head. Even if itâs between weighing apples and counting coins. Iâll want to hear everything when I come back.â
âWhen you come back,â you echo, clinging to the certainty in his tone.
He nods.
âAnd next time,â he adds, eyes warm, âIâm not letting you hide behind the stall. Weâre singing that duet at the inn.â
Your heart stumbles. âIn front of everyone?â
âIn front of everyone,â he says. âOr no one. Whatever youâre ready for.â He squeezes your hand around the parchment. âJust promise me you wonât pretend this part of you doesnât exist anymore.â
You look down at your ink-smudged fingers. At the words that have started to feel less like accidents and more like choices.
âI promise,â you whisper.
His smile widens.
âGood,â he says softly. âThen this isnât goodbye. Itâs just⊠a verse break.â
You laugh through the ache in your chest. âThatâs a terrible metaphor,â you say.
âIâm workshopping it,â he says. âIâll ask my favorite co-writer for notes when Iâm back.â
And then, before you can overthink it, he leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead.
Itâs a brief touch. Chaste. But it sends warmth flooding through you, from your hairline down to your toes.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink, but his eyes are steady.
âTake care, busy girl in the market,â he murmurs.
âTake care, ridiculous bard,â you reply.
He laughs, steps back, and shouldering his lute, he walks toward the road.
You watch until heâs just a speck in the distance.
Then you look down at the parchment in your hand.
I walked a hundred roads and still I roamâŠ
âIâve never left this town and still I call it home,â you murmur, âbut my heartâs learned the sound of your traveling song.â
đ ACCORDING TO THE DOORSTEP DAILY, THERE ARE 3 WAYS TO SPEND A PERFECT 24 DAYS LEADING UP TO THE 25TH OF DECEMBER. OR IN OTHER WORDS, CHRISTMAS.
OR IN WHICH 18 of your favorite boynextdoor authors collaborate to show you how you can spend a very onedoor Christmas with six versions of three steps for every day leading up to Mr. Big D-Day!
NOTE Hello everyone! Iâm so excited to introduce my most complicated event yet! Haha~ Iâm so blessed to gather all these amazing bnd writers and Iâm so grateful to them for participating in this yearâs Christmas event! I and the others worked really hard on this, so I hope you all enjoy it as well as we do!! Thank you again for everything! Truly grateful for all your support <3 p.s. if you wish to join the taglist just comment
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
DOORSTEP DAILY HOLIDAY EDITION â EXTRA, EXTRA!
Headline: THE THREE-STEP GUIDE TO THE PERFECT 24 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS
By: The BoyNextDoor Editorial Team ( and maybe a little help from Cupid himself )
Itâs that time of the year againâwhen snowflakes start showing off, playlists start jingling, and people suddenly remember they like each other. According to Doorstepâs very serious, totally scientific research ( conducted between cups of cocoa and accidental mistletoe incidents ), there are exactly three ways to spend the perfect twenty-four days leading up to Christmas.
STEP ONE: Make Something That Feels Like Home.
STEP TWO: Give What You Canât Wrap.
STEP THREE: Find Your Spark Under the Lights.
Three steps. Twenty-four days. Countless ways to accidentally fall in love, set your kitchen on fire with gingerbread ambitions, or realize that maybe the real present was the person you spent December with. So grab your scarf, charge your phone ( for pictures and emergencies! ), and letâs make this Christmas one for the headlines!
*ALL POSTS REGARDING THIS COLLAB WILL HAVE THE #Countdown2Christmas TAG
OPEN ARTICLE?âŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ.âŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ..YES
STEP ONE: MAKE SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE HOME
DAY 3: SONG OF BARDS AND BERRIES | @astrae4
SYNOPSIS: In a small market town, youâre just the fruit sellerâs daughter until Sungho, a wandering bard, starts writing songs across from your stall. When you accidentally help him finish a lyric, he keeps coming backâasking for your thoughts, your voice, and slowly, a place in your quiet life. Between your daily work and his restless travels, the two of you form an unexpected connection, crafting songs together as a gentle romance begins to bloom.
pairing. park sungho x reader, writing a song
genre. Romance, medieval era fiction, fluff, slight angst, soft yearning, and as slow burn as 4k words can get meâŠ
warnings. Reader has a lot of internal problems with what she wants vs whatâs realistic to her.
published. 3 December, 2025. WC. 3.9k
DAY 4: THE GIFT YOU FORGOT YOU WERE | @hollyoongs
SYNOPSIS: As Jaehyunâs birthday arrives, you prepare something that is meant to lift his spirits during a time when everything has dimmed his usual brightness. What was meant to be a simple celebration quietly unfolds into a moment of honesty, comfort, and warmth, where both learn how much love can heal when words fall short.
pairing. jaehyun x reader, making handmade gifts
genre. established relationship, angst, and finishing FLUFF
warnings. Emotional distress, depictions of burnout and exhaustion, mentions of online hate, cyberbullying, and negative comment
published. 4 December, 2025. WC. 2.3k
DAY 5: SNOW-KISSED | @taestulipss
SYNOPSIS: You havenât spoken to your best friend in weeksânot since that disastrous night. But when you find yourself stranded at the dorms for the holidays, and fate pushes you together once moreâa Christmas miracle might just be in tow.
pairing. taesan x reader, building a pillow fort
genre. fluff, best friends to lovers
warnings. jealousy, arguments
published. 5 December, 2025. WC. 3.8k
DAY 6: WARM SUGAR | @gyurilla
SYNOPSIS: you and riwoo spend the afternoon baking gingerbread houses while "Snow Flower' plays softly in the background. the room is warm, the air smells like sugar, and everything feels calm..
pairing. riwoo x reader, making gingerbread houses
genre. fluff, established relationship
warnings. none
published. 6 December, 2025. WC. 3.2k
DAY 7: ENTANGLED WITH LIGHTS (& LOVE) | @ihankaji
SYNOPSIS: After finding out that youâve never decorated a Christmas tree before, Woonhak was determined to change that. Whether it turns out to be the most perfect picture of a holiday moment or a tangled mess of lights and ornaments, his goal was to make it an experience youâd never forget. And much to his luck, the moment becomes chaotic, heartwarming, and maybe just a little romantic.
pairing. woonhak x reader, decorating the tree
genre. established relationship, fluff, romance
warnings. banter ( sungho appearance for plot build up kinda! ), ments. of overthinking / worries
published. 7 December, 2025. WC. 3.8k
DAY 8: WARM MUGS | @moesthinking
SYNOPSIS: You and Leehan have been in a healthy relationship since his late trainee days, but with a healthy relationship comes hardships to overcome. Leehan is a busy man with a demanding schedule and constant travel, and he unfortunately forgets to give you the attention you deserve. Once he returns home, you decide to solve your problems over hot chocolate and Christmas cheer.
pairing. leehan x reader , making hot cocoa
genre. fluff , established lovers , sprinkle of angst
warnings. relationship problems, overall no warnings
published. 8 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
STEP TWO: GIVE WHAT YOU CANâT WRAP
DAY 11: CAN WE ADDRESS THE MISTLETOE IN THE ROOM? | @tobiotaesan
SYNOPSIS: Last year, Yn gave her heart to Jaehyun. But he gave it back to her. And this year, well...Jaehyun decides to give his to her.
pairing. jaehyun x reader, helping at a charity event
genre. fluff, very tiny itty bitty angst, best friends to almost lovers to lovers
warnings. bickering (mostly sanhakhwe), kissing
published. 11 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
DAY 12: STUDY GUIDE TO MY HEART | @starriniqhts
SYNOPSIS: juggling straight Aâs along with your student job as a peer tutor is most certainly not for the weak⊠and this semesterâs exams might really do you in. until a certain someone enters your life with a desperate plea for help. perhaps this yearâs holiday season will be more than just cold libraries and studies, but instead warmer with him by your side.
pairing. riwoo x reader, giving each other confidence
genre. college!au, strangers to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, sickfic for a hot minute, angst if u squint real hard
warnings. final exams !!, general academic anxiety, reader falls ill (general cold nth serious), very sweet one may get toothaches
published. 12 December, 2025. WC. 3.3k
DAY 13: TIME OF OUR LIFE! | @ring4hiy
SYNOPSIS: Dating your bandâs electric guitarist and producer while being in the midst of preparing for the next album pretty much equals to hectic days and less free time. On the bright side, Christmas is around the corner, which gives you the perfect excuse to drag Taesan out of the producer chair and get him to learn the one instrument youâve been forcing wanting him to learn!
pairing. taesan x reader, teaching the other a music instrument
genre. fluff, established lovers, electric guitarist x bassist
warnings. ynâs a little freaky for taesan, kisses
published. 13 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
DAY 14: BACK TO DECEMBER | @coriihanniee
SYNOPSIS: Christmas was a beginning before it became an ending. Years after a fight that left everything fractured and his departure turned the holiday into a memory you could no longer celebrate, you find what he left behindâa truth you weren't meant to discover, a confession that unravels everything. What you can't wrap, you can only give. What you couldn't say then, you must say now.
pairing. leehan x reader, confessing your feelings
genre. fluff, angst w/ comfort, childhood friends to strangers to lovers
warnings. angst, past argument
published. 14 December, 2025. WC. 3.5k
DAY 15: IâLL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS (IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS) | @wooahoe
SYNOPSIS: The past few weeks were spent stealing kisses under lamplight, snow-covered streets and midnight escapades, but you both knew it wouldnât last forever. At least you could pretend, at least for a little while, until he has to leave.
pairing. woonhak x reader, staying up to listen
genre. so much angst not enough comfort, established relationship
warnings. angst. so much fucking angst. hopefully i write comfort weâll see. pda, kissing, perhaps a few tears idk itâll work out i think
published. 15 December, 2025. WC. 3k
DAY 16: THE WARMTH OF YOU | @tsanho
SYNOPSIS: if love was a feeling, it would be the feeling of sunghoâs gaze on you as you study, his fingers tapping the desk softly as he hums along to your explanations of concepts he never knew existed. if love was a feeling, it would be the feeling of sunghoâs home cooked meals filling the air of your shared apartment as he makes sure youâre not just living off of ramen and coffee until the end of the semester. and if love was a feeling, it would most definitely be the feeling of sungho consoling you, taking care of you without a word as he holds you close and lets your tears stain his shirt.
pairing. sungho x reader, acts of service
genre. fluff, minor angst but it gets resolved, established relationship (bf/gf)
warnings. some crying i suppose⊠idk how to tag sfw stuff lowkey
published. 16 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
STEP THREE: FIND YOUR SPARK UNDER THE LIGHTS
DAY 19: STAR-ALIGNED | @yunextdoor
SYNOPSIS: Itâs Christmas Eve. During that time youâd usually be with your relativesâhaving dinner as wholesome speech and the warmth of family dance in the air around you. However, this year, you have something planned. Something that requires you to leave dinner halfway through and make your way to your best friendâs place. More specifically, the rooftop of the building where he lives. What could possibly happen under the pitch black sky, where all the stars have aligned?
pairing. woonhak x reader, rooftop stargazing
genre. fluff, romance, and best friends to ???
warnings. swearing (if you squint)
published. 19 December, 2025. WC. 4k
DAY 20: DECEMBER LIGHTS & TENDER NIGHTS | @mirisss
SYNOPSIS: A snowy night. Twinkling lights. Laughter that makes your heart skip a beat. Jaehyun and (Y/n) thought a simple stroll through the Christmas market would be just that⊠simple. But some moments, some sparks, are impossible to ignore.
pairing. jaehyun x reader, mistletoe
genre. fluff and friends to lovers
warnings. none
published. 20 December, 2025. WC. 2k
DAY 21: UNDERNEATH THE TREE | @riumori
SYNOPSIS: Festive season is your favourite time of the year, listening to festive music and decorating the tree with your loved one, Riwoo. Not only is it your favourite time of the year because you get to spend time with one another, but most importantly because something always tends to go wrong.
pairing. riwoo x reader, caroling chaos at home
genre. fluff and crack
warnings. skinship and swearing
published. 21 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
DAY 22: I HEART ICE SKATER(S) | @woongelaatin
SYNOPSIS: Sungho hates ice skating. He's not good at it either, but the moment he meets you, he's willing to tryâeven if he sucks at it. He wants to make you happy after all.
pairing. sungho x reader, ice rink
genre. Fluff, love at first sight, friends to lovers
warnings. none
published. 22 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k
DAY 23: JUST LET ME LOVE YOU | @htaesan
SYNOPSIS: Taesan had spent almost his entire life behind steelâswords, arrows, armour, and duty. He swore by his life to never remove the armour, but one winter night brought himself to stand before you without it. He faltered. Hesitated, more loyal to you than to the nation your father commanded, at the edge of a line he never meant to cross. And maybeâjust maybeâthe lingering scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through the cold air was the final push he needed to accept his princessâs love.
pairing. taesan x reader, holding hands at a christmas market
genre. angst(????), (a bit of) fluff, forbidden love, princess x knight/guard, joseon!era, slight age gap (1-2 years difference), mutual feelings but undefined relationship (pls help me define this.. Is it âunresolved romantic tensionâ or âmutual piningâ?? IDK)
warnings. open ending
published. 23 December, 2025. WC. 3k
DAY 24: A WINTERâS GLOW | @lovehakie
SYNOPSIS: Snow falls softly over the city streets, turning every lamp, shop window, and riverside railing into something magical. Youâre bundled up in scarves and Leehanâs warmth, sipping rich hot cocoa, laughing at his teasing, and stealing kisses under twinkling lights. From a secret silver bracelet to a perfectly timed mistletoe, every little moment feels like Christmas itself â sweet, cozy, and unforgettable. One night, one stroll, and one perfect Christmas kiss might just be the memory you carry all year.
pairing. leehan x reader, city light kiss
genre. fluff, est. relationship
warnings. light romantic content, long cozy kisses, playful teasing between partners, cold weather and snow, christmas traditions like hot cocoa and mistletoe, and heartwarming holiday fluff.
FRILLS AND GLITTERS AND ALL THINGS LACE | Kim Woonhak
pairings â boynextdoorâs Woonhak x reader
genre â romance & fluff (wc. 520)
warnings â none!
note â in a nutshell, this is woonhak with a girly gf!! Req by this anon đđ
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
Woonhak absolutely melts for how unapologetically girly you are. The first time he saw you with your pink hair clips, sparkly lip gloss, and fluffy cardigan, he literally forgot what he was supposed to say. His brain just went, âoh. sheâs the cutest thing alive.â
Youâre always showing up with something adorableâa new bag charm, glittery nails, or a cute perfumeâand heâs your #1 hype man. âWait, you did your nails like that? Babe, they look like tiny candies.â He says it like he just discovered art for the first time.
He lets you use him as your personal canvas. Youâll sit him down and put heart stickers on his cheeks, or paint a tiny pinky nail for âgood luck.â He always acts embarrassed but never wipes it off. ( Jaehyun teased him onceââbro, is that⊠glitter?ââand Woonhak just smiled and said, âyeah, she put it there.â )
Every time you hang out, he takes Polaroids. He swears itâs âfor the memories,â but half of them are just close-ups of your smile or your outfit details. He keeps his favorite oneâyou hugging him with matching earmuffsâtucked behind his phone case.
He secretly memorizes your favorite scents. The next time heâs out shopping, heâll notice a strawberry hand cream and think, thatâs so her, and buy it without hesitation.
You always leave little pink heart notes in his pockets: âdrink water <3â or âyouâre the cutest.â He doesnât tell you this, but he keeps every single one in a box at home.
When you two walk together, he automatically slows down so you donât trip in your platform shoes. Heâll carry your bag if itâs heavy ( even if itâs a frilly pink one ). He doesnât careââit suits me, right?â he jokes, striking a pose just to make you laugh.
Woonhak was genuinely worried when he had to bring you to the members for the first time, but you just put on your lipgloss and went âletâs go!â
You smoothed the pink bow in your hair for the fifth time before Woonhak opened the dorm door. His hand was warm against yoursâsteady, reassuring.
âGuys, this isâŠher,â he said, cheeks already flushed.
The living room erupted in chaos. Taesan grinned first. âAh, so this is the one who made Woonhak start using hand cream.â You laughed, and Woonhak groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Jaehyun offered you a juice box like it was a peace treaty. Riwoo complimented your outfit ( âyou look like you stepped out of a music videoâ ), and Leehan just smiled quietly, clearly amused by how pink everything about you wasâfrom your shoes to your phone case.
By the time you were all sitting around the couch, Woonhak had relaxed, his knee brushing yours.
âSee?â you whispered teasingly. âTold you theyâd like me.â
He smiled, soft and proud. âYeah⊠maybe a little too much.â
Around you, he becomes softer. He talks in that sweet, slightly shy tone, laughs more, and lets himself be as dorky as he wants. You bring out the part of him that isnât an idolâjust Woonhak, your boy who loves your sparkly world.
note â this was a request from this anon!! such a sweet req to write, honestly..
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
THE FIRST TIME you meet Sungho, heâs tuning his guitar by the window of the music roomâsunlight slipping through the glass, catching in his hair, turning him into something quietly golden.
You join the club a week after him, clutching your signup form like itâs a lifeline.
( And perhaps it was. You know, your dignityâs lifeline⊠)
You tell everyone you donât really play, that you just like musicâthatâs true. Whatâs also true is that youâve always wanted to learn, but guitars seemed like magic tricks for people with steadier hands.
Sungho smiles when he hears that. âThen letâs make it less scary,â he says, the kind of smile that makes you want to believe him.
Thatâs how it startsâthe two of you staying behind after club hours, your knees brushing under the old wooden table while he shows you how to hold a pick properly. Heâs patient, never laughs when your fingers fumble or when you hit the wrong string. He just says, âThatâs part of it. Every note you mess up is a note youâll get right next time.â
You start to notice things about him.
How he hums softly when heâs thinking. How he always tunes your guitar before he hands it to you. How he listensâreally listensâwhen you talk about your day, even the boring parts.
And maybe he notices things about you too.
How you tilt your head when youâre concentrating. How you laugh quietly when the strings buzz wrong. How you sometimes get so focused that you forget to blink until he teases, âHey, breathe. The guitarâs not going anywhere.â
âŠ
One afternoon, the others leave early for exams, and itâs just the two of you. The air hums with the faint smell of wood polish and sunlight. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, your guitar on your lap. Sungho sits behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.
âOkay,â he says softly. âWeâll do the G major chord again. You almost had it yesterday.â
You nod, heart beating faster than it should. âAlmost.â
âHere,â he murmurs, shifting closer. His arms slip around you as he reaches for your hands, his chest brushing lightly against your back. You can feel his breath near your ear, warm and careful. âThis finger here,â he whispers, guiding your hand onto the fretboard, âand this one hereâŠyeah. Just like that.â
Your fingers tremble, but not because of the chord.
You can feel his heartbeat against your shoulderâfast, nervous, maybe matching yours. He doesnât move away. Neither do you. The silence stretches, heavy with something new, something fragile.
He leans in just a little more, his voice low. âYouâre doing great,â he says, and you can hear the smile in his words. Then softer, almost unsure, âCan Iââ
You turn your head, and thatâs when he kisses you.
Itâs hesitant at first, like heâs afraid youâll pull away. But you donât. The world narrows to the quiet thrum of the guitar strings between your hands and the taste of sunlight on his lips. When he finally pulls back, heâs blushing so hard you almost forget how to breathe.
âIâI didnât plan that,â he says, laughing nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. âI just⊠I couldnât help it. Youâreâwell, youâre kind of everything I look forward to here.â
You stare at him, dazed, fingers still curled around the guitar. âSunghoâŠâ
He takes your hand gently, still red-eared but determined now. âI really like you. I have for a while. I thought maybe it was just because we were friends or because we play music together, butââ He exhales, eyes soft. âItâs more than that. I want to be the one who teaches you chords, who hears you play your first song, who gets to call you mine. SoâŠwill you be my girlfriend?â
It takes a moment for your heart to catch up with your mouth. Then you smileâsmall, breathless, real.
âYeah,â you say, voice a little shaky but sure. âIâd like that.â
He grins, relief and joy flooding his face. âReally?â
âReally,â you laugh, cheeks burning.
He takes the guitar gently from your hands, sets it aside, and wraps his arms around you againâthis time without pretending itâs for teaching. And when he kisses you again, it feels exactly like musicâwarm, unhurried, and full of promise.
Somewhere in the corner of the room, a single guitar string hums quietly on its own, like it knows it just witnessed the beginning of a new song.
SAVING (AND SECURING) A MAN FROM HIS FEAR OF HIS OWN POWERS | Myung Jaehyun
pairings â boynextdoorâs Jaehyun x vet!reader
genre â slice of life, fantasy, romance-comedy (wc. 3.2k)
warnings â Jaehyun has a fear of all animals, we try to fix it. mentions of hyperventilating, and kissing
note â this ideaâs from my moot @taestulipss <33 check out her blog as well!! also idk how i pushed out this much in 4(?) hours but the idea came thru in clutch n i went overboardâŠkinda..
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
YOU MEET HIM BETWEEN a pharmacy that sells mood-ring bandages and a flower shop that hums if you stand too close.
Your city is like thatâenchanted, but casual about it. Traffic lights occasionally blink in sync with your feelings, pigeons take online courses, and the municipal bus apologizes when it hits a pothole.
Most people have little gifts that make life cute or convenient. You can coax skittish animals to calm with a steady voice and a gentle palm. Your roommate can reheat pizza by glaring at it. The barista down the street can taste lies in milk foam. Itâs all very manageable.
Then there is Jaehyun.
You first hear him before you see him. A breathless, earnest, âI come in peace!â followed by the rustle of a hundred small wings and at least one honk from a creature that should never be this close to a florist.
You round the corner clutching your tote full of vet textbooks and emergency sunflower seeds and there he isâtall, beautiful in that boy-next-door-with-a-comic-book-cover face way, and catastrophically surrounded. Sparrows sing in anxious harmony from the awning. A duck waddles over his shoes like itâs checking his layaway plan. An alley cat, tail held like punctuation, circles his ankles. He is not touching anything. He is not moving at all. He is trying, bravely, not to hyperventilate.
âHi,â you say carefully, your voice pitched for skittish kittens and first-years who faint in anatomy labs. â[Reader]. Iâm from the uni clinic. You lookâŠpopular.â
He startles like compliments are missiles. âI swear I didnât invite them. I just thought aboutâabout being calmâand then they arrived like a flash mob.â
âSo, your gift isâŠanimal attraction?â you ask, even though the evidence is singing a four-part harmony over your head.
He winces. âAttraction sounds mutual. This is more like animal insistence. They insist. On me.â
âAnd youâre scared.â
âRespectfully, I am terrified of the entire animal kingdom,â he says, earnest and mortified. âI get clammy around goldfish. Goldfish.â
A pigeon plops onto the flower shop sign and coos like a disappointed aunt. Jaehyun flinches so hard he nearly apologizes to the air.
âOkay,â you say, stepping closer, letting your field instincts take the wheel. âEveryoneâs okay. No one is going to nibble you. May I?â
He nods, eyes wide, a yes with all the hope in the world stapled to it.
You slip between him and the avian committee and put one steady hand just above his wrist, not touching, letting your voice do the anchoring. âFriends,â you tell the birds and the duck and the punctuation cat. âThis is a vulnerable pedestrian. We appreciate the choir. Two steps back. Thank you.â
Jaehyun exhales like he has been underwater since childhood. âHowâhow did you do that?â
âI study veterinary medicine,â you say, like that explains magic. âAnd I have a small calming thing. Itâs not glamorous. It just helps fuzzy people and non-fuzzy people remember they have spines.â
âI would very much like to remember that I have a spine,â he says fervently.
Jaehyun watches the non-mobbing with the expression of someone seeing a door in a wall. âIs thisâŠnormal? The way they act around me?â
âIn this city?â you say. âNormal is a washing machine setting. But yesâgifts sometimes go blunt before they go sharp. Yours isâŠvery committed.â
He deflates into something like sheepishness and awe. âI think Iâm a cursed music box.â
âYouâre a very polite music box,â you say. âThat helps.â
You walk him to the campus wildlife clinic because it seems like the kind thing to do and also because the duck is attempting to groove along and the flower shop owner is giving you a look that says take the parade elsewhere. Along the way, Jaehyun narrates in the disbelieving tone of a person giving evidence at his own trial.
âThere were squirrels at the tram stop,â he says, counting on his fingers. âThen a deer outside my lecture hall window. Then at lunch, the campus koi lined up like I owed them a TED Talk.â
âThey probably liked your aura.â
âMy aura is panic in a denim jacket.â
You have to bite your lip to keep a laugh from escaping. âWhatâs your name, panic in a denim jacket?â
âJaehyun,â he says, and the way he says itâtrying to be brave and also charmingâmakes you a little dizzy. âWhatâs yours?â
You tap the name embroidered on your clinic scrubs peeking out from your coat. He reads it softly. It sounds good in his mouth. You file that away where you keep reasons to smile later, alone.
âOkay, Jaehyun,â you say. âHereâs the deal. Iâll help you learn to redirect the attention so you can, you know, have a life. Youâll stop thinking of yourself as a cursed music box and start thinking of yourself as a stadium with security.â
âA stadium with security,â he repeats, like heâs trying on a hat. âThat soundsâŠcool.â
âIt does. Youâll be so cool that ducks will respect your boundaries.â
The duck quacks like it reserves the right to renegotiate.
âŠ
Training is structured chaos. Your clinic supervisor is supportive in the way of someone who once dated a person who could turn invisible during arguments, so nothing fazes them. You reserve a quiet corner of the courtyard where enchanted ivy climbs the brick and occasionally spells out encouraging messages. You bring seed and lettuce and a first-aid kit and the confidence of someone who can look a goose in the eye and win.
Lesson one is breathing and posture. You show him how to stand in a way that suggests you are listening to the room but not available for interviews. You encourage him to lower his voice until his sentences sound like he ironed them.
âHi,â he tells a semicircle of pigeons who have published academic papers on loafing. âRespectfully, please admire me from afar.â
They blink. TheyâŠloaf farther away. Jaehyun grins like someone turned on more sky.
Lesson two is redirecting. You teach him to pointânot wildly, but like a maĂźtre dâ with great news and no time for fuss. You set up a bright feeder at a respectful distance. When his panicked hum starts to collect birds like bracelets, you tap his wristâone-two-threeâand he uses the feeder like a stage manager calling lights. The birds swivel and go. He exhales in a rush, giddy.
âYouâre actually a savior,â he tells you with complete sincerity. âIâm going to make you a medal out of sunflower seeds.â
âIâll wear it,â you say, probably too quickly.
He notices. His smile softens around the edges. âGood.â
Lesson three is touchâspecifically, not panicking when a friendly creature is simply curious. You start with the clinicâs education rabbit, Mrs. Beantown, who has a doctorate in vibes. You ask if heâs comfortable being near her. He says he trusts you. The words land like confetti.
You kneel on the mat, encourage Beantown to sniff his sneakers. Jaehyun trembles imperceptibly, the way leaves do before a breeze. You talk him through itâthere is no test here, just a rabbit with opinions. Slowly, like a sunrise he didnât know he was allowed, his shoulders come down. Beantown puts her paws on his knee and starts a polite little bread-making routine. He freezes. You slide your hand next to his on the mat, close enough to borrow calm. He relaxes by degrees.
âSheâs warm,â he whispers, terrified and in love.
âMost hearts are,â you whisper back.
He looks at you, startled by the rhyme in that truth. You look at Beantown because if you look at him too long this might turn into a different lesson.
He gets better. You notice that his gift reacts to his fear like a megaphone; as he learns to regulate, the volume turns down. He can pass a fountain without starting a carp convention. He can sit on the clinic steps and sip a latte while pigeons file taxes elsewhere. His gratitude is loud and bright and constant. He brings you pastries from across townâeclairs, tiny cakes that look like clouds, a cookie stamped with your initials because he asked the baker to do it and the baker had a flair for romance. He calls you his savior as a joke, then not as a joke, then as a quiet little prayer to the day when he thinks you canât hear.
âStop calling me that,â you say, flustered and fond.
âNever,â he says brightly. âYou saved me from my own musical number.â
âŠ
Of course the universe checks your progress with a pop quiz.
It happens during spring festival week when everyoneâs gifts are a little showier and the city strings fairy lights between buildings like itâs practicing handwriting in cursive. The clinic sets up a community stallâpet safety tips, free checkups for familiars, a booth where toddlers can bandage plushies and declare them healed. You wear your good scrubs and the pin your roommate made that says Vet In Training in glitter font. Jaehyun shows up in a sweater the exact shade of blushing peaches and offers to help carry crates. He is careful. He is calm. He is so handsome you forget, briefly, that ducks exist.
Then the marching band appears.
You donât know who invited them. You donât know why their trumpets are tuned to chaotic neutral. But the first bright blast of brass ricochets down the street and punches straight through Jaehyunâs nervous system. You watch the old reflex click inâtremor in his exhale, urge to flight in his calvesâand you watch the animals watch him. Birds wheel. A dog three stalls over perks up. A raccoon in a baby carrier (do not ask) makes a face like, oh?
âHey,â you say, already moving, already a wall and a window at once. You place yourself in his line of sight. You tap his wristâone-two-three. âStadium with security.â
Heâs breathing too fast. âI canâtâI donât wantââ
âStadium,â you repeat, voice low. âSay it.â
He swallows. âStadium with security.â
âAgain.â
âStadium with security,â he says, voice thinning, then finding itself.
You tilt your head toward the clinic tent where a volunteer stands ready with the seed container for the demonstration feeder. You nod. She nods. The birds, sensing an invitation properly sent, pivot midair and arrow toward the feeder like the sheet music flipped to the instrumental. The dog loses interest and returns to judging chew toy prices. The raccoon pulls a tiny pair of sunglasses from somewhere and puts them on upside down.
Jaehyun stares at you like you just defused a bomb with a wink. You squeeze his fingers once. He squeezes back like heâs found purchase on the day, then lets go because he is both respectful and, frankly, killing you.
âYou did that,â you say.
âYou did that,â he counters.
âFineâteam effort,â you concede.
He licks his lips, thenâtentative, still brightââSavior, after we pack up, could I bribe you with dumplings? As thanks. And also as a request for more of your time in my proximity.â
You pretend to consider so you donât visibly melt. âProximity fees are steep.â
âIâll pay in soup and honesty.â
âSold.â
âŠ
Dumplings turn into tea. Tea turns into evenings where you lean against the clinic wall while the city sifts into night, Jaehyunâs shoulder warm against yours as he recounts his day with a running commentary so funny you drop your notes twice. He is still cautious around anything with hooves or surprise teeth, but he is brave in all the ways that matterâhe shows up, even when the world feels like a chorus he didnât audition for. You like him with a fierceness that is not even trying to disguise itself as casual.
He likes you with the urgency of a person who has found the kind of tenderness he thought belonged only in books.
One late afternoon, on a grassy bit of campus where the wind smells like dandelion promises, he says, âCan I ask something technically embarrassing?â
âPlease.â
âWhen weâre together, the animals chill. When Iâm alone, they stillâŠdo the most. Is that because you are extremely gifted, or because you are myââ He stops like the next word is a cliff. ââmy anchor.â
Your laugh startles a buttercup. âIt can be both.â
âOh.â He looks delighted and completely undone, like someone turned his bones into exclamation points. âWould it be very forward to say that youâre my favorite person?â
âDeeply forward.â
âIâm going to risk it,â he says, soft. âYouâre my favorite person.â
You look at his mouth. He looks at yours. The shy courage on his face makes you brave, too. âJaehyun,â you say. âI like you. Is that okay?â
He blinks once, like the city flickered its fairy lights to spell He likes you back. Then he smiles the exact smile youâd put in a painting if you were trying to explain sweetness. âThatâs more than okay,â he says. âMay Iâcould Iââ
âKiss me,â you suggest, because you are not going to let this boy stutter his way into oblivion.
He kisses you like gratitude and bubble tea and someone finally found the volume knob and turned it to just right. It is gentle and bright and a little clumsy because heâs shaking, but itâs the kind of clumsy you write down so you never forget how honest it felt.
When you break, you feel dizzy in the best way. He presses his forehead to yours. Somewhere far away a starling does its best impression of a violin. As if on cue, a single bluebird lands on the handle of the thermos and watches politely.
âRespectfully,â Jaehyun tells it, breath a little wrecked. âWeâre busy.â
The bluebird gives what can only be described as a scandalized chirp and leaves.
Jaehyun turns to you anyway.
âThank you,â he whispers, forehead against yours. âFor rescuing me from jazz geese and my own nervous system.â
âYou did most of that,â you say, thumb smoothing over his sweater cuff. âI just pointed at a bird feeder.â
âYou pointed at my courage,â he says. âSame thing.â
âŠ
Itâs almost comedic, then, that your first real date involves a field emergency. The clinic gets a call about a stray dog with a jar stuck on its headâthe classic embarrassment. You and Jaehyun detour from your plan of fancy ice cream and city lights and jog to the alley behind the library where the dog is despairing at its reflection in the glass. Itâs medium-sized, mottled, with the kind of eyes that could make a poet annoying.
You kneel, opening your hands. âHey, sweetheart,â you say. âWeâre going to help.â Jaehyun flanks you, breathing like he practiced, presence like a promise.
The dog freezes. You keep your voice low, soothing. You feel Jaehyun tune himself to your frequency, that soft hum his gift makes when itâs not a siren but a line drawn in sandâsafe here, calm here. Together, you inch closer. You check the angle. You pour a little oil around the lip of the jar, count down quietly. âOn three,â you say. âOne, twoââ
On two, the dog panics and jerks. Jaehyun moves without thinkingâhands steady on the jar, body angled to block retreat into traffic, voice a low stream of youâre okay, youâre okay, youâre okay. You slip your fingers between plastic and fur and twist. The jar pops off with a comedic little plop. The dog shakes indignantly, blinks at you with sudden freedom, and then jumps forward to lick Jaehyunâs chin like heâs a miracle.
He laughs, high and stung and happy. You put the jar in your tote to recycle because you are a hero of small things. The dog, mission accomplished, trots away with a dignity it did not possess two minutes ago.
Jaehyun turns to you with eyes too bright for the streetlights. âI wasnât scared,â he says, wonder and pride braided together. âI mean I was a little scared, because teeth, but I wasnâtâI wasnât frozen.â
âYou were perfect,â you say, and you mean it so hard your mouth softens around the words.
He swallows, cheeks pink, then blurts, âI brought you something,â like he couldnât hold it any longer if he tried. He pulls a tiny box from his pocket. Inside is a charm shaped like a very silly duck wearing a tiny bow tie. âFor your stethoscope,â he says. âSo the ducks know you outrank them.â
You laugh so suddenly you startle the alley ivy into spelling AWWW on the wall. âI adore it.â
âI adore you,â he says, then claps a hand over his mouth like the truth escaped early. You gently tug the hand down.
âI adore you too,â you say.
He looks like the lights got brighter without electricity. He leans in again, slower this time, more certain. The kiss tastes like victories and the promise of ice cream after all. In the corner of your eye you see a raccoon sitting in a recycling bin, applauding with a yogurt lid. You ignore it because you are busy.
âŠ
Weeks lengthen into a season. You study. He studies. He walks past fountains like a king with kind policies. He still texts you âSavior?â when a goose glowers, and you still text back âSecurity en routeâ with a photo of your shoes. You make a bracelet from the ribbon that came with the duck charm and wear it on days you need extra courage. He makes you playlists with titles like For When The Cats Are Judging and For When You Need To Believe In Your Own Hands.
Your city keeps being itselfâshop windows humming, buses apologizing, festivals occurring unexpectedly on Tuesdays. People ask if the animals still mob him. Sometimes they drift near, curious, but they donât swarm. Theyâve learned that the music box grew legs and boundaries and fell in love with someone who taught it the difference between noise and song.
On the night your exam results come in and you pass a course you were genuinely afraid of, Jaehyun shows up at your door with a bouquet that is definitely just herbs because flowers make him nervous and a cake that says Proud Of You in wobbly icing. You kiss him in your kitchen with the humming fridge for a witness. After, you two sit on the floor and eat cake with forks, your knees pressed together, your ankle tucked under his. When you lean into his shoulder, he hums without thinkingâa soft, contented sound.
No birds come.
You smile into his sweater, savoring the small miracle of quiet. âWe did it,â you say.
âWe did,â he agrees. âBut for the recordâif a sparrow ever shows up to narrate how I feel about you, I wonât be mad.â
You pretend to consider. âIt can clap politely from the curb.â
âDeal.â
He lifts your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist, right where the duck charm chain has indented your skin. âThank you,â he says, like he says it every day and means it every time. âFor being my stadium with security. And my favorite person.â
âThank you,â you say back, because this, too, is a duet. âFor turning your curse into choreography.â
He grins, soft and wide. âWanna go make sure no oneâs feeding bread to the pond ducks?â
âOnly if you hold my hand when the geese are rude.â
âAlways,â he promises. And he does, and you do, and the city hums along, delighted by the sight of two people who found the exact kind of gentle they needed and were sensible enough to keep it.
SYNOPSIS: A new semester brings new faces, new schedulesâand new partners. The Academy feels almost the same as before, though certain corners seem quieter than you remember. When you meet Leehan, the reserved marquess of Class B, his quiet courtesy feels like a breath of calm in the rush of routine. But Heartlock Academy never repeats itself without reason. Some lessons, it seems, must be learned againâeach memory traded new for old.
PAIRINGS. boynextdoorâs leehan x reader GENRE. romance, thriller, psychological, visual novel WARNINGS. main character death, mentions of su*cide, blood, subtle manipulation, emotional tension, mentions of bullying, losing your shit and erâŠkissing? WC. 7k
NOTE. well. um. hahaha? also i mighttt change the publishing dates for the next few levels because i wanna enjoy my holiday!
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
ACT ONE: A PASSERBY IN A PERFECT FIRST SEMESTER
[Soft morning music returns. The screen fades up on sunlit walkways and lacquered banisters. Students drift by in twos and threes.]
The semester settles the way a quilt doesâstitched together from the same small pieces each day. Breakfast steam curling over ceramic mugs. The low hum of study rooms before first bell. The way the courtyard wind always lifts the same leaves, just high enough to flash their pale undersides.
You fall into it easily. Notes color-coded; schedule pinned above your desk; uniform cuffs pressed smooth with the heel of your hand as you hurry out the door. Itâs not effort so much as rhythm. Wake, walk, class, laugh, repeat.
Sungho is part of that rhythm now. He appears at corners at exactly the moment youâre about to check the time, shoulder to shoulder without needing to ask. He swaps your wrong-size beaker for the right one during lab and acts like you noticed first. He steals a grape from your lunch and puts it back when you raise an eyebrow, only to hand you a better one. He is easy in the way good weather is easy.
The rest of the world fills in around that centerâteachers who favor neat margins; classmates who crowd the windows when sparrows land on the sill; the soft clack of the libraryâs date stamp marking novels that pass from hand to hand. You start recognizing footsteps before faces.
Sometimes, when the hall thins between bells, you see him.
Not Sunghoâthe other boy. Blonde hair brushed from his eyes, uniform immaculate without feeling precious, posture that never quite asks for space yet always finds it. He moves like he has somewhere to be and time to get there. He isnât a secret; heâs simply easy to miss if you arenât looking.
You donât remember when the habit startedâclocking the angle of his shoulder as he lifts a practice sword from the rack in the yard, the quiet way he tucks stray chairs back under a table after study hour. Once, you catch a glimpse of him in the libraryâs history aisle, spine of an atlas under his thumb, gaze steady as if mapping a country heâs already walked.
The first few times, you look away out of politeness.
Then you donât.
[Hallway. Midday between classes. Light pools on polished floorboards.]
He turns the corner as youâre adjusting the strap of your bag. Your eyes meet for a beat that lasts long enough to be a choice.
âș Lift your hand in a small wave
âș Let him pass with a nod
If you wave, he inclines his head with a trace of surpriseâthen returns the gesture, tidy and sincere. If you nod, he mirrors the movement as if agreeing to a promise neither of you has spoken. Either way, he continues on at the same unhurried pace, a bookmark slipped back into the chapter youâre not reading yet.
You learn his name the ordinary way, a line on a posted roster that the wind rattles against the board. Kim Donghyun. The way the letters sit together makes sense. Later, youâll hear a classmate call him Leehan in the yardâthe familiar name used by friendsâand discover that both are true, depending on who is speaking and how carefully.
In the practice yard, knights from Class B run drills in precise lines, the kind of movement that looks choreographed until you notice the scuffed palms and the way breath fogs on cold mornings. Thatâs where you see him most oftenâfrom the mezzanine, through the thin weave of shade cloth. He moves without flourish. Each strike lands in the same rhythm as the last. If someone calls out a correction, he adjusts and doesnât look back to see whether they noticed that he heard.
Sometimes Sungho notices you watching the yard and leans on the rail beside you, chin propped on his forearm. âThey make it look easy,â he says, and you hum agreement without saying who you meant by they.
Afternoons have a way of turning warm around the edges, like pages held too long near a window. You begin to recognize the hour by the angle of the sun on the stairwell wall. On those days you catch Leehan at a distance in the south corridor, where the light falls in long, clear panels and throws his shadow ahead of him. He steps around it without breaking stride.
[Library. Late. The clockâs hands are close to evening study curfew.]
Youâre searching for a reference on mineral conduits when motion draws your eye across the room. Heâs there againâone hand on the back of a chair, speaking to the librarian in the low, even tone of someone making a precise request. He doesnât seem impatient. When the book arrives, he thanks her like thanks is a habit, not a script, and moves out of the way so the next student can take his place.
You consider saying something, but the notion passes like a half-remembered melodyâyou donât have a reason, and it isnât a lack you feel. He is part of the map now, as fixed as the north-facing windows and the tin taste of rain in the courtyard after a passing shower.
[Soft chime.]
SYSTEM: Reminderâsubmit Week 6 practice sheets by Friday.
The notice fades. You return the conduit text to its shelf and find Sungho halfway down the aisle pretending not to be lost. He grins when you catch him at it. You walk back together with the easy silence of people who do not need to fill space to share it.
Evenings taper into a comfortable quiet. The dorm hall smells like soap and starch; someone in a room two doors down practices scales on a string instrument and gets stuck in the same measure for a whole minute before nailing it. You lean your forehead against the cool glass of the window above your desk and watch the path lights wink on in a tidy row, one after another.
Another week closes its cover. The margins are neat.
[Morning. New day. The bell rings once, clean.]
The announcement board outside Class D blooms with fresh timetablesânew headings, bolded lines, two columns where there used to be one. Students cluster shoulder to shoulder, reading over each otherâs sleeves.
âJoint coursework,â Sungho says at your side, mouth quirking upward. âLooks like weâre sharing a room with B for a while.â
You find the posted listâhalf the names you know, half youâve only heard called across yards or read on assignment sheets. Just below your own, the letters settle in calm, familiar strokes. Kim Donghyun. Leehan.
Sungho follows your gaze. âAh. Heâs good,â he says simply. âQuiet, butâŠgood.â
You nod, and the new schedule slots into place in your mind with the soft click of a key turning.
[The corridor brightens as the classroom doors open. Students flow forward.]
Inside, desks have been rearranged to make space for racks of dulled practice weapons along the back wall and a padded case for magesâ focus tools near the windows. A low, solid table sits at the front with a training dummy folded in sections beside it, canvas creasing at the joints.
Leehan is already thereâposture straight, hands loosely clasped behind his back as he studies the layout. He glances over when you enter. Recognition passes through his expression like a ripple across a still surface.
âGood morning,â you say.
He bows his head the exact right amount. âGood morning.â
Sungho drops your books on the table with a soft thud and leans close. âSave me a seat if they split us up,â he whispers, half-joking, half-serious.
âAlways,â you whisper back.
[Footsteps gather at the front. The room settles.]
ACT TWO: MIXED CLASSES, NEW PARTNERS
[Light spills through tall windows. The joined class hums with shifting desks, papers, quiet chatter.]
The room smells faintly of resin and chalkâmage ink and sword polish meeting halfway. Class D mages unpack quills and runestones, while the knights of Class B lean practice weapons against their chairs with a clatter of scabbards. Itâs noisier than usual, alive in a way that makes even the dust motes seem eager.
The instructorâs voice cuts gently through the murmur. âThis semester, youâll bridge your disciplines. Each mage will partner with a knight. Your goalâinfuse, enhance, and test a practical weapon. Strength and stability, not decoration.â
You glance sideways. Sungho already has his notebook open, scribbling a heading. His handwriting looks like confidence: broad strokes, quick slants. He leans closer, whispering, âGuess weâre branching out.â
âGuess so.â
The teacher begins reading pairings. Each name called sends a shuffle of motion through the roomâmurmured introductions, chair legs squeaking.
Sungho elbows you lightly. âBet weâll ace it if weâre together again.â
You grin, already imagining it: easy banter, inside jokes, another full mark for the both of you.
Thenâ
â[reader], Class D⊠paired with Kim Donghyun, Class B.â
You blink. Across the room, Leehan straightens at his name.
Sungho looks surprised for half a second, then laughs under his breath. âWell, there goes my sure win.â
âYouâll do fine,â you say, gathering your things.
He shrugs, still smiling. âSo will you. Heâs good with a blade.â
âGood luck,â you offer.
âLuckâs for the other team,â he answers, grin flashing before he turns toward his assigned partner, a tall knight already unwrapping a bundle of spell-resistant cloth.
The knight you donât know taps his shoulder; Sungho turns with that same open ease that always finds him a friend.
[The sound fadesâchairs, footsteps, quiet talkâas you cross to your new station.]
Leehan nods politely when you stop beside him. âWe meet again.â
âSeems like the Academy decided for us.â
âIt does that,â he replies, tone mild. His desk is already organizedânotes squared, quill capped, every edge parallel. âI read your work on the river model in the display case. It was precise.â
You pause, surprised. âYou actually read that?â
He nods. âWe all had to visit the exhibits for our mana theory reports. Yours stood out.â
âOh,â you say, warmth catching you off guard. âThank you.â
He gives a faint smileâone that feels practiced but genuine. âShall we decide on approach? The infusion array or the base material first?â
âLetâs start with the array,â you suggest. âMetal behaves better when the spellwork comes first.â
âAgreed.â
He unrolls a sheet of vellum and sketches a line of circles, each marked with small runes. His movements are careful, deliberate. You notice his handwriting has no wasted flourishesâevery symbol drawn for function, not form.
âDo you usually work with metal enchantments?â you ask.
He shakes his head slightly. âI prefer the structure of swordplay. But itâs important to understand the weapons you carry. Knowledge steadies the hand.â
The answer fits him. You can almost hear the rhythm of itâlike the way he walks the hallways, step by even step.
[Small pause. The instructorâs voice in background, explaining scoring rubrics.]
You pick up a piece of runic chalk and hover over his sketch. âWould you mind if I adjusted the flow here?â you ask, gesturing to a connecting line.
âPlease,â he says respectfully. âItâs your craft.â
You draw a small sigil at the joining point, bridging his channels with a single curved mark. âThat should distribute the energy without burning out the focus crystal.â
Leehan leans forward slightly, examining it. âClever. Most would double the line instead.â
âDoubling causes feedback.â
âExactly.â Thereâs approval in his toneânot the kind that praises, but the kind that recognizes. âEfficient work.â
He catches himself after saying it, the faintest color rising in his ears, and straightens. âApologies. I meantâwell done.â
âItâs fine,â you say, smiling. âIâll take the compliment.â
He seems to relax at that, exhaling a quiet breath that almost sounds like relief.
By midday the array is half-finished, runes connected in thin threads of silver dust. The air hums faintly between youâa soft vibration, not quite sound, not quite silence.
âTomorrow weâll begin the mana infusion,â Leehan says, checking his notes. âThe training room should be open by then.â
âTraining room?â you repeat. âNot the arena?â
He glances toward the noisy hall where other pairs are already arguing about which dummy to borrow. âThe arenaâs too crowded. Itâs difficult to measure resonance with so much stray mana in the air. The smaller rooms are quieter.â
âș âThe arena might help me focus under pressure.â
Whichever you choose, the system blinks: < Selection Confirmed. >
Leehan nods once, respectful. âThen Iâll reserve it for after class. If youâd rather change later, itâs no trouble.â
âIâll let you know,â you say.
âGood.â His eyes meet yours for the briefest moment, steady and unreadable. âWeâll make a balanced team.â
[Soft chime. The end-of-period bell.]
Students begin packing up, voices rising again. Sungho waves from across the room, holding up his completed sketch. You return the gesture before turning back to Leehan.
âSee you in the training room, then.â
He bows his head slightly. âUntil then.â
[The lights fade as you step into the corridor, the noise of the class slipping behind you. Outside, sunlight filters through the academy glass roofs, washing the marble floor in pale gold.]
For a moment, everything feels steady againâdifferent partner, same rhythm. Another small beginning.
ACT THREE: A FIRST STEP TO TRUST
[After-class hallway, voices dim behind closing doors.]
The corridors stretch long and bright, sunlight following at your heels.
You and Leehan walk side by side, the noise of the joint class fading until only your steps remain.
âYouâve worked in the training rooms before?â he asks.
âOnce. During first term,â you say. âThey smelled like dust and oil.â
âThey still do.â His mouth lifts slightly. âMost of the knights forget to close the oil flasks.â
He carries the case of practice blades in one hand, easy despite the weight. The glint of polished metal catches on the runes etched along the wallsâquiet wards pulsing in slow rhythm.
[Door opens with a soft hum.]
Inside, the training room feels older than the rest of the buildingâstone floor burnished smooth, air cool with faint magic residue. Wooden dummies line the far wall, scuffed and mended countless times.
You set your notes down. âNot much light.â
He reaches for a rune switch near the frame; blue-white sigils bloom across the ceiling, steady and soft.
âBetter?â
âPerfect.â
You start arranging the array papers on a side table while he unpacks the weapon blanksâsimple steel swords waiting for enhancement. The sound of metal against wood echoes gently.
âLetâs check the pattern again,â you say, spreading the vellum between you. âIf we anchor the rune at the guard, the flow should travel down the edge.â
He leans over the page, shoulder near yours, eyes scanning the lines. âAnd if it fractures?â
âWe ground it through the pommel crystal.â
âLogical.â He glances up, gaze steady. âReady to try?â
You nod, though your stomach knots. The infusion circle chalked on the floor looks harmless until it isnât.
He sets one sword within the ring, steps back. âYou channel, Iâll stabilize if it wavers.â
âAlright.â
You breathe in, focus. Magic gathers at your palmsâa shimmer, a whisper of warmthâbut the moment you direct it, the light scatters like sand through water.
A crackle. The sigils fade.
âAgain,â you mutter, wiping chalk dust from your fingertips.
Leehanâs tone stays calm. âYour formâs correct. The rhythmâs uneven.â
âI know.â
He watches a beat longer, then crouches beside you. âMay I?â
You nod. His hand lifts yours lightly by the wrist, adjusting the angle. âFollow the pulse, not the breath. Mana rides the heartbeat more than the lungs.â
You try again. The light steadies for a momentâthen shivers, splintering once more.
He exhales through his nose, thoughtful. âToo much pressure.â
You sink back on your heels. âI canât hold it. It keeps slipping.â
âMost first infusions do.â
âMost first infusions arenât second-semester,â you say, half-laughing, half-frustrated.
Something gentles in his expression. âExpectation is a heavy thing.â
The silence between you stretches, not awkwardâjust honest.
You glance at him. âDoes that happen to you too?â
He looks almost surprised by the question. âPressure?â
You nod.
He studies the blade lying across the circle, voice lower now. âEvery day. The Marquess line doesnât forgive mistakes easily. Iâm meant to be precise. Reliable. But people notice the errors first.â
You hesitate. âLikeâŠwhen those students cornered you?â
His head turns sharply at that, then softens. âYou saw.â
âOnly the end.â
He sets the rag aside, gaze steady but distant. âIt wasnât serious. They wanted a reaction.â
âAnd you didnât give one.â
âNo.â A faint pause. âItâs simpler not to.â
You rest your hands on your knees. âThat doesnât make it right.â
âI didnât say it did.â
He looks down at the chalk ring, the faint shimmer of runes fading in and out of sight. âPeople misread quiet for weakness. Itâs easier to let them.â
The honesty in his tone feels fragile, a thread pulled from somewhere deep.
You speak before thinking. âYouâre not weak, Leehan. YouâreâŠsteady. Thereâs a difference.â
His eyes flick to yoursâstartled, then thoughtful, then warm in a way that feels almost private.
âIâll remember that,â he says quietly.
[Soft chime.]
KIM DONGHYUN: HEART +1 (3/4)
The circle brightens faintly under the tableâs edge, a thin line of light tracing the floor before vanishing. You both notice it and say nothing.
He rises first, offering his hand to pull you up. The gesture is matter-of-fact, but the warmth of his grip lingers.
âTry again,â he says. âSlowly, this time.â
You take a breath, center yourself the way he showed you. When you lift your palm, the light blooms steady, graceful. It wraps the blade in a faint blue sheen that hums rather than flares.
Itâs not good enough for full marks, but itâs stable.
âPerfect,â he murmurs.
âItâs holding.â
He nods, a small smile ghosting his face. âControl, not force. Thatâs all.â
The hum fades. You exhale, half-laughing in relief. âThank you.â
âYou did it,â he answers simply.
[The ceiling sigils dim as the hour bell sounds.]
He starts packing the tools, neat and deliberate. You help stack the remaining blanks.
âSame time tomorrow?â he asks.
âYeah.â
He looks toward the door before adding, softer, âYou did well today.â
You smile. âSo did you.â
[He inclines his head, then leaves first, the door closing with a low click.]
You stand alone in the quiet room a moment longer, eyes on the faint glow still clinging to the runes in the circle. The air smells faintly of metal and chalk and something steadierâtrust, perhaps, finding its shape.
ACT FOUR: POSSESIVENESS IN SOFT FOCUS
[Morning light, campus courtyard.]
The week unfolds quietly. The project reports are due soon, the weather steady, the air full of the dry scent of parchment and sun-warmed stone. Nothing seems changedâexcept the way you start to notice Leehan.
Heâs often already in the classroom when you arrive, quill poised, notebook open. Sometimes he looks up as if heâs been waiting for your step in the hall; sometimes not at all. When you speak, he answers in the same measured tone as beforeâpolite, carefulâbut lately his timing feels almost too precise, his replies half a breath ahead of yours.
At lunch he joins your table if thereâs a spare chair. He never interrupts Sunghoâs stories, never raises his voice. Yet when you mention that you and Sungho might review spell theory together later, Leehanâs fork pauses mid-air before he sets it down with quiet care.
âYou spend much time with him,â he says.
âHe helps with the mage calculations,â you answer, smiling.
âI see.â The words are simple, but the pause that follows lasts a little too long. Then his tone evens out again. âHeâs diligent. Itâs good to learn from him.â
The moment passes. The next begins.
[Library. Afternoon light slants through tall windows.]
You pull a stack of reference books toward you, papers sliding across polished wood. Leehan is nearby, comparing diagrams for the final infusion design. When he moves to set one book aside, another tumbles from under his elbow and falls open at your feet.
A small notebookâplain cover, corner scuffed. You bend to pick it up, and a name catches your eye before you can stop reading.
Yours.
Written neatly in the margin beside a list of training schedules. Not hearts or sketches, just repetition: your name threaded between mana figures and practice times, as if used for placeholders.
Heâs already kneeling to retrieve it. âApologies,â he says, closing the cover swiftly. âIt helps me remember which mage set Iâm studying with. Habit.â
You hand it back. âYou didnât have to explain.â
âStill,â he replies, voice low, âI wouldnât want you to misunderstand.â
He places the notebook carefully on the table, edges aligned, and continues working as if nothing happened. You try to return to your diagrams, but the neatness of his handwriting stays behind your eyes.
[Practice yard. Late day.]
Training pairs line the field. Sungho waves from the far end, grinning under the brim of a borrowed practice helm. You lift a hand in return; the motion catches Leehanâs attention from where heâs polishing the test blade.
When you turn back, heâs already looking away, the sword sliding smoothly into its scabbard. âYour form improved,â he says, as if the moment hadnât happened. Then he adds, almost lightly, âYou seem close with Class Dâs best mage.â
âSunghoâs a friend,â you say.
âOf course.â His tone remains neutral, yet the strike he delivers to the wooden dummy a second later lands with enough force to shake the post. He steadies the sword immediately, expression calm again. âApologies. Too much energy.â
You offer a small smile. âItâs fine. I think you frightened the dummy more than me.â
âThatâs not a bad outcome.â His lips twitch; the tension dissolves, but the image lingersâthe precision hiding the tremor.
[Evening walk back to dormitories.]
The path is quiet, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You hadnât realised Leehan was walking the same way until his voice breaks the stillness.
âItâs late. Iâll walk with you.â
âYou donât have to,â you start, but he shakes his head.
âItâs on my route. The lamps near the west garden sometimes flicker; itâs easy to trip.â
He keeps a respectful distance, steps measured. The conversation drifts to safer thingsâgrading curves, tomorrowâs presentation, how the training dummies seem to heal faster each week. Still, you notice he matches your pace exactly; when you slow, he slows.
At the dorm gate he stops. âThank you for today,â he says simply. âYou work hard.â
âSo do you.â
He bows his head slightly. âGood night.â
âGood night, Leehan.â
He waits until youâre through the door before turning back down the path. For a moment, the garden lights glint off his uniform buttons before he disappears into the curve of the walkway.
[Soft chime.]
SYSTEM: Heart LevelâStable.
SYSTEM: Project progress 80 %.
You glance once through the window as you draw your curtains. The lamps outside burn steady now, no flicker at all.
ACT FIVE: ANOTHER MANA LINK
[Late afternoon. The academy corridors glow with sunset light.]
The hall is nearly empty, the air heavy with the hum of fading enchantments. You slow your pace, the sound of your steps soft against the stone. Someone calls your name. You turn, and Sunghoâs already thereâbag slung over one shoulder, smile as bright as ever.
âHey,â he says. âTraining again?â
âTrying to,â you admit. âThe enhancement still wobbles. I canât keep the mana steady long enough for the strike test.â
He tilts his head, studying you. âNeed a second opinion?â
You hesitate, glancing down the empty hall. âI could use one.â
He grins. âThen itâs settled.â
You lead him to one of the quiet wings where the light falls in long stripes across the floor. The air smells faintly of chalk and afternoon dust. When he sets his bag down, it makes a dull thump that echoes.
âAlright,â he says, rolling up his sleeves. âShow me what youâve got.â
You form the circle, raise your hand, channel mana. It gathersâthen flickers. A sharp crackle and the light collapses with a sigh. You shake your hand out, frustrated.
âSee?â you mutter. âAlways the same.â
Sungho steps closer. âYouâre forcing it. Manaâs not about control; itâs about timing.â
âI know that,â you say, more to yourself than him.
âThen let it breathe.â
He reaches out, gently turning your wrist so your palm faces upward. The warmth of his fingers seeps through your skin. âHere. Feel the flow under your pulse.â
You listen. The quiet between you deepens until you can hear the rhythm of his breathing beside yours. The next current steadies; the circle brightensâbrieflyâbefore dimming again.
He smiles, eyes flicking toward yours. âSee? Better.â
âI still lost it.â
âThen let me help.â
Ah.
You know where this is going.
You blink innocently. âHelp how?â
âThe same way as before,â he says softly, hesitantly. âThe link. If youâre okay with it.â
The memory of that shared glowâthe hum under your skin, the perfect balance of warmth and airârises before you can answer. You nod.
He steps closer. âJust like last time.â
The world narrows. His hand cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing once against your cheek as he leans in. The air hums between you, charged but calm. When his lips meet yours, the mana surges to life againâbright, clear, alive. The magic hums through your veins, echoing in both heartbeats. The light fills the corridor with a soft gold shimmer.
You hold his wrist to stabilize yourself as he moves his lips, deepening the kiss to take in more of you. Itâs familiar this time. Himâhis scent, his taste, his mana. It doesnât feel like a new chapter, a new character. No, it feels like a favorite one; one that you continue to go back to to reread all over again.
He holds your cheek like itâs second nature, his other hand rubbing your waist the way he knows you like it. And when his mana floods into yours, youâre not surprised by the warmth anymore. Your body doesnât react like the first time, rather welcoming the familiar mana to intertwine with yours immediately.
[Soft chime.]
PARK SUNGHO: HEART +1 (3/4)
For a heartbeat you stay there, breathing the same air, caught in the rhythm of that glow. Then Sungho pulls back, eyes wide with surprise at how strong the current felt.
âWow,â he says, laughing under his breath. âGuess that works every time.â
You touch your chest, where the warmth still lingers. âItâs stronger than before.â
He rubs the back of his neck, still flustered. âMaybe I overdid it.â
âMaybe itâs just us.â
He looks up at that, expression softening. âYeah. Maybe.â
You both stand there in the golden light, the silence between you steady and full. Outside, the bell ringsâone clear note, marking the hour.
Sungho glances toward the sound, then back to you. âWe should go. I donât want to get you in trouble for staying past curfew.â
You smile. âAlways the responsible one.â
âSomeone has to be.â He bends to grab his bag, then pauses, remembering something. âOhâbefore I forget.â He pats his pocket and frowns. âNot now, though. Tomorrow. After the project. I have something for you.â
âA secret?â
He laughs. âMaybe. Youâll see.â
âFine, Iâll wait.â
âYouâd better. Took me long enough to get it right.â
The sun catches on his smile again, all warmth and light, and for a moment the world feels perfectly still.
âGoodnight, Sungho.â
âGoodnight,â he says. âAnd donât stay up rewriting the array again. Itâs already good.â
You promise nothing, and he knows it. He grins, steps backward down the hall, and waves once before turning the corner. The echo of his footsteps fades, leaving only the low hum of the wards and the fading gold on the floor.
You stand there a moment longer, the air still alive with the trace of shared mana, before gathering your things. The corridor feels quiet againâwarm, steady, safe.
ACT SIX: ANOTHER PROJECT COMPLETED
[Morning. The training hall glows with clear light filtered through tall panes of glass.]
Today feels differentâquiet excitement under the surface, the kind that gathers before an exam. Rows of weapon racks gleam; circles of white chalk mark the floor where each pair will test their work. The air hums faintly with layered enchantments waiting to be called alive.
Sungho waves from the far end of the hall when you enter, grin quick and sure. âYou ready?â he calls.
âAs Iâll ever be,â you answer.
He nods toward Leehan standing near the test station. âGood partner,â he says, then lowers his voice with a smile. âDonât outshine me too badly, okay?â
âNo promises.â
He laughs, and the sound blends with the clatter of the other groups setting up. The instructor calls for order; the chatter folds into focused silence.
âTeams One through Four, you may begin.â
Leehan checks the runes along the weapon one last time, hands steady. âMana flowâs stable,â he says.
âGood.â You adjust the final glyph on the chalk ring. âOn my signal.â
He meets your eyes, waiting. You inhale, let your focus sink to the pulse beneath your skin, and release the spell. Light threads through the runesâsilver at first, then pale blue. The sword hums, faint and clean.
Leehan lifts it in a single smooth motion, takes his stance, and drives the blade forward. The strike lands against the dummy with a bright crack of air and magic; the target shudders, then splits cleanly down the middle before dissolving into harmless dust.
Gasps ripple across the room. The light fades, leaving only a faint shimmer over the circle.
You exhale. âPerfect hit.â
âYour infusion held,â he answers, calm but with a small note of pride.
Applause fills the room. The instructor nods once, pleased. âExcellent control from both sides. Well done, Class D and Class B.â
Sunghoâs cheering loudest of all. He gives you a thumbs-up, eyes bright. âKnew youâd nail it!â
You laugh, waving back. The world feels fullâsimple, almost golden.
Leehan wipes the blade with a cloth, careful, precise. âYou channel differently than most,â he says quietly. âMore rhythm than force.â
âIs that good?â
âIt suits you.â He sets the sword aside. âIâll file our report. You should take a break.â
âThanks.â You tilt your head. âYou sure you donât need help?â
He shakes his head. âI want to note the mana patterns while theyâre fresh. Itâll only take a moment.â
You watch him cross to the instructorâs desk, posture straight, every step measured. Around you, students gather in small groups comparing results, laughter rising in easy waves. Sungho slips through them, bright-eyed and animated.
âCelebration lunch?â he asks. âWe deserve something sweet after all that.â
âOf course I did.â He looks genuinely pleased. âSee you later, okay?â
âSee you.â
He leaves with a wave, light catching on his hair as he steps into the corridor. For a moment the hall feels quieter without him.
Leehan returns soon after, report signed, expression unreadable. âOur submissionâs done,â he says. âWe ranked first overall.â
âReally?â
He nods once. âYou should be proud.â
âI am.â You smile, but thereâs something in his toneâsoft, almost restrainedâthat makes you pause.
He notices, and his voice gentles. âYou worked hard. Donât downplay it.â
âI wonât.â
The instructor dismisses the groups; desks scrape, conversations rise again. You gather your notes, sliding them into your folder. Leehan offers to carry the equipment back to storage; you insist you can handle it together. The shared quiet between you feels companionable, if a little distant.
At the doorway he stops. âTomorrowâs free study. Youâll be with Class D again.â
âRight. Iâll see you next week, then.â
âYes.â A small pause. âTake care.â
âYou too.â
He bows slightly and heads toward the outer corridor, leaving you alone in the soft hum of the emptied room. The circle you drew has already faded, but a faint trace of light remains in the shape of the runesâa perfect pattern, clean and complete.
[Soft chime.]
SYSTEM: Project completed. Progress â 100 %.
SYSTEM: Next objective â Await results announcement.
You close your notebook, the faint scent of chalk still on your hands, and step into the corridor where the evening light gathers in long, golden stripes. Everything feels finished. Calm. Perfect.
ACT SEVEN: A BROKEN GIFT
[Morning. Overcast skies; corridors washed pale by thin light.]
Classes begin without him. At first you assume Sunghoâs lateâmaybe he overslept after celebrating. He always cuts it close to the bell anyway.
But the first hour passes. Then the second. His seat by the window stays empty, sunlight resting on the desk like itâs saving his place.
You tell yourself heâs sick. Or helping a teacher. Or fetching that gift he promised.
Still, something small and heavy settles at the base of your chest. The kind that wonât move no matter how many reasons you stack on top of it.
[Hallway between classes.]
Students file past, chattering about scores and weekend plans. You catch snatches of conversationânone mention him.
You glance toward the courtyard, half expecting to see his grin through the crowd.
Nothing.
Leehan stops you once, polite as ever. âGood morning.â
You manage a reply, but your eyes keep drifting to the empty path behind him.
When you finally excuse yourself, his gaze follows you a second too long.
[Transition. Afternoon. Rain begins, light and steady.]
By study hour youâve given up pretending. The worry has worn edges into every thought.
He wouldnât just vanish. He promisedâtomorrow, after the project.
Sungho always keeps his promises.
You tell the system youâre leaving class for the dorms. It responds with its usual chime.
SYSTEM: Student [Reader] â early dismissal approved. Destination: Residential Wing C.
You start walking. Each step echoes a little louder than the last.
[Corridor, late day.]
The world narrows to footsteps, rain, breath.
The sunset in Heartlock Academy is beautiful, even as rain pitters down the ground. You notice how the seasons change quite drastically here. Just a week ago, you didnât need to use a single jacket. Now, youâre using double layers.
Sungho must have caught a bad flu because of the weather. Maybe you should have visited with some soup.
You donât know when you started treating Sungho like he wasnât a game character, but you know he feels more human than ever now. Heâs sweet and genuine, and he makes frustrating days worth it.
You start wanting to see him more and more each day.
Just last week, when a classmate says his name, you unknowingly let out a smile.
You replay yesterday again and againâthe embrace, his smile, the gold light in the corridor, the warmth that lingered against your skin. How easy it was to talk to him, to trust him.
Maybe youâll laugh about this later. Maybe heâs asleep, gift still wrapped, teasing you for worrying too much.
The thought steadies you for a few steps. Then another memory slips inâthe way he looked when he said tomorrow. Soft, certain. Like there would always be one. Like heâs your tomorrow, as you are his.
You reach the dorm hall. The lamps burn low, rain whispering against the windows.
Door C-214. His door.
You raise a hand to knock. No sound from inside.
âSungho?â You knock again, lighter this time.
Still nothing.
You glance at the system panel by the door. It flickers once, delay barely noticeable.
SYSTEM: Occupant â active status unavailable.
That wordâunavailableâwasnât part of the normal script.
You press the handle. Click. It gives in under your hand.
The door opens. Light spills in, pale and cold.
You donât know what you expected. Maybe an empty room because heâs elsewhere, or maybe even a passed-out-from-fever Sungho on the bed.
Certainly not this.
Sunghoâyour Sunghoâ
Blood. Blood everywhere. Heâs on the floor, backside up as if he fell backwards, a knife on his hand, grip loose. His torso is so red that you wouldnât have noticed he was wearing his favorite white pyjamas, and his faceâ
No.
His gaze.
Eyes wide, looking dead at you with an expression youâve never seen him in. Your stable, reliable Sungho looks at you in a far-off, panicked expression for the first time ever.
And possibly the last time ever.
[Silence.]
At first you donât breathe. The sound in your ears is too loud; the rest of the world too quiet. The systemâs tone starts as a single chime, then multipliesâlayer on layer, bright and wrong.
SYSTEM: Error. Scene load failure. Attempting rollback.
You stumble backward; the light fractures, lines of code flashing in the air before dissolving.
No. No. No.
The system tries to censor the scene in front of you, blocking it with a cute pink substance, but itâs too late.
His dead body replays in your head again and again and again.
The sound in your ears is too loud; the rest of the world too quiet. Then instinct takes overâyou call out, voice breaking.
Your voice comes out thin. âSomeoneâhelpââ
No. No. This isnât real. No.
The corridor doesnât echo. The words drop straight down and vanish.
The systemâs glow floods the edge of your vision. Text overlaps text:
SYSTEM: Alert. Unexpected player response.
SYSTEM: Emotional parameters exceed threshold.
SYSTEM: Reset required. Please remain calm.
You shake your head. âStopâstop itââ
Itâs not real. Itâs not real. Itâs not real. Itâs not realâ
The words dissolve mid-sound. Color drains from the walls; the neat order of the dorm hallway unravels into white static.
SYSTEM: Restoration in progress. Do not interfere.
âSunghoââ You try again, but the name splinters before it leaves your lips.
Panic rushes throughâItâs not realâand you gather enough volume before you attempt another call.
âSomeone! Pleaseâ! SUNGHO!â
His name echoes, and the walls glitch in front of you. Color comes back and the white static glitches away. The system spams you tens of notifications that walls in front of you to block the scene.
You shout again. Your hands cover your ears as you scream, blocking everything. The scene, the possibility, the system, the realityâ
Itâs not real itâs not real itâs not real itâs notâ
Your shout ricochets down the hallway, sharp against the walls. A door opens somewhere behind you, then another. Footsteps pound closer; voices layer over each other in confusion.
âWhat happened?â
âCall the infirmary!â
âGet the faculty!â
The noise builds until itâs all you can hearâpanicked questions, hurried orders, the scrape of shoes on tile.
This is a dream. This is a dream. No, it isnât real. It isnât real.
The notifications stack faster than you can read them, text flooding across your vision until it blurs into white. The real voices and the system overlap; you canât tell which is louder.
Hands try to guide you back, someone telling you itâs okay, that helpâs coming, but you donât move. Your gaze fixes on the floor, on something small near your feetâa pink-wrapped box, ribbon slightly askew.
No. No no no no NOâ
You drop to your knees, fingers trembling as you lift it. The paper is cool, edges still sharp, the bow perfectly tied.
Itâs his. The gift. The one he promised yesterday.
You clutch it to your chest like itâs your last lifeline, the noise around you turning into a hum, the system still flashing useless words in the corner of your sight.
SYSTEM: StabilizingâŠ
SYSTEM: Stabilizing failed.
SYSTEM: Please remainâ
You close your eyes firmlyâIt isnât real. The voices blurâThis a dream. A bad episode special.
The world feels far away now, but your Sungho will come back when you wake up. Heâs not hurt, heâs just part of a special episode. It isnât real. Itâs a lie.
Someone holds you, pulling you away from everything. You canât really make out his featuresâeverythingâs a blur. But he speaks, and the system dings a profile. But you canât focus over the voices reasoning in your head.
If you open the box, maybe everything resets faster. Maybe heâs waiting on the other side of this moment, laughing, teasing you for worrying.
Heâll say itâs a prank, and youâll hit him for daring to worry you. Heâll say sorry, and make it up to you when you show him how truly upset you were at his prank.
You press the gift tighter to your chest and chant those words over and over again, half-prayer, half-wishâ
This is a game, youâre the main character. Everything will go your way because youâre the main character.
This isnât real, this is a dream. This isnât real. This is a dream. This isnât real. Heâll come back. This isnât real. It isnât. IT ISNâT, IT ISNâTâ
SYSTEM: An error has occured. Reset unavailable. Character forced shut down â success. LoadâŠloadâŠcontinue on the story â success.
SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing level two! Level three has been unlocked. Do you wish to continue?
SYNOPSIS: Itâs your first morning at Heartlock Academy, and the world feels fresh, full of promise, and maybe a little too bright. You meet Sungho, your friendly classmate who seems determined to make your first day perfect. Between shared lunches, quiet study sessions, and sunset walks home, his easy warmth makes the academy feel like home. His route is simple, cheerful, and full of those small moments that make your heart skip. A story about beginnings, comfort, and the kind of first love that feels like forever.
PAIRINGS. boynextdoorâs sungho x reader GENRE. romance, slice of life, visual novel WARNINGS. light cursing and bullying WC. 5.5k
NOTE. sorry for the late post!! i had to focus on my art project haha⊠technically itâs still 25 oct in America, right..?
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
ACT 1: MORNING AT HEARTLOCK ACADEMY
[Soft instrumental music plays. The screen fades from black into morning light.]
You wake up to sunlight spilling through white curtains. It feels gentle, like itâs been waiting just for you. The air smells faintly of lavender and parchmentâclean, new, and just perfect.
For a moment, you stay in bed, blinking at the glow across your blanket. The dorm room is quiet except for the soft hum of the magic-infused lamps that line the wall. Everything here feels steady. Peaceful.
You donât quite remember unpacking, but your uniform hangs perfectly pressed on the rack, your bag neatly placed by the chair. The clock on the wall ticks exactly on rhythmânot a second too fast or slow.
You slip into your uniform, smoothing the sleeves. The fabric hums faintly as the enchantment seals the fitâlike the world itself is helping you get ready.
Like itâs on your side.
[Soft chime.]
SYSTEM: Schedule reminderâClass D begins in forty minutes. Please enjoy your morning.
The voice fades, polite and distant. You stretch, pick up your bag, and step out into the hall.
The corridor glows with early light. Other students are moving about, cheerful and well-rested, like the start of every perfect school day youâve ever imagined. Someone greets you as you passâa cheerful wave, a âgood morningâ you instinctively return.
Everything feels calm here. Familiar.
Outside, the campus stretches wideâwhite stone paths bordered by glowing flowers, towers glittering faintly in the sun. The sky is impossibly blue, and the sound of bells echo softly from the main courtyard.
You breathe in the air and almost laugh. It feels too beautiful to be real.
âș Stop to look around and take in the scenery
âș Keep walking toward the classroom before youâre late
[If you choose to stop, the camera pans upward. The sunlight glints across the towers, and a faint shimmer ripples through the skyâsomething magical, unseen but present. Then it fades as the bells ring again.]
You walk on, your shoes tapping lightly against the stone.
By the time you reach the main building, the halls are alive with chatterâstudents greeting each other, comparing spell notes, the sound of chairs scraping as doors open. You check your schedule again: Class DâRoom 2F.
The classroom door is open.
Inside, a few students are already seated. Morning light spills through the windows, painting golden lines across the floor. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, turning in slow circles like theyâre part of the rhythm of the music playing faintly in the background.
You hesitate in the doorway.
Thatâs when you see him.
At the window seat, a boy sits with his chin propped on one hand, sunlight catching in his hair. His other hand rests on an open notebookâpages full of tidy handwriting and ink stains that somehow donât look messy, just lived in.
He looks up before you can say anything. His smile is instant, warm, like youâve just been found instead of seen.
âHey. Youâre early today.â
You blink, thrown off by the familiarity in his tone.
He laughs softly, rubbing at a small ink mark on his wrist. âSorry. I meanâyouâre the new student, right? We met yesterday. Iâm Sungho.â
The name clicks in your mind. You remember the laugh, the sunlight. The comfort.
He gestures toward the empty seat beside himâthe same one from before.
âYou can sit here, if you want. No oneâs claimed it.â
âș Sit beside Sungho
âș Find another seat near the back
[Choosing the second option ends the route. Youâll spend your day quietly, the scene fading before the project is ever assigned.]
You choose to sit beside him.
The chair slides smoothly as you take your place. The view from the window is perfectâthe courtyard glowing under the morning sun, the faint hum of magic in the air.
Sungho glances at your notes, smiling like heâs already guessing what youâre thinking. âYouâll get used to this place fast. The first week always feels like a dream.â
âIt kind of does,â you admit. âEverythingâs soâŠcalm.â
âMm. Calmâs a good start.â
He stretches, leaning back in his seat. âYouâll see laterâthe Academy likes keeping things neat. Predictable, even. Itâs like the air here doesnât know how to go wrong.â
You laugh. âYou talk about it like itâs alive.â
âMaybe it is.. Maybe itâs listening.â
He teases. You donât know if heâs joking or not, but somehow, it makes sense.
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, listening to the muffled sounds of the other students arrivingâchairs scraping, footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter.
Sungho opens his notebook again, flipping to a fresh page. âYou know,â he says lightly, âClass Dâs the best class to start in. Weâre not too competitive. JustâŠnormal.â
You tilt your head. âNormal sounds nice.â
âYeah.â He smiles, quiet and genuine. âNormalâs kind of perfect, isnât it?â
The clock ticks. The light shifts golden.
The door slides open with a soft click.
[The music fades.]
The teacher steps inside, her presence calm and commanding. The chatter falls instantly silent.
ACT TWO: THE CLASS ASSIGNMENT
[Morning light rests across the desks. The room settles as footsteps fade and seats are taken.]
The teacher sets a stack of books on the front table and writes the dayâs topic in neat, glimmering strokes across the board: Practical WaterworkâFoundations of Flow. The brush of chalk feels soothing, almost ceremonial, and the class leans in as one.
âWeâll begin with partners,â she says, voice calm and sure. âYour assignment is to create a working miniature river. It should run continuously for one full minute across a channel you construct yourselves. Consider scale, direction, and pacing. Today, you plan. Tomorrow and after hours, you build.â
A soft ripple of excitement runs through the room. Pages turn. Pens uncap. In the sun near the windows, the dust catches the light like confetti.
You arenât sure where to start. You know the theoryâdiagrams youâve skimmed, terms you recognizeâbut none of it feels like something your hands could do yet. You glance down at your blank page, then up again, and find Sungho already looking your way.
He smiles like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
Names are called, pairs forming in a gentle rhythm: friends leaning together, strangers trading shy nods. The room fills with the low hum of plans being born.
âAnd finally,â the teacher says, scanning her list, âSungho with [reader].â
A few heads turn. Sunghoâs grin arrives before your thoughts do.
âLooks like itâs you and me again,â he murmurs, a little too pleased with the coincidence. He taps the edge of your desk with his knuckles, easy and bright. âGood team luck.â
You nod, warmth settling into your chest. âIâll try not to slow us down.â
âYou wonât,â he says, as if itâs already decided.
Around you, partners pull desks together. Someone laughs about building a canal that floods the room; someone else insists on measuring everything twice. Sungho slides his chair a little closer so you can share the same corner of the table, the same pool of light.
âSo,â he says, uncapping his pen, âwhatâs our river like? Narrow and quick, or wide and steady?â
âI donât even know how to make it turn,â you admit, a little sheepish. âIâve never done anythingâŠmoving.â
âThen weâll start simple,â he says, and the reassurance lands exactly where you need it. He draws a long rectangle on the pageâtwo borders, a gentle curve at the end, arrows to mark direction. âA channel first. Then we figure out the rest.â
You watch his hand moveâcareful, sure, the little ink smudge along his finger catching on the paper. He pauses to blow lightly on the line so it wonât smear, then glances at you as if to say: see? easy.
Voices around you overlap with the soft scrape of chairs and the whisper of paper. The room feels bright and awake, everyone leaning forward into the work.
âWhat do you think?â he asks, turning the notebook halfway toward you. âA bend makes it prettier. And itâs more fun to build.â
âIt looks like a real river.â You smile. âI like it.â
âThen itâs ours.â
He starts a second page: a list labeled Materialsâsturdy board, shallow clay, a small bowl, something to elevate one end. He underlines âmeasure twiceâ and adds a tiny box for test runs as if heâs already imagining how youâll both laugh when the water goes left instead of right. The picture is so clear in your mind it almost feels like a memory.
The period moves gently, full of small decisions and small satisfactions. You suggest a pattern of stones along the edge to guide the flow; he sketches them in, pleased. He asks if you want to keep the channel smooth or ripple it for texture; you choose smooth, at least for the first attempt. It feels good to have plans, and better to have them together.
When the bell rings, it does so kindly, giving everyone a moment to finish writing before the sound fades. Students begin to stand, stretching, comparing lists, promising to meet later.
Sungho closes his notebook with a soft thud and looks at you with the expression of someone who has already made up his mind.
âLetâs work after class,â he says. âToday, if youâre free.â
âI am.â
He lights upâno struggle to hide it, just open and certain. âPerfect. Thereâs an old classroom in the east wing no one uses after hours. Weâll have space to set everything up. Less traffic than the library.â
You think of tables filled with other students, of voices and footsteps and the shared hush of a crowded study hall. The library would give you all the references in the world, but it would also give you eyesâcurious ones, bored ones, ones that make you tuck your hands away and speak a little quieter.
The idea of an empty room, a cleared table, the two of you leaning over the same pageâthat sounds like exactly the kind of afternoon this project deserves.
He watches your face as you decide, hopeful without being pushy.
âI can bring a board,â he says, almost too helpfully. âAnd clay. I know where the supply closet isâProfessor Eun doesnât mind if we borrow as long as we clean up.â
âYouâve done this before?â
âBorrowed things?â He laughs. âMaybe once.â
You shake your head, trying not to enjoy him too much for something so small. He shoulders his bag, then steps aside so a group can pass through the aisle.
âMeet me by the east wing stairs,â he says. âRight after the final bell.â
You nod. âIâll be there.â
He hesitates for a heartbeat, like thereâs something else he wants to add, then just smiles as if the rest can wait.
[Students filter out. The room empties to a soft, comfortable quiet.]
You tuck your notes away, fingertips lingering on the corner where Sunghoâs neat diagram curves like a promise. Outside the window, the courtyard glows with late-morning light. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes, the sound settling like a period at the end of a sentence.
You swing your bag over your shoulder and take one last glance at the boardâFoundations of Flowâbefore you head for the door.
[Choice prompt appears.]
âș Follow Sunghoâs suggestion: meet at the east wingâs unused classroom after the final bell
âș Suggest the library insteadâquiet stacks, open tables, plenty of resources
[Selection will determine the rest of the afternoon.]
ACT THREE: GATHERING MATERIALS
[Soft afternoon music fades in. Light filters through tall windows, gold with the end of day.]
The final bell rings, a long, calm tone that seems to linger over the courtyard. You close your notebook, slipping it carefully into your bag. The classroom is almost empty nowâstudents filing out in pairs, laughter echoing down the corridor.
You check the time. East wing stairs.
When you step into the hallway, the air feels differentâquieter, smoother. You spot him almost immediately: leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled, one strap of his bag sliding down his shoulder. He looks up when he hears your footsteps and smiles like he was sure youâd come.
âRight on time.â
You laugh. âYou sound surprised.â
âNot surprisedâimpressed,â he says, straightining. âReady to find supplies?â
You blink. âSupplies?â
âFor our masterpiece. The riverâs not going to build itself.â He grins. âThe school shopâs still open. They lend out materials for projects: boards, clay, crystals. Come on, Iâll show you.â
He doesnât wait for an answer, but you follow anyway.
The corridors are quieter now, washed in orange light. You pass by open doors, snippets of conversation drifting from insideâstudents cleaning up spell residue, professors tidying desks. The scent of chalk dust and faint ozone trails behind you.
Sungho walks half a step ahead, talking as he leads the way.
âThey keep the good stuff in the back shelves. You have to ask, but if you smile nicely, they usually say yes.â
You raise a brow. âIs that experience speaking?â
He flashes a grin. âLetâs call it charm.â
[Soft laughter cue.]
The path bends into a smaller hall lined with supply cabinets and counters. A low hum of magic hangs in the air, reacting to the steady rhythm of footsteps. The room beyond glows softlyâlantern light reflecting on jars, boxes, and labeled drawers. It smells faintly of cedar and paper.
Sungho grabs a small cart from the corner. âOkay, checklist. Board, shallow basin, clay, a few stones for lining, and something to channel the flow.â
He pauses, glancing at you. âYou can grab the stones?â
You nod, moving toward a shelf stacked with glass jars. Each one is filled with small, rounded pebbles that shimmer faintly, enchanted to resist heat and erosion. You reach for a jar just as he does. Your hands brushâlight, brief, warm.
Both of you freeze for half a second.
He clears his throat first. âAhâsorry. You can take it.â
You shake your head quickly. âNo, itâs fine. We can share.â
âRight.â He laughs softly, the sound easy again. âShare.â
For a moment the air holds still between you, then breaks with the quiet sound of him setting the jar into the cart.
You move through the rest of the shelves together. He tests the weight of a wooden board before handing it to you to check; you find a box of small, silver nails that glint in the light. He marks each item off the list with neat strokes of his pencil.
The small talk drifts as naturally as breathing.
âDo you like it here so far?â he asks while stacking the last box.
âI think so. Everything feelsâŠpeaceful.â
âPeacefulâs good. Means youâre settling in.â He glances over, smiling. âMost transfers take a week before they stop looking lost.â
âI still get lost,â you admit.
âThen Iâll keep walking you to class.â It comes out casually, but he doesnât take it back.
You try not to think much of it.
[They wheel the cart out into the corridor. The light outside has turned deeper, the shadows long and soft.]
You balance the jar of stones in your hands while he pushes the cart.
âThank you for helping,â you say.
âYouâre helping too.â
âI mean for guiding me.â
He shrugs. âYouâd figure it out eventually. Iâm just speeding up the process.â
A group of students passes, waving as they go. Sungho nods to them before turning back to you.
âBesides,â he adds quietly, âprojects are better when you build them with someone.â
The words settle somewhere between you, unhurried.
ACT FOUR: BUILDING A MINIATURE RIVER
By the time you reach the east wing, the halls are nearly empty. Dust catches the last stretch of sunlight slanting through the windows. Sungho stops beside a door marked Unused ClassroomâMaintenance Pending and sets the cart down.
âHere we are.â He pushes the door open. The hinges creak softly.
Inside, the space feels open and still. Desks are stacked against one wall, leaving a wide table cleared in the center. The smell of old wood mixes with the faint coolness of stone floors.
Sungho sets the board on the table. âPerfect size. Weâll start sketching the riverbed before adding clay.â
You nod, setting the jar beside it. âLooks like we have everything.â
âAlmost everything,â he says, looking around. âBuckets for water are in the next room. Iâll grab them.â
He disappears for a moment, footsteps echoing down the corridor. You glance around the classroomâthe slant of light, the hum of distant bells outside, the half-finished plans still in your mind.
He returns with two metal pails, one in each hand, grinning at your expression. âTold you Iâd be quick.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âYou really are prepared.â
âOf course. Partnerâs responsibility.â He sets the buckets down and leans lightly against the desk. âReady to start?â
You meet his gaze, sunlight sliding across his shoulder. âReady.â
[The light outside deepens to amber. The sound of the last students leaving fades down the hall.]
The room smells faintly of dust and river clay. You roll your sleeves, set your bag aside, and help Sungho clear the center table. The board fits neatly across it, edges smoothed by time.
âLetâs start here,â he says, marking a shallow curve with a piece of chalk. âA simple channel, steady flow.â
You hold one end of the board while he sketches. His handwriting is as neat as the lines he drawsâprecise but soft, like heâs careful not to press too hard.
He glances up. âWeâll layer clay along this edge, then carve the path before it dries.â
You nod. âGot it.â
He smiles. âTeamwork.â
[Small montage of building; soft instrumental playing.]
You mix clay in a shallow pan; he pours water from one of the buckets, laughing when a splash lands on his sleeve. You both work easily, rhythm finding itself between conversation and silence. The table becomes a small landscape of ridges and channels, your fingerprints pressed into the wet surface like tiny rivers of their own.
âPerfect,â he says, leaning closer to inspect your side. âYou have a good sense for shape.â
âI just followed the drawing.â
âStill counts.â
The last of the clay settles in place. He steps back, wiping his hands on a rag. âNow we test the current.â
He lifts the other bucket, the metal catching the last edge of sunlight. A careful pour sends a thin stream through the channel. It curves neatly once, then stops, pooling halfway.
âWell,â you say, âit tried.â
He laughs. âItâs a start. The spell will take care of the rest once we guide it.â
You freeze halfway to the next bucket. âSpell?â
He blinks, then tilts his head. âYou can channel mana, right?â
You hesitate. The silence stretches just a little too long.
ââŠNot exactly,â you admit. âI mean, I know the theory, but Iâve never done anything that actually worked.â
Sungho sets the bucket down slowly, expression caught somewhere between surprise and thought. Then he laughs again, not unkindlyâsoft, reassuring.
âThat explains the careful shapes. You were concentrating the whole time.â
You feel heat rise to your cheeks. âIs that a bad thing?â
âNo. Just means we start from the beginning.â He wipes his hands and sits cross-legged on the floor beside the board. âCome here.â
You blink. âOn the floor?â
âItâs easier this way. No desks in the way.â
You sit across from him, mirroring his posture. The clay river lies between you like a quiet promise.
âOkay,â he says, voice steady. âClose your eyes.â
You hesitate but obey.
âMagic here isnât about words,â he continues. âItâs about rhythm. Feel for the current under your skin. Everyone has oneâitâs the same pulse that keeps you breathing. When you find it, follow it down to where it settles. Thatâs your center.â
You try. Thereâs warmth somewhere in your chest, a faint hum like a note half-remembered. But it slips away every time you reach for it.
He leans a little closer, the distance between you shrinking until you can sense his breath. You open your eyes for half a heartbeatâheâs right there, lashes lowered, focus gentle. And thatâs exactly when the warmth inside you falters again.
You try to focus, but itâs impossible not to notice how handsome he looks in this light.
He opens his eyes and catches you staring. His own breath stutters, the faintest sound in the still room. Your gaze doesnât move quickly enough, landing for a moment on the curve of his mouth before you look away.
He swallows hard, voice a little uneven now. âYouâreâŠnot exactly paying attention, are you?â
You shake your head, embarrassed. âSorry. Iâm trying.â
A quiet laugh escapes him, nervous and fond all at once. He rubs at the back of his neck. âMaybe thatâs the problem. Youâre trying too hard elsewhere.â
He hesitates, then draws in a careful breath, eyes flicking back to yours. âI might have another..method,â he says at last.
You open one eye. âAnother?â
He scratches the back of his neck again, cheeks pink. âItâsâŠmore direct. We link mana for a second so you can sense where mine flows. But it needs physical contact. Actual contact.â
You blink, not following. âLikeâŠhands?â
âCloser,â he admits, not meeting your eyes now. âA kiss.â
The word hangs thereâsudden, impossible, both ridiculous and perfectly logical in the hush of the empty room.
He laughs under his breath, still flustered. âItâs an old technique. I swear Iâm not making it up.â
You canât help smiling. âThatâsâŠsome teaching method.â
âOnly if you agree,â he says quickly. âIf not, we keep trying the slow way.â
He looks at you thenâsteady, waiting, the afternoon light soft against his face.
[The late-day light turns copper. Dust drifts in the still air. The faint hum of the lamps steadies like a heartbeat.]
Sungho hasnât moved. Heâs still sitting across from you, hands on his knees, eyes unsure but steady.
âOnly if youâre comfortable,â he says again. âItâs just a spark, nothing dangerous.â
You nod. âOkay.â
The air feels heavier when he leans closer. His hand hovers for a moment before resting lightly against your cheek, careful, asking for permission even as the warmth spreads through his fingers. You meet his eyesânervous, determined, too focused to breathe.
He hesitates one last time, then bridges the distance.
Itâs meant to be gentle, a brush of warmth to start the spellâbut the instant your lips meet, light blooms under your skin. Mana floods your senses, and you can feel it in you like a river rushes its water. The room tilts, colors sharpening until you can hear the pulse of water in the clay channel beside you.
The feeling is newâintense. Itâs nothing like you ever felt before. You felt a tingle. Cold, but not in a bad way. Refreshing is the word, and you donât know how youâve gone your whole life without feeling this. It felt like a missing piece of you is found, like you unlocked a pleasantry you now cannot go back without.
Without much thought, your careful hand turned otherwise and put itself on Sunghoâs headâtugging.
Your breath catches. His does too. You didnât mean to, but before you could react otherwise, Sungho reached at your waist first. He pulls you closer, and you let out a noise of surprise as he deepens the kiss.
The current between you hums louder, wild and bright, pulling you closer before either of you can stop it.
[Soft chime.]
PARK SUNGHO: HEART +1 (2/4)
The warmth turns fierceâa rush that starts at your joined hands and races through your chest. Your mana prickles your skin, and the cool feeling of your mana turns warm as you feel another sourceâhis mana.
You feel his mana overwhelmingly.
More so his than yours.
It affects your formidably, and then thereâs this rush of needing to be closer. To want more. To take more.
He shifts forward instinctively, one arm bracing against the table as if to steady the tempting surge of energy. The world narrows to the sound of shared breath and the shimmer of light flickering at the edges of your vision.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the glow fades.
He pulls back first, breath uneven, fingers still trembling where they rest against the wood. âThatâuhâworked.â His laugh breaks on the words, half-relief, half-shock.
âWorkedâ is an understatement, Sir.
You touch your lips, pretending stupidity, dazed. âIt did?â
He nods quickly, grasping at composure. âYeah. I meanâyour manaâit responded. You felt that, right?â
Think I felt yours more than I did mineâŠ
You nod again, slower. The hum inside you hasnât vanished; it lingers, soft and alive.
Sungho clears his throat, forcing a smile thatâs just a little too bright. âGood. Great. ThenâŠproject time.â He bends toward the miniature river, eager to have somethingâanythingâto do with his hands.
He gestures to the board. âGo ahead. Try now.â
You breathe in, lift your palm, and call to the rhythm still echoing in your veins. The water stirs. A thin line slides forward, gliding through the channel he drew earlier. It moves smooth, continuous, catching the light like liquid glass.
âItâs working,â you whisper.
âOf course it is.â His voice is softer now, almost proud. âYouâve got the rhythm.â
For a moment you both just watch the water flow, quiet and steady between you. The clay gleams under the fading sun.
Then the current slows, the glow subsides, and the room falls back into calm.
Sungho exhales. âWeâll get full marks for this.â
You laugh under your breath. âThanks to your method?â
He flushes at that, rubbing his neck. âLetâsâŠnot mention the method to anyone.â
You smile. âYour secretâs safe.â
He grins back, though his ears are still pink. âGood. I like my reputation as a responsible student.â
[Outside, the bells chime onceâsoft, distant.]
He glances toward the window. âItâs getting late. We should clean up before the custodian catches us.â
Together you drain the last of the water, stack the tools, and set the board to dry. The silence between you is comfortable again, the kind that comes after shared discovery.
When everything is packed away, he stands by the door, waiting while you shoulder your bag.
âSee you tomorrow?â he asks.
You nod. âYeah. Tomorrow.â
He smiles, smaller this time, gentler. âGoodnight, [reader].â
The door closes softly behind him. You linger a moment longer, eyes on the faint shimmer still running through the clay riverâsteady, alive.
ACT FIVE: THE END OF A PROJECT, THE START OF ANOTHER
[Morning light again. The screen fades in to the sound of the first bell.]
You wake to sunlight through your curtains, the same soft glow that always fills the dorm room. The air feels lighter today. For the first time, you can still sense that faint hum under your skinâmana quiet but present, like something sleeping just below your heartbeat.
You smile without meaning to.
The walk to class is familiar now. Students laugh in the corridors; the sound of spell practice echoes faintly from an open courtyard. You catch a glimpse of Sungho near the door to Class D, balancing a stack of small wooden boards. He sees you almost immediately and lifts one in greeting.
âMorning,â he says, grin already in place. âReady for judgment day?â
âOnly if itâs a good one.â
âAlways is when Iâm involved.â His tone is light, teasing, the easy rhythm youâve grown used to.
You laugh, taking your seat beside him as the rest of the class trickles in.
The teacher walks between desks, hands clasped, surveying the small rivers laid out on each table. Water glints in tiny channels, some smooth, some messy. When she stops at yours, you hold your breath without realizing it.
Sungho bows slightly, polite and confident. âWe focused on stable flow, professor. No overflow.â
She studies the board. The water moves exactly as it did last nightâsteady, controlled, a clear line from one end to the other.
âImpressive,â she says at last. âBalance and pacing are perfect. Full marks.â
The words hit like sunlight. You glance at Sungho. Heâs grinning at you now, proud in that unguarded way that makes it hard not to smile back.
The teacher moves on. The rest of class passes in quiet satisfactionâsoft chatter, the scrape of chairs, students peeking at each otherâs scores. When the bell finally rings, the room fills with the easy noise of release.
Outside the classroom, the hallway is bathed in afternoon gold. You and Sungho linger by the door, project board tucked safely under his arm.
âFull marks,â you say. âThatâsâŠa first for me.â
He laughs. âThen we celebrate. Or at least, we donât fail the next one.â
You tilt your head. âYou sound very sure weâll be paired again.â
He gives a small shrug, eyes bright. âI can hope.â
A quiet pause stretches between youânot awkward, just full of what neither of you quite wants to name.
You glance down at the board. âThank you, for teaching me. For being patient.â
âI didnât teach much,â he says. âYou figured it out yourself.â
âYou still helped.â
âThen Iâm glad.â His smile softens, and for a heartbeat it feels like the whole hallway slows around you.
Then someone calls his name from down the hall. He turns, waves, and the moment passes.
He looks back at you. âSee you later?â
âTomorrow,â you promise.
âTomorrow,â he echoes.
He starts down the corridor, sunlight following him through the tall windows until he disappears around the corner.
You stand there a little longer, the quiet hum of the academy returning to fill the space between bells. Somewhere outside, wind moves through the courtyard trees, soft and rhythmicâthe same kind of calm that feels like the world breathing.
[Soft end-of-day music. The screen fades in from black to the academy hallway, lit by the low sun.]
Classes have ended, and most students are already gone. The corridors feel longer when theyâre emptyâfootsteps echoing, lockers closing somewhere in the distance. You linger near the window, tracing the light with your fingertips, watching how it catches on the glass.
Itâs been a good day. A quiet one. The project still sits on your desk, drying under the gentle hum of a preservation charm. Youâre almost at the stairwell when a sharp noise cuts through the calm.
A voiceâangry, low.
Then another, smaller, almost pleading.
You pause.
The sound comes from the far end of the hall, near the storeroom door. You step closer without thinking, careful not to let your shoes scuff the floor. As you round the corner, you see them: two upperclassmen cornering a boy against the wall. Heâs kneeling slightly, gathering fallen papers, trying to make himself smaller.
âDidnât think weâd notice, did you?â one of the bullies sneers. âAlways sneaking notes to the professors.â
âI wasnât,â the boy says quietly. âItâs notââ
Heâs cut off by a shove. The papers scatter again, fluttering across the floor like startled birds.
You donât think; you move.
âHey!â Your voice echoes down the hall. The older students turn. âLeave him alone.â
They exchange a lookâsurprised, then unimpressed. One laughs under his breath. âMind your own business.â
You take a slow step forward, raising your hand slightly. âMaybe. But if I donât, the faculty will.â
You can feel the faint pulse of magic gathering at your fingertips, instinctive and sure now. A thin ribbon of water swirls into being, floating just above your palm. It glints in the lightâenough to make them hesitate.
âFine,â one mutters. âWhatever. Not worth it.â
They push past you, grumbling as they disappear down the hall.
Silence returns.
You turn back to the boy, whoâs already reaching for the last of his papers. He looks younger up closeâsoft-spoken, tidy uniform, a thin line of dirt on his sleeve where he fell.
âYou okay?â you ask.
He nods once, still not meeting your eyes. âThank you.â
You crouch to help, handing him the last sheet. âThey shouldnât have done that.â
âThey usually donât,â he says quietly. âYou just caught a bad moment.â
He gathers the papers into a neat stack, stands, and finally looks up. His eyes are calm, distant, like heâs measuring whether youâre real.
You offer a small smile. âIâm [reader]. Class D.â
Thereâs a pause before he answers.
âMy nameâs Kim Donghyun.â
He bows slightly, the formal gesture of someone raised on manners. You return it out of reflex, still holding his gaze.
âBe careful on your way back,â you tell him.
âI will,â he says. âThank you again.â
He walks away without hurry, papers held close, disappearing around the corner as the last of the light fades from the windows.
For a moment, you stand alone in the quiet corridor. The day hums softly to an end.
SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing level one! You have now unlocked level two. Do you wish to continue?
SYNOPSIS: an introduction to knowing your way around the game!
PAIRINGS. boynextdoorâs sungho x reader GENRE. romance, slice of life, visual novel WARNINGS. none WC. 700
NOTE. starting with the first level, there will be a 24-hour poll for action decisions that will affect the sequence of the next level. i ask that you please participate in those polls. Thanks!
MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist
< START GAME >
[Screen fades in. A white interface hums softly in the dark. Soft bells jingle. Music rings. ]
SYSTEM: Welcome, new student. Youâve been successfully transferred to Hearts Academy.
SYSTEM: Before you begin, please complete your registration.
[Text fields flicker on the screen.]
SYSTEM: Enter your name.
âș [Player types it in.]
SYSTEM: Thank you, [reader].
SYSTEM: In this world, emotions are more than feelingsâtheyâre measurable.
SYSTEM: Each student carries a Heart Meter, a small crystal that glows brighter as bonds deepen. Once the crystal reaches a certain level, you will unlock an ending to the game.
SYSTEM: Every choice you make will affect these bonds. Choose sincerely.
[Soft chime.]
SYSTEM: Letâs practice. How do you respond to a new acquaintance?
âș Smile politely
âș Wave enthusiastically
âș Avoid eye contact
SYSTEM: Excellent. Your response has been recorded.
A faint warmth gathers around your wristâthe system syncing to your pulse. The words on-screen shimmer, then dissolve into light.
SYSTEM: Tutorial complete. Entering school environmentâŠ
[Fade in: classroom, morning light through the windows.]
The morning sun hits the glass just right, scattering light across the classroom floor. It smells faintly of chalk and something floralâlike a storybook version of a school morning.
You pause by the open door, clutching the strap of your bag, trying to look like you belong.
The teacher glances up. âAh, the new transfer. You can take the seat by the window.â
Itâs the only open desk, beside a boy with light in his eyes and ink stains on his fingertips. He looks up and smiles before you can even introduce yourself.
???: âYouâre the new student, right? Iâm Sungho. Class D. Same as you.â
He says it like heâs said it a hundred times beforeâlike he already knows the rhythm of your answer. You laugh, because the words feel easy.
He gestures to the seat next to him. You return his smile.
âș Sit down quietly
âș Joke that you already forgot the classroom number
âș Thank him for saving you a seat
[Heart +1 flashes briefly at the edge of the screen.]
You look over his head, where a clear heart apart from the small portion of color now rests on top of his head. That must be the heart meter, you thought.
You look at Sungho, whoâs unbothered by the whole thingâas if he couldnât see a heart appearing on top of his head. But he probably doesnât. Just smiles gently at you as you take your place at class.
The teacher begins the lesson, but Sungho leans over to whisper about which subjects are worth staying awake for, which hallways are traps for late students. You listen, nod, smile. He smells faintly of soap and sunlight. The small talk comes naturally.
At lunch, he waves you over before you can even find a seat.
âYou donât have to eat alone, you know. Itâs against school rules.â
âIs it?â You asked.
âMaybe not written down, but it should be.â He grins, and something gentle tugs at your chest. It feels simple hereâsafe.
[Later, the lunch bell rings.]
Lunch passes, and he walks you around the campus. The academy is beautiful: gardens with white benches, towers lined with stained glass, students practicing magic in open courtyards. Thereâs even a faint shimmer in the air, like the whole place hums with quiet magic. Itâs all so perfect. You donât notice it yet, but right now, youâre just trying not to get lost.
Sungho turns to you, âSo? Not bad for your first day, right?â
âIt feelsâŠdifferent. Like a dream I used to have.â You replied.
âYouâll get used to the schedule soon. Once you do, the days justâŠfly by.â
âIt already feels fast.â
âThatâs a good sign. Means youâre enjoying it.â
He smiles againâsoft, content, a little too flawless.
The bell ringsâonce, then twice. The sky burns gold as he waves goodbye.
The world feels soft, polished, complete. You donât think about how the same breeze passes twice, or how the bellâs echo sounds perfectly timed. You just smile, and thinkâ
Maybe this is where the story begins.
< TUTORIAL ENDED >
SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing the tutorial, [reader]! Level one has been unlocked. Do you wish to continue?
đ· ) SYNOPSIS đ ïčhaving an attractive and (semi) oblivious roommate is definitely not for the weak.
ââââ roommate ! leehan x fem ! reader â± â smau, fluff, comedy ( ? ) âż ËáŻ Ë could be somewhat suggestiveâŠ?, reader lowk down bad, use of petnames >3< ( đŹ ) HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEEHANNN my fellow dearest october baby ⥠#WeInSyncLikeThat i honestly donât know what went thru my mind making this BUT itâs smth for my man so its okay đ€
âđŹâ â why are my screenshots like that now. Apple. MemiMessage. Someone Speak Up.
Fall in love, build friendships, and unlock your destiny in Heartlocked: The Boy Next Level, a romance simulation where every choice leads you closer to your perfect match. Meet six unique boysâfrom your easygoing classmate to the mysterious northern dukeâand experience a world where every heartbeat matters. Raise affection, uncover secret events, and collect special endings as you navigate school life. They say true love can change everything. But in a place where every emotion is measured, how much of your heart are you willing to give?
MULTIPLAYER: featuring all boynextdoor members x reader as video game characters. SETTINGS: romance, psychological horror, visual novel WARNINGS: main character death, murder, heartbreak, lack of communication, ghosting, yandere, forceful acts, vulgar language, themes of obsession, control, and loss of agency. PROCEED WITH CARE.
Hi everyone! First of all thank you sooo much for 800 follows, itâs such a big milestone for me and Iâm so glad to introduce this series to you all right after I hit 800!! Secondly, this series will start on the 23rd and the main story will end on the 4th of November. If you wish to join the taglist, just comment or send an ask! I hope you enjoy this series <3
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PRESS TO START GAMEâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ< START >
TUTORIAL: HOW TO GET YOUR BOY
an introduction to knowing your way around the game!
published. 23 October, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL ONE: HEARTLOCK ACADEMY
SYNOPSIS: Itâs your first morning at Hearts Academy, and the world feels fresh, full of promise, and maybe a little too bright. You meet Sungho, your friendly classmate who seems determined to make your first day perfect. Between shared lunches, quiet study sessions, and sunset walks home, his easy warmth makes the academy feel like home. His route is simple, cheerful, and full of those small moments that make your heart skip. A story about beginnings, comfort, and the kind of first love that feels like forever.
genre. romance, slice of life, comedy.
warnings. slight cursing
published. 25 October, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL TWO: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
published. 27 October, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL THREE: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
published. 29 October, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL FOUR: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
published. 31 October, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL FIVE: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
published. 2 November, 2025. WC. tba
LEVEL SIX: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
published. 4 November, 2025. WC. tba
EPILOGUE: LOCKED
system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.
system : a poll will be made to choose your ending after all levels are completed.
note â this oneâs this anonâs req!! Iâll post the other reqs next month ^^
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BACKSTAGE IS A BLUR of noise and neon. Staff weave through narrow halls with headsets and clipboards, stylists touch up makeup, and the smell of hairspray lingers in the air like a permanent fixture of fame.
Youâve done this a hundred times beforeâthe pre-stage chaos, the countdowns, the cheers that echo through your chestâbut today, your heart beats a little faster for a completely different reason.
Across the room, Leehan is laughing with another idol group, his smile bright enough to compete with the studio lights.
You tell yourself itâs fineâyouâre friends, after all. Friends talk. Friends laugh. Friends definitely donât feel a tiny sting in their chest when someone else makes him laugh like that.
You glance down at your phone, pretending to check messages, but the screen is just a blurry reflection of your pout. Your manager passes by with a quick, âYouâre up after the next group, [reader].â You nod, offering a practiced smile.
Inside, though, youâre trying to convince yourself that the small, green monster clawing its way up your ribcage isnât jealousy.
You peek again. Leehanâs leaning against a prop case, sleeves rolled up, talking to a girl from another groupâone of those effortlessly charming idols who can make anyone comfortable. Sheâs smiling at him, and heâs doing that thing where he tilts his head and listens intently, eyes soft and kind.
You groan under your breath.
Itâs fine. Youâre just friends.
Still, when your stylist calls you over for last-minute touch-ups, you mutter, âMake sure I look amazing on camera.â
She chuckles. âYou always do.â
Yeah, but this time, you kind of want one person to notice.
âŠ
After your stage, the adrenalineâs still buzzing in your veins. Youâre glowingâthe crowdâs cheers still ringing in your earsâand when you step off the stage, the first person you see waiting by the monitor is Leehan.
He claps, grinning wide. âYou killed it! Seriously, that ending pose? Legendary.â
You beam despite yourself. âOh? You were watching?â
âOf course,â he says, like itâs obvious. âWhat kind of friend would I be if I didnât cheer for my favorite performer?â
You try to ignore how warm the word favorite feels. Instead, you cross your arms and tease, âYou seemed pretty busy earlier. Thought youâd forgotten I existed.â
His smile falters, just for a moment, then he blinks. âHuh? What do you mean?â
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. âNothing. Just saw you chatting it up withâŠwhatâs her name? The one with the sparkly hairpin?â
Leehan stares at you, realization dawning slowly, and thenâoh noâhis lips curl into the smuggest grin youâve ever seen.
âWait,â he says, leaning closer. âWere you⊠jealous?â
Your brain short-circuits. âWâwhat? No! I justâI was curious!â
He laughsâbright, boyish, entirely too pleased. âThatâs cute.â
âDonât call me cute,â you protest, though your cheeks are already burning.
âFine,â he says, voice dropping into that teasing lilt that always makes your pulse stutter. âThen Iâll call you adorable instead.â
You groan, covering your face. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet,â he says, nudging your elbow lightly, âyou still hang out with me.â
You peek through your fingers. âMaybe thatâs my mistake.â
âLies,â he says with mock offense. âYou love having me around.â
The scary part? Heâs not wrong.
A staff member calls for his group next, and Leehan straightens his jacket. âI should go. Youâll watch our stage, right?â
You raise an eyebrow. âWhy should I?â
He grins again, that familiar spark in his eyes. âBecause I watched yours. Fairâs fair.â
âFine,â you huff. âBut only because your groupâs choreography is cool.â
âSure,â he teases. âNot because you like me or anything.â
You throw him a glare thatâs more flustered than fierce. âGo perform before I take that back.â
Heâs still smiling when he walks off, and you catch yourself smiling, tooâstupidly, softly, like the jealousy never even existed.
âŠ
When his group finishes, youâre still at the monitor, clapping the loudest. He spots you immediately, eyes brightening like youâre the only person in the crowded backstage. As he jogs over, slightly breathless, his smile is all pride and mischief.
âSo?â he asks, hair sticking to his forehead. âHowâd I do?â
You pretend to consider it. âHmm. Maybe a 7 out of 10.â
âSeven?â He gasps dramatically. âAfter all that? I even looked straight at the camera for you!â
Your heart skips. âYouâwhat?â
He smirks. âDuring the bridge. Didnât you notice? I thought you said you were watching closely.â
You open your mouth, but words fail you. He laughs again, softer this time, and for a second, the whole backstage noise fades outâthe shouting staff, the clatter of mic stands, even the buzz of other idols. Itâs just him and that infuriatingly kind smile.
âHey,â he says quietly, voice gentler now. âYou donât have to get jealous, you know.â
You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.
He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. âIf Iâm talking to someone, itâs just talking. But when I look for someone in a crowd, itâs always you.â
Your chest tightens, warmth flooding your face faster than you can stop it. âThatâs⊠unfair.â
Leehan chuckles. âWhy?â
âBecause now I canât even pretend Iâm not smiling.â
He tilts his head, grinning. âGood. I like when you smile. Itâs my favorite look on you.â
And before you can reply, a staff member calls his name again, and he gives you one last wave before disappearing down the hall.
You stand there, a little dazed, replaying his words over and over.
When I look for someone in a crowd, itâs always you.
You touch your cheek, feeling the heat still lingering, and laugh softly to yourself. Maybe being jealous wasnât so badânot when it led to this.
WHEN A MAN REALIZES THE SIGNIFICANCE OF A PLUSHIE | Kim Woonhak
pairings â boynextdoorâs Woonhak x reader ( ft. Myung Jaehyun )
genre â slice of life, comedy, romance, established relationship (WC. 1.1k)
warnings â none! but woonhakâs very very jealous here hehe
note â posting 3x this week and then a lotttt next week⊠wish me luck..
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WOONHAK HAS BEEF.
Serious, deep, heartfelt beefâwith a six-dollar plushie from the claw machine.
âHyung,â he groans, throwing himself onto Jaehyunâs bed like a man whoâs just seen war. âI canât do this anymore.â
Jaehyun looks up from his phone, not even pretending to care. âWhat did you do now?â
âItâs not me! Itâs them!â
âThem,â Jaehyun repeats flatly, âas in⊠the plushies?â
âYes!â Woonhak sits up dramatically, pointing like heâs accusing a villain in a courtroom. âShe has too many. Way too many. I canât even see her when she sleeps because thereâs a wall of them!â
Jaehyun blinks. ââŠYouâre jealous of the plushies.â
Woonhak glares. âIâm not jealous. I just think itâs weird! Why does she need, likeâfifteen bears when she has me?â
Jaehyun sets his phone down, giving him that look that screams Iâm too tired for this conversation but okay. âWoonhak.â
âWhat?â
âYou do realize youâre saying youâre jealous of inanimate objects that she literally bought because she misses you, right?â
âThatâsâwhat?â Woonhak frowns. âNo, that doesnât evenââ
Jaehyun just raises an eyebrow. âThink about it. When youâre gone for schedules, whoâs there to hug her? Whoâs there to sleep next to her when sheâs lonely? Those plushies are literally the next best thing.â
Woonhak opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. ââŠOh.â
âYeah,â Jaehyun says, already going back to scrolling on his phone. âYouâre basically mad at the emotional support version of yourself.â
âOh.â
âMaybe get her another one instead of complaining about it.â
ââŠOh.â
âStop saying oh before I throw a pillow at you.â
That night, Woonhak sits on his bed, chin in hand, staring at the ceiling.
So⊠you got those plushies because you missed him? And here he was, sulking about them like a toddler denied candy. Great job, genius.
He pictures your roomâsoft lighting, too many blankets, an entire army of plushies taking over the bed. You always teased him, saying they âkeep me companyâ when heâs away. And every time, heâd just roll his eyes and call them clingy.
But maybe you were just lonely. Maybe hugging those bears was the only way you could stop missing him so much.
âOkay,â he mutters to himself, determination glinting in his eyes. âFine. Iâll make it up to [reader].â
The next day, you wake up groggy and shuffled toward the bed, rubbing your eyes. And thatâs when you see it.
Front and center among the plushies sits a new oneâa big, soft bear with the most ridiculous little hoodie that looks exactly like something Woonhak would wear. Itâs even got messy little brown hair ( clearly hand-sewn! ), and someoneâs drawn tiny dimples on its face with a marker.
You blink.
Then blink again.
Then burst out laughing.
âWhat is this?â you say between giggles, picking it up. A small note falls out of its pocket.
âIf youâre gonna hug something, it better at least look like me. â Woonhak đ»â
Youâre still laughing when the phone rings.
âGood morning,â Woonhak says, voice smug and full of barely contained pride.
âWhatâs this, huh?â You hold up the bear to the camera. âIt looks suspiciously like you.â
âYeah,â he says, leaning closer to the screen, pretending to inspect it. âHandsome, huh?â
âYou made this?â
He grins. âKind of. Jaehyun helped me order the bear, and then I drew on the face. Donât worry, itâs one of a kind.â
You snort. âYou drew your own dimples on it?â
âHey, thatâs my brand!â he protests, pretending to pout. âBesides, now you donât have to miss me when Iâm not there.â
You raise an eyebrow. âSo you finally admitted you were jealous of my plushies.â
Woonhak immediately stiffens. âIâNo! I wasnât jealous! I justâuhâdidnât like that they were taking up too much space on the bed.â
âSure,â You teased, hugging the bear to your chest. âWhatever you say, Mr. Jealous.â
He groans. âStop calling me that.â
âMr. Jealous!â
âIâm hanging up.â
âYou love me too much to hang up.â
He rolls his eyes, but his lips curve into that soft, lopsided smile you know too well. âYeah, yeah. Keep hugging the bear.â
âOh, I will,â you say sweetly, cuddling it tighter. âHe doesnât argue back.â
âHey!â Woonhak protests. âDonât replace me with that thing!â
You grin. âMaybe I will. Heâs quieter.â
âOkay, thatâs itâIâm buying a life-sized version next time.â
âThen Iâll have two of you.â
âNo, because then youâll never call the real me again.â
âDepends on how soft it is.â
â[Reader]!â
You laugh so hard he gives up, burying his face in his hands, groaning dramatically. âThis is what I get for trying to be romantic.â
âNo,â You say softly, voice gentler now. âThis is what you get for being sweet.â
He peeks through his fingers, eyes crinkling. âYou like it?â
âI love it.â
âYou better,â he says, puffing his cheeks in mock offense. âI stayed up till 2 a.m. making sure that stupid bear looked like me.â
âItâs perfect,â You reassure him. âBut you know whatâs even better?â
âWhat?â
âThe real one.â
He goes quiet, just staring at you for a moment. Then, a smile breaks across his faceâsoft, a little shy, the kind that always makes their chest feel warm.
âThen Iâll hurry home,â he says quietly.
Later that night, youâre curled up in bed, your phone still warm from the last call. Woonhakâs voice still lingers in your head, and his little bear version is tucked securely in your arms.
You press a kiss to its forehead before turning off the light.
âGoodnight, Woonhak,â you whisper.
Meanwhile, across the city, Woonhak lies in his dorm, grinning at his screen like an idiot after reading their last message. Jaehyun throws a pillow at him.
âWhat are you smiling about now?â
âNothing,â Woonhak says, still smiling.
Jaehyun squints. âYou gave her the bear, didnât you?â
âMaybe.â
âAnd they liked it?â
âThey loved it,â Woonhak says proudly.
âGood. Now stop looking at your phone like youâre in a drama.â
Woonhak just hums, rolling over and hugging his pillow like itâs them. âYouâre just jealous youâre not her plushie.â
The next morning, Woonhak wakes up to a picture you sentâa selfie of yourself snuggled up with the bear, captioned: âMy favorite boy đ»đâ
He laughs, heart thudding a little too fast. Yeah, maybe he lost the plushie war. But if it means youâre smiling like that, he doesnât really mind.