chloe .ᐟ.ᐟ

20s <3

[gyuzies]

𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌

fwb!choi beomgyu x reader ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

♡ . — ꒰17 ss꒱. i ii iii

mature content, sexting, bsf!beomgyu, miscommunication...., yearning losers, pet names (baby, mama prolly more) beomgyu lowk uses reader but unknowingly, both are in the wrong

general taglist: @nanilis @hoonsocks @sweethoons @beomiracles @izzyy-stuff @yvampyr @kookiesnkim @owlieuwu @seungminsslut @hyukascampfire

taglist: @urmotherlvr @soobabbee

[bincntrl]

SOOBIN BOYFRIEND TEXTS

in which soobin is your soft, dorky, but loving boyfriend.

pairings: soobin x gn!reader

genre: text au, pure fluff, humor

warnings: pet names, some suggestive language, one typo AGAIN

rea’s 💌 — back again bc i love disappearing apparently 🌚 was in the mood for soft soobin so here he is ⋆˙⟡♡

[ 🖋️ ] @onedreamnet @myhomesoob @soobabby

please do not translate, modify or repost any of my works on other platforms.

© bincntrl

[faeyun]

ˋ 𑁍 ⨾ LATHER

to help raise money for charity, you and your friends make your way over to the rich neighborhood to handwash cars in your best skimpy bathing suits and clothing. unbeknownst to you, you catch the attention of the richest person there.

❛ 최수빈 𝑥 𝑓!reader ❜ 𓄵 𝓯𝒕. chaewon ⟮le sserafim⟯, karina ⟮aespa⟯, and soyeon ⟮⟮g⟯i-dle⟯ 𓈒𓈒 ❨ 歌 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 ❩ 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖻𝗈𝗒!𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 (𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁), 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗌 ✴︎ 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹 + 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭-𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘥, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘺!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭), 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 (𝘧. 𝘳𝘦𝘤), 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘶𝘮 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘧. 𝘳𝘦𝘤), 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𓏸 43OO ╱ 𝓶. list

( 𝓷 )。 HAPPY SOOBIN DAY!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ hehe for the one time everyone, repeat after me! every body is a bikini body!!!!! thank you very much! ♡ this is a hybrid of a repost and a rework of a fic from my old blog of the same name. eeee lather girlies!!! where you at? teehee~~ the #1 mean dom lover is back!! (๑´ω`๑) enjoy!! ♡

 ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏   ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏   ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ ASKS APPRECIATED!

You huffed loudly as you tried to pull down the smallest shorts you've ever worn. When they didn't budge, you slumped into the chair at the stand you and your friends were currently setting up. At least you weren't that hot with your bikini top and jean shorts that barely covered your ass in the summer sun—and you looked damn good too. For charity, you thought, It's all for charity.

"Alright, I think everything is good," Soyeon says, her eyes scanning the final result of the stand. You, Soyeon, Chaewon, and Karina were on the sidewalk in some rich neighborhood to hand wash cars for this charity program you're all volunteering for. Last year, it was the boys who were ogling older married women for cash. It was a huge blowout and the company you were volunteering for loved it. This year, it was the girls' turn.

Karina got up from the grass where she was filling water balloons and placing them into a blue plastic bucket. "Water balloons are done! Are we ready to get started?" she asks as she wipes her wet hands down the sides of her own jean shorts. There was a piece of paper taped to the bucket that read '$20 TO GET THESE GIRLS SOAKED!' on it. Before Soyeon could reply, Chaewon walked up to the three of you.

"I already got a couple offers—they're paying big money to see us drenched and washing their cars," Chaewon says as she sits down on the plastic chair next to you. "One of them even offered to buy me a car if I was willing to 'offer a little bit extra' for them. This is going to be the easiest charity event I've ever been a part of!"

Soyeon scoffed a little at the remark and rolled her eyes as she looked around to the various large and elaborate houses. It was a very pretty neighborhood, you had to say. The houses seemed almost freshly painted and washed so they shined in the sunlight and each and every one had embellishments and trims that you knew cost a fortune. Their porches were opulently decorated for the season, and if you didn't catch previous glimpses of people looking out the intricately designed bay windows you would've thought that you walked onto a commercial or movie set. There were already some men waiting on their porches or flat out in their yards with a lawn chair and a beer.

One man in particular had his eyes on you this entire time. He was one of the ones sitting in his yard—sunglasses low on his nose bridge as he sipped from whatever ridiculously expensive beer he had. His blonde hair and plain white t-shirt made him stand out in contrast to the lush green grass behind him. You gave him a small and sweet smile while trying to make it seem like you didn't notice his persistent staring. You leaned forward and angled your body towards him as you reached to adjust the charity fliers sitting on the table, making sure that the new exposed skin of your cleavage was in full view for him. A smirk grew on his face and you knew you had him right where you wanted him as you flicked your eyes back up to look at him. Men are so easy, you thought.

The whole idea to even do this car washing service came from Soyeon, surprisingly. In her own words, "Lets take advantage of shitty rich men for charity money!" She was inspired by last year's ridiculous outcome and how instead of washing cars, the boys were doing summer stripteases under the guise of a Drown or Dare game. It wasn't a bad idea—you even suggested that you continue the car washing service into other neighborhoods too for more money.

Soyeon grabbed the megaphone from the table and said into it, "All right, gentlemen! Who's ready to get wet?!" The various groups of men cheered and started clapping at the beginning of their wet dreams coming to fruition. "Starting prices are on the sign above me and remember, it costs extra if you want something special. Lets raise some money for charity!" Soyeon continued. The rest of you all started whooping and cheering, falling into the roles you all came up with beforehand, as all the men came up to you four like moths to a flame.

You were in the process of taking a lot of twenty dollar bills and passing out water balloons whenever the man from the yard who has been eyeing you finally started to approach. You had to tear your eyes away from him when a water balloon hit your chest, soaking your thin white t-shirt and revealing your red bikini top in the process. Turning to the culprit with a shocked screech, Chaewon smiled innocently at you.

Chaewon was completely drenched and sudsy from the car her and Soyeon just washed. She held an open water bottle in her hand and you knew exactly what she was about to do with it. "Chaewon!" you laugh as you look down at the water dripping off of you. You peeled off some of the green balloon that stuck to you.

"The guy who's been eye-fucking you is coming over, be ready," she murmurs lowly as she pours the water from the water bottle she held over your shoulders. You gasped as a chill ran through you, giving Chaewon a pointed look, and peeled off your wet shirt—tossing it to the side next to the stand—so you were left in just your bikini top. Karina smirked at you as she took over handling the water balloons. Chaewon walked back to the table and you turned to greet the man of the hour.

His eyes shamelessly trailed up and down your—now soaked—body, especially the wet red fabric that barely covered your tits. He took a water balloon from Karina, pressing twenty dollars into her open hand without looking, and made his way over to you. "Need any more help getting wet?" he asked you with a sly grin.

Now that he was up close, he was really attractive. He also didn't look that much older than you, which honestly surprised you. You were expecting men in their late forties who had suspiciously thick hair at their hairline but not towards the backs of their heads. You plastered on an innocent smile, he was probably some billionaire's son. "For charity? Of course I am, if you're offering!" you exclaimed as you held open your arms and prepared yourself to be hit with the water balloon.

Instead of throwing the balloon he latched his finger underneath the strap of your bikini top. "What if I want a special offer?" he asks you lowly as he leans into the shell of your ear. Your faces were inches away from one another and he looked into your eyes as he awaited your answer. The strap of your bikini top snapped back down onto your shoulder as he let go of it.

You could feel the heat spread across your body, especially towards the pit of your belly. Now, you weren't really one for a casual—or not so casual—hookup with a stranger, but you were willing to make an exception for a good cause. Besides, he was just so alluring. If you weren't already so wet, you'd bet your bikini bottoms would be soaked through right now.

With a sultry stare, the corners of your mouth rose as you say lowly, "You're gonna have to make a generous donation to charity if you want to fuck me, stranger." His smirk turned into a slick smile.

"Name your price and I'll double it," he replied. "And the name's Soobin. Figure you should know what you'll be moaning." You licked your lips in thought and his eyes followed the motion, lingering there for a moment before meeting your gaze again.

How much could you squeeze from him before he retracted his offer? Just how badly did he want to fuck you? While this might've made you look a little easy, you definitely weren't cheap. You debated for a moment on the price.

"One million dollars!" you settled on, raising a brow at Soobin as you lifted your chin. You were going to go higher, but you also wanted to play it safe. Soobin broke out into a playful laugh and you watched his reaction. He began nodding like it meant nothing to him, like a million dollars was simply play money for him.

"Two million it is!" he replies and the two of you make your way over to the table where the credit card reader is. Soyeon's eyes nearly fall out of her head as she looks at the amount on the screen that Soobin transferred over, and she quickly waves you over. Your eyes widen when you see all of the zeros and you look back up at Soobin in shock. Instead of transferring over two million dollars like discussed, he transferred over four million dollars.

Soobin looked over to you and smiled, "For the pretty girl in front of me." Heat spread across your face and you thanked him with wide eyes. You turned back to Soyeon and she mirrored your expression as she mouthed, "Four million dollars?!"

You rounded the table back to Soobin. "I hope you don't mind waiting for a few minutes, I have to wash this car quickly," you say.

Soobin shakes his head as he crosses his arms. "Take all the time you need," he responds, the smirk returning.

Smiling, you told him you'd be right back. As you were walking away, you heard Soyeon cheekily say, "You can set up a chair and watch her if you so desire."

You helped Karina grab the soap and brushes and the two of you made your way over to one of the spotless cars waiting to be washed. When the two of you finished, you were completely drenched from head to toe and lathered in soap.

Soobin had taken up Soyeon's offer and watched you the entire time. He came up to you with a towel in his hand that he outstretched towards you as he stood from the chair he was sitting in. You thanked him and dried yourself off as best as you could and tried to get most of the soap off.

Soobin trailed the tips of his fingers along your jaw. "Ready?" he asks lowly, lust swirling in his eyes.

His fingers lifted up your chin so that you looked at him. Suddenly flustered as the reality of what you were about to do hit you, all you could do was swallow hard and nod in reply. Soobin smiled and took your hand as he led you back to his house. You looked over your shoulder at Karina, who was now standing with Chaewon as the two of them made kissy faces at you and laughed at the playful glare you threw at them. The heat blanketing across your body grew the closer you got to Soobin's house until it was almost unbearable under the summer rays.

The inside of his house was just as nice as the outside, but you barely got to look around before his lips were pressing kisses to your neck. Soobin wasted no time with you as he backed you up towards the living room and pushed you down onto his large couch. His eyes were dark and full of lust that it made him look like a completely different person than the one you knew just a few moments ago.

"Take your clothes off," Soobin demands as he begins to unbutton his polo shorts. He pulls them down, revealing his bulging erection, as you cross your legs and lean forward slightly.

"Why don't you take them off for me?" you challenge.

The corner of Soobin's mouth lifted as he took a step towards you. His tall figure hovered over yours until he shadowed you from the sun as he hooked his fingers under your bikini top straps and pulled them down slow. Goosebumps raised along your skin where he touched and a shiver ran up your spine when Soobin started to untie your bikini top at your back. Once it was untied, he tossed it to the side and onto the couch somewhere.

You shivered slightly as a cool chill swept over your now exposed tits, making your nipples perk up. Soobin ran his thumbs over them as he grabbed a handful of your breasts. "So beautiful…" he muttered to himself. His fingers trailed down your stomach and stopped just above the hem of your jean shorts. Soobin looked up at you briefly, that dark lust in his eyes intensifying, and you hooked your thumbs under the fabric as you slowly pulled it down along with your bikini bottoms so you were completely naked under him.

Soobin's eyes raised from your slow action to connect with yours. "Now," he began, "are you gonna suck my cock or do I have to pay more money, you fucking whore?"

You reached for the band of his boxers, but he slapped your hands away and told you to use your teeth. You obeyed, fanning your breath along Soobin's abs as you moved your head down to the thin fabric. Grazing your teeth along his skin a little, you took the band between them and pulled them down his legs achingly slow. When his hard cock sprung free of its fabric restraint, it smacked across your cheek and bounced off his lower stomach. You looked at his huge length with big eyes, your mouth lingering next to its leaking tip, as you pushed your gaze back up to Soobin's. "Fuck," you whimpered a little.

"You only speak when I ask you a question, understood?" Soobin scolded you, and you nodded at him in stunned shock. Soobin roughly grabbed your chin and swiped his thumb across your lips. "Open." You did as you were told, your mouth opening wide for him as you stuck your tongue out and waited.

"Good girl," Soobin smiles and says in an almost mocking sing-song tone. "This one knows how to listen." He pulled his boxers down more, freeing his cock completely. You falter, closing your mouth a little as you took into account how he was suppose to fit in your throat let alone your pussy. Soobin pumped his cock a couple times, eyes fluttering closed as he prepared himself, before looking at you with a raised brow.

You shook your head slightly, ready to speak about how you definitely weren't fitting him all in your mouth, before Soobin grabbed onto your chin again with the same roughness. "Didn't I say open?" he asks you, his voice a warning. You swallow thickly before nodding, and you go to open your mouth again just as Soobin brings his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss. He pulls away too fast for your liking and you whine out. Soobin takes the opportunity to bring your lips to kiss the tip of his cock, effectively cutting off your whine.

Your mouth opens more around Soobin's cockhead as you begin to take him down your throat, swallowing him inch by inch. Tears prick in your eyes and your face heats more as you look up at him. You weren't even halfway down his cock, but you were already gagging as he tickled the back of your throat. Soobin's head was thrown back as small whines and mutterings of how warm your mouth was left his lips. His hands were entangled in your wet hair, aiding you and there as a warning if you stopped. The whole image in front of you drove you to keep going and you shifted on the couch as arousal pooled beneath your thighs.

When you stopped a couple inches further down, not thinking you could take him any further, Soobin looked down at you and pushed your head down even more. He moaned loud at how you choked and gagged around his length. "You're a good girl, aren't you?" Soobin asks accusatory, a hand on the back of your head pushing you down and the other wiping the fallen tears from your cheeks. You nod weakly, whimpering, as more tears flow. Soobin then pushes you the rest of the way down his cock, your nose pressing against his happy trail as you struggled to breathe through it, and you gag more. "So fucking take it," he adds gravelly.

Soobin begins thrusting into your throat, grunting in pleasure as your throat closes around him and you move up and down his cock. His balls slam along your chin as he forces your gaze back up to look at him. Your ruined mascara and wet cheeks must set him off cause right after Soobin's eyes squeeze shut as he moans loud. His eyes open back up to watch the way his cock imprints itself along the skin at your throat over and over as he fucks your face fast and you choke around him more.

Soon, Soobin's mouth hangs open as his warm cum spills down your throat with his release. Soobin pulls you off of him and his thumb catches some of his cum that snuck out the corners of your mouth to push it back in. His thumb remains in your mouth, pressing flat against your tongue, and you suck on it. "Swallow," he demands as his knuckle trails along your wet cheek, "All of it." You move your tongue around his thumb as you swallow the salty taste down thickly, brows furrowing a little at the pain that spreads across your bruised throat.

"Such a good little slut…" Soobin trails, pulling his thumb from your mouth, when you stuck your tongue out to show him that you swallowed all of his cum. You hips rolled a little against the couch, desperate for any bit of friction your neglected clit can get.

"Soobin, please…" you whined through a small moan hoarsely. You wanted to feel him inside of you. You need to feel how much he stretched your aching pussy out. You need to feel every vein running along his shaft.

Soobin tsked at you, and you realized that he didn't give you permission to speak. "Turn around. Bend over the top of the couch," he told you. You turned and got up onto the couch, spreading your legs and arching your back so your ass was in the air for him. You weren't even embarrassed at the wet patch of arousal that you left on his expensive couch. He could afford to replace it, but you couldn't afford to ruin this moment for yourself. Soobin's hand smoothed over the curves of your body as he spread you apart, his thumb that was once in your mouth running through your wet folds.

You squirmed a little, moving your hips back to feel him more. Behind you, Soobin laughed. He ran his thumb more along your clit, rubbing at his own wet cock, before moving it up towards your entrance. The sound of your own arousal was lewd, but it just turned you on more as Soobin teasingly prodded at your entrance.

"Already so wet and I haven't even touched you… You want me to stuff my cock inside your tiny little pussy, huh, my little whore? Fill you up until it's dripping down your thighs?" Soobin asks you as he mockingly rubs the tip of his cock against your wet entrance. You bit your bottom lip and nodded, hips pushing back onto him more as you turned to stare at him with desperate eyes. "What did I tell you earlier?" he then asks before slapping your ass hard.

A moan pushes its way out of your mouth from the pain and the pleasure. His words ring in your ears, You only speak when I ask you a question. "Please," you beg him. "I need to feel you. I want it to drip down my thighs…"

You go to speak more, but the words get caught in your throat when Soobin roughly fucks into you without warning. You let out a loud gasp from the suddenness that quickly trails into unashamed moans as your pussy tries its hardest to suck Soobin's cock in more despite being stretched thin. Soobin pounds into you rigorously, his big hands gripping your hips to pull your ass back towards him to match his pace.

Crying out, your thighs begin to tremble as the drag of his cock along your walls makes your vision swirl. You whimper more, biting down hard on your lip to try and silence your words and moans, but to no avail. You moan out a chorus of Soobin's name as he lifts a foot onto the couch to fuck into you harder. You're seeing stars at this point, the pleasure making your toes curl and your nails dig in to the material of the couch, but you couldn't be happier that you accepted Soobin's offer.

You gasp, the euphoric pleasure suddenly becoming too much, and try to move up into the couch and away from him. But, Soobin wasn't having that. He pushed your head down onto the cushion, muffling your loud moans mixed with his name that bounced off his living room walls, and dragged your ass back down his big cock. Soobin wrapped an arm around your hips so you couldn't try to move again.

"Yeah, you like that?" Soobin hisses in your ear between his own moans as his skin slaps obscenely against yours. "You like me fucking you like this, little slut? You wanna cum around my cock like a good girl?" You nodded wildly, burying your face into your arms as you cried again from his cockhead hitting your sweet spot. Soobin slapped your ass again and you moaned, your nails digging into the couch more as your knuckles turned white. "Use your words. Why should I give an ungrateful brat anything that she wants?"

Wet sounds filled Soobin's living room as you desperately tried to push the words out of your mouth. "It's t-too much. I can't take it." More tears slid down your warm cheeks as you looked back at him with furrowed brows, streaks of your mascara in its wake. "Gonna—" you cut yourself off as another wave of pleasure hit you and your back arched more.

Soobin laughed humorlessly, but it was staggered. The rope in you finally snapped and your warm cum leaked down Soobin's cock as he continued fucking you at his quick and rough pace, leaving a creamy white ring around the base of his cock. He breathed heavily as he pulled you up from the couch. "Take it like the little cock-hungry slut that you are," he bit out at you, annoyed at your whining, angling your hips up and fucking into you deeper.

Soobin curses under his breath and you feel his cock throb hard inside of you. He quickly pulls out of you, giving himself a couple quick pumps. You groan at the sudden loss and how empty you feel as your pussy clenches around nothing and spills more of your cum down your thighs. Soobin flips you around onto your back and curses again before he starts roughly stroking his cock quickly over your tits.

His cum shoots out and covers them, dripping down to your stomach, and paints them a pretty white as he lets out a low whimper. Soobin takes your chin and brings your lips up to his roughly as he kisses you hard, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer as the kiss deepens.

Soobin parts from your lips once both of your lungs were on fire and stands back up to his full height. There's his signature sly smile on his face as he looks down at you. He takes his cock into his hand and taps the tip of it against your lips. "Lick it clean," he tells you, and you do. You take his cockhead into your mouth and let your tongue swirl around it as you lap up the rest of Soobin's cum and you relish in his way he shivers from the sensitivity. You bob your head down a couple inches of his length a few times before you hollow your cheeks and pull him out of your mouth with a loud and resounding pop.

"I bet your charity will be very pleased with my donation," he says smugly as his eyes trail along your naked figure covered in his cum and dripping your own onto his couch. "I should make you go out there and show it off for everyone to see."

You shy away from his heated stare, a smile playing on your lips as you bite your lip. The heat in your face rises again as Soobin makes you lean back onto the couch and spread your legs apart so he can see just how messy he got your pussy. He eyes it hungrily and licks his lips and that's when you know that though this may be end the of your first encounter together, he isn't finished with you yet.

The two of you get cleaned up and make your way back out to the charity event. It was dusk now and it seemed like the girls were just about to start wrapping everything up. "The prodigal daughter returns!" Karina yells out to you as you and Soobin draw nearer, causing the others to laugh.

You hide your face in your hands as you helped them clean up. The four of you ended up raising almost seven million dollars for your charity event that day, and your friends made sure to continuously thank "Mr. Four Million."

 ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏   ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏   ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ ASKS APPRECIATED!

✉️   ⦂   hey… it’s summer somewhere idk,, ʅ（‾◡◝）ʃ but i managed to turn this from a 2.5k fic into a 4.3k fic and i’m reallyyy happy about that hehehe~~ sorry to all the sub!soobin truthers but i need to be dominated and told what to do

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ @innocygnet @ikeukiss @yvampyr @prkhaven @jaylaxies @ghstzzn @fangel @tyunningism @xylatox @whosserina @jellymochii @minaateez @riribelle @lvrs-street2mmorrow @sumsumtingz @baddestire @yingelics @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @yooonjnng @solonenova @kkzldk @angelhyuka @hoonkishoe @heesmiles @yystarz @rainywrld @teezglitter @prettypurpleprincesss @beestvng @isagistar @another-lemon-tree @beomgyusluver @aliceskzfan @beomgyus11

© faeyun - all rights reserved. do not repost on any social media or sites, translate, or modify any of my works.

[woniexx]

soobin x gn! reader

[15:55]

"mint chocolate is a... questionable choice" soobin says, eyebrow raised.

"you have no taste," you scoff.

"i beg to differ."

"keep begging."

he gives you a look and takes another bite of his mom's an alien flavour as you two sit beneath the scorching heat. it was your idea to get ice cream, since the mall hadn't exactly been the most fruitful and you had wanted to cool down after leaving the house on such a hot day. you continue to eat in silence, enjoying the delicious mint chocolate ice cream until you hear the sound of a picture being taken beside you.

you whirl your head around. "did you just take a picture of me?"

he doesn't say anything, instead tilting his phone towards you to show you the picture with a barely-suppressed a laugh. you look over to see a picture of yourself with some mint chocolate that had made its way onto your nose, somehow.

"delete that!" you yell. he simply laughs in response.

you move your arm to wipe the ice cream off when he catches your arm halfway. you turn towards him, a questioning look on your face, when he takes a napkin out of his pocket and delicately wipes the ice cream for you.

"there," he says softly. he leans in and gives you a small kiss where he just finished cleaning your face.

you smile at him and return to eating your ice cream when he has a wonderful idea. he takes a small spoonful of melted ice cream and wipes it on his lips.

"look, [y/n], i got ice cream on myself," he pouts.

"i'll get it," you say, reaching for the discarded napkin in his lap. before you can grab it, he quickly takes it and shoves it behind his back.

"uh oh, looks like we have no napkins. i wonder if there's another way to clean it," he ponders, devious look in his eyes.

you look at him, incredulous look on your face. he looks so endearing silly with ice cream in one hand, the other shoved behind his back, melted ice cream dripping from his lips onto his chin and a wild look in his eyes.

"you know if you want a kiss, all you have to do is ask," you laugh, shaking your head.

you lean in and capture his lips in a soft kiss, and you can taste the sweet flavour in your mouth as you kiss the ice cream off his lips. he drops the napkin behind his back and slides his arm around your back, pulling you closer. you pull away after a few moments, aware that your ice cream is going to melt at this rate.

"i can confirm, mint chocolate sucks," he smirks against your lips.

"you're so mean!" you slap his arm jokingly.

he laughs as he intertwines his arm with yours. you two sit like that, finishing your ice cream together.

[words-in-purple]

ᥫ᭡.ִֶ misguided | choi soobin | masterlist

synopsis: the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the campus resident playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud.

ᥫ᭡ pairing: yearner!choi soobin x scammer shaman!reader

ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: college au, romcom, coming of age, bit of angst, pining, slow burn, deception, jealousy, plotting against your fav freaky couple, 18+ mdni, alcohol use and mention, lots of profanity, hella second-hand embarrassment, so unhinged turn your brain off, spin-off to virgin playboy, in chapter warnings to apply

ᥫ᭡ status: ongoing

ᥫ᭡ total wc: tbc

ᥫ᭡ playlist | main masterlist

ᥫ᭡.ִֶ index

teaser

the slicker (eta 03/02) the quack (eta 17/02) the charlatan (eta 03/03)

epilogue

taglist: drop me an ask or comment below if you'd like to be added!

banner by @matchastwb divider by @fae-and-wolf

[filmsbyun]

Waltz of Words || Choi Beomgyu

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝘵𝑒𝑟 𝜊𝑛𝑒: 𝑦𝜊𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝘵𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝘵𝑢𝑚𝑛

Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.

⊹₊ wc; 17.6k

Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader

chapter tags: inspired by regency era but not entirely accurate elements, heavy slowburn, reader faces misogyny, mutual pining, yearning, use of original characters

i hold this story, the characters, and the world close to my heart. the amount of joy this writing it has brought me in immeasurable. i hope you love it as much as love i've poured into creating it.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Back to story ml Next chapter

"Your eyes," Lord Kim mused, swirling the wine in his glass as he leaned forward slightly. "Light brown yet sharp—like honey edged with steel. Quite a rare beauty."

A polite, nearly derisive chuckle escaped you as you lifted your teacup to your lips, the porcelain brushing against your smile. You neither confirmed nor denied his words, merely letting the silence stretch between you, knowing full well how such men loathed being left without acknowledgment.

You were the eldest daughter of a noble family—sharp of mind, elegant in manner, poised in every regard. Yet beneath the carefully painted smiles and effortless charm, there was a deadly wit that cut deeper than any blade. An aspiring writer, a woman with ambitions deemed unseemly by the very society that entertained itself with whispers of your supposed impropriety. They smiled at you in ballrooms and parlors, exchanging pleasantries with feigned warmth, only to turn and condemn you the moment your back was turned. Well, not all, but still many.

Not that it ever stopped you. If anything, you found a thrill in it—the way masked conversations at masquerade balls and polished words at grand gatherings became your battlefield. Insults were merely invitations to play, and you had long since mastered the game. Funnily enough, for all your wit and defiance, the parade of suitors never ceased. Each day brought a new gentleman, another hopeful fool eager to claim your hand in marriage. But you knew better. You had always known better. Their interest was not in you but in what you could offer—your father’s wealth, your family’s status. And so, you did as any well-educated woman would.

You rejected them. With grace, your words wrapped in silk, but with finality all the same. And as Lord Kim awaited a reply, his expression expectant, you merely lowered your cup and offered him a smile that did not reach your eyes.

"My lord, how very poetic of you."

His lips curled into what he likely assumed was a charming smile, confidence glinting in his pale grey eyes. “A rare beauty indeed, and one that any man would be fortunate to—”

“Acquire?” you finished smoothly, tilting your head as if in contemplation. “Forgive me, my lord, but you speak as though I were some coveted artifact in a collector’s cabinet.”

The words were spoken lightly as they spilled from your rosy lips, almost sweetly matching your saccharine smile, yet they sliced the air like a sharp knife. His mouth opened, then shut, like a gaping fish as his pathetically composed charm wavered. Then, the faintest pink dusted his cheeks—not of flattery, but of embarrassment.

“Hardly, my lady,” he recovered, his chuckle laced with forced ease. “Though I must confess, I do find you endlessly fascinating. Your mind, your wit—it is rare for a woman to possess such sharpness.”

“Ah,” you mused, tapping a finger lightly against the rim of your teacup. “And here I thought my value rested solely in my rare light brown eyes. How reassuring to know that my mind is tolerable as well.”

His chuckle faltered, but he pressed on, leaning forward as if to close the space between you over the table. “You wound me, Lady Kang. I only meant to admire you. I do believe we would make quite the pair, you and I.”

A beat of silence passed before you let out a soft hum of amusement. Setting your cup down with an elegant clink, you met his gaze with a sharp glint flashing in your honeyed orbs—something that made his confidence topple over.

“My lord, I have found that men often mistake admiration for possession, much like one might marvel at a wild bird before placing it in a gilded cage.” You lifted a brow. “And as lovely as that sentiment may sound, I fear I was not meant to be caged.”

His lips parted, a retort surely forming on his tongue, but you rose to your feet before he could voice it. You smoothed a hand over the silk of your gown, the deep emerald fabric catching the warm glow of the chandelier above.

“I do hope the tea was to your liking, my lord. I find it particularly suited for washing down words that turn bitter upon the tongue.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but you did not stay to witness his floundering attempt at recovery. With a graceful dip of your head, you turned and left the drawing room, the train of your gown trailing behind you like the final stroke of an artist’s brush upon a masterpiece.

Beyond the doors, the evening air was crisp, the scent of distant rain clinging to the breeze. A wry smile ghosted your lips. Another suitor bested. Another conversation played like a well-written scene.

And tomorrow, without fail, another would take his place.

The following morning, aside from Maya’s ever-loyal presence, your only companions were the steady rhythm of carriages rattling over cobblestones, the occasional clip-clop of hooves punctuating the crisp morning air, and the thin mist curling at the edges of shopfronts. The scent of fresh bread and damp earth lingered in the breeze, a fleeting reminder of last night’s rain.

A cool gust of wind slipped past and you shivered slightly before wrapping your shawl more securely around your shoulders. The deep emerald folds of your gown skimmed the pavement as you passed by familiar faces. A nod here, a polite smile there—acknowledgments exchanged only with those who conveyed.

“Lady Kang, a pleasure as always,” called Mr. Lee, tipping his hat as he stood outside his tailor’s shop.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lee,” you replied smoothly, meeting his gaze for just a moment before continuing forward.

Maya, ever at your side, leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re staring again,” she whispered, her voice low but laced with indignation. “Especially those two gentlemen by the bakery. And that woman by the flower stall—oh, I know she has something horrid to say.”

You merely exhaled through your nose, unbothered. “Let them.”

Maya scoffed, quick to defend. “If anyone so much as breathes the wrong way near you, my lady, I’ll tackle them into the mud.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from you. “I trust you would.”

“With all my heart!” she huffed, puffing up her chest. “They can glare all they want, but none of them dare approach. They know better.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they’ll learn when they’re face-down on the street,” she declared, making you bite back a laugh.

With Maya's fiery loyalty echoing in your ears, you finally reached your destination—a modest yet distinguished establishment nestled between a bookseller’s shop and an apothecary. The dark wood sign above the door bore the name Westmere Publishing House, its golden lettering gleaming even beneath the overcast sky.

Inside, the air was warm, comforting in contrast with the outside ambiance, laced with the tender scent of aged paper and ink. A grandfather clock ticked softly from the far corner, its steady rhythm a backdrop to the gentle rustling of parchment and the quiet murmurs of literary discussions.

“Lady Kang,” a warm voice greeted.

You turned to find Mr. Alistair Lennox rising from behind his desk, a welcoming smile gracing his features. A man of keen intellect and unwavering integrity, he had been one of the few in his profession to treat your writing with the respect it deserved, rather than dismissing it as an amusing hobby for a noblewoman.

“Mr. Lennox,” you inclined your head. “I hope the morning finds you well.”

“Better now that you’re here,” he mused, gesturing towards the armchairs before his desk. “Come, sit. I had Mrs. Porter prepare some tea—I recall you have a preference for blackcurrant.”

A pleased hum left your lips as you settled into the chair, Maya standing dutifully near the door. Lennox poured the tea himself, steam curling into the air as he handed you a cup.

You accepted the delicate porcelain cup with a faint smile, letting the warmth seep into your fingers before taking a slow sip. The tart sweetness bloomed on your tongue. Lennox, however, did not drink. 

“Now,” he began, settling into his own seat, “I must say, your latest manuscript… intriguing, as always.”

You took a careful sip before meeting his gaze. “You hesitate.”

Lennox chuckled. “Ah, you never miss a thing, do you? It’s not hesitation, my lady, merely consideration. Your writing is evocative—there is no denying its brilliance. But your themes…” He exhaled. “They challenge certain conventions. That is not a flaw, mind you, but the industry is slow to embrace change.”

You watched as he flipped through the pages, his gaze sharp despite the amusement in his tone. His fingers paused on a particular passage, and he tapped it lightly before reading aloud:

‘He is a man with coal-stained hands, hands that build and break and bleed. The city calls him nameless, faceless, another thread in its grand tapestry, easily unraveled. But to her, he is not nameless. Not faceless. He is a man. And she, born to silken sheets and idle afternoons, has learned that wealth is merely another kind of prison.’

A silence stretched between you, save for the soft clink of porcelain as you placed your teacup down. Lennox looked up, a smile peeking under his gray mustache.

“A noblewoman falling in love with a man of lower birth—a factory worker, no less.”

You leaned back in your chair, lacing your gloved fingers together over your lap. “Not love,” you corrected. “Understanding. She sees him, truly, and he sees her. They are bound not by romance only but also by the realization that neither of them is free.”

Lennox let out a low hum, tracing the rim of his teacup though he still did not drink. His brows furrowed slightly, deep in thought. “Your portrayal of class disparity is unforgiving to society, my lady.”

“It is honest.”

“That is precisely why it will be met with resistance,” he murmured, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, gauging your reaction. “The lords and ladies you write of—self-indulgent, callous to the suffering beneath them—many will see themselves in your words, and they will not take kindly to it.”

“They need not take kindly,” you replied smoothly, gloved fingers trailing the gold rim of your saucer. “Only take notice.”

Lennox sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, but there was an unmistakable glint of both hopefulness and disquietness in his gaze. “You do enjoy stirring the pot, don’t you?”

You smiled then, slow and knowing. “If the pot boils over, it was never stable to begin with.”

“Dangerous words, my lady.” He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“I have never feared danger, Mr. Lennox.”

The grandfather clock chimed the passing hour, a draft ghosting through the room, carrying the faint scene of petrichor from an open window. Outside, the city bustled on, oblivious to the quiet revolution bound in the pages between you.

Lennox studied you a moment longer, then, with a resigned exhale, closed the manuscript. “Very well. I will see it through, but do not expect an easy road.”

You traced the rim of your teacup with a thoughtful finger. “You mean they are unwilling to accept the notion that a woman might write about more than love and pleasantries.”

His lips twitched. “Something like that.”

“I refuse to soften my words to soothe their sensibilities.”

“I suspected as much.” He leaned back, eyes appraising you with something akin to admiration. “Your work deserves to be read in its truest form. I will push for it, but you must be prepared—as I mentioned, there will be resistance.”

A lesser writer might have balked at the prospect. But you? You merely smiled. “Then let us give them something worth resisting.”

Lennox chuckled, shaking his head. “I have no doubt you will.”

And with that, the conversation shifted to logistics—edits, print schedules, the inevitable backlash that would follow. But opposition had never stopped you before. And it certainly would not stop you now.

Maya tugged at your sleeve, eyes bright with insistence. “My lady, just a moment—I must get bread for today’s breakfast from Roselyne’s.”

You exhaled a quiet breath, indulging her with a small nod. The bakery stood beside a flower stall, and the scent of baked goods curling with the fresh fragrance of the new blooms pulled you in. She hurried inside, promising to be swift, while you dallied by the door looking at the colourful arrangements of flowers. 

A breeze stirred against your skin, light yet invigorating, brushing past like a whispered greeting from the changing seasons. The street in front of the bakery held a rare stillness, the city’s usual clamor softened into a gentle hum. Drawn by the cool touch of the air, you stepped further outside, closing your eyes for a moment, letting it fill your lungs—

—but it was knocked out of your lungs the very next moment when something barreled into you.

Your balance wavered, feet slipping slightly over the uneven stones beneath you. “Ah—” Your voice barely escaped, the world tilting just enough to send a spike of disorientation through you. But a strong hand caught your arm, steadying you before you could stumble further. A figure pulled back, just as swift as he had collided into you, long strands of black hair shifting against his skin as he turned away.

“Forgive me,” the stranger murmured, the words clipped yet polite, already stepping past you.

You barely caught a glimpse of him—just the dark hair that rested against his nape. By the time your mind caught up with your body, he was already disappearing into the street, swallowed by the slow-moving morning crowd up ahead.

“My lady!” Maya’s voice cut through your thoughts as she rushed out of the bakery, hands firm on your arms, checking you over. “Are you alright? What happened? Did someone—?”

You blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Your hand absentmindedly clasped around to feel the ghosting warmth left on your arm by the stranger. 

“Nothing,” you murmured at last, brushing your hands over your sleeves. “It was nothing.”

Maya’s brows knit together, her gaze flicking toward the street where the figure had vanished. “If someone dared push my lady—!”

You let out a quiet breath of laughter. “You would tackle them?”

She huffed. “And more.”

Shaking your head, you linked your arm through hers, steering her back toward the carriage. “Come, or we shall be late for breakfast.”

The morning sun filtered through the grand dining hall, casting a golden glow over the long table adorned with porcelain and silver. The scent of freshly baked bread and brewed tea mingled in the air, yet any notion of a pleasant breakfast waned the moment your eyes landed on her—your aunt.

Seated beside your mother with a posture too stiff and a gaze too critical, she regarded you with the same thinly veiled disapproval she had worn for years. It was a wonder she still attended these meals when her distaste for you—and everything you represented—was no secret.

Still, you held your composure, inclining your head in the barest acknowledgment before moving past her.

"Good morning, Mother," you said warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking your seat. "Is Father not joining us?"

"He had to leave early for the academy," she replied, offering you a gentle smile as she poured your tea. "He sends his regards."

A shame. Your father’s presence would have at least softened the atmosphere. The conversation shifted as your mother set down the teapot. "Ah, I meant to tell you—I have arranged for a tutor for your brother."

You lifted a brow. "A tutor?"

"Yes, dear," she said, stirring her tea absently. "I thought it best to bring in someone with experience, given your own work."

You straightened slightly, setting down your fork with a quiet clink. "Mother, you know I am more than capable of handling his studies."

"And I know how you bury yourself in your writing," she countered, eyes warm but firm. "I would rather not distract you from your ambitions."

Your lips parted in protest, but before you could speak, a sharp voice cut through the conversation.

"Ambitions," your aunt scoffed, dabbing at her mouth with a silk napkin. "A lady should concern herself with finding a husband, not burying her head in ink and parchment. No respectable man wants a woman who has already given her heart to books."

A heavy pause filled the space.

Maya, standing dutifully nearby, remained perfectly composed, save for the way her fingers curled tightly around the pitcher she was holding. Your mother, though ever poised, let out a sharp sigh of disapproval glancing at your aunt.

"How fortunate, then, that I have no need for a respectable man." You took a bite of your bread.

Your aunt’s eyebrows bristled.

Smiling sweetly, you set your silverwares down, eyes gleaming. "I have always been under the impression that a man of true quality would value a sharp mind over an empty head, but perhaps such men are rare in your circles, Aunt."

Maya coughed—too sharp to be anything but a stifled laugh. Your mother, hiding her expression behind her teacup, exhaled lightly, the corners of her lips threatening to curve. You wanted to mention the scandalous part of her husband’s infidelity, but you decided to save that for some other time. Lucky for your aunt, you were feeling generous. 

Your aunt, for her part, sputtered, her lips parting and closing as though searching for a retort that would not come. You merely tilted your head in mock sympathy, waiting—watching—as she fumed in silence.

"Well," she finally huffed, picking up her knife and fork. "We shall see how long such ideas last, my dear."

"Oh, I do believe they shall last quite a while," you mused, lifting your teacup. "After all, unlike certain opinions, my ideas have substance."

This time, Maya had to turn away completely, shoulders trembling. Your mother took an exceptionally long sip of tea, eyes closed. And just as your aunt’s expression soured further, your mother smoothly redirected the conversation.

"The tutor I mentioned," she said, setting her teacup down, "is the son of an old friend of mine. You perhaps do not remember him as you were very little. His name is Choi Beomgyu, and he is a year older than you. He will be arriving later this week."

Choi Beomgyu.

The name did sound familiar, but unfamiliar at the very same time—like certain smells from one’s childhood that trigger an overwhelming sense of nostalgia yet you couldn’t quite grasp the feeling of longing in your palms. 

"He comes from an esteemed family, and he is quite studious and well-mannered. I think he will be a fine tutor for your brother."

You hummed noncommittally, turning back to your plate. An extra presence in the house was the least of your concerns at present—but still, the name lingered in your mind longer than expected. For now, however, you would deal with the matters at hand—like the way your aunt still stared daggers at you across the table.

You simply smiled at her, making sure it was sweet enough to irk another reaction out of her, then went back to your breakfast.

A week had passed since your mother first mentioned the tutor. You had not thought much of it then—people came and went from your home as easily as the changing seasons. Some as guests, others as suitors, all predictably forgettable.

A soft breeze ghosted through the sheer curtains, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering autumn chill. You might have surrendered to the warmth of your sheets—had it not been for the relentless force that was Lee Maya.

“My lady,” came her singsong voice, already too awake for your liking. “It is time for your horse riding practice.”

A low groan was your only response as you turned over, pulling the covers over your head.

Maya was having none of it. “Come now,” she cajoled, tugging insistently at the blankets. “The horses await!”

“They can wait longer,” you muttered, voice muffled against your pillow.

Maya gasped in mock offense. “Abandoning your beloved steed? Scandalous! Why, if your aunt heard of this, she would say—”

“‘How terribly unladylike!’” you finished for her, cracking one eye open. “Oh, the horror.”

Maya snorted before giving one final, merciless tug, dragging you from your cocoon of warmth. "Up, up, before I fetch the cold water."

Despite your protests, the routine began—Maya moving with routined efficiency, dressing you in your riding attire: a crisp white blouse with a high neck, its full sleeves flowing with each movement. Then, the final act of defiance—pants.

Oh, if your aunt saw you now.

By the time you returned from the stables, your pulse still thrummed with the exhilaration of the ride, the cool morning air clung against your skin. The familiar sight of the manor greeted you—its grandeur as eternal and old as time. But something was amiss.

A carriage stood at the entrance. Not one of yours.

Maya, already ahead of you, had paused by the steps. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, hands clasped behind her back as if restraining herself from bursting with whatever news she held.

You pulled your gloves off slowly. “Maya.”

She bit her lip, nearly vibrating in place. You arched a brow.

“The tutor,” she finally whispered, eyes darting toward the door. “He is here.”

Right. The tutor for your brother. You had almost forgotten.

Maya all but dragged you inside, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “He is with your mother in the drawing room now. Oh, my lady, I must say—” she clutched her hands to her chest—“he is terribly handsome.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that so?”

Maya nodded fervently as she led you through the halls, each step bringing you closer to the drawing room. And then—just as you reached the threshold—you saw him.

The scene before you could rival a famous painter’s artwork. Your mother sat with an air of elegance, her tea untouched as she spoke. Across from her, dressed in a well-tailored suit, sat a young man. Your gaze swept over him instinctively, cataloging details with the sharp precision you had honed over years of navigating drawing rooms filled with strangers.

He was tall, his frame lean but unmistakably strong beneath the crisp folds of his clothing. His hair was a deep, inky black, falling in soft, slightly tousled layers that framed his face; a natural shine catching the light just enough to emphasize its silky texture. The length grazed just past his ears, with the front strands parted slightly off-center, allowing a few wisps to fall delicately over his forehead.

He smiled, leaning forward slightly, speaking to your mother in a voice too low for you to catch. Then, with impeccable grace, he reached for her hand, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

A gesture of respect. One you had seen countless times before.

And yet, for some reason, you could not look away.

Your mother laughed lightly at something he said, and you—standing just beyond the doorway—felt something foreign settle in your chest from the mere scene.

Maya, ever the menace, nudged your arm. “Told you.”

You exhaled slowly, schooling your expression into one of polite neutrality.

He was handsome, yes. A fresh face among the endless line of suitors who had graced your home.

But unlike them, he was not here for you.

“Get the bath running, Maya.” You turned on your heel, dismissing the lingering thoughts as easily as you dismissed the tutor’s presence. You had work to do.

The manuscript for your latest project was complete, sealed away, soon to be scrutinized by those who would either fear or admire your words. Your next book awaited—an entirely new world demanding to be shaped, a story yearning to be told.

You hoped for the tutor to settle into his place in this house just fine.

In the living room, seated across from your mother, Beomgyu carried himself with an air of grace, basking in the warmth of familiarity. A soft smile played on his lips, the kind that carried both warmth and restraint, as if every word he spoke was carefully measured, thoughtful in its delivery.

“It has been years since I last saw you,” your mother said, a trace of nostalgia in her tone as she studied him. “You were but a boy when you left. And now look at you—how time has changed things.”

Beomgyu inclined his head, his gaze respectful. “Change is inevitable, my lady,” he said, his voice a smooth, velvety timbre. “But some things remain—like fond memories and kindness received.”

She smiled at that, pleased. “Your studies abroad must have shaped you well. I hear you spent much of your time immersed in philosophy and literature.”

“I did,” he affirmed, “and I found great joy in it. The world is vast, my lady, and there is always more to learn. But knowledge, I believe, is wasted if not used to help others.”

Your mother gave an approving nod. “A noble pursuit.” She set down her teacup, the fine porcelain clinking softly. “You must make yourself at home here. Do not hesitate to look around the house for your comfort.”

“You are too kind,” Beomgyu said, his smile deepening just slightly into a boyish grin. “And I am grateful for the opportunity. My mother assured me that this household is one of warmth and dear friendship. I am honored to be here.”

Your mother’s expression softened. “It means a great deal that you accepted the offer of tutoring. My son will benefit from your guidance.”

He gave a slight nod, ever the picture of a gentleman. “I will do my best, my lady. Education is a privilege, and I hope to help where I can.”

Beneath his polished manner lay ambition—not the reckless, self-serving kind that so often plagued men of high standing, but an earnest desire to use his intellect to make a difference. Having spent years among scholars and thinkers, he had learned to wield knowledge as a tool, not just for personal gain but for the betterment of those who needed it. When the opportunity to tutor was presented, he had accepted without hesitation—not merely out of duty, but out of belief. And if his mother had assured him that this was a house of trust, then he would see it as such.

A butler soon led him to the study room, where he settled into an armchair by the grand oak desk. The shelves stretched high, filled with volumes of literature and philosophy, their spines worn from years of appreciation. It was a space of thought, of discussion, and of ambitious pursuit.

He traced a finger along the gilded title of a familiar book, exhaling softly. There was a sense of belonging here, an understanding that he had stepped into a home where minds were meant to be cultivated, where curiosity was not just indulged but encouraged. And in that moment, he knew—he had made the right decision in coming here.

Minutes later, the door creaked open, and in stepped a young boy—your younger brother. He was around seventeen, soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor. His movements were meek that of a fawn, almost hesitant as he approached.

Beomgyu rose from his seat and offered a welcoming smile, his voice warm. “You must be the young master. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Your brother nodded, his expression polite yet uncertain. “It’s… nice to meet you as well, sir.”

“There’s no need for formalities,” Beomgyu said lightly. “I am here to guide you, not to intimidate you.”

That seemed to ease him a little. Beomgyu gestured toward the chair across from him, waiting until your brother was seated before beginning the lesson. But before delving into studies, he took a different approach—one that made all the difference.

“Tell me,” Beomgyu said as he arranged the papers before him, “what do you enjoy learning about?”

The question caught your brother off guard. Tutors usually dictated subjects, never asked preferences. After a brief pause, he mumbled, “I… like history.”

“A fine subject,” Beomgyu remarked. “Stories of the past shape the present. Do you have a favorite historical figure?”

Your brother hesitated, then answered, “Alexander the Great.”

Beomgyu smiled. “A fascinating choice. A conqueror, a strategist, a man of vision. Do you admire him for his strength or for his mind?”

Your brother blinked, considering. “His mind,” he admitted softly. “He was brilliant.”

“A scholar before a warrior,” Beomgyu mused, nodding approvingly. “You have an eye for intellect. I think we’ll get along just fine.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink.

The conversation eased the boy’s initial nervousness, and soon, the lesson began in earnest. Beomgyu spoke to him not as a mere student but as an equal, offering him space to think, to speak, to form his own ideas. It was a kind of teaching that encouraged rather than commanded.

Somewhere in the midst of their discussions, your brother mentioned you.

“She’s quite well-read too,” your brother said, shifting slightly in his seat. “More than anyone I know.”

Beomgyu glanced up with mild curiosity. “Ah, your sister?”

He nodded, but his voice lowered, almost hesitant. “Though she can be a bit intimidating.”

There was no malice in his words, only hushed truth. He admired you more than anyone, but he also knew of the battles you fought—how society viewed you, how you stood against it. He chose not to elaborate further, offering only the vague statement.

Beomgyu tilted his head slightly but did not press. Instead, he smiled—ever-gentle. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”

Your brother said nothing to that. He only looked down at his papers, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. Beomgyu, perceptive as ever, took note of it but let the moment pass.

The lesson carried on, but the thought lingered in Beomgyu’s mind. A bit intimidating, is she? He found himself intrigued, though he did not let it show. Respect first, always.

But curiosity… curiosity had a way of unraveling things in its own time.

The amber glow of the sinking sun in the horizon filtered through the tall windows of your study. The room, your personal refuge, was a sanctuary of solitude and intellect. It was here that you had spent the entire afternoon, quill in hand, weaving words onto crisp parchment, lost in the rhythm of your work.

Maya had long since succumbed to exhaustion, no doubt asleep in her quarters after you had firmly insisted she take a break. The house, aside from the occasional distant murmur of conversation or the faint clinking of silverware being tidied away, was tranquil. The household staff—those who came and went for daily duties—had long since departed, leaving only the trusted butler and Maya within these walls.

A dull ache settled between your shoulders, coaxing a sigh from your lips as you leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head. The exhaustion of the day pressed against your spine, a reminder that even the mind, no matter how disciplined, needed respite. Deciding a brief reprieve was in order, you rose from your seat, smoothing out the fabric of your blouse before making your way downstairs for a glass of water and perhaps a moment of fresh evening air.

As you descended, the hushed quiet of the manor allowed every step to echo softly against the polished floors. Passing by the study, murmurs from within halted you in your steps. You paused, careful to remain unseen, as your gaze settled through the slightly ajar doors.

Beomgyu was moving around, his face vibrant as he animatedly, passionately explained something. His hands gestured fluidly, his voice carrying warmth, sometimes rose an octave, sometimes downed. Your brother, usually so reserved, was positively beaming—eyes alight with unrestrained enthusiasm, laughter slipping from his lips with unfiltered delight. It was rare to see him so at ease with a stranger.

The sight tilted your head slightly in curiosity. A quiet chuckle escaped you before you turned away, leaving them to their lesson as you resumed your path toward the kitchen. Your mother, as you soon discovered, was absent—likely out with her circle of friends, engaged in the evening gossip of the elite.

After fetching your water, you strolled toward the garden, embracing the crisp air and the lingering scent of damp earth from the previous night’s rain. The stillness soothed your mind, the solitude a welcome embrace as the breeze teased the loose strands of your hair. You took your time, savoring the rare peace before returning inside.

Meanwhile, in the study, your brother closed his books with a satisfied sigh. The lesson had concluded for the day, and as he gathered his things, he glanced at Beomgyu. “There’s a library upstairs,” he mentioned offhandedly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Mother mentioned you are free to look around the house as you please.”

Beomgyu, intrigued, offered a grateful nod. “I would like that.”

His student then excused himself, eager to join his friends for the evening, leaving Beomgyu in the company of the elderly butler. The older man, ever watchful, regarded him with mild amusement before speaking. “Will you be needing anything, sir?”

Beomgyu shook his head politely. “No, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

The butler gave a small nod of approval before departing, leaving Beomgyu alone in the quiet of the house. Curiosity now stirred within him—your brother’s mention of the library had piqued his interest. He was always drawn to books, to the knowledge they harbored, to the ideas that breathed between their pages.

He made his way upstairs, footsteps light against the polished wood, trailing the hallways with a sense of caution. He had yet to learn the layout of the house, and as he navigated through the dimly lit corridor, he turned into a room, expecting to find walls lined with bookshelves and a collection of literature awaiting him—which he did find, but unbeknownst to him, it wasn’t the library he was looking for.

Instead, he stepped into your study.

The room wasn’t large, but it held a distinct sense of grandeur. Crescent-shaped seating wrapped around tall windows, where pale evening light filtered through the glass. Books lined the wall shelves, the desk space, even the wide sills—some stacked neatly, others left open, marked by neat annotations. A writing desk sat against the far wall, occupied by a typewriter, parchments, and a modest vase of fresh baby’s breaths.

Beomgyu took a slow step forward, his gaze drawn to the books. Some of these titles were rare—ones he had only read about, never seen with his own eyes. His fingers brushed the spine of a well-worn volume, curiosity tugging him closer. Then his eyes fell upon the stack of loose papers on the desk, scripts of some kind. He walked over to the study desk, leaning in to take a better look.

"It’s improper to sneak around."

The cool voice startled him. Beomgyu turned sharply, finding you leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Your sharp gaze, hooded slightly, held him in place. The warm light of the setting sun cast a glow against your features, making your amber-brown eyes gleam like smoldering embers. However, there was no warmth in your expression, and clearly no trace of amusement.

For a moment, Beomgyu faltered. Your brother was right. You were intimidating.

Yet, before he could gather his manners, something clicked in his memory.  "It’s you," he blurted before he could stop himself.

Your brow arched. Misunderstanding his words, you stepped further inside, exhaling softly. “Ah, I forgot—my reputation isn’t to everyone’s appetite.”

Beomgyu’s confusion was evident, and he hurried to explain. “No, my lady, I meant—I saw you days ago. On the road. I nearly—” he paused, then continued with a sheepish chuckle, “—rode straight into you. I had just arrived in town that day.”

You hesitated, studying him carefully. As his words sank in, a memory surfaced—black strands of hair catching the morning light, a fleeting grip around your arm, a murmured apology before vanishing into the street.

So it had been him.

The realization settled within you, an odd sense of recognition threading through your thoughts. How small the world could be sometimes. So he hadn’t meant it as a slight against your name. With the realization came along a bashful chiding of your own prejudice.

With a measured nod, you conceded, "I see. My apologies, then."

Beomgyu exhaled, relieved, only to stiffen again at your next words. "Though I must say, I didn’t take you for the kind of gentleman who would invade a lady’s secluded space. Quite indecorous."

His posture straightened immediately, embarrassment rushing in like a wave. "I assure you, that wasn’t my intent. Your brother mentioned a library, and I assumed—"

You allowed a ghost of a smirk. “You are in a library,” you interrupted, amused despite yourself. “Just not the one you were looking for.” You motioned toward the bookshelves around you before adding, “This is my study.”

Realizing his mistake, Beomgyu stepped back instinctively. He dipped his head earnestly. "My deepest apologies, my lady. I overstepped."

You held his gaze for a moment before deciding to let it go. He was to be present in your house for the foreseeable future, after all—no sense in making an enemy of him over a single misstep.

Turning, you ambled toward your desk, fingers skimming over your papers, but you noted that he hadn’t left. Beomgyu’s gaze, now free of tension, wandered back toward the bookshelves.

"You have quite the collection," he mused. "More extensive than even the libraries I frequented overseas."

You didn’t glance up. "It’s not for display. I’ve read them all."

"I don’t doubt it."

Your fingers paused over a book near your desk. Without looking at him, you asked, "And do you read, Lord Choi? Or do you only admire titles?"

His lips twitched at the clear challenge in your tone. "I read. Quite a lot, actually."

"Oh?" You lifted the book, glancing at its spine before tossing it lightly onto the seat beside you. "Then tell me—what is the central philosophy of A Dissonance of Ideals?"

The question was a trap. The book was rare, barely printed beyond its first run due to its controversial stance on class and freedom. Most men you’d met boasted of their intellect, only to flounder under scrutiny.

But Beomgyu did not flounder.

"That true liberation is not granted—it is taken," he answered smoothly. "The novel challenges the notion that freedom is bestowed upon the deserving, arguing instead that the oppressed must seize it for themselves. The protagonist, despite being of noble blood, aligns himself with those deemed lesser, and in doing so, sees the fallacy of his own privilege."

A stunned silence graced you. He held your gaze without hesitation, the smile on his lips was calm, not a trace of bluffing. You felt a small, reluctant flicker of intrigue.

Leaning back against your desk, you let out a quiet hum. "Not a bad answer."

Beomgyu huffed a short laugh. "High praise."

"High praise is reserved for those who deserve it." You observed him a moment longer before turning your attention back to your desk. "But at least you’re not entirely hopeless."

He chuckled, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes as he looked at you. This was no ordinary noblewoman before him—no delicate lady who needed to be flattered or coddled. You were sharp and quick-witted. But what struck him the most about you was that you're unapologetic.

He felt like a moth drawn toward smoldering flames in your presence. 

The door creaked, and Maya’s voice cut through the moment. “My lady, I—” She paused mid-step, blinking at Beomgyu as if only just realizing he was there. Her eyes darted between the two of you, before slowly widening like saucers. Fortunately, she kept her mouth shut. 

You exhaled, shifting your attention to her. “Did you rest properly?”

“Yes, my lady.” Maya nodded, still watching you both curiously.

“Good.” You turned to Beomgyu, voice composed once more. “It’s getting dark, Lord Choi. You must need rest. Maya will escort you to your carriage.”

Beomgyu inclined his head. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”

You nodded. Then, as an afterthought, you said, “I hope my brother wasn’t difficult to teach.”

Beomgyu’s lips curved slightly. “Not at all.”

The warmth in his gaze, so inviting, almost made you smile. But you merely nodded once more as he followed Maya out.

Left alone in your study, your eyes drifted to the bookshelves once more. Your fingers trailed the spine of a book that he previously touched before you murmured, “How interesting.”

The storm raged through that night, rattling the windows and drumming against the roof in an unrelenting downpour. The roads had turned to treacherous mud, the trees bending and swaying under the force of the wind. Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu did not arrive for his tutoring session the next morning.

Yet, despite knowing the obvious, you found yourself standing by the tall windows of the library, gaze flickering toward the entrance of your house, searching for a carriage that was not one of yours. The thought struck you as ridiculous—you had no reason to anticipate his arrival, and yet, there you stood.

Shaking off the thought, you returned to your desk, burying yourself in your work as the storm outside continued its merciless reign. Hours passed, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over parchment, the scratching of your quill filled the room with a symphonic rhythm.

A knock at the door drew your attention. The elderly butler entered, carefully holding a sealed letter. "A message for you, my lady. From Mr. Lennox."

You set your quill down and took the letter, breaking the seal with a letter opener. As your eyes scanned the contents, a wave of relief washed over you. Your manuscript has been accepted. Soon, it will be published.

The battle was only half-won—now, you would wait for the world to cast its judgment upon your words.

The following morning, Beomgyu’s carriage rolled through the now-cleared roads toward your manor. Seated inside with him was his mother, her gaze lingering on the passing scenery before settling upon her son.

"How are you finding it here in town?" she asked, her voice gentle yet inquisitive.

Beomgyu shifted slightly, considering the question. "It is different from what I’ve grown used to. Everyone has been quite kind."

His mother hummed in agreement. "And the Kang household? How do you find them?"

Beomgyu's expression softened slightly. "They have been welcoming. I had no reason to expect otherwise, but even so, their kindness is something I have come to appreciate."

As his words settled, his mind drifted unbidden to you. To the unfortunate series of mishaps that had marked each of his encounters with you—the collision outside the bakery, the intrusion into your study. He let out a quiet sigh before speaking again.

"I was thinking of stopping by the library after today’s lesson. To buy some… flowers."

His mother turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. She knew her son had always been rather interesting with his mindset and choice of words, but still it didn’t help with her brewing curiosity. "Flowers? From a library?"

Beomgyu had spoken too hastily. He didn’t wish to explain his choice of words to his mother yet. It was an idea that occurred to him late at night before he fell asleep thinking of you.

His mother, ever perceptive, caught the misstep and pressed further. "For whom, exactly?"

He opened his mouth, ready to answer, only to falter. A realization struck him—he did not know your name. Not once had it been spoken to him. Your mother had referred to you only as her daughter, your brother as his older sister.

Catching his hesitation, his mother blinked in mild disbelief. "Beomgyu, surely you are jesting. You have been in their house and do not even know the young lady’s name?"

Beomgyu’s eyes widened at how easily she caught on. He was just a boy who could not hide anything from his mother. Heat crept up his neck. "It… never came up."

His mother shook her head, caught between exasperation and laughter. "You must ask her yourself. A gentleman must not assume but rather seek to know with due respect."

Beomgyu could only nod, more embarrassed than he cared to admit. But before she could move on, curiosity still sparked in her gaze. "But tell me, why exactly would you be searching for flowers in a library for her?"

His shoulders stiffened. There was no graceful escape from this conversation now. So, he told her everything.

By the time he finished recounting his series of missteps, his mother was shaking her head, exasperated. "Oh, Beomgyu," she murmured, half-laughing. "You must properly apologize to the lady."

The carriage began to slow as they reached her designated stop. Before stepping out, she turned back to him one last time, offering a knowing smile. "And do not forget again, son. It is discourteous."

Beomgyu only sighed, watching as she disappeared into the bustling street. As soon as the carriage door shut, he exhaled deeply, running a hand over his face before instructing the driver to continue on.

The library awaited him first. Then, your manor.

Rain pattered lightly against the windows as Beomgyu sat with your younger brother, his lesson drawing to a close. The sky outside was a murky gray, the air thick with the scent of petrichor. On the table beside him, a package rested. He had yet to see you today.

As he contemplated whether to entrust the gift to your brother or seek out Maya to deliver it, a flicker of movement outside in the distance caught his attention. Through the blurred glass, he glimpsed a lone figure wandering through the garden.

"She’s out again for the rain," your brother remarked, following his gaze.

Beomgyu blinked. "In this weather?"

"She likes the rain."

A low and foreboding roll of thunder grumbled in the distance. Beomgyu sighed slowly, feeling the ever growing presence of the package beside him. He hesitated before asking, "Does she prefer company?"

Your brother tilted his head in thought, then shrugged. "You should probably find that out on your own."

Beomgyu did not need to be told twice.

The first drop of rain that touched your skin was cool, a soft whisper against the lingering warmth of the evening. The next ones came heavier, a rhythm quickening into a pace urgent and relentless. You walked forward, letting the grass dampen the hem of your gown, inhaling the earthy scent of rain. It was calming, this solitude beneath the darkened sky.

Then, just as the storm began to truly break, a voice called through the downpour.

You turned, blinking against the misty veil of rain, only to see Beomgyu walking toward you.

He was a mess.

Perplexity gripped you. Beomgyu stood several paces away, utterly drenched, his fine suit ruined by the merciless rain. The once-pristine white of his collar was soaked through, the deep navy fabric of his coat clinging to his frame, now a shade darker with moisture. His pristine shoes were now mud-ridden, his long black hair plastered against his forehead, dripping rivulets of water down his cheekbones. Through all of that, he was grinning at you.

A beautiful mess, you corrected yourself.

"Lord Choi," you called over the storm, incredulous. "What on earth are you doing?"

Beomgyu exhaled, lifting a hand to swipe at his rain-slicked lashes, an utterly useless effort. Then, his grin faded into a sheepish smile.

"My lady," he said, voice warm despite the chill in the air, "I never got your name."

The rain drummed around you, the world narrowing to the space between you and the foolish man standing in the downpour.

You stared at him for a moment, utterly, truly perplexed. "You came out into the rain for that?"

"Yes," he admitted easily.

Something about the simple honesty of it made you laugh, breathless and disbelieving. You didn’t even fight the trickle of warmth trailing down your chest. “You do keep surprising me, Lord Choi,” you muttered, your voice drowned by the rain, and as you studied him for a beat, an idea sparked to life.

"Very well," you mused, lips curving into a small smile. "If you desire my name, you must earn it."

His brows lifted, intrigue flickering in his dark eyes. "And how shall I do that?"

The rain dripped from your fingertips, tracing cool paths against your skin. "A riddle," you declared. "Answer correctly, and I shall tell you. But if you fail…" You turned slightly, glancing toward the garden’s stone archway in the distance. "You must catch me before I reach the arch."

Beomgyu let out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "You wish to make a game of it?"

"Why not?" you challenged. "Do you accept?"

His smile deepened, eyes crinkling into crescents as he gave a long nod, before meeting your gaze through the curtain of rain. "It would be discourteous of me to refuse."

You took a steadying breath, the rhythm of the rain matching the anticipation curling in your chest. You recited:

"I have a heart that does not beat, a home but no doors. What am I?"

Beomgyu’s brows furrowed slightly, his mind working through the puzzle.

You waited only a breath before you turned sharply and ran. The sound of splashing footsteps followed a second later.

"You didn’t even give me time to think!" Beomgyu called, his voice half-laugh, half-exasperation.

"You should be quicker, then!" you tossed over your shoulder, skirts damp and heavy as you sprinted across the grass.

The archway was ahead, framed by ivy, its stone glistening with rain. Just a little further—

"A book!"

—The answer rang through the storm, triumphant.

You faltered slightly, laughing, but did not stop. "Yet," you called back, breathless, "you must still catch me!"

"You are entirely unfair!"

"You are far too slow, Lord Choi—"

His hand caught your wrist before you finished speaking.

You were turned swiftly, rain-soaked and breathless, your back meeting the cool stone of the archway as Beomgyu’s presence loomed close, his breath shallow from exertion.

His fingers, though chilled from the rain, were gentle where they curled around your wrist. Drops of water clung to his face, trailing down the line of his jaw, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling from the chase.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound between you was the steady downpour of rain, the distant rumble of thunder, and the sound of your entangled breathing between the small space. 

Beomgyu’s gaze softened, his fingers loosening but not quite letting go. "My lady," he murmured, voice rich with something you couldn’t name. "Will you keep your promise?"

Your own breath was uneven, though not entirely from the run. Your eyes fell onto his hand that was holding yours, then met his gaze, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something warm passing between you.

"Very well, Lord Choi."

You stepped closer, the scent of rain and earth wrapping around you both. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling, but he did not move away. Droplets clung to his lashes, sliding down the curve of his cheek, and for a moment, you hesitated—so close you could hear the quiet hitch in his breathing.

Then, voice hushed as if you’re passing a secret with the wind, you whispered your name into his ear.

The words were warm against his skin, softer than the rainfall that dripped from your lips. A secret given, and just as swiftly, you slipped past him, the space between you vanishing as you walked toward your home, leaving him standing under the arch.

Beomgyu remained where he was, his posture unmoving, as if still caught in the moment. His lips parted slightly, shaping the syllables of your name in a reverent murmur, testing the way it curled on his tongue.

Your name tasted like sunlight, like warm honey trickling down his throat curling into the very veins of his heart, seeking abode in the empty space. Like something distant yet achingly familiar, something he had reached for without knowing he had wanted it.

A quiet exhale left him, his fingers twitching faintly as he recalled the package he had left inside. His original intent had been simple—an apology wrapped in parchment and intent. But now, he found himself unable to give it to you just yet.

No, not until he had written your name on it.

Maya was cleaning the windows when her eyes traveled outside, only for her breath to catch in sheer horror. The cloth in her hand nearly slipped from her grip as she stumbled back.

“My lady—!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

You stepped through the entrance, rain-soaked from head to toe, water dripping from your sleeves onto the polished floor. Your hair clung damply to your skin, but you merely smiled as Maya rushed forward, her expression switching from disbelief to outright panic.

“You went out in the rain again?” she cried, wringing her hands. “My lady, you’re going to fall ill one of these days! Have you no care for your health?”

As you were about to offer a reply, Maya’s eyes flickered past you, and she nearly reeled back. Her panic-stricken gaze landed on the man stepping in behind you—Choi Beomgyu, drenched in equal measure. His fine suit was utterly ruined, his dark hair plastered against his forehead, his shoes carrying a trail of rainwater and mud. And yet, despite his disheveled state, he remained funnily composed.

Maya gawked at him, then at you, then back at him, her brain clearly short-circuiting.

Beomgyu, ever polite even in such a situation, gave her a slight bow. “I apologize for the mess.”

Maya, on the verge of losing her mind, let out a strangled sound and scurried away in search of towels, her mutterings barely coherent. “This is—this is absolutely—oh, heavens above—”

Before you could so much as smother your amusement, a new presence entered the room—your mother. She came to a slow halt in the corridor, eyes sweeping over you both. Her expression was unreadable, utterly still, but the prolonged silence said enough.

Beomgyu stiffened ever so slightly beside you, then inclined his head, bowing deeply. “Lady Kang,” he greeted, his voice low and respectful. “I must apologize for my appearance and for the state of your home.”

Your mother said nothing at first, her gaze shifting between the two of you—her sharp eyes noting the way water still dripped onto the floor, the subtle heave of your shoulders from exertion, and the fact that, for the first time, you looked entirely unbothered in the presence of a man.

You, on the other hand, pointed in Beomgyu’s general direction without sparing him a glance. “His state is not my fault. He did this on his own.”

Your mother’s lips twitched slightly at that, but she withheld her comment.

Maya returned in a flurry of movement, shoving towels into both your hands before ushering you toward the fireplace. Your mother, after her curious silence, finally spoke. “Lord Choi, the storm has worsened. You should remain here until the rain subsides.”

“I appreciate your kindness, my lady,” Beomgyu said, voice warm yet firm, “but I shouldn’t impose any longer. I will return home at once.” He accepted the towel with a grateful nod and dried his hands before wrapping it around his shoulders.

Then, with a final bow—to her, to Maya, to you—Beomgyu turned toward the door. His departure was swift, but as he reached the threshold, he glanced back at you, lingering just a moment longer.

Then, with the faintest curl of his lips, he stepped into the waiting carriage and disappeared into the night.

Silence followed in his absence.

Your mother turned to you now, arching a single brow. It was a silent inquiry, one laden with quiet curiosity, but you merely deadpanned, “What?” before turning on your heel and making your way toward your room.

Your mother and Maya stood there, watching your retreating figure disappear up the stairs.

After a long pause, Maya whispered hesitantly, “Lady Kang, is she…?”

Your mother exhaled, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Who knows?”

Yet, deep down, she already did. It was still too early to assume, but in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Your mind, against your own wishes, wandered to Choi Beomgyu more often than you cared to admit.

You had met countless men—suitors of all ages, noblemen with polished shoes and sharper tongues, men who sought your hand not for who you were, but for what you could offer. To them, you were an acquisition, a means to an end, a prize to be won and caged. You had long since learned to navigate their intentions, to parry their flowery words with razor-sharp wit, to dance around their expectations with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

But Beomgyu... that man intrigued you.

With every brief exchange, every moment shared, the feeling took root. He was proving to be unlike the rest—not because he lacked ambition or purpose, but because he carried himself with an ease unburdened by arrogance. He was learned but never boastful, kind without expectation. Unfiltered warmth and pure knowledge wrapped his entire being.

At least, for now.

So, you decided to watch him. To study him as you had studied countless others, to see if he was different or if he, too, would prove predictable. But till now there was nothing to scrutinize.

He came to the manor, tutored your brother, exchanged pleasantries with your mother and the household staff. Whenever your paths crossed, he offered you that warm, polite smile, never lingering longer than propriety allowed.

Nothing less, nothing more.

Yet, the fact that you continued to notice was enough to unsettle you.

“My lady.” You were pulled from your thoughts by the voice of your instructor. “That’s enough for today.”

Exhaling, you dismounted from your horse, handing the reins to the stable boy as the exhaustion settled deep in your limbs. The ride had been long, and though you normally relished the freedom it brought, today, you felt weighed down.

You arrived home, your boots pressing damp imprints into the grand marble floors as Maya rushed to greet you at the entrance. The moment she saw you, her lips parted in a quiet scolding, but before she could speak, hesitation flickered across her face.

“My lady—”

“I need a bath,” you murmured, already loosening the buttons at the collar of your shirt as you strode past her, shoulders heavy with weariness. “Prepare it for me.”

Maya hesitated, her fingers twisting into her apron. “My lady, I must warn you—”

You were far too exhausted to fully comprehend her warning.

Stepping into the living room, you were greeted by an unfamiliar figure lounging comfortably in one of the embroidered chairs. His presence was enough to still your steps, irritation prickling along your spine even before he spoke.

Lord Park Bokyung.

An older man whose hair was tinged with grey, bulky body that barely fit into the chair. He studied you, dark eyes raking over your disheveled state—your untucked shirt, the dirt-streaked boots, the absence of any attempt at ladylike decorum. A grin spread across his lips, crude and condescending.

“Well, well,” he drawled, turning to your mother, who sat stiffly across him, lips pressed into a thin line. “It appears the rumors were right. Your daughter does enjoy hobbies quite unbefitting of a lady. She is in such desperate need of a husband.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “A man must tame her before she ruins herself entirely.”

Your mother winced at his words but quickly straightened, her gaze sharpening. “Lord Park,” she said coolly, “please weave your words with caution when speaking of the members of the Kang estate in their own house—specifically, my daughter.”

Bokyung had the audacity to laugh, shaking his head as if amused by a child’s naïveté. “Ah, my lady, you misunderstand me. I jest, of course.” His voice was thick with feigned innocence, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “My words are spoken out of concern—after all, what is a woman without a guiding hand to keep her from folly? I won't expect her to understand, she's still young after all.”

Your mother cast an apologetic glance at you. She hadn’t expected him any more than you had, and you could tell she regretted his presence entirely.

But regret would not erase the insult.

Something inside you cooled. A sharp, piercing sort of stillness settled in your chest, smoothing away the irritation and replacing it with something far more dangerous.

You turned, walking toward the far end of the room where two pistols rested mounted upon the wall. Fingers trailing over the polished wood, you spoke, voice terrifyingly calm.

“If a husband’s purpose is to keep me safe, then I would like to test his ability to do so.” You lifted the pistol from its display, and in one swift motion, you turned and aimed it directly at Lord Park.

The butler stiffened. Maya let out a strangled gasp, hands flying to her mouth. Even your mother, ever composed, shifted in alarm. The air in the room tensed with horror, every eye locked onto you, onto the weapon steady in your grip.

Bokyung’s amusement vanished. His body went rigid, his smirk faltering as his gaze darted between your face and the barrel now trained upon him. You almost laughed out when his chaperons cowered in fear behind him. This was the first time since your arrival, his composure cracked.

“You jest,” he said, but his voice lacked its prior confidence.

You hummed, tilting your head as if considering. “Do I?”

The man, his pride pricked, glanced at the assembled guests—your mother, Maya, the butler, his own chaperones. To refuse would be an admission of cowardice. To accept would be to entertain a lady’s absurd challenge.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well.”

Under the veil of the blackened sky, the targets were being set in the garden. You stood quietly by the side, watching as Lord Park took his position.

From the balcony of the study, your brother leaned against the railing, amusement dancing in his eyes as he observed the unfolding spectacle. Beside him, Beomgyu stood, silent.

“The fifth one this week,” your brother mused, exhaling.

Beomgyu turned to him, brows raising slightly. “Fifth what?”

“Suitor.” Your brother glanced toward the garden, then smiled. “But this one must have said something particularly stupid.”

As the targets were prepared, Maya fidgeted beside the elderly butler, her hands clasped tightly together. Her unease was palpable, her eyes darting toward you before she whispered, “She should not have to prove herself to the likes of him.”

The butler, who had served your household for decades, merely sighed. “Do not worry, child,” he murmured, his voice low. “Have faith in her.”

Lord Park stepped forward, gripping the pistol with stiff fingers. He adjusted his stance, clearing his throat as if to reassert his shaken confidence. He raised the weapon, inhaled deeply, and fired.

The bullet whizzed through the air, entirely missing the target and flew somewhere beyond the distance. The silence that followed was deafening. His mouth opened and closed as he scrambled for an excuse, his face paling beneath the weight of failure. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he lowered the pistol, his fingers tightening around the grip as if it were the weapon’s fault and not his own.

A quiet hum left your lips. You stepped forward, rolling back your sleeves, feeling the familiarity of the pistol as you lifted it with the ease of someone who had done so countless times before.

You raised your arm, gaze steady and unlike Lord Park, you did not hesitate to fire the moment you locked your target. Your finger pressed the trigger in a decisive motion.

The bullet struck the center of your target. Without pause, you cocked the pistol again, exhaled a low laugh, and fired once more. The second target—his—was knocked down in an instant.

The echo of your shots still resonated when silence fell, heavier than before.

Lord Park gaped, mouth opening and closing uselessly. A flush of humiliation crawled up his neck as he scrambled to find something, anything, to say. The gathered onlookers remained motionless, their gazes flickering between you and the man who had so thoroughly been put in his place.

You turned to him, expression unreadable, then offered him a small, polite smile.

“How unfortunate,” you murmured, handing the pistol back to the elderly butler. “You speak of a husband keeping me safe so that I may not engage in such ‘unladylike’ activities—yet you cannot even strike a target.” You dusted off your cuffs, already losing interest. “It seems I must continue looking for one more capable.”

With that, you turned and strode away, leaving behind the stunned onlookers and the seething man who had just been thoroughly humiliated, but as you moved, your gaze flickered toward the study balcony. Your steps faltered.

Your brother was grinning, his mirth barely restrained. Beside him, Beomgyu stood frozen, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes—wide as they burned with something perilously close to awe. As if he were seeing you for the first time. As if, in this very moment, you had unraveled something within him he hadn’t even known was tightly wound.

His gaze curled around you like an invisible thread, weaving and pulling, suffocating every molecule of your being. Your breath stilled in your throat, your pulse faltering against your ribs. A warmth so foreign, so dizzying, crept up your neck, nipping at the edges of your composure.

Then, before the feeling could root itself any deeper, you tore your gaze away. Without another glance, you quickened your pace, lifting a hand to your lips as if that alone could smother the telltale flush dusting your skin. 

But behind you, Beomgyu watched your retreating form with an intensity that bordered on reverence. His grip tightening ever so slightly against the railing; that man was utterly captivated.

Rain pattered lightly against the windows as you sat in your study, fingers pressed against your temple. After the day’s ordeal, exhaustion curled at the edges of your being, but irritation prickled beneath it like an itch that refused to be soothed. You had tried to lose yourself in work—letters to write, manuscripts to review—but nothing had been accomplished. Your mind was restless, drifting between frustration and weariness, a battlefield of thoughts refusing to be silenced.

A gentle knock at the door pulled you from your stupor. You blinked, momentarily dazed, the warmth from your bath still lingering against your skin. Before you could respond, your mother stepped inside, her presence a quiet balm against the chaos in your head.

Her eyes immediately softened as she took in your tired posture. "You had quite the eventful morning," she murmured, closing the door behind her.

You exhaled through your nose, pressing your fingers against your temple. "If by eventful you mean another insufferable suitor, then yes, quite so."

She chuckled, approaching the desk. "Maya is still recovering, poor thing. She nearly fainted when you challenged Lord Park to a shooting match."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Perhaps she should develop a stronger constitution. It will not be the last time."

Your mother sighed, her expression turning fond but tinged with quiet concern. "My dear, you are formidable—of that, I have no doubt. But even the strongest warriors grow weary."

You met her gaze then, something inside you wavering. She always saw through you. Always knew when your edges began to fray. A moment passed before you murmured, "I am tired."

She reached out, smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Then rest, my love. You do not always have to fight."

The words settled into your chest, warm and gentle, yet their meaning was something you weren’t sure how to grasp. Your mother did not press further. She simply kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment before stepping away. "Good night, my dear."

"Good night, Mother."

You remained seated long after she left, her words circling your thoughts. Just as sleep threatened to claim you, another knock sounded at the door. This one was softer, almost hesitant.

"My lady, it’s me. Beomgyu."

Huh? He still hasn't left for home? You blinked, the unexpected sound of his voice pulling you upright. You weren’t sure why, but your heart gave a small, unsteady lurch.

From the other side of the door, he continued, "I understand if you do not wish to speak. If you are busy or seeking solitude, I will not intrude."

You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor as you approached the door but did not open it. You imagined him standing just as close on the other side, his presence inducing warmth in the space between you.

A pause. Then, in a softer tone, he said, "I brought you flowers. As an apology. For the times I have crossed the line."

An apology? You felt the first curl of disappointment bloom within you, a familiar sting that came when expectations fell short. Of course. Bringing gifts to soften you, to charm his way into favor—it was a move you had seen time and time again. Was he truly just like the rest?

Your grip on the door tightened. The temptation to simply walk away, to block him out as you had with so many others, nearly won over.

Then he spoke again. "I will leave them on the cabinet beside the door. I hope you like them."

Silence followed. You waited until the soft echo of his retreating footsteps faded. A minute, then another, until you were sure he had truly gone. Only then did you pull the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor

Your gaze dropped to the cabinet. But instead of a bouquet, a thickly wrapped package sat in its place, secured with careful folds and a precise knot. Your brows knitted in confusion as you lifted it into your arms, its weight unexpected.

Frowning, you stepped back into your study and set the package onto your desk, fingers working to untie the string. “What on earth is this, Choi Beomgyu?” you murmured, a tinge of exasperation lacing your tone.

The wrapping fell away, and you froze.

Books.

Not flowers — books.

Four, no, five of them, each title graced with the name of a flower—The Language of Lilies, By the Rose Garden, Wild Violets in Bloom. Your fingers skimmed the spines, tracing the embossed letters, flipping through the pages as disbelief washed through you like steady waves. The realization struck like a slow dawn breaking over the horizon.

You flipped one open, the delicate rustle of pages filling the quiet room. And there, scrawled in elegant script on the inside cover—your name. 

You opened another. And another. Each one the same, and each made your heart stutter. 

A laugh—soft, disbelieving—escaped your lips, your fingers tracing over the pages as a delicate warmth unfurled in your chest.

"Oh, he is so charming…" you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

Your earlier judgment of him wavered, crumbling ever so slightly, and that made you feel truly relieved. 

Mornings at the manor was always a quiet affair, a tranquility that settled into the bones like a well-worn melody. You reveled in it, taking in the stillness as you descended the grand staircase, your footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. You hadn’t planned on anything out of the ordinary, just a simple breakfast before retreating to your study, but as you entered the dining hall, your gaze landed on an unexpected presence at the head of the table.

Your father.

It had been a while since you last saw him at breakfast. Duty often pulled him away early. But today, he sat in his usual place, sipping his tea, eyes warm as they met yours.

“Good morning, my dear,” he greeted, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.

“Good morning, Father,” you responded, slipping into the seat beside from him. “It’s been some time since we shared a morning meal.”

He chuckled. “Far too long, I’d say. But I’m here now.” A pause. “And I have something to discuss with you.”

You raised a brow, waiting.

“The Academy is hosting a gathering soon. An evening party,” he explained. “It might be in your best interest to attend. There are people—important individuals—who would take great interest in your work.”

The Academy. The very heart of knowledge, innovation, and education in the country. A place that held both opportunity and scrutiny in equal measure.

“Connections,” he continued, cutting into his meal with his silverwares. “They can open doors for you. Doors that even your talent alone might take years to unlock.”

You tapped a finger idly against the table, considering. It wasn’t that you feared the whispers or the disdain of those who thought a woman had no place in intellectual circles. You had endured far worse. But the idea of making strategic alliances, of meeting those who truly saw you beyond the title of ‘Lady’—that was something worth contemplating.

Your father must have sensed your hesitation. “Of course,” he said, “there will be those who will sneer. But you can handle them, can’t you?”

You scoffed softly. “That goes without saying.”

He smiled, a rare softness in his gaze. “Then come. With me there, no one will dare lay a finger on you.”

The evening air was crisp as your carriage pulled up to the grand banquet hall of the Academy. You stepped out, fingers resting lightly on your father’s offered arm. The midnight blue of your gown shimmered under the golden glow of lanterns, understated yet commanding. You had no desire to stand at the center of attention, yet you knew the moment you stepped through those doors, eyes would turn.

And they did.

It was something you had long grown accustomed to—the force of scrutiny, admiration, curiosity—all blended together in an awkward blend of cacophony. You held your chin high as you walked beside your father, nodding politely to those who acknowledged you. The hall was a grand expanse of polished floors, glittering chandeliers, and the hum of intellectual conversation. A world of scholars, professors, and thinkers—something about the ambiance made your nerves jitter.

Your father led you through the crowd, stopping before a man who bore an air of elegant authority and importance.

“Han Sohyun,” your father introduced, “one of the Academy’s finest minds.”

The older gentleman turned to you, eyes bright with interest. “Ah, at last. The young lady of the Kang family.”

You inclined your head in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Han.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he said warmly. “I must say, I’m quite an admirer of your work.”

That gave you pause. You had expected the usual pleasantries, the carefully measured words that spoke of tolerance rather than genuine appreciation. But there was sincerity in his tone. Your father was right. 

“You have read my works?”

“Of course,” he replied, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Your insights on historical literature are fascinating. I dare say your writing carries a depth many scholars fail to achieve.”

You blinked. Praise was not unfamiliar, but to hear it from someone of his stature, in a space dominated by men who often dismissed you, was something else entirely.

Through the course of conversation, you found yourself engaged in discussions more stimulating than you had anticipated. Han Sohyun introduced you to others, opening doors to connections you had never thought possible. But the moment that struck you most was when he mentioned his daughter.

“She looks up to you, you know,” he said softly once the conversation mellowed around you. “Your work, your defiance in the face of societal expectations—it inspires her.”

A slow warmth spread through your chest. You had never sought validation, but to know that your words had reached someone, had made an impact—it was an accomplishment in its own right.

The night wore on, and eventually, you excused yourself from your father’s side, seeking a moment’s reprieve in the garden. The air outside was cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the banquet hall. You breathed in deeply, exhaling the tension that had expectedly settled in your shoulders after engaging in conversations with people of high statuses. 

The soft murmur of conversation from the banquet hall faded behind you, replaced by the rhythmic rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. The sky stretched endlessly above, an ocean of inky blue speckled with silver stars. It was these moments of solitude that you always sought and loved. 

Then, from the corner of your eye, you noticed a figure—nearly obscured beneath a canopy of pink bougainvillea. It was easy to miss him, sitting on the ground, lost in the shadows. But you caught the faint silhouette of tousled hair, the gentle rise and fall of his breath. You blinked in surprise.

You took a few steps closer before speaking, your voice breaking the quiet. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

Beomgyu startled slightly, turning his head up to look at you. Under the soft glow of the garden lanterns, his expression shifted from surprise to soft acknowledgment—underlying with the impression that he too wasn't expecting you here. “Ah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, “just taking a break. Talks of politics and wealth suffocate me.”

Of course, he'd be invited. That man is no less than a scholar himself, so his presence in such a banquet is far more natural than yours.

You hesitated, glancing toward the direction of the party. “I should go,” you murmured, not quite meeting his gaze. “Being seen with me might taint your reputation, and I wouldn’t want that.”

Beomgyu tilted his head, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Then it makes the two of us, my lady. I fear I’ve already given the lords the impression that I’m uninterested in their conversations.” He patted the ground beside him, an invitation. “Stay, if you’d like.”

After a moment’s deliberation, you lowered yourself to sit beside him, leaving a respectable distance between you. The pavement beneath was cool, but the warmth of his presence nearby was enough to keep the chill at bay.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice as you turned to him. “Even I could never think of such an idea.”

Beomgyu chuckled softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. “As long as my lady likes them, I’m glad.”

“It was brilliant, truly. You…” You paused, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the lace trim of your gloves. “You broke my expectations.”

His eyes gleamed with curiosity, the corner of his lips curling into a coy smile. “Expectations?”

Realizing your blunder, you quickly averted your gaze, feigning interest in the pebbles near your feet. “Never mind,” you muttered.

A hum was his only response. Beomgyu then exhaled softly before speaking again, his voice thoughtful. “Truthfully, I had considered getting you actual flowers at first,” he admitted. “But then I thought… you might appreciate books more.” He hesitated, then added, almost sheepishly, “If you’d prefer flowers, I can get you some next time as well.”

Your eyes flickered to him with interest, and you let out a soft hum, squinting your eyes slightly. “Next time?” you echoed playfully, watching as his expression froze. “Does that mean you plan to cause more trouble, Lord Choi?”

His lips parted, his entire posture stiffening. “Ah—n-no, that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his usual composure unraveling in an instant. “I just meant if—if another occasion arose, then perhaps—”

A laugh bubbled past your lips, light and genuine. “It was truly brilliant,” you said, cutting off his flustered attempt at salvaging his words.

Beomgyu blinked at you, still visibly flustered, but the tension melted from his shoulders when he saw the sincerity in your smile. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, but this time, he simply let out a breath and returned your smile, no longer trying to argue his case.

You looked skyward before continuing the conversation. “I heard you’ve been out of town for studies.”

He nodded, resting his arms over his bent knees. “Yes, I spent some time abroad—studying history, literature, philosophy. They teach you many things, but true understanding is something you must seek yourself.”

You hummed in thought. “And did you find it?”

He smiled, gaze fixed on the garden path ahead. “I found pieces of it. Enough to know that knowledge is not merely in books, but in the way people think, the way they live. That is why I enjoy conversations like this.”

You found yourself intrigued. “Like this?”

He turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours. “With people who see the world not as it is, but as it could be.”

Your heart stilled for a moment, caught off guard by his words. He spoke like a scholar, yet he listened like a poet—absorbing every nuance, every thought, as if committing them to memory. You had met many learned men, but few who dissected knowledge with the same precision you did. With him, a conversation felt like not a battle to be won but a world to be shaped.

Beomgyu suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Good heavens, where are my manners? I made a lady sit with me on the dirt.” Rising to his feet, he extended a hand toward you. “There’s a lake just ahead. Would you like to take a look?”

You studied him for a moment. The moonlight cast a glow on his features—soft yet sharp. Slowly, you placed your gloved hand in his, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

As you walked toward the lake, the conversation flowed naturally. You spoke of your works, your manuscripts, your ambition. Beomgyu listened intently, never once interrupting, his eyes reflecting a hushed understanding. Only when you finished did he finally speak, his voice steady and thoughtful.

“You place strong emphasis on class disparity in your work,” he noted. “It’s a subject most fear to touch, let alone dissect so boldly.”

You turned to him, taken aback. “You’ve read my work?”

“I sought it out after hearing your name,” he admitted. “And now, hearing you speak of it—” he exhaled, shaking his head with an almost reverent mirth,“—I find your perspective fascinating. You don’t just write about injustice. You challenge its very foundation.”

A thrill ran through you, unexpected and electrifying. “That is precisely my intent,” you said, excitement creeping into your tone. “Change does not come from mere observation but from questioning the structures that uphold it.”

He nodded, a slow, approving motion. “And you do it masterfully.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt truly understood. His words held meaning, his perspective aligning with yours so precisely it startled you. You found yourself leaning in, captivated, speaking with a kind of excitement you hadn't felt in a long time. So immersed were you in your exchange that you failed to notice the figure approaching—only realizing when a voice, far too chipper, cut through the moment.

“Ah! Lady Kang! I was hoping to run into you tonight.”

You and Beomgyu halted in your tracks. The man before you bowed, hat in hand, a smile stretched wide across his face.

“Harvard Park,” he introduced himself with a glint in his pale blue eyes. “I wished to have your company for the night.” He trailed off, his gaze shifting to Beomgyu before adding, “Though it seems you are already busy.”

He ignored Beomgyu entirely after that, setting his eyes back on you. "I had the pleasure of speaking with your father earlier," he began, his voice velvety smooth. "We discussed matters of great importance, and naturally, your name arose."

You arched a brow, fingers tightening against your sides. "Oh?"

"Indeed," Harvard continued, his tone warm,  but there was no mistaking the condescension beneath it. "Your accomplishments are nothing short of admirable. A woman of your intellect and ambition is a rare gem in our society." He exhaled, tilting his head just so. "It is for that very reason that I could not help but consider—our families share an esteemed reputation. With such a union, the benefits would be undeniable."

Your stomach twisted. A union.

Harvard’s smile never wavered. "Of course, I hold the greatest respect for your work. In fact, I daresay you would find far fewer obstacles with the right… support. A name that commands respect, a presence that ensures you are received with the dignity you deserve."

The words alone would have merely irked you. You had long grown accustomed to such insults, wrapped in the guise of concern. But tonight—tonight, standing here before Beomgyu, being reduced to nothing more than a woman in need of a husband—you felt something far worse.

The sharp sting of humiliation settled deep in your chest, curling its way through your ribs like an iron vice. You had been spoken down to before, belittled with pretty words wrapped in condescension, but never in front of someone like Beomgyu. Never in front of someone who had truly listened to you, who had met your thoughts with his own rather than dismissing them. And perhaps that was what made the shame unbearable. Anger was there too, simmering beneath your skin, but it was the humiliation that cut the deepest. Not because of Park’s words, but because Beomgyu had heard them.

The initial flicker of anger threatened to boil over, but before you could gather the words to retaliate, Beomgyu moved.

“An interesting proposition, Lord Park,” Beomgyu’s voice was polite—too polite. “A man must be truly confident in himself to assume his presence is necessary for a lady’s success.”

Harvard’s gaze flickered to him, his mask of charm twitching ever so slightly. "I only speak of what is advantageous for her. Surely, you would not argue that in this world, influence holds great power."

Beomgyu hummed, his lips tilting in a way that did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah, but the assumption remains—who, my lord, decided that Lady Kang requires an alliance to achieve what she already has on her own?"

Harvard stiffened. "That is not what I—"

"But it is what you implied," Beomgyu cut in smoothly, his tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement, as though he were merely indulging an amusing conversation rather than dismantling the man’s carefully chosen words. "And it is rather odd, don’t you think, my lord? That you speak of marriage as a means of assistance, as though Lady Kang were incapable of success on her own?" His voice turned almost pitying, his fingers loosely clasped behind his back. "I wonder, then, is it truly her best interests you have in mind? Or is it simply your pride seeking to lay claim to something beyond your reach?

Harvard blinked, caught off guard, but Beomgyu stepped forward, the polite smile never leaving his face, yet something in his presence had shifted. “It is rather unseemly to speak of marriage as if it were a business transaction, especially without first considering if the lady herself desires it.”

You were silent, eyes widening a fraction at Beomgyu’s sudden change in demeanor. His frame now stood before you, as if shielding you from the shrewd man's line of sight in every possible way. 

“Tell me, my lord, does it soothe your ego to believe that a woman’s achievements are only half-formed without a man?”

“I merely thought—”

“That much is clear,” Beomgyu cut in, and though his voice remained even, there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But thinking is not the same as knowing, my lord. Perhaps it would serve you well to learn the difference.”

Harvard’s face darkened. “And who the hell are you to speak so boldly?” he spat, his gaze finally locking to Beomgyu, hostility simmering beneath the surface.

The moment his attention veered from you to Beomgyu, something sharp curled in your chest. No. If anyone would take his disdain, it would be you. Not Beomgyu.

You stepped forward with commanding grace, your eyes narrowing as they settled on Harvard. The sheer weight of your icy gaze made him flinch, his jaw tightening. Then, turning to Beomgyu, you allowed your eyes to soften as you slipped your hand through the crook of his arm, feeling the warmth of him even through layers of fabric.

“A like-minded ally,” you said, your voice soft but filled with firmness, meeting Harvard’s gaze once more. “My like-minded ally.”

The words settled in the space between you, and though your intent was to shield Beomgyu, you felt the weight of them in your own chest.

Harvard’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering between the two of you. He seemed to realize then that any further argument would only see him losing more of his dignity. With a clipped nod and a forced smile, he stepped back. “Well, it seems I have interrupted something. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Kang.” He barely spared Beomgyu a glance before he sauntered away, vanishing into the dark.

The silence he left behind was heavy, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the night breeze. You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly your fingers had curled around Beomgyu’s arm. You loosened your grip instinctively, but before you could step back, you heard the muffled sound of a breathy laugh.

Beomgyu had raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth as he stifled a whine. Your brows furrowed in alarm. “Are you alright?”

His shoulders trembled slightly before he let out a small, breathless chuckle. “I think my heart is still racing from the adrenaline.” He dropped his hand from his face, revealing an exhilarated grin, his eyes glinting with something unrestrained and bright. “That was—ah, how do I even put it? Worth it.”

His reaction caught you off guard, and before you knew it, laughter bubbled up from your own lips, the tension of the moment unraveling between you. But then, just as the laughter began to settle, he turned to you, his grin shifting into something more mischievous as he squinted playfully.

“Your like-minded ally, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity.

Your breath hitched. Ah. You had said that, hadn’t you? The realization sent a sudden flurry of warmth crawling up your neck. You hastily withdrew your hand from his arm, stepping back as you cleared your throat. “I—” You hesitated, searching for an excuse, before settling on a weak, “I didn’t think through it enough.”

Beomgyu merely hummed, watching you with keen amusement. Then, with a grin that was entirely too pleased, he said, “I like the title.”

You gave a small nod, sighing as you faced the other way—but it was an attempt to hide the shuddering breath of your unsteady heart. "You can have it then," you said, your voice quieter, almost hesitant.

A shy smile graced Beomgyu’s lips, and neither of you said anything more. The silence that fell upon you two afterwards was anything but uncomfortable. And so, with nothing else to say, he fell into step beside you, walking you back toward the banquet hall.

The golden glow of chandeliers from the hall beckoned you forward, but the cool night air still clung to your skin, refusing to let you forget what had transpired in the garden.

From then on, things began to change between the two of you. Beomgyu became a constant presence—not just as your brother’s tutor, but as someone who you allowed to linger by the bookshelves of your study. He had a way of drawing you into lighthearted debates, weaving questions into conversation as naturally as breathing. When he finished tutoring early, you found yourselves lost in discussions about renowned authors and intricate philosophies, often taking slow strolls through the garden instead of your usual solitary walks, other times in your study—your place on your desk and his on one of the crescent seats around the windows. 

Whether he was leaving for the night, walking beside you in the garden, or merely passing by, he would always leave you with something—a thought, a paradox, a moral dilemma—waiting to see how you would respond. And you indulged him, seeing it as an opportunity to understand the way the world in his mind worked. 

It was this—his ability to challenge without belittling, to disagree yet still listen, to turn every conversation into an adventure—that made something in you begin to unravel. You weren’t used to it, having a companion like this. Someone who didn’t just hear you but actually cared about what you had to say.

Someone who felt like freedom.

Your newest book had been published, and this time, the reaction was different. The response from the public was far more positive than before, largely due to the younger generation embracing your work with fervor. The lords and ladies from Lennox’s foreboding predictions scoffed at the shift in reception, but their disdain soon faded beneath the overwhelming tide of support in your favor. It was a success beyond what you had imagined.

With this newfound triumph came opportunities—an invitation extended through Han Sohyun to meet with renowned publishers, editors, and authors. It required travel to another town, forcing a temporary pause in your meetings with Beomgyu. A necessary parting, but one that left an aching emptiness in its wake.

The journey proved worthwhile. Discussions with influential figures broadened your perspectives, and you found yourself standing at the precipice of a career breakthrough. It was exhilarating.

During your trip, you wandered into an antique bookstore, allowing yourself a moment of quiet amidst the whirlwind of obligations. Han Sohyun accompanied you, his gaze wandering over the spines as you perused the selection.

Shelves lined with tomes both familiar and foreign surrounded you, the scent of aged paper settling like a comforting presence. Then, in an unassuming corner, your eyes fell upon a rare edition of a book you cherished. The very same edition that sat in your own collection at home.

You ran your fingers along its spine, and an old memory surfaced—your first encounter with Beomgyu in your study. The way he had paused before your bookshelves, fingers grazing the worn leather bindings, fond eyes marvelling at this very book with reverence. He had mentioned it then, an offhand comment, but you had taken note.

Sohyun noticed your interest, stepping closer to glance at the book. "Ah, an excellent choice," he mused, nodding in appreciation. "Are you getting it for yourself? Allow me to pay for it then, dear. Consider it a gift."

You let out a soft laugh. "That's kind of you, but I’ll get this one myself."

“My dear, may I ask why?"

Your fingers traced the edge of the cover, a quiet fondness slipping into your expression. "Because it’s for someone else."

Sohyun regarded you for a moment before nodding knowingly, a small smile tugging on his lips. "I see. Then I’ll let you have the honor."

Without another thought, you reached for the book. You already owned a copy, but this one—this one would be for him.

Beomgyu had not expected your absence to weigh on him as much as it did.

He still visited your home as per his responsibilities, tutoring your younger brother with the same patience and attentiveness as always. But the moments after—when the lessons ended and silence filled the spaces you once occupied—felt different. He had grown accustomed to lingering in your presence, to the ease of conversation that followed each lesson, whether in the study or the garden, debating over literature or philosophy. Without you there, the house felt quieter, and he found himself leaving earlier than usual.

Even the study, which had once become a shared space, now felt off-limits. Though you had given him permission to peruse your collection, he refrained from entering, unwilling to intrude in your absence. Instead, if he truly needed to sate his love for books, he opted for the grand library, often in the quiet company of your family’s elderly butler. Perhaps it was because he disliked being alone, or perhaps it was because the library did not hold the same presence of you that the study did.

At home, when he spoke of the things that stirred his mind or brought him joy, he found your name slipping into conversations more often than he realized. It was an unconscious habit, one he didn’t notice until his mother smiled knowingly at him, or until his older brother teased him for it. He didn’t try to stop himself. Because, for the first time, he had found someone who truly challenged him, someone who met his thoughts with sharp wit and undeniable intellect.

The men who pursued you spoke of your beauty, your grace, your lineage, but not of you. They admired the idea of you, the status you carried, the wealth you could bring, the refinement they could boast of having at their side. But Beomgyu—he did not look at you and see a prize to be won. He saw the sharp wit behind your words, the fire in your convictions, the quiet moments where your gaze softened, the laughter you tried to hide when something amused you more than you cared to show.

The difference was clear: they wanted what you could offer; he wanted you.

The lesson took place in the garden that afternoon, a change of setting Beomgyu often employed to keep the lessons lively rather than dull. He walked beside your brother, listening to his recitations, but his focus wavered. A jittery sort of anticipation thrummed beneath his skin, making him more restless than usual.

Your brother took notice. “You keep glancing toward the gate.”

Beomgyu blinked, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “Do I?”

His student hummed, hands clasped behind his back as he considered Beomgyu carefully. “Looking forward to my sister’s return?”

There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made Beomgyu falter. He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, she’s been away for some time. It’s only natural—”

“Oh dear,” your brother sighed dramatically. “Have I unraveled a secret?” The teasing lilt his voice carried was familiar, one that reminded Beomgyu far too much of you.

Beomgyu narrowed his eyes but smiled despite himself. "You have a rather mischievous streak. I wonder where you get it from."

The younger one merely grinned. But beneath the playful prodding, there was something else—a careful sort of observance.

Truthfully, he had been studying Beomgyu for some time now—ever since he noticed the way you carried yourself differently around him. He had watched many men attempt to gain your favor, had seen the way you deflected and dismissed them with ease. Yet, with Beomgyu, you were comfortable. He did not know what had changed, or why, but he wanted to see for himself what kind of man had managed to chip away at his sister’s walls.

And though he was younger, though it was you who always shielded him from harm, he had always carried the strong sense of responsibility of ensuring your happiness. If Beomgyu had earned your trust, then he too would extend his own—but not without caution.

“You know,” your brother mused, “you’re good company to my sister. It seems she enjoys your presence. I only hope she is not disappointed in the future.”

For all his youth, there was weight to his words, carrying the warning of a brother who truly loved his sister. Beomgyu stilled, taken aback. A slow exhale left him before he offered a small smile, touched by the sentiment.

“The young master need not worry,” Beomgyu said, voice laced with quiet sincerity. “If I ever bring her disappointment… then you will have the freedom to teach me a lesson.”

He snorted. “Alright, that’s a bit too far. I couldn’t possibly do that to my tutor—my mother would have my head…”

He trailed off mid-sentence, eyes shifting past Beomgyu’s shoulder. His expression lit up, bright and unmistakably fond. Beomgyu followed his gaze.

There, in the distance, standing at the entrance to the garden, was you.

Your brother wasted no time, running forward to meet you. You welcomed him with open arms, letting him embrace you tightly before murmuring, “I missed you, too, Sungcheol.”

Your eyes lifted then, landing on Beomgyu. He stood a few paces away, offering you a small smile. Seeing you again, after so long, made the jittery restlessness in his chest settle.

You were back.

Once your brother finally released you, you informed him that you had brought back gifts from your trip, leaving them with Maya for him to retrieve later.

Sungcheol gasped dramatically. “Why did you not say so earlier?” He turned to Beomgyu, expectant. “Sir, might we take a break?”

Beomgyu nodded, chuckling. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

With a quick bow, Sungcheol scurried off, leaving the two of you alone amidst the garden’s blooming roses. Beomgyu took a deep breath, allowing himself to fully take you in after not seeing you for all these days.

“You’re back.” It was barely above a murmur, but there was something beneath it—something that wavered between relief and hesitation.

A breath, and then, you smiled. “I am.”

Standing before each other again, days after your departure, the air between you felt foreign in a pleasant way. The absence had carved its presence between you both, making this moment heavier than either of you had anticipated. It wasn't just time that had passed; it was the steady realization of how much you had grown used to each other, and how much you've missed each other.

You studied him, searching for signs of change in his expression. Beomgyu, on the other hand, felt his breath falter. You were here, standing in front of him, and though he had imagined your return countless times, he hadn't accounted for the way relief would crash into him like a wave.

Without preamble, you reached into your bag and pulled out the book—the rare edition you had found during your trip. "Here," you said, holding it out to him. "I saw this and thought of you."

Beomgyu stared at it, his mind momentarily blank. He recognized the title instantly. His fingers hesitated before finally brushing against the cover, and for a moment, he was transported back to your study, to that first conversation, to the fleeting mention of this very book—a comment he had never expected you to remember. A moment supposed to be lost in time.

"You didn't have to..." he started, voice uncharacteristically quiet, but you shook your head, cutting off whatever words he had been scrambling to find.

“I wanted to,” you countered, your voice softer now, carrying a certainty that left little room for argument. “If anyone deserves this treasure, it’s you.”

Beomgyu had been raised on the belief that actions spoke louder than words. It was a principle he had carried with him, one he lived by. He never expected anything in return for what he gave—never sought acknowledgment, never yearned for reciprocity. And yet, here you were, proving him wrong. This single gesture, filled with such thoughtfulness, left him feeling unsteady. 

The book in his hand wasn't just ink and paper carrying timeless history within, it was a proof that you had listened, that you had remembered, that you had thought of him even when he hadn’t been there. The epiphany pressed against the walls of his ribs, too much to hold, too much to release. Beomgyu felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

"Congratulations," Beomgyu finally spoke, his voice even despite the erratic beating of his pulse. He tried to ease the restless energy in his chest by focusing on you instead. "Your book’s release—it’s quite the achievement."

You offered him a small smile, gratitude evident in your expression. "Thank you."

A beat passed before he tilted his head, a teasing lilt creeping into his tone. "Do I get the privilege of having my copy signed? Seeing as I’m close allies with the author herself?"

You pretended to consider it, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I’ll think about it."

A soft scoff escaped him, an amused shake of his head following. The freedom that followed from your return into his life once more felt just right, felt like he had been welcomed back into a home he had been searching for his entire life.

The last embers of autumn clung to the trees, their gold and amber hues slowly surrendering to the creeping frost that laced the edges of the world. Yet the air did not feel cold—not when warmth had settled between the newfound company you had found in each other.

Everything felt right.

But somewhere in the distance, seated in the grand living room of his manor with a copy of your book in hand, a pair of pale blue eyes ensured that nothing would remain that way for long.

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Taglist; @dawngyu @gyu-tori @saejinniestar @xylatox @hoefororeo @imlonelydontsendhelp @caratcakemoa @yeoningz @whatblop @beommieternity @xodidarks @bamgeutori @bamtoriui @izzyy-stuff @lostgirlysstuff @younbeanz @melmochii @choke-on-flowerz @frankghgr @immelissaaa @luvgyutae @brrytears @beomgyusluver @soobabby @cherr4es @dilfboysgirly @fancypeacepersona @i-like-to-read-at-4am @fancypeacepersona @y2kgyu @90steele

[dawngyu]

₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you, nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: REPUBLISHED. inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this; unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail, an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table, the very spot where you left him, only to find it empty, a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. 

Two years since his funeral.

Two years since you last stepped into your office.

Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless.

Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back.  You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again.  "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out.

He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief,  moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope.  Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know, this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin.  A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. 

Cry for him. 

Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile.  All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked.  Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted. 

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical.  “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest.  You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides.  "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights.  You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear.  Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand.  And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

YEAR 3100

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire.  Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

[orangyuuuu]

my favv

[words-in-purple]

ᥫ᭡.ִֶ misguided | choi soobin | teaser

synopsis: the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the campus resident playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud.

ᥫ᭡ pairing: yearner!choi soobin x scammer shaman!reader

ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: college au, romcom, coming of age, bit of angst, pining, slow burn, deception, jealousy, plotting against your fav freaky couple, 18+ mdni, maybe smut idk, alcohol use and mention, profanity, hella second-hand embarrassment, so unhinged turn your brain off, spin-off to virgin playboy, in chapter warnings to apply

ᥫ᭡ status: ongoing

ᥫ᭡ wc: 1.7k

ᥫ᭡ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist | prequel

Choi Soobin almost had it all.

Switzerland. Snow. Mountains. Professors who smiled at him because he’s a good boy—little do they know he’s twenty-one and still terrified of feeling too much.

A car his dad bought him when he landed back—black, sleek, expensive enough to make strangers assume his life was sorted.

And then the date. The date. With the girl.

The one he’d wanted since he first learnt cooties were fictional and longing wasn’t. The first girl he ever looked at and thought, I’d ruin my whole life for you—and then spent eight years not ruining it because he’s polite, and cautious, and allergic to saying anything that might change his life.

So yes. Dream semester. Dream car. Dream girl.

Except his dream girl didn’t want his dream.

She wanted someone else’s. Choi Yeonjun.

The Yeonjun Choi. The one people talk about like he’s a campus landmark. The one built like a Greek statue. The one with the abs—six? eight? Soobin doesn’t even know. He hates that he hates that he doesn’t know.

How do you compete with an eight-pack?

You don’t. You drink instead.

Soobin sits at the bar in a jacket too nice for his mood, watching his ice melt, trying to convince himself that he’s fine. This is normal. This isn’t the beginning of him becoming a future cat dad with a permanently damp flat smelling of cat piss and a personality made of I once loved someone.

He lifts the glass. Takes a sip. It doesn’t taste of whisky. It tastes of humiliation.

He can still hear her voice. And then I met someone.

He doesn’t even blame her. That’s the worst part. If she’d been cruel, he could’ve been angry. If she’d been smug, he could’ve hated her. But she looked at him the way people look at someone they genuinely don’t want to hurt and said the words anyway.

Soobin swallows hard and stares at his reflection in the glass. His elbow sticks to the bar for a second when he shifts. Someone has wiped it down, technically. The universe has not accepted that.

He raises two fingers.

“Whisky,” he says. “Neat, please.”

A glass slides in front of him.

“You alright, mate?” the bartender asks.

Soobin looks up. The nametag reads TAEHYUN.

He looks around Soobin’s age, but he has the calm of someone who’s heard every version of heartbreak and knows none of them are unique. He’s wiping down a glass in steady circles. He keeps half an eye on the door, half an eye on Soobin—probably a habit built from nights that go wrong.

Soobin puts on his polite face. “I’m fine,” he says. “Perfect, actually.”

Taehyun’s eyes flick to the empties lined up beside Soobin’s elbow. He doesn’t comment. Instead, he slides a water next to the whisky and says, “Have a bit of that too, yeah.” It’s not a question.

Soobin stares at the water, personally offended. Taehyun keeps wiping the glass, unbothered. Soobin sighs and drinks the water because shame is now his new hobby.

“Tough night?” Taehyun asks, neutral. 

Soobin swallows. He could lie again. He’s good at lying politely. But the bar is almost empty. There’s a lad passed out in a booth. The music is low. Soobin’s chest feels too full.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Taehyun nods once and goes back to work, giving him space. A pint glass clinks somewhere down the counter. Taehyun’s hands keep moving. 

Soobin, being Soobin, fills it anyway. “It was supposed to be—a good night,” he says, staring into his glass as if the ice might answer. “I did everything right.”

That’s always been his problem. He mistakes right for brave and hopes no one will notice.

Taehyun lifts his brows a fraction. That’s it.

Soobin keeps going, because once the dam breaks, it doesn’t stop. “I’ve liked her for years,” he says. “Like—embarrassingly. Since I was thirteen. Back when I still thought confidence meant standing up straight and not sweating.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches once. 

Soobin clears his throat. “I went abroad for a semester. It was—perfect. And I thought, okay, this is my moment. Either I shoot my shot and it works, or I get rejected and I’m conveniently out of the country to die in peace.”

Taehyun nods, still neutral.

“And then we started talking,” Soobin says, voice quieter now. “Like every night.”

Taehyun sets the glass down. “Right.”

Soobin’s cheeks warm. “And I was stupid.”

Taehyun finally speaks in a tone that isn’t judgement, but isn’t sympathy either. “Men.”

Soobin exhales. “Exactly.”

He takes a sip of whisky, then says it in one breath because if he hesitates he’ll die of embarrassment. “We-started-sexting.” His throat clicks. He rubs his thumb against the condensation ring, trying to scrub the sentence off his tongue. 

Taehyun doesn’t react. Doesn’t grin, doesn’t tease. He just goes, “Okay,” like he’s heard it a thousand times.

Soobin’s shoulders sag with relief. “And I tried to act cool,” Soobin continues, self-loathing creeping in. “I acted like I had options. Like I had girls. Like I was—in demand.”

Taehyun’s eyes flicker, quick and sharp. “Why?”

“Because I thought it would make her want me more,” Soobin admits, miserable. “I thought I’d look confident instead of—pathetic.”

Taehyun nods slowly, as if filing it. “And?”

“And it backfired,” Soobin says. “I made her feel like she had to perform. Like she had to keep up. She’s already—she’s already perfect. And I still managed to make her feel behind. I made her feel insecure.” His throat tightens. He takes another sip of whisky. “We had our date today,” he says. “She told me she’s liked me for years.”

Taehyun’s gaze softens a fraction, then settles back into neutral.

Soobin swallows. “Then she told me she met someone else.”

Taehyun stops wiping the glass. Just for a second.

Soobin looks down, jaw tight. “And it’s not even some random guy.”

It’s the kind of guy you hear about even if you never ask. The kind of guy with a reputation that walks in before he does.

Taehyun doesn’t ask who. He just waits.

Soobin exhales, bitterness and disbelief mixing. “You know that type? The campus playboy type.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “Ah.”

“That ah tells me you understand exactly what that means,” Soobin says, humourless.

Taehyun shrugs. “I work a bar. I understand the general concept.”

Soobin laughs, small and broken. “He has an eight-pack.”

Taehyun blinks once. “You counted?”

Soobin looks offended. “I didn’t count. People talk. I have ears.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches again. This time it’s closer to a smile.

Soobin takes a long drink, then says, quietly, “How am I meant to compete with that?”

Taehyun’s answer is simple. “By being a person.”

Soobin stares at him. “I was a person.”

Taehyun nods. “Too late.”

Soobin flinches. Then he laughs again, because if he doesn’t laugh he’ll cry and he’s not trying to be the guy sobbing into a bar mat at 1am.

“I can’t even be angry at her,” he admits. “She was just—honest.”

Taehyun pours him another water without asking. Sets it down with no lecture. “Drink that too,” he says.

Soobin obeys because something about obeying feels easier than thinking.

Taehyun exhales through his nose, like he’s deciding whether to get involved. “Hypothetically,” he says, casually. “If she doubled back right now—said she’d messed up—what would you do?”

Soobin doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Taehyun exhales. “You’d take her back? Immediately.”

“Yes.”

Taehyun nods. “Alright.”

Soobin squints. “That’s it?”

Taehyun tilts his head. “You want me to call you a simp?”

Soobin’s ears burn. “No.”

Taehyun shrugs. “Then no.”

A pause.

Soobin stares into his whisky, then says, too quietly, “I don’t know what to do.”

Taehyun holds his gaze for a beat, then looks away, busying himself with the bar top again. “I can suggest something,” he says, carefully. “But it’s—a bit mad.”

Soobin laughs once, exhausted. “My life is already mad.”

Taehyun hesitates. Then leans in slightly, lowering his voice the way you do when you know you’re about to sound ridiculous. “I know this shaman.” He says it too smoothly. As if he’s said it before. As if he has watched men just like Soobin fold in half on this exact barstool

Soobin jerks back. “I’m sorry—what?”

Taehyun holds up both hands. “I told you it was mad.”

“A shaman,” Soobin repeats, blinking. 

Taehyun shrugs. “People believe in worse.”

Soobin opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. Because what has logic done for him lately? Got him a nice car and a broken heart.

“There’s this shaman,” Taehyun starts again. “I think she’s a student—one of the unis around here.”

“What kind of shaman goes to uni?” Soobin cuts in, incredulous.

Taehyun inhales slowly, mustering patience. “The kind that values education,” he says flatly. “Now let me finish a sentence.”

Soobin throws his hands up. “My bad.”

Taehyun continues. “She does love rituals. Compatibility. Talismans. The whole—spiritual angle.”

Soobin stares. “This goes against everything I believe.”

Taehyun doesn’t even blink. “Everything you believe got you drunk at my bar.”

Soobin winces. “That was rude.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “True, though.”

Soobin takes a sip of whisky, then—quietly, like he’s ashamed of himself—asks, “Do you have a name?”

Taehyun’s eyes brighten. Too bright.

He turns, reaches under the counter, opens a drawer, and pulls out a glossy business card like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He slides it across to Soobin with a gentle tap.

Soobin picks it up.

The card is clean. Professional. The kind of thing you’d expect from a dentist, not a love shaman. There are even reviews mentioned at the bottom.

Soobin stares at it. The font is aggressively modern for something that’s meant to meddle with destiny—there’s an address and a WhatsApp number. Hope sparks in his chest. Small and humiliating. He turns it over twice, memorising everything, then tucks it away carefully. He finally slips the card into his pocket like it’s a bandaid.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Taehyun leans forward, elbows on the counter, and smiles. A too-wide, delighted, this-is-going-to-ruin-you smile. Soobin is too drunk off his mind to notice.

“Anytime, mate.” Taehyun says.

ᥫ᭡ next | series masterlist | main masterlist

a/n: hello, my loves! welcome back to the vpb freaks, and welcome aboard to the new readers!! i am so, so excited for this spin-off, omg i have been listening to "the winner takes it all" on repeat, thinking about soobin. guys i said 1k notes, and i have come back sooner because this fic has refused to let me sleep. i have been getting 3-4 hrs sleep max per night. THIS IS RIDICULOUS. my work portfolio is a mess because all i do at work is write scenes for this fic. so i have decided to succumb and just write it lmaooo. idk if this will do vpb justice but gosh i love everyone in this fic sm. yall might hate oc here (new oc, not vpb oc!) and yall might acc cringe at soobin. its ok. i will cringe and cry with you. pls comment, reblog, scream in my asks with your suggestions and what you think will/should happen next! your interactions fuel my fingers AND my brain. i love you all so so much <3

target: you guys know the drill! the sooner we hit the targets, the sooner we devour the next part!! since vpb teaser did well over 500 notes, can misguided hit 500 too? a bit high but i also need the time to finish writing up the first part! so again, go hammers with the reblogs, comments and i love love your asks so fill my inbox! send me songs that remind you of misguided soobin because i really need to add more to the playlist!

taglist: request by commenting below!

[words-in-purple]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ virgin playboy | choi yeonjun | lesson three

synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.

✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader

✧ genre: smut with plot, rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, love triangle-ish

✧ warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment, handjob, orgasm, fingering, dirty talk/explicit language, spitting, aftercare

✧ word count: 16.1k

✧ status: completed

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There are only a couple of weeks left until Switzerland spits Soobin back out.

The countdown sits in your body—not in your head, in your gut. It’s there when you’re brushing your teeth. It’s there when you’re walking to campus. It’s there when your phone vibrates and you don’t even need to look to know whose name is on the screen.

And it’s there now, when your friends decide to take your fragile little nervous system and use it as party décor. They don’t ask you to come out. They drag you like it’s a community service.

“You’ve been missing for, like, a month,” Mina says, tugging your sleeve while you stand in your doorway with your coat half on. “I’ve seen ghosts with better attendance.”

“I’ve been busy,” you argue, which is technically true if you count make-out sessions with Yeonjun as an extracurricular.

Yuna leans against the hall wall, unimpressed. “Busy doing what? Building a shrine? Writing vows? Practising deep throating a banana?”

You choke. “Can you not—”

Beomgyu appears behind her. A demon summoned by your discomfort. “She can’t,” he says cheerfully. “She’s been acting like she’s in a Victorian novel. Always clutching her phone like it’s a locket.”

“It’s just a date,” you mutter.

“That’s what makes it worse,” Beomgyu says. “A date. She’s about to get wined and dined and then her life is going to end in an alley behind a Wetherspoons.”

Mina shrieks laughing. “BEOMGYU!”

Yuna points at you, eyes sharp. “Why are you not happy-happy? You’ve wanted him since, what, Year 11?”

“I am happy,” you lie too fast.

Your stomach gives that same weird roll—not nausea, not hunger, something in between. Your body is trying to warn you and you keep pretending you don’t understand the language.

Beomgyu squints at you. “Say it,” he prompts.

“Say what?”

“Say you’re going to ditch us when Soobin’s back,” he says, delighted. “Because I’m calling it now. You’ll be like—sorry guys, can’t come out, I’m busy getting railed.”

“Oh my God,” Mina wheezes, covering her face.

Yuna doesn’t even flinch. “He’s not wrong.”

“I’m not going to ditch you,” you say, and it comes out defensive in a way you hate.

Beomgyu’s grin widens. “That’s not a denial. That’s guilt.”

You step forward, grabbing your keys, because if you stay here for one more second your friends will start chanting blowjob. “Fine,” you snap. “I’ll come.”

Mina claps. “Yes! Put on lip gloss. We’re reviving you.”

“Don’t revive me,” you mutter. “I liked being dead.”

Beomgyu beams. “That’s the spirit.”

The flat is already sweating by the time you arrive.

You regret it the moment the door opens—bass thumping through the walls, heat blooming in your face, bodies packed into corners because nobody here has ever heard of personal space. The air tastes of vodka and stale energy drinks and strawberry vape, and someone has already spilled something on the floor and decided it’s everybody else’s problem.

Mina disappears into the crowd. Yuna does too, immediately clocking someone across the room, about to ruin her own night on purpose.

Beomgyu stays attached to you for exactly thirty seconds—the exact amount of time it takes him to start narrating your life. “There she is,” he announces, loud enough that a few people turn. “Our local menace. Our community liar. The girl who’s about to become Mrs Switzerland.”

“I hate you,” you hiss.

“You love me,” he replies, because he’s addicted to being correct.

A girl you vaguely recognise from a seminar hands you a cup. You take it because you refuse to admit you feel fragile. 

Beomgyu leans in, voice low. “Have you picked your outfit for the date yet?”

“It’s dinner,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “And then what?”

Something rolls low in your belly. You take a sip just to occupy your mouth with something other than panic. It burns. Your throat tightens. You cough.

Beomgyu pats your back with fake sincerity. “Breathe. Don’t die. That would be so inconvenient.”

“Why do I feel sick?” you mutter, half to yourself.

Yuna’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Because you’re anxious. Or because your body is haunted.”

Mina reappears with a grin and a hand on your shoulder. “Okay. We’re doing shots.”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to,” you say, and your tone is too thin—the kind of thin that tells the truth without meaning to.

Mina studies you for half a second. Her smile softens, just a fraction. “Okay,” she says gently, then immediately ruins it. “But you can’t come out and act like a nun at a brothel. It’s stressing me out.”

“Stop calling me a nun,” you groan.

Beomgyu gasps. “You’re right. Nuns have commitment. You’re more like—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you,” you warn.

He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Violence. Noted. See? She’s alive.”

They keep talking—about the party, about other people, about some drama in the groupchat that you missed because you’ve been mentally—and physically—elsewhere for weeks. You nod at the right times. You smile when someone makes a joke. You laugh when Beomgyu does something stupid on purpose.

But you don’t feel present.

You feel like you’re watching your own night through a pane of glass. And underneath everything—the music, the bodies, the noise—there’s one stupid, annoying thought that won’t leave you alone. I want to talk to Yeonjun.

Not in a horny, lesson-three, I need help way. In a why does my chest unclench when he talks to me? way. 

It makes you angry.

Because Soobin is the one you’re supposed to want. Soobin is the plan. Soobin is the whole reason you set fire to your own life in the first place. So why does the thought of him coming back make you feel—pressured? Why does it feel like an exam you crammed for with the wrong textbook?

You take another sip. It does nothing except make your stomach roll harder.

Mina bumps your hip. “You’re doing that thing,” she says.

“What thing?”

“That thing where your eyes go dead,” she replies. “Where are you?”

“Here,” you lie.

Yuna’s gaze sharpens. “No, you’re not.”

Beomgyu leans over Mina’s shoulder, eyes bright with violence. “Is it Switzerland Boy?” he whispers, gleeful. “Are we panicking about dick expectations again?”

“Beomgyu,” Mina groans.

“It’s a valid topic,” he insists. “It’s academic. It’s educational.”

You glare at him. “Drop it.”

He grins. “That’s a yes.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself. And that’s the problem. You’re smiling. You’re laughing. You’re standing in a party with your friends and you’re still—elsewhere. Still restless. Still hollow in a specific way. Because the only person you actually want to talk to right now isn’t in this room. You don’t know why. You don’t let yourself unpack it.

You just stand there, holding your drink, watching everyone pair off.

Mina disappears first—a tall guy slides into her space, says something in her ear.

“Don’t leave me,” you mouth at her.

She mouths back, SORRY, already halfway gone.

Yuna goes next. She doesn’t even pretend. She just points at you and says, “Text me if you die,” like she’s clocking out of friendship for the evening.

Beomgyu lingers because he’s a menace with a heart, unfortunately. “You good?” he asks, and for once it isn’t a joke.

You inhale. Your stomach rolls again. “Yeah,” you say.

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. “That sounded like a lie.”

“Everything sounds like a lie when I say it,” you mutter.

He snorts, then looks you over, deciding how hard to push. “Do you want to go home?” he asks, softer than usual.

You almost say yes. But then you picture going back to your room—the silence, the phone buzzing, the countdown—and your body resists.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Beomgyu nods, understanding more than he’s saying. “Okay,” he says. “Well. I’m about to be a terrible person.”

“Shocker.”

He grins. “Don’t wait up.”

“Enjoy being a whore,” you tell him.

He beams. “Always.”

Then he’s gone too—swallowed by the noise and the bodies and the night.

And just like that, you’re alone in the middle of a room full of people. The music feels louder without your friends talking over it. The air feels thicker. You suddenly can’t stand the press of bodies—the way everyone’s laughing with someone, touching someone, leaning into someone.

Your stomach grumbles, low and traitorous. Heat crawls up your neck—part embarrassment, part irritation.

You take a breath. Then another.

You look at the door. You don’t tell anyone you’re leaving because nobody’s paying attention anyway—everyone’s already busy being young and reckless and loved for the night.

You decide you’re done. You push through the hallway, slip your shoes on with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy, and open the door.

Cold air hits your face like a slap. Your lungs finally expand. You step outside—and for a second, all you can hear is your own heartbeat.

And the strange part? You’re not thinking about Soobin.

You’re thinking about Yeonjun.

The door shuts behind you, muffling the bass into a dull, distant thud. Your stomach is still doing that weird rolling thing—not quite nerves, not quite hunger, not quite nausea. 

You tug your coat tighter and start walking.

And then you see him. 

Yeonjun’s posted up a little away from the doorway under a streetlight that makes the smoke look silver. He’s alone this time—no mates. Just him with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, body relaxed.

He’s dressed like he didn’t try. A black cap pulled low— the white logo catching the light. Hood up over it, a dusty-blue hoodie framing his face. Oversized black coat thrown over everything. His hair slips out from under the cap in dark pieces, falling across his cheek. Pale skin, soft mouth, lashes too long.

You should keep walking. Instead, something warm swells in your chest and drags your feet toward him.

Yeonjun’s gaze lifts.

His eyes light up when he sees you. You hate how much you love it.

“Leaving already?” he asks, voice rough from smoke.

“Yeah,” you say, like you didn’t just walk out of a party because your body couldn’t handle being in a room full of people who aren’t him. “It was shit.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “It’s always shit.”

You stop in front of him—close enough to smell the cigarette, and the faint trace of whatever he put on his skin that shouldn’t smell this good on a random night. 

He flicks ash, glances past you toward the doorway. “Where’s your little entourage?”

“Gone,” you say. “One of them is probably tongue-deep in somebody’s mouth. The other one is pretending she’s not. Beomgyu is—”

“Being a menace,” Yeonjun finishes, because he’s met him once and already knows he’s a hazard.

“Exactly.”

Yeonjun hums, amused, then tilts his head at you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

“It’s a liar’s answer.”

You glare. “You’re literally smoking outside a party at one in the morning. You don’t get to interrogate my emotional health.”

He checks his phone without looking too interested. “One twenty-seven.”

“Disgusting,” you mutter.

Yeonjun smiles, slow. “You’re out late for someone who hates parties.”

“I hate parties,” you say. “I don’t hate—leaving parties.”

His gaze holds yours a beat too long. Something in his face shifts—like he’s about to ask something real. Your stomach chooses violence and answers for you, growling loud enough to count as a confession. It’s not even a cute noise. 

You go hot instantly. “Oh my God.”

Yeonjun blinks—then laughs. He tips his head back, shoulders shaking, cigarette hanging between his fingers. The streetlight hits the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—and you have the idiotic thought that he looks beautiful even when he’s being annoying.

“I hate you,” you say, mortified.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, not sorry at all. “That was—”

“Don’t describe it.”

“You’re starving,” he says, still grinning.

“I’m not starving.”

“You’re literally growling at me,” he replies. “Are you a werewolf?”

You shove him lightly in the chest. His coat barely shifts. Your hand registers his warmth through the layers and your brain tries to reboot into something normal. It fails.

Yeonjun takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette away and grinds it under his shoe. “Come on,” he says, easy. “Let’s get food.”

You blink. “What?”

“Food,” he repeats, like you’re slow. “Eat. Before your stomach starts sending SOS signals to the entire street.”

“It’s late,” you argue.

He shrugs. “So?”

“Most places are closed.”

“Then we find something that’s not,” he says. “I’m not letting you go home hungry and feral. That’s bad for society.”

“You’re acting very—nice,” you say.

Yeonjun shoots you a look. “Don’t start.”

“What? I’m just—”

“Don’t,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Walk.”

You fall into step beside him without thinking.

The night is cold and damp, pavement glossy under streetlights. You pass a kebab shop—shutters down. Chicken place—closed. Even the little late-night café that survives on students and desperation has its lights off.

“Okay,” you say, after the third closed door. “We get it. The world hates me.”

“The world hates everyone,” Yeonjun replies. “It’s equal-opportunity.”

Your stomach rumbles again, quieter but still rude.

Yeonjun smirks. “Your stomach’s got a mouth on it.”

“Stop,” you groan.

He looks at you sideways. “You didn’t drink much, did you?”

“I drank enough to hate myself,” you say.

He hums. “Fair.”

Then you hit salvation. A Tesco Express, lights still on, automatic doors whooshing open. 

Yeonjun grabs a basket and holds it out to you with mock formality. “Welcome,” he says, deadpan. “To fine dining.”

You take it. “Thank you, sir.”

His eyes flicker, pleased in a quiet way he tries to hide. It annoys you. You drift toward the sad meal deals fridge. Yeonjun follows and squints.

“No,” he says.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” he repeats. “That’s depressing.”

“It’s food.”

“That’s not food. That’s punishment,” he says, then gestures ahead. “Ingredients.”

You blink. “You want to cook.”

Yeonjun nods because he’s just decided he’s the main character. “Yeah.”

“You can cook?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He turns slowly. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to poison you.”

You shrug. “Do you want me to be honest?”

He points at you. “Careful. I’m fragile.”

“You’re not fragile. You’re Choi Yeonjun.”

He groans like you’ve ruined his life. “Don’t do the myth. Pick a pasta.”

Your stomach makes a tiny, hopeful noise again.

Yeonjun’s eyes drop to it as if genuinely considering arguing with your digestive system. “Spaghetti,” he decides, tossing a pack into the basket. Then olive oil. Then garlic. He hesitates in front of the garlic. “How much?” he asks.

“As much as you want,” you say.

Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve seduced him with seasoning. “Correct answer.” 

You laugh—and it slips out easy, which surprises you. It surprises you how easy it is with him. Yeonjun catches the sound and looks pleased for half a second before he wipes it off his face. 

Your eyes snag on the aisle with condoms, lube, and pregnancy tests lined up together.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He clears his throat. “Do you—need anything?”

You stare at him. “For what?”

His eyes flick to the shelf for half a second.

“Oh my God,” you hiss. “No.”

Yeonjun’s tone stays casual, but his grin turns sharp. “Just asking. Responsible adult behaviour.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“I’m literally trying not to make it weird,” he says, leaning in a little, voice dropping. “You’re the one blushing in Tesco.”

“I’m not blushing.”

He looks at you, unimpressed. “You’re red.”

“It’s the heating.”

“It’s not,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your stomach do something embarrassing all over again.

Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.

minmin: where the fuck did you go??? yunana: if you died say something beomgyu: SWISS BOY KIDNAPPED U??? send location u grimlin

You snort.

Yeonjun tilts his head. “What?”

You angle the screen so he can see.

He reads it, then laughs under his breath. “Your friends are insane.”

“They’re worse when they’re drunk,” you say.

He watches you a beat, then says, “Text them. Before they call the police and I end up as a suspect.”

You type quickly, i’m alive. fuck off.

Beomgyu responds instantly.

beomgyu: ARE U WITH HIM minmin: WHO yunana: send location. NOW.

You lock your phone. “Absolutely not.”

Yeonjun’s brows lift. “You’re not telling them?”

“No,” you say. “They’ll ruin it.”

He pauses. “Ruin what?”

You meet his eyes for half a second and the answer sits there between you. You don’t give it words. You just shrug, because you don’t trust your mouth.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches, softening. “Okay,” he says. “Secret Tesco mission.”

“Exactly.”

At checkout, the cashier barely looks up. Yeonjun taps his card and slides the bag handles over his wrist automatically. Outside, the cold hits again.

Yeonjun nods down the street. “My place,” he says. “I’ll cook.”

You blink. “You’re sure?”

He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to abandon you on the pavement with raw spaghetti and emotional damage?”

“Maybe,” you say.

Yeonjun grins. “Don’t be thick. Come on.”

And as you follow him—plastic bag rustling, streetlights flickering, your phone buzzing and you ignoring it—it hits you, quietly, in the pit of your stomach. This is the first time you’re just together. No lesson. No rules. No agenda.

Just you and Yeonjun walking home with groceries at 1:30am like that isn’t dangerous in its own way.

Yeonjun’s keys stick in the lock. He swears under his breath, shoulder braced to the door. A strand of dark hair falls across his cheek when he finally gets it open, and he exhales with relief. “Don’t say it,” he warns without looking at you.

You step in, automatically toeing your shoes off where you put them last time—and the fact your body remembers that hits you a second later, sharp and inconvenient. “I wasn’t going to,” you say.

“You were,” he replies, deadpan. “Your face was loading.”

The flat smells the same as it did the first night—clean laundry, soap, and Yeonjun’s cologne—except now you’re actually noticing the flat. The sofa you didn’t even properly clock before. The kitchen that wasn’t part of the plan. The pile of unopened post.

Yeonjun drops the grocery bags on the counter and shrugs his jacket off, hoodie still up. He looks over his shoulder. “Housemate’s at his girlfriend’s,” he says.

Your brows lift. “Why are you telling me that?”

“So you don’t startle when nobody comes out and calls you a freak,” he says simply. Then he adds, “Also so you don’t think I set this up.”

You blink. “Set what up?”

Yeonjun pauses, eyes flicking to you. “Don’t be dense.”

“I’m not being dense,” you say, even though you are, a bit. Your stomach is still doing that weird twisting thing it started doing at the party.

Yeonjun turns away first, grabs a pot from the cupboard. “Sit. I’m cooking.”

“You cooking is not comforting,” you tell him, but you drift toward the sofa anyway because you’ve already done the whole Yeonjun’s bed thing—and somehow sitting on his sofa feels more intimate than getting naked ever did.

“Have faith,” he says. “Aglio olio is literally oil and vibes.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

You sink onto the sofa, watching him move around the kitchen. He looks competent doing everything except the actual cooking—sleeves shoved up, hands quick, mouth set in concentration. He finds the garlic, loses the garlic, swears at the garlic, then starts chopping it with intensity.

“Why are you chopping garlic like it owes you money?” you ask.

“Because it does,” he snaps, then immediately flicks his eyes to you to see if you’re laughing. 

You are.

He points the knife at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” you lie.

“You’re laughing in your chest,” he says, offended, and it makes you laugh properly.

The water starts boiling. Yeonjun dumps the spaghetti in with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned himself.

You sit up. “You didn’t salt the water.”

Yeonjun freezes so hard you’d think you accused him of murder. Slowly, he turns his head. “...Cheese exists,” he says after a beat, as if that settles it.

“That’s not—”

“Sit down,” he cuts in, wooden spoon in hand. “Before I start seasoning you.”

The words come and both of you pause for half a second because the air does that stupid shift it keeps doing around you lately, where everything turns double-meaning without either of you asking.

Your eyebrows lift.

Yeonjun’s ears go faintly pink. He turns away fast, muttering, “I meant—be quiet.”

You press your lips together to stop smiling. “Sure.”

His phone buzzes on the counter. He ignores it. It buzzes again. Then again.

You don’t mean to look. You still do. It’s a preview from a groupchat, bright on the screen, zero shame.

milo: campus ferrari gone missing kian: u alive or u getting head?? milo: he’s prolly deep in a pussy let him be 

Yeonjun sees your gaze flick and immediately grimaces. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” he mutters. “Your eyes are loud.”

You lean back. “Your friends are disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, low. “They’re also bored.” He flicks the phone face-down with a sharp, irritated movement and goes back to the pan.

You watch him stir oil and garlic and chilli flakes with a seriousness that would be hot if it wasn’t objectively funny. “Do you—cook often?” you ask.

Yeonjun snorts. “Obviously.”

The garlic starts browning too fast. The oil spits. Yeonjun flinches, recovers instantly, and tries to pretend he didn’t.

You stare. “You’re so brave.”

“You’re so annoying,” he retorts.

When he finally plates it, he does it with the pride of a man serving a five-course meal. Two bowls. Two forks. He sets yours down in front of you like he’s daring you to disrespect him.

You take a bite. It’s… bad. Oil-forward. Garlic burnt. Pasta over-cooked. The kind of food that tastes like a handsome person insisted on being independent. You swallow carefully and keep your face neutral out of pure kindness.

Yeonjun watches you with narrowed eyes. “How is it?” He leans closer. “Tell me.”

You take another bite, determined to spare his ego. “It’s—very Yeonjun.”

He blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s loud and slightly stressful,” you say sweetly, and his mouth twitches before he can stop it.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Your cooking made me one.”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh, then exhales, rubbing his face like he’s tired. He eats his own bowl with grim commitment. And then, somewhere between bite three and bite four, his humour drops out of his expression in a way that’s subtle enough you might’ve missed if you weren’t watching him properly.

He stares at his fork for a second. Then he says, flatly, “Do you ever get sick of people deciding who you are for you?”

You still.

Yeonjun doesn’t look at you when he says it. His gaze stays on the table. “I’m always—something,” he continues, voice quieter. “A rumour. A joke. A story people tell because they’re bored. Even when it’s my mates, it’s still—” he gestures with the fork, frustrated, “—the same shit. The same expectations.”

He swallows. His jaw flexes once.

“And it’s easy to play into it,” he admits with a grimace. “Because if I correct it, I’m killing the vibe. If I’m tired, I’m dramatic. If I’m not in the mood, suddenly it’s a thing.”

He finally glances up at you—just a flicker—and his eyes sharpen, expecting you to joke, or flinch, or do the usual comforting performance people do when they don’t know what to say.

You don’t. You just hold the silence so he doesn’t have to rush himself out of it.

Yeonjun’s throat moves. He looks away again, irritated, softer in the same breath. “It’s weird,” he mutters. “Sitting here and not—performing.”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

That’s all you give him. Not reassurance. Not aw, you’re not like that. Not a speech. Just—I heard you.

Yeonjun’s shoulders drop a fraction.

Your phone lights up on the table.

soobin: call?

The name sits there. Normally you’d feel the rush. The validation. The finally. Instead, your stomach twists again—the same strange, sour pull you’ve been trying to blame on party alcohol or dodgy dinner.

Yeonjun doesn’t look at the screen. He doesn’t angle for it. He doesn’t make it his problem. He just keeps eating his tragic pasta, giving you a clean exit if you want one.

Your thumb moves before your brain can argue. You flip your phone over, swipe, and turn Do Not Disturb on.

Yeonjun’s eyes flick up—quick surprise—then away again, refusing to make it a thing.

The quiet that follows feels different. 

Yeonjun stands and takes both bowls to the sink, rinsing them. Then he comes back, wiping his palms on his hoodie, and points the remote.

“Wanna watch One Piece?” he asks.

Your mouth twitches. “Yeah, lets.”

The theme song blasts. Bright and stupid and loud. Yeonjun drops onto the cushion beside you, shoulder brushing yours for half a second. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you.

And for the first time in days, your stomach unclenches—not because everything is solved, but because, right now, you’re just here. In his living room. With bad pasta in your bloodstream and your favourite anime on the TV, listening to Yeonjun laugh at something on-screen.

By the time the episode counter starts feeling rude—Next Episode flashing with a personal vendetta—it’s 5am. Your body is the first to tap out.

You push yourself up from the sofa and stretch, spine cracking in a way that makes you wince. Your stomach rolls again—that same odd twist from earlier—and you frown. Right. Cool. Amazing. Either you’re having a medical crisis over a boy, or Yeonjun’s pasta is about to give you diarrhoea.

You glance down. Yeonjun’s asleep.

His head is tipped slightly toward the armrest, mouth parted, one hand loose on his stomach. The hoodie’s bunched up at his waist from shifting, soft fabric pulled tight across his shoulder.

And he looks—beautiful. 

Lashes resting on his cheeks. Hair fallen forward, darker in the low light. That hoop in his ear catching a weak flicker from the TV screen. The kind of face someone could paint and ruin their own life over. The kind of face you could cry to.

Your insides lurch again and you scowl. “Stop,” you whisper, to your digestive system, to your brain, to whatever part of you is trying to turn One Piece and a terrible dinner into a personality shift.

You move quietly, grabbing your coat from where you dumped it over the chair. You find your shoes by the door, crouch, and start to slide them on as gently as you can.

You reach for the handle.

Behind you, a voice, thick with sleep. “Where’re you going?”

You pause.

Yeonjun’s sitting up, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm, hair a mess now. He blinks at you, reloading the room.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep it casual. “Before the sun comes out and I have to explain why I’m leaving your flat in last night’s clothes.”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “You’re not leaving.”

“I am leaving.”

“You’re not leaving alone,” he corrects, as if that’s the only part he’s objecting to.

You stare. “Yeonjun, you’re half dead.”

“I’m awake.”

“You’re literally speaking in subtitles.”

He drags himself to his feet anyway, taller in motion. He grabs his keys, shoves his feet into trainers without socks.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you insist, pulling your coat on. “Go back to sleep.”

Yeonjun looks at you for a beat, expression flat. “No,” he says, opening the door. “Come on.”

You follow him out, annoyed at how easily he gets his way. The hallway is quiet. The building asleep. Outside, the air is sharp enough to make your eyes water. The sky is still dark but thinning—the edge of morning starting to bleed in.

Yeonjun walks beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looks younger like this. Less performance. More person. You try not to think about it.

“You okay?” he asks after a minute.

“Yes,” you say too quickly.

He glances at you. “That means no.”

You exhale. “My stomach feels weird.”

“Told you,” he says, smug even while sleepy. “My pasta has consequences.”

“It’s not your pasta,” you argue.

“It is my pasta,” he insists. “And my trauma, but that doesn’t count.”

You choke out a laugh, then immediately feel it in your stomach again, a flutter that is absolutely not diarrhoea and you want to scream.

The streets are empty. No students, no taxis, no idiots yelling outside kebab shops. Just your footsteps and the occasional distant car, the city still half-dreaming.

Yeonjun slows a little, matching your pace like he’s not thinking about it. Then he clears his throat. It’s a small sound. But it changes the air. “You know—” he starts.

You look at him. He’s staring ahead, jaw tight. His hands stay in his pockets.

“What?” you ask.

He exhales, annoyed. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

Yeonjun clicks his tongue. “There are—things I haven’t told you.”

“Okay,” you say, simple.

He frowns. “You’re not even going to ask what.”

“If you want to tell me,” you say, “you’ll tell me.”

Yeonjun stares at you. For a second you think he’s going to push. Insist. Force the words out because he’s halfway there and pride hates retreat. Instead, he looks away, eyes fixed on the pavement, and his shoulders drop a fraction. “—Right,” he mutters.

You keep walking.

Yeonjun follows. A beat later, he says, quieter, “You’re weird.”

You huff. “You’re the one who committed an act of culinary terrorism and then walked me home like a Victorian chaperone.”

He snorts. “Don’t make it sound wholesome.”

“It is wholesome,” you shoot back. “It’s five in the morning and you’re escorting me home because your flatmate’s at his girlfriend’s.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Stop.”

You tilt your head. “Why? Embarrassed?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Then adds, like it’s an insult, “You make things feel—normal.”

The sentence lands in your chest in a way you don’t know what to do with. So you do what you’ve been doing all night. You don’t make it weird. You don’t turn it into a moment. You just nod once and keep walking.

Your building comes into view too fast. You stop at the entrance, hand on the door handle. Yeonjun stops beside you, posture slightly too close.

“Thanks,” you say.

Yeonjun shrugs. “Whatever.”

You raise a brow. “Whatever?”

“I’m not going to say you’re welcome like I’m someone’s dad,” he mutters.

You smile despite yourself. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

Yeonjun looks at you for a long second, eyes scanning your face. Then he says, low, “Text me when you’re inside.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because if you collapse from my pasta and I wake up to a missing person alert, I’ll be annoyed,” he says, deadpan.

You stare at him. “You’ll be annoyed?”

“I’ll be very upset,” he corrects quickly, then grimaces like he hates himself for it. “Just—text me.”

You nod, lips pressed together so you don’t smile too hard. “Okay.”

You go inside. Two minutes later, you’re in bed—duvet pulled up, room dark, stomach still making suspicious movements. You reach for your phone, ready to flick Do Not Disturb off, and you see a missed call from Soobin. Your thumb hovers. You don’t do anything.

You open your messages instead.

you: inside now 

You toss the phone onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling. Your stomach twists again.

“Please be diarrhoea,” you whisper to your body. “Please.”

Your phone rings ten minutes later. Yeonjun.

You answer on the second ring, voice low. “You’re home?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds awake now, which is insane, because he was asleep twenty minutes ago. He clears his throat. “You’re in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” A pause. Then, “You’re still alive?”

“Barely.”

He huffs a laugh, quiet. “Good.”

You wait. Yeonjun doesn’t hang up. The silence stretches—not awkward, just—held. Like neither of you want to be the one to cut it.

Then he says, out of nowhere, “Do you have a date in mind?”

You blink. “For what?”

“For your last lesson,” he says, voice steady. “You said you wanted—three. You said you wanted the final one to be—” He stops, annoyed. “Just. Do you have a day.”

Your stomach does that weird flip again. It’s something that sits under your ribs and makes you feel too aware of your own heartbeat. “Tomorrow,” you hear yourself say.

Yeonjun goes quiet for half a second. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching slightly. “At your place.”

Another pause. Longer. Then Yeonjun exhales, slow. “Okay.”

You wait for him to add a joke. A crude comment. A smug line. He doesn’t. He just says, quieter, “I’ll be ready.”

Your mouth goes dry in a way you don’t like. You keep your voice even. “Me too.”

Yeonjun breathes out again. “Sleep.”

“You too,” you say.

A beat. Then, softer than his usual voice, “Night.”

“Night,” you reply.

He hangs up.

You stare at your ceiling, phone warm in your hand. Your stomach knots and unknots again. And you think, for the hundredth time tonight, please be the pasta.

Yeonjun’s flat is too clean for what’s about to happen.

His flatmate is still at his girlfriend’s. The absence hangs in the air—no stupid commentary from the kitchen, no footsteps in the hallway, no TV noise to pretend this is casual. 

It’s just Yeonjun and his own thoughts, bouncing off walls. He’s been tidying for thirty minutes. Not because the place is messy. Because his hands won’t stop moving.

The buzzer goes. He opens the door and you’re there—coat zipped, hair done without looking done, eyes sharp and steady. You’re not smiling, not nervous. You’re—focused. It hits him low in the stomach.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he answers, and it comes out rougher than he wants.

You step in and Yeonjun shuts the door. You take your shoes off, slow. He watches your hands, the way you move like you’re trying not to hesitate.

You look up. “Your housemate still—gone?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “He’s not coming back tonight.”

Your eyes flicker at that, quick. Then you step closer. No warm-up. No banter. No so what arc are you on? safety net. You tilt your chin up and lean in for him.

Yeonjun meets you halfway—then pulls back at the last second. Not far. An inch. Enough that your breath hits his mouth and stays there.

Your brows draw together. “What?”

His ring turns under his thumb. His throat feels tight in a way that pisses him off. He’s not having trouble doing this—not the physical part. The confession part is the one that’s making him feel fifteen. “I can’t,” he says.

Your eyes widen, then sharpen. “Can’t what? Kiss me?”

“I can,” he mutters, frustrated, and you see it—the flicker in him, the heat he’s trying to cage. “That’s the problem. I can do that and you’ll think it means one thing, and it means another, and then you’ll hate me when you realise.”

You don’t move. You just watch him.

Yeonjun forces himself to meet your eyes. He hates how much he wants to drop them. “I’ve been living inside a story other people wrote about me.”

The words come out clean. No performance. No smirk. You blink once. “What story?”

He lets out a breath through his nose. “The one where I’m—that guy.”

Your gaze flicks over his face, like you’re checking if he’s joking. He isn’t.

“I let people think I was someone else,” he says. His jaw flexes. “I didn’t correct it. I didn’t stop it. I fed it when it suited me.”

You’re quiet. 

Yeonjun swallows. His fingers tighten around the ring. “And I liked being wanted for it—until you.” His voice turns rough on the last word. “With you, I want to be real even if it ruins it.”

Silence presses in.

You shift—a small movement—and Yeonjun’s body reacts instantly. The heat doesn’t disappear because he’s confessing. If anything, it gets worse. His palms feel too empty. His mouth feels too aware of itself.

You speak carefully. “So—you’ve been lying.”

“Yes,” he says, blunt. “Not to you, directly. But—yeah.”

Your eyes narrow. “What’s true, then?”

Yeonjun’s chest tightens. This is the part he keeps trying to step around. He can’t. Not now. He drags in a breath. He hates the next sentence before he even says it. He says it anyway. “I’ve never had sex with anyone. I’m—a virgin,” he says.

Your face changes—surprise, immediate. You don’t cover it. 

Yeonjun’s eyes flick away. “And before you—” He stops, jaw tight, then forces it out. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone. Not properly. Not at all.”

The air goes sharper. He expects a laugh. He expects disbelief. He expects you to say no way and make it sound like a joke he can hide behind.

You don’t. You stare at him for a beat, then you say, very quietly, “So this whole time—”

Yeonjun’s mouth twists. “Yeah.” He twists his ring again, hard. His knuckles whiten. “I’m scared you’ll look at me differently,” he admits, and the confession is almost a whisper. “I’m scared this will make you—not want me.”

He tries to joke, because he’s him, because he can’t stand how exposed he feels.

“Which is stupid,” he mutters. “Because I’m literally standing here telling you I’m a fraud. Great strategy, Choi Yeonjun.”

The joke dies in the air. Even he knows it. He goes quiet. His gaze drops to the floor. He can’t hold eye contact.

Then, very carefully, he gives you an out and means it. “If you want to leave,” he says, voice low, “you can. Right now. I won’t be weird. I won’t chase you. I won’t—” He stops himself, swallows. “I won’t make you carry my shit.”

You don’t move.

Yeonjun’s stomach turns. He waits for the sound of your shoes. The polite excuse.

Instead, you lift your hand. Your fingers brush his cheek.

Yeonjun freezes. The touch is gentle.

You say, quietly, “I want you as you are. Not as who I thought you were.”

For a second, Yeonjun can’t speak. His throat tightens, sharp and stupid. He finally looks at you. Your gaze doesn’t drop. You’re not treating him like glass. You’re not trying to fix him. You’re just—there.

And that does something far more dangerous than the rumours ever did. His mouth opens. Closes.

You breathe out, almost amused despite the tension. “Also, this means—”

Yeonjun’s brow lifts a fraction. “Means what?”

You tilt your head. “It means I wasn’t the only one behind.”

The words hit him in the ribs. He exhales, unsteady. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Guess not.”

Your thumb lingers at his jaw for half a second longer, then drops. The loss of it makes him want to grab your wrist and pull you back. He doesn’t.

You step closer again, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Are you going to kiss me now,” you ask, “or are we going to stand here having a crisis in your hallway?”

That pulls a laugh out of him—real, broken, relieved. “Fuck,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “Consent is sexy,” you say, deadpan.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Don’t.”

“You said it,” you reply.

He lets out a slow breath, then leans in—slow and careful. His hand comes up to your waist. He waits half a beat, eyes on yours.

You don’t back away. So he kisses you.

You make a small sound into his mouth and Yeonjun’s grip tightens without thinking. Your coat shifts between you. The zipper catches on his ring and snags for a second.

You both pause.

You whisper, “Are you serious?”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh against your mouth, breath hot. “Don’t start.”

You tug the coat free, annoyed—and Yeonjun tries to help. 

He thinks, distantly, that this is the first time he’s ever wanted to slow down for reasons that aren’t about technique. The kiss deepens as the coat hits the floor—his tongue brushing yours, bolder when you press closer, your body molding against his. 

His heart is pounding. He’s not hiding anymore—and fuck, it makes every touch feel electric, every sigh from you pulling at something deeper than lust. Your hands slide under his shirt, fingers cold against his skin, and he shivers. 

He breaks the kiss to gasp against your neck. “God, I’ve wanted this—you—since you showed up at my door the very first time,” he murmurs, voice cracking with honesty.

He nips at your skin before soothing with his tongue. You tilt your head back, breathing hard, and he feels your pulse racing under his lips. It’s like his confession unlocked something, making the want feel heavier—terrifying and thrilling all at once.

“Me too,” you whisper back, pulling him in again.

The kiss turns needier—your teeth grazing his bottom lip by accident, tugging enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth. 

He groans, low and ragged. His hands slide up your back under your coat, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.

He breaks away barely an inch, breath hot against your lips. “I want you so fucking bad,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the words, “and I don’t know if I can stop once we start.” He swallows thickly, eyes searching yours in the dim hallway light. “So tell me now—if you want to leave, do it. Please.”

You hold his gaze, heart pounding. “I want you, Yeonjun. All of you.”

The words hang there, and his pulse jumps—you can feel it under your fingers on his neck. He nods once, jaw clenching tight like he’s holding back a flood. He kisses you again—harder, backing you up against the wall with a thud that knocks a picture frame askew. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, laughing breathlessly, but he doesn’t stop.

His hands fumble with your coat zipper, yanking it down—the metal catching on fabric. You shrug it off together, arms tangling for a second, before dropping to the floor in a heap. 

His mouth finds your neck, sucking at the skin. You gasp, hips grinding forward without thinking, feeling him hard against your thigh. 

“Yeonjun—here?” you whisper, half-laughing, half-desperate. Your fingers clutch his shirt as he presses you harder into the wall.

“Not yet,” he rasps, but his hands are everywhere—sliding under your top.

His palms are hot on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He kisses you deeper, tongue tangling wet and eager, saliva mixing. Yoi both stumble down the hallway, bumping into a side table that rattles loudly. 

“Shit—sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you along, not breaking the kiss.

His ring catches in your hair for a painful tug that makes you yelp into his mouth. “Ow—watch it,” you tease, but it’s breathy, needy, and you yank him closer by his belt loops. 

By the time you reach his bedroom door, you’re both panting. Your clothes are rumpled, his hair a mess from your fingers. He fumbles for the handle—hand slipping once, twice—muttering “Come on” under his breath. 

When it finally opens, he pulls you inside, kicking it shut behind you. The quiet of Yeonjun’s room wraps around you—dim light from the bedside lamp, the faint smell of his aftershave mixed with his cologne. 

Your heart’s racing—not just from the nerves twisting in your gut, but from the weight of everything he spilled in the hallway. It makes you desperate to make this good—to explore it together without the pretence.

Yeonjun turns to you, eyes dark but soft around the edges. “Come here,” he says, voice low and a tad shaky, reaching out to pull you gently toward the bed by your hand.

You sit on the edge side by side, thighs pressing together, the heat from his skin seeping through your clothes. He leans in to kiss you again—slower now, like he’s trying to savour every second. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. You melt into it.

Your hands find his waist, bunching his shirt. “Can you take this off?” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah—okay,” he breathes, pulling back to drag his shirt over his head in one go. 

His chest is bare now—skin warm and flushed, muscles shifting under it as he tosses the shirt aside. You run your fingers over him tentatively, feeling the rapid thump of his heart, the slight tremble in his abs. 

“Yours?” he asks, eyes flicking to your top, hands hovering like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

You nod, arms lifting, and he helps tug it off—the fabric bunching up around your arms before it pops free. 

When it’s gone, he stares at your chest. “Fuck, you’re—gorgeous,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled as he leans in to kiss your collarbone.

“Thanks?” you say softly, cheeks burning. “You too—obviously.” 

He smiles against your skin, and it loosens something in your chest. His hands slide round to your bra clasp—fingers slipping off the hook twice, swearing under his breath. 

“Why’s this so tricky?” he mutters, laughing nervously, and you giggle too, twisting to help. “There,” he says, sheepish, as it falls away. His eyes widen, pupils blowing out as he takes you in—even though this is the second time he has seen you like this. 

He swallows hard. “Can I… touch them—I mean—you?”

“Please,” you breathe, and he cups your breast gently at first—then squeezes firmer when you arch into his palm. His thumb brushes your nipple, sending a spark straight to your core, and you gasp. “That—do it again.”

“Like this?” he asks, circling, eyes locked on your face like he’s cataloguing every reaction. 

“Yeah—it feels so good Yeonjun,” you pant, pulling him down for another kiss. The heat builds low in your belly. Your hands wander lower, tugging at his belt. “Please can you—these off too?”

He nods, standing up to unbuckle—belt clinking loudly, nearly tripping as he shoves his jeans down one leg at a time. “Smooth as ever,” he quips, grinning.

Your eyes drop to his boxers—the tent in them obvious and straining. When he pushes those down, his cock springs out. It’s thick, girthy—enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench—veined along the length, the tip flushed and leaking a bead of pre-cum. The thought of his cock inside of you is intimidating when you were barely able to hold it all in your mouth—but the heat between your legs overrides any nerves. 

“You’re—big,” you murmur, voice small, reaching out to wrap your hand around him tentatively. 

He hisses, hips jerking forward into your grip. “Careful,” he warns, voice strained, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don’t want to cum—yet and I haven’t—done this before… so yeah.”

“Neither have I,” you remind him, stroking slow—you spit into your palm like you did last time, slicking him up. 

He groans, head tipping back. 

“This okay?”

“Fuck—yeah, but go easy or I’ll finish too quick,” he pants, hands clenching at his sides. “Your hand feels amazing.”

You slow down, and he kneels back on the bed, eyes raking over you hungrily. “I want to make you feel good too,” he says, voice husky. 

His fingers hook into your waistband. You lift your hips, and he pulls your jeans and panties down in one tug—fabric catching on your ankle, making you kick it free with a laugh. 

“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he murmurs, staring between your legs, fingers tracing up your thigh hesitantly.

“For you,” you say, blushing hard. “Can you touch—me? Please, Yeonjun?”

He nods, sliding a finger through your folds—teasing without meaning to, then pressing firmer when you whimper and buck up.  “Does it feel good here?” he asks, circling your clit, thumb slipping off once.

“Lower—a bit—yes, right there,” you guide, grabbing his wrist. He slips a finger inside, and you clench around the intrusion. “Can you add—another finger?”

He does, stretching you with two now—curling them too shallow, then deeper when you shift your hips. “Like that?” he whispers, pumping slow, thumb bumping your clit and making you moan.

“Better—keep going, yeah,” you pant. 

You kiss him, desperate for relief, tongues clashing as you grind into his hand. “Feels good—don’t stop.”

“Won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked, free hand groping your breast. 

After a few minutes, you’re aching, sopping wet, the emptiness too much. “I think I’m ready,” you gasp. “You?”

“Fuck yes,” he says, but pauses. “Let me grab a condom?”

You nod—glad he thought of it—and he fumbles in his bedside drawer, wrapper crinkling as he tears it with his teeth. 

He rolls it on with shaky hands, nearly fumbling it onto the floor. “Right—how d’you want to…?”

“Can you be on top first?” you suggest, scooting back on the bed, pulling him over you. 

He settles between your thighs, cock nudging your entrance—sliding up through your folds and bumping your clit, making you both gasp. 

“Close—try again.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, grinning while lining up properly. “I’ll be slow, okay? Tell me if it hurts.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

He pushes in inch by inch—the girth stretching you wide, a sharp burn that makes you wince and dig your nails into his shoulders. 

“Wait—ow, hold up a sec.”

He stops immediately, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “Too much? We can stop—no pressure.”

“No, just—give me a minute,” you whisper, kissing him softly to distract from the stretch. 

He holds still, peppering kisses along your jaw, and slowly the burn eases into fullness, pleasure sparking. 

“Okay—you can try to move now? But slow, please.”

He pulls back—too far, slipping out halfway with a wet pop—and thrusts back in unevenly. “Shit—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, half-laughing and half-moaning as he finds his way back in. “Just—keep trying.”

He does, hips stuttering—too deep once making you yelp, then shallower—but it builds, that thick drag against your walls lighting you up. 

“Does it feel good like this?” he asks, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Faster—a little,” you guide, legs wrapping round him, heels digging into his ass. 

He speeds up, but loses the beat. “I think I’m close—do you want to switch?” he pants, slowing down. “I might last longer if you’re on top.”

You nod, and he rolls you over—knees knocking. You straddle him, sinking down slow. The angle is deeper now, his girth filling you to the brim, hitting spots that make your eyes flutter. 

“Oh—fuck,” you gasp, hands on his chest for leverage.

“Shit—fuck—you feel so good. Ride me,” he begs, hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging in too hard then loosening. “You feel incredible—you’re so tight around me.”

You rock tentatively—grinding your clit against his base by accident and moaning loud. “It feels so good, Yeonjun. How does it—for you?”

“Amazing—don’t stop,” he groans, thrusting up, making you bounce off-rhythm.

You slip forward eager to feel him deeper. “Is this too fast?” 

“No, fuck, keep going—” he bucks too wild and nearly unseats you. 

You both pause a second to catch your breath, foreheads pressed against each other. Then readjust—the eye contact burning, the shared grins turning to gasps.

“I’m close—” you warn, rhythm faltering, thighs burning.

“Me too—please—come with me,” he moans. 

Yeonjun’s hand slips between you to rub your clit—too rough at first, then perfect—and it shoves you over, clenching hard around him as waves crash through you. He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking, spilling into the condom. 

You collapse onto his chest, both panting, sticky with sweat.

Yeonjun doesn’t move for a while.

Not because he’s playing it cool. His body is still catching up with what just happened.

The room is dim, the air slightly stale in that way it only gets when the window’s been closed too long. The bed’s a mess. The sheet is tangled around your legs. His shirt is somewhere on the floor. There’s a condom wrapper crumpled near the edge of the bedside table.

You’re tucked against him, forehead near his shoulder, breathing unsteady. Yeonjun’s hand is on your back. It stays there. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with his hand when he isn’t acting. So he does the simplest thing—he holds you there and lets your breathing settle against his ribs.

It gets too quiet. The quiet starts asking questions. He hates the quiet.

He clears his throat, and says the first stupid honest thing his brain finds. “I think,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling, “I might be traumatised by your laundry detergent.”

You laugh into his shoulder. It’s the kind of laugh that comes out when your body doesn’t have another safe exit. It shakes once, turns sharp, then softens into a weird little sound he feels against his skin.

Yeonjun freezes for half a second, then his fingers press more firmly into your back. Grounding. “Hey,” he says, lower. “You good?”

You lift your head a fraction, eyes bright and unfocused, mouth swollen. It makes him look away and then look back anyway because his impulse control is a joke. 

You nod. Then you nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m just—overwhelmed.”

Yeonjun swallows. His ring catches on the sheet when he shifts. He immediately stills and fixes it with his thumb. His hands want something to do. “Okay,” he says. It comes out steady, but he hears the strain under it. “Okay. We can be overwhelmed. That’s allowed.”

You stare at him for a beat, then your face crumples into another laugh and you bury it back into his shoulder. 

Yeonjun lets out a breath that sounds half relief, half panic. “Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “This is not what I thought would happen.”

“What did you think would happen?” you ask, muffled.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “I thought you’d—” He stops. Recalibrates. “I thought you’d go home.”

You lift your head now. “Why?”

Because he doesn’t know what to do with you staying. Because you staying means he can’t pretend it was just a lesson. Because he can’t hide behind a reputation when you’re in his bed and you’re quiet and you’re looking at him like he’s a person.

He shrugs, aiming for casual. It fails. “Because that’s the normal outcome.”

“Are you normal?” you ask.

Yeonjun huffs. “No.”

You watch his face, like you’re reading it. He breaks eye contact first. 

A beat passes.

Then he says, quietly, “The best part wasn’t—that—the sex.”

You don’t interrupt. 

Yeonjun’s jaw shifts. He rubs at his ring again until it almost hurts. “Everyone thinks,” he says, “I care about winning. About getting someone. About being—the guy.”

Your expression stays soft, alert.

He lets out a slow breath. “I thought I cared too. For a while. It was easy.” He swallows. “It was easier than being myself.”

You don’t say why. You don’t say how. You don’t ask in a way that corners him. You just say, “What’s yourself, then?”

Yeonjun’s throat closes around the words. He tries to laugh it off and it comes out wrong—thin, short, pointless. “Fuck,” he mutters. “See? This is why I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

He gestures vaguely between your faces, the bed, the quiet. “Talk.”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You just look at him and wait. It’s infuriating. It’s also… safe.

Yeonjun stares at the ceiling again because the ceiling doesn’t have eyes. “The rumour started first year,” he says. “Freshers. Everyone’s bored, horny, desperate to attach a label to someone so they can stop feeling anonymous.”

You shift slightly, pulling the sheet higher over your chest. Yeonjun notices and his hand moves automatically, tucking the edge around you without thinking. He hates how natural it feels.

He continues, voice low. “There was this girl. Older. Second year. She liked me.” He pauses, then corrects, honest. “She liked the idea of me. I didn’t even know what to do with that at the time.”

Your brows lift. “At the time?”

Yeonjun glances at you, then away again, cheeks warming with something he refuses to name. “Yeah. At the time.” He takes a breath. “She invited me to a party. I went because my mates dragged me and because I didn’t want to be the boring guy who never shows up.”

You nod once, silent encouragement.

“I didn’t hook up with her,” Yeonjun says, sharper, like he needs you to understand that immediately. Then he grimaces. “Not because I’m noble. Because I didn’t know how.”

Your gaze doesn’t change. 

Yeonjun’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “I walked her to her room because she was drunk,” he says. “She kissed my cheek. That was it. That was the whole thing.” He scoffs quietly. “But her flatmates saw me leaving, and suddenly it was Yeonjun fucked her. People love a headline.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says, a little bitter. “And I did the worst possible thing.” He pauses. The admission costs him. “I didn’t correct them.”

“Why?”

Yeonjun’s fingers tighten on the sheet. “Because I liked that it made people stop asking questions.” His voice drops. “People don’t poke at you when they think they already know you.”

You’re quiet.

He keeps going because he’s already stepped off the ledge. “And then it snowballed. Someone made a joke. Someone else repeated it. Someone added details. Suddenly I had a type. Suddenly people had stories about me that I’d never lived. And I—” He swallows. “I let it happen.”

You shift closer, your knee brushing his thigh under the sheet. Yeonjun’s breath catches, then steadies. He doesn’t move away.

“I thought it made me safer,” he says. “It meant no one looked too closely. No one expected anything from me except that I’d be arrogant and easy.”

Your voice is soft when you ask, “Did you ever try to stop it?”

Yeonjun lets out a humourless laugh. “Once.” He glances at you. “Someone asked me outright if it was true. I said no.” He pauses. “They laughed in my face.”

Your eyes narrow, not at him—at the world. “That’s disgusting.”

Yeonjun’s throat works. “So I thought—fine. If they’re going to laugh anyway, I might as well give them what they want. A version of me they can point at. A story that keeps them entertained.” 

He looks down at his hands. His ring. The stupid little circle he’s been twisting like it’s a lifeline.

“I liked being wanted for it,” he admits. “Until you.”

You don’t say anything right away. You’re still thinking.

Yeonjun can’t hold the silence. It makes him itchy. It makes him want to bolt. He opens his mouth to backtrack, to joke, to make himself smaller.

And then you speak first. “Okay,” you say, and the word is steady. “That makes sense.”

Yeonjun blinks. “It does?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Because I’ve been doing the same thing.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You shift onto your side so you’re facing him properly. Yeonjun’s eyes flick to your mouth and then away because his brain is still stupidly physical even when he’s trying to have a serious conversation.

“You know Soobin,” you say.

Yeonjun’s chest tightens at the name. He nods.

“I liked him first because he was safe,” you admit. “Not safe as in boring. Safe as in—predictable.”

Yeonjun watches your face. Watches the way your gaze drifts, searching for the right words.

“He was the kind of boy everyone agreed was good,” you continue. “Good grades. Good manners. Good family. The kind of boy you can tell yourself you’ll end up with and no one laughs at you.”

Yeonjun stays silent. The room holds its breath.

“And because he was away,” you add, voice going a little quieter, “it was easy to keep liking him. I could build it into a whole thing. A whole—story.” Your mouth twitches, humour without joy. “And the story didn’t require me to actually do anything. It didn’t require me to be brave.”

Yeonjun’s throat clamps. He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going, eyes on his collarbone instead of his face now, as if it’s less dangerous that way. 

“He started talking to me properly a few months ago,” you say. “Out of nowhere. Switzerland made him bored or sentimental or both. He started being—consistent. Sweet. Asking about my day. Remembering things.” You pause. “And I liked that. I liked him noticing me.”

Yeonjun’s fingers flex against the sheet. He doesn’t like the tight feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to.

“So when he told me he’s coming back and asked me on a date,” you say, “it felt like—finally. Like I was getting the ending I’d been rehearsing for years.”

You look at Yeonjun then, eyes clear.

“But it also made me feel sick,” you admit. “Because I realised I didn’t know how to be the girl in the story. I didn’t know how to kiss him. I didn’t know how to—” You cut yourself off, cheeks heating. “And I couldn’t stand the idea of being exposed as—inexperienced.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flicker. Understanding lands, solid and sharp. “So you came to me,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Yeonjun huffs, something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“So we’re both idiots,” he mutters.

You blink. “Excuse you.”

He looks at you, serious now. “We were both performing.”

You don’t deny it. 

The quiet that follows is different. Yeonjun’s hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes your cheek with his knuckles. It’s careful. He’s testing whether he’s allowed.

You don’t flinch. You lean into it, just slightly.

Yeonjun’s breath catches. He almost says it. The words sit on his tongue—I like you—plain and terrifying. If he says them, he can’t pretend this is still under control. If he says them, he risks watching your face change.

So he panics and does what he always does—he swerves. “You know,” he says, voice low, trying for casual, “this is really going to destroy my campus reputation.”

You stare at him. Then you laugh again into his shoulder, the same overwhelmed laugh, and Yeonjun feels his chest unclench so hard it’s almost painful.

“Are you serious?” you whisper.

“No,” he admits immediately. “I mean—yes. But also no. Shut it.”

You shift closer, your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting there. Yeonjun stills. His pulse does something stupid. Yeonjun’s hand slides to your waist under the sheet and pauses there, giving you the chance to move away.

You don’t.

He leans in, slow. His forehead almost touches yours.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, quieter this time. 

You nod. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s mouth hovers near yours. He can feel your breath. “Then,” he murmurs, voice rough, “say stop if you want me to.”

Your lips part. You don’t say stop. Yeonjun kisses you—slower than earlier, less frantic, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that isn’t trying to prove anything. The kind of kiss that says I’m here.

When you pull back, he breathes out against your mouth and almost—almost says it. Instead he whispers, “You’re really bad for me.”

You smile. “Good.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

A week later, you almost bail the date.

The kind of bail that starts as a thought and becomes a plan. If I turn my phone off, he can’t reach me. If I pretend I’m sick, he’ll be annoyed but he’ll forgive me. If I die, technically I don’t have to go.

You’re standing in front of your wardrobe with your arms crossed, staring at a row of outfits that suddenly look like costumes. Clothes you used to think would make you feel pretty now just look—loud. False. Too eager.

Because how do you crack yourself open for someone—let them see the soft parts, the unpolished parts, the parts you protect with jokes—and then go and sit across someone else over cocktails and candlelight?

You press your fingers to your mouth, hard enough to quiet the impulse to text Yeonjun something stupid. Something that would make him reply instantly. Something that would restore the familiar hum between you.

But you haven’t responded to him since lesson three—since last week.

You tell yourself it was strategic. That it was you being disciplined. That you’re not going to be the girl who catches feelings and then spirals into humiliation.

Except you didn’t do it to be disciplined. You did it because you didn’t know what to say. Because I can’t stop thinking about you is too much. Because I miss you is worse. Because I feel guilty would make it real in a way you can’t undo.

And somewhere along the line, Yeonjun stopped texting you too. Silence. A clean withdrawal that feels like someone taking a chair from behind your knees.

You stare at your phone on your bed.

There are old notifications from him that still sit there if you scroll far enough. A you alive? from Tuesday. A saw this and thought of you with a One Piece meme. A don’t ignore me, psycho that should’ve been funny and is now a punch to the ribs.

You haven’t opened them. You’ve been living on stubbornness and denial.

And tonight, you’re going on a date with Soobin.

Soobin, who is—on paper—everything.

The boy you’ve liked since you were sixteen. The boy every girl wanted in school, the one who looked kind even when he wasn’t trying, the one teachers praised too openly. The one your friends used to treat as a mythical creature—Soobin smiled at you? He asked about you? He’s single now?

And now he’s back. He’s here. He wants you too.

This is what you wanted. So why does it feel like you’re doing something wrong?

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, because you’re still going.

You’re still going because you don’t get to throw away years of wanting just because you made a mess in one month. You’re still going because if you don’t, it means something has shifted and you don’t know how to hold that truth yet. You’re still going because you’re not ready to become a different version of yourself when the old one hasn’t even been properly buried.

Your doorbell goes at 11:26am.

Then again at 11:27am.

You open it and your flat floods with noise.

“GOOD MORNING, SLUT,” Yuna announces, marching in like she pays rent. She has two coffees in one hand and a tote bag bulging with makeup in the other. “We’re here to make you hot and emotionally unavailable.”

“Don’t call me a slut,” you say automatically, voice flat.

“Don’t be a coward,” she replies, kicking her shoes off and beelining for your living room. “This is a sacred day. This is history.”

Behind her, Mina appears with a bag of pastries and the energy of someone who believes in soulmates and plotlines. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she says, already tearing the bag open. “Years. Literal years. This is your happy ending.”

“Can you not say happy ending,” you mutter, because your brain is a traitor and immediately supplies images you do not have time for.

“OH MY GOD,” Yuna shrieks, delighted. “She’s horny.”

“I’m not horny,” you snap.

“You’re defensive,” Mina says, accusing.

“I’m tired,” you say, because it’s the only excuse that doesn’t require further explanation.

They’re both talking over each other now—dates, restaurants, what he’s probably wearing, what you should wear, how you should do your hair, whether you should do eyeliner that says sweet or eyeliner that says I could ruin your life.

Beomgyu arrives last. He doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He opens your door with the spare keys he stole and walks in with the confidence of a man who thinks boundaries are a myth.

He pauses mid-step when he sees your living room full of pastries and bags and cosmetics spread out. He scans the scene. Then he looks at you. Not at your outfit. Not at your hair. At your face.

His eyes narrow. “Why do you look,” he says slowly, “like you’re about to attend your own execution?”

“Shut it,” you reply.

“No, genuinely,” Beomgyu continues, ignoring you as he always does when he’s right. “This is supposed to be your dream date. You’ve been talking about Soobin since we were in school. Since before we even had frontal lobes.”

Mina tosses a cushion at him. “Let her breathe!”

“I am letting her breathe,” Beomgyu says, catching it. “I’m just asking why she looks haunted.”

You glare at him.

He holds your gaze without blinking, which is deeply irritating.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Everyone out of my bedroom.”

“EXCUSE ME?” Yuna says, scandalised.

“Not like that,” you snap. “I mean—I need to change without an audience.”

“You literally have tits,” Mina says, offended. “We all have tits.”

“OUT,” you repeat, pointing.

They groan, dramatic, but they obey—mostly—filtering out while still shouting advice through the door.

“NOT THE BLACK DRESS, YOU’LL LOOK TOO SERIOUS!”

“WEAR THE GREEN ONE! GREEN IS FLIRTY!”

“DO YOU WANT FLIRTY OR DO YOU WANT I HAVE OPTIONS?!”

“I WANT SILENCE,” you shout back.

Beomgyu doesn’t leave. He leans on your doorframe instead, arms crossed, watching you pull dresses off hangers with the dispassionate expression of someone judging your life choices in real time.

“You’re not my dad,” you tell him, because his face looks too much like a teacher’s disappointment.

“Thank fuck,” he says. 

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t,” he replies. “You’re giving me… interesting energy.”

You pause with a dress halfway off the hanger. “Interesting how.”

Beomgyu tilts his head. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you insist you want something,” he says, “and then you look like you want to run as soon as you get it.”

Your stomach tightens. You scoff, because this is your favourite defence mechanism. “You’re making it deep for no reason.”

Beomgyu’s mouth twitches. “No reason. Right.” He steps into your room, quietly, and sits on the edge of your bed like he lives here too. 

You hate that he looks calm. You hate that he’s always calm when you’re not.

“So,” he says, casual. “Are you excited?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Beomgyu’s brows lift a fraction. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me,” you say instantly.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he replies, delighted. “Your face did.”

You turn away, pretending to rummage through your drawer so you don’t have to look at him. Your phone is on your bed. You don’t touch it.

Beomgyu’s voice softens, just a little. “Talk to me.”

You exhale through your nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then answer one question.”

You don’t respond.

He continues anyway. “If Soobin texted you right now and said, I can’t make it tonight, I’m sorry, would you be devastated… or relieved?”

Your throat closes. You hate him. You also hate that the answer arrives immediately.

Beomgyu watches you falter. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t grin. He just nods, like he’s confirming something he already knew.

You set the dress down carefully, hands suddenly clumsy. “Don’t do that,” you say, voice sharper than you mean.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like you’ve solved me.”

Beomgyu leans back on his hands. “I haven’t solved you. I just know you.”

You turn on him. “I’m going on the date.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I want to go.”

“Okay.”

“And I want Soobin.”

Beomgyu’s eyes flicker. “Do you?”

Your mouth opens again. You close it.

Beomgyu waits. Patient. Annoying.

You swallow. “I’ve wanted him for years,” you say finally. “It’s—Soobin. He’s… him.”

“That’s not an answer,” Beomgyu says gently.

You laugh, humourless. “I’m not doing this.”

“You are doing this,” he corrects. “You’re just doing it while pretending you’re not.”

You look away, jaw tight.

Beomgyu sighs, then says, softer, “Did something happen?”

Your pulse kicks. You keep your voice flat. “No.”

Beomgyu doesn’t believe you. He’s never believed you when you lie. You’re bad at lying to people who love you.

He glances at your phone on the bed, then back at you. “Did you… meet someone?”

You feel heat crawl up your neck.

Beomgyu sits up slightly, attentive now. “Oh my God. You did.”

“Stop,” you say, immediately.

“Wait,” he says, eyes widening with genuine joy because he’s a menace. “Are you serious? Who? Tell me. Was it a random? Was it—”

“No,” you cut in.

Beomgyu’s grin fades just enough to show curiosity. “Not a random.”

You don’t answer.

Beomgyu’s gaze drifts over your face again, then sharpens. He speaks slowly, like he’s testing the edges of the truth. “Is this about… that Choi Yeonjun?”

Your stomach drops. The room goes too quiet in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Beomgyu sees it. His expression shifts. “Okay,” he says, voice careful now. “So it’s that.”

You stare at the floor, the words in your throat refusing to become real. Beomgyu doesn’t push for details. He doesn’t say what did you do. He doesn’t ask for gossip. He just nods again, like he’s rearranging a puzzle inside his head.

“Is he an asshole?” Beomgyu asks.

You blink. “No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did you hurt him?”

You flinch, just a little.

Beomgyu exhales. “Right.”

Your voice comes out small despite your effort. “It wasn’t supposed to be—anything.”

Beomgyu’s mouth quirks, but there’s no humour in it. “Nothing never behaves.”

You hate that he’s right. You sit on the edge of your bed without meaning to. The mattress dips. 

Beomgyu watches your hands twist together. “Soobin,” he says quietly, “is the boy you wanted when you were younger.”

Your chest tightens at the way he says it.

Beomgyu’s eyes hold yours. “Yeonjun is the boy you met now.”

You swallow.

Outside your door, Yuna and Mina are still arguing about outfits.

“THE GREEN ONE MAKES HER LOOK RICH!”

“THE BLACK ONE MAKES HER LOOK DANGEROUS!”

“WHY CAN’T SHE LOOK RICH AND DANGEROUS?!”

Beomgyu glances toward the noise, then back at you. “You don’t have to decide everything today,” he says.

“I do,” you whisper. “The date is today.”

“You don’t have to decide your whole life,” he corrects. “You just have to decide what you’re going to do for the next few hours.”

You stare at your phone again. A week of silence sits between you and Yeonjun. Your pride built it brick by brick. Now it feels too tall to climb down from without bleeding.

Beomgyu stands, stretches, then reaches out and flicks your forehead with the strength of Hulk.

“Ow,” you snap.

“Welcome back,” he says. “I was worried you were going to float away into your own head permanently.”

You glare at him, but a knot lifts behind your ribs.

Beomgyu points at your wardrobe. “Pick the dress you feel least fake in.”

“None of them,” you mutter.

“Then pick the one you can breathe in,” he says simply.

You nod once, because it’s the only thing you can manage.

Beomgyu turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back over his shoulder. “And hey,” he adds, voice softer, “if you spend the whole date thinking about someone else—that’s information. Don’t ignore it just because it’s inconvenient.”

Your stomach drops again. “Beomgyu,” you warn.

He raises his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m gone.”

He walks out.

The noise rushes back in immediately—your friends storming your room, holding up dresses, shouting, laughing, calling you dramatic and iconic and insufferable.

You let them.

You let them do your eyeliner and your hair and your perfume and your whole transformation into the girl they think you are tonight.

Soobin pulls up outside your building in a car that looks too clean to belong to a uni student.

It’s not some battered little thing held together by hope and a dodgy MOT. It’s a proper car. Black. BMW. The kind that makes the streetlights slide across it neatly. You stand on the pavement with your bag on your shoulder and your coat half-buttoned and you genuinely have to pause.

Since when does Soobin drive? Since when does he have a car?

It makes your stomach do that weird thing again, not butterflies—something more clinical. A tightening. A question.

You walk down anyway.

Soobin steps out before you can reach the passenger door. He’s wearing a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open enough to look effortless. Hair still damp at the ends, as if he showered recently. Under the streetlight his face looks… soft. Pretty in that careful way that used to destroy you in highschool. The kind of boy everyone wanted and nobody touched without permission from the universe.

“Hey,” he says, smiling properly now.

“Hey,” you say back, and your voice behaves. 

You hate that. You hate how good you are at behaving.

He looks you up and down—quick, respectful. Then his eyes meet yours and he grins. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks.” You adjust your bag strap. “I didn’t know you—drive.”

Soobin laughs, a surprised little sound. “Yeah. I do. I just never had a reason to bring a car to campus.”

You hear it—never had a reason. The sentence should make you feel special. It should spark. Instead, it sits on the surface of you, neat and weightless.

He opens the door for you. 

You slide into the passenger seat and the inside smells expensive. Subtle cologne, leather, something sharp that suggests a grown-up life you never attached to him when you were sixteen and he was only a crush and a myth and a face in a corridor.

Soobin gets in, starts the engine, checks his mirrors. His hands on the wheel look familiar—long fingers, careful grip. Everything about him feels… correct.

And it’s so different from walking.

So different from being outside at stupid hours with Yeonjun, both of you under-lit by corner shop fluorescents, arguing about crisps and anime arcs and whether you’re allowed to be this feral in public spaces. No seatbelts. No air freshener. Just cold air and his hoodie sleeve brushing your wrist.

Soobin glances at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say instantly. “Just didn’t expect you to pull up like a CEO.”

He laughs again. “It’s not that deep.”

That’s the thing. With him, nothing ever is.

You drive to the cinema and it’s smooth—traffic lights, gentle turns, music low. Soobin asks about your week. He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He’s good at the basics in a way that would’ve made you melt a month ago. He says your name the way he always did back then, like it’s something familiar he’s allowed to hold.

You respond. You make jokes. You keep it easy.

And somewhere behind your ribs, something stays shut.

At the cinema, he buys the tickets before you can offer. Popcorn, too. He even gets the drink you mention without making you repeat yourself. He’s attentive in a soft, socially-approved way—green flag behaviour. The kind people write threads about.

You stand beside him while he pays and you watch the cashier smile a little too brightly at him, and you feel nothing. Not jealous. Not threatened. Not even flattered.

Soobin nudges you gently with his elbow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s just weird seeing you in the wild.”

“In the wild?” he repeats, amused.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’ve been in Switzerland for months and now you’re here being a functioning person with a vehicle and a bank card.”

He snorts. “I’ve always had a bank card.”

“Sure,” you say, deadpan. “But did you always have… this?”

You gesture at the popcorn like it’s proof of adulthood.

Soobin smiles. “Switzerland did make me a bit—domesticated.”

Your brain, traitor that it is, offers you Yeonjun’s voice immediately—dry, rude, warm in the worst way. Domesticated? You’re a Labrador.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself smiling.

Inside the screen, it’s a cheesy rom-com. The kind where the lighting is too golden and the misunderstandings are manufactured and everyone is somehow glowing even when they’re meant to be devastated.

Soobin laughs at the right moments. He leans closer at the sweet parts. His knee brushes yours once, cautiously, like he’s checking the temperature of you.

You let it happen. You don’t pull away. You don’t lean in either.

You try to be present. You really do. But the cinema is a trap. The dark does what it always does—turns your brain into a projector. Not of the movie. Of a different night, a different screen, a different kind of stupid.

Not the details. Your mind doesn’t give you details so much as the feeling—heat under your skin, the rush of doing something you shouldn’t, the way you had been fearless for once. The way Yeonjun’s voice had turned rough right by your ear.

Your fingers tighten on the popcorn bucket.

On-screen, the male lead delivers a line about fate or love or whatever, and Soobin chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

You laugh too—except your laugh isn’t for the movie. It’s for Yeonjun, in your head, going, If I ever say something like that, shoot me.

Soobin reaches for your hand on the armrest and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm. His touch is gentle.

It should do something to you. It doesn’t.

Not because he’s doing it wrong. Because there’s no risk. No edge. No consequence. He’s not asking anything of you except to be here and smile and let him hold you.

And a week ago, you learned what it feels like when something is at stake. When someone isn’t trying to be impressive. When someone is trying to be honest and failing, and you can see the effort anyway.

Soobin squeezes your hand once, reassuring. You squeeze back because you’re not cruel.

The movie ends. Everyone claps because people are weird. Soobin stands, stretches, asks if you liked it.

“It was cute,” you say.

“It was,” he agrees. “Kind of predictable.”

You almost say, so are you, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t deserve that. Because he hasn’t done anything wrong except arrive too late to a version of you that used to want him uncomplicated.

Outside, the night is crisp. Soobin walks you to the car. He opens your door again. The date keeps insisting on being textbook.

“So,” he says once you’re both in. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Dinner.”

He drives to a fancy restaurant you’ve only ever walked past, the kind with warm lighting and quiet music and menus that don’t have prices printed in obvious places. The valet takes the keys. Soobin thanks him. You follow Soobin inside and your heels click on polished floors and everything feels staged.

They seat you at a small table. Candles. Linen. Water poured without asking.

Soobin looks across at you and smiles like he can’t believe this is real. Like he’s been looking forward to it.

And that’s what makes your throat clamp.

Because you know he has.

Soobin starts talking about Switzerland as soon as the waiter leaves. It spills out of him in tidy paragraphs—the mountains, the trains that actually arrive on time, the air that feels sharp and clean, the way the snow looked unreal the first time he saw it up close.

“I used to walk to my lectures and it felt—” he searches for the word, then laughs at himself. “It felt like a movie.”

You nod, attentive. “Did you miss home?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “More than I expected. I missed my friends. I missed my mum’s food. I missed—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “I missed you.”

There it is. The line you’ve replayed in your head for years, the one you used to beg the universe for in different forms.

It lands gently. It doesn’t crack you open.

You smile anyway, because you’re not made of stone. “I missed you too.”

It’s true. In a way. In a past-tense way. In a I missed who I was when I thought you were the only outcome that mattered way.

Soobin talks about a girl on his course who couldn’t pronounce his name properly. He mimics her accent, a little dramatic, and you laugh because it’s actually funny. Then he says, “I tried fondue. Proper fondue. It’s insane.”

“Cheese,” you echo.

“Cheese,” he confirms. “And bread. That’s it. But it works.”

Your stomach gives a small, violent reminder of 2am spaghetti and a boy who looked offended by garlic. Yeonjun at a hob, squinting at olive oil. Yeonjun muttering why is it smoking? as if the pan is the problem. Yeonjun putting too much chilli in because he refuses to measure anything in his life.

You snort.

Soobin stops mid-sentence. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but your smile is crooked now. “Just thinking about—food.”

Soobin looks relieved. “Good. Because I was worried you were laughing at me.”

“I wouldn’t,” you say automatically.

He leans back a little, comfortable. “You can. I don’t mind.”

That should feel intimate. Instead, it makes you think of Yeonjun going, Laugh at me and I’ll block you in real life, while still smiling, while still handing you a fork.

The waiter comes back. Soobin orders smoothly, pronounces everything right. You order too, choosing something you’ve never tried.

Soobin reaches across the table and takes your hand again. “Can I say something?” he asks.

Your stomach tightens. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” he says. Simple. Honest. “I didn’t know if you would.”

You hold his gaze. His eyes are warm. Open. He’s not playing games. He never was.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you ask, forcing lightness.

Soobin shrugs, sheepish. “Because it’s been a while. Because I left. Because you’re—you.”

You blink. “I’m… me?”

He smiles. “Yeah. You always seemed like you had your own world going on. Even back then.”

Your own world. A week ago, Yeonjun said something similar, except he said it meaner, and you’d felt seen so hard it pissed you off.

Soobin squeezes your fingers. “I just—I don’t want to mess it up.”

There’s the stake, offered politely. And you realise, with a strange clarity, that you want him to mess it up a little. You want him to say something wrong. You want him to hesitate. You want him to admit something ugly and real instead of being the perfect outcome to a teenage crush.

Soobin watches your face. “You okay?”

You blink, startled, and realise you’ve gone quiet again. “Yeah,” you lie. Then, because you can’t help it, you add, “Sorry. I’m just—processing.”

“Processing what?”

Everything. You shrug. “Switzerland.”

He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. It was a lot.”

Dinner arrives. It’s plated beautifully. It tastes good in a way that almost annoys you. Soobin tries a bite, closes his eyes for a second, and makes a pleased noise.

“This is amazing,” he says. “I picked well.”

You nod, chewing slowly.

Soobin reaches across and brushes his thumb over your knuckles, absent-minded.

“After this,” he says, voice softer, “we can go back to my place? If you want. Just… talk or have a drink or whatever.”

His place.

You picture it immediately. Yeonjun’s place. Yeonjun’s room. Yeonjun’s bed. 

You laugh. A small, broken thing. You hate yourself for reasons you can’t name.

Soobin’s brows pull together. “Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Sorry. No, you didn’t.”

He watches you. He doesn’t push. He goes back to his food, but slower now, as if he’s trying to recalibrate.

You take a sip of water. Your phone stays face-down in your bag. You don’t check it. You already know there’s nothing there.

And that’s the other truth you won’t say out loud. It’s been a week since lesson three, and Yeonjun stopped texting, and you pretended it didn’t matter—until you sat across from the boy you thought you wanted and realised you can’t unlearn the taste of real.

The bill comes in a black folder. Soobin reaches for it before you can even pretend you’re about to argue.

“Let me,” he says, already sliding his card out.

“Okay,” you hear yourself reply, soft and automatic.

That’s the problem. You’ve been automatic all night.

Outside, the city has cooled. Streetlights rinse the pavement. The restaurant door closes behind you. 

Soobin turns to you on the sidewalk, smiling—bright, pleased. “You were quiet during dessert,” he says gently. “Are you tired?”

You could say yes. You could say you’ve got an early lecture. You could do the polite ending—hug, promise, second date. You feel your body reject it before your mouth catches up. “No,” you say. “I’m not tired.”

Soobin’s smile falters into concern. “Okay. What is it?”

You look at him properly. The rolled sleeves. The neat hair that falls into his eyes when the wind nudges it. The boy you’ve wanted in every season of your life. The boy you built a whole version of yourself for.

You swallow hard. Not with nerves. With truth. “I need to tell you something,” you say.

Soobin straightens a little, attentive. “Yeah. Tell me.”

You swallow. Your hands are cold. You tuck them into your coat pockets so he doesn’t see them shaking. “I’ve liked you since I can remember,” you say. “Since it was embarrassing to like anyone. Since it felt illegal.”

His face softens instantly. He actually looks—happy. Flattered. A little disbelieving.

“You were always the only boy I looked at and wanted,” you continue, and your voice doesn’t wobble, which is new. “You made me feel things and want things before I even knew what any of it meant.”

Soobin smiles wider, almost shy. “I—wow.”

You nod once, quick. “And I thought there wasn’t anyone I could ever want apart from you.”

His eyes warm. He steps half a pace closer, and his hand lifts, hovering near yours. He doesn’t touch yet. He’s asking without asking.

“And then,” you say, and the word cuts the air cleanly, “I met someone.”

Soobin freezes. 

You keep going because if you stop, you’ll turn into a coward again. “He seemed like one person at first,” you say. “And when I actually got to know him, he was someone else completely.”

Soobin’s smile is gone now. He’s trying to stay polite. You can see it in the set of his mouth. In how carefully he breathes.

“Are you saying—” he starts.

“I’m saying I’ve been performing,” you cut in, and the bluntness surprises you both. “All night. I’ve been performing for months. Our calls. Our texts. All of it.”

Soobin’s brows knit. “Performing?”

You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You know when people want a version of you, so you become it because it’s easier than being—whatever you actually are.”

He blinks, slow. “I thought you were having a good time.”

“I’m good at looking correct,” you say. “That’s basically my only skill.”

“So what changed?” Soobin asks, and he means it. There’s hurt underneath, but he’s still trying to understand. “Why tell me this now?”

You stare down the street for a second because the answer is too exposed if you say it while looking at him. “Because I’ve been truly seen,” you say quietly. “And once someone sees you—properly—you can’t go back to the polished version without hating yourself.”

Soobin’s voice drops. “Who is he?”

You hesitate for half a beat. Then you say it. “Choi Yeonjun.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. Not anger, exactly. More a stunned recalculation. He huffs. “Choi Yeonjun,” he repeats. “The—”

“Yeah,” you cut in, tired. “That one.”

Soobin looks at you for a long second. “So you—you’re with him?”

“No,” you say fast. Then slower, because you refuse to lie again. “I don’t know what I am. I just know I can’t sit through another date pretending I’m the same girl who built you into an ending.”

Soobin swallows. “Is this because the date wasn’t—exciting enough?”

You shake your head, immediate. “No. God, no. This isn’t you lacking anything.”

He studies you, careful. “Then what is it?”

You take a breath. Your stomach twists—old embarrassment, old fear—then settles into something steadier. “It’s me,” you admit. “I lack something. Or I did. I was so scared of being an idiot in front of you.”

Soobin’s expression shifts. “An idiot?”

You nod, eyes stinging with the effort of saying it clean. “I lied to you for months.”

His face goes blank for a second. “About what?”

You force the words out. “My body count.”

Soobin’s eyes widen a fraction. “What?”

“I said it was eleven,” you say, and you can’t even look away now. You make yourself hold it. “It wasn’t. It was zero. Back then, I hadn’t even kissed anyone.”

Soobin goes very quiet.

You keep talking, because you refuse to let the silence swallow you whole. “I overcompensated,” you say. “I tried to become the kind of girl I thought you’d want. The kind of girl who wouldn’t embarrass you. Who wouldn’t be—behind.”

Soobin’s throat moves. “Why would that embarrass me?”

“Because I decided it would,” you snap, and then soften immediately because this isn’t his fault. “Because I didn’t trust you with the truth. And I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

He looks shaken now. “So tonight,” he says slowly, “you were—what—trying to prove something?”

You nod. “I was trying to be impressive. I was trying to be safe.” You swallow. “Soobin,” you say, and your voice cracks on his name because it still matters, in its own way. “I don’t want safe. I want real. I don’t want to pretend. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

He stares at you. His hands flex at his sides, helpless. “But I’m real.”

“You are,” you say, instantly. “You’re the most real person in this whole thing. That’s why I can’t keep doing it to you.”

Soobin’s eyes flick over your face as if he’s searching for the punchline. “So what now?”

You swallow. The answer lands in your chest with frightening clarity. “I have to go,” you say.

His breath catches. “Go where?”

You don’t answer. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes final in a way that terrifies you. And it’s already final. You can feel it in your bones.

Soobin reaches for you then, reflexive. Fingers brushing your wrist. Not rough. Not entitled. Just desperate. “Wait,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk about this properly? You can’t just—”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His hand tightens for half a second, then loosens, like he realises he can’t hold you in place without becoming someone he doesn’t want to be.

You step back.

Soobin looks at you with a kind of stunned grief that makes your stomach turn, makes you want to rewind the last five minutes and lie again just to spare him.

But you can’t. 

You turn and you walk away—fast at first, then faster, until you’re not walking at all. You’re running.

You don’t even remember ordering the Uber. You just remember the cold air in your lungs, the shake in your hands, the way your phone screen blurs as you type the address you know too well. You sit in the backseat with your knees bouncing, jaw clenched, heart punching at your ribs.

The driver asks, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you lie out of habit, then correct yourself under your breath. “No.”

When you get out, you don’t check your reflection. You don’t fix your hair. You don’t rehearse a sentence.

You climb the stairs and knock.

Once. Twice.

The door opens.

Yeonjun is there, bare forearms, dark hair slightly messed, the ring in his ear catching the hallway light when his head shifts on the doorframe. 

His face is careful—too controlled, as if he’s about to say the safe line, the measured line, the one that keeps him from hoping. “Hey,” he starts.

You don’t let him finish. You grab his shirt with both hands and kiss him.

Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes your whole body stop fighting itself. His breath stutters once, surprised, and then he’s kissing you back—harder, closer, hands finding your waist like he’s been holding them there in his head all week.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

Yeonjun’s eyes are dark. Wide. Then his mouth curves—small, relieved, undone. Like he’s grateful you didn’t make him be clever. “Come in,” he says, voice rough.

And you do.

The door closes behind you.

(the end)

✧ prev | series masterlist | main masterlist

a/n: OMGGGGGG guys!! this has been such a fun rollercoaster. let's unpack the chapter because i have sm to say. okay the smut scene?? what do you think think, ik its kinda ugh BUT i wrote it like 5 times and this was the version when i threw my hands up and was like im done now i cba anymore. also i love beomgyu sm, i need a friend like him. im gonna miss him the most i can't lie. and my bby soobin :( initially i did think of making him shitty but it just didn't make sense so instead so we have the pain of perfect guy, wrong timing.

i also have a mini announcement to make... since so many of you LOVED reading vpb and I LOVED writing vpb, i have decided to make a sequel!! not for our beloved idiot couple but for soobin!! and before yal boo, listen, soobin also deserves a happy ending no?

i don't know when i will actually get to the sequel, but you know your notes fuel me. so can we do 1k notes and i will get to typing? no? if thats too ambitious, you guys will just have to be patient until im able to squeeze some time for it!! in the meantime, below is the sequel's summary :0 (you can find it and my upcoming txt works in my wips list!). okay enough yapping from me and i will see you all on the next! much love <333 (ps. comment, reblog and send me your asks!! spam me, i love it!!)

misguided | choi soobin

⤷ college students au, pining soobin x fake shaman, love triangle, idiots in love

✎ summary the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the resident campus playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud. you planned to scam him, send him away, and never think about it again… until he starts opening up. until you realise you’re both in love with people who will never choose you back. until helping him stops being business—and starts becoming something dangerously close to affection. you were supposed to fix his love life. you weren’t supposed to fall for him.

[saturnsfae]

🪐 18+ bratty dom!beomgyu being insufferably hawt & talking back while talking you through it ✮⋆˙ warnings: afab!reader, fingering, petnames (baby, bunny, pretty), brief mention of nip piercings, he’s so meannnnnnuh >.<

“yeah, baby? gonna do a big one for me?”

ugh, you can’t stand him but he sounds so good to ignore, especially when he’s all up on your face, opened lips hovering over yours and lulling you into a smooth release with his soft words and harsh fingers.

it’s his favorite activity; talking you through it and it might be yours too by the way you whine higher into his mouth before letting your head tip back for your sounds to bounce out high into the ceilings above.

“c’mon baby, feel my fingers, c’mon..” so smooth, like honey as his breath puffs some sort of aphrodisiac gas against your neck. gyu doesn’t allow you any space, invading your senses and encasing your entire being in his arms. he doesn’t let you breathe, doesn’t let you move away, and so he follows your movement and cranes his neck until he’s face to face with you again.

“what happened baby? fuck on me, rutt on my fingers, baby, i know she’s going mad..”

of course she’s definitely going mad, pussy spasming around his lithe digits and sucking them in until the last knuckle, trickling her juices down the back of his veiny hands, dropping down onto the ground below from collecting on the gold band around his wrist.

“mmphh, fuck- fuck-“ your words are garbled together, drool bubbling in the corner of your twitching lips. you’re a mess and he’s fucking grinning at the close sight in front of him. all you can see is him with his hair falling over his shoulders and curtaining your surroundings, long locks draped over your face, wispy ends tickling your cheeks and sticking onto your temples. his fanged smile sinking into his bottom lip. goodness, you’re surprised you can see all of that with your blurring vision, hard not to when he’s forcing you to stare at him.

beomgyu loves to watch you come undone, needs to see you fall apart.

“fuck? hmmm, i thought you wanted to fuck on this desk, right? isn’t that want you wanted?” he tilts his head and you want to die, just fall apart and let yourself fall back onto the desk comfortably, give your shaking arms a rest from holding yourself up.

you nod once and he hums almost immediately, catching your faltering gaze. “ohhh, i know baby, i know my fingers feel good, i got you. trust me, just give me one more.” how many more? it’s like he just wants to prove he can make you cum with his mouth, his fingers and then his co-

“can youuuuu…?” the last word ends off with a pathetic whine that doesn’t even sound like you, you would even be clowning yourself with second hand embarrassment if it wasn’t for the sudden flick of his wrist and the curl of his ring and middle finger. going deeper, and deeper, you didn’t finish what you wanted to say but he still gave it to you.

it squelches, suctioning and bubbling from how soaked you already were and he’s just grinning. fuuuuuck, him, goodness he’s too fine and he has too much power in his hands.

“what, did i do it right?” he nods, sharp eyebrows raising as he glances around your messy face, looking for your approval when he already knows he got it from the moment his fingertips prodded against that one spot.

shit, he’s so fucking hard between your legs that wrap tighter around his waist and he should look at the mess he made in front of his sweats but he’s admiring your strength, how well you try keeping your fluttering eyes open and listen to his request.

until you don’t. and he’s more frozen, enthralled by the way you suddenly move your head, tucking your chin towards your neck to gaze up at him through your lashes in this mean, darkened expression. glaring; almost challenging him as he fucks his fingers harder, eyelashes fluttering but still keeping your eyes on him.

gyu grins so hard, chuckles at the sound of your whimpers becoming throaty and at your deviance and instead of feeding into it, he relishes with giggles.

“don’t be mad, pretty,” and presses his lips onto your forehead in front of him with a soft peck. this time you couldn’t hold out any longer, eyes rolling back when he twists his wrist again and ducks his head low once again— meeting your eye level and staring face to face. invading your space.

he’s insufferable, but the pleasure is building and the pressure is getting worse and it’s starting to really stretch in your trembling belly-

“can you please?” you’re desperate and he hears you clearly.

“i am, that’s what i’m doing, just want you to let it go,” so causal, so like his entire arm wasn’t shaking in front of him from the force his fingers fuck into your sopping cunt.

“no, b.. but just gimme your—“

“but i am,” he chuckles again and even louder when you suddenly shuffle onto your elbows instead from your arms finally giving out. a whole clutter of something gets knocks off the desk, clatters and thuds against the ground but who the fuck cares.

“that’s not… what i m-meant, you know that.”

“mmm- but i don’t know anything-“

“fuck your fingers- on everything in this earth, i swear if you aren’t in me in the next five minut-“

“is this not enough? am i not enough for you?” his fuck ass pout, and you’re not having it,

“shuuuut the .. fuck up, mygoodness- you know what i meant so just put it in and quit being a bitch about it- aahhh-“ beomgyu doesn’t let you rant any longer until a squeal rips from your throat before your trembling lips snap shut, tightly together at how his fingertips sudden prod deeper. deliciously.

“yeah, cause you’re such a sick lil thing that loves cumming on my cock when i slide it in, huh.” and you couldn’t even see the manic look you know paints his face because your eyelids are squeezing shut at the pending release. please, you’re praying he doesn’t comment on it cause your face is burning from the sudden exposure.

“mhm, i’ll give it to you baby, just give me this one right now, that’s all i ask.”

you’re so close, it’s right there and he’s fucking you in the same, deliciously continuous pace. ugh, you’re getting there, it’s great and he’s just encouraging you, as if he’s pulling all remnants of your arousal from your body all into his hand, sucking it out of your wiggling figure as he tells you to give it all to him. cmon, cmon baby, that’s it, baby, pretty please?

your toes are curling again the small of his back from his sweet tone, heel digging into his hip, your hands are squeezing tightly into fists next to your torso as his voice lulls you into that beautiful release—

and now he gives you space because he wants to see your entire visceral reaction once he feels that one last clench around his fingers.

and fuck, does it last.

he’s humming, groaning behind all of your sweet noises that bounce off his bedroom walls at the tightness and the way your head lolls back over your shoulders, hanging restlessly to reveal your marked neck. how your legs hike up higher and towards your body, knees almost knocking together and thighs closing around his wrist from the intensity. he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind the way your elbows slide outward and your back lays flat over the desk from how well you come undone. his deep voice murmurs beautifully,

“ohhh, that’s it baby, you’re so beautiful, so pretty..”

that tank top is stretching around your arched frame, and he’s licking his plush lips at the sight of your piercings, poking through the fabric along with your hardened nipples.

and for a moment, he lets you catch your breath while he whispers more sweet words, reminding you how great you are and how juicy you look in his eyes. that he wants to devour you, remind you that you’re his goddess and oh so sweet, giving him what he wanted and painting his sweats a darker gray with your sacred water.

“holy … fuck,” your meek voice huffs out in a weak whimper afterwards, hand raising up to press against your heated face.

“holy fuck, huh?” gyu parrots, slowly sliding inch by inch of his fingers out from your cunt. “for someone who didn’t want my fingers at first, you sure don’t wanna let go of them.” he states, as if it’s a matter of fact.

your blush deepens as you close your legs, sheepishly covering yourself and looking away from his gaze, ignoring how his giggle awakens more butterflies in your stomach.

“hush.”

a/n: i have nothing to say. just need him in ways i can’t explain to not even myself. :P

[breathe4me]

waking up from a terrible nightmare while sleeping with ur bf soobin and he comforts you while you’re literally on the verge of tears and being so soft with you until you both can’t help but get needy so he makes you feel better by dicking you down! lots of praising and messy sleepy sex :)

this is my 3rd attempt at attempting to write this because I keep going into far too much detail about readers dream 😭

this is more of a silly drabble than a fic so i haven't done my normal lay out >.< hope you still enjoy it though! love pepper!

you hadn't ever really been a sufferer of nightmares, usually your dreams were full of cupcakes and rainbows as soobin always put it. so when you woke up after having a dream you were being chased, your immediate reaction was to wake up your boyfriend.

"binnie.." your small hands gripped his shoulder, gently waking him up. "i-i had a bad dream, please wake up," you whimper, hiding your face in his shoulder.

soobin grumbles, hands wrapping around your waist to keep you close as he whispers soft comforting words into your hair. "it's okay baby, its just a dream. i'm right here okay?" he sits up, big hand searching the bedside table for the switch to the lamp.

"i dont wanna go back to sleep," you sniffle, now sat on soobin's lap as he strokes your hair. soobin kisses your neck softly in attempts to distract you from whats going on in your mind.

soobin's hands are on your waist, moving you so your lead on your back, lips still kissing and sucking at your neck. "lets tire you out, let your pretty brain rest whilst i do all the work," soobin coos, sliding up the shirt you were wearing.

his fingers trace your clit in slow circlers whilst his other hand works to get his dick out of his boxers. he rubs the tip up and down your slit, spitting onto your pussy before sliding in.

"shhh, that's it baby, let me make you feel good," soobins hips still inside of you, lips finding yours in a soft passionate kiss. he gropes your chest gently, thumbs running over your nipples before he slowly pulls out and pushes back in.

"so tight and perfect for me," soobin moans, arms barricading your head as you whine, hips bucking up to meet his hips in each thrust. it doesn't take long for you to whimper out a small warning of your orgasm, cumming on soobin's dick before he's filling you with his cum.

panting, soobin rolls over so he's next to you, pulling you under his arm with a dazed look. "any other bad dreams and you can just ride me okay?" he smirks, watching the way your lips pulled into a small smile.

[taeyongdoyoung]

loser (why don't you kill me)

summary: popular guys only break your heart. so, you decide to take a chance on the loser for once... pairing: loser!beomgyu x popular girl!reader genre: angst, fluff, smut, college!au, strangers to friends to lovers warnings: discussion of stereotypes/society, mentions of past cheating/toxic masculinity, drinking, swearing, talking abt porn, male masturbation, lowkey slut-shaming but not rlly, kissing, eating out, fingering, mirror kink, begging, blowjob, protected sex (gasp), overstimulation, hair-pulling, virgin!beomgyu, experienced!reader, dom-leaning switch!beomgyu, mentions of blood/violence word count: 7.8k (wat) author's note: this idea has been haunting me since i randomly rediscovered beck's song on the car radio one evening and i felt like beomgyu would be perfect for the concept, i hope yall enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing it!

You are absolutely done dating popular guys. As one of the most sought-after girls in your college, you are used to being romantically involved with…well, other members of your so-called "league". Deep down, you know it is stupid to measure people in terms of their popularity. But the reality is that you always conformed to society's expectations. It was the same in high school. You're a cheerleader? Might as well date someone on the football team. Secretly, you had hoped that college would be different. But you somehow ended up in the same "circles". Immediately drawing attention to yourself, it had become the norm. Whenever there is a party, you are there. Whenever there is a sports game, you are there. You are used to being invited everywhere and guys always try so hard to impress you until you agree to go out with them. And eventually disappoint you. Each and every one of them.

But after yet another shitty excuse for a man cheats on you, you decide to swear off dating equally popular guys. They're just the same anyway. You are on the verge of giving up men, in general. When you meet Him. You don't even know his name, which is strange, because you're pretty sure you know everyone in college. Or rather…everyone knows you. You're attending yet another boring party when you spot him. His long black hair is hiding his eyes. It's streaked with blonde highlights. He's holding a cup of beer, but his hands are shaking. It's barely visible from where you're standing, but he looks so out of place that you can't help but notice. Who dragged this poor soul here?

You're about to go up there yourself when you spot Taehyun, one of the students with the highest grades in college, sits down next to him. The music is too loud so you can't hear what they're saying, but judging from Taehyun's relaxed way of treating the anonymous guy, the two are close friends. Which surprises you a bit. Taehyun is considerably popular, he's always surrounded by people asking him for study tips or wanting to go to the gym together. So, why haven't you seen this other guy anywhere?! Is that his first party or something? And if so, what made him come in the first place? He doesn't seem to be having a good time, despite Taehyun's company.

A while later, you notice Taehyun pats mystery guy on the back and gets up from the couch. The long-haired one remains alone once again. Until it hits you. This is your chance to talk to him and get answers to your pressing questions! Except…you have never approached someone yourself. Guys always swarm around you. You don't have an exact plan of what you would say but the alcohol in your system is making your legs move towards the nameless guy. You stand in front of the couch expectantly, as if waiting for an invitation. Okay, this is dumb. The guy is just sitting there awkwardly, scrolling through his phone to avoid any social interaction.

"Mind if I sit here?" you make sure your voice is loud enough to hear over the music.

He looks up from his phone and you finally see his eyes. They're such a lovely shade of brown.

"Here?" he repeats in shock.

"Do you see any other spots nearby?"

You realize how silly that question is because there are, in fact, a bunch of places to sit in this huge house. You could sit anywhere, if you wanted to. But you came here purposefully.

"Uh, sure," the guy moves his knapsack into his lap so you can sit next to him. Who even comes to a party carrying stuff like that?!

"I haven't seen you around," you admit, trying to sound casual. "What's your name?"

"B-beomgyu," he introduces himself nervously.

"I'm Y/N, it's really nice to meet you," you initiate a handshake, even though the action seems far too formal for the setting.

"I know who you are," Beomgyu points out but still accepts your hand.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," you chuckle with a self-assured smile. "So, what brings you to this party?" you ask the first thing that comes to mind to keep the conversation going.

"Um, Taehyun asked me to come," Beomgyu explains. "He's…my friend."

"I know who he is," you mimic Beomgyu's tone playfully, not meaning to make fun of him, just trying to ease the tension. But you feel like you did the wrong thing, because Beomgyu's face suddenly droops with barely restrained sadness. You wonder if it bothers him that his friend is well-known in college, unlike him. Yet again, it's not your fault that you haven't stumbled upon Beomgyu before.

"I don't really…go out much," Beomgyu states the obvious.

"So, how did your friend convince you to attend this party?" you want to know.

"He promised it'd be fun. That I'll meet new people or whatever."

"Well, your friend has a point," you nudge Beomgyu's shoulder teasingly. "You met me."

"I guess…" his voice trails off. Great. Meeting you is apparently not that exciting for Beomgyu. You really need to work on your "approaching quiet strangers" skills.

"You wanna get out of here? This party is kinda boring," you blurt out suddenly.

"Erm…where would we go?" Beomgyu asks a very valid question. "Everything is closed."

"We can go to my place. Come on," you grab his wrist impulsively, pulling him up. He seems too stunned to argue but takes his knapsack in a hurry and follows you outside the house.

"I should probably let Taehyun know I'm leaving," Beomgyu pauses at the house's doorstep and explains nervously.

"He's most likely hooking up with someone right now, but go ahead," you scoff sarcastically.

"I'll just text him," Beomgyu decides, not surprised by your assumption. He knows his friend's reputation as well as you do. After he has finished dutifully messaging Taehyun, Beomgyu looks ready to get out of here.

"Oh, fuck," you mutter the second your eyes spot your car parked nearby.

"What's wrong?"

"Can't drive, I've been drinking," you remember.

"I also drank…" Beomgyu reminds you with a sigh.

"I feel so stupid. I don't suppose there'll be anyone at that party who hasn't had alcohol and would be willing to drive us."

"Yeah, that sounds unlikely," Beomgyu agrees.

"Raincheck on the going to mine idea?" you suggest, looking for an excuse to see him again. Though you're upset you can't drive right now, you are nonetheless grateful for the alcohol giving you enough bravery to approach the long-haired guy.

"Um, sure," he replies offhandedly, not thinking you're serious about it.

"Can we exchange numbers?" you immediately latch onto the possibility.

"Okay," Beomgyu types in his number in your phone. This is so exciting for you. You've never asked for a guy's number before. It feels so new and strange but in a good way.

"Do you want to climb up a tree and look at the stars?" The sky seems clear enough for your suggestion.

Beomgyu stares at you in disbelief. You're wearing a skintight pink dress. You're among the most popular girls in college. You're talking to him for the first time ever. And you want to climb up a fucking tree and stargaze?! With him?!

"Sorry, but that doesn't exactly seem like your thing," Beomgyu gives voice to his thoughts.

"Oh? Enlighten me, then. What is my thing?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't have said that," his gaze drops to the ground.

"Forget it," you shake your head in amusement and start climbing the nearest tree. It's uncomfortable to do in this dress and you haven't done it since you were a kid, but you quickly get used to the feeling of holding onto the rough surface of the sturdy plant.

"You'll fall!" Beomgyu warns but you can hear him shuffling behind you where the trunk widens. He's going to climb the tree, too!

"I won't!" you respond and keep climbing until you've found a place which looks strong enough to support your weight. Once you've reached a comfortable height to sit safely and sway your legs, you look behind to see Beomgyu catching up with you.

"What were you thinking?" he sounds out of breath, as he places himself into a secure position.

"Look! The stars are so beautiful from up here," you point at the sky.

"You're crazy," Beomgyu gasps, but looks at the stars anyway. "Wow."

"I know, right?" you giggle, suddenly feeling like a carefree kid again. Away from society's expectations and prejudices. When none of it mattered…

"If someone told me yesterday I'd be climbing a tree and stargazing with the college's princess, I would tell them to fuck themselves with a mace."

His soft features somehow go in contrast with his crude language. It stuns you. The realization that you know nothing about this man. And yet…you feel safer in this moment with a near stranger than you have with your shitty exes who were only with you as if to further solidify their status in college society. Well, fuck that.

"So violent," you laugh. "Do I seem so stuck-up?"

"Honestly?" Beomgyu grunts. "Yeah."

You try not to get offended by his words. After all, you asked first.

"Well, I hope to prove you wrong."

Beomgyu shakes his head in a way that suggests he doesn't believe you.

But you are not a quitter.

🤓🤓🤓

Beomgyu's on the verge of defeating Soobin in the game they play together every Saturday when his phone starts ringing. He curses, distracted by the loud noise, and loses focus in the game, only to be overpowered by his friend. Ugh. Whatever.

The phone is still ringing so he might as well pick up. It's an unknown number. (He hasn't even bothered saving your number, because…it's not like a girl like you would ever call a guy like him. Right?)

"Hello?" he says.

"Hiii, Beomgyu!" you chirp excitedly.

"Who's this?" he's still too stunned by the loss in the game to put two and two together.

"You didn't save my number?" he swears he can hear your pout over the phone. "It's Y/N! From last night? We climbed a tree and looked at the stars together?"

A part of Beomgyu is flattered by you trying so hard to jog his memory.

"I don't recall," he lies out of spite.

"That's hurtful," you sniffle dramatically.

"Did you lose something yesterday?" Beomgyu inquires, because why the hell would you be calling him for any other reason?

"Do you have any plans today?" you need to know.

Honestly? He was planning on playing games all day long with Soobin. But he'll hear you out. Might be fun.

"Nothing much, just relaxing at home," Beomgyu clarifies.

"The offer to come to my place still stands. I'm completely sober today, so I can give you a ride."

What the fuck?! Not only are you inviting him over out of nowhere but you're also suggesting to drive him? He can't help but be suspicious. After all, stuff like that just don't happen in his world. A beautiful girl asking him over…There's gotta be a hidden agenda. Maybe a friend of yours challenged you to seduce him and then break his heart. Maybe he's a bet! Like all those movies.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want me to come over? We barely know each other."

"Exactly. We can…get to know each other. If that's okay with you, of course," you're quick to add.

Somehow you've achieved the perfect balance between confident and respectful. And Beomgyu is drawn to that like a moth to a flame. What's the worst that could happen?

🎀🎀🎀

"So, erm, that's my room," you explain cutely. It's pink all over, the fluffy bedsheets are adorned by many plushies. The walls are covered in polaroids and fairy lights. The floor is covered with adorable mini rugs. Hell, even your mousepad is Hello Kitty-themed. You're not self-conscious about your room. Many guys have been here. Most of them didn't pay any attention to it and went straight to business. You were used to the routine. A couple of dates. A bunch of sex. Finding out the guy was just another douchebag who didn't want anything serious with you and was sleeping with like three other girls. The inevitable break-up. It was all the same. But deep down, you hoped you deserved better than that. So, for the first time, you took a risk. Instead of waiting for the next dickhead to find you, you decided to try something different.

"It's very…pink," Beomgyu states the obvious.

"Uh, yeah. Does that bother you?" you don't know why his opinion matters. It shouldn't.

"Gives me a headache," he rolls his eyes, but you can tell he doesn't mean it. "What did you want to do?"

"Don't know," you shrug. You didn't plan that far ahead. "What do you usually do on the weekend?"

"Play games. Listen to music. Watch movies. The usual," Beomgyu replies. "What about you?"

"Parties. Drinks. Sex."

It was blatantly obvious you two were leading very different lifestyles. You didn't have much in common. And yet, here you were…

Beomgyu seems to flinch at the mention of sex and is quick to change the subject.

"Should we watch something?" he suggests.

"Alright."

"You pick," Beomgyu replies. He gives off the impression that he doesn't want to be here. But he is here, so you try to make the best out of the situation.

You settle on a random movie currently streaming on Netflix. Towards the middle of it, an extremely spicy scene shows up. You sneak glances at Beomgyu's reaction. He looks flushed and bothered underneath all this hair. You wonder when's the last time he's had sex. If he ever has. You can see him gulping nervously. You are not even focused on the movie anymore, you're too distracted by his flustered state. The way his usually pale skin is covered in red is just so appealing. It's something you don't see a lot. Most guys you've crossed paths with are always so confident, so careless about their actions and how many hearts they've hurt along the way.

The sex scene ends and the movie continues playing. Yet you can't help but observe Beomgyu further. It takes him a while to recover from it. He seems to get more antsy, shuffling next to you. No way. Is he…hard? Right now? You want to test your theory so badly but you don't want to be perceived as some kind of man-eater. You're certain that your dating history is public knowledge to the whole college. So, you desperately try to maintain composure. A while later, the movie is over and if someone asked you to tell them what it was about…you'd have to tell them to open Wikipedia, because you genuinely have no idea what just happened.

"Did you enjoy the movie?" you ask.

"It was alright," Beomgyu whispers. "What about you?"

"Yeah, same. I mean…I also think the movie was alright."

You're grateful that Beomgyu doesn't press the matter further, because if he did, he would quickly find out you don't even remember the main characters' names.

"I hate how sex scenes in movies always cut off, though. It's going so well and then bam, black screen and next scene. Porn is more realistic."

"Excuse me?" you cough in shock. The way he just blurts that out is so shocking.

"Isn't it?"

"I mean…I don't think so," you reply, suddenly engaged in a heated discussion. "I wouldn't say porn is realistic. It's very contrived. And don't get me started on the treatment of women in the industry. It's just…extremely demeaning and even dangerous. So, no, I don't agree with you."

"Depends on the porn, though," Beomgyu points out. "Some stuff look really natural and homemade, you know? Of course, I definitely see your point about the industry being harmful to women. However, the average movie definitely does a lousy job cutting things off right when it gets interesting."

You nod, understanding what he means. But then, you flip things around.

"You seemed to be enjoying it."

"Pardon?" Beomgyu blinks.

"The sex scene in the movie," you clarify. "You seemed reeeally into it."

"I mean…I was," he admits. "Which is why I got annoyed they cut it off like that."

You laugh, amused by his honest explanation.

"Would you rather we watched homemade porn? To get rid of your annoyance?" you don't know what's gotten into you. You barely know the guy.

"No, thanks," Beomgyu suddenly panicks, closing your laptop. "I should…go."

Fuck. You've scared him away.

"I was just kidding," you smile anxiously. "Sorry, if it came out weird."

"You're good," Beomgyu waves you off. "I still gotta go, though."

You feel dejected, as if you've done something to offend him. And then, you spot it. Barely visible from his loose-fit jeans. But you're pretty sure he is turned on. And that's the very reason why he's in a hurry. You want to keep him there so desperately. Take care of his problem. But you manage to restrain yourself, afraid you'd fuck things up more.

"If you have to," you mumble. "Want me to give you a ride?"

"Uh, no, thanks," Beomgyu rejects your offer.

"Text me when you get home?" you ask, wanting to make sure he's safe.

"Sure," Beomgyu agrees and practically sprints out of your place.

🤓🤓🤓

Beomgyu isn't proud of what he does the second he closes the door of his place behind his back. But he hasn't been that horny in a while. He doesn't know what provokes it. The sex scene in the movie wasn't even that good. He's seen low quality porn better than that. Maybe it was your proximity. Maybe it was the way you were staring at him during it. He could feel your strong gaze but didn't dare pull his eyes off the screen. Maybe it was the conversation you had afterwards. Or the way your smile wavered when he told you he has to go. Whatever the reason, Beomgyu doesn't even bother pulling his jeans fully down. He just slides his hand inside his boxers, gripping his cock desperately. He thinks about the smell of your sickeningly sweet perfume. He thinks about your pink room. About your silky hair. About your cute collection of plushies. About climbing a fucking tree and stargazing with you.

He realizes how pathetic he is. Jerking off all alone when you were right there. He's not that clueless. He knows that if he'd taken the initiative, you would have probably agreed to give him a hand. But he couldn't bring himself to ask. What if he'd misread the situation? What if you were simply interested in making a new friend?

Not that you have much in common…Why would you want him as a friend? It makes no sense. You're surrounded by so many people on a daily basis. Why would you hang out with him? It bothers him so much, but he's so drawn by your charms, your easy-going smile and your dazzling aura that he releases his cum faster than ever. Staining his boxers and jeans carelessly, he releases a curse under his breath. He gets rid of them and stuffs them in the washing machine.

As if on cue, his phone rings seconds before he could start the machine. Fuck. It's still in the pocket of his jeans. He takes it out in a hurry, picking up without looking.

"Yeah?"

"Are you home?" you ask, your velvety voice pulling him out of his misery.

"I'm home, yes," Beomgyu responds with a grunt, as he pours detergent. He feels caught in the act even though you can't see what he's doing.

"You didn't text me," you remind him.

"Sorry, I got…uh, carried away doing chores."

"What are you doing right now?" you inquire innocently but he swears it feels as if you're purposefully trying to seduce him.

"The laundry."

"Oh," you reply shortly as if you know. But how can you possibly know? "I could have helped with that."

"Doing my laundry?" Beomgyu snickers sarcastically.

"No. Getting your clothes dirty," you giggle.

Beomgyu gulps anxiously. He should just hang up. You're probably a hallucination. If he hangs up, the visions will disappear.

"I'm just teasing," you try to make him feel relaxed.

"Do you treat every guy like that?" Beomgyu wants to find out. "Is that why you're always dating someone new? Because you flirt with anyone?"

🎀🎀🎀

It hurts you that this is what he thinks of you. You only just met and yet it hurts. You don't want him to think you're a slut. Sure, you've had your fair share of relationships. But it's not your fault guys suck. It's not your fault you keep hoping you'd find someone decent. It's not your fault they keep letting you down.

"I have never treated a guy the way I treat you," you confess, feeling strangely vulnerable. "Guys always ask me out first. We go on dates, we have sex and just when I'm starting to feel special, as if things are going somewhere meaningful, they go ahead and do it with someone else. And then it's over. I don't flirt with just anyone."

"I'm sorry. For assuming," Beomgyu responds. He must believe you, because you can clearly hear the guilt in his voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm used to it," you try to laugh it off.

"Just because you're used to it doesn't make it okay," Beomgyu insists. It's somehow the most devastating and also the most reassuring thing you've ever heard.

"It's fine. Just drop it."

"Let me make it up to you."

"You don't have to."

"I won't ask you out first."

"Okay…" you are not sure where he's going with this. Because the way you see it, you already asked him out first. Though you are not sure if spontaneously climbing a tree and watching a movie at your place can qualify for a date.

"I won't have sex with anyone else," Beomgyu keeps talking. Wait, what?

"Have you done it, though?" your curiousity gets the better of you.

"I haven't. But that doesn't matter right now."

"I'm not following," you are too stunned by the revelation that this extremely attractive (in your eyes) guy you're currently interested in pursuing is a virgin. For some reason the thought thrills you so much you can barely register what else he's saying.

"I'm trying to make it up to you. I'm trying to say…I wouldn't do to you what other guys have done."

"That's a dangerous promise to make, considering we've only known each other since yesterday."

"Incorrect. I've seen you around for ages. Just because you never noticed me doesn't mean I didn't know you."

Ouch. Suddenly, it feels like you have some making up to do.

"But I can't blame you. Being invisible is kinda my superpower."

"You're not invisible, Beomgyu," you insist. "I'm just nearsighted."

He laughs on the other side of the line.

"Is this the moment in the stupid movie where I ask you out?" you can't believe you're so direct when it comes to him.

"Nah, this is the moment in the stupid movie where the scene cuts off," Beomgyu jokes.

"Except we weren't having sex," you remind him.

"Speak for yourself…" Beomgyu blurts out.

Wait…No way your suspicion was correct!

"Beomgyu!"

"Can't hear you, the washine machine is too loud, byeee," Beomgyu speaks in a hurry and has the audacity to hang up on you!

You didn't even get the chance to properly ask him out…

🤓🤓🤓

Beomgyu starts receiving messages and calls from you every day. It's like you've been in each other's lives forever. Even though he initially thinks you don't share much in common, it's ridiculously easy to talk to you about anything. The game he's been playing? You're actively listening to him explain everything. The manga he's been reading? Surprisingly, you've even read it. The alternative rock 90s songs on his playlist? You ask him for the link and go through each and every one of them, updating him with your thoughts. And he tries his best to match your energy. He researches everything about the Sanrio characters you're in love with and he makes sure to watch your favourite movies. "What do you mean you've never seen 10 Things I Hate About You? It's iconic!" you tell him one time.

Beomgyu feels like the two of you don't go on an actual date for a while. You mostly exchange texts, hang out at your place, go grocery shopping together, chill at the record store, grab coffee before your lectures start. The closest thing to a date is when you watch a movie at the cinema together. It's about superheroes, something he usually enjoys, but he's so nervous about sitting so close to you the whole time that he ends up missing the whole point. The box of popcorn sitting on his lap is somewhat helpful in hiding his tragic state. Your delicate hand moving and taking some popcorn every once in a while, however, is super not helpful.

Regardless, Beomgyu doesn't think this was a proper date due to the fact that neither of you addressed it as such. It was just another one of your hangouts. Beomgyu believes it would qualify for a date if you kissed or held hands, at least. But what does happen at the end of your cinema "hangout" is that you give him a hug. It is perhaps the warmest, coziest, most wonderful hug in history. You just smell so good. Is it your shampoo? Or just the overall magic of you?

Time passes in this sweet comfort of being friends (?) who occasionally tease each other in a non-friendly way. And the risqué messages you sometimes send him…He's pretty sure you don't send stuff like that to anyone else. Or at least, he hopes you don't. Beomgyu wonders if he should ask you out officially. But then, he remembers he promised you he wouldn't. So, he waits. But nothing happens. You don't ask him out, either. He just feels stuck. Are you truly friends? Are you just playing with him? Was your last break-up so bad you had to resort to hanging out with a loser like him to pass the time? Is it all just a figment of his imagination? Did that night underneath the stars really happen?

Plagued by too many questions and not enough answers, he texts you.

Beomgyu: Come over.

You: Right now?

Beomgyu: Right now.

You: I don't even know where you live…

Right. You only ever hang out at yours. He wonders why he's never invited you. He sends you his location, not exactly sure why he wants you to now. He just needs to talk to you. Whatever this is, he has to be sure it's going somewhere. Before he's in too deep. Or before you decide you're bored of him and leave him lonely.

🎀🎀🎀

You're looking around Beomgyu's place like a deer in the headlights. It's so…Beomgyu. Gaming set-up in one corner, guitar in the other, headphones lying on his bed, a record collection on your left, a plaid shirt tossed carelessly on a chair. The room is strikingly different from the rooms of your exes. While they were usually filled with sports-related objects and their sheets reeked of sweat, protein powder and toxic masculinity, Beomgyu's place is the definition of cozy. It smells like a mixture of green tea, lavender and honey. Even the messiness here and there is reassuring. You realize that you've been an unconscious victim of society's cruel stereotypes about the so-called "loser" specimen. Guiltily, you reach the conclusion you've unwillingly been the exact type of person you've only recently started criticizing. The type of person that would previously assume Beomgyu belongs to a category of people who don't shower or they regularly write shitty stuff about women on Reddit. But the evidence is clear. The real "losers" were your exes. And Beomgyu is…Beomgyu has been nothing but perfect.

Which is why he stuns you with his bluntness.

"I want to know where we stand," he blurts out in a serious tone. You've never heard him speak in that voice to you. Whenever other men used that voice on you, it made you inadvertently flinch. But…this is Beomgyu. He's not really angry at you, right?

"What do you mean?" you blink in shock.

"Don't play dumb with me," Beomgyu scoffs humourlessly. "Do you want to be friends?"

"We are friends," you point out. "Are we not?"

"I know we're friends. What I'm asking is…did you approach me with that intention? To be just friends…Because the shit you keep sending me is not exactly friendly. You know that, right?"

"I know it's not," you admit, somewhat guiltily.

"And you think this is okay? Because this is just Beomgyu, he's just a loser and no one pays attention to him anyway, so it's okay to play with him for a while and then dip, yeah?"

You shake your head furiously, tears starting to form in your eyes because of how harshly he's speaking about himself and about you. But he couldn't be more wrong.

"I don't…I don't think that way."

"Oh, really? Then, where the fuck do we stand?" he repeats, almost shouting.

You need space, you need to gather your thoughts in order to formulate them properly. You shake your head once again, feeling helpless.

"Why don't you just kill me?" Beomgyu chuckles bitterly.

"I don't want to kill you," you whisper.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" he is practically begging you to answer.

You don't say anything, you just grab him by the collar and pull him into a messy, desperate kiss. Beomgyu is shocked for a brief moment, but then he kisses you back, almost angrily, as if to punish you for making him wait for so long. Then, he closes in on you until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed. You lose balance and fall with a soft thud, as Beomgyu towers over you. His lips leave yours and you whine at the sudden loss.

"Is this what you wanted, huh? To make me obsessed with you?" Beomgyu murmurs in a deep voice.

"N-no, just wanted to get to know you," you admit, chasing his lips.

"Well, guess what? You played yourself," Beomgyu hisses and crawls down the bed until he's situated between your legs.

In that moment, you are so grateful you wore a skirt, because your friend wastes no time in getting rid of it and then rips off your panties in one quick motion. The action is so exhilarating with its aggression, because Beomgyu is usually so soft-spoken and quiet. Yet here he is, shattering all your mistaken assumptions about a virgin in his 20s.

He buries his head between your folds and attacks your pussy with his tongue without waiting for approval. His long hair is tickling your tummy in the sweetest way possible. It's too intense and too overwhelming. Everything is happening so fast you need to hold on to something.

"Can I pull your hair?" you ask nervously.

Beomgyu doesn't reward you with a verbal response and just nods, while still fucking your clit with his mouth. He's gripping your thighs with his beautiful hands, while you bury yours into his pretty black hair. You can't think properly anymore, so you just lose yourself, letting him take you apart, piece by piece. At one point, you realize you've already orgasmed, but the bastard is still there, overstimulating you to no end.

"P-please, t-too much," you whimper helplessly and finally, he has mercy on you and lifts his head, a vicious smirk forming on his wet lips.

"I'm not done with you, you realize that, right?"

"How did you even know…?" you leave your question hanging open, because it's self-explanatory.

"I'm a virgin, not a complete moron," Beomgyu rolls his eyes. "Besides, you already know the kinds of videos I enjoy watching."

You blush, remembering that discussion at your place, the day after you met…

"Right," you chuckle. "What do you want to do next?"

You don't even know why you bothered asking, because he's already two steps ahead of you. Beomgyu has waited so long for you to make a move that he's eager to try everything all at once.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you after him until he's seated in the corridor. Okay, this is kinda random, but whatever.

"Sit on my lap," Beomgyu commands you so easily it feels like he was born for it.

You do as he says and position yourself on his still clothed cock. The imbalance of power is striking, but you would lie if you said you weren't turned on by it. When other men used to order you around, it felt selfish and manipulative. But for some reason, when Beomgyu does it, it's a further sign he's taking care of you.

"Look at the mirror," he suggests and only then do you notice the full-length mirror in the corridor. "Don't look away unless I say so. Clear?"

"Yes," you agree without thinking and Beomgyu slides a finger inside of you. You gasp at the intrusion and resist the urge to close your eyes. As he stretches you open, he adds a second finger. Looking at yourself while he has you spread out like this makes you feel so vulnerable and pitiful. You look down without meaning to, but Beomgyu notices rightaway. With his free hand, he grabs your chin strongly and lifts your head up until you're staring at the two of you the mirror once again.

"Eyes on the mirror. Don't make me repeat myself," he warns darkly and his tone sends chills down your spine.

You try your best not to disobey and keep looking at the damn mirror, while Beomgyu fucks you open with his long fingers. When you cum for the second time that night, it hits you even stronger like a freaking tidal wave. Probably because the visual is so profuse. Watching yourself as he does this to you, watching him and also feeling him at the same time…In all your sexual encounters, you've never experienced something this powerful.

"Get up," Beomgyu whispers ruthlessly and you try so hard to crawl upwards even though your legs are wobbly.

He loses patience with you and pulls you up, leading you back into his bedroom.

"Lie down," he points at the bed.

"No," you defy him for the first time.

"No?" Beomgyu repeats in disbelief.

You shake your head furiously and drop to your knees in front of him, gently pushing him to sit at the edge of the bed.

"Please, Beomgyu, let me do this, please," you beg desperately. He's already made you orgasm twice and you still haven't done anything for him.

"You don't have to," he puts a hand on top of yours, as you are already on a mission to unbutton his jeans.

"I want to. More than anything, you have no idea," you rant.

And it's true. In that past, giving guys a blowjob felt like a chore, you just had to get it over with. But getting to know Beomgyu slowly, teasing each other, watching movies and doing all these mundane tasks together…you'll practically lose your mind if you don't get to pleasure him the way he did you.

"It's really fine," Beomgyu keeps trying to reject your pleas, while you're pulling him out of his jeans.

"You don't want me to suck your cock?" you blink innocently.

"It's not that I don't want to," he explains with a sigh. "I…I'll cum too fast and then…"

"I don't care," you promise. "I bet I can make you hard again."

"That's presumptuous," Beomgyu rolls his eyes. Damn, you're obsessed with that side of him.

"If I win, you can fuck me," you try to outwit him.

"I'm gonna fuck you either way," he promises and gives in, letting you wrap your warm mouth around his length.

The feeling is intoxicating. You've never been this excited about giving a blowjob in your life. But you treasure the moment, licking him all over and letting your throat relax, so you can take him deeper. Beomgyu, however, loses control and spills inside of your mouth soon enough. You nearly choke on it, but somehow manage to regain composure, breathe through your nose and start swallowing hungrily. While you do it, Beomgyu recovers and starts stroking your hair gently. The sensation is so comforting you think you might fall asleep like this, with his cock still in your mouth.

But you don't. Beomgyu makes sure of it and lift you up, pushing you on your back, until he finally has you where he wants you, on his bed.

"We have a problem," he realizes.

"What's wrong?" you ask, stroking his cheek lovingly.

"I don't have…uh…protection," Beomgyu confesses.

Of course he doesn't. Why would he? He's a virgin, so he wasn't exactly planning for this to happen. Lucky for him (and for you), your past has prepared you for this very moment.

"I…carry a condom in my bag," you admit shyly.

"You came to my place on a mission, huh?" Beomgyu teases you.

"N-no, I always carry it around, just in case."

"Slut," he chuckles but his words bear no malice.

"Loser," you get back at him playfully and waste no time in finding that condom from your bag. "Oh, would you look at that? I have two!"

"I don't know if I should be impressed or terrified," Beomgyu keeps joking but takes the package from you. He tries to roll it up but his hands are shaking and it's a sweet reminder that for all his cocky confidence and easy way of commanding you, he's still just…your Beomgyu. He's still the awkward guy you met at a party, with his black knapsack, with his 90s playlist, with his long, messy hair, with his silly smile...

"Here, let me do it," you take initiative and carefully slide the condom onto his length.

"T-thanks," he gives you a nervous nod. "S-sorry, I don't know why I'm like this all of a sudden."

"It's normal," you reassure him, softly placing your palm on his cheek.

"Can you…can you be on top? Just at the beginning…" Beomgyu asks shyly.

"Of course!" you agree. Even though you aren't used to it, you are excited to be given a chance to prove yourself. You desperately want to make him feel good and if that's what it takes, then…so be it.

You sit on his lap and cautiously position yourself until he's sliding into you, oh, so easily. The sensation of being filled by him is intense for you and you can only imagine how he feels, being his first time and all that.

"You okay?" you need to make sure.

"Uh-huh. It's so...strange," Beomgyu gasps, getting used to being enveloped by your warmth.

"Good strange, I hope?"

"Definitely good strange," he confirms excitedly, as you start moving slowly, testing the waters.

"This feel nice?" you keep checking in with him.

"More than nice," Beomgyu pants and he can't take his eyes off of your bodies connecting.

"Same here," you sigh, as you roll your hips on top of him.

"Let me know when you get tired," he suggests with a grin.

"Oh? You want to take over?" you raise your eyebrows. It didn't take him long to relax.

"Only if you want to," Beomgyu promises with a wink.

"All yours," you let go and he flips you around before you can say "ah".

Beomgyu stares into your eyes and lifts one of your legs up. You feel as if he's fucking you deeper like this. He makes sure to experiment and presses his thumb against your clit, while still stimulating you with his cock.

"You're gonna kill me," you sigh at the intense pleasure.

"Not if you kill me first," Beomgyu kisses you again, buried inside you. You can tell he's trying to distract you both and prolong the ecstasy.

"Don't hold back," you beg him.

"It's too fast…" he argues.

"Don't care, please," you shake your head, because you are so close that if he doesn't cum in the next few seconds, you will.

"Fuck," Beomgyu grunts and climaxes, spilling his seed inside the condom. You follow him rightaway, reaching your own high for the…third (?) time.

"Wanna stay like this," you nuzzle into his neck.

"We can't," Beomgyu groans with regret and gets up to tie the condom and discard it in the trash.

When he's back, you make grabby hands at him, urging him to relax in your arms. Beomgyu easily agrees, using the opportunity to clean you up with the tissues next to his bed.

"Nngh," you complain, because you're too sensitive right now.

"Shhh, I've got you," Beomgyu kisses the top of your head.

"Please, don't ever do this with anyone else," you beg, feeling vulnerable. After getting hurt so many times, you can't go through this again. Not with Beomgyu.

"I won't," he vows, hugging you tightly.

And you believe him.

🤓🤓🤓

"See? I told you that going to parties leads to success," Taehyun pats his friend on the back.

"You're making it sound like I did it only to get laid," Beomgyu scoffs, taking a sip of beer.

"Well, it was about time you got some!" Taehyun encourages him.

"Don't…go around spreading it, will you? I'm not telling you to brag…I just wanted to share. Thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am happy for you, man," Taehyun insists.

🎀🎀🎀

"Is it true you're dating Choi Beomgyu?" one of your friends Winter asks over lunch.

"How did you know?" you ask in confusion. You haven't made your relationship public yet. Not that you are embarrassed or anything, it's just so new and you enjoy the little bubble you've made for yourselves. Besides, you don't want to get into unnecessary drama with one of your shitty exes…You don't imagine they'd still want you back, but deep down, you know that seeing Beomgyu would be a hit on their toxic masculine ego.

"I heard it from Karina who heard it from Heeseung who heard it from Jake who heard it from Taehyun. I'm guessing Beomgyu told Taehyun."

"Right, that makes sense," you sigh.

"What will you do when your exes find out?" Winter is curious.

"What do you mean what I'll do?" you frown.

"I mean…Beomgyu is so different from your type."

"What are you saying?"

"Come on, Y/N. He's such a…you know."

"No, I don't know, Winter," you're being snappy, even though you were the exact type of person who used to assume shit about people and categorize them carelessly.

"A loser," Winter finally says it.

"And what if he is?" you hiss exasperatedly. "God, this is like high school all over again. I'm so fucking sick of it. Beomgyu is so nice and cool, you don't know shit about him!"

"Gee, relax, Y/N. I'm not saying being a loser is a bad thing…I'm just looking out for you. Your exes can be kind of…"

"WHAT?" you almost yell.

"Kind of toxic."

Wait, what?

"I mean, I never told you, because they were your relationships and it didn't feel like my place. But they were all total dickheads, so I wasn't surprised when you told me they cheated on you and how things ended. Beomgyu looks chill, but…I just don't want to see you getting hurt again."

"I won't," you are certain of it. "Beomgyu would never hurt me."

"I'm not talking about Beomgyu," Winter insists.

🤓🤓🤓

"Are you fucking my girl?" a tall, sweaty footballer Beomgyu recognizes as one of your exes has him cornered in a dark alley near college.

"Your girl?" Beomgyu blinks in disbelief.

"Y/N!" the dickhead clarifies.

"She's not your girl," Beomgyu grunts and the freak punches him in the face.

Beomgyu laughs as he feels the blood pouring down his noise.

"Fucking pathetic," the asshole keeps hitting him.

Beomgyu lets him have his fun for a while and when he spots an opening, he strikes. He punches the dipshit's stomach with all his strength and while his opponent is caught off guard, Beomgyu attacks his balls next with his knee. It happens so fast and the long-haired man is so overcome by adrenaline and years of being quiet, nearly invisible that his adversary is on the ground in no time, covered in blood, but most of it isn't Beomgyu's.

Before Beomgyu can deliver a final punch that might leave some irreversible damage, his rival gathers enough energy to tackle Beomgyu briefly. Then, Taehyun shows up out of nowhere, swinging his foot in the air and kicking the enemy in the head, causing him to lose consciousness.

"I had him cornered," Beomgyu rolls his eyes smugly.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Taehyun suggests.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Jake was in the changing room when he overheard that douchebag talking to his friends about having a 'chat' with you after lectures," Taehyun explains.

"I always forget Jake's also on the football team," Beomgyu nods.

"Yeah, he's so different from those assholes your girlfriend used to date," Taehyun replies.

"She's not my girlfriend. At least…I don't think she is. We haven't made things official," Beomgyu explains self-consciously.

"Well, you better hurry the fuck up before the competition steals her away," Taehyun jokes.

"Over my dead body," Beomgyu vows.

🎀🎀🎀

"Oh my God," you cry out as you touch Beomgyu's bruised face and you try your best to clean him up.

"You should see the other guy," Beomgyu grins.

"I don't want to see any other guy," you sniffle, hugging him. "I only care about you."

"You should have warned me about your possessive exes before asking my number," Beomgyu jokes.

"If anyone touches you again, I'll kill them all," you promise seriously.

"Don't worry about it. I don't think anyone will try to mess with me again," he smirks confidently.

You kiss him passionately, finding the sight of him covered in blood both tragic and exciting.

"I know I said I won't ask you out first," Beomgyu starts. "But will you be my girlfriend?"

"I thought I already was," you tilt your head to the side with a pout.

"Is that so? Guess I was worried for nothing," he scratches the back of his head.

"I'll tell the whole college, if it'll make you happy," you bury your head in his neck.

"You're not…you're not embarrassed of me?" Beomgyu is too stunned by the newfound knowledge.

"Embarrassed? Hell no! I'm proud you're my boyfriend! You're the best guy around!" you excitedly.

"But…you know how I'm perceived, right? You know everyone calls me a…loser."

"That shit doesn't matter to me. Besides…you're my loser, baby."

"Kill me?" he suggests playfully.

"Never," you respond with a kiss.

The End

[haechanhues]

'yeonjun isn't friends with your brother anymore'

but that doesn't mean he isn't allowed to care about you // or flirt with you - you're fair game now.

part four

taglist: @replayenthusiast @/mojicatfatsposts @/beaabz @/jammerhangerbanger @urfavmaknae @beomiaow @/b9oms @orangyuuuu @lovenha7 @/enhawonnie

[luvlocket07-deactivated20251219]

Ꮺ . , TXT REACTION WHEN YOU BEING VERY CLINGY !!

PAIRING: txt x fem!reader / GENRE: Fluff, Romance, Established relationship / WORD COUNT: 2,400 words / PUBLISHED: 14 december 2025 / WARNING(S): None

﹙ ୨ৎ ﹚ ぃ ──── ♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, REPOST

CHOI YEONJUN ☁︎ 최연준 !

Yeonjun's been at his desk for what feels like forever, laptop open, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever he's working on. you've been patient. really, you have. you lasted a whole twenty minutes on his bed scrolling through your phone before the neediness kicked in.

you pad over to him, arms already outstretched.

"junnie," you mumble, draping yourself over his shoulders from behind.

"mm?" he hums, still typing.

that's not good enough. you want his full attention. you press your cheek against his, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. "pay attention to me."

"baby, i'm almost done with this—"

"you said that thirty minutes ago." you're already moving, squeezing yourself between him and the desk, settling sideways on his lap.

"that's because you keep distracting me," he laughs, but his hands automatically move to support your back, keeping you steady.

"not my fault you're more interesting than my phone." you bury your face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.

"you're impossible," he mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice. his fingers start absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair while his other hand attempts to continue working.

you stay quiet for approximately forty-five seconds before you're tilting your head up, studying his face. he's biting his lower lip in concentration, that little crease between his eyebrows appearing.

"junnie."

"yes, baby?"

"you're pretty."

he breaks into a grin, finally looking down at you. "you're trying to distract me."

"is it working?"

he saves his work and closes the laptop. "unfortunately, yes."

you beam at him, getting more comfortable in his lap. "can we watch something now? and you have to play with my hair the entire time."

"the entire time?"

"the. entire. time."

he's already reaching for the remote, settling back in his chair with you curled against him. "you're lucky you're cute when you're needy."

CHOI SOOBIN ☁︎ 최수빈 !

The apartment is quiet when soobin comes back from the convenience store, plastic bag in hand. he kicks off his shoes, expecting to find you where he left you—on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching your show.

instead, you're standing right there in the entryway, his hoodie drowning your frame, looking at him with these big eyes.

"you left," you say, and you sound almost betrayed.

"i—yeah, we needed snacks?" he holds up the bag like evidence. "i was gone for like ten minutes."

"twelve minutes." you've already attached yourself to his side, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed against his chest. "that's too long."

soobin lets out this soft, fond laugh, his free hand coming up to rest on your head. "you're being dramatic."

"you didn't tell me you were leaving."

"you were half asleep, i didn't want to wake you."

you pull back just enough to look up at him, pouting. "next time wake me up. or take me with you. or both."

"to go to the convenience store at the end of the street?"

"yes."

he's trying not to smile too wide, you can tell. he cups your face with one hand, thumb brushing your cheek. "okay, baby. next time i'll take you with me."

"promise?"

"promise."

satisfied, you let him go long enough for him to put the snacks away. but the moment he's done, you're right back against him, following him to the couch. he sits down and you immediately climb onto his lap, straddling him, arms around his neck.

"clingy today, huh?" his hands rest on your hips, comfortable and warm.

"miss you," you mumble against his shoulder.

"i'm right here."

"still miss you."

he hugs you properly then, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back. you can feel his heartbeat steady under your palm. this is better. this is what you needed.

"do you want to watch your show?" he asks after a moment.

you shake your head. "just wanna stay like this."

"okay." he doesn't complain, doesn't try to move you. just holds you, occasionally pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the top of your head.

you're probably being ridiculous but soobin doesn't make you feel bad about it. he never does.

CHOI BEOMGYU ☁︎ 최범규 !

You're lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness of the apartment around you. beomgyu's been in his gaming room for the past two hours and you've reached your limit of being understanding and patient.

you grab your phone: i miss u

three minutes pass. no response. you can hear him laughing at something through the wall.

you try again: beommmmmgyu

nothing.

that's it. you're getting up. you shuffle down the hall in your socks and his t-shirt, slowly opening the door to his gaming room. he's at his desk, headset on, fully focused on his screen.

you don't say anything, just walk over and tap his shoulder.

he glances back, pulling one side of his headset off. "what's up?"

"i'm lonely."

"i'm literally right here in the apartment—"

"i'm lonely," you repeat, more insistent this time.

he looks at you, at the way you're already moving closer, and he knows he's lost this battle. "baby, i'm in the middle of a game."

"don't care." you're already climbing onto his lap, fitting yourself against him.

"you're ridiculous," he says, but his arm wraps around your waist, adjusting you so you're comfortable.

"you love me."

"unfortunately." but he's smiling, you can hear it in his voice. he pulls his headset back on. "guys, i'm gonna play bad now because my girlfriend is a baby who can't be alone for two hours."

you hear muffled protests from his friends through the headset and you just snuggle closer, resting your head on his shoulder where you can see the screen.

beomgyu does play worse, definitely. one hand is on his mouse but the other stays on you, thumb rubbing absent patterns on your hip. every few minutes he turns his head to press a kiss to your hair.

"you good now?" he murmurs during a loading screen.

"mhm." you are. you're exactly where you want to be.

"such a baby," he teases, but his hold on you tightens just slightly.

you stay there for the rest of his session, comfortable and content, occasionally making comments about his gameplay that make him laugh and his friends groan.

KANG TAEHYUN ☁︎ 강태현 !

The gym is taehyun's sacred space and you respect that. really, you do. which is why you tried so hard to stay home today while he went for his workout.

you lasted forty minutes.

now you're walking into the gym, scanning for him, and there he is by the weights, concentrated and in his zone. you feel a little bad but not bad enough to turn around.

he catches sight of you in the mirror and does a double take. you wave.

he finishes his set, grabs his towel, and walks over. "what are you doing here?"

"working out?" you try, even though you're in leggings and one of his hoodies, no sports bra or proper shoes in sight.

"baby." he's trying to look stern but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching.

"i missed you," you admit, playing with the strings of the hoodie.

taehyun sighs, but it's fond. "i've been gone for less than an hour."

"an hour is a long time."

he looks at you for a moment, then shakes his head with this tiny smile. "come here." he takes your hand, leading you to a quieter corner with mats. "if you're going to be here, at least stretch with me."

you brighten immediately, sitting down next to him.

he guides you through stretches, his hands adjusting your form, and you're just happy to be near him. you watch the way he moves, efficient and controlled, and you feel yourself relax just being in his presence.

"you know you're going to distract me now," he says, reaching forward to touch his toes.

"i'll be quiet. i'll just sit here."

"you're never quiet."

"rude. true, but rude."

he laughs, and the sound makes your chest warm. "next time just text me if you miss me. i would have come home earlier."

"really?"

"yeah." he looks at you, sincere. "you're more important than an extra thirty minutes here."

you tackle him with a hug, nearly knocking him over. he catches you easily, steadying you both.

"okay, okay," he chuckles, patting your back. "let me finish this workout and then we'll go home together. deal?"

"deal." you stay close for the rest of his session, handing him his water bottle, sitting nearby, just content to be in his orbit.

HUENING KAI ☁︎ 휴닝카이 !

Kai's sitting on the floor surrounded by his new lego set, pieces scattered everywhere, instructions laid out carefully in front of him. he's been excited about this all week.

you're on the couch, supposedly reading, but you keep glancing over at him. he looks so happy, so focused, and you're happy for him but also... you want attention.

"kai," you call softly.

"yeah?" he doesn't look up, connecting two pieces together.

"whatcha doing?"

"legos." he holds up a partially constructed... something. you're not sure what it is yet. "look, this is going to be the—"

"can i help?"

"you said legos are boring."

"i never said that."

"last week you literally said 'i don't understand how you can do this for hours.'"

you abandon your book, sliding off the couch to sit next to him. "well now i want to help."

he gives you this look, knowing and amused. "you're bored."

"i'm not bored."

"you want attention."

"i—" you can't even argue. "maybe."

kai laughs, bright and genuine, and sets down his current piece. "come here." he opens his arms and you immediately burrow into them, settling between his legs, your back against his chest.

"better?" he asks, chin resting on top of your head.

"much better."

"such a baby," he teases, but his arms stay wrapped around you. "okay, new plan. you can help me find pieces."

"i can do that."

he reaches for the instructions, holding them where you can both see. "we need four of these red pieces."

you scan the scattered legos, pointing. "there's one."

you work like this, kai building while you're wrapped in his arms, occasionally finding pieces for him, mostly just enjoying being close. he tells you about the set, what it's going to look like when it's done, and you listen to his voice, content and warm.

"you know," he says after a while, "you could have just said you wanted to cuddle."

"this is more fun."

"finding lego pieces is more fun than admitting you're clingy?"

you turn to look at him. "i'm not clingy."

he raises an eyebrow.

"okay, maybe a little clingy."

"a little?"

you poke his side. "you like it."

"i do," he agrees easily, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "you're my favorite distraction."

you settle back against him, smiling. "good. because you're stuck with me."

"wouldn't have it any other way."

[zznblr]

FRIENDS W BENEFITS

⟢ request | your childhood best friend lets you move in with him without consulting his roommate

⠀⠀⠀⠀[𐙚] soobin x fem!reader — fluff ; suggestive ; slight smut ; slight angst ; roommates to lovers ; fwbs to lovers ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ᡣ𐭩] this was not supposed to be this long lol ; happy (belated) soobin day and happy (belated) moanniversary to me <33 ; reblogs n comments appreciated :)

[beomiracles]

──── 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖳𝖱𝖴𝖢𝖤 𝖮𝖥 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖢𝖧𝖮𝖨𝖲 [ 𝘊𝘏𝘖𝘐 𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘌 𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘓𝘖𝘎𝘠 ]

Yeonjun, Beomgyu and Soobin made a truce during freshman year of college, stay together no matter what. Up until their senior year, the trio was inseparable as they ruled the school with strict dictatorship. Nothing could ever come in between them — except maybe a pretty girl or two... or three.

read the completed trilogy below (fics are listed in order) TOTAL WORD COUNT: 80k~

each fic has a different reader^^

𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖱𝖤𝖣𝖤𝖬𝖯𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭 𝖮𝖥 𝖢𝖧𝖮𝖨 𝖸𝖤𝖮𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖭 26k 16/07/24

Yeonjun never really cared for those he hurt around him. What he did care about was his reputation. So when he starts fucking the freshly transferred junior who he relentlessly bullies in class, cracks begin to form and Yeonjun soon realises that his usual ways are what's going to rob him of you in the end.

bully!yeonjun x nerd!reader

𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖳𝖱𝖮𝖴𝖡𝖫𝖤𝖲 𝖮𝖥 𝖢𝖧𝖮𝖨 𝖡𝖤𝖮𝖬𝖦𝖸𝖴 25.5k 13/03/25

Beomgyu hates Yeonjun for what he did, breaking apart a friendship that had lasted years over a girl he'd been fucking for a few weeks. What's worse is the fact that you won't leave him alone. The absence of his best friends makes Beomgyu realise that they weren't the only loss he's made.

ex bsf!beomgyu x ex bsf!reader

𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖠𝖥𝖥𝖫𝖨𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖲 𝖮𝖥 𝖢𝖧𝖮𝖨 𝖲𝖮𝖮𝖡𝖨𝖭 27k 5/12/25

When both Beomgyu and Yeonjun settle down with their new girlfriends, Soobin is left a shadow in his own friendships. He should be grateful when you decide to pursue him with bright smiles and friendly conversation. But old habits die hard and Soobin has no idea how to accept your affections.

grumpy!soobin x sunshine!reader

© all rights reserved @/beomiracles 2024-2025

[orangyuuuu]

reading this as soon as the semester is over omg..

[cherrywonyng-deactivated2026041]

FORGOTTEN PROMISESㅤ𖧧ㅤ𝐂𝐒𝐁

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 ㅤ───ㅤ𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

୨ৎ 、 husband ! soobin 𖹭 𝒻em. reader — ◜ᴗ◝ angst ✶ amnesia ✶ heartbreak ✶ gut-wrenching longing

𖧧 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 • 𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗦𝟒𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗦 (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

The hospital light was always too bright for him.

Soobin stepped into your room the way he always did—quietly, as if the slightest sound might scare away whatever fragile piece of you still remembered him. His fingers tightened around the small paper cup of tea he brought for you every morning.

You sat on the bed, legs tucked under the blanket, staring out the window with a blank expression.

Your mother sat beside you, brushing your hair gently. She looked up at Soobin with that same hesitant, pitying smile.

“Good morning,” Soobin whispered.

You blinked once. Slowly. Then your eyes moved to him… with no recognition at all.

Your mother touched your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, Soobin is here.”

You said nothing. You just watched him the way someone watches a stranger who walked into the wrong room.

Soobin swallowed, the pain familiar but never dull.

“Um… I brought your tea,” he said softly, placing it on your bedside table the way he had done every day for god knows how long.

You stared at the cup like you had no idea it was your favorite or that you once told him, laughing,

‘Even if I forget everything someday… remind me that I love jasmine tea.’

You didn’t remember that. You didn’t remember him.

---

It had been six months since you collapsed in the bathroom. Seven months since the last time you looked at him and knew who he was. Seven months since you said his name with love.

Now, your memory was… fixed in the past. He had become nothing but a polite visitor in your eyes. You only remembered your parents. No friends. No college life. No wedding. No vows whispered with shaking hands under soft lights, where you promised to choose him even when you forgot yourself.

He remembered every second of it.

---

“Mrs. Kang,” the doctor said from the doorway, “We need Y/N for her check-up.”

Soobin stepped back immediately—he always did—giving space and everything he had left.

As they helped you out of bed, your eyes briefly met his again. Nothing..No flicker. No warmth.

Just confusion… maybe mild discomfort… like he was an intruder.

He forced a smile anyway.

“I’ll wait here,” he murmured.

Your mother touched his arm softly.

“Soobin… you don’t have to come every day.”

He shook his head quickly.

“I do.”

His voice cracked. He quickly looked away.

Because how could he explain?

How could he say, “If I don’t show up, maybe she’ll forget me even more. Maybe the last trace of me in her world will disappear entirely.”

---

When the door closed behind you, Soobin finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He sat on the small plastic chair, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

Every day was the same. Every day he told himself to hope. But hope hurt more than anything.

He looked at his wedding ring—he still wore it. You didn’t. You had removed it the third week after the incident, handing it to a nurse with a confused expression.

“This isn’t mine.”

Soobin remembered how he stood in the hallway that day, watching the nurse return the ring to him. He didn’t cry then. He waited until he got home. Then he broke.

---

Months blurred into a strange rhythm—your life moving forward, Soobin standing still.

You learned to smile again. You learned to talk again. You relearned the world. Just not him. And still… he stayed.

Until the day your mother called.

“Soobin… you should know… Y/N is getting married.”

For a moment, he didn’t understand the words.

His voice was small, barely a breath.

“Oh.”

“She’s… really happy. She’s fully recovered now. No more memory lapses.”

“That’s good,” he whispered, the burn behind his eyes immediate and overwhelming.

“You can come… if you want,” she said gently.

“She thinks you’re a family friend. She… doesn’t remember any pain around you. She’s comfortable.”

Comfortable. With a stranger version of him.

He hung up and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

He whispered into the quiet,

“I’m glad you’re better… even if it wasn’t me who stayed in your heart.”

---

The wedding day came. You looked beautiful—radiant, glowing, whole. Your husband held your hand confidently.

And Soobin… stood in the back row with the other guests, hands folded, eyes lowered, heart shattering silently.

When you walked down the aisle, you passed him without a second glance.

But right when you stepped onto the stage, something made you pause. You turned your head slightly. Your eyes met his for the first time in months.

And for half a second—just half—

Your brows furrowed.

A tiny crease of confusion.

As if your heart whispered a memory your mind couldn’t hear.

Soobin held your gaze. And he smiled. A smile carved out of love and loss. A goodbye smile.

Then he whispered under his breath—

“Even if you forget me… I never forgot you.”

And you… turned away.

Unaware of everything he once meant to you.

[orangyuuuu]

tbr... wtf..