THE WAY INTO A PERSON'S HEART IS THROUGH THEIR STOMACH ── KIM WOONHAK
🍪 cooking is not your strong suit. Unfortunately, confessing your feelings to kim woonhak is even harder. after months of watching him get excited over homemade food, you come up with what feels like the most logical solution: bake something and hope it goes well enough that he agrees to go on a date with you.
GENRE : fluff
PAIRING : crush!woonhak x fem!reader
CONTAINS : non-idol au, mutual pining, confession through food, slightly questionable baking, woonhak being extremely enthusiastic about snacks (cutie baby pie argh).
WORD COUNT : 1.7k
NOTE : quick fic cuz i just wanted to get this out [written 11 mar]
By the time you decide that cooking will be the best possible way to confess to Kim Woonhak, the sun is already lowering behind the buildings outside your kitchen window. The evening light stretches across the counter in long warm bands, illuminating the evidence of your decision: flour dusted everywhere, a mixing bowl that is slightly too full, a stick of butter that has softened more than intended, and a recipe open on your phone that you have reread so many times the instructions have started to lose meaning.
This plan exists because of one very specific observation.
Kim Woonhak loves food.
He doesn’t just like it in the casual way most people do. He lights up around it. He remembers flavors and places and ingredients with an enthusiasm that makes every conversation about snacks feel like a discovery. You have watched him interrupt stories because someone nearby opened a lunch container. You have seen him become deeply invested in arguments about seasoning powders and noodle textures. During group study sessions he will wander off mid-problem if someone mentions they brought homemade desserts.
Once, a few months ago, someone at the next table opened a container of fried rice and he immediately leaned over with the curiosity of a detective following a lead.
“Homemade?” he asked.
When they said yes, his entire face brightened in a way that felt almost ridiculous for fried rice.
You remember thinking at the time that if anyone ever wanted to impress him, food would probably work.
Your friend, who has been observing the current situation with great skepticism, clearly does not think this is the logical path forward.
“You know,” they say while leaning against the counter and watching you measure flour for the second time, “there is a much simpler way to confess to someone.”
You continue stirring the batter with intense focus.
“You could tell him you like him.”
You glance up briefly.
“That sounds terrifying.”
Your friend gestures toward the kitchen.
“And this doesn’t?”
“It’s strategic,” you say firmly, even though the batter looks suspiciously thinner than the recipe suggested.
They peer into the bowl.
“Are they supposed to look like that?”
“They look fine.”
“They look… enthusiastic.”
You ignore that comment and keep mixing. The recipe insists the cookies are easy. The recipe is extremely optimistic. Somewhere along the way you become fairly certain you used a slightly incorrect measurement for sugar, and the scoops of dough end up larger than the recipe recommended because the tablespoon you grabbed might actually be a serving spoon.
When the tray slides into the oven, you crouch in front of the glass door with your friend beside you, both of you watching the dough begin to spread.
Your friend tilts their head.
“Are they supposed to spread that much?”
“They’re supposed to spread a little.”
“That looks like a lot more than a little.”
The cookies eventually come out golden but very flat. A few have merged together as if they lost interest in personal space halfway through baking. One of them looks vaguely like a strange geographic shape.
Your friend pokes the edge of one carefully.
“Are we sure this is the right color?”
You taste a small piece and consider the flavor.
It’s sweet, slightly caramelized from where the sugar browned more than intended, and softer than you expected.
“…It’s good,” you decide.
Your friend raises an eyebrow.
“Is it good or is it ‘I’ve spent two hours on this so it has to be good’?”
You take another bite, thinking more carefully.
“No, it’s actually good.”
They still look doubtful but step aside when you start arranging the cookies in a container. You stack them in a way that hides the slightly chaotic shapes. Once the lid snaps shut, the whole idea suddenly feels real in a way that makes your stomach flip.
The next afternoon you carry the container in your bag like it contains something fragile.
Your friend walks beside you toward the park where everyone usually gathers after school. It’s the same place people always end up when no one has specific plans: a slightly uneven stretch of grass with worn benches and a broken vending machine that has been out of order for months.
You spot Woonhak and his friends immediately.
They’re sitting in their usual loose circle on the grass. Sungho is explaining something animatedly while Jaehyun laughs beside him. Riwoo appears to be reenacting something that happened in class with exaggerated movements while Taesan watches with the patient expression of someone used to this kind of chaos. Leehan sits slightly apart on the bench scrolling through his phone but occasionally glances up to comment.
Woonhak is sitting near the center with an open bag of chips beside him, passionately arguing about snack seasoning like it is a very serious topic.
Your steps slow.
Your friend notices immediately and nudges your shoulder.
“You’re not allowed to run away.”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re walking like my cat does when we walk to the vet's office.”
Before you can respond, Woonhak looks up.
His face brightens the moment he spots you.
“Hey!” he calls.
Something in your chest flips at the easy warmth in his voice. The others greet you casually, shifting to make room in the circle. You sit down, trying to focus on breathing normally while the conversation continues around you.
It only takes about thirty seconds before Woonhak notices the corner of the container in your bag.
His attention sharpens immediately.
“What’s that?”
You hesitate briefly before pulling it out.
“It’s something I made.”
The reaction is immediate.
“You made food?” he says, leaning closer with obvious curiosity.
Sungho peers over his shoulder while Jaehyun looks equally interested.
“Is it for everyone?” Jaehyun asks hopefully.
Woonhak points at the container with mock seriousness.
“Important question. Is it sharing food or is it specifically-for-me food?”
You glance at him and then at the others watching the exchange.
“It’s for you.”
The group erupts into protests about fairness, but Woonhak ignores them completely. He takes the container carefully and opens it with the focused attention of someone unwrapping a gift.
Inside, the cookies sit in their slightly unusual shapes.
“They’re homemade,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed.
“They’re a little experimental,” you admit.
He studies one of the cookies with interest.
“This one looks like a map.”
“That’s because two of them fused together,” your friend whispers in your ear, snorting.
Woonhak takes a bite.
You watch his expression nervously as he chews.
Your friend leans toward you and whispers that if he collapses they will both deny involvement. The moment stretches just long enough for your nerves to spike.
Then Woonhak’s eyebrows lift slightly and a smile spreads across his face.
“These are really good.”
The relief that floods through you is immediate.
“Really?”
“They’re soft,” he says, already reaching for another one. “And the edges taste kind of caramelized.”
“That’s because the sugar almost burned,” your friend mutters again, causing you to lightly nudge them.
Woonhak laughs at that and takes another bite anyway.
His friends watch him with growing disbelief.
“You’re not even going to share?” Sungho asks.
“These were clearly a gift,” Woonhak replies with great seriousness. “It would be disrespectful to ignore that.”
He glances back at you then, still smiling, and something about the way he looks at you makes your nerves shift into something warmer.
“You made these yourself?”
You nod.
“I remembered you like desserts.”
Leehan looks up from his phone.
“He talks about desserts every day.”
Woonhak nudges him lightly with his shoulder before turning back to you.
“Well, I’m really glad you did,” he says.
For a moment you just sit there while he eats another cookie, clearly enjoying it, and the simple happiness in his expression makes your courage return. You take a small breath.
“I was actually hoping I could cook for you again sometime.”
He looks at you with interest.
“Again?”
“Maybe we could get lunch together,” you continue, trying to keep your voice steady. “Or cook something together. I just thought it might be fun.”
The group grows quieter as the meaning settles.
Woonhak stares at you for a second before a slow grin spreads across his face, the kind that starts in his eyes.
“Wait,” he says softly. “Is this your way of asking me out?”
Your ears feel warm.
“…Maybe.”
He laughs quietly, clearly pleased, and leans back slightly on his hands.
“I was wondering how long it would take you.”
You blink.
“What?”
He shrugs a little, looking almost sheepish.
“You keep bringing me snacks during study sessions and asking about what food I like. I figured you were either planning something… or conducting a very detailed food survey.”
Your friend makes a quiet choking sound beside you.
“And you didn’t say anything?” you ask.
“I liked seeing what you’d come up with,” he admits, smiling again. “Also I was hoping you’d ask me out first.”
Your brain takes a second to process that.
“So… you wanted me to?”
“Of course,” he says easily. “I’ve wanted to hang out with you properly for a while.”
Behind him, Jaehyun groans dramatically.
“You both took this long to figure it out?”
Riwoo points accusingly.
“I told you they liked each other.”
Woonhak ignores them and reaches into the container again before holding one cookie toward you.
“You should have one too,” he says.
You take it, smiling despite the chaos around you.
“So that’s a yes?” you ask.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious.
“That’s a very enthusiastic yes.”
Then he adds, with the same bright excitement he had earlier,
“But next time we’re cooking together. If you’re going to confess with food, I feel like I should contribute.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You cook?”
“Not yet,” he admits, grinning. “But I’m very motivated now.”
The late afternoon sun turns the park warm and golden while his friends continue arguing about the cookies beside you. Woonhak sits comfortably next to you, still smiling as he reaches for another one, and the ease between you makes the whole plan feel less like a risky confession and more like the beginning of something you both had been waiting for.
creds: lace by @cursed-carmine, cookies by @dividersnook11, line by @angeliicide, please support by @dollywons ♡
tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]
Following up on @moesthinking post, I wanted to come forward to share my mutuals and my own experience, with what I believe shows a wider pattern beyond just the AI suspicion.
BEFORE YOU READ : this is not a callout made with malice. I have no interest in seeing anyone harassed, sent hate, or receive death threats. If you do any of that, you are not supporting me or anyone else involved. This is purely about accountability and protecting the creative spaces we've all worked hard to build here!!
Beyond the AI concerns raised in pt. 1, I and several of my mutuals have noticed a recurring pattern of our work, layouts, graphics, fic structures, and themes being used without proper credit or acknowledgement. I'll be walking through each situation with evidence as clearly and fairly as I can.
Prior to posting her series, @/haeonniie reached out to me asking how I made my LCA graphics. As someone who enjoys supporting other writers, I shared that information freely, I had no reason not to. She later showed me her graphics. They were quite similar to LCA style, but at the time I didn't think too much of it since I assumed the overall series would still be different.
However, when she eventually posted the series, I noticed that the structural framework of the series was also very similar to LCA. Because of that, I privately asked her whether she could acknowledge that LCA was an inspiration. She replied saying that she used ChatGPT and asked it what type of structure would work for a web design, and that she just followed what it generated for both the graphics and structure (as previously mentioned in pt.1)
Lights, Camera, Action! was posted in October 2025. By The Hour was posted a few months later in January 2026, after she had already seen and studied my work. The similarities go beyond coincidence, but I haven't included every comparison below, you're welcome to take a look at both series yourself.
However, this didn't stop at By The Hour. Before she posted her collab series, she again reached out asking if she could credit me, stating the layout was coincidentally similar to By The Hour.
As shown above, I agreed at first, but after reflecting, I realised I wasn't comfortable with any reuse of my layouts at all, and communicated that. Her response was that both the By The Hour and GirlNextDoor Post Office (the collab) layouts were entirely her own. Which raises an obvious question, if the layouts were fully original, why was credit to me necessary in the first place? If By The Hour's layout was entirely her own as she claims, then crediting me for the collab series (which she said resembled By The Hour) still traces back to LCA regardless.
My mutual @taestulipss also noticed that haeon's previous theme bore a striking resemblance to hers. Prior to changing her theme, haeon had liked both rosy's pinned post and her masterlist, suggesting she had seen the theme before adopting a similar concept herself. Rosy has a bakery/patisserie themed blog, and haeon's previous theme followed the same concept, a food-based boutique with a similar branding style and comparable layout structure. Rosy was uncomfortable with the similarities, but didn't want to claim sole ownership over a bakery theme, so after a few days, she simply welcomed her instead. Given everything else in this post thus far, it's hard to ignore as part of a wider pattern.
Additionally, haeon's carrd was noted to be using the same premade template as rosy's, which was a free but relatively obscure layout that isn't easily found. While neither of them owns the template itself, the pattern of mirroring rosy's specific choices is hard to ignore in this context.
Lastly, another mutual @gentiliana noticed that haeon posted a #TEDDIEZ 'inspired' by her Taesan smau (#BLACKKATZ) without asking for permission beforehand. According to her, the two fics are highly similar.
While credit was given publicly in the author's note, taking significant inspiration from someone's work without asking first isn't okay, especially when the similarities run deep.
I want to be clear that this post was not made to ruin anyone or send hate her way. If you've read this far, I hope you understand why we felt the need to speak up. The creative spaces we've built here matter, and the work we put into our writing, layouts and blogs is what we're all proud of and hold dearly to us. All we ask is that those things are respected!
Reiterating my ai post, please do not interact with my blog if you utilize it. I’m sick of watching tumblr go to shit because of it. It’s gotten to a point where multiple of my mutuals and friends alike have threatened to quit tumblr, this is more serious than people are taking it!!
Specifically, I would like to point out one author that I’m disappointed to have learned might use ai.
BEFORE YOU READ : This is not made with ill intent at all, I simply don’t want to see this fandom fall to ai and have a sliver of hope that people can change for the better. This is only a suspicion, and I am aware of how serious of an accusation this is, but I am not the only one who sees it!!
User @/haeonniie posted a fic recently that contained a line that was unmistakably ai, and an anon rightfully called it out ( see it here ) :
The first thought that came to my head was: why would they do that? Yes, to test if people would read their fics, but why be known for ai usage if you agree that it’s harmful? This was the first red flag for me and my friend @taestulipss, (who has been a major help in this situation!!).
We both start off by sending an anon, very politely asking for the screenshots they offered. We were met with no reply, even though they were replying to other anons actively!
Rosy and I accepted we were going to be ignored, so instead we resorted to reblogging her post and asking her for the screenshot publicly, only hoping our suspicions would be squashed. We were still ignored.
Then their response came out, and it only made our eyebrows raise more.
You can absolutely get time stamps on instagram without having to scroll up to the beginning of a conversation, since there is a feature where you can swipe to the side and it displays the time a message was sent.
That alone makes their post seem off right off the bat. The screenshot they provided doesn’t seem authentic either, the conversation feels forced almost.
The conversation is abrupt, and that’s not something you come up with on the spot either. If you both brainstormed this previously, why not provide that screenshot instead? 
We decided to leave the issue alone, albeit being suspicious still. They had proof and a well written apology, but then we were sent screenshots from @coriihanniee that makes their whole post seem like a complete lie.
They outright stated they’ve used ai before to format a post, REALLY WEIRD! If you need to use ai to frame a masterlist what’s to say you don’t utilize it for your other content such as the fic itself too? With everything adding up, it doesn’t look good for their case.
This is only a suspicion, but it’s starting to seem like the truth every time something new comes out. Please be aware of the dangers of ai and educate yourself before engaging with it. It’s destroying our environment, taking jobs and crushing creative motivation for artists and writers alike.
I’m going to stress again that this call out post is in no way to send hate or negativity towards the author, nobody should be sending death threats AT ALL, that is completely unacceptable. This post is for awareness and that’s it.
If you guys have anything you want to add or talk about feel free to send me an ask or message me privately. I don’t expect hate for this post but I encourage everyone reading to have an open mind and understand my point.
note — how do we like the dynamics so far?? and dw about jungwon! he's just here cuz that's huzz... their talking stage was like a year and half ago. also this smau is heavily inspired by my fav books and movies (esp better than the movies)
𝓳aehyun x fem!reader — ꒰ WC: 1.3k ꒱
۶ৎ . ˚ ⊹ — based on this ask by my lovely rosypie @taestulipss !!
GENRE — fluff, comedy ⋆ CONTAINS — college au, enemies president jaehyun x vice president reader, fake dating, cursing, taesan cameo, lmk if i missed anything! ⋆ SONG RECS — rush by junny ft. bobby, valentina by highvyn, sour candy by woodz ⋆ Ⓒ TSANHO 2026.
the atmosphere of the small diner you worked at was bustling. people constantly came in and out, and you could spot your regulars through just their voices now after being here for 3 months. they're always so distinct, and they're also the ones who usually dine outside of peak hours.
you were getting ready for rush to hit, when suddenly, a familiar voice rings through the entrance. you know your customers, so he was far from being someone you expected to see as you turned around to face the door at the corner of the little place, spotting the one and only, myung jaehyun.
despite being the most likeable person of your year, even more so since he's the president of the student body, jaehyun's been the one person you could not stand. and he reciprocated those feelings, unable to fathom you being a delight either. your fights with him as his vice president (you got that position after campaigning for votes for months, his extroverted charm ultimately being what led to his win) were always the kind of thing that made you need to take a walk through a park even at 3 am at night.
everyone thought he was perfect, but only you could see how snarky his comments are, how he gives backhanded praise to most people, how his eyes hide mischief behind a seemingly warm gaze. you were the only one who could tell any of that, hence making your dislike for him justified because of those reasons and many more.
what you didn't expect was for him to make eye contact with you as he ran—like come on... really?—through the floor until he was opposite to you behind the counter.
"y-y/n," he huffed, clearly out of breath. he slammed his hands on the granite as his head hung low, his eyes closed shut as he heaved. his entire body shifted up and down, slowing to a halt soon enough.
"y/n," he called out again, this time more firm. "be my girlfriend."
"w-what?" you spat out, your eyes growing probably larger than they've ever been in your entire life. THE myung jaehyun, your mortal enemy, is asking you out? this has got to be a joke, and it was far from a funny one.
"please y/n. this is serious business ok? like come on. what will it take?"
"there's absolutely no way in hell i'm dating the likes of you, myung jaehyun." your hands moved to distract you from what he said, as if getting busy will occupy your mind. refilling the napkins for the holders for each table should surely be enough, but he kept talking (as always).
he clasped his hands, a dramatic sound of them hitting together reverberating through your workplace. a couple heads looked to see what was going on, why a boy was begging you for something in the first place. “y/n. you really just don’t understand. my life literally depends on this. please.”
jaehyun tried every trick in the book to get you to agree: a small puppy like pout, getting tears to form in an instant as he widened his ‘doe-like’ eyes to blinked slow and calculatedly, hunching his shoulders to seem like a helpless little kid, swaying side to side while keeping his eyes on you. you name it, he’d done it.
you were immune to it all. you hated his guts, and you meant it. but then, he used the one trick that always works:
“i’ll buy you coffee for the entire year.”
your eyes lit up. that was it. that was the one thing that resolved any argument between you both, leading him to gain the upper hand every time.
ok. it’s not your fault that you love coffee. it’s the system. the system’s made you so receptive to the joys of need for the delicious helpful drink. when you needed to stay up to finish your homework you couldn’t get to because you were too busy fighting with the boy over what snacks to distribute for a tabling event, coffee was there. when your eyes got droopy in the middle of class because you had to make a sudden presentation because of the president’s demand for a ‘new one asap. this one sucks’, coffee was there. when you entered a cafe and looked through the menu for something good to have in between class time, coffee was there. when you needed a pick me up after working a shift at the diner (because let’s be honest, even though you’ve grown to like working here, it was still exhausting most days), coffee was there.
it’s always been there, through your ups and, even more so, your downs. it’s the one constant through your life that has made you become the reliable and responsible student you are (procrastination begone!), aiding you when you need extra time and/or energy.
coffee just gets you, and you get coffee.
looking away, you cleared your throat. “let’s… write it in contract.”
“thank god—yes. ok. let’s do it.”
jaehyun pulled out a small notepad from his back pocket along with a equally mini pen, something he carries with him all the time because he believes in ‘when the inspiration strikes!’ (that was his campaign’s name… a stupid one according to you). his handwriting was messy and rushed, but he did write down exactly as he said.
‘contract policy: jaehyun and y/n date in exchange for jaehyun supplying y/n with coffee for the entire duration of their dating period. signed: myung jaehyun, _____’
“ok, sign here. and i’ll write another copy for you in the mean time.”
you were still puzzled as to why he’s doing this so quickly, but you obliged. you could NOT let go of free coffee, not even if it meant dating myung fuckass jaehyun.
just as you finished signing the second copy, tucking it into your jean pocket, taesan barged in. the door slammed closed behind him, everyone’s attention on the new figure. “MYUNG JAEHYUN,” he yelled, not even caring that there were multiple people judging him now.
taesan walked over to where you both were at, his hand immediately going to pull up the president by his collar. you knew all about them, such as their everlasting friendship since 2nd grade, and the endorsement the taller gave to the older to become the president (which led you to also have a sour spot for taesan). yet right now, the friendship looked like it was about to turn to… hateship? whatever it was, you were looking forward to gaining an ally in hating jaehyun through and through.
“what do you mean you're fucking dating—no offense y/n—her? you hate her, complain about her to me every single fucking day. are you joking right now???” taesan looked red, positively mad at jaehyun as he cowered in his hold. “are you seriously going to hurt my sister by lying to her?”
it finally clicked in your head—jaehyun’s hurriedness, his extreme request, and the desperate solution. myung jaehyun you stupid boy…
you weren’t even mad anymore, simply bewildered that he had the audacity to turn to you and say, “tell him you’re my girlfriend, y/n,” his eyes begging you.
sighing, you looked at taesan, a tired face on as you simply thought about how exhausting the next year is going to be. but at least i’ll have free coffee…
“yeah. i am his girlfriend. y/n. jaehyun’s girlfriend. yay! that’s me!” you attempted a whimsy little jazz hands situation towards the end, but your hands dropped to your sides as quickly as your smile did once you finished talking.
taesan let go of jaehyun as he scoffed, licking his lower lip as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. it was his turn to laugh now, one that signified just how… bizarre this situation is. without talking, he gave one last look to you both as he walked out, the bell chiming at his departure.
“so…” jaehyun turned to you, flashing a teethy grin as his brows knit together... the exact face he gives when he needs you to fix his grave mistakes.
“fuck you. i’m only doing this for the coffee.”
it was going to be a long year ahead…
thank you for reading! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags, anon messages, or dms!
A/N: hi guys... this was actually so fun to write im giggling so bad 😭😭😭 i hope u guys enjoyed this too hehe lmk what u all think !! this is so long overdue im sowwy my wosypie 🥹
🎙️ Running a high school radio station isn't easy, but having an absolute jerk from the "rival" station constantly getting on your nerves is a thousand times worse. And that is exactly what Han Taesan is. A total. Jerk.
As Serenade High’s ultimate romantic, you've spent the last few years turning your station — Paper Hearts — into a sanctuary for love letters and gentleness. You're the “golden girl” everyone adores; you have friends everywhere and the entire school sees you as an angel. Well, everyone except for Taesan. As the owner of 1979, which airs right after you, Taesan is an insufferable, self-proclaimed “bad boy” who hates you for some reason — and obviously, you wouldn't hate him if he hadn't started it first. But now, thanks to budget cuts, you've both been kicked into the same time slot and forced to share one tiny studio. You're stuck between your desire to maintain your sweet reputation and the uncontrollable urge to shove a vinyl record down his throat, all while trying to survive sixty minutes of pure on-air hostility.
pairing — han taesan x f!reader
genre — rivals to lovers, rom-com (I try), ya, coming-of-age [tropes: grumpy x sunshine, academic rivals?, junior x senior (1 year age gap), forced proximity]
contents — mean behavior (mostly taesan), dark humor, motorcycle themes, underage drinking/smoking, heavy cursing, jealousy, height difference
status — ongoing!
note — hi everyonee, im back!!! ik it hasn't been long since I finished out of bounds, but I honestly just can't stay away from posting lol, I rlly want to thank my besties @haeonniie and @myungmyng for helping me with all their opinions, ilysmMMMM. as yk, eng is not my first language so pls don't mind my mistakes...
(p.s. my classes just started again so this smau won't be updated as fast as OOB was, but im going to post at least once a week!!)
📎 handling instructions: fluff, slight angst, modern au, established friendship, reader in 2nd perspective, intended lowercases, slow burn, might be slightly repetitive - please bear with me!, non idol au, skinship - kissing etc, blonde sungho mentioned (let me know if i missed anything!)
💌 letter contents: Park Sungho works at a quiet flower shop, where small routines and a familiar face slowly become the center of his world. When anonymous flowers and handwritten notes begin appearing in your life, Valentine’s season unfolds through gentle moments, unspoken feelings, and the comfort of constancy. Told through everyday encounters and carefully chosen words, this story explores love expressed through patience, restraint, and the courage to be seen.
🏷 recipient: flowershop! Park Sungho x gn! reader
⚖️ envelope weight: 13.4k word count (idk if this can be counted as a oneshot..)
📝 employee's note: hi luvliesssss!!! This is my very first oneshot for this collab and i am so so so excited to be sharing this with you! Though i’m not very sure if it can be considered a oneshot with the word count but it’s fine, this oneshot definitely did not give me a headache so that’s a plus! I am honestly so very much proud of this oneshot and i hope you luvliesss will enjoy reading this! Thank you everyone for all the love and support on this collab, i am so incredibly thankful and i know the girls are too! Click here to listen to bad. by wave 2 earth ~ this song honestly fits this oneshot so well! Happy reading, I love you all! 🥹🫶🏻
reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! 💙
The bell above the shop door chimed, soft and delicate, echoing through the quiet space like a small whisper. Sungho glanced up from the stack of pastel-colored cards he was arranging, carefully aligning their edges so they formed neat little towers. The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the gold foil lettering on the glass jars of pens, making them gleam like tiny stars. The air smelled faintly of roses and freshly cut paper, a comforting combination he had come to associate with these quiet mornings.
He didn’t usually notice things like that. Not until you appeared.
more below the cut:
── ✦۶ৎ
You were crouched by the display of cards, tilting your head as you examined the designs. Your fingers hovered lightly over the cards, brushing them almost reverently, as if touching them might somehow reveal their secrets. Sungho watched quietly, noting the subtle crease in your brow and the tiny hesitation in your movements, the way your hand lingered on one card, pulled back, then hovered over another, uncertain. He had memorized these little habits without even realizing he was doing it: the soft shift of your weight, the quiet hum of concentration that seemed to follow you around the shop.
“Morning,” he said softly, his voice careful and steady, so as not to startle you.
You looked up, eyebrows raising, a small, tentative smile on your lips. “Good morning,” you replied, your voice light, though there was a faint hesitation in your tone, like you were testing the waters.
He tilted his head, pretending to study a price tag on a nearby vase, though his gaze never really left you. “Deciding between them?” he asked. His words were quiet, almost casual, but beneath the surface, there was attention, a careful observation of you.
You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yeah… I always overthink these things. A card is just a card, right? But I can’t help but think maybe one will be better than the others.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at yourself.
Sungho’s lips curved into a faint smile. He had noticed this habit before, the way you lingered a little longer on items that weren’t even important, as though you were imagining the perfect way to use them, or who you would be while holding them. It was a small, delicate thing, but it fascinated him. Charming even. But he kept that thought tucked away. He didn’t say it aloud; he never did.
“It’s not easy choosing the right words,” he said, almost unconsciously, rolling a pen between his fingers. “Or the right card. Or… anything.”
You glanced at him, eyebrows slightly raised, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Words, huh?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sometimes, you notice things before anyone else does. Sometimes, you want to say them perfectly, even if they’re simple.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Guess I’m hopeless then.”
“Not hopeless,” he said immediately. “Just… careful.”
You blinked, unsure what he meant, and he looked away, pretending to straighten a vase of roses. But even as he did, he noticed the way the sunlight hit your hair, the faint warmth of your presence, the small sigh you let out as you finally picked up a card and examined it one last time. He knew exactly which one you would choose, even before you made the decision aloud.
Finally, you nodded decisively. “Okay. This one.”
He rang it up, his fingers moving quickly, almost mechanically, but his mind was elsewhere. Part of him wanted to add a note, a few words, something that only you would understand, but he stopped himself. Not today. Not yet. Not until he was sure the time was right.
You leaned against the counter, idly watching him arrange the small display of flowers behind the register. The light from the window cast long shadows across your face, softening your features. There was a quiet patience to you, a gentle rhythm in the way you moved through the space. He noticed how your hands lingered on the counter, how you traced the edge of a notebook absentmindedly, how your eyes flickered to the small stack of pastel cards as if weighing the possibilities in the world.
He wondered how long he had been noticing these things without meaning to. Weeks? Months? He wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that it had become natural, the way you filled a space he didn’t realize was empty until you were there.
The bell chimed again as another customer entered, breaking the fragile bubble of quiet between them. Sungho straightened, ready to attend to them, but he found his gaze drifting back to you, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. You glanced up at him, catching his eyes for a brief moment, and there was a faint blush on your cheeks as if you had felt it too, the recognition of something unsaid.
He shook it off, busying himself with the customer, but the warmth lingered in his chest. In that quiet, ordinary shop, he realized that the ordinary routine was no longer ordinary when you were here.
Later, as he stacked vases of roses and tied delicate ribbons around the blooms for delivery, he imagined slipping a single rose across the counter to you. A note, maybe, with just a few simple words. Something small, thoughtful, quiet. But he didn’t. Not yet. He had to wait. Wait until the moment was right. Wait until he could give you more than a glance, more than a soft voice and careful observation.
The shop remained calm, timeless, almost suspended in the gentle morning sunlight. Outside, the world moved on, oblivious to the quiet tension that hummed softly within these walls. And inside, Sungho kept watching, kept noticing, kept wondering how long he could love quietly before you noticed.
── ✦۶ৎ
The next day came around,
the bell above the shop door jingled softly, a sound so ordinary it could have gone unnoticed, except Sungho always noticed. He looked up from the small bouquet he was arranging and caught sight of you stepping in. During your lunch break from the convenience store across the street, he realized immediately, the uniform slightly rumpled from hours of standing behind the register.
You pushed the door open just enough to step inside, blinking against the sunlight that poured in through the window. For a moment, you paused, letting the calm of the shop wash over you, a small reprieve from the constant buzz of your workplace. Sungho noticed the little slump of your shoulders, the way your hands rested briefly against the doorframe as if leaning on it could take some weight off your back.
“Hey,” he said, quiet but warm. His voice seemed to settle over the room like a soft blanket.
You looked up and smiled, the tiredness in your eyes softened by the small comfort of the shop. “Hey,” you murmured. “I… just needed a break.”
He nodded, pretending to straighten a stack of greeting cards, though his eyes tracked the subtle way you moved through the space. The sun caught strands of hair that had escaped from your headband, highlighting them in gold. He noticed the faint crease in your brow, the way your fingers brushed over the edge of a notebook display even though you weren’t actually looking for anything.
“You come in here a lot on your lunch break, huh?” he asked lightly with a smile. Not a question he really needed an answer to.
You shrugged, leaning slightly against the counter. “Yeah… the store across the street is… exhausting. People want snacks, drinks, everything at once. It’s… nice to get out for a few minutes. Thought I’d see what’s new.”
“New,” he repeated softly, tilting his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He could tell from the way your shoulders relaxed that this was exactly what you needed: a moment of calm. A few minutes where the only expectation was to breathe. He understood that more than he wanted to admit.
You wandered over to the counter, idly flipping through a few cards he had arranged earlier in the morning. Your movements were careful but unhurried, and he watched how your hand lingered over a simple blank card, tracing the edges with your fingertip. Sungho noticed, naturally, the way you tilted your head as though imagining someone’s face while you touched the paper.
“You always notice everything, don’t you?” you said suddenly, looking up at him with a teasing smile.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Everything?”
“Yeah,” you said lightly, shrugging. “The way you organize the cards, the flowers… the little things people don’t usually see. You notice.”
He smiled faintly, shrugging. “Careful noticing is easier than careless ignoring.”
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “Careful noticing… huh. Sounds like a compliment. Or a warning even.”
“Maybe both,” he said softly, though his attention lingered on the curve of your lips as you smiled.
For a few moments, silence settled over the shop, comfortable and unforced. He watched you lean against the counter, the sunlight catching in your eyes, and felt that familiar tug in his chest, the one that made him notice everything about you, even when it was just small, quiet, ordinary things.
You glanced at the stack of roses near the register, your fingers brushing one gently. “I like coming here,” you murmured. “Even for a few minutes. Feels… calm. Predictable even.”
“Not everyone likes predictability,” he said softly. “But… maybe some, well most, people need it.”
You smiled faintly. “I do. After the chaos of the convenience store, this is… nice, a nice change of scenary.”
He didn’t respond immediately. He simply watched, noticing everything: the faint warmth in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you weren’t worrying about anyone else, the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders as you leaned on the counter. He felt that quiet weight in his chest, the one that reminded him again why he kept his feelings contained, why he had never said more than he did.
“Lunch break’s almost over,” you said reluctantly, glancing at the clock. “I should get back.”
He nodded, carefully hiding the small pang in his chest. “I’m glad you came,” he said quietly.
You smiled again, a little shy, a little tired, and he noticed how perfect that mixture of emotions looked on you. “Me too,” you said softly.
The bell jingled again as you stepped toward the door, slipping back out into the bright sunlight and the chaos of your day. Sungho watched you leave, lingering in the quiet of the shop, noticing how empty it felt now that you weren’t there, yet grateful for the few minutes you’d shared.
── ✦۶ৎ
He straightened a vase of roses, ran a hand over the edge of a notebook, and allowed himself a small, private thought:
Everything about you is already here. I just… have to wait until you notice it too.
By the next morning,
the shop was quiet in that familiar, timeless way. Sungho was arranging vases of roses behind the counter, each one freshly trimmed, petals perfect and fragrant, when he noticed you staring at a small envelope resting against a single crimson bloom.
It was simple. Elegant.
You came in as usual, the bell above the door chiming softly, and he saw your eyes catch the rose immediately. You paused, blinking, almost disbelieving.
“Oh,” you murmured, reaching for it carefully, like it might vanish if touched too roughly. The single bloom was accompanied by a small, neat card. Your fingers hesitated over the envelope before you pulled it open, and Sungho noticed the way your lips parted slightly, the faint sparkle in your eyes as you read the words.
“To Y/n, Just a little something to brighten your day. —”
No name. No signature. Just polite, careful, perfect handwriting.
You held it for a moment longer, reading again, and a small, soft laugh escaped your lips. “Huh… that’s… really nice.”
Sungho felt something in his chest tighten. He wanted, more than he could ever admit, to reach for it, to take the card and whisper, I wrote this for you. But he didn’t. He stayed behind the counter, arranging the next bouquet as if that could somehow keep him from showing how quickly his heart was racing.
You looked up at him casually, not realizing the storm you had set off in him. “Hey… did you see this?” you asked, holding the rose toward him, smiling faintly.
“No,” he said too quickly, his voice calm but too sharp, almost clipped. He forced himself to focus on tying a ribbon around a small bouquet instead. No name, he reminded himself. You don’t know it’s from me. It’s fine.
“Someone left it here for me,” you continued, turning it slightly so he could see the card. “No name. Can you believe that?”
Sungho’s fingers froze over the ribbon. He wanted to laugh, curse, apologize, explain, and run, all at once, but none of it came out. Instead, he simply said, “I… that’s really nice of them,” keeping his voice even. Too even.
You tilted your head, smiling faintly, a little confused at his slow reaction. “Yeah… I wonder who it’s from. Someone from work? Or maybe a… secret admirer?” You laughed softly. “Or… maybe someone I don’t even know.”
He cleared his throat, fumbling slightly with the bow. “Could be,” he said quietly. “People do thoughtful things sometimes.”
You nodded, still smiling, slipping the card carefully into your bag. “Yeah… thoughtful. I like that.”
For the next few moments, the two of you went about the usual routines, Sungho arranging flowers, you browsing the small card display, but the rose lingered between you in more ways than one. Sungho couldn’t stop glancing at it. He wanted to say something, ‘it was me’, but he held back, afraid that speaking would ruin the delicate bubble of the moment.
And then you did something that made his chest tighten even more.
You mentioned it casually, almost as an afterthought. “I should probably thank whoever left this… someday,” you said, shrugging slightly, still smiling. “But, uh… I don’t even know who it is.”
Sungho swallowed hard. His hands gripped the ribbon, tighter than necessary. He wanted to tell you. Wanted to say, It was me. I’ve been noticing you. I wrote that for you.
But instead, he only nodded, forcing a faint smile. “Yeah… someday.”
You laughed softly again, and the sound sent a small ache through him. He let it pass, letting the silence stretch, careful not to give away anything.
Because that was how he loved you, for now. Quietly. Carefully. From a distance. Not yet brave enough to risk the small, delicate thing that could shatter between the two of you if he spoke too soon.
The rose sat on the counter, simple and perfect, between the two of you, a small promise he wasn’t ready to reveal.
And he wondered, quietly, if someday you would notice.
He watches from behind the counter as you leave the shop, slipping the card into your bag with the softest of smiles.
It was his rose. His handwriting. His small, careful gesture. He told himself it wasn’t about confessing, not yet, not even about being recognized.
He chose anonymity on purpose.
Not because he wanted to hide, but because he wanted the moment to be yours, untouched by expectation. He didn’t want you to feel any pressure, any obligation. Just… to notice, just to feel a little warmth in your day.
The crimson petals still lingered in his mind, he imagined it brushing against your fingers, the way you had held the card, the tiny crease in your smile as you read it. He replayed the moment in his mind endlessly, careful not to let it interfere with the calm rhythm of the shop.
Valentine’s season was beginning, whether he liked it or not. Stores were already buzzing with red ribbons, chocolates, and cards promising love. But for him, it wasn’t about the season, or the commercial ritual. It was about this, small, quiet, personal gestures that made someone feel noticed.
He stacked a few more bouquets, arranging them with careful precision, and let the thought drift: maybe he would leave another. Maybe a little note, tucked into a rose this time, for just a moment of quiet attention. Not to declare feelings, not to rush anything. Just… to see you smile.
And in the quiet of the shop, with the scent of roses and fresh paper around him, he allowed himself a single, private thought:
If you only knew it was me… would it change anything?
It starts with one.
And then another.
You don’t know why, exactly, but each morning as you step into the shop during your lunch break, there’s a small vase waiting somewhere, a single rose, simple and perfect, a tiny note tucked neatly against it. Each card is polite, short, and careful. Nothing extravagant. No declarations. No signatures.
But every time, your chest tightens before you even reach the counter.
Someone noticed me again.
It’s ridiculous. You try to tell yourself that. It’s only a flower. Only a card. But somehow, the world feels slightly brighter when you see it. The scent of roses, faint and sweet, fills your senses. The softness of the petals brushes lightly against your fingertips. The careful handwriting makes your stomach flutter just a little, and you find yourself holding your breath, not wanting the moment to end.
Some days you linger longer than usual, tracing the edges of the card, reading the same polite words again and again:
“To Y/N, I hope your day has been going well. —”
No name. And yet, somehow, you feel as though the sender knows you. Not by your face, not by your name, but by you. Your quiet habits, the way your eyes catch the light, the little movements you didn’t think anyone noticed.
You start looking forward to it. Not consciously at first, it’s just… curiosity. But slowly, without meaning to, it becomes something else. A small anticipation you didn’t realize you were allowing yourself to feel. Each rose is a small thrill, a tiny heartbeat of something more.
You find yourself thinking about it even outside the shop, while grabbing lunch at the convenience store, while walking home, while folding boxes of snacks. Will there be a rose today? Did that someone leave one? The thought sneaks into your mind unbidden, and it makes your day feel lighter, though tinged with a strange, sweet tension you don’t know how to name.
And through it all, Sungho watches.
Not too closely, not in a way that’s obvious, but he notices. How you pick up the vase carefully, your fingers brushing the petals. The small smile that always appears, fleeting, like it’s a secret only you know. How you read the card over and over, as if memorizing it, tasting the words silently with your mind.
He notices the way your eyes lift to the counter, scanning for him without realizing it. The way you linger longer than usual before leaving, savoring the quiet moment. He notices it all. Every smile, every soft laugh, every hesitant touch to the rose.
And quietly, carefully, he feels something ache in his chest. Part pride, part longing. He wonders if you know how much he notices, how much he cares, even when he must remain invisible.
You don’t know it yet. You don’t know it’s him.
But the roses… they are starting to make your heart feel things it hasn’t felt in a long time. And even as you tell yourself it’s just a simple, thoughtful gesture, you can’t stop hoping, without meaning to, that tomorrow, there will be another.
By now, the roses have become… a pattern. You start noticing it, even before stepping into the shop. It’s not that you were counting days, exactly, more like your subconscious tuning in to the quiet rhythm of something small, deliberate, and startlingly personal.
── ✦۶ৎ
Today’s rose waits for you on the counter, as always. A single stem, fresh, flawless. The card reads the same polite, careful words. Your fingers linger over it, tracing the neat handwriting, a small smile tugging at your lips.
You shrug to yourself. It’s probably just… someone trying to be cute, you think. Maybe a customer, or… one of the boys from the convenience store joking around.
You tuck the card into your bag and glance up at Sungho, pretending to examine a stack of greeting cards. “You think it could be… anyone famous?” you joke, teasing lightly, trying to diffuse the flutter in your chest. “Like… a secret admirer from another country, maybe?”
Sungho doesn’t laugh. Not exactly. He gives a small smile, almost imperceptible, and you sense he’s watching you more closely than usual. Something in the corner of his eyes tightens, like a string pulled taut, subtle, quiet, almost invisible to anyone else.
“Maybe,” he says softly, voice even but slightly sharper than normal. “Or maybe… someone you already know.”
You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. “Someone I already know?” you repeat, grinning. “Like… a friend at work? Or…oh!- maybe the guy at the bookstore who always forgets his wallet?”
You laugh lightly, brushing your fingers over the edge of a vase, the sound bright but a little nervous. You can’t help it. The rose makes you giddy, curious, and a little reckless. It’s innocent speculation, of course, yet your heart hammers as if it knows you’re closer to the truth than you realize.
Sungho swallows quietly, and for a split second, you catch it: the faint tightening of his jaw, the subtle pause in his movements, the way his eyes linger just a moment too long. Jealousy? He wouldn’t admit it, no not to you, not even to himself. But it’s there, sharp and quiet, hidden behind the calm mask he wears so well.
You grin again, teasing. “I’ll never know, huh? Maybe it’s- ” You pause, waving a hand vaguely toward the shop. “-a secret admirer. Someone mysterious, dramatic, with a flair for the romantic.”
He lets you finish, nodding faintly, the tension coiled beneath the surface. “Mysterious and dramatic,” he repeats softly. “Sounds… about right.”
You laugh again, unaware of the subtle sting his quiet jealousy leaves behind. You glance down at the card, the rose, the simple gesture, and wonder who could be so careful, so… thoughtful. Someone who notices you, someone who… maybe cares.
And all the while, Sungho watches. Watches your smile. Watches your laughter. Watches your fingers linger over the card. His chest tightens every time you joke about another “mystery” admirer, and he keeps it all tucked behind a careful mask.
But inside, the sharp edge of his jealousy refuses to go away. Every laugh you give someone else, every speculation, every playful glance elsewhere, it pricks him like a needle. Quiet. Controlled. Painful.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move closer. Not yet.
Because this is what he’s good at. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
── ✦۶ৎ
The shop is quiet.
The sun has disappeared entirely, leaving only the soft, golden glow of the overhead lights. Every bouquet, every card, every ribbon seems more vivid in the calm. You linger near the counter, unsure why you don’t want to leave yet. Maybe it’s the roses, maybe it’s the warmth of the quiet shop after the chaos of your lunch break, or maybe it’s him.
Sungho moves behind the counter, tying ribbons around the last bouquet of the day. You watch, unconsciously leaning just a little closer than necessary. Your knees brush the counter’s edge. Your fingers hover near his as he adjusts a stem. The air between you feels heavier, charged in a way you can’t name.
“Why do you always stay this late?” you ask softly, voice careful, trying to sound casual.
He glances up, just for a second, and you see it, an almost imperceptible pause before he answers. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, his fingers tightening on the ribbon. “It’s… easier when it’s quiet.”
You shift slightly, letting your shoulder brush the counter. “Easier… or lonely?” you tease, a faint lilt in your voice, though your chest tightens with the anticipation of his response.
His fingers freeze for a heartbeat. You catch the small hitch in his breath, the tension in his shoulders. Then he pulls his hands back from the bouquet, as if afraid they might betray him. “Easier,” he says again, firmer this time, and you notice the subtle restraint in his voice.
Your lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. “Hmm… okay. Quiet is nice,” you murmur, leaning just a fraction closer, pretending to look at a card display, even though all your attention is on him.
He nods, but his eyes flick up to meet yours for a heartbeat longer than usual. Your pulse hammers. There’s something there, a flicker of feeling he can’t quite let go, something he can’t speak. And you sense it, without understanding why it makes your chest ache.
Silence stretches between you, almost unbearably. The soft rustle of paper, the faint scent of roses, the golden light,it all presses in, making every glance, every small movement, feel heavier.
Your hand brushes against his accidentally, or maybe not, when you reach for a small vase. It’s fleeting, barely a touch, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist and your fingers tingle. Your breath catches.
“You… always notice things, don’t you?” you ask softly, your voice almost a whisper, testing the space between you.
He looks up, eyes meeting yours fully this time. There’s a pause, long enough that you feel it deep in your chest. “Notice?”
“The little things,” you murmur, leaning slightly forward, words almost catching on your tongue. “The way someone leans, the way they smile, the way they… exist. I notice it too, I guess… when someone notices me.”
He swallows, fingers flexing slightly over the bouquet as if he might crush it by accident. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I notice.”
It’s a simple acknowledgment, and yet it punches through your chest like a thunderclap. Your heart races, and the warmth that spreads across your chest is almost unbearable. You lean just a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes against his. “I… like it,” you admit softly, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Being noticed. Even the little things.”
He freezes again. His lips part slightly, maybe to speak, maybe to tell you something he shouldn’t. But he doesn’t. Instead, he hands you the last bouquet for the day, his fingers brushing yours in the briefest contact possible. The spark lingers, a jolt that makes your knees feel weak.
“Thanks,” you murmur, your voice trembling ever so slightly as you tuck the bouquet under your arm. “For… noticing.”
His gaze follows you as you start toward the door. “Anytime,” he whispers quietly, voice low, restrained, weighted with everything he isn’t saying.
You step outside, and the cold air hits you like a shock. Your chest is tight, your fingers still tingling from that brief brush of contact. You try to tell yourself it’s nothing, just a moment, just a fluke. But the way your heart races, the way your skin feels alive and raw… tells you otherwise.
Back inside, the shop is quiet again. Sungho straightens the counter, the empty space between you now aching with absence. He doesn’t move toward you, doesn’t call you back. But he feels it, too, the almost-confession that hovered between you, the words left unsaid, the pull of something neither of you can name.
And somehow, that quiet ache, that longing, is more powerful than any words could ever be.
── ✦۶ৎ
It’s late again. You’ve stayed behind longer than usual, for no reason other than you want just a few more minutes in the quiet shop. The day feels heavy, the hum of the street outside has dulled to a faint murmur, and the golden light of the lamps makes everything soft, intimate, almost fragile.
The roses are on the counter, waiting. You pick up today’s bloom, careful not to crush the delicate petals, and run your fingers along the neat card. The words are polite, careful, as always, but the anonymity… it’s starting to feel like a weight you can’t name.
You sigh. Your voice is soft, almost to yourself. “I just wish they’d say it straight… instead of hiding.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than you realize.
Sungho freezes behind the counter. You think you’re speaking casually, maybe joking, maybe venting just to yourself, but he hears it differently. Every syllable lands in him like a stone. Hiding…? he thinks. Hiding instead of saying it straight…?
His chest tightens. His stomach knots. You think I’m hiding. That I’m not brave enough. That I’m… a coward...
You don’t notice the sharp intake of his breath, the way his fingers pause mid-arrangement of a bouquet. You don’t see the faint tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands.
“I- uh…” he starts, then stops. He wants to explain, to tell you it’s not like that. That he’s not hiding because he doesn’t care. That he’s waiting because he cares too much. But the words die in his throat.
Your eyes linger on the rose in your hands. You feel a small ache in your chest that has nothing to do with the flower itself. It’s longing, frustration, the bittersweet pull of wanting something to happen and yet not knowing how to make it real.
Sungho watches silently, and in his mind, a quiet panic grows. Every careful thought, every controlled action, suddenly feels like it’s too late. Your words, innocent to you, strike him like a warning: that maybe you’ll never want what he’s holding back.
“I… I just mean-” you start again, but he’s already stiffened, retreating into the calm mask he always wears. He nods slightly, mutters something like “Yeah, I get it,” and your words slip past him like water, unreceived.
To him, it feels like rejection. Not because you meant it that way, but because he believes his own restraint has made him invisible to you. Invisible, and unwanted.
You slip the card back into your bag, frown faintly, and turn toward the door. The roses smell faintly sweet, comforting, but suddenly they feel heavier. You don’t know it, but your words have drawn a line. One you didn’t intend, one that Sungho cannot yet cross.
He watches you leave, hands trembling slightly as he straightens the last bouquet. The ache in his chest is sharp and sudden. And in the quiet shop, filled with flowers and soft light, the silence between you grows thicker, heavier, unspoken, and impossible to ignore.
── ✦۶ৎ
Valentine’s Day hits the shop like a storm.
The moment you step inside, the air wraps around you, thick with the scent of roses, fresh paper, and chocolates. The bell above the door jingles again, and again, drowned out by the hum of conversation, ringing phones, and the shuffle of feet across the polished floor. The shop feels smaller somehow, packed with customers, stacks of bouquets, boxes tied with satin ribbons, and cards scattered like confetti across the counters.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself against the overwhelming buzz. Your fingers clutch the strap of your bag, and you glance toward the counter. Sungho is there, moving like a calm eye at the center of a storm, though tonight even he seems strained. His shoulders are tense, his movements precise but slightly jerky, the edges of exhaustion showing in the small tremor of his hands as he ties another ribbon.
Orders blur together: names, addresses, and carefully written notes that need to match the bouquets perfectly. He flips from one task to the next without hesitation, but the sheer volume makes his focus flicker. He pauses only briefly to glance at a note, then another, almost dropping a small box.
“Need a hand?” you call softly, stepping closer, trying to pierce the noise of the shop.
His eyes lift, tired and sharp at once, and he nods slightly. “Yeah… just… make sure the counter stays clear, okay?” His voice is quiet, strained, controlled. Not the calm, easy tone you’re used to.
You nod, stepping behind him carefully, your movements deliberate so you don’t get in the way. Even standing there, you can feel it, the weight pressing down on him. The tension in the air is almost tangible, vibrating through the shop like the hum of an overworked machine.
Orders fly past you: bouquets for a couple celebrating quietly at home, a dozen roses for someone across town, a tiny envelope tucked into a chocolate box. Every note has to be perfect. Every ribbon must be flawless. And through it all, Sungho’s hands move with skill, but the slight fatigue in his fingers betrays how much effort this day is costing him.
You pick up a stray card that fell near your feet. The handwriting is neat, familiar but you can’t put your finger on where you saw it before. Your chest tightens anyway. Not because of the card itself, but because you can see it, see the chaos he’s managing, see the pressure in his jaw, the fatigue in his eyes.
“Careful,” you murmur softly as a bouquet teeters near the edge of the counter. He glances at you quickly, and there’s a flicker in his gaze, gratitude? Relief? Or maybe a quiet acknowledgment that he notices you noticing. He adjusts the bouquet, then straightens, his expression settling back into its usual calm mask.
The shop feels relentless. Customers shuffle past, each with their own urgent request or fragile expectation. Someone asks about delivery times while another asks if a bouquet can be made “extra romantic.” A chocolate box slides off the counter; you grab it before it hits the floor, your fingers brushing against his as he reaches for it too.
Your chest jolts. He notices the fleeting contact, his eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, you think he might say something but the words die in his throat. Instead, he just gives a small, tight nod, and moves to the next task.
Time stretches. The hours bleed together. The hum of the shop, the rustle of ribbons, the murmur of conversations, the faint scent of roses and chocolate, it all blends into a single, overwhelming blur.
You watch him work, helpless and fascinated. Every movement, every glance, every tiny action that would normally be mundane carries weight tonight. The shop is a storm, and he’s at the center, trying to hold it together.
Your own thoughts drift. You think about the roses he’s given you from the ‘mystery man’ in the past weeks, the anonymous notes, the careful, polite gestures. You wonder if he’s exhausted because of the day… or because of something else. Because of the way he always seems to notice, always seems to care, even when no one else does.
And then a customer steps forward with a last-minute request, a bouquet with an urgent note. Sungho flinches slightly, fumbling the papers for just a moment. Your hand reaches out, instinctively, to help steady the order. Your fingers brush again, longer this time, and the spark lingers, a quiet reminder that, amidst the chaos, there’s something between the two of you that the storm cannot drown.
He catches your eyes for a moment, and you think you see the exhaustion give way to something else: hesitation. Longing. A fragment of what he refuses to say. But the moment passes. He moves on. You follow, quietly, helping where you can, both of you swallowed by the noise, the orders, the relentless surge of Valentine’s Day.
You carry a bouquet towards the counter, juggling it carefully between your hands. A small envelope tucked beneath the ribbon catches your eye, white, neat, the handwriting immediately drawing your attention. It’s not like the usual notes that arrive with the other bouquets; this one feels deliberate, careful, almost precise in the way it rests against the petals.
Curious, you pause. The bouquet tilts slightly in your hands, and you steady it, noticing how fresh the petals are, how perfectly the stem was trimmed. Your fingers trace the ribbon knot before reaching for the envelope. It slides smoothly under your touch, almost as if it was waiting for you to pick it up.
The handwriting is small, careful, and immediately familiar in its neatness. Not like a mass-produced Valentine’s card, not like the notes tucked in with the dozens of bouquets ordered earlier in the day. Every stroke of ink seems intentional. You set the bouquet down gently, careful not to disturb the petals, and examine the note more closely.
You open it, unfolding the paper carefully. The ink is dark, sharp against the white background, every word perfectly spaced.
“I noticed how you always pause before choosing a bouquet, like you’re trying to find the one that matches your mood. I noticed how your fingers linger over the petals, tracing the edges softly, almost unconsciously. I’ve watched you, even when you think no one is paying attention. I… I wanted to tell you before, but I didn’t want to burden you. I hope this reaches you the way I mean it to.”
Your fingers tighten slightly on the edges of the paper. You scan the words again, slower this time. Each sentence is precise, deliberate, almost cataloging your habits. The note mentions things you never expected anyone to notice, the subtle way you examine each flower, the small movements you assume are invisible, the unintentional gestures you make when no one is looking.
You glance down at the bouquet again, noticing how the petals seem arranged perfectly to mirror the care in the note. The ribbon is tight, uniform, the stem straight. The sender didn’t just write words, they created a package of intention. Every detail in the flower, in the arrangement, in the note, is coordinated.
Your eyes trace the edges of the paper once more. It’s careful, quiet, deliberate, the kind of note someone writes when they know exactly what they’re observing, exactly what they want to convey.
You hold it closer, inspecting each sentence, trying to memorize the phrasing. The specificity is uncanny. It’s not generic. Not vague. Not even vaguely familiar. This is something intimate, precise, deliberate.
And yet, there’s no name. No indication of who sent it. No clue, nothing to tell you whether it came from a friend, a stranger, someone daring, someone watching.
You flip the note over, examine the envelope again. Every angle, every line of handwriting, every fold of the paper, it’s meticulous. Someone put real effort into this, someone who observed you carefully, someone who noticed the things no one else did.
You glance at the bouquet one last time before moving to put it aside, still studying the card. The petals are perfect, but now they feel deliberate in a new way, a calculated mirror of the words on the page. Everything matches. Every detail aligns with the note, as if it were a single thought made physical.
You can’t stop looking. The handwriting, the observations, the rhythm of the sentences, it’s too precise, too careful. The note is not just a message; it’s a record. A catalog of small, private moments that someone has observed and remembered.
And yet… you still have no idea who.
You sit at the counter, the bouquet carefully set beside you, and the note unfolds in your hands like a fragile map of someone else’s attention. The chaos of Valentine’s Day hums faintly around you, but for this moment, it fades to a blur.
Your eyes trace the words again, slowly, deliberately. Each sentence feels like a tiny incision into a world you didn’t know existed, a world where someone has been watching, noticing, cataloging the quiet, private ways you move through the shop, the little hesitations, the faint quirks you assumed went unseen.
You blink.
You read it again.
They’ve noticed me.
A strange weight settles in your chest. Not heavy, not suffocating, but something firm and undeniable. You tilt the bouquet slightly, studying the way the petals are perfect, arranged just so, each fold and curve reflecting a precision that mirrors the note itself. Someone didn’t just write this, they planned it, executed it, made it a whole little world aimed at you.
You lean back on the stool, still holding the note, letting your fingers drift along the edges. You read each line, again and again, imagining the moments someone must have spent watching, memorizing, recording these subtle details. How long had this person been paying attention? How carefully had they observed you?
A thought slips into your mind, quiet, almost trembling: Someone loves me like this.
The words echo softly in your head. They feel enormous, overwhelming in their intimacy, yet somehow gentle. Not grandiose, not loud declarations of passion, but quiet, deliberate, intensely personal. A love measured in gestures, in details, in the unseen.
You glance at Sungho, who is busy rearranging another bouquet across the counter. Your eyes flick over him, scanning the familiar motions, the quiet diligence, the way he moves with careful precision. And yet… your mind immediately rejects him. Not because you don’t care, not because you don’t like him like that… but because he’s always been part of your world, safe, predictable, but because of this note, these observations, this intensity… it couldn’t be him. Could it?
No, you tell yourself, folding the note neatly again. It has to be someone else. Someone daring. Someone who sees me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
You study the bouquet once more, fingertips brushing over the petals as if tracing the person behind it, the person who orchestrated this delicate, precise gesture. The ribbon, the arrangement, the note, it all feels purposeful, intentional.
Your heartbeat slows just slightly, replaced by awe. Quiet awe. Reverence, almost. Whoever this person is, they know you, more than you ever imagined.
You lean back, holding the note against your chest for a moment, letting it rest there, letting it sink in. The words, the details, the deliberate precision, they all press into your mind like tiny, soft blows: a presence, unseen, observing, thinking, caring.
And for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself a small, private smile. Not a giddy one, not a hopeful one, but a smile of acknowledgment, of quiet recognition. Someone noticed you. Someone saw everything you didn’t think anyone would.
You tuck the note carefully into your bag, letting the bouquet rest nearby. The shop buzzes around you, but you remain still, suspended in the quiet aftermath of realization. Someone loves you like this, you think again, and for now, that is enough.
The shop is in chaos. The hum of phones, the shuffle of feet, the faint scent of chocolate and roses, normally a rhythm he could navigate without thought, feels like a storm pulling at him from all sides. Each bouquet he touches is deliberate, precise, but tonight the motion is heavier, slower. He feels it in his bones: the weight of every decision, every movement, every step he didn’t take.
And then he sees it.
The envelope.
Clutched in your hands, resting against a bouquet. The handwriting, small, careful, deliberate, it stops him mid-step. His heart skips, then thunders, then sinks all at once. He doesn’t need to read the note; he knows. The precise phrasing, the intimacy, the observations so small and personal, it’s all him.
But you don’t know.
You’re studying it like it belongs to someone else entirely. Your fingers trace the words with the same care he’s memorized in his mind for months, the subtle hesitations, the way you tilt the bouquet, the way your eyes linger on the petals as if trying to absorb the sender’s intent through touch alone. And he can’t move. He can’t reach.
No.
His stomach twists sharply, a pang that steals his breath. He had written that sentimental note only for his eyes. He must’ve been too busy and messed up, switching the sentimental note with the intended one liner note. Panic rises in a tight, jagged wave. The imagined rival, the invisible, impossible person he has accidentally created by holding back, is right there in your thoughts. They are the one you are marveling at. They are the one whose attention you are savoring.
This is what I get for waiting.
His hands tighten on the bouquet he’s holding, ribbons crumpling slightly under the pressure he doesn’t notice. He swallows, hard. Every careful moment he spent restraining himself, every soft smile, every “safe” pause, every unspoken word, they have culminated in this. And now you are enthralled by a figure that exists only because he refused to step forward.
I could have told you. I should have told you. I didn’t think-
He cuts himself off. Thoughts like that are dangerous. They fuel the spiral that threatens to crush him entirely in the middle of a crowded shop. He wants to storm across the counter, take the note from your hands, say your name until your eyes meet his. But the fear, raw, unreasoned, suffocating, stays with him.
Because what if you don’t react the way he hopes?
Because what if you already admire this “other person,” this imagined rival who doesn’t exist, and by revealing himself, he ruins everything?
His chest tightens, each heartbeat echoing painfully in his ears. He can see the way you cradle the note, the way your lips part slightly as your eyes scan the words again. You’re immersed, completely unaware, and he feels a pang that’s almost physical, sharp, hot, unbearable.
Someone notices you like I’ve always wanted to.
The thought repeats, looping endlessly. He hates himself for it, hates the imagined rival he’s conjured from his own hesitation, hates the timing, hates the chaos that prevents him from speaking, hates the fear that keeps him rooted in place. He should have been brave. He should have stepped forward months ago.
His gaze flickers across the shop. Customers bustle, phones ring, roses and chocolates blur together, but none of it matters. All he can see is you, all he can feel is the pressure of every unspoken word between you, every gentle observation he’s ever made, every note he’s ever considered sending but didn’t.
This is my fault.
He swallows again, a shaky, tight movement. His hands shake slightly, but he forces himself to adjust the next bouquet, to tie the ribbon perfectly, to move through the motions of the shop as though everything is normal. Calm. Professional.
But inside, the storm rages. The quiet, careful world he’s built around you, the small safe spaces he’s created, those are crumbling. Every second you linger over that note, unaware, is another second of imagined betrayal. Another second where he is losing ground to someone who doesn’t exist.
And somewhere, deep down, there’s a terrifying clarity: if he doesn’t act soon, if he doesn’t break the careful silence he’s maintained, this moment, this note, this intimate observation, this unspoken connection, could slip through his fingers entirely.
He exhales slowly, almost imperceptibly, forcing himself to step back from the counter, to breathe, to act as though nothing has changed. But inside, his chest aches with the weight of everything unsaid, everything held back, and everything that might already be too late.
He watches you again, holding the note. Watching you, completely unaware of him behind the veil of handwriting, behind the carefully placed petals. And he knows, he knows that this quiet, precise, deliberate act of someone else’s attention, even though it’s his own, has created a rival in your mind that exists purely because he waited.
Sungho realizes, in that moment, just how dangerous patience can be.
── ✦۶ৎ
The shop has quieted slightly after the Valentine’s Day rush. Boxes are stacked neatly now, ribbons tucked into place, the chaos reduced to the faint hum of the leftover activity. You’re perched on a stool at the counter, flipping through one of the leftover cards, trying to calm your racing thoughts.
The bouquet, the one with the mysterious note, is tucked safely beside you. You haven’t touched it since discovering the words earlier. You can’t stop thinking about it. The intimacy, the precision, the way it seems to know you better than anyone ever could… it lingers in your mind like a quiet pulse.
And yet… you feel lonely. Not exactly sad, not exactly upset, just… untethered. The note has shifted something inside you, but it hasn’t answered anything. It’s left you with questions, with curiosity, with a small ache you don’t entirely understand.
You glance at Sungho, still behind the counter, stacking cards, arranging bouquets for tomorrow, moving with the calm diligence you’ve always admired. His brow is slightly furrowed, the exhaustion from earlier still clinging to him. But there’s something else there too, a quiet energy you can’t quite name.
Without thinking fully, you lean forward and speak, half-joking, half-serious.
“Hey… would you… be my Valentine?”
The words tumble out almost clumsily, but you meet his eyes directly, trying to measure how he’ll react. You frame it as a joke, a shield: you’re not asking because you expect an answer, not because you’re confessing anything. You just… don’t want to be alone with your thoughts. You don’t want to think about the note too much. You just want someone familiar to lean on tonight.
Sungho freezes mid-movement. His eyes widen slightly, the ribbon slipping from his hands. And without thinking, without hesitation, without the usual careful restraint, he says:
“Yeah… sure.”
It comes out soft, almost instinctive. A quiet agreement that he doesn’t fully process. He doesn’t pause to consider why you’re asking, what this means, or how it might change anything. He only sees you, sitting there, vulnerable in the gentle post-chaos quiet, and says yes.
You blink. “Wait… really?”
He nods, almost distractedly, adjusting the bouquet in front of him as though it’s ordinary. But you catch it, the slight hesitation in his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. Something unspoken lingers between you, suspended in the air like the faint scent of roses left from the rush earlier.
You laugh softly, nervous and relieved all at once. “Okay… okay. Fine. Just… let’s keep it simple. Fake date. Don’t get any ideas, though. I just don’t want to be all alone on Valentines…”
Sungho doesn’t respond to that. He simply nods again, focusing on the flowers in front of him, but you can feel the quiet weight of agreement. The tension between what’s said and what’s left unsaid coils around the space between you.
For a moment, the shop feels smaller, quieter, more intimate than it ever has before. The chaos of the day fades into the background, leaving just the two of you. The note, the bouquet, the earlier observation, all of it lingers at the edges of your mind, unspoken, unresolved.
And now, somehow, you’ve forced him into your world tonight. Into your orbit. Into a role you designed for comfort, distraction, and safety.
Yet neither of you realizes how dangerous that orbit is, how the proximity, the pretense, the quiet tension, and the small, careful moments could break every carefully maintained barrier between you.
The evening air is cool and soft as you step outside the shop, the chaos of Valentine’s Day lingering behind you like a distant echo. Sungho holds the door open with a gentle nod, his movements deliberate, measured, almost like he’s preparing for something important, even though you’ve both agreed this is “fake”.
You walk side by side, your hands brushing occasionally as you navigate the quiet streets. At first, it’s awkward, a shadow of the pretense you both agreed to. But then you notice the little things. The way he matches his pace to yours, adjusting without drawing attention. The careful attention in his posture, his hands, the slight tilt of his head when he notices you glance at a streetlamp reflecting on a puddle.
“This way?” he asks softly, though his eyes are already on yours, scanning for a reaction. You nod, surprised that he remembered the tiny corner café you mentioned once, months ago, almost in passing.
At the café, he orders for you exactly how you like it: the coffee temperature, the amount of foam, even the tiny sprinkle of chocolate you usually ask people to ignore when ordering for you because it was a minor hassle. You catch it, blinking, realizing he’s paying attention, not just polite attention, but the kind that requires remembering, anticipating, caring.
As you take your first sip, you notice how he watches you. Not in an obvious, intrusive way, but quietly, subtly, as if cataloging the small flickers of expression on your face. He notices the way your fingers curl slightly around the cup, the little tilt of your head when you smile at the first sip. You feel… seen.
The conversation is light at first, music you’ve been listening to, the café itself, jokes about the Valentine’s rush, but there’s a rhythm to it, an ease that surprises you. You start laughing at something he says, and the sound feels warm and natural. He laughs too, soft, careful, lingering just a second longer than politeness requires, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve known each other longer than the shop, the roses, the chaos of the day would suggest.
The café is warm, the smell of coffee and pastries soft around you. You stir your drink slowly, watching the cream swirl and dissolve, letting the gentle clinking of cups and low chatter fill the background. The date has been easy so far, comfortable conversation, small laughter, the quiet rhythm of walking side by side.
But then, unconsciously, the thought slips out.
“You know,” you say lightly, tracing the rim of your cup with a finger, “I still wonder who that rose was from… the note, I mean.”
Sungho’s hand freezes mid-motion as he lifts his cup. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just pauses, eyes flicking to you, and for a second you think he’s going to joke, deflect, say something light. But he doesn’t.
The quiet stretches, thick and almost painful. The warmth of the café, the cozy comfort you felt moments ago, it feels suddenly suffocating. The smile on his lips falters, just a fraction, and you notice it, though you try to ignore the small pang of unease that spreads through your chest.
“Oh,” you add softly, “I mean… whoever it was, they… really noticed things about me. Little things I didn’t think anyone would even remember.”
His gaze drops to the table, hands wrapped around his cup. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers, subtle but enough to catch your attention. He swallows, his voice low, careful. “Yeah… I can see why that would feel… special.”
You nod, tracing the edge of the table with a finger. “It’s… kind of amazing, actually. To have someone notice everything. And, well… to care enough to do something thoughtful about it.”
He doesn’t respond right away. He shifts slightly in his seat, tension coiling around him like a wire. Every word you say, every casual observation, feels like it presses against the lie he’s been holding, pretending the fake date is just fun, pretending he isn’t the one behind the note.
“I guess I’ll never know,” you say quietly, a small laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Maybe it’s better that way. A little mystery.”
His lips press together tightly. He nods once, slow, careful, almost mechanical. The wordless agreement feels heavy, suffocating. He wants to speak, to stop you from wandering into dangerous territory, to tell you, but the words die in his throat. The secret hangs between you both, thick and almost unbearable.
The clatter of a dropped knife somewhere in the café breaks the moment, giving you both a reprieve, but the tension doesn’t leave. You sip your drink, lost in thought, watching him across the table. The way his jaw tightens subtly, the way his eyes avoid yours for a heartbeat, these cracks, these tiny fractures in his composure, tell you something you don’t fully understand.
You continue the conversation, but the ease of before has shifted. Every laugh feels slightly cautious, every touch accidental yet deliberate. And somewhere deep down, even if you don’t realize it, the lie between you, the unspoken truth of the rose, the note, and the hands that gave them, is starting to suffocate both of you.
The date continues, but the cracks are there now, tiny fissures in the careful façade you’ve built together. And neither of you can fix them without shattering something precious.
The walk through the park afterward is quiet, serene. The streetlights cast golden reflections on puddles from the afternoon rain, and the city hum fades to a gentle backdrop. You walk a little closer than necessary, brushing his sleeve lightly by accident, or maybe not entirely by accident, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he subtly adjusts his pace, his attention entirely on you, making sure your steps align.
You glance at him, noticing the small, careful details: the way he tilts his head when he listens, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, the faint tension in his shoulders that relaxes when your hand accidentally brushes against his. There’s something tender, deliberate in every movement. Every gesture feels intentional, precise, but not forced, like he’s creating comfort without you even realizing it.
At one quiet moment, he pauses near a flower cart on the edge of the park. He points out a small patch of flowers you hadn’t noticed, telling you the names with a soft smile. “These remind me of you,” he says lightly, almost as if testing your reaction. You feel your chest warm, even as you laugh softly, brushing off the compliment, but you notice the care in his words, in his tone, in the way he waited to see if you’d notice.
The night stretches gently around you. You talk, laugh, walk, pause, and the pretense dissolves slowly, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t feel fake anymore. The small silences feel comfortable, not awkward. The shared glances feel deliberate yet effortless. The casual touches, the near-brush of hands, the way he anticipates your steps, they all combine to make something intimate, something soft, something real.
You walk through the quiet park, Sungho beside you. The streetlights glimmer softly on puddles from the afternoon rain, and the faint hum of the city is far away. Your shoulders brush slightly as you adjust your pace, and for a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.
Ahead, three teenage girls are sprawled across a bench, legs tangled together. Haeon spots you first and immediately freezes, eyes going wide with sparkles. She grabs Stormi’s sleeve and whispers furiously, which makes Stormi whip around way too fast.
“Oh my god,” Stormi hisses.
May leans forward, squinting, then breaks into a grin. She elbows the other two. “They’re so together… omg they are so cute!”
Haeon clamps a hand over her mouth, already giggling. “Stop- don’t look, don’t look.”
Stormi does anyway and immediately bursts out in a wrinkle. “They’re walking so close, look at his hand!”
The three of them dissolve into barely-contained laughter, whispers overlapping as you pass, none of them even pretending to be quiet anymore.
You hear it. Sungho does too. He glances at you, eyebrows raised slightly, a small, amused smirk tugging at his lips.
“They think we’re a couple,” you murmur softly, a little flustered, your voice just above the hum of the park.
Sungho doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you carefully, his gaze soft. “Do you… want to correct them?” he asks, his voice gentle.
You shake your head almost instinctively. “Not really,” you admit, a quiet smile curling your lips. “Feels… nice, somehow. Even if it’s not exactly true.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “I was thinking the same thing,” he says. His shoulders relax slightly, matching your pace. “If they see us that way, maybe it’s… easier. Comfortable.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. “Comfortable?” you repeat, a teasing lilt in your voice.
He shrugs, eyes glancing toward the bench the couple just left. “Yeah. Not fake, not forced. Just… feels right for now.”
You can’t help but smile at that, a light, quiet happiness that rises in your chest. The trio is gone, the park quiet again, but the warmth lingers between you. The walk continues, shoulders brushing lightly, steps in rhythm.
And for a little while, it doesn’t matter who sees what, or what the world assumes. For tonight, it’s just you and him, and that is enough.
By the time you head back, the bouquet from the shop rests carefully in your bag, the note tucked safely inside. You notice, without thinking, how natural it feels to walk beside him, to match your pace to his, to rely on his quiet attentiveness. Your chest feels lighter, your thoughts quieter, as though the night has washed away some of the tension you didn’t realize you were holding.
The night air is cool, but not uncomfortable. The walk back to your building was quiet, the soft hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog filling the spaces between your words. The bouquet rests carefully in your bag, the note tucked inside, and your chest feels a little lighter than it did before the date.
Sungho walks beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed but eyes quietly attentive. You catch him glancing at you now and then, small, careful looks that make your chest flutter even though you try not to notice.
“Well…” you start softly, a small laugh in your voice to disguise the nervousness, “I guess this is it. Back to normal tomorrow.”
He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Normal?” he repeats, a teasing lilt. “After tonight?”
You shrug, smiling lightly, trying to make it casual. “You know… fake date, you passing me my mystery notes, walking around the park… tomorrow we go back to whatever we were before.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, and shakes his head just a little. “Fake,” he murmurs, almost to himself, testing the word. “Right. Just… fake.”
You laugh quietly, letting it float into the night air. “Exactly. Totally fake. Nothing serious.”
There’s a pause, a silence that stretches as your steps fall in rhythm. The gentle glow of the streetlights casts long shadows, your shoulders brushing once or twice, accidental yet deliberate. You notice how natural it feels, how easy it feels, to walk beside him like this. Not as part of a date, not as a pretense, just… here. Together.
“You really didn’t send that rose, did you?” you say after a moment, voice light, trying to tease, trying to test the waters.
His jaw tightens slightly, just enough for you to notice. He swallows, eyes forward, hands still in his pockets. “I… didn’t say I didn’t,” he replies carefully, tone quiet, almost evasive. The lie presses down between you both, heavy and suffocating.
You shrug, smiling faintly, letting the words hang. “Guess some mysteries are better left unsolved,” you murmur. But even as you say it, a small part of you wonders.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His silence is loud, weighted, and you catch the slight shift in his step, the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze keeps flicking toward you, then away.
The rest of the walk continues quietly. You joke about the Valentine’s rush at the shop, laugh softly at the tiny chaos of the day, but underneath it all, there’s a quiet strain neither of you voices. The “fake date,” the unspoken feelings, the hidden note, it presses gently, insistently, against the edges of this easy intimacy.
Finally, your building comes into view. The warm glow of the entrance lights spills into the street, casting familiar shadows. You hesitate at the gate, feeling the weight of the evening, of the moments that felt real even if you called them fake.
“Well…” you begin, awkwardly, trying to fill the silence, “thanks for walking me back. I… really liked tonight.”
His gaze flicks to you, catching your eyes in the porch light. He smiles softly, a little shy, just enough to tug at your chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too. It… felt easy. Comfortable.”
You glance down at your feet, suddenly aware of how close he is. Your hands toy with the strap of your bag, fiddling with the bouquet inside, as if holding onto it gives you courage. “I- uh… I hope it wasn’t too much. The fake date, I mean.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, a quiet warmth in his eyes. “No. Not at all. It was… nice. I mean, it felt real, in a way. Even if it wasn’t supposed to.”
Your chest tightens a little at the words. You notice how deliberate his gaze is, how carefully he studies your face as though memorizing it. A shiver of something sweet and confusing travels up your spine.
“I guess… I should go inside,” you say softly, reluctant to break the moment, reluctant to step away.
He swallows, eyes flicking to the door, then back to you. His hand twitches slightly, brushing against the edge of the steps, almost like he wants to reach out, but doesn’t. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll let you,” he says, voice low, warm, careful.
You fumble the key card, and for a brief moment, the silence stretches between you. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks, but the air feels thick with something unspoken. Your shoulder brushes against his lightly as you step toward the door, and he doesn’t pull back.
Finally, you look up, and he meets your eyes with a soft, almost hesitant smile. “Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight,” you whisper, heart suddenly fluttering in a way that surprises you.
You’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment when the familiar voice stops you.
“Wait.”
You turn, and there he is, Sungho. Hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders tense just enough that you notice, eyes locked on you. The streetlight from outside spills over him, soft and warm, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the careful way he’s standing. Your chest tightens.
“Sungho?…” you start, but he shakes his head gently.
“I… I lied, I need to tell you something,” he says, voice low and steady, but there’s a quiver there too. “About the roses. The note. Everything. I need to tell you the truth…”
Your heartbeat speeds. You take a step closer, instinctively, and suddenly the pieces in your mind start shifting, tentative, like fragile puzzle pieces clicking together.
“You… what?” you whisper, barely trusting your own voice.
He swallows, eyes flicking to the floor for a second, then back up. “I sent them,” he admits softly. “The single rose… the bouquet… every note. All of it. I didn’t-” His voice falters slightly. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to pressure you.”
Something clicks in your chest. Your thoughts rewind, the first rose at the flower shop, the card you mentioned so casually to him, the way he’d always seemed a little too observant, the timing of the notes, the things only he could know about you…
You blink, heart hammering. “Wait… you?...”
He nods, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Me.”
The memory of the cards, the careful handwriting, the little details, the politeness and attention to you, suddenly feels alive in your mind. Every tiny moment, every word he’d written, begins to make sense.
You reach up, covering your mouth with one hand, not because you’re shocked, exactly, but because your chest feels like it might burst. “The note… it was you the whole time?”
He nods again, eyes soft but earnest. “I… I wanted you to notice the small things, the way you notice the world. I wanted you to feel seen. And I… I didn’t know how to say it out loud without making it… complicated. I didn’t want to ruin our… our easy way of being together.”
Your mind races. You remember the fake date, the subtle touches, the quiet moments in the park, the laughter that had felt so effortless. You recall the moments in the café when you’d mentioned the mysterious sender and he’d gone quiet, a small shift in his demeanor that had puzzled you.
Everything snaps into place. Every rose, every card, every little hesitation, every quiet look, they were all him.
“I… I can’t believe it,” you breathe, laughing softly, heart full and fluttering. “I thought… I thought it was someone else. Someone… bold. Someone who would actually say it.”
He swallows, voice barely above a whisper, leaning slightly closer, the faint warmth of his presence pressing against you. “It was me. I was the bold one… I just didn’t know how to be brave enough to tell you. I… I care about you, more than I should’ve tried to hide.”
Your chest tightens, a mix of awe, warmth, and the quiet ache of relief. The pieces of the puzzle, the small frustrations, the longing, the quiet tension, they all make sense now. And in that understanding, something soft blooms, steady and real, inside your chest.
“So all the notes… the roses… the timing… everything you did,” you murmur, voice catching a little, “it was because of me?”
“Yes,” he says simply, the word carrying weight enough to fill the silence around you. “Because of you. Always you. It was always you.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head in disbelief, tracing your fingers along the strap of your bag. “I… I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. I was so close, and yet-”
“You weren’t ready,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking on yours, full of quiet vulnerability. “I wasn’t ready either. I didn’t know if you’d feel the same. So I stayed silent. But I couldn’t anymore.”
You take a step closer, the warmth of his presence irresistible. “You didn’t have to,” you whisper. “I… I’m glad you did.”
For the first time, the tension, the secrecy, the small suffocating weight of the unspoken, all of it lifts. The hallway feels small, intimate, like it exists just for the two of you. You notice the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his gaze softens, the faint, quiet relief that washes over him.
“No grand speeches,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips, almost shy. “Just… the truth.”
And the truth is enough. Enough to make your chest warm, enough to make your heartbeat skip, enough to make the world shrink to the two of you in this quiet hallway.
Finally, you let yourself step closer, bridging the space between you. His eyes meet yours, soft and unguarded. And in the silence that follows, everything, every rose, every note, every hesitant glance, every “fake date”, falls into place.
You smile softly, whispering, “So… it wasn’t fake at all.”
“No,” he admits, quiet, steady. “Not at all.”
And in that moment, the world feels still, suspended in warmth and understanding, slow-burn emotions finally finding their release.
Without thinking too much, you reach up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, gentle and fleeting. His eyes widen slightly, a blush rising, and for the first time, his lips curve into a real, unguarded smile.
“You…I didn’t see that one coming,” he murmurs, voice low, a little breathless, but full of warmth.
You laugh quietly, heart fluttering. “No. But I’m glad I did it.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, voice soft: “I’m glad too.”
The hallway feels small, quiet, and intimate. Every tension, every secret, every unsent thought between you dissolves into that single, tender moment. And in that simple, fleeting kiss on the cheek, something delicate but unbreakable begins.
── ✦۶ৎ
The cool night air hits him like a slap, sharp and crisp, but he barely notices. His feet pound the pavement, echoing through the nearly empty streets. The world is quiet around him, streetlights flicker in the distance, and the faint hum of the city hums like a heartbeat, but all he can feel is the rapid thrum of his own heart.
Every step is urgent, desperate. He replays the evening over and over in his mind: the soft smile on your face in the park, the hesitant kiss you pressed to his cheek, the way your eyes widened when the confession landed. Every detail burns in his chest, and something tightens there, a mixture of relief and longing.
He can’t leave it like this, not yet. The notes, the roses, all the little gestures he’d sent anonymously… they’re pieces of him you’ve only just begun to see. And now, after finally admitting everything, he knows he has to finish what he started. He has to leave one last, undeniable mark: a card with his name on it, a gesture of honesty you can hold in your hands.
The city feels slower than usual, as though it’s holding its breath with him. His legs burn, lungs ache, but he doesn’t care. Every corner he turns, every street he passes, brings him closer to the shop, the place where it all began, where he can finally seal the story with a single, simple act.
He recalls the first rose he ever placed anonymously on the counter, the way he had carefully chosen the card, his handwriting neat, his heart quietly pounding every time he watched you notice. And now, after tonight, after the confession, he feels a mix of nerves and relief. This one… this one will have his name. No mystery. No hesitation. Just the truth.
A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, ruffling his blonde hair, biting cold on his cheeks, but he barely notices. All he can think about is the card waiting to be written, the words he needs to get right, the chance to show you completely, finally, that it’s all him.
The shop appears ahead, its windows glowing softly in the night. The sight makes him pick up his pace, almost running now, heart hammering like a drum. He bursts through the door without even pausing to catch his breath, warm air and the scent of flowers rushing to meet him. The quiet of the shop embraces him, familiar and safe, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions thrumming in his chest.
He drops his bag onto the counter and moves to the small desk in the corner, hands trembling slightly with excitement and nerves. The blank card waits for him, pristine, patient. He grips the pen, exhales slowly, and begins to write, the words flowing from a heart too full to contain anymore. Every line, every carefully chosen phrase, every dot and flourish of the pen is weighted with honesty, confession, and a quiet hope that you’ll feel exactly what he’s feeling.
And as he signs his name at the bottom, simple and unguarded, a soft smile spreads across his face. The chase, the confession, the longing, it all comes to rest in this one moment.
Sungho leans back in his chair, staring at the card, letting the quiet of the empty shop wrap around him. Outside, the night waits. But soon, he knows, you will hold this in your hands, and everything will finally, completely, make sense.
── ✦۶ৎ
Morning settles gently over the shop.
Sunlight filters through the front windows, catching on glass jars and pale petals. The air smells like paper and flowers and something familiar enough to feel safe. You step inside without thinking, the bell above the door chiming softly.
Sungho looks up.
For a split second, he just stares, like he’s still adjusting to the fact that last night was real. Then his shoulders loosen, and he smiles. Not careful. Not guarded. Just him.
“Good morning,” you say.
“Morning,” he replies, voice warm.
You drift closer, fingers brushing over the notebooks near the counter. The same ones you’ve always lingered over. Everything feels unchanged, except the space between you, thinner now, charged.
You turn.
He exhales slowly.
“I… wrote something for you.”
He reaches beneath the counter and brings out a single envelope. Cream-colored. Simple. Familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Your name is written neatly on the front.
And at the bottom
Sungho.
You don’t open it right away. Your thumb traces the edge, grounding yourself, before you finally unfold the card.
The handwriting is the same, careful, deliberate, but this time, it doesn’t hide.
I love you… God I really, really do. Ever since you stepped foot into the flower shop after a long shift, just hoping for peace. I love the way you smile, your dimples showing and the crinkle of your nose. I love the way you laugh, your laughter like a melody. I love when you talk about something you like, the way your eyes sparkle and shine. I simply love you, I have loved you since then and I will continue to love you, if you would let me.
I wanted to give you something that didn’t disappear.
Something honest.
It was always me.
And I don’t want to be anonymous anymore.
Your throat tightens.
When you look up, he’s watching you closely, not nervously, just openly, like whatever happens next is something he’s ready to accept.
“So,” you murmur, holding the card between you, “no more mystery.”
“No more,” he says quietly.
You step closer.
It feels natural. Like muscle memory. Like something you’ve been doing in your head for longer than you realized.
“Good,” you whisper.
You lean in first, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, gentle, almost testing. It lasts barely a second before you pull back, breath shallow, heart racing.
For half a heartbeat, he freezes.
Then his hands come to your waist.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just sure.
He steps into you and kisses you back, deeper this time, like he’s finally letting himself do what he’s wanted to all along. The world narrows to warmth and closeness and the quiet sound of your breath catching between kisses.
His forehead rests against yours when you part, thumbs still warm at your waist, like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet.
“…I’ve been wanting to do that,” he admits softly.
He laughs under his breath, relief and affection tangled together, and leans in once more, slower this time, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
You smile, fingers curling into his sleeve.
“Took you long enough.”
Outside, someone passes. The bell rattles faintly in the frame.
The shop stays the same.
But between you, everything has finally, unmistakably changed.
── ✦۶ৎ
EPILOGUE: (one year later)
February 14 / 1 year anniversary
Somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling like a habit and started feeling like the best part of my day. If I don’t write to you, love, it feels like I forgot something important.
Today wasn’t especially big, but we celebrated Valentine’s together, and it was perfect in the quietest way. You drank your coffee too fast again, even though I told you not to, and you promised you’d sleep earlier with that smile you use when you don’t mean it. Your coffee made us go back to your apartment because it caused you a stomachache. I watched you laugh at the little gifts I gave you, and I still waited until you crossed the street before turning back inside. I always do.
I think this is what loving you looks like now. Not grand gestures or perfect days, just noticing, just being here, and choosing you in all the small, ordinary moments.
If you read this tonight or save it for later, that’s okay. If you forget the date, that’s okay too. I just want you to know that today existed, that I got to spend it with you, and that I loved every second of it.
I’ll see you tomorrow, my love.
I love you.
— Sungho
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🎙️ Running a high school radio station isn't easy, but having an absolute jerk from the "rival" station constantly getting on your nerves is a thousand times worse. And that is exactly what Han Taesan is. A total. Jerk.
As Serenade High’s ultimate romantic, you've spent the last few years turning your station — Paper Hearts — into a sanctuary for love letters and gentleness. You're the “golden girl” everyone adores; you have friends everywhere and the entire school sees you as an angel. Well, everyone except for Taesan. As the owner of 1979, which airs right after you, Taesan is an insufferable, self-proclaimed “bad boy” who hates you for some reason — and obviously, you wouldn't hate him if he hadn't started it first. But now, thanks to budget cuts, you've both been kicked into the same time slot and forced to share one tiny studio. You're stuck between your desire to maintain your sweet reputation and the uncontrollable urge to shove a vinyl record down his throat, all while trying to survive sixty minutes of pure on-air hostility.
pairing — han taesan x f!reader
genre — rivals to lovers, rom-com (I try), ya, coming-of-age [tropes: grumpy x sunshine, academic rivals?, junior x senior (1 year age gap), forced proximity]
contents — mean behavior (mostly taesan), dark humor, motorcycle themes, underage drinking/smoking, heavy cursing, jealousy, height difference
status — ongoing!
note — hi everyonee, im back!!! ik it hasn't been long since I finished out of bounds, but I honestly just can't stay away from posting lol, I rlly want to thank my besties @haeonniie and @myungmyng for helping me with all their opinions, ilysmMMMM. as yk, eng is not my first language so pls don't mind my mistakes...
(p.s. my classes just started again so this smau won't be updated as fast as OOB was, but im going to post at least once a week!!)
currently reading: my lecture book y'all we're in the trenches genuinely haven't picked up fiction in a long time
last movie: rewatched spirited away!! a new movie tho would be turtles can fly (2004) and that... it was on my list for years but i finally got around to it a couple months ago (i know it's not recent but it's the most recent film i have watched lol uni and work has been ahh) and it stayed with me for a long, long while especially because of how wars have not stopped since and children continue to suffer under the tyranny of evil monsters calling themselves righteous
last series: rewatched some eps of bbc sherlock (my ride or die truly) but a new series i have started is idol i!! and!! it's saur!! good?? was not expecting to enjoy it as much as i have and am currently on ep 9 i think
last song: kill me by hayley williams
sweet or salty: yes
coffe or tea: absolutely
currently working: correct. hshshahah i kid i kid. actually been planning on a fic i had the idea come to me after watching better days (2019) the chinese film ((fic synopsis: a series of encounters between a drifter — young college student struggling to hold onto life with debts to pay off and secrets to hide — and a convenience store night shift worker who happens to be a secret superstar.)) but it's been sitting in the docs for two years now lol classic koishua behaviour are we surprised. the fic is mostly inspired by better days because of the characters' relationship, not much else because the themes are so heavy and real. so yeah. but also another fic exploring some mental health themes with yeonjun that's more likely to come out soon
tagging: @mosviqu @starriniqhts @kaikaikoi @armysantiny @freakydazai @ningtual @bywons (chat i lowkey wanna tag all mooties but it's been so long idek if y'all are activeeee if you see this consider yourself tagged mootie ps. are we still friends 🥹🥹 lowkey highkey need to get back on the friendship grind enough with the self isolation dhdhshhs mooties ily im coming for you)
tyty vie ml for the tag!! taking your consumed media as recommendations hehe
currently reading: ummm the only thing im reading rn is les lettres persanes by montesquieu 🤣 me when i only read for academia (fantasy come back i miss you...)
last movie: OOOOO idr..... maybe veer-zaara (2004) ? i loved srk and preity zinta in that omg
last series: oooo... um... currently simultaneously watching the second season of percy jackson and the olympians (2026) and the first season of derry girls (2018)!
last song: but sometimes live ver. (bnd) bc the live album HITSSSSS
sweet or salty: sweet !!
coffee or tea: OUGHHH i have been drinking more coffee lately but i think tea will always be more of a comfort to me <3
currently working: on my 100 follower event reqs!! but also my story for k-record's valentine's day event hehe 🤭🤭
currently reading: heavenly romance by moerosy nd pjo titans curse (STILLL jdhdhsjhs)
last movie: i dont watch movies often i kinda forgot jdhdjsjd ....
last series: finished pjo s2 last week 😛
last song: only ones who know by arctic monkeys
sweet or salty: sweet 😋
coffee or tea: tea all the wayy im not a coffee person and i just had matcha an hour ago (im not performative 🙏🙏)
currently working on: WELL. theres a lot. two requests, new chapters for my series', the beabadoobee fics, three gfrz fics, one myungnyangz, and a riwoo fic 😮💨
currently reading: i havent read a book in a while but the last thing i read was five feet apart
last movie: MARTY SUPREME!!! i loved it so much and wally (tyler the creators character) was my fav
last series: still watching weak hero, b99 and hxh!
last song: your best american girl by mitski
salty or sweet: yes
coffee or tea: tim hortons iced capps
currently working on: a few things actually! a vday fic for an event, my leehan smau, a woonhak that im gonna continue with in a bit, a collab?, and a new smau i have planned once i finish my leehan smau!
tagging: @gentiliana @lusayyawnn @coerbnz @miseulsoup @moesthinking @lovehakie @ziziforsan @moesthinking @taestulipss @himewonu @prodvie @haeonniie @myungmyng @chocosan44 @sa1nt-bambi @flowerstaesan @ihanzzn @verseofliz @miusoju and anyone else who wants to join!
currently reading: I have so many books on my tbr list, but the most recent thing I read was the physical copy of The Guy She Was Interested In Wasn't A Guy At All (green Yuri) manga vol 1 (Mitsuki pls hmu mamacita)
last movie: I lowk can't really remember but I think it was The Wizard of Oz
last series: rewatching Derry Girls (watch if ur also Irish pls) and I started watching Skins UK
last song: Take It Or Leave It by COIN
salty or sweet: depends on my mood, but mostly salty
coffee or tea: yeah we all know im picking coffee... hashtag caffeine addict. Also im picking the third secret option: REDBULL.
currently working on: valentines collab w haeon and stormi!! (promo ofc), new chapter of AUP (sorry for starving u guys ;-;) and I also have a couple random things that need finished ;)
currently reading: i haven’t started it yet but i js bought keeping 13 by chloe walsh cuz binding 13 was soooo good!!!!! im also reading my textbooks 😭 and im really into mangas so im reading some of my sister’s!
last movie: the chronicles of narnia!!! i rlly like the movies and im planning to read the book as well! i also want to watch the lord of the rings and hobbit (and read them!)
last series: bridgerton, jujutsu kaisen and yuyu hakusho!!!
last song: dear. my darling (live ver.) by BOYNEXTDOOR
salty or sweet: currently sweet!
coffee or tea: none tbh
currently working on: knight!sungho x princess!reader and ‘on air!’ <33
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