pairing: dr. choi beomgyu (neurology) x dr. reader (cardiology)
warnings/tags: doctor au, medical au, neurology x cardiology, hospital, enemies to lovers, fluff with smut, slow burn, workplace romance, neurosurgeon beomgyu, cardiologist reader, soft dom!beomgyu, established relationship, explicit, use of the petname ‘baby’
synopsis: you're the youngest doctor at the hospital, and you've worked hard for it. no patience for pretty brained surgeons who think they own the place. dr. choi beomgyu is exactly that. wonderful, annoying, with hands that can save lives at three in the morning but apparently can't stop stealing your coffee almost all the time.
─── ୨୧ ───
you've been fighting for two years. trading insults in hallways, pretending you don't notice how his scrubs fit or how he bites his lip like it hurts when he's reading your charts.
but when a bad night brings you together, things change because beomgyu doesn't want to fight with you anymore. he wants to know why you drink black coffee, why you have ink on your hands all the time, and why your heart beats fast when he's close.
and you? you're starting to wonder if his hands are really as skilled in bed as they are in surgery.
─── ୨୧ ───
the first time you meet dr. choi beomgyu, he's inside someone's head and you're trying to keep a patient alive.
not you personally. the patient. a kid on a motorcycle who hit a wall quite hard. you'd been called from your afternoon appointments to get to the trauma room. you arrived to find chaos.
"where's the brain doctor?" you snapped at the nurse, already gloved up.
"in surgery," she called back. "car accident, head injury, they took him up twenty minutes ago."
"and the other brain doctor?"
"stuck in another surgery. we've got the trainee covering, but..."
but. there was always a but in trauma case. you checked the patient yourself, confirmed the tear in his heart, stabilized him enough for the scan, then walked up to the surgery floor because if you were going to fix this kid's heart, you needed to know what his brain was doing first.
that's when you walked into the operating room without knocking, and found him.
he was young. younger than you expected for a brain surgeon with his reputation. top of his class, trained overseas, recruited back to build their strict program. you'd heard the gossip in the break room, the way the nurses sighed, the way even the tough emergency doctors spoke about him with respect.
he was also, unfortunately, gorgeous.
not in a soft way. in a sharp, and dangerous way. dark hair under his cap, focused doe eyes above his mask, long fingers working with a gentleness that seemed impossible given what he was doing. he was doing brain surgery, you realized, relieving pressure with movements so perfect they looked practiced a thousand times.
"pressure's dropping," the anesthesiologist said.
"give me two more minutes," beomgyu murmured, not looking up. his voice was lower than you expected, warm even through the mask. "i need to get this last clot."
you should have left. you should have waited outside, checked the board, found the trainee. instead, you stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching his hands move. steady, unshakeable, confident in a way that made something low in your stomach tighten immediately.
he finished, finally, stepped back, and only then did he look up. his eyes found yours immediately. dark, smart, stripping you bare.
"can i help you?" he asked, and there was something almost amused in his tone, like he knew exactly who you were.
"dr. choi," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "i'm dr. y/n, heart specialist. i need to know your patient's brain status before i fix his heart. if he's not going to wake up, i need to know now."
something flickered in his expression. surprise, maybe, or interest. he pulled down his mask, revealing a mouth that was unfairly shaped, soft lower lip and sharp teeth that showed when he smiled.
"dr. y/n," he repeated, like he was tasting your name. "the wonder kid from cardiology. i've heard about you."
"and i've heard about you," you replied. "the whole hospital has. something about a terribly handsome man and stealing people's coffee."
the nurses went very still. the anesthesiologist looked like she was trying to disappear.
but beomgyu laughed. it was a startled sound, and it changed his whole face from cold to something warm and approachable, being much more dangerous.
"i only steal the espresso," he corrected, pulling off his gloves. "and only when it's been sitting there for more than ten minutes. when it’s been abandoned."
"is that what they really teach these days? theft 101?"
"advanced theft, actually. with a minor in not taking shit from heart doctors who barge into my operating room." he stepped closer, and you realized with a jolt that he was tall, taller than you, which was rare, and he was using it to crowd your space in a way that should have been rude but instead felt like a difficult challenge. "my patient will wake up. brain activity is good, pupils responsive, and no brain death signs. i'll have him stable within the hour. does that meet your standards, dr. y/n?"
“yes.” you responded.
you turned and walked out then, spine straight, with your heart pounding against your ribs in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the way he looked at you.
that was two years ago.
now, standing in the break room at 6:47 in the morning on a tuesday, staring at the empty coffee pot where your coffee should be.
"looking for something?"
you don't turn around. you know that voice now. you know it in your sleep, unfortunately, you know the way it drops when he's tired, you know the way it sharpens when he's about to say something seriously cutting.
"my coffee," you say, keeping your eyes on the empty machine. "which someone drank. all of it. again."
"how tragic," beomgyu says, and you hear him moving behind you, the sound of his shoes on the floor. he's close now. "you know, there's a solution to this."
“enlighten me, doctor."
"make your own coffee. or…just throwing this out there, learn to share."
you turn then, and he's right there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, he looks tired. dark circles under his eyes, because he's been practically living at the hospital. there was a burst blood vessel last night, you heard. emergency surgery at two in the morning.
"you look like hell," you tell him.
"you look like someone who needs caffeine," he returns, and then he's reaching past you, into your personal space, brushing your shoulder with his arm, then retrieving a thermos from behind the microwave. he holds it out. "here. i made extra."
you stare at it. then you stare at him.
"what's the catch?"
"no catch. i'm being nice."
"you're never nice."
"i'm nice sometimes." he shakes the thermos, and you can hear the liquid inside. “no sugar. i've noticed you don't take sugar. probably because you're already sweet enough."
"that's disgusting," you say, but you're taking the thermos from his hand anyway. "was that a line? did you just try to flirt with me using coffee?"
"did it work?"
you unscrew the lid, then take a sip. it's perfect. exactly how you take it, exactly the right temperature, and the fact that he knows this, that he's memorized all of this without you even realizing, makes something flutter in your chest that you blatantly ignore.
"it was mediocre at best," you lie.
beomgyu smiles, slow and knowing. "you're a terrible liar, dr. y/n. has anyone ever told you that?"
"has anyone ever told you that you have boundary issues?"
"daily. usually by you." he pushes off the counter, and for a second you think he's going to leave, but instead he shifts, trapping you between the counter and his body in a way that should feel threatening but instead feels warm. "i have a consult in twenty minutes. patient with heart problems after brain bleeding. large bleed in the head, heart enzymes through the roof, and heart function down to thirty percent. your department's already involved, but i wanted to give you a heads up personally."
this is how it is with him. professionalism wrapped in closeness. you've learned to separate the doctor from the man, but some days the line blurs more than others.
he's looking at your mouth now, which you realize immediately, and you should move before it becomes something else, but you don't. you never do. "dinner," he says suddenly.
"what?"
"dinner. tonight. after rounds? there's a soup place near hongdae that stays open late, and i'm starving, and so are you. i'm tired of eating alone in the break room while you glare at me from across the table."
"that's not..."
"it is.” he glare. it's very intimidating.
you should say no. you've been saying no for two years, or at least you've been saying not yet, not now, not while we're colleagues. but his eyes are soft underneath all the annoying teasing, and you can see the exhaustion there, the loneliness that comes with being good at something that requires everything from you.
"just dinner," you say, and you're not sure if you're warning him or yourself.
beomgyu's smile this time is different. more real, something that reaches his eyes and stays there.
"just dinner," he agrees. "i'll meet you at the south entrance. 8:30. don't stand me up, dr. y/n. i have a fragile ego."
"you'll live," you say, but you're smiling too, and he sees it, and his expression shifts into something that looks a lot like hope.
he leaves then, finally, and you stand alone in the lounge with your coffee and your racing heart and the feeling that you've just crossed a line you can't uncross now.
─── ୨୧ ───
the patient is a disaster.
not the brain part. beomgyu fixed the bleeding by 10:00 in the morning. you spend six hours in the intensive care unit adjusting medications, watching the heart images closely.
you consider canceling. you're exhausted, covered in sweat, and your hair falling out of its tie. but when you check your phone, there's a text from an unknown number. "south entrance. i'll be the one in the leather jacket looking pathetic. don't worry, i showered. -b" and something in your chest loosens.
you change quickly, washing the hospital smell from your skin and changing into the spare clothes you keep in your locker. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and wince. you look like what you are. a doctor who's been awake for twenty hours, pale and bruised under the eyes, too thin because you keep forgetting to eat.
but beomgyu has seen you worse. beomgyu has seen you at three in the morning with blood on your scrubs and tears in your eyes because you lost a patient. he has seen you furious, you grieving, you competent and cruel. this tired woman is probably the most honest version of yourself you've ever shown to someone.
the south entrance is quiet at night, just the glow of the emergency lights and the occasional taxis passing. you see him before he sees you. leaning against the wall, he's on his phone.
then he looks up, and sees you and that smile that spreads across his face is so open, so relieved.
"you came," he says, pushing off the wall.
"you invited me."
"i invite you a lot. you usually find reasons to be busy." he falls into step beside you, and you're walking now, away from the hospital, into the night air that smells like rain. "how's our patient?"
"stable. for now. we'll need to watch her for the next two days. rebleed risk, blood vessel spasms. but her heart's recovering."
"because of you."
"because of medicine," you correct, but you're pleased despite yourself. "your surgery was clean. no leftover problems. she'll wake up if the brain lets her."
"that's the trick, isn't it?" beomgyu says, and there's something sad in his tone. "we fix what we can reach. the rest is just... waiting and hoping."
"you did everything right," you tell him, because you know that's not what he's saying but it's what he needs to hear. "the bleeding was unstoppable when she came in. she would have died without you."
"i know," he says, and it's not arrogant, just factual. "but knowing doesn't always help. at 3:00 in the morning, when you're staring at the ceiling in the on-call room, knowing doesn't make it easier."
you understand. you've been there.
the soup place is small, warm and steamy and smelling of broth and kimchi. beomgyu seems to know the owner. an older woman who smiles at him with real affection and leads you to a corner booth without asking for an order.
"he comes here after every big surgery," she tells you, patting your hand. "first time he brings someone. you must be special.”
"colleague," you say quickly.
"mm," she says, clearly not believing you, and bustles away.
"she likes you," beomgyu says, sliding into the booth across from you. the table is small, your knees brushing under it, and you don't pull away.
"she likes you. not me."
"no y/n." he's looking at you seriously now, all the teasing gone. "
the way he says your name. y/n, not dr. y/n, not the formal distance you've maintained for two years. it makes your breath catch. you've heard him say it before, in passing, in anger, but never like this. never like it's something precious.
"beomgyu," you start, not sure what you're going to say.
but then the food arrives. seafood soup for you, kimchi soup for him, rice and side dishes that give you time to compose yourself. you're starving, you realize, and you eat with the single-minded focus of someone who's learned to take food when it's available because you never know when the next emergency will pull you away.
beomgyu watches you eat with something like fascination. "you're the only woman i know who eats like she's performing surgery."
"precision is important."
"is that why you became a heart doctor? the precision of it?"
you pause, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. no one's ever asked you that. not directly, not caring about the answer. they ask about the money and the challenge. they don't ask about the why.
"i like rhythms," you say finally. "the heart has a rhythm. even when it's broken, even when it's failing, there's a pattern to it. you just have to learn to read it. brain work is... messier. electrical storms, chemical imbalances. the heart is mechanical. honest."
"and the brain is dishonest?"
"the brain lies. it tells you you're fine when you're bleeding out. it hides things. bleeding, tumors, memories. the heart just... beats. until it doesn't."
beomgyu is quiet for a moment, stirring his soup. "i think that's why we work," he says finally.
"what?"
"heart and brain. they're connected, you know. physically, through nerves. but also... metaphorically. you need both. the steady rhythm and the electrical spark." he looks up at you, and his eyes are dark, intense. "i think you're my rhythm, y/n. and maybe i might be your spark."
you stare at him, and you feel something shift in your chest. something that feels like the moment before a storm breaks.
"you're ridiculous," you say, but your voice is soft.
"probably. but i'm also right." he reaches across the table, and his hand finds yours, his fingers threading through your fingers with a confidence that makes you want to both pull away and lean in. "two years, y/n. two years of fighting with you, of wanting you, of telling myself that colleagues shouldn't, that we're too busy, too tired, too broken by this job to be good for each other."
"and now?"
"now i'm tired of waiting. i'm tired of pretending that what i feel when i see you is professional respect. it's not. it's... you're the first thing i think about when i wake up. not my cases. not my patients. you. the way you looked at me in that operating room, like you wanted to fight me and kiss me at the same time. i've been chasing that feeling for two years now."
your heart is beating now. his thumb is tracing circles on your palm, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"i don't do this," you whisper. "i don't date colleagues..."
beomgyu interrupts gently. "but you're allowed to have more. you're allowed to have this… to have me."
you should say no. you should pull your hand away. instead, you tighten your grip on his hand and say, "okay."
beomgyu's smile lit up immediately.
─── ୨୧ ───
the first time he kisses you, it's in the doctors' parking garage at 1:00 in the morning, three weeks after the dinner that changed everything.
you've been dating, if you can call it that. stealing moments in supply closets, trading texts that start with patient updates and end with "i miss you" and "when can i see you?”.
you've learned that he's gentle, underneath the arrogance. that he cries sometimes after bad outcomes, where no one can see him. that he's terrified of spiders and allergic to shellfish and that he became a brain surgeon because his grandmother died of a stroke when he was twelve and he couldn't understand why the doctors couldn't fix her.
you've learned that when he looks at you, he sees you. just you. the person who laughs at his terrible jokes, who brings him coffee when he's been in surgery for ten hours, who understands what it's like to hold a life in your hands and wonder if you're worthy enough.
tonight was hard. you'd called it at 12:47, and then you'd walked out of the trauma room and straight into beomgyu, who was somehow already there, already knowing and already reaching out for you.
he didn't say anything. he just took your hand and led you to the parking garage to his car, and he leaned against the hood and pulled you into his arms.
"i'm sorry," he whispered into your hair.
"i did everything right. everything. and i still..."
"i know." his hands were rubbing circles on your back, steady and warm. "i know, baby. i know."
you'd cried, ugly, loud and desperate, into his shoulder, and he'd held you through it, murmuring nonsense. pressing kisses to your temple, your forehead, anywhere he could reach.
and then you'd looked up, and he'd looked down, and the space between you had narrowed to nothing.
his mouth was soft. that was the first thing you noticed. how soft and careful he was, like he was worried you might break completely. the kiss was gentle and questioning. you made a sound against his lips, needy and embarrassing, and he responded by deepening the angle more, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, with his thumb stroking your cheekbone.
you could feel his heart beating against your chest.
when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours and whispered, "i've wanted to do that for two years."
"show off," you managed, and he laughed,
"i'm going to take you home," he said, and his voice was rough, wrecked. "and i'm going to pretend that i don't want to kiss you again. but i will. i want to kiss you everywhere. i want to learn every part of you."
your breath hitched. "beomgyu..."
"just let me take care of you tonight," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your jaw, then your throat, right where your pulse felt like it was going to pop out. "let me be good to you."
you nodded, unable to speak and he kissed you again, harder this time, with a slight edge of hunger that hadn't been there before. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel him. hard and hot against your hip and the knowledge that you did that. it made you dizzy.
"your place," you managed between kisses. "now."
he didn't need to be told twice.
─── ୨୧ ───
his apartment was small, cluttered with medical journals and coffee mugs. he led you to his room where a nice, polished bathroom was connected to. "shower first," he said, already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing a torso that was lean and softly defined. "you're shaking."
you hadn't noticed, but you were. the adrenaline was kicking you hard.
he drew you into the bathroom, started the water, and then slowly, and carefully began undressing you. his fingers were steady as they pulled your sweater up and pulled down your jeans. he unhooked your bra and stared carefully. "beautiful," he whispered, looking at you in the harsh bathroom light without a trace of self consciousness. "you're so beautiful, y/n."
"you're not so bad yourself," you said, and your voice was husky.
he smiled and stepped into the shower, pulling you in after him. the water was warm. he immediately reached for the soap, lathering his hands and running them over your shoulders, your back, down your sides. he washed you with a thoroughness that was half intimate, his fingers lingering in places that made you gasp at some moments.
when he reached your breasts, you moaned, head falling back against the tile. he made a soft sound that was almost pained, and his thumbs brushed over your chest.
"beomgyu," you whispered.
"let me," he murmured, leaning in to kiss your neck, your collarbone. "let me touch you. i've thought about this so many times… i thought about having you in my hands and making you feel good."
his hand drifted lower over your stomach, and you parted your legs without being asked. needy and desperate in a way you'd never been with anyone else before. his fingers found you, sliding through your folds with confidence that made you cry out, and then he was circling your clit precision.
"steady baby," he whispered, arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up. "i've got you. let go, baby. i've got you."
he worked you with his fingers, one hand holding you carefully while the other drove you higher and higher. he knew exactly how to make you feel relieved and you realized with a dizzying rush that this was what it meant to be with a man who made his living with his hands.
when you came, it was with his name on your lips, your body shaking against his and your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. he held you through it, kissing your neck, your face, whispering praise that made you blush easily.
"that was just the beginning," he said, and there was a promise in his voice that made you shiver.
he turned off the water, wrapped you in a towel, and carried you to the bed.
he dried himself quickly, then climbed onto the bed, settling between your legs. he kissed you again and you could taste yourself on his tongue, which somehow made you even more turned on. his hands were everywhere, learning your body, and mapping the places that made you moan and squirm and beg.
"please," you whispered, arching up into him. "beomgyu, please."
"what do you want?" he asked, voice rough. "tell me. i want to hear you say it."
"i want you inside me," you said, and the words felt filthy but right. "i want you to fuck me. please."
he groaned, the sound torn from his chest, and reached for the bedside drawer. he pulled out a condom, rolled it on with practiced ease, and then he was there, hard against your entrance. he entered you slowly, so slowly you thought you might die from it. inch by inch until he was fully inside, filling you in a way that made your eyes roll back. he paused, breathing heavily.
"you okay?" he asked. the concern in his voice was clear as day.
"more than okay," you whispered. "move, beomgyu. please."
he started slow, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was in its control. but you didn't want control. you wanted him wild and free, wanted him as undone as you felt.
"faster," you demanded, digging your heels into his lower back. "harder. i won't break."
he groaned, and then he was moving, really moving. "you feel so good," he panted, his thrusts becoming rough, losing their precision as his own pleasure overwhelmed him. "so tight, so perfect…fuck, y/n, i've dreamed about this."
"me too," you admitted, and it was true. you'd touched yourself to thoughts of him, memories of his hands, mouth, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him the most. "baby, i'm close. don't stop. please don't stop."
he reached between you, found your clit with his thumb, and that was it. you came apart, crying out his name. he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck and groaning as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering through his release.
for a long moment, neither of you have moved. he stayed inside you, breathing hard against your skin and you ran your fingers through his hair, holding him close.
"i love you," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it. "i know it's fast and i know it's crazy, but i love you. i've loved you for so long.
you felt tears prick your eyes, happy and overwhelmed. "i love you too," you said.
he pulled back then, smiling that soft, real smile that was just for you. he kissed you. "stay with me tonight. and tomorrow. and the next day. stay with me as long as you'll have me."
"that might be forever," you warned.
"good," he said. "that's exactly what i was hoping for."
─── ୨୧ ───
the first time you have sex in the hospital, it's six months later, and it's completely his fault.
you'd been dating openly by then, the hospital gossiped, of course, but you didn't care. you were happy and beomgyu was somehow even more insufferable now that he had you, constantly touching you, kissing you, bringing you coffee and lunch and little gifts he picked up on his way to work.
you'd just finished a difficult case, a heart surgery that had gone longer than expected, and you were exhausted and hungry and in desperate need of a shower. you stumbled into the on-call room, intending to nap for an hour before your next shift, and found beomgyu already there, sat on the couch, reading a journal.
"hey," he said, looking up with a smile that made your heart skip. "tough case?"
"the worst," you groaned, flopping down beside him. "four hours of trying to fix a valve that didn't want to be fixed."
"come here," he said, setting the journal aside and opening his arms.
you crawled into his embrace, burying your face in his neck, and he held you, one hand stroking your back, the other playing with your hair. you relaxed into him, feeling safe and loved.
"you're amazing," he murmured against your hair. "you know that? the way you work, the way you care. you're incredible."
"you're just saying that because you want something," you teased, but you were smiling.
"i always want something," he admitted, and there was a new tone in his voice, lower, hungrier. his hand moved from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "i want you. right here. right now."
"beomgyu," you protested weakly, even as your body responded to his suggestion. "we're at work. someone could walk in."
"the door locks," he said, and then he was kissing you, deep and dirty, his tongue sliding into your mouth that made you moan. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you on top of him, and you could feel him, hard and ready beneath you.
"you planned this," you accused, grinding down against him.
"maybe," he admitted, grinning against your lips. "or maybe i just can't be near you without wanting you. maybe you drive me crazy just by existing."
he placed you on his lap and his hands were everywhere, pulling at your scrub top, palming your breasts through your bra, you arched into his touch, already forgetting why this was a bad idea, already desperate for more.
he pulled your pants down, your underwear with them, and then his fingers were in you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars. you bit down on his shoulder to muffle your moan, and he hissed, the sound equal parts pain and pleasure.
"need you," you whispered. "beomgyu, i need you inside me."
he didn't hesitate. he reached for his wallet, pulled out a condom, and rolled it on with shaking hands. then he was guiding himself into you, filling you in one smooth thrust that made your back arch.
"quiet," he reminded you, his voice strained. "you have to be quiet, baby. can you do that?"
you nodded, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, and he started to move. it was fast and dirty, nothing like the careful lovemaking at his apartment. this was need. two people who wanted each other too much to wait.
he fucked you hard, harder than you could’ve ever imagined. he groaned as you continued to ride his lap.
"so good," he panted. "always so good for me. my girl."
"only yours," you agreed, and you were. completely, irrevocably his.
after, as he holds your waist while you rest your head on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath, he pressed kisses to your shoulder and your collarbone.
"i'm going to marry you someday," he said, casual and certain.
"is that a proposal?" you asked, smiling.
"no," he said. "that's a promise for when i propose, you'll know it. i'm going to do it right, but i'm telling you now, so you can start getting used to the idea. you're the one for me y/n.”
you kissed him then, and you knew, with a certainty that you would say yes. that you would spend your life with this man.
"love you," you whispered.
"love you more," he returned, and then he was kissing you again, forgetting that you both were still at work.
a/n: a request for anon! i was supposed to have this uploaded yesterday, but i kept proofreading due to being a nervous wreck because of the hospital terms i had to include that i am not that familiar with. i hope this is alright T-T. i apologize for any grammatical errors that i might’ve missed out on!
summary: in which you got yourself tangled up with geum seongje. at first, it was trouble. then, it became routine. until, somehow, you became the only thing he would bleed for—willingly, violently, without regret.
pairing: geum seongje x fem!reader
genre: romance, hurt/comfort, angst
word count: 6.2k
playlist: he was chaos, he was revelry
last.
you were crouched by the side of a quiet alley behind a convenience store, setting down a paper plate with tuna and a cup of water. a tiny stray kitten had been hanging around there lately, mistrustful, but hungry. you've seen it a few times and started bringing food when you pass by.
the kitten was peeking out from under a box, inching closer. you kept still, one hand out, speaking low and soft.
then, there was a crash. a loud bang echoed from farther down the alley, and the sound of something—someone—getting slammed into a wall.
the kitten bolted instantly, disappearing into a gap between buildings.
you groaned under your breath, standing up with an irritated huff. not only did it startle the kitten, but it also startled you. you almost stumbled from the shock of the loud noise, your heart pounding rapidly.
"what the hell..." you stepped a little farther out to see the source, and then you saw him. a tall guy, maroon uniform jacket slipping off one shoulder, face stretched, hair a mess. bloodied knuckles and eyes wild.
he wasn't from your school. and by the looks of it, his opponent was already down. two more stood at a distance, too afraid to move.
the man lifted his head once, cracking his neck. then his eyes landed on you. you didn't flinch. just stared with narrowed eyes.
"go start your fight somewhere else," you said evenly. "you're not from around here."
he raised his brows and stared like he hadn't heard you right. then he smiled, crooked and wild. the kind that says, 'you've just made things interesting.'
you turned your back on him and walked off, not giving him another glance.
he stared after you. not many people talked to him like that. even fewer walked away before he decided the conversation was over.
you didn't run, but didn't linger either. just walked like you had somewhere to be, like he wasn't worth wasting another second on.
his eyes remained on you, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. a faint cut on his knuckle stung, but barely noticed.
'go start your fight somewhere else.'
'you're not from around here.'
not a scream. not a plea. not even a threat. just pure irritation. like he was some dumb dog that pissed on your shoes.
his grin curled slowly, something unhinged hiding just beneath it. he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it. the flame briefly flickered across his face before he took a drag and blew the smoke out lazily.
he'd seen people cry, scream, and beg. he'd seen how most people either froze or ran when they saw him, faces tight with fear, eyes darting around. but you?
you looked at him like he was an eyesore.
his laugh came quiet. brief. half-laugh, half-breath.
feeding a stray cat, he thought, like it was some ridiculous joke the universe threw at him. you looked too soft for your own good, too normal, too boring.
so why did you stick?
he leaned his shoulder against the wall, just for a second. watched the street where you disappeared. his blood was still warm from the fight, but that moment? that edge in your voice?
it was the first time he felt interrupted.
not threatened, not challenged. just... like someone reached into his noise and pulled something to the surface.
he didn't know your name. but that was fine. he had time.
it wasn't the next day, or the day after. but seongje still found himself wandering near that same alley. always around the same time. leaning against walls with a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling above his head like a restless thought that wouldn't burn out.
he wasn't waiting, he told himself. he just happened to be here, just passing time.
he was mid-drag when he caught a flash of familiar movement. dark hair, a recognizable bag slung over one shoulder. you were crouched near the alley's corner again, opening a can of tuna. next to your feet was the same stray kitten from before, now a little less wary, its ears twitching.
you didn't notice him at first. he said nothing.
he watched you feed the kitten. your expression wasn't anything special, just calm, focused, lips pressed together in a straight line. but he stared like it was the most peculiar thing in the world, like you were something unreal.
then you sighed and sat back on your heels, that's when your eyes flicked up, and landed right on him. you tensed slightly, like you were trying to figure out if it was him or just some other delinquent in a maroon uniform.
it was definitely him.
"you again? you muttered, standing slowly, brushing off your knees. "don't tell me you're here to start trouble again."
seongje let the cigarette dangle loosely between his fingers, gaze half-lidded. "don't flatter yourself. this is my spot now."
you snorted. "your spot? pretty sure this alley existed before you."
a grin pulled at his lips, slow and amused. that sharp glint in your eyes was still there. that same irritation, not fear, not interest. just a girl who didn't give a damn who he was.
"you always talk this much when feeding cats?" he asked.
"no. just when someone interrupts." he laughed, quiet but real.
you moved to step past him, clearly done with the conversation. but before you could, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and said slowly, "you don't scare easy, do you?"
you paused. "i don't like getting caught up in situations like this."
you walked off before he could say anything else. same calm steps. same complete disinterest in him. he stared at the kitten as it ate.
for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel bored.
you were coming out of the convenience store with a yogurt drink in hand when you felt someone matching your pace beside you.
you didn't even need to look. you felt it, like the air shifted, a shadow slipping in just a bit too close.
"miss cat-feeder," came the drawl, smug and lazy.
you rolled your eyes and kept walking. "seriously?"
"you remembered me," he said, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly sideways to peer at your face.
"no. i remembered your stupid voice."
"ouch," he grinned. "you wound me."
"what do you want?"
"just walking. not allowed to exist now?"
"not next to me, preferably." he chuckled at that, keeping stride with you anyway.
he walked like he owned the sidewalk, like even the cracks made space for him. he kept glancing at you, amused by how hard you were trying not to look.
"don't you have school?" you muttered.
"skipped."
"of course you did."
there was a beat of silence before he casually reached out and tugged at the hem of your sleeve. "what flavor?"
you jerked your arm away. "touch me again and i'll pour this on your head."
his grin widened, eyes gleaming with delight. there it is. "you're fun."
"i'm really not."
"exactly."
you stopped in your tracks. he looked at you, curious. "look," you said, eyes flat. "i don't like hanging out with loud people. so if you're looking for someone to flirt with, pick someone else."
seongje stared at you for a second, unreadable. then he smirked.
"i'm not flirting."
"good."
"i just like watching you get pissed." and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands back in his pockets like he didn't just drop a live wire into your day.
you watched him go, jaw tight.
god, he is annoying.
and worse, he knew it.
your shoes pounded against the pavement, too loud, too fast. the voices behind you were still getting closer. slurred words, the kind that came with guys who had too much time and nothing to lose. you'd told them off when they first approached, sharp and dismissive like always. but these ones didn't like hearing 'no'.
you darted around a corner, trying to cut into a side street you didn't usually take, and slammed straight into a body.
you stumbled back from the force, hands catching yourself on the person's chest, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat.
"whoa there," a familiar voice started, light and teasing.
your eyes shot up.
geum seongje.
of all people.
he was in his usual disheveled uniform, cigarette tucked between his fingers, a faint smirk already creeping up like instinct. "you really can't stay away from me, huh?"
but you weren't listening. you glanced over your shoulder, eyes scanning the street you just came from, anxiety tightening your features.
seongje's smirk faded, just a bit. his eyes narrowed.
"what happened?"
"none of your business. i need to go."
you stepped to the side, trying to move past him but his arm shot out fast, catching you by the wrist. not hard. not enough to hurt. but firm.
his voice lost all its humor.
"who."
you jerked against his grip, frustrated. "just let me go. jesus christ."
he didn't. instead, his eyes flicked toward the corner you came from. and for a brief second, something flickered through him, that thing he tried to keep under the surface unless it was time to let it loose.
then he heard footsteps and voices getting closer. the guys rounded the corner, laughing, loud, eyes scanning.
and then they saw you.
and then him.
one of them started to speak, some dumb threat halfway out of his mouth when seongje stepped forward and flicked his cigarette.
"alright," he said, eyes gleaming now. "which one of you thought chasing her was a good idea?" his tone didn't rise. he didn't shout. but it was enough.
the shift in the air was immediate, like a wire pulled taut. the guys slowed, uneasy.
"you with her?" one of them muttered, trying to size him up. seongje's lip curled in amusement.
"nah," he said, rolling his shoulder. "but she ran into me. so now you've got a problem."
one of them laughed nervously, already starting to backpedal. but it was too late.
you didn't say a word. his posture changed, loose and wild, but sharp, like the crackle before a fire starts.
"stay behind me," he muttered without looking at you. you almost snapped at him.
i didn't ask for help.
but something in the way he said it—flat, final—made you stay put.
he didn't do it for gratitude. he did it because someone pissed him off. and right now, that someone was anyone who looked at you wrong.
they didn't get the chance to react further. not really, because seongje's already on them.
the first one barely managed to raise his arm before seongje slammed his fist into his jaw, the sound cracking through the alley like a gunshot. he didn't stop, he grabbed the guy by the collar, slamming his head against the wall once, twice, three times until he crumpled like dead weight.
the second guy tried to pull something, maybe a pocketknife, but he was too slow. seongje grabbed his wrist and bended it the wrong way with a sickening snap. the guy howled, dropping the knife, and seongje grinned wider.
the last one tried to run. he got maybe five steps before seongje tackled him from behind, dragging him down like a wolf ripping through prey. there was nothing clean about the way he beat him. just pure rage unleashed in fists, knees, elbows, and feet.
the alley was quiet again. the three guys were groaning, two on the ground and one stumbling away. none of them dared to look back.
seongje stood in the center of it, breathing a little heavier, the scrape on his knuckles raw and fresh. blood trickled slowly down his arm, but he didn't seem to care. not even a glance at it.
you stared. not because you were scared of the violence. you'd known what he was capable of. you'd just never seen it up close. not like this.
there was a kind of stillness around him now, but it wasn't peace. it was the kind of stillness right after lightning hits the ground. charged, dangerous, humming under the surface.
he turned toward you, running a hand through his hair. eyes sharper now, less unhinged than before, but still wild.
"you good?" you hesitated.
"you didn't have to do that." he shrugged.
"i didn't do it for you." you frowned, annoyed.
"then why-"
"they looked at you like they could touch you," he said, voice low and quiet. "i didn't like that."
it came out too calm. like he was just stating a fact. like it was that simple.
you stared at him. "that's not normal."
he tilted his head. "i'm not normal."
you stood there in the silence again, tension thick between you both. then he looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers once.
"you gonna keep staring, or you gonna say thank you?"
you exhaled sharply. "i didn't ask you to help."
his lip twitched. "you didn't have to."
you started walking past him, brushing your shoulder lightly against his arm. "don't follow me."
he didn't. but he watched you go. watched like a wolf who'd just caught the scent of something that didn't run fast enough.
and this time, it wasn't about teasing you for attention anymore. it was something else. something worse.
something's changed. it had been days. you hadn't seen him near the alley, near the store, nowhere. and honestly, you were glad. the fight had left a sour taste in your mouth. not fear exactly, but it reminded you of the line he walked. the kind of line that most people never went near.
so when you saw him again leaning against the vending machine right outside the store, your steps faltered.
he noticed, eyes tracking you immediately. not grinning, not talking. just watching.
you stiffened, but kept walking. no use turning back now. you passed him without a word.
"you're avoiding me," he said. you didn't stop. "smart," he added after a beat.
that did it. you turned slightly, arms crossed, tone flat. "what do you want now?"
he looked you over, slower this time. less playful. like he was measuring something invisible.
"you said don't follow you," he said. "so i didn't."
"and yet, here you are."
"i was here first."
you hated that he had a point.
he pulled out a soda from the vending machine and cracked it open, taking a lazy sip. "i scared you."
"no you didn't."
his head tilted. "but you looked at me different after that day." you didn't reply. "you don't like people like me," he went on. "you don't like what i do. the way i fight. the way i look at you."
your throat tightened. "you make it sound like i'm supposed to like it."
he smiled, small, almost secret. "you're not."
you sighed and turned away again, but this time, his voice became lower. less teasing.
"you're not scared of me," he said. "but you're careful now." you paused. "i get it," he added. "but you should know something."
"what?" you asked warily.
"i'd kill for you without thinking."
the words didn't sound romantic. they didn't even sound intense. they were just real.
heavy. simple. dangerous.
you looked at him. at the bruised knuckles, the lazy posture, the eyes that never stopped watching you. and for the first time, you didn't see an annoying prick. you saw the storm behind his grin.
you didn't say a word as you walked away. but you walked slower this time.
the sky was gray, and the wind carried that dry chill that always came with autumn.
you didn't mean to come this way. really, you didn't. but this street was quieter than the main road, and your head was already aching from a whole day of voices, noise, and pressure from everyone around you.
your friends had found out. not just about anyone, but him. a certain delinquent hanging around you. not just anyone either, but someone from the union.
they kept telling you the same thing. stop meeting him, cut him off, stay away before things got worse. that's all you've been hearing for days. from different mouths, but the same message, over and over. as if you hadn't thought about that already. like you hadn't been trying.
you were tired. bone-deep, soul tired.
and there he was.
same place. same vending machine. like he'd been waiting, but not really. like he knew you'd come eventually.
seongje glanced up, surprised, but only a little. his cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, his jacket loose, like he didn't care how cold it was getting.
you stopped a few steps away and didn't say anything.
he raised a brow. "lost?"
"no," you said, too flat, too fast.
he stared. then blew out smoke in a low exhale. "you look like shit."
you snorted faintly. "thanks."
he nodded toward the chair beside him. "sit if you want."
"i didn't come to hang out with you."
"didn't say you did."
still, you sat. not close, just near enough to feel the warmth of someone else existing beside you. near enough to not feel completely alone. you stayed like that for a while. nothing said.
then, without looking at him, you muttered, "why are you like this?"
his brow quirked. "like what?"
"crazy. violent. all of it."
a beat. then a shrug. "it's fun."
you sighed, frustrated but not surprised.
and then, so softly that he almost didn't hear it, you said, "you make everything worse. but today... i don't know. you don't feel loud." that caught him off guard.
he turned to look at you, cigarette paused halfway to his lips.
you didn't meet his eyes. you just sat there, face turned to the street. like this, quiet and tired and not trying to prove anything, you looked different.
more fragile. not weak, never that. but human.
seongje flicked his ash away. "stay, then," he said. "if it helps."
you didn't answer. but you didn't leave either. and for once, he didn't push you to speak. he just let you be. which, for someone like him, was a kind of affection.
the unspoken kind.
the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.
another day, and there he was again. it wasn't often that you saw him alone like this. really alone. no noise. no laughter. no fights.
just seongje, slouched low on the steps behind an old building, elbows on his knees, head tilted back like he was trying to drown in the grey sky. he didn't notice you at first, too wrapped in whatever chaos lived behind his eyes.
you should've kept walking. you meant to keep walking. but something stopped you. maybe it was the stillness. maybe it was the fact that for the first time since you met him, he didn't look like someone trying to stir shit up. he looked tired.
you approached slowly, footsteps soft. he heard you eventually, turning just slightly to glance your way. his usual grin didn't show up.
"you stalking me now?" he said, voice low, like he couldn't be bothered to make it sound playful.
"i was just walking by."
"uh-huh."
you didn't sit beside him. you stood a little off to the side, arms folded, eyes scanning his face. there was a bruise on his cheekbone, not fresh but healing, and a split on his lower lip.
"what happened this time?"
"some idiot." he muttered. "deserved worse than what he got."
you rolled your eyes. "that doesn't narrow it down."
he smirked faintly. but it didn't last. he looked back up at the sky. "ever feel like you're stuck in a room that's too small, and the only way to breathe is to break something?"
you blinked. that wasn't the answer you expected. you said nothing.
he let out a low breath. "yeah. never mind."
you hesitated, then stepped closer. not sitting, just standing near him.
"i don't get you." you said finally.
"good."
"but i care."
that made him look at you again. not with that lazy, cocky grin. not with the sharp glint he gave the people he was about to wreck.
just... eyes. dark, unreadable, confused.
"you care?" he repeated, almost mocking, but there was no real heat in it.
you nodded. "i don't want to, but i do."
the silence that followed was heavier than anything he could've said.
you rubbed at your sleeve, eyes darting away. "it's stupid."
he stared a second longer, then tilted his head. "i'm not gonna be good for you," he said flatly. no apology in it. just fact.
"i know."
"i'll hurt people."
"i know."
"i might hurt you."
your gaze snapped back to his. "then i'll leave."
a pause.
and for the first time, his expression shifted, something sharp flickering behind his eyes, like the idea of you leaving physically bothered him.
but you held his stare. "i don't deserve to be hurt by you."
he didn't answer. when you turned to go, he didn't stop you. he didn't grab your wrist. he didn't make a scene. he just watched you leave like someone who'd been left too many times before to call out now.
and that was how you knew it wasn't just some sort of game to him anymore.
it was supposed to be just another normal day. you were going to meet up with a friend from a different school. but somehow, word got around that you'd said something snappy to the wrong group of boys the other day, boys who thought they could intimidate you into taking it back. you didn't.
but now they were standing in front of you in the alley near the rear exit of the building. three of them, too close, too smug, and too stupid to understand that they were walking into something far worse than your sharp tongue.
because seongje had seen.
he wasn't supposed to be there. you didn't even know why he was around this part of the city. but the second his eyes locked on the scene, on you cornered, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched, something dark lit behind his expression.
he didn't run. he didn't shout. he just walked, calm as anything, like he had all the time in the world. the sound of his steps echoing on the pavement made all three boys turn.
"oi," he said, voice low and slow.
the boys stiffened. one of them scoffed. "the hell are you?"
seongje grinned cockily. "me? i'm geum seongje. you dumb fucks."
his name dropped like a dead weight. the air shifted. one of them paled a little, while another took an unconscious step back.
"oh—shit—" one of them muttered under his breath, recognizing it too late.
then his eyes flickered to you. "you okay?"
you swallowed. "i've got it."
"wrong answer."
he passed the boys like they weren't even there, stepping between them and you, like drawing a line they couldn't cross anymore.
"you wanna explain why the hell you're trying to corner mine?"
the word slipped out like instinct. your breath caught.
the boys hesitated. one of them backed up. the dumbest one laughed nervously.
"you serious, man? you dating this chick or something?"
seongje didn't answer right away. instead, he pulled out his glasses, the metal catching the light for a second. then, without a word, he took your hand gently, almost unnervingly so, and placed them in your palm.
"i don't repeat myself."
and that was the only warning they got. it wasn't a fight. it was a statement.
a clear, brutal, one-sided reminder that you were off-limits. that if they so much as looked at you again, they'd wake up in pieces.
he didn't let it last long. he didn't need to.
when it was over, and the three of them were groaning on the pavement, he turned to you, no grin now, just quiet breathing. without a word, he took the glasses from your hand and slid them back on.
"you didn't need to do that," you said quietly.
"they shouldn't have looked at you like they could."
"that's not how this works."
he glanced at you, sharp. "it is now."
you looked away, jaw tight. "you act like i'm yours."
another beat of silence. the only sound was the wind through rusted fences. and then,
"you are," he said simply.
you stared at him, your heart thudded too loud.
"you can't just—claim people."
"i can."
"why?" he held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his.
"you're the only thing i don't want broken."
he said it like it bothered him. like the truth of it irritated the hell out of him.
you didn't know what to say. so you didn't. you just walked beside him as he left the alley, silent. but this time, you stayed close.
and this time, he didn't grin. he just walked with you like he always meant to.
the day had been long. longer than you thought it would be. school, people, life. everything felt suffocating. your body ached, your mind was frayed, and every little thing seemed to pile on top of you until you could barely keep your head above water.
but then, through the haze of exhaustion, you saw him.
seongje, leaning against your school gate. unbothered and detached. his posture was casual, his eyes scanning the crowd of students coming out of school. but the moment your gaze locked onto him, your heart gave a small jolt of relief.
there. him. the one person who, for reasons you still couldn't fully understand, made you feel safe. your body seemed to move on its own, your feet carrying you toward him without a second thought.
and then before you could even process what you were doing, you were already running toward him, arms outstretched, chest tight from the strain of everything you'd been holding inside all day.
the moment you reached him, you didn't stop. you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest.
you hummed. the noise was quiet, like a soft sigh of contentment, and for the first time all day, your muscles finally relaxed.
his scent, the familiar warmth of him, it was like home. a feeling you hadn't known you were missing until it was there, pressing against you in a way you couldn't explain.
for a split second, everything felt peaceful. you could rest now. let everything melt away. with him, it felt like nothing else mattered.
seongje froze. his first instinct was to step back, to pull away, because this wasn't how things were supposed to be. but when you stayed against him, not saying anything, just holding him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, something inside him twisted.
what the hell?
he couldn't breathe for a second. your arms around him, your face buried against him like you needed him. like he was something more than just some crazy bastard. he didn't know what to do with it.
you were so soft against him. so warm. his heartbeat, which had been steady, quickened as your arms tightened just slightly. and his body, despite the automatic urge to pull away, instinctively responded, his hands hovering at his sides, unsure of where to put them, but not wanting to make you pull away.
his reaction was slow. he was staring down at you, his usual detached expression gone, replaced with a mix of confusion and something closer to... discomfort. he didn't know how to handle it.
finally, after what felt like an eternity, he placed his hand awkwardly on your back, barely enough to return the gesture, but it was something. just a gentle pressure, like he was trying to let you know he wasn't going to push you away. but he wouldn't pull you in either. not fully.
his voice came out rough, not because he was angry, but because he didn't have the words to make sense of what was happening. "you... okay?" he asked, his voice low. it was like he was trying to understand you better. trying, in his strange way, to care.
and when you hummed again, your body still pressed against him like you needed nothing more, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him. subtle, but undeniable.
he didn't say anything else, but he did one thing he never thought he would. he let you stay there, his hand still on your back, just enough to show that maybe, just maybe, he didn't mind you being this close.
thoughts had been swirling around your head. people already knew who you were, and the kind of connection you had with geum seongje. you'd been hearing disapproving remarks from people you knew, left and right.
but that wasn't what was bothering you. it was when one of your friends asked, "when did you even start dating geum seongje?"
you didn't know how to answer that. you weren't dating. were you even together? you'd been so focused on how you felt about him, so content with the time you were spending together, that you'd forgotten to ask the most important question.
where do you stand in his life?
so you finally asked, quietly. on a cold night, after one of his disappearances. you looked at him and said, "what are we, seongje?"
he didn't look at you right away. he just lit a cigarette, sat back like you didn't just ask something that's clawing at your ribs.
then, after a long pause, he said, "you don't need a label for something i'd kill over."
still too vague. so you pressed. "so that's it? you can show up and disappear and wreck people and i'm just... what? someone you know?"
now he's irritated. not because you're wrong, but because his feelings itch under his skin worse than blood.
he dragged you close by the wrist, eyes burning, voice low and rough. "you're mine. you're not like the others. you don't walk away from me. and i'll kill anyone who touches you."
it became even clearer in actions. he doesn't flirt with others. he doesn't sleep around. he shows up when you're hurt, when you need help, or even just when the silence gets too heavy. his violence becomes more controlled around you. his chaos pauses for you.
and if you ever try to walk away, not out of fear, but heartbreak, he doesn't beg. but he follows.
he shows up in the dark and says, "you don't get to leave. you're the only thing i don't want to break."
so no, you don't get a title. but you get certainty. the kind that claws into you and never lets go.
you were at seongje's place, curled up in the corner of his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, watching something on your phone. occasionally, you laughed, your brow twitching, your mouth tugging in little ways. you probably didn't know he was watching.
he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall. a cigarette rested between his fingers, forgotten halfway through.
it should've been just another moment. just another afternoon with you near. that's all it was. but it wasn't.
something cracked. it was quiet. internal. sudden.
he looked at you, really looked, and it hit him like a pipe to the chest. he'd always known you were different.
you didn't scream like the world did, you didn't beg to get closer to him, or flinch when he tore the world apart with his bare hands. you didn't reach to fix what couldn't be fixed.
you just were. and he couldn't fucking breathe.
he'd thought what he felt for you was already obsession. he thought the way he needed you around—the way his days didn't start right unless he saw your face—was already too much.
but this? right now? it was worse.
because you weren't even doing anything. you were just there, in his space like you belonged. and he couldn't stand it.
he didn't blink, didn't move. his heart was beating too fast, too heavy. like it was trying to get out of his chest, like it was trying to claw its way toward you.
you looked up at him, catching the stare.
"what?" you asked, your voice soft, lazy with comfort.
that was the final hit. his cigarette dropped to the floor. he stood and crossed the room in two strides.
you blinked and sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed. confused, then mildly concerned, because he wasn't saying anything. just looking at you like he was on the edge of something ugly.
"what is it?" you asked again.
he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands braced on the mattress like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"you," he muttered, low, dangerous, barely holding back the quake in his chest. "you don't even fucking know, do you."
you blinked in confusion, "know what?"
"that i'm already gone."
he leaned in close, breath warm against your skin. his hands were clenched on the sheets beside your thighs.
"i didn't think it could get worse," he said, tone ragged. "but it did. just now. just looking at you."
"seongje-"
he didn't let you finish. his voice came out lower. hoarser.
"i'd burn down everything. rip open anyone. just to keep this. you. whatever the fuck this is—"
he pressed his forehead against your knee. his voice dropped, barely a whisper now, like it hurt him to say.
"—it's mine."
your fingers moved before your words did. you reached out, slow and certain, and slipped your hand into his hair, like you knew something inside him was coming apart at the seams, and you needed to keep it from unraveling further.
you didn't flinch. didn't pull away from the sharpness in his voice or the weight behind his words.
instead, you curled your fingers gently against his scalp and said, soft but steady, "you don't have to break things just to prove you want to keep me. i'm not going anywhere."
that did something to him. his breath hitched, quiet, jaw clenched. you didn't treat his madness like something to be pitied or feared. you didn't try to fix it. you didn't flinch from the wreckage. you just understood it was there and touched it anyway.
his arms wrapped around your waist almost without thinking, head still pressed to your knee like it was the only place he could breathe.
then you said it, quietly. not to tease, not to demand. just honest. like it had always been true.
"you are my home."
and that was the thing that shattered him. because he didn't have a home. not really, never did. he was a creature built from chaos and flame and blood. the idea that someone could look at him and find rest?
it wrecked him in a way no fist ever could. his grip tightened. not out of fear of you leaving. but because you just gave him something he didn't know he'd been starving for all his life. and now that he had it, he'd kill the whole world before he let it go.
he didn't know what to say yet. so when you gently pulled him toward the bed, he didn't resist. he didn't say something cocky or crass like he usually would. he just let you.
you lay down first, guiding him beside you. he collapsed next to you like a man thrown off balance. arms still around your waist, his head buried against the curve of your neck. as if he could crawl inside your skin just to get closer.
your fingers ran through his hair, slow, rhythmic, soothing. the storm inside him didn't vanish, but it quieted. simmered.
your voice cut through the quiet, soft and careful. "do you love me?"
he froze. he didn't pull away, but he did stop breathing for a second. his gaze locked on yours, heavy and unreadable. then he took a slow breath, jaw tightening.
love? what the hell was that supposed to feel like? that was too unfamiliar. too soft.
he didn't know. he'd never had it. not from anyone. not for anyone. all he'd ever known was survival, pleasure, and pain. wanting things so badly he broke them just to feel something. hurting because it was the only way to know he was alive.
but this? this thing in his chest, this raw, aching, burning thing that only grew worse the longer you touched him, it was something else.
so he didn't lie. he didn't pretend. he spoke against your skin, voice hoarse and quiet.
"i don't know what love is. but i know i can't fucking stand the thought of you not being here."
another breath. he pulled you closer.
"you're the only thing that makes me feel calm and insane at the same time. you—" he exhaled, shaky now, like it hurt to say, "—you make me feel too much. and i can't stop it."
his fingers dug into the back of your shirt. possessive. desperate.
"i don't know if it's love, but i know this—you're mine. you've been mine since the moment i saw you. doesn't matter if you run, or scream, or try to tear me out of your chest. you're still mine."
"you're the air that i breathe," he said, voice dropping to a whisper, like a confession no one else was meant to hear. "and i'd tear the world apart to keep you. no hesitation. no mercy."
"when i look at you, it hurts." he said. "but i want that hurt. over and over again. you're the only thing i'd bleed for without thinking twice."
he let the silence stretch, like he wanted the weight of his words to press against you. crush you, mark you, bind you to him in the only way he knew how.
it was not a confession, but a surrender.
your chest tightened. your eyes stung. and you hated that they did, because you weren't sad. you weren't broken.
you were just... full. full of him. of this.
a shaky breath escaped you as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his eye, like you needed to touch something solid to believe any of this was real.
you smiled. small, trembling, but true.
"whatever it is you feel for me, let it consume you." your voice was steady, despite the trembling in your chest. "break for me. burn only for me. want no one else—because i don't want anyone but you."
he stared at you like you'd just taken the air out of his lungs.
"i don't care if it's wrong, or selfish, or if the world thinks i've lost my mind." your hand slid back into his hair gently. "you're mine, geum seongje. just as much as i'm yours."
his hands were already on your waist, but they tightened at those words, like something inside him finally snapped.
and he kissed you. it wasn't soft. it wasn't careful. it was desperate, like he needed to feel everything at once, like if he didn't press every inch of you into him, he might fall apart.
you kissed him back just as hard, just as aching, fingers curling in his hair like you could anchor the both of you with the weight of your want.
and in that moment, nothing else mattered.
not the danger in his eyes. not the chaos in his soul. not the way the world would look at you.
because you knew him. and you would choose him—still. every time.
for you, he would bleed himself dry a thousand times—willingly, completely, because he didn't know how not to.
can I request svt members seeing woozis s/o babying him ? like full on squishing his cheeks and stuff ^^
Soft Spot | idol!Woozi x Reader | fluff
The members of Seventeen were scattered around the practice room after hours of rehearsal, their laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. Some were stretched out on the floor, others drinking water or joking with each other.
Woozi sat against the mirror, towel around his neck, scrolling through his phone as if tuning everyone else out. His girlfriend slipped into the room quietly, but the moment her eyes found him, her whole face softened.
“Jihoon,” she said warmly as she walked over.
He looked up immediately, a little startled, and the corners of his lips tugged upward. Before he could even greet her, she crouched down and cupped his cheeks in both hands.
“You’ve been working so hard,” she cooed, giving his face a gentle squeeze. “Look at you, so serious. These cheeks don’t deserve all that stress. So squishy.”
The entire room froze.
“Are my eyes working right now?” Minghao whispered to Seungkwan.
“She’s squishing Woozi’s cheeks. In front of us,” Seungkwan whispered back, wide-eyed.
Woozi immediately flushed, pink crawling from his ears down his neck. He tried to bat her hands away, muttering, “Not here…” but she only laughed and squished his cheeks together until his lips puckered into a pout.
“Cute,” she teased. “My hardworking Jihoon is the cutest.”
Jeonghan gasped dramatically. “Woozi doesn’t allow anyone to touch him like that. We’re witnessing history.”
Joshua and Jun exchanged knowing smiles, trying not to laugh out loud, while DK clapped like it was the most entertaining show he had seen all week.
Meanwhile, Woozi’s girlfriend only giggled, leaning closer until her forehead rested lightly against his. “I’m proud of you. You did amazing today.”
He sighed, defeated, but his eyes softened at her words. “You’re unbelievable,” he mumbled—yet a tiny smile curved his lips.
The other members lost it.
“HE SMILED!” Vernon shouted.
“Hyung is officially whipped,” Mingyu groaned, collapsing to the floor dramatically. “And all it took was cheek squishes?!”
Woozi buried his red face in his girlfriend’s shoulder as if that could shield him from the teasing. “Can’t you all just leave already?”
But she only laughed, hugging him tighter as the room filled with noise and laughter. To everyone else it was shocking, but to her, it was just Jihoon—the boy who secretly melted every time she babied him, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
I've been thinking guys. Should I write like more serious stories like idk apocalypse n other shi. Like ugh idk how to explain it. Idkk like angsty kinda stories and au stories
Warning : This series deals with heavy themes including child neglect, parental abuse, and emotional manipulation. Keonho grows up in an environment where he’s mistreated, isolated, and used as an experiment by the reader’s father, so there are strong elements of toxic family dynamics and dehumanization. The story also contains mentions of death/murder, lab experimentation, and the ethical horror of being treated as a test subject. Emotional intensity runs throughout with misunderstandings, heartbreak, and betrayal alongside moments of comfort, rooftop stargazing, and eventual love. Expect angst, scientific body horror, and hurt/comfort, all building toward a bittersweet but ultimately hopeful resolution.
The first time you saw Keonho, he looked like a shadow in your doorway.
He was seven, same as you, but he didn’t look like a boy who’d been playing or laughing. He looked like someone who had been left out in the rain for too long, the drops clinging to his eyelashes and the soaked hems of his socks. His hoodie was too big, the sleeves nearly swallowing his hands, and his shoulders curved inward as if he wanted to fold into himself and disappear.
Your father’s hand was heavy on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Keonho,” he said, his voice flat, clipped, the tone he always used in the lab when talking about chemicals and failed results. “He’ll be staying with us.”
You’d been excited. The thought of another child in the house made your heart flutter. Someone to play with, someone who wasn’t made of stern frowns and cold rules. You tugged on your father’s sleeve and whispered, “Is he my new friend?”
Your father’s sharp eyes softened only because they were looking at you. “Don’t be silly. He’s not family.”
But to you, he became family anyway.
At dinner, you sat beside him, bumping your knee against his like you were sharing a secret. He didn’t look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the table, on the food he didn’t dare touch too quickly.
You pushed your extra piece of meat onto his plate when your parents weren’t looking.
He froze, his fork hovering, and finally glanced at you with panic as if he’d done something wrong. Then, barely audible, came his whisper: “…Thank you.”
His voice was too soft, like he wasn’t used to being heard.
Your parents never scolded you for spilling your drink or forgetting to say “thank you.” At most, they gave you small sighs and gentle corrections. But when Keonho’s elbow brushed a glass and water tipped across the table, your father’s palm cracked across the back of his head so hard the sound echoed in your chest.
You jumped to your feet, shouting, “It was an accident!”
But your father ignored you. Your mother’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “If he can’t learn precision,” she muttered, “he’ll never be useful.”
That word lingered in your ears long after the dishes were cleared.
You shared a room in the early years. Two beds, one window, one sanctuary. At night, the world shrank to whispers traded between you, laughter muffled under the covers.
But even here, the house weighed on him.
Your parents praised you endlessly, your neat handwriting taped on the fridge, your careful drawings stacked in folders, your voice reciting lessons with clarity. But when Keonho tried to show something a toy he fixed, a paper he worked hard on, even a shy song hummed from memory your father’s voice cut it down with a single glance. “Not good enough.”
He stopped showing them things. He started hiding the little victories the way he could climb higher in trees than anyone else, the way he could memorize entire passages in one read, the way he built tiny gadgets from scraps in the shed. Instead, he folded those victories into himself like secret treasures.
You caught him crying once, curled under his blanket, shoulders shaking. You didn’t think. You crossed the space, climbed onto his bed, and wrapped your arms around him.
“Why do they hate me?” he whispered, voice cracking.
You didn’t have an answer. So you said the only thing you could, “I don’t. I never will.”
He cried harder, but his arms wrapped around you in return.
Time passed. Your parents’ rules thickened like walls.
They never let Keonho play outside.
If you begged to go to the park, you could go but not him. Your father claimed he “wasn’t ready,” or that “the world isn’t safe for him.” Sometimes he would even say, “He’ll distract you.”
So Keonho stayed home, pressed against windowsills, watching you leave.
When cousins visited, they never knew he lived there. Your mother locked him in your room, the door bolted from the outside. “He doesn’t need friends,” she told you once when you cried and begged to let him join. “He needs discipline.”
Discipline meant chores that were harsher than yours. Discipline meant rules that only he could break. Discipline meant silence.
Your father let you sit on his knee while he explained experiments, while he drew neat diagrams in his notebooks. You felt important, chosen, special. But when Keonho asked what he was working on, the answer was a cold stare and a slammed book.
“He wouldn’t understand,” your father would say. “He doesn’t have the mind for it.”
But you knew the truth. You’d seen Keonho’s notebooks little sketches of machines, rewired toys, perfect copies of your father’s formulas written in a child’s hand. He was brilliant. He was just never meant to shine.
The older you grew, the more you noticed the contrast.
Your birthdays were filled with cakes and gifts, pictures taken in the living room with smiles your parents only wore for you. Keonho’s birthdays passed like shadows no cake, no presents, no acknowledgment except maybe an extra chore. You were the only one who remembered, sneaking him a cookie under your blanket, whispering “Happy birthday” while the world slept.
The house made him invisible, but you refused to let him fade.
Sometimes he’d rebel, in small ways.
He’d leave his chores unfinished just to sit with you a little longer. He’d hide his bruises under long sleeves, but you learned to find them anyway, pressing your tiny hands against the marks like your touch could erase them. He’d sneak into the yard when your parents were gone, running barefoot through the grass until he was caught and punished.
Each punishment carved him sharper, quieter. But each time, you were there sneaking into his bed, whispering jokes, telling him stories, holding his hand until his breath evened out.
You were his anchor.
He was your shadow.
Together, you built a world in the cracks of the one your parents controlled.
But shadows grew longer as you both aged.
Your father’s experiments expanded. He spent hours in the basement lab, muttering about “progress” and “the next phase.” You weren’t allowed inside, not unless he wanted to show off. But sometimes you heard the skittering of cages, the hiss of locked doors.
And sometimes, you caught Keonho staring at the basement door like it was waiting for him.
Your father hadn’t taken him in out of kindness. He hadn’t raised him like a son. He’d been grooming him, sculpting him, waiting.
And the spiders the ones you’d glimpsed in glass tanks with glowing abdomens and twitching legs were the proof.
The last straw came when you were twelve.
You’d been allowed to attend a school picnic. You begged your parents to let Keonho come. You begged so hard you nearly cried.
Your father’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t need friends. He has you.”
Your mother added, “Stop asking. You’re only making things worse.”
That day, while you laughed and played with classmates under the sun, Keonho sat locked in his room, watching the sky from behind glass.
When you came home, sunburnt and happy, he wouldn’t look at you.
“I wanted to be there,” he whispered when you crawled into his bed that night. His voice cracked in a way that made your chest ache. “I wanted to know what it feels like… to just be normal.”
And you realized your parents hadn’t just mistreated him.
They had stolen the world from him.
From then on, you promised yourself something: if they tried to keep him locked away forever, you would find a way to open the door.
Even if it meant breaking everything.
Because Keonho wasn’t “useful.” He wasn’t a tool. He wasn’t an experiment.
He was a boy who laughed softly at night when you told silly stories.
He was the boy who clung to you when he cried, terrified of being unloved.
He was the boy you refused to let disappear.
And even though you didn’t know it yet, your father’s obsession the spider glowing in the lab below, the experiments waiting in the dark would one day change everything.
For now, you only knew this,
You loved him.
And you would never let him face the darkness alone.
The years slipped by like pages turned too fast. One moment you were children whispering in the dark, the next you were both taller, your voices lower, your laughter carrying a different weight.
Keonho’s eyes changed first. They no longer belonged to a boy. They were sharp, cautious, older than they should’ve been. And yet when he looked at you, they softened — just a fraction, like you were the only piece of the world he could still hold without it cutting him.
You were fourteen the first time your father told him he wasn’t allowed at the dinner table anymore.
It was an ordinary night. Plates clattered softly as your mother set the table, her expression smooth, composed. You were about to call for Keonho when your father’s voice cut the air.
“He’ll eat in his room from now on.”
You blinked, stunned. “What? Why?”
Your father didn’t look up from his soup. “He’s disruptive.”
The word stung like a slap even though it wasn’t directed at you. Across the hall, Keonho stood frozen, half in shadow, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His face was blank, carefully blank, but you knew the silence beneath it was screaming.
“That’s not fair!” you burst out. “He hasn’t done anything!”
Your father’s gaze sharpened. “He doesn’t belong at this table. Don’t argue.”
And that was it. The decision was final.
Keonho disappeared into his room without a word.
You lasted all of three minutes before slamming down your spoon and storming after him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, untouched plate on the desk beside him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Eat,” you ordered, setting your own plate beside his.
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
“You’re lying.”
“I said I’m not hungry.” His voice was sharp, rough, like he wanted to push you away before he broke in front of you.
Your chest ached. Slowly, you sat beside him, nudging his arm until he finally glanced at you.
“They can’t take this from you too,” you whispered. “Don’t let them win.”
His throat worked like he was swallowing something heavy. Then, quietly, he admitted, “It’s not just the food. It’s everything. They don’t want me here, they never did. Every time I try, it’s never enough. Every time I breathe wrong, it’s wrong.”
You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Then I’ll make it enough. I’ll fight them, I’ll scream at them, I’ll make their lives miserable if I have to. But you’re not leaving me behind. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then his hand rose, hesitated, and finally rested lightly on top of yours.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
That night, you fed him with your own hands, tearing pieces of bread, sliding food across the plate, making him eat bite after bite until the tension in his shoulders eased.
And when he finally smiled small, tired, but real you felt like you’d stolen light back from the darkness.
The punishments grew harsher as you grew older.
If he forgot a chore, your father’s belt snapped against his back. If he spoke out of turn, your mother’s words cut like glass. If he looked too happy too alive it was crushed out of him before it could bloom.
And every time, you were there.
You learned to raise your voice against your parents, consequences be damned. “Stop it! He didn’t do anything!” “Why are you always blaming him?” “You don’t even see him you don’t want to!”
Sometimes it ended with you crying in your room, your parents’ voices echoing down the hall. Sometimes it ended with you sneaking bandages and ice packs into Keonho’s room, his skin hot and bruised under your hands.
“I can take it,” he would mutter, always stubborn.
“You don’t have to,” you always replied.
And every time, when you wrapped your arms around him, he sank into you like he’d been holding his breath all day and only now remembered how to exhale.
Despite everything, you grew closer.
There were moments your parents couldn’t touch stolen pockets of time where you carved a world only for yourselves.
Sneaking into the yard at midnight, lying in the grass side by side, counting stars.
Trading secrets in whispers, promises spoken like oaths.
Building silly inventions from scraps in the shed, laughing until your stomachs hurt.
You began to notice things you hadn’t before.
The way his hair fell into his eyes when he laughed. The way his voice deepened when he was tired. The way his hand lingered a little longer on yours, as if he couldn’t quite let go.
And sometimes, when he looked at you, the weight in his eyes wasn’t just sadness. It was something else something unspoken, something that made your heart stumble.
But neither of you said it. Not yet.
Your parents noticed your closeness, and they hated it.
They started separating you on purpose. Different chores, different schedules. They locked his door sometimes when guests came, pretending he didn’t exist. They scolded you when they caught you sneaking food into his room, warning that you’d “spoil him,” that you’d “ruin the discipline.”
You never stopped.
If he was hungry, you fed him. If he was lonely, you sat outside his locked door, whispering stories until you heard the faintest laugh on the other side. If he was hurt, you held him until he stopped shaking.
They could control everything else, but they couldn’t control you loving him.
The older you grew, the more you fought back.
“You treat him like he’s nothing!” you shouted once at dinner, slamming your fist on the table.
Your father’s jaw tightened. “He is nothing. He’s lucky to even have a roof over his head.”
“He’s more than you’ll ever see!” you fired back, voice cracking.
The silence after was heavy, suffocating.
Keonho left the room quietly, his steps soft, but you saw the way his hand clenched on the doorframe. You knew what it meant. Your words mattered. To him, they mattered more than anything.
Later that night, you slipped into his room. He was sitting on the bed, staring at his hands.
“You shouldn’t fight them for me,” he whispered.
“I’ll fight the whole world if I have to,” you said without hesitation.
His eyes finally met yours, and something burned there raw, desperate, almost unbearable.
“You don’t know what that means,” he murmured.
“Yes, I do.”
And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But what mattered was that you weren’t going to let him believe he was alone. Not then, not ever.
By sixteen, the house was a battlefield.
Your parents didn’t hide their contempt for him anymore. They ordered him out of family photos. They told him he’d never be “part of you.” They blamed him for things he hadn’t done, punishing him for accidents that weren’t his.
And still, you stood between him and the worst of it.
Every scar he carried, you kissed better with your hands. Every insult he endured, you countered with your loyalty. Every time he looked like he was breaking, you pulled him closer.
And he believed you. Because no matter how cruel the house became, you were the one thing they couldn’t take from him.
But the shadows of the basement lab still loomed.
Your father’s experiments were growing, the spiders restless in their cages, the notes filled with calculations.
But for now, you were both still here.
Two teenagers clinging to each other in a house that tried to tear you apart.
Two souls bound by the promise you’d made as children,
I don’t. I never will.
And in the quiet of your room, with his head resting against yours, you believed it more fiercely than ever.
He wasn’t nothing.
He wasn’t a mistake.
He wasn’t theirs.
He was Keonho.
The years didn’t soften the edges of your household. If anything, the older you and Keonho grew, the sharper everything became.
Your parents had stopped pretending he was simply a guest in your home. Now, he was a shadow, hidden behind locked doors when visitors came over, kept out of photographs, dismissed as though he was less than nothing.
And yet, in the private spaces between cruelty and silence, you and Keonho found your own world. A world where his laughter was real, where your arms were a safe place to land, where even the ugliest punishments couldn’t erase the truth that you carried him closer and closer with each year.
It often started the same way your father’s voice echoing through the house, sharp and scalding.
“Keonho! How many times have I told you—”
The slam of a book, a clatter of glass, your mother’s sigh.
You freezing in your room, knowing he’d done nothing worth the storm.
By the time you reached the hallway, Keonho would already be shrinking under their gaze, fists tight at his sides, head bowed in silent apology. You hated that posture. Hated how they’d trained him into it — the bow, the muttered “I’m sorry” that slipped out even when he wasn’t.
“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” your mother hissed once, after he’d dropped a single plate during dinner. Her tone was venom, but her eyes softened when they cut to you, “Sweetheart, finish eating. You did wonderfully on your exam today.”
When they ordered him out of the dining room, told him to eat later if at all, you snapped. “He’s not a dog,” you had said, slamming your chopsticks down. “He eats with me.”
Your father’s glare burned through you, but you didn’t flinch. You followed Keonho to his room, carrying your own plate with stubborn fingers. He tried to refuse, shaking his head, muttering, “Don’t.. don’t do this.” But you sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the spot beside you until he caved.
And afterward, when the house was silent, you whispered, “I’ll always sit with you. Even if it’s the floor. Even if it’s the dark.”
His answering look a small, fragile smile tugging at the corner of his mouth felt like the brightest rebellion in the world.
The roof became your sanctuary.
You discovered it by accident, one night after another shouting match. Keonho had disappeared from his room, and panic gripped your chest until you spotted him outside, climbing the side of the old shed to reach the roof.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” you hissed once you scrambled up beside him, the shingles rough under your palms.
He shrugged, lying back against the cool surface, eyes tilted toward the night sky. “It’s quieter up here.”
From then on, the roof was yours.
Some nights you lay shoulder to shoulder, trading stories about the constellations even though neither of you knew their names. You made them up instead — a crooked cluster of stars became the broken glass dragon, a streak of light became a runaway kite.
Other nights, you simply lay there in silence, listening to his breathing steady as the weight of your presence anchored him.
“Do you think,” he asked once, his voice tentative, “that somewhere out there… people like me get treated better?”
You turned your head to face him, close enough to see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Not somewhere. Everywhere. You just ended up here.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but instead he nodded, turning back to the stars. And that night, when you slipped your hand into his under the blanket of the sky, he didn’t let go.
Your parents grew more creative in their punishments.
When he laughed too loudly at something you said, your father ordered him to scrub the floors until his hands bled raw. When he accidentally left a light on, your mother locked him outside for hours in the rain.
You found him shivering on the back steps that night, soaked to the bone, his teeth chattering. Rage boiled inside you. You dragged him inside, ignoring your mother’s warning glance, wrapping him in one of your blankets.
“You’ll get sick,” you muttered, rubbing his arms, trying to coax warmth back into him.
His voice cracked when he whispered, “Why do you care so much?”
“Because if I don’t, who will?”
He stared at you, eyes wide, and for a moment you thought he might break. Instead, he tucked his face against your shoulder, trembling. You held him until the shivers stilled.
Not every moment was sorrow. Some became memories you both clung to.
The night you smuggled a candle and whispered stories until he laughed so hard tears slipped down his cheeks.
The time you baked cookies in secret, burning half of them, and he insisted the charred ones were “better” just so you wouldn’t feel bad.
The summer evening you caught fireflies together in a jar, watching them flicker like tiny lanterns until your father’s shadow appeared in the doorway and you smashed the jar to set them free, both of you running breathless and laughing.
The afternoon you gave him your favourite book, scribbling in the margins, “So you never feel like you’re reading alone.”
Each memory carved itself into the foundation of something neither of you dared name, but both of you carried in your bones, a bond forged in defiance, in softness, in stolen joy.
You started to notice changes in your father’s lab. Strange equipment arriving in crates, glass tanks filled with insects, files stacked high on his desk. You’d sneak glances when he wasn’t looking, catching glimpses of diagrams spiders sketched with red ink circling certain glands, words like mutation and enhancement.
Sometimes you caught Keonho staring too, curiosity flickering in his gaze. But whenever your father noticed, the punishment was swift a snapped order, a hand yanking him back, a scolding about “knowing his place.”
It unsettled you, though you didn’t yet understand why.
One night, after a particularly brutal argument where your father struck him hard enough to split his lip, you found Keonho hiding in the attic. He sat against a stack of old boxes, knees drawn up, blood drying on his chin.
Without a word, you knelt beside him, dabbing his lip gently with a cloth.
“Does it hurt?” you whispered.
“Not as much as being here,” he muttered.
You froze, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. And then you did the only thing you could — cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.
“I’ll never leave you,” you said, fierce, unshakable. “No matter what they do, no matter how hard they try to keep us apart. You’re mine, Keonho. Always.”
Something broke in him then. His breath hitched, his eyes brimmed, and before you could stop him he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. The closeness was dizzying, his breath mingling with yours, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.
And under the flickering light of the attic bulb, you both knew, whatever your parents had tried to break, you had already mended together.
You never meant to hear it.
It was one of those nights when the house was mostly asleep, the kind where even the clock’s tick felt loud. You had gone down the hall to fetch a book for some excuse to stay up anything to stall sleep that felt too close to the thought of what your father had been muttering about in the basement all week. He was obsessed lately, more so than before. Crates had arrived at odd hours, and sometimes, over the scrape of metal and the click of his workbench, you heard words that made your skin go cold.
You were halfway down the stairs when voices drifted up from the lab, low and clipped like two surgeons discussing a case. Your feet stopped, stubborn as a held breath. You couldn’t not listen. It was only for a second, you told yourself — but seconds were plenty. You pressed yourself to the wall and let the darkness hold you.
“…clean job,” your father said, the voice you’d learned to read like a ledger. “No loose ends. The accident expedited everything. He’s the perfect candidate.”
A second voice, muffled but urgent: “Are you sure about the timing? If anyone finds out—”
“They won’t. You know how I control perception. He’ll be useful, and he’ll never suspect where the help came from.”
The world tilted. Accident. Perfect candidate. Help came from him. Your heart knocked so hard you thought your ribs would split.
You should have stormed down and dragged the truth into the open, thrown those words in your father’s face and watched him crack. You should have told Keonho everything and held him until his heartbeat calmed and his hands stopped trembling.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you listened until the footsteps faded and the basement door thudded closed. The sentence ran in your head like an ugly chorus. He was the perfect candidate. The accident was not an accident.
You sat numbly on the bottom step for a long time. Images flared in your mind — the little boy at your door, rain stuck in his hair like a permanent halo, the way your parents had praised you and punished him, the neatness with which your father had folded cruelty into supposed care. It made a kind of horrible sense now. The “rescue,” the adoption, the way your father had always looked at Keonho like a problem to solve.
You clenched your fists until your nails bit your palms. You had to know. Proof. Something you could show Keonho without telling him the whole awful truth. Maybe if you found proof, it would make what you had heard real enough to fight.
The decision made itself for you in the silence of the stairs. You would go to the lab. Tonight. Alone.
Except that when you opened your bedroom door, there he was in the doorway Keonho, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if he’d woken with the same starless worry lodged in his chest.
“What are you doing up?” you breathed, before you could shut your mouth.
He blinked, and the old, familiar softness crossed his face. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get some air.”
“Come with me.” You said.
He brightened in the barest way, because curiosity had always been his first true joy. You almost laughed a tour to him of the lab would be magic, jars and strange machines, the hush of secrets. He loved the hum of the lab, the way it smelled like ozone and cold coffee. It meant being near your father’s brilliant mind, close to the thing that fed his hunger for understanding.
You told him it was a tour. “You’ll like it,” you promised. “But you mustn’t touch anything. Promise?”
He nodded solemnly the way he used to when you were children, still delighting in rituals. “I promise.”
And with that, you both slipped out into the dark together.
The back door creaked lower than usual. The air in the yard was sharp and smelled of late summer dust. You kept your shoes soft against the steps and moved like someone trying to vanish. Keonho followed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours sometimes, that contact kept you steady.
The basement door was as it always was, locked, but your father had a habit of leaving the second latch unsecured when he was distracted. You were clumsy with nerves and fingers, but the latch gave, and the door eased open with a breathy groan. The lab’s light pooled like a low-secret ocean at the bottom of the stairs.
It was always overwhelming, glass and metal and the glow of monitors that painted the room in sickly blues and greens. Jars lined a shelf like trophies bugs, insects, some with their limbs folded as if sleeping. There were notebooks stacked like small monuments to obsession. The smell of formaldehyde and something else, thinner and metallic, hung in the air, making the back of your throat taste like pennies.
“Keep to the edges,” you whispered, immediately regretting sounding bossy. It came out sharp. He flinched but complied, skirting the room with big, fascinated eyes. “Do not touch anything.”
He hummed a small, distracted yes. You moved with purpose, scanning the desk, riffling through folders with hands that trembled. Your father’s handwriting filled the pages — meticulous notes, digital readouts scribbled in urgent pen strokes. At first you found only weather logs and supply orders. Then, under a stack of photographs, your breath snagged.
A file labelled in a hand you knew well: SUBJECT: K — CONFIDENTIAL.
Your fingers hovered. Proof. Your heart hit the ribs of your chest like a caged animal. You opened it with the careful reverence of someone handling a living thing and found pages that smelled of bleach and old paper, case notes, medical scans, a cursory timeline of an accident, a list of genes highlighted in red. There were diagrams of spiders vector diagrams, injection paths, notes on augmentation.
Your hands were cold. You read the small, perfect handwriting, the way your father rationalized cruelty into progress. “Accelerate integration,” one note said. “Behavioural conditioning recommended. Candidate is docile, ideal for implantation.”
You felt your world fold inward like a closing book. Keonho was paper-thin in your memory, a figure cut out and positioned in the center of a plan. Your vision tunnelled until everything was the file and the words perfect candidate, accident expedited.
You’d barely closed the folder when Keonho’s breath caught behind you.
“Look,” he whispered.
You turned, headlamp of panic flashing, to find him at the shelf of jars. He was like a moth to a flame, eyes fixed on a particular container that you hadn’t noticed before — a glass cylinder with a spider coiled inside, its carapace gleaming with an iridescent, almost unnatural shimmer. The creature’s legs moved with tiny, precise pulses, and the container had warning labels printed in blocky red that your father, perverse in his humour, had ignored.
“Don’t—” you started, too late.
He reached out anyway.
You hated the way you watched him open the jar. Your ribcage clenched and time slowed to the point where you could count the exact second his fingers brushed the glass rim, could see the minuscule crack a hairline fault you’d missed widen. The spider’s front legs touched the air, as if tasting the outside world for the first time.
“Keonho!” you lunged, too late, the sound a raw thing thrown from your throat.
There was a sting, sharp and bright, and he cried out like something inside him had broken. He jerked back, clutching his hand to his chest, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and confusion. A dark bead of blood welled where the spider had bitten, and it looked obscene and tiny and impossible to the panic building in your bones.
“How could you,” you hissed through gritted teeth as if scolding might reverse the damage. Your voice was brittle with anger and fear. “I told you not to touch— why would you— why would you even—”
He ignored you because he couldn’t. Sound was breaking through him like glass. He stumbled, palms pressed to his wound. His breath came in short, rough pants.
“It… it’s burning.”
Adrenaline sharp as acid took over. You grabbed his wrist to tug him to the sink, water sloshing icy over his palm, but his fingers spasmed and he hissed. The skin around the puncture flushed faster than it should, reddening and swelling like something alive under the surface.
“Stay still,” you said, though your voice shook. You searched for bandages with shaking hands, cursing at yourself for being slow, for being stupid enough to bring him here. You were a thousand different people at once — protective fury, a small, screaming child, a detective who had just found a blueprint for betrayal.
“I didn’t know,” you snapped, but it sounded thin and helpless. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t touch anything.”
His jaw clenched, pain and shame warred on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I wanted to see. I thought—”
“Idiot,” you said, the word too sharp. It tore out of you like a blade. The instant it left your mouth you hated it, hated the cruelty of it, hated that the word existed between you and him. He recoiled as if struck, eyes stinging with surprise and hurt.
He didn’t cry. He trembled. Sweat beaded on his lip. The swelling around the bite grew, a slight black ring formed at the puncture point, something you recognized from old nature books but had never believed would ever belong to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, voice small as a coin.
“Because you promised,” you said, and that was all. You scrubbed at your palms uselessly, angry at yourself for failing him in the most stupid, avoidable way. You had meant to be his saviour. Instead you had walked him into danger.
He whimpered once, the sound a small boat with a cracked sail. He tried to stand and toppled backward onto a chair. His skin had gone clammy, and his breath hitched you could see the shallow pulls, the way he was getting pale.
“Stay with me,” you ordered, because ordering things felt like control. You shoved a hand into your pocket for your phone, fingers trembling. Reception was thin in the basement, the battery read low. Panic made your mind a fractured mirror — you thought, don’t call your mother, don’t call father, don’t, because what if they came and took him? What if this was exactly what your father had meant by “candidate”? The word echoed in your head with ugly clarity.
You stared at him, at the thin dark outline of the bite, at the way his eyes kept darting to the jars like he expected more spiders to crawl out. You should have done the reasonable thing. You should have dialed, let professionals handle the poison. But another thought, ugly and animal, pushed itself forward, if your father saw him at a hospital, if medical records linked this to something in your house, what would that mean? What would he do?
Keonho’s skin flushed brighter, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. You wrapped your arms around him on impulse, the way you had a thousand times when he came back from punishments. He clung to you like a drowning thing. You felt his heartbeat thudding fast, uneven, as if each beat wanted to slip out of his ribs.
“It’s okay,” you lied, because the only lie you had that sounded like hope was the easiest to speak. “It’ll be okay.”
He stared at you, distrust and aching hope braided so tight it hurt. “Promise?”
You wanted to promise so badly you could taste it. Instead you asked the only honest question you could, “Do you remember anything about the bite? Any numbness? Any taste? Did you feel strange before—”
He shook his head, eyes wide and luminous. “It was just a pinch. Then— then it burned.” He trembled again. “My hand’s hot.”
You ripped open the drawer for gauze. Your hands were clumsy and too loud. You wrapped his hand and held it, breath pressed to his forehead. You wanted to be both small and enormous small enough to keep him safe in a pinch, enormous enough to tear your father’s mind out of his chest and burn it.
You wanted to tell him everything you’d heard tonight. But fear curled up and swallowed the words. If you told him, what would you become? A daughter betraying her father. A traitor to your entire life. A child who had always had one foot in your parents’ world.
He coughed once, a small, choking sound, and you flinched. The skin around the bite started to discolour, mottled as if bruises were blooming below the surface. He looked younger suddenly, like someone twelve again, like the boy who had come into your life with rain in his hair.
Panic sharpened into a hard-edged resolve. You had promised you’d protect him. You would keep that promise, even if it meant lying.
“Okay,” you said, the word a blade and a salve. “Okay. I won’t tell him.” Your voice trembled, but the decision was made. You would do it your way. You would keep him, hide him, nurse him in secret until you both could figure a plan. You would be a little thief of safety and a liar for love.
You pulled him into a tighter hold, feeling the tremor in his body under your arms. You tried to coax a laugh, a memory, anything to distract him. You told him a stupid story about two cats you once imagined breaking into the lab and filing the spiders’ teeth down. He managed a watery smile. For a brief, ridiculous moment, you were back on the roof, staring at the stars. You imagined the bite as a bad dream that would dissolve under morning light.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the hollow of your throat. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly.
You didn’t believe him. You would never believe him. But the lie soothed him, and for now, that was all you had.
You wrapped him in a blanket you stole from your room and carried him awkwardly up the stairs, every shadow on the landing a verdict. You could hear someone moving upstairs in the sleep-dulled house the creak of a floorboard, the distant hum of the refrigerator and you imagined your father’s measured voice booming from the kitchen, We have a problem.
If you carried him out into the world, you would have to answer questions. If you kept him, you would be complicit in secrecy. Either way, you were standing on the edge of something that would not let you step back.
On the landing, you paused. Your hands were shaking so badly you dropped a bandage and it fell to the floor between you. Keonho’s breath hitched at the sound.
“We’ll hide it,” you whispered, and your whisper had the authority of someone who had made a choice and could not take it back. You would nurse him. You would keep him out of doctors’ records. You would keep the secret in your chest and wear the guilt like armor.
He nodded against you, too weak to protest. In the dim light, your shadow and his were a single thing on the wall two shapes tangled in a promise.
You couldn’t imagine, not yet, how much the choice would cost. You couldn’t imagine how the bite would change him, how your father would call it progress or a loss, how the lab would hum with plans you had only just barely begun to understand.
For now, you carried him up the stairs, through the house that had taught you how to look at someone like a problem to be solved. For the first time, you felt the tremor run the other way, you were the one who would not let him be solved. You would keep him. You would fight. You would hide.
And when you tucked him into his bed, palm wrapped around his smaller one like a vice, he looked at you with a tired, stubborn sincerity and whispered, “Thank you.”
You sat by his bed until dawn, fingers folded around his like you were binding him to the world. You watched the slow rhythm of his breath, leaning in to catch any change because knowledge had become your weapon and your curse.
It was only the beginning. The bite had bitten deeper than skin. It had bitten the fragile balance that kept your life where it was. The secret was a living thing now, and it had teeth.
You promised yourself you’d find the truth and you’d bring it to light. You promised Keonho you would fix him. You promised that you’d never tell him you’d heard the words that started the whole rotten plan.
But promises are small things when compared to the machine of your father’s genius. The lab hummed in the daylight as if nothing had happened. The spider slept in its jar, a tiny, dangerous thing. You had bitten off one of the threads of your life, and it was unravelling faster than you could sew it.
In the thick, quiet grey before morning fully held the world, you held his hand and vowed to yourself, to him, to a future that had no name yet that you would not let him be taken. Not by design. Not by accident. Not by anyone.
You didn’t know how to fight what was coming. You only knew one thing with the ferocity of young stubbornness, you would not let go.
It started the morning after the spider bite.
Keonho tried to laugh it off at first — brushing at the swelling on his hand, mumbling something about “clumsy me” when you fussed over it. But within hours, his skin turned clammy, his breath shallow, a fever burning high under his flushed cheeks.
By nightfall, he was trembling so violently in his bed that you sat pressed against him, wiping sweat from his forehead, your own heart racing with dread.
“Shh.” You hushed him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “I won’t. Just rest.”
But as he dozed in and out of delirium, something gnawed at you. Something bigger than just a fever.
The bite had been wrong. The way the spider had lunged, the way it glowed faintly under the lab’s fluorescent lights. And more than that — the words you’d overheard days earlier, your father’s hushed voice in the study, “The boy is perfect. Strong enough. Resilient enough. Just like his parents before the accident…”
You hadn’t told Keonho. Couldn’t. Not yet. But the words clawed at you now as his fever burned higher.
That night, when the house finally quieted, you slipped from Keonho’s room. His shallow breathing followed you down the hallway, a tether pulling at your chest.
The basement lab was colder than you expected, steel and glass reflecting the dim yellow light of the overheads. You crept between shelves lined with specimen jars, centrifuge machines humming faintly, stacks of binders piled haphazardly.
You headed straight for your father’s desk.
The first drawer was locked. The second, too. But the third gave way under steady pressure. You froze as the contents spilled forward, thick files, a lab notebook with a cracked spine, and loose photographs.
You spread them across the desk, heart pounding.
The first file was labeled in bold,
PROJECT ARA-09: ARACHNID NEUROTOXIN HYBRIDIZATION
You skimmed the jargon, words leaping out at you like blades:
Your father had been breeding spiders — not ordinary ones, but engineered killers, their venom rewritten with precision gene-editing to bypass normal limits. And worse, he’d already chosen his “human trial candidate.”
The second folder chilled you even more. It wasn’t scientific it was personal.
Incident Report: Case #17-031
Date: [Redacted]
Subject: Termination of Assets [L.N. & M.N.]
You scanned the page, stomach twisting.
Vehicular accident staged at coordinates [REDACTED]. Toxin delivery administered via compromised brake fluid reservoir. Casualties immediate. Secondary target retrieved (male child, age 6). Psychological profile: malleable, dependent, resilient under duress. Suitable candidate for long-term conditioning.
The names hit you like stones. L.N. & M.N. — Keonho’s parents. The “accident” wasn’t an accident at all. It was your father’s doing. Their deaths were calculated, orchestrated.
And Keonho? He wasn’t just some unlucky orphan taken in out of pity. He was chosen. Handpicked.
The word “candidate” bled through the page, burning into your mind.
You forced yourself to keep reading, hands shaking as you flipped to the lab notebook. Your father’s handwriting sprawled across the pages, clinical and cold.
Day 43: Hybrid venom extraction successful. Strain demonstrates neurotoxic properties mimicking latrotoxin but with enhanced synaptic binding affinity. Excitatory neurotransmitter release prolonged beyond lethal threshold.
Day 57: Subject K.H. observed in routine household tasks. Physical resilience and healing response notable. Unaware of conditioning. Psychological tether to [redacted: “Y/N”] complicates isolation strategy.
Day 70: Predicted compatibility high. Proceeding toward exposure phase. Spider #12 marked for trial.
Your breath stuttered. Spider #12.
You saw it so clearly now — the jar Keonho had touched, the spider that bit him. It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t random curiosity. It was part of your father’s design.
You sat beside Keonho until he drifted into uneasy sleep, his hand twitching occasionally, sweat soaking the pillow.
And then you just… sat. Watching him. Feeling the weight of every word you’d read pressing against your chest.
Your father had killed his parents. He had raised Keonho like livestock, grooming him for this moment. The bite wasn’t an accident — it was the beginning.
And Keonho didn’t know. He was still looking at you with trust, still leaning into your touch like you were the only safe thing in his life.
You swallowed hard, fingers brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.
“I’ll carry this for you,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t need to know. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.”
His lips parted slightly in sleep, his face softened, and for a fleeting second you could almost believe he was just a boy — your boy — safe in his bed.
But you knew better. You’d seen the truth.
And you would burn with it, alone.
The truth didn’t stay quiet in your chest for long. It burned. It clawed. Every time you looked at Keonho’s pale, fever-slicked face, every time his hand twitched in his sleep, every time he whispered your name with blind trust… you thought of the files, the staged accident, the word candidate.
And you snapped.
It was past midnight when you stormed into the study. The door slammed so hard against the wall that your father jerked upright from his papers, his pen clattering to the floor. His eyes narrowed when he saw you.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded, voice edged with authority.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice came out sharp, almost breaking. Your hands shook as you slammed the files onto his desk, papers spilling like spilled blood. “I know everything, Dad. All of it.”
He didn’t move. His gaze flicked to the files, then back to you, calm, calculating. “And what is it you think you know?”
“Stop pretending!” you shouted, shoving the top document toward him. “Project ARA-09. The experiments. The spiders. Keonho—” His name cracked on your tongue. “You’ve been raising him like some… some test subject. He’s not your son, he’s not even human to you. Just a body to poison. A tool.”
Your father’s jaw tightened. “Keep your voice down.”
“No!” Your voice broke into a scream. “You killed his parents! You staged that accident, you poisoned them just to take him for yourself—”
The words echoed in the room, jagged and raw.
Something flickered in your father’s eyes — not guilt, not shame, but a dark sort of pride. “So you really did go digging.”
Your chest heaved. “How could you? How could you look at him — a little boy who lost everything — and decide to use him like this?”
“Because he was perfect,” your father said simply. Coldly. Like it was the most logical thing in the world. “You don’t understand what resilience like his means. He survived what others wouldn’t. He’s strong. Stronger than you’ll ever realize. That kind of potential is wasted if you don’t harness it.”
“He’s not potential,” you snapped. “He’s a person. He’s—he’s Keonho. My Keonho. And you destroyed his whole life before it even began.”
For a moment, silence filled the study, heavy and suffocating. Your father leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And what exactly do you plan to do with this knowledge, Y/N? March out there and tell him? Do you think he’ll thank you for confirming his parents were nothing more than pawns in a deal that went bad? That his entire existence here has been orchestrated?”
Your throat tightened. “I plan to stop you.”
His laugh was sharp, humourless. “Stop me? You? You’re a child clinging to sentiment. You think feeding him scraps in secret and whispering promises in the dark will save him? You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
Rage surged. You grabbed another stack of papers, hurling them at him. “You’re a murderer! You’re a monster! You killed his parents, you made him suffer, you—”
“You read what you weren’t meant to read,” your father interrupted, his tone slicing through your fury. “But don’t pretend your hands are clean. You knew. You kept quiet.”
“I was trying to protect him!”
“By lying to him?”
The words struck deep. For the first time, your anger faltered. You had no answer.
And in that crack of silence, you didn’t notice the sound at the door.
Keonho leaned weakly against the wall, his body still trembling from fever. He had followed the shouting, drawn by the sharp edges of your voice, the breaking of something sacred.
He had heard enough.
You killed his parents. You staged that accident.
He’s not your son, he’s just a body to poison.
I was trying to protect him.
By lying to him?
The words looped in his head, each one heavier than the last. His vision swam, but he couldn’t look away from you standing there, facing your father, clutching those papers like weapons.
You knew.
You’d known, and you’d said nothing.
He didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t wait to. He stumbled back into the shadows before you could see him, before the truth in his eyes could give him away.
Back inside the study, you were shaking, your chest aching with fury. “This ends now,” you whispered, though your voice had lost its strength.
Your father’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly, as if you were the one to pity. “You’ll understand one day. Everything I’ve done has been for progress. For power. He’s not your responsibility, Y/N. He’s my experiment.”
“Don’t you dare call him that,” you spat.
But your hands trembled as you gathered the papers, clutching them to your chest. You left before your voice cracked again, before your father could see the tears threatening your eyes.
When you slipped back into Keonho’s room, he was in bed, still and silent. His face turned toward the wall, his breathing steady but shallow. Relief flooded you, thinking he had slept through everything.
You sat quietly on the edge of the mattress, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “I’ll fix this,” you whispered. “I’ll find a way to make it right. I swear.”
He didn’t stir. Didn’t turn toward you.
You kissed his temple softly, your chest breaking with the weight of what you’d said, of what you hadn’t.
“I’ll protect you,” you promised.
But in the quiet of the room, with your back turned, his eyes opened.
No warmth. No trust. Just the hollow ache of betrayal gnawing at him from within.
You didn’t see the way he stared at the ceiling, your words echoing like knives, You knew. You kept quiet.
The trust you’d built together since childhood splintered in silence.
And you never even knew he’d heard.
The house was still. The kind of silence that pressed heavy against the walls, broken only by the faint hum of the air vent. You stirred from restless sleep, something gnawing at the edges of your chest. A wrongness. An ache that told you to move, to look, to search.
Your feet padded softly against the cold wooden floor, carrying you down the hall. The light under Keonho’s door was dim, flickering faintly — a lamp, not the overhead. You frowned. He should’ve been asleep. He needed rest, not more nights of wandering wakefulness.
You pushed the door open quietly.
And froze.
Keonho was hunched at the edge of his bed, fingers trembling as he zipped up a worn backpack. His face was pale, sheen of sweat glistening at his temple, hair sticking messily against his skin. His body swayed faintly, weak, yet every line of him was taut with determination.
“Keonho?” Your voice cracked on his name.
His head snapped up. For a fleeting second, his dark eyes widened — caught — then shuttered quickly, hard and cold. “Go back to bed.”
You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” His tone was clipped, brittle like glass. He shoved another shirt into the bag, not even folding it.
Your chest tightened. “You can’t. You’re sick, you—your fever hasn’t broken, your body—”
“I’ll live.”
“No, you won’t!” You moved forward, trying to tug the bag from his hands, but he jerked it back, stumbling a little. The weight was too much for him, yet he clung to it like a lifeline. “Keonho, stop this. Please. Talk to me.”
His laugh was bitter, sharp. “Talk to you? That’s funny. You want me to talk after all this time you’ve been lying to me?”
The words landed like a punch. “What?”
“I heard you,” he snapped. His voice shook with fury, but there was a deeper crack beneath it — something raw, something bleeding. “The fight with your father. Everything. The accident. My parents. All those files.” His hand clenched around the strap of the bag. “You knew.”
Your heart dropped. “Keonho…”
“No!” His shout was ragged, splitting in his throat. “Don’t say my name like that, like you care. All this time I thought you were different, that you were on my side, that maybe you were the only thing in this house that was mine. But you knew the truth and you kept it from me.”
Tears stung your eyes. “I was trying to protect you.”
He laughed again, hollow. “Protect me? By lying? By sitting there and feeding me scraps while your family treated me like dirt? You were just like them. Smiling at me, whispering promises, but the whole time you knew I was nothing more than their project.”
“That’s not true!” You reached for him, desperate, but he recoiled like your touch burned.
“Don’t.” His voice broke. His eyes, usually soft when they met yours, were blazing now — not with hatred, but with a pain so deep it made your chest ache. “Don’t touch me. Don’t act like you didn’t look at me and see pity.”
“I never pitied you,” you whispered, your throat raw.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” His words cracked. “Why did you let me believe they just… died? Why did you let me think I still had something left in this world, when the truth was that I was stolen?”
Your lips trembled. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to lose you—”
“You already did.”
The silence after that was deafening.
Your hands shook, tears slipping freely down your face as you tried again, voice pleading. “Keonho, please. I swear, I didn’t mean for this. I wanted to tell you, I just—I needed the right time. I didn’t want you to hurt—”
“I’ve been hurting my whole life,” he whispered, and the way his voice cracked made your chest split open. He shoved the bag over his shoulder, nearly stumbling under the weight, but he caught himself. His eyes met yours one last time, and they weren’t the boy’s eyes you’d grown up with. They were shattered glass, reflecting a thousand cracks you couldn’t piece together.
“Stay out of my way.”
You stepped in front of the door, desperate. “You can’t leave. Please. If you walk out like this, I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said flatly. Then, with a sharp movement, he shoved past you. His shoulder collided with yours hard enough to stagger you, and before you could grab him, the door clicked shut behind him.
You stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything. Your fingers brushed the wood of the door, but you couldn’t bring yourself to open it. Couldn’t bring yourself to run after him, to drag him back by force.
Because his last words still hung in the air, heavy and final.
You already did.
The house remained silent. Your parents never stirred.
Only you, alone in the darkness, tears streaming as the weight of his absence settled over you.
And outside, Keonho disappeared into the night — fever burning, body failing, but his resolve unshakable. The boy who had once been your closest friend was gone, swallowed by the same shadows that had raised him.
Reader and Martin are friends who lowkey (highkey) like each other
The practice room was quiet except for the beat of the music echoing from the speakers. You had been running the choreography for hours, trying to perfect every detail for your group’s upcoming comeback. Your body was tired, but your mind wouldn’t let you rest.
When you finally paused to catch your breath, the door opened with a soft creak. You turned, startled, and saw Martin step in, holding his phone and a small bag. His eyes widened a little when he spotted you.
“Oh y/n” he said, almost sheepishly. “I didn’t know you were here.”
You blinked, still catching your breath. “Neither did I… well, I mean, I didn’t know you were coming.”
He gave a small smile, closing the door behind him. “I was looking for a quiet place. Guess I wasn’t the only one.”
The silence stretched for a second before he walked over and set his bag on the floor. “You look exhausted,” he said gently, noticing the sweat on your forehead. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a cold water bottle from his bag and held it out to you. “Here. Before you collapse.”
You accepted it with a grateful smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
Martin sat down against the mirrored wall, patting the spot beside him. “Come on. Sit for a bit. You’ll burn yourself out if you keep pushing like that.”
You hesitated, then sank down beside him, the cool floor soothing against your skin. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He leaned his head back against the mirror, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
“You always push yourself too hard,” he murmured.
You let out a small laugh. “Says the one who’s always in the studio until sunrise.”
He chuckled softly, then turned serious, his voice lowering. “I just… don’t want you to forget that you’re already amazing, even before the comeback.”
The words caught you off guard, making your chest feel warm. You stared at him, trying to find something clever to say, but instead whispered, “You really think so?”
He met your gaze, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “I know so.”
For a moment, the practice room didn’t feel like a place of stress or pressure. It felt safe. Warm. Your shoulders relaxed as you leaned a little closer, and without thinking, Martin reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
The music in the background faded into nothing, and all you could hear was your heartbeat.
“Thank you,” you whispered, a little breathless.
Martin’s eyes softened. “Always.”
The two of you sat there in the quiet for a while, the hum of the air conditioner filling the room. It was strange—usually the practice room felt like a battlefield, a place where you fought with yourself to get everything perfect. But with Martin beside you, it felt calmer, lighter, like the weight on your chest had been lifted.
He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles, and glanced sideways at you. “You know,” he said with a playful smirk, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit still for this long.”
You rolled your eyes and nudged his shoulder lightly. “I can sit still. I just… choose not to most of the time.”
“Mm-hm,” he teased, his grin widening. “Sure.”
You laughed softly, and the sound seemed to make his eyes brighten. For a moment, you caught him just staring at you, like he was memorizing the way you looked right now—messy hair, tired eyes, and all.
“What?” you asked, suddenly shy under his gaze.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, though his smile was gentle. “Just… I like seeing you like this. Not the idol on stage, not the perfectionist in practice. Just… you.”
Your heart skipped a beat at that, warmth rushing to your cheeks. You didn’t know what to say, so instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder. His body stiffened for half a second in surprise before relaxing, his head tilting slightly toward yours.
“You’re warm,” you murmured, half teasing, half admitting how comfortable it felt.
He chuckled softly. “Good. Stay there then.”
The minutes passed quietly, the world outside forgotten. Martin absentmindedly played with the edge of your sleeve, his touch light, almost shy, but comforting. Eventually, your eyelids grew heavy, and before you realized it, you were drifting off against him.
When you stirred awake, the room was dimmer, the sun already dipping outside the windows. You blinked and sat up slightly, only to notice Martin had fallen asleep too—his head resting gently against yours, his expression soft and peaceful.
You smiled to yourself, a small flutter in your chest. For the first time in weeks, you weren’t thinking about mistakes, deadlines, or pressure. Just this moment. Just him.
And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind the thought of more evenings like this.
Hello!!! I’m not sure if you decided if you were writing for cortis yet or not but if you are, could you write something for Keonho (i’m so hyped to have a kpop ground the same age as me!)
| warnings. murder, horror & gore, loser and loner!jisung, suggestive content, jisung is literally a psychopath, knife play, graphic depiction of blood & wounds, mention of depression, jisung is lowkey in love idk. this is quite heavy; please don't read if you're sensitive! you've been warned.
| wc. 3.1k
a.n.: happy 1 year to hencheri <3 this is purely fictional don't pmo ty!!
leaning over his car, jisung watches you walking up to him, a radiant smile on your face. he reciprocates, but his mouth doesn’t stretch as high, barely so. you’re wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with your college’s logo on it. he notices your nails are painted white, a different colour as they were yesterday. it’s pretty, he thinks—you’re pretty.
“hey,” you softly greet him once you’ve reached his car, holding your textbooks in your arms.
“hey,” jisung says back once he pushes himself off his car, eyeing you down, staring at your legs. they’re clean, totally flawless, no trace of any accidental scratch or bruise. a blank canvas. he looks back at your face a second after, a faint smirk drawing on his lips. “ready to go?” he asks while opening the passenger door for you.
you nod your head, slipping your backpack off your shoulders before climbing inside. you throw your stuff onto the backseats so you don’t have to put it at your feet and he takes the driver seat, shutting the door, making himself comfortable. he lowers both of your windows to allow the wind to enter the car.
“is our destination still a secret?” you giggle, looking at jisung as he turns on the engine and swiftly pulls out of the parking lot.
“still is.” he doesn’t glance your way as he answers, stopping at the stop sign before taking the right turn.
he told you yesterday that he wanted to show you a place—he wasn’t specific nor too vague, just giving enough details so you wouldn’t be suspicious. you agreed as expected. he said it was a surprise, insisting on the fact that you couldn’t tell your friends—or anyone—about it. not even mention that jisung was bringing you somewhere. you should’ve been worried then, realized that something was weird, but you’re so kind. too kind for your own good.
he can’t really blame you, though. you and jisung have been friends for a couple of months now and he’s been nothing but a good man (your own words). why wouldn’t you trust someone who’s proven to you countless times to be a reliable friend? why would you ever be suspicious of him?
it’s okay to be naive, jisung tells himself. your innocence is admirable to him, it’s precious. too bad it’s also deadly.
at the beginning of the year, jisung was assigned to be your tutor. you struggled in most of your classes and needed some help to get your grades up. you’re so friendly that only after a few meet-ups, you were already hanging out outside campus, introducing your friends to jisung and his to you, even though he doesn’t have as many.
he quickly realized that he was looking forward to your meetings. he was eager to see you, to hear your voice. he knew you felt the same, too. it wasn’t hard to tell; you wore more makeup the days he was tutoring you, bringing him cookies and pastries, even asking him what his favourite dessert was and cooking it for him. even flirting with him and acting shy about it.
he appreciates the attention, he won’t lie. it’s flattering to have a girl as sweet as you attracted to him.
“we make a cute pair,” you said once when you were sitting at a picnic table on campus, textbooks open in front of you. you were repeating what your friends told you and the smile on your face was adorable. he caught himself staring at you, and then he thought to himself that, indeed, you’d make a cute couple.
jisung is now driving onto the high road, tall pine trees surrounding you, streaks of the sunset flashing through the thick branches. the full moon can be seen above you, the sky clear and blue. it’s not an uncommon scenery for you, but you didn’t think jisung would bring you that far away from the city.
he glances your way and you’re looking out of the window, your eyes following the electric poles by the road. the sound of 80s rock music on the radio fills up the car, matching the current mood. it’s a tuesday evening so the road is practically empty, having only passed by two cars.
then, jisung sees far away the familiar dead tree trunk on the side of the road. he lightly pushes down on the brake pedal with his foot, slowing down and putting on the flashers. he drives off to the side and the car finally comes to a halt.
you’re confused for a moment, frowning at jisung. “where… are we- are we here?”
his blank expression doesn’t falter as he looks at you, pushing his hair away from his eyes. “there’s a path down to the lake,” he simply explains.
“oh,” you nod and your frown deepens, processing what jisung just told you.
he unbuckles his belt and as he sees you’re not doing the same, he encourages you. “come on, let’s go,” he smiles, hoping it convinces you, and it works.
you smile in return, laughing lightly. “okay.” you unbuckle your belt and hop out of the car.
jisung watches for a second, making sure you’re not looking at him, before leaning down and picking up the knife and the zip ties he put there this morning in the door’s compartment. he quickly stuffs the items in the front pocket of his jeans.
when he gets out, you turn around to him. “i hope there aren’t too many bugs,” you scowl, “i hate getting bitten.”
“we’re gonna be fine near the water. there’s a fresh breeze tonight,” he tells you, walking into the thick woods, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
you follow him, stepping over leaves and branches, watching closely where you put your feet. jisung seems at ease here while you’re waving your hands around to get the bugs out of your face. you’re so distracted by them that you don’t see the rock right in front of you and you trip over it, falling over onto your knees and hands.
“shit, you’re okay?” jisung crouches down to you, taking a hold of your arms and helping you back up onto your feet.
“yeah,” you grumble, wincing. you have no visible injuries, just some dirt on your knees and clothes.
“we’re close, i promise,” he chuckles, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a fond smile. or that’s what he tries to do.
you walk behind him, avoiding bugs and trees, groaning when a fly doesn’t want to leave you alone. you wonder if you’re still far away when you finally see the lake from afar, stumbling onto a tiny beach. there are more rocks and dirt than sand, but there’s a beautiful opening to the water.
jisung stands there, looking in front of him, and you pass by him, wanting to get a closer look to the lake. the pine trees are reflecting onto it and the breeze creates movements on the water. it’s quiet, apart from the whistling of the wind, and it feels like you’re the only two people on earth.
“do you come here often?” you ask jisung, still looking ahead of you.
“no, i discovered it last week,” he answers.
you hear his shoes walking on the pebbles behind you. you attempt to turn around to face him, but you’re pushed to the ground before you can do anything. you scream, falling down hard, the small rocks sinking into the bare skin of your hands and legs. you don’t understand what’s happening, your eyes filling up in water at the pain. you try to pull yourself onto your knees, but you’re caged to the ground as jisung straddles your body.
he reaches into his pocket and takes out the zip ties, pinning your hands behind your back. you kick your legs and squirm underneath him, and he’d give it to you for putting up a fight, but jisung prepared himself for this. he knows he can’t fuck this up.
his hands shake as he wraps the plastic tie around your wrists, feeling his heart beating out of his chest, his breathing ragged and shallow. he manages to pull your wrists together and zip the tie, locking your arms behind your back. he ignores your pleas and cries, switching to your legs in an instant. he keeps your legs together with one arm, his fingers rapidly fiddling with the other zip tie and attaching your ankles with it despite his trembling hands. when it’s done, he turns your body around and your face of distress is truly a sight he waited so long to experience.
for the first time in a while, jisung feels himself getting hard. really hard. your mascara has dripped down your cheeks in two black streaks, you have snot falling down from your nostrils, your lips are swollen and covered spit and your face has dirt stains all over it. this is the real you, the you only him will ever get to see. that’s what he really considers as beauty; the true fear and desperation itched onto your face. pretty, that for sure you are.
“j-jisung, please,” you sob, “don’t do this, whatever it is-”
you cut yourself off, gasping in disbelief, as he retrieves the pocket knife he hid in his jeans. he’s totally expressionless, mouth set in a straight line, eyes observing you like you’re a project lab. and maybe that’s what you are.
“i’m sorry,” he says, but it’s obvious that he isn’t, his apology sounds more like a formality than a genuine sentiment. “it’s nothing against you, i swear,” he assures you, his voice low like a whisper, the deepness of it making you shudder. “you know i like you…”
“why, then?” you exclaim, desperate. “i don’t- i don’t understand…” you cry violently, your body shaking from the intensity of your tears. they flow from your eyes in a cascade, rolling down the side of your face.
jisung plays with the knife, waving it in front of your eyes, his own following the blade, looking at it like it’s a toy. “you could never understand someone like me, baby,” he mutters and you wouldn’t have been able to tell what he said if you weren’t so close. “but i’m grateful you want to, though.”
it’s the truth. jisung always knew he was different even as he was a child. he was being called a creep by the other kids, teachers thought he was depressed because he would never smile or talk with the others. he was just not interested in colouring books or playing soccer, he preferred collecting bugs, even the grossest ones, scavenging through the woods and kill stuff. watch it die.
he was an angsty teen, his parents would always justify. his love for gore and horror was just a phase, as well as his fascination for death. just a phase.
jisung thought that, too. until it continued and became an obsession.
“ji, you can’t do… this,” you try to dissuade him, to make him realize that he’s going too far—even if the start was already it. “please,” you cry louder, “don’t hurt me.”
he looks into your eyes, almost empathizing with you. “i have to.”
jisung stares at you for a little longer, your tummy heaving up and down at the pace of your sobs and irregular breathing, hair sticking to your forehead because of the sweat, the sunset casting a warm glow over your face. he feels how tight his pants are, his hard cock straining against them. he expected this to happen, but he didn’t plan on doing anything about it. it would be too big of a distraction.
“ji-jisung,” you call his name again, hiccuping, and his gaze falls onto your lips. they’re bleeding, probably because you’ve bitten into them too hard, breaking the skin with your teeth.
he sets the knife aside, away from your reach, and he puts his hands on either side of your head, hovering over you. “kiss me?” he gently asks, his breath tickling your face as he speaks. your lips are trembling. from this close, jisung can smell your perfume, the one you sprayed on surely thinking about him, wondering if he’d like it. and he does. smells sweet just like you.
you make a small noise, probably a whimper, before hesitantly attaching your lips to his. the kiss is shy, just a little peck, not allowing jisung to know what you taste like.
“cute,” he comments, grinning at you, amused by your shyness.
he dives in, actually kissing you, pushing his tongue inside your mouth. your moan is muffled, surprised by the lead jisung is taking. he grabs your face and uses his hold on it to move you around how he desires, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. it lasts for a long, sloppy minute until jisung decides to pull away.
he gulps down, remembering all the scenarios he made up in his mind about you. his knife under your throat, fucking you on the backseats of his car, threatening to slice it open if you move even slightly. luring you into an empty alleyway, using you against the brick wall of a bulding, panties pooling around your ankles, knees shaking.
now you’re underneath him, limbs tied together, knife waiting to sink into you.
remembering what he brought you here for, he picks the knife back up from the ground and presses the blade against your uncovered stomach, your sweatshirt having ridden up during your struggle. it draws blood and you cry out, wriggling in his hold. jisung is focused, watching with sick curiosity the red blood pooling out of the fresh cut.
just as he’s about to go in deeper, a cracking sound is heard from the woods. jisung stops and glances up, waiting for something to come out. understanding there might be a chance to escape him, you scream at the top of your lungs, thumping your feet against the ground.
jisung shoots you a hard glare and immediately wraps his free hand around your throat, tightening until your air flow is cut off. it shuts you up, visibly struggling to breathe. he silently watches you fight for air until suddenly something jumps out of the tall grass; a rabbit.
he loosens his grip from around your neck and you cough, your throat itching and your eyes stinging. jisung smirks, “we’re alone here. unless you expect a rabbit to come save you.”
the animal doesn’t stay long, quickly running back into the woods, startled by all the noises you both make.
“it can be quick, or it can be very long,” he says. “i’ll let you decide.”
your bottom lip juts out, trying so hard to not burst into tears again. your gaze flicks downward to where the tip of the blade is poking into your stomach, right under your bellybutton. a shiver travels through you and goosebumps appear on your skin, hair rising up. you squirm underneath him, wanting to free yourself from jisung’s grip, but you obviously can’t.
“why- why are you doing this to m-me…” your voice is shaky, unstable, on the verge of tears. even if you could understand him, understand his reasons, he doesn’t think it would change anything.
he sighs, bringing his knife to your cheek instead, his hand around your throat moving up to your jaw. “does it really matter now, baby?” jisung frowns. “i like you, i really do.” he can see the fear in your eyes, the utter distress… and the desperate need to stay alive. “... and even if i could explain it to you, find the right words to describe… my feelings, this will end the same way as i intended it.”
you let out a whimper, and just as he thinks it’s over, you manage to lift your knees up and kick him forward, making jisung lose his balance. you push him off of you with your feet and you succeed to escape from underneath him. you turn yourself around and with all your strength, you get onto your knees, but with your hands tied behind your back, you find yourself unable to get up on your feet.
there’s no way out of this.
jisung is faster than you and catches you in a second, fingers tightening around the handle of his pocket knife. he grabs the front of your throat and quickly pulls you back against him, stabbing you in the lower stomach. you gasp out, and to jisung’s surprise, you don’t scream, like the breath was taken out of you the moment his blade pierced through you. he looks over your shoulder down to your belly and drags the knife an inch to the side, opening you up. blood flows out, it’s thick and warm, and the metallic scent is stronger than he thought.
you fall forward and jisung follows, delicately laying you down on the ground under him. he retrieves his knife and that’s when he hears a sob tearing up from your throat, guts spilling out, completely covering his hand in your blood. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a shaking hand, watching your face with so much adoration, so much love. he kisses the corner of your lips and another gasp leaves you, barely audible like a gentle whisper.
it takes around 5 minutes for jisung to bring you back to his car and hide your body in the trunk. you spilled a lot of blood on the way, but he doesn’t worry too much about it. he’ll come back tomorrow.
at school, your friends ask about you. did you actually ghost everyone and skip an entire day of classes? you’re not the kind to do that. jisung says he hasn’t seen you since your last tutoring session and it’s technically true. your meeting at the lake never happened.
you’re reported missing on the third day. your face is on the news, on the school’s billboard, even scotched onto random electric poles around the city. you’re said to be last seen wearing your college’s sweatshirt, jean shorts and blue nail polish. your nails weren’t blue, they were white. even jisung, who rarely cares about that stuff, noticed it.
after the first week, people are hopeful, and they still are even after a month. they can find you, the police says. come back to us, your parents beg. your friends post about you on their social media accounts, asking everyone to call them if they see you.
then a year passes and still nothing. other ads and pictures of missing pets are scattered over your missing reports, the corners ripped and ink wiped off by the rain. you’re merely a tragic memory now.
—-
a.n.: idk what i just wrote lol sorry. or not? 🤭 i'm really... scared, but at the same time i find this so tame, wtv. my goal with this is to have your stomach twisting!!! like, will he do it or not!? btw i was so close to add noncon and make reader stay alive but it really just didn't fit... so hopefully it's good as it is. anyway i think i'm really satisfied with the result, im not sure sjsjsj
but please i am begging on my knees pls send feedback on this!! i would appreciate it a ton and i feel like this is kinda special... pls consider reblogging if you liked it, this helps me a lot and also helps more people to see my post c: thank you <3 don't let me down!!
FALLING LIKE SNOW, RETURNING LIKE WAVES, ALWAYS BACK TO YOU. — MINATOZAKI SANA
❝ and now you know why you never texted her back. ❞
synopsis — the air still feels colder, it's been three years already. but, what happens when you come to the place where she is? this time it's snowfall and not the waves, but, you still fall.
notice — angst with a happy ending. unrequited love, miscommunication, implied sabotage, idolxnon-idol, written with realism, metaphors, and a slow and painful unravelling love story.
pairing — minatozaki sana x reader !
disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. all events are fictional. while this story may feature public figures (e.g., sana from twice), it is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. please remember: nothing depicted in this story actually happened.
PART 1!
there weren’t any waves tonight.
no crashing surf. no salt in the air. just snow—falling quiet and slow, melting where it touched the balcony railing. the sky above was a pale smear of gray, the city below wrapped in stillness. it wasn’t warm here. not even close.
you wrapped your hands around the mug eunji gave you and didn’t say much. the heat from the tea barely reached your fingers.
eunji stood beside you in her thick knit sweater, elbows tucked on the ledge, her breath fogging into the cold. “it’s weird, right?” she said softly. “i always forget how quiet it gets when it snows.”
you nodded once, eyes fixed on the empty street below.
no gulls. no sandals on pavement. no haze of summer climbing up your arms. just winter settling deep into your coat. and you realized
you missed the waves.
“it’s not like back then,” eunji said, almost smiling. “but… welcome back, anyway.”
you glanced over, finally. she was gazing at you with that look she always used to give you after class, like you were still eighteen and she’d never really let go of that version of you. the one who used to skip lectures to take her to the beach. the one who waited on the porch for someone else, but still smiled when it was her.
you nodded again. “thanks.”
she watched your face for a second longer before looking down at the city—sprawled wide and glittering beneath the snow.
seoul.
you hadn’t planned to come back. not really. it just… happened. a break. a reset. just two weeks, you told yourself. just something different. just long enough to forget the shape of her name when you whispered it to the sea.
but the waves weren’t here.
just snow.
and eunji, still beside you.
----
you were sitting on the guest bed half-dressed, half-scrolling through your phone, when something slipped out from between your clothes. a photo. bent edges, too-bright colors, definitely planted by keoni.
you stared at it for a second. yeah. that trip. the one before everything cracked open. before she left. before you stopped waiting by the ocean and started pretending you were fine.
a knock came at the door. gentle. careful.
“hey,” eunji called, voice muffled. “you wanna eat out tonight? there’s a place i used to love. not too far.”
you set the photo down on the pillow, face down. “sure,” you said, standing slowly. “let me grab my coat.”
by the time you stepped outside, seoul had shifted. it was always moving, never still—lanterns glowing over storefronts, snow clinging to the curbs, steam rising from food carts like smoke from a dream.
eunji took you somewhere small and tucked between older buildings. warm inside. smelled like chili paste and grilled meat and soup still bubbling in clay pots. you sat across from her, half-listening, half-scrolling. it was comfortable.
then the noise hit—laughter too loud from a table near the back. high-pitched. bubbly. a girl’s voice calling out something in a dialect you didn’t catch.
you blinked. “sorry, i need to use the bathroom real quick.”
you made your way past the hostess stand, turned a corner too quick, and bumped into someone going the opposite way. solid hit. shoulder to shoulder.
“sorry,” you said quickly, barely looking up and just leaving not having time because if you looked more you'd probably piss yourself infront of them. “my bad—sorry.”
outside, sana stood still for a breath. her brows drawn together, her hand still slightly raised like she meant to stop you.
“…weird,” she murmured while returning to their table.
“what is?” jihyo asked as sana sat back down.
sana tilted her head, brushing her hair from her cheek. “i think i just ran into someone i used to know.”
“you say that in every city,” nayeon said, rolling her eyes. “maybe it’s just your soul recognizing other famous souls.”
“no,” sana said, quieter. “this one felt… familiar.”
jihyo gave her a long look, but sana just shook her head, waving it off. “nothing. i’m fine. are we ready to go?”
they stood, coats in hand, talk already shifting to something else. but sana glanced once more toward the hallway before following them out.
you came back to your table a few minutes later. the noise had died down. just quiet chatter and plates being cleared. eunji poured you tea like nothing had happened.
you smiled faintly, glancing out the window. the snow was still falling. soft. unbothered. beautiful.
you didn’t know why your chest felt tight.
but you smiled anyway.
-----
you should’ve said no.
you were already halfway to the studio when it hit — the feeling you’d been ignoring all morning. that slow, creeping dread in your chest that had nothing to do with traffic and everything to do with how easily you’d said sure, i’ll come help. you thought it was just a favor. you thought eunji needed an extra hand. you thought she’d meant it the way old friends mean it — practical, casual.
the studio smelled like damp wires and instant coffee. someone’s leftover tteokbokki still clung to the air, sharp and sweet and cloying. you lingered near the door, arms folded, head ducked low. just another helping hand, no name, no label. someone asked you to move lighting equipment. another passed you cables. no one knew who you were, right?
you leaned against a wall, pretending not to exist. sleeves rolled up, a box of cables still in your hands because someone asked and you didn’t know how to say no. you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but the knot in your throat had been present since the moment someone said, “eunji’s partner’s here!” and no one corrected them.
you caught her smirk from across the room. just for a second — the way her lip twitched up and then down again, feigned annoyance splashed with something else. something like satisfaction. she raised a brow as if to say, play along, and you did. stupidly. like you always did.
you didn’t even have time to respond before you felt it. arms wrapped tight around your middle. a full hug. not brief, not subtle. not a greeting, not exactly.
you froze. eunji pulled back and laughed against your shoulder like it was an old joke only you two knew. “what? no hug back?”
you smiled. thin. held the tension in your arms. and when she turned to yell something over her shoulder, you slipped your jacket off and folded it in your hands like it was nothing. like the fabric hadn’t just absorbed her perfume.
you didn’t want to smell like her.
“wah, i can see why eunji liked you..” someone said, walking by with a garment bag slung over one shoulder. they gave you a toe-to-head look.
you nodded once. short, tight smile. no words. too scared to embarrass her. too tired to lie. too hopeful that maybe — maybe this didn’t mean anything. eunji didn’t stop the others either. just rolled her eyes, not harshly — more like letting them have their fun. she even laughed when one stylist asked if you were picking her up for a date or just doing free labor out of love.
you wiped your palms on your jeans when no one was looking.
you drove with one hand on the wheel and the other digging faint half-moons into your thigh. the car heater was on low. your jacket sat balled up in the backseat.
hyeri flopped into the back like a sunbeam given legs. “thank you for the ride!” she beamed, fastened her seatbelt with a little grunt, then poked her head between the seats like a curious puppy. “eunji said her friend was coming but i didn’t know you were so cute.”
you blinked. eunji snorted.
“so, how long have you two been together?” hyeri chirped.
your throat dried up. “since college,” you said, quietly. meant since we met. meant just friends. meant not like that.
eunji leaned back, arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors like she was famous. “mm,” she said, clearly enjoying herself.
“that’s so cute,” hyeri squealed. “like, campus sweethearts? ugh, goals.”
you didn’t reply. just kept your eyes on the road, white lines passing like skipped heartbeats. eunji said nothing else. didn’t correct her. didn’t clarify. just sat there, smug in the seat beside you. when you dropped hyeri off, she waved at both of you like you were a matching pair.
eunji leaned her head back, lips curled, not saying anything. and that silence stretched — long and thick — all the way through traffic, through the music humming soft from the radio.
until finally, you said it. “you weren’t gonna tell them they were wrong?”
eunji scoffed lightly, not looking at you. “you’re the one who said since college.”
“i meant—” your voice cracked. you swallowed it down. “i didn’t mean it like that.”
“then why didn’t you correct her?”
you didn’t answer.
“exactly.”
the rest of the drive was quiet. uncomfortable. your hands gripped the steering wheel too tight. at a red light, you said softly, “i don’t want this. i don’t want to be part of some fake dating rumor.”
“it’s not a rumor,” eunji replied, suddenly cold. “it’s a joke.”
“it’s not funny to me.”
her jaw clenched. she didn’t look at you. “then don’t come next time.”
you blinked. hurt bloomed sharp in your chest. “…sorry,” you muttered.
you bit the inside of your cheek and didn’t say the rest. she was right — you could’ve said something.
meanwhile, back at the studio, the staff were in stitches. sana twirled her drink in one hand, watching the last of the team clean up. laughter still rang from the wardrobe area, one of her members helping and thanking the staff.
“where’s eunji noona?” she asked, light but curious. “and hyeri?”
“her partner picked her up,” someone grinned. “the quiet one? came by to help earlier. kinda cute. real domestic.”
“partner?” nayeon turned. “finally?” even jihyo was laughing now, muttering “about time” as she packed up her water bottle. nayeon made a teasing noise. momo pretended to swoon.
sana smiled with them — wide, amused — but her fingers tapped her cup slowly, rhythm offbeat. “partner, huh?” she repeated. voice soft. a little too soft. “since when?”
“we don’t really know,” someone said. “they looked like they weren’t from here… tan, brownish hair…”
“mm,” sana said, the smile staying but not quite reaching her eyes. “that’s sweet.” she turned back toward the room, slow and thoughtful, eyes a little distant.
supportive. curious. but something tugged behind her ribs. something that didn’t sit right.
-----
the snow doesn't fall like back home.
in hawaii, it rains sideways—warm, impatient, sudden. it crashes against the windows with sound. but here, in seoul, the cold is quiet. it sneaks in through your sleeves, clings to your lashes, and whispers in your breath.
you hadn't planned to come this early, but guilt is a heavy thing to carry in silence. you didn’t know why you’d cooked so much. well. maybe you did. maybe you knew exactly why your hands had reached for the pot before you were even fully awake.
you shift the lunch bag in your hands, the weight of kimbap, steaming soup sealed tightly, and lomi salmon still warm under layers of foil. one last thing: a note tucked between the containers, folded awkwardly like you never learned how to apologize out loud.
“sorry for yesterday. hope today’s better.”
you thought about leaving it at the desk. slipping it quietly to a staff member and walking off before anyone asked who it was from. but the bag was warm against your palms. and something about the sky made it hard to leave things half-finished today.
you don’t do half-things anymore. not after that night when you stood with your phone in your hand, your chest caving in, and no one answered.
your boots squeak a little against the polished floors. you glance around. "hey," you ask one of the women near the monitors, "sorry, do you know where i can find eunji?"
she tilts her head. “oh, you’re her—” before she can finish, another voice cuts in. "she’s in the break room, far end." you turn, about to thank the new voice—but the woman freezes slightly, mid-step. dressed casually, no heavy makeup, and still looks like she stepped out of a screen. then someone from behind calls, "jeongyeon! we need you at the monitor again."
you don’t wait to hear the rest.
a half-step of recognition, and a full-body cringe. you force a tight smile, nod quickly, muttering thanks before walking off, fists tightening in your hoodie pocket.
you head to the break room. open the door and—
"ah!" one of the younger staff claps her hands. "eunji-ssi, your partner’s here!" you freeze. but eunji just laughs, startled, maybe a bit flustered. “stop it,” she says with a half-smile. you try to smile, though your hoodie feels too warm now under the weight of everyone’s gaze.
a few staff members were sipping hot drinks, still rubbing sleep from their eyes. and yet—every glance tilted toward you.
eunji rises, brushing past them and meets you near the counter. “you didn’t have to come yourself,” she says softly, eyes flicking to your damp hoodie.
“you’re freezing,” she mutters, stepping closer, brushing snow from your hood. the movement is brief. careful. almost affectionate.
you clear your throat. “i uh… made you food.” her eyes soften. “oh. like… food food?” “kimbap. soup. some stuff from home.” you scratch your cheek. “sorry for snapping at you yesterday.”
“you shouldn't apologize, i was...” she stops. pride catching in her throat. “so dramatic,” you cut in gently, knowing she won’t admit fault, placing the bag down.
"what is this?" someone peeks in. "oh, wow—this smells amazing. is that... soup? and kimbap!" "wait—what’s this? wah! lomi salmon? you’re hawaiian?" you smile faintly. “yeah. born and raised.”
“no wonder,” a woman mutters. “your vibe’s different. warm.”
"they really cooked this?" another teases. “wow. is this what it’s like to have a partner?”
eunji groans. “don’t start.”
"no, seriously,” someone says. “they show up early, they cook, and they’re cute. where do you find people like this?”
someone finds the note. reads it aloud. “ugh, i want a partner who apologizes with food.” “look at their hoodie—they're freezing just to bring it over!” you stiffen, ears burning. eunji lifts a hand in warning. “guys, let them breathe.”
you glance at her, surprised. and for once — no teasing in her voice. just that steady calmness she rarely used when others were around.
she looks so much like home — the version of her from college — your heart drops.
you flush, tugging your sleeve. eunji doesn’t say anything, just hands out the extra kimbap. her silence is enough.
you turn to leave, stepping backward. your hoodie up, hands bare, pink with cold. shoulders hunched, your shoes leaving faint, damp prints on the tile — melting snow and whatever came before it.
you turn the corner. don’t glance back.
but sana glances.
her head snaps toward the sound — a soft click, a faint voice saying “thank you for the hawaiian food, eunji’s partner!” — her eyes catch movement across the hallway. her breath falters.
she knows that walk. that build. that way your sleeves hang past your wrists. the curve of your back in the cold. the way you always walked like the world was too loud and you wanted to slip through it unseen.
“what the…” she whispers already stepping forward.
sana freezes mid-step. “just a second—” she says. “we’re literally on the last chorus,” jihyo calls.
sana turns, half-dazed. “i thought—”
but when she looks back— nothing. just an empty corner.
no hoodie. no footprints. just cold air and silence.
she stares. something inside tightens — not panic, but worse. hope.
“you okay?” jihyo asks. sana swallows. “yeah. i just thought i saw…”
“a sasaeng?” nayeon raises a brow. “no,” sana says quickly. “just… someone i used to know.”
“should i tell the coordi team?” jihyo asks. “no,” sana insists. “it’s fine.” but it’s not fine. her chest is doing that thing again — full and empty all at once.
momo heads back inside. nayeon walks past, grabbing her water.
“what was that about?”
“she thought she saw someone,” jihyo says.
nayeon leans into sana. “someone you used to date?”
sana doesn’t answer. just laughs. hollow.
because inside, everything is screaming.
because if it was you—why didn’t you say anything?
why does she want to run after you so badly she can barely breathe?
----
the practice room hums with motion.
sana sits on the floor, back against the mirror, her phone tilted low in her lap. across the room, dahyun is spinning in place while jihyo laughs breathlessly, clapping to some beat only they seem to hear. nayeon’s in the corner making tiktoks, and momo’s retying her shoes for the third time. it’s warm, the windows fogged up from the body heat, the air full of sweat and noise and the faint smell of grape vitamin water.
and sana isn’t listening to any of it.
her eyes are fixed on the screen. or rather, what isn’t on it.
no posts. no profile picture. no bio. just your name. just the unchanging emptiness of your instagram.
“twenty minutes,” nayeon calls, peering over sana’s shoulder. “you’ve been staring at that for twenty minutes.”
sana clicks the screen off. “i haven’t.”
“is it one of your old lovers?” nayeon grins. “you saw someone earlier and now you’re sulking like a ghost walked by.”
sana flushes. “they weren’t a lover.”
“oh?” nayeon nudges her foot. “but you wanted them to be?”
“yah,” jihyo warns lightly, “leave her alone.”
but sana is already gone again, in her head. back to that hallway. the brush of cold air when the break room door opened. the way that hoodie slouched just right over familiar shoulders. the slope of a back she hasn’t seen in years — still tall. still quiet. still unreadable.
and then that staff voice echoing down the corridor — thank you for the hawaiian food, eunji’s partner!
sana rubs her chest. it doesn’t help. it aches in that sore, bruised way, like an old song stuck in her bones. the kind of pain that deepens the longer she stares into it.
she turns her screen back on. sighs. still nothing.
"what if you made a new account," she mutters, voice soft, pleading. “what if you moved and didn’t tell anyone? what if you’re hiding on purpose?”
she searches again. again. tries every spelling, every username she thinks you’ll use. flips through mutuals. searches tagged photos. nothing. nothing. nothing.
her brows draw together. she shifts her legs up, hugs her knees to her chest.
“you’re so mean,” she pouts under her breath, the words small and cracked. “do you really not miss anyone? not even a little? not even me?”
the light in eunji’s apartment is low — cold through the window, blue-grey on the counter. your half-finished breakfast sits cooling by the counter near the sink: rice, leftover soup, two limp rolls of kimbap.
you pick one up. hesitate. bite it anyway.
the taste is the same. sesame oil, salt, a little sweetness. but it catches in your throat halfway down. you cough once. then again, harder.
you remember the first time you made something like this — how you folded the rolls with care, how you set them down with a half-smile and an awkward, quiet hope. you remember holding your breath when you offered it, as if the tiniest motion might break whatever fragile thing hung between you. and you remember the silence that followed — heavy, hollow, not rejection exactly, but something colder. something final. she never took it. not then. not ever. she walked away.
the snow outside drifts steady past the window, silent and endless. it paints everything in soft white, too quiet, too clean. it’s so far from hawaii it stings. no crashing waves. no warm sidewalks. just cold that presses deep into your ribs.
you press a palm to your chest. it doesn’t help. you feel stupid.
you set the half-eaten kimbap down, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve, annoyed at the way it still tasted like memory. your phone buzzes once — a weather alert. more snow coming.
you sigh, unlock your phone, and tap keoni’s name without thinking.
he picks up on the second ring. "yo," he says, voice thick with sleep. "you miss me or somethin’? it’s barely nine here.”
“yeah,” you mutter. “needed a reminder why i left.”
“damn,” he snorts, “you call me just to insult me? cute.”
you lean an elbow against the counter, stare out the kitchen window. snow's collecting unevenly on the sill. “nah. just... breakfast didn’t go well.”
“you’re still cooking sad meals?”
“tried to make kimbap. almost died.”
keoni laughs like it's familiar. “classic. what was it this time — too much rice? veggies?”
“no, man. choked.”
“even better. death by nostalgia.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose. “don’t start.”
but he’s already going. “this about hawaii? you know you're going back like in three days.. or maybe someone from hawaii?”
you don’t answer.
“bro,” keoni says, “you always get like this when winter hits. i remember. you’d come back from the beach and just go full existential. same tone. same tired voice. same ‘i don’t care’ act.”
you flick a speck of rice off your hoodie. “maybe i just miss the weather.”
“nah, you don’t miss the weather. you miss people.”
“what people?”
keoni pauses — too long. then: “you still think about her? not the one from last summer. the one before. the— what was her name... park chaeyoung?”
you exhale sharply. "you’re really digging."
"just checking where your head's at. you had a streak, remember? that tattoo artist in makiki, the girl who worked at the smoothie truck—"
"okay, okay."
"i’m just saying," keoni teases, voice lighter now, "you used to be the heartbreaker, and now you’re choking on your own cooking like some washed-up lead in a breakup drama."
you snort, leaning your forehead against the cabinet. “you’re insufferable.”
“yeah, but you keep calling.”
you go quiet. your fingers drag along the rim of the counter, slow, idle.
keoni softens. “for real, though. you okay?”
you nod even though he can’t see. “yeah.”
“you sure?”
“…not really.”
you hear him shift on the other end, probably sitting up, probably frowning in that overly concerned way he always does when you say something honest.
“you need anything?” he asks.
“nah. just heading out for a bit.”
“wear your coat. you get cold easy.”
“okay, mom.”
“you’re welcome. and hey — you’ll be alright.”
you end the call with a small exhale, but it sticks in your throat on the way out. the apartment is quiet again. still too quiet. the kind that seeps under your skin and just stays.
you drop the phone face-down on the counter. stand there a second. then two. your hand brushes absently over the jacket hook, but you don’t reach for it yet.
your shoulders sag a little.
the soup is cold. the kimbap sits limp and untouched beside the sink. you stare at it too long, eyes blurring slightly before you even realize you're not blinking.
you swallow hard. shift your weight. shake your head once, like it might clear something out.
“this was a mistake,” you whisper. not to anyone. not really even to yourself. just to the silence. “coming here. should’ve just... left it back in the college days.”
you press the heel of your palm into your eye. it burns. when you blink again, your lashes feel wet.
you’re not sure when your chest started hurting — not the physical kind. the other kind. the kind that makes your throat close and your stomach turn and your fingers feel just a little colder than before. like something’s off balance.
you don’t know what’s wrong with you.
seoul isn’t bad. it isn’t. people are kind. the city shines at night. the food is good.
but it all feels... wrong.
you glance at the jacket still hanging. stare at the door. your pulse skips for no reason.
something’s missing.
you don’t know what, but it’s loud. the absence. it rattles in the walls, curls beneath your ribs. it’s in the corners of the room, in the way the heat never quite warms your fingers, in the way the streets feel too full but still lonely.
your hand finally reaches for the coat. you fumble the zipper. breathe in, shaky. tug the sleeves on like muscle memory.
the snow then greets you like it knows everything.
and you don’t even flinch.
----
the evening tastes like metal — like old coins, cold wind, the edge of something unfinished.
you walk seoul like it’s borrowed.
your steps echo too loud on empty sidewalks, too slow to belong here. behind fogged windows, strangers laugh over beer and tteokbokki. the streets pulse warm with life, but none of it touches you. your gloved hands stay tucked in your pockets. scarf pulled high. hood drawn low. not hiding — just… detached. you don’t know what you’re looking for. maybe a memory. maybe peace. maybe nothing.
snow hadn’t been in the forecast. but still, it starts — soft, drifting, clinging to hair and sleeves and streetlamps. your breath clouds the air.
you cross at a blinking light, pass a steaming cart of roasted chestnuts, nod politely at the ahjumma selling candied sweet potatoes. her smile falters when she sees your face — like she almost recognizes something in it. or maybe it’s just your eyes. they’ve been glassy all day.
a song plays from a café behind you. gentle, string-heavy.. It reminds you of beach bonfires back home.
you don’t let the memory finish.
your boots hit a patch of ice.
someone slams into you.
“oh—” you stagger back. the other body slips — there’s a startled gasp, arms flailing, then the unmistakable thump of a fall.
“shit—are you okay?” you stumble with her, one hand reaching out, the other already pulling your coat off. she lands hard, knees to concrete. the snow’s picking up. you crouch beside her, already draping the coat over her shoulders without thinking.
“sorry, i didn’t see—here, let me—” you say patting your coat onto her shoulders, panic creeping up. “you alright? are you hurt? please don’t be—”
you reach out to steady her.
and then she looks up. your breath lodges in your throat.
the girl doesn’t speak. just stares — stunned, still, blinking flakes off her lashes.
“…why do i keep bumping into people in seoul,” you murmur, trying to laugh, trying to defuse the sudden tightness in your chest.
she doesn’t laugh.
her hand rises slowly to her mask. she pulls it down.
and the world breaks open.
fuck.
you flinch like her name was a slap. your mouth opens, closes. your heartbeat lurches.
you look away first. of course you do.
“you—” your voice caves in on itself. you look away, throat burning, the snow sticking to your lashes now too.
she’s still sitting on the cold pavement, the coat slipping slightly down her arms, her fingers frozen in the air where they nearly reached for you.
sana’s lips part, stunned.
she doesn’t move to stand. doesn’t blink. just stares up at you like the moment itself is unreal — like if she breathes too hard, you’ll disappear again.
“you…” she finally whispers. “you’re really here.”
you force yourself to look at her again. your eyes flicker to her knee, where a small scrape blooms red. guilt spikes in your ribs.
but so does something else. something bitter. something old.
“yeah,” you manage. “guess i am.” your hands curl into fists inside your sleeves.
you want to ask her why. why she never called. why she let everything rot between you.
but you can’t. you don’t get to ask anymore.
you reach forward — stiff, — and help her up without looking at her. she wobbles slightly, then finds her footing. your hand lingers just a moment longer than it should.
and when you try to step back—
she grabs your wrist.
not enough to pull you in. just enough to stop you from walking away.
you freeze but you don’t look at her.
you retract your hand like it's been poisoned. “it’s slippery,” you say, too sharp. “you should be careful.”
she doesn’t move. her voice breaks. “i… i thought—”
a vibration hums from her pocket. her phone. she reaches for it blindly, never taking her eyes off you.
“…unnie?” her voice is raw. “yeah. i’m fine. just… slipped. i’ll be there soon.”
her eyes flick to yours, pleading.
you step back.
you don’t know what to do with the ache pounding behind your ribs.
you glance once at the scrape on her knee, at your own coat still hanging awkwardly over her frame.
then you step back again.
the snow’s falling heavier now. catching in your lashes. numbing your fingers.
“take care, sana,” you say, eyes fixed on the space beside her.
then you turn and walk.
no second glance. no goodbye in your tone. nothing.
just the weight in your chest tightening with every step away.
and behind you, she’s still standing there — clutching the phone, your coat sagging over her shoulders, her lips trembling.
the streetlamp glows soft over her hair. the snow keeps falling.
and she doesn’t chase after you.
she just watches you disappear again.
like the first time.
-----
it had been a few days since that night.
seoul after dark looked like a painting still drying — amber streetlamps dripping across the pavement, shop windows blinking like soft hearts in the cold. your breath fogged in the air, scarf tucked to your chin, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.
“next time, it’s your turn,” you said, walking beside eunji.
she grinned. “my turn to what? get eaten alive by mosquitoes while you drink overpriced smoothies?”
you laughed. “yeah. exactly.”
you turned a corner. the crowds thinned, noise fading to stone alleys and old rooftops. paper lanterns swayed above. for a second, it felt like hawaii again — quiet and open. except colder. lonelier.
“it’s nice here,” eunji said, slowing. “different. but nice.”
you nodded. her hand hovered close to yours.
then her phone buzzed.
she glanced at it. sighed. “manager. give me a sec?”
“i’ll wander,” you said.
“sure?”
“won’t get kidnapped. probably.”
she snorted and stepped away, phone already to her ear.
you walked on, through older streets where café windows glowed and the air smelled like grilled fish. couples leaned close inside, but you didn’t stop.
until you heard it.
a voice — soft, panicked.
“…i’m waiting for someone. please.”
you turned.
there she was.
hood slipped, mask crooked, pressed against a wall. two men stood too close. one whispered something near her ear. her eyes searched, fast, desperate.
she didn’t see you.
you exhaled. stepped forward.
“there you are,” you called, loud and sure. “honey, i’ve been looking everywhere.”
sana flinched. the men turned.
you reached her side, arm sliding around her back. she tensed — but didn’t move away. not when you tucked her hair behind her ear, not when you leaned in like this was natural.
“sorry,” you said, loud. “she gets lost easily.”
“who are you?” one asked.
“her partner.”
“she didn’t say anything.”
“she doesn’t need to.”
you tried to guide her away — but one grabbed her wrist.
you didn’t think. your fist met his face. not clean, but hard. he stumbled, hit a bin.
the other shoved you.
you ducked his swing, shoved him back. fists, elbows, cold breath. messy. desperate.
he landed a punch — your lip split. blood on your tongue.
you kneed his stomach. he dropped. then hands pushed you from behind — you hit the ground, everything ringing.
“stop!” sana’s voice, cracked and terrified.
you grabbed an ankle, yanked. he fell. you pinned him, breath ragged.
“try it again,” you spat. “touch her again.”
he swore. the other pulled you back. a tangle of limbs and cursing — knuckles, feet, the sting of winter air.
finally, they fled. bruised. bleeding. spitting.
you didn’t move. not yet.
sana was kneeling beside you, hands hovering.
“you’re bleeding,” she whispered. “why would you—”
“are you okay?” you rasped.
she stared like she’d never seen you before.
“you’re shaking,” she whispered. “can you stand?”
you tried. legs buckled, and she caught you — one hand on your arm, one at your back.
“you’re not going to a hospital?” she asked.
“ just busted lip,” you muttered. “i’ve had worse.”
“when?” her voice cracked. “in what world is that normal?”
you looked away. “i’m fine.”
“you’re not.”
she fixed your coat, fingers trembling. her voice softened.
“come back with me.”
you blinked. “what?”
“just for a bit. so i can clean that up.”
you looked at her — jaw tight, legs pressed together like she was still cold.
“…you sure you know how to fix a split lip?”
“no,” she said. “but i can google it.”
you almost laughed.
“you really don’t have to—”
“i still have your coat.”
you blinked.
“i never gave it back.”
“so let me return it,” she said. “at my place.”
the silence stretched.
and you could feel it — how different her voice was. not playful. not teasing. just soft.
eunji.
the thought flickered.
you hadn’t told her where you were.
your hands curled.
sana still waited. still watched you.
you opened your mouth. closed it.
and finally — “...no.”
-----
“shit… sana—”
you groaned, sharp through your teeth. her name came out hoarse. low. too much breath tangled inside it.
your head tipped back against the armrest, shoulders tense, hands clenched into the hem of the coat she made you take off. warm legs straddled your lap, soft weight pressing into your thighs. every movement made you flinch. not from discomfort. not exactly.
her fingers brushed your jaw, tilted your face up again. “stop moving,” she muttered. “you’ll make it worse.”
“you’re making it worse,” you hissed, eyes fluttering shut. “what are you doing—”
“cleaning it,” she snapped, then winced. “sorry. i mean—i’m trying.”
your eyes cracked open.
she was kneeling over you, sleeves shoved up, a wet towel caught between her fingers like she was about to perform minor surgery instead of dabbing at your busted lip. it looked like a scene from a movie. the kind with slow lighting. a girl hovering over a wounded lover, flushed and tender.
you blinked. tried not to laugh. “you ever seen a medical drama?”
sana’s brows pinched. “what?”
“like grey’s anatomy. or literally any film with a medic. you dab. not scrub.”
“i’m not scrubbing!”
“you’re scrubbing, sana.”
“you’re bleeding!”
“i was bleeding.”
she scowled at you, then dipped the towel into the warm bowl of water on the side table again, wrung it out with far too much force.
your breath caught.
her hair brushed your cheek. her thigh shifted just slightly against yours. she smelled like shampoo and something faintly floral — something too gentle for the way your jaw throbbed.
“this is the weirdest thing i’ve ever done,” she mumbled.
“you’re literally on top of me.”
“i didn’t have space!”
“you could’ve just—” you gestured vaguely, “—sat next to me.”
“but then you’d have to lean back and i’d have to, like, hover weirdly and i didn’t want to make it more uncomfortable—”
“this is more uncomfortable.”
she froze. “i didn’t mean—” you sighed, dropped your head against the cushion again. “nevermind.”
she didn’t say anything. just softened her touch, dabbing more carefully at the corner of your mouth. gentler now. almost apologetic.
“…sorry,” she said quietly.
you didn’t answer. not because you were mad — just because something about the way she said it made your chest pull too tight. not playful. not guilty. just… sorry. like she’d wanted to say it for a long time.
her knee brushed yours again, unsure, like she didn’t know whether to stay or get up. finally she climbed off and sat beside you. the towel rested between you now, wet and red.
you could still hear her breathing — a little unsteady. her eyes were soft now, lingering on the cut on your lip, the bruising across your cheekbone. you didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything.
her voice came quiet. “how’s hawaii?”
you blinked, slow. “hot,” you said after a beat.
she looked up. “are you adjusting okay to seoul?”
you let out a laugh. flat. “i’m not staying. it’s just a vacation.”
“still,” she murmured, “you like it?”
you hesitated. “…i like the han river.”
she tilted her head. “just that?”
you didn’t answer. didn’t say you hadn’t explored much because eunji’s schedule was always full. didn’t say you were afraid of being alone. you just shifted your gaze, watching the soft yellow light of her apartment spill across the wooden floor.
sana was still holding the towel.
she stared down at it, twisted in her hands. then, suddenly—
“i hated not knowing if you were okay.”
you turned to her, slowly.
“when you left,” she said, barely above a whisper. “when the messages stopped. i thought about it a lot. i kept checking—just to see something. anything.”
you blinked, face unreadable. “well. you wouldn't know.”
she looked up sharply. “what?”
you swallowed, tasting metal still. “we weren’t in contact.”
her face shifted — not angry, but straining to hold something back.
“i had your instagram.”
you let out a breath of disbelief, jaw tight. “i don’t use it much.”
lie.
you knew her tour dates. her outfit choices. you’d liked exactly zero posts, but you’d seen them all.
you stood slowly, brushing your jeans off. her apartment was small but beautiful — warm light, low furniture, a little bookshelf with soft pink covers and tiny candles shaped like hearts. it was too clean. too curated. it didn’t feel lived in.
it felt like her.
you were biting your lip before you even realized. not from pain — from something else. something restless in your chest.
then your phone buzzed.
eunji.
you stared down at the screen, thumb frozen above it.
sana’s eyes tracked the movement. her expression shifted — not readable at first, then quiet, then tighter. her gaze dropped.
you stepped back toward the couch, reaching for your coat. the other coat, too — the one you gave when you met. it was draped across the armrest, familiar weight in your hands.
you didn’t realize until then how quiet the room had gotten.
you were halfway to the door when her voice stopped you.
“…why didn’t you ever reach out?”
you turned.
she was still seated, her back slouched slightly now, head low. her voice came soft, almost like it wasn’t meant for you.
you stared at her.
your hand gripped the doorframe.
“you were the one,” you said, each word cutting clean, “who didn’t want to stay in touch.”
she flinched — not visibly, but enough.
her mouth opened, breath catching.
“i gave you my nu—”
the door swung open.
“sana?” jihyo’s voice rang out.
“what the hell—” momo froze in the entryway, food bag hitting the floor with a loud, greasy splat.
“uh…” nayeon scanned the room. “sorry. are we interrupting something?”
you froze, coat over one arm, the other half-raised from where you’d been reaching for the door.
your arm dropped. coat draped over it. you bowed stiffly. deep.
no one said anything else.
you stepped past them, through the narrow hallway. cold air met your face.
you didn’t look back.
and sana still didn't follow you.
----
the door shut behind you like the last line of a poem that never resolved.
sana didn’t move.
not even as the silence expanded — thick, suspended, trembling at the edges. it filled the room in your absence. wrapped around the walls. curled beneath the couch.
momo broke it first. her voice cracked like a mismatched chord.
“wait. was that—was that your partner?”
jihyo didn’t answer. she just looked at sana the way you look in a mirror after crying — cautious. careful. like the reflection might flinch.
nayeon bent to pick up the fallen food bag, her usual teasing stripped down to something quieter. “sana… who was that?”
no reply.
her hands were still twisted in the towel, knuckles pale from how tight she was holding on. her coat had slipped off one shoulder, like she’d started to move but forgot how. her face wasn’t blank — just stunned. like someone bracing for a wave and realizing too late they’d already drowned.
no smile. no laugh to deflect. no shrug to send the moment skipping across the surface.
just one breath.
deep. tired. from somewhere inside her she didn’t want anyone to hear.
jihyo stepped closer, a hand gentle on her shoulder. “you should talk to them.”
momo sat beside her, voice quieter now. “they looked like they weren’t coming back.”
sana’s lips parted. her eyes stayed closed.
when she finally spoke, it was soft. stripped down.
“i don’t even know where to start.”
nayeon joined them on the couch, her voice like a lifeline. “start anywhere,” she said. “just don’t wait until it’s too late.”
silence stretched again. waiting.
a buzz.
sana’s phone vibrated against the wooden table. once. like a heartbeat.
she leaned forward.
glanced.
then froze.
jihyo leaned in. “what is it?”
but sana was already moving.
standing so quickly the towel slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a wet sound. it lay there forgotten, red-stained and wrung out like her.
she didn’t answer.
and the weight of something unspoken had finally broken the surface.
---
the cold bit first. not in your skin, but somewhere deeper — tucked just beneath your ribs, where old memories fester. it wasn’t the kind of cold you could dress for. it was the kind that reminded you of things. of quiet heartbreak. of silence stretched too long. the kind that made you ache even in your bones.
the han river looked different at night — less like water, more like glass. unmoving. half-asleep. the wind skimmed its surface like fingers trailing over old scars, soft and unkind. your footsteps slowed without you meaning to, gravel grinding under each step as the snow began to fall in fine, hesitant flakes. it wasn’t quite winter yet, but the season had started whispering at the edges.
you wandered down the path you remembered from your last visit — a small, hidden curve near the water, where the trees leaned low like they were trying to listen. here, the noise of the city faded. the sky opened up wide and quiet. even your thoughts sounded too loud.
you sat down.
no one else was around. just you, the frost, and the city lights across the water flickering like stars someone forgot to wish on. the bench beneath you was damp and cold, and your fingers curled into your sleeves out of instinct. somewhere nearby, a car passed — distant and muffled — then everything was still again.
your phone buzzed.
you didn’t look. another buzz. you didn’t move.
eunji.
you stared at the name glowing faintly in the dark, then finally tapped out something dull, mechanical:
i just got lost. i’ll be back soon.
you left her on read.
your thumb hovered over the camera app for a second. the river. the snow. the faint blur of light. you took a photo without thinking and posted it. no caption. not even a filter.
it looked more like a memory than a real place. something half-dreamt. like you could reach through the screen and touch a version of yourself that didn’t exist anymore.
you exhaled, long and shaky. the air tasted sharp, metallic. like it could cut.
then — footsteps.
slow, deliberate, crunching through snow.
you didn’t turn around right away. your whole body tensed, your heart ticking faster against your ribs.
“if i get murdered right now,” you muttered, voice flat, “at least it’s poetic.”
no one answered.
but you felt it. that shift in the air. the way the cold paused.
you turned and saw her.
sana.
not just standing — but running. or maybe she had been. her hair was wind-tangled, her cheeks flushed deep from the cold. she looked breathless, lashes tipped in snow, like the world had tried to stop her and she hadn’t let it. she didn’t speak. not at first. just stood there like she was trying to believe you were real.
your chest pulled tight.
“how—”
she stepped forward. her voice barely carried. “your story.”
her eyes searched yours. and for a second — a real, whole second — you saw her how she used to look at you. like you were a question worth asking.
the snow fell slow between you, soft and endless, like even time didn’t want to intrude. her breath came out quick, uneven clouds in the air. she looked like something you shouldn’t touch — too fragile, too out of reach.
you swallowed. “did you come all the way out here for that?”
she nodded once. her mouth opened, then closed again, like she didn’t trust her voice. it shook, anyway.
“why…” she tried.
you waited.
then it hit — like something breaking loose all at once. she shouted, “why didn’t you ever contact me?!”
her voice split the cold open.
your heart lurched. you flinched — not visibly, but inside, where everything had been trying to hold steady.
her voice ripped through the cold. it cracked something open. inside you. inside her.
you flinched. not from the sound — from the grief.
“i gave you a picture,” she went on, chest rising too fast. “back in hawaii. i wrote my number on it. i… i waited. i checked. i thought you just didn’t want to—”
her voice broke like glass on pavement.
you stared at her. stunned. the air between you was quiet again, like the river itself had gone still, holding its breath.
“…i never got it,” you said.
sana blinked.
“what?”
you stepped forward slowly. your voice was low, flat, and too calm for how hard your heart was beating.
“i never got a picture. or your number.”
she just stared.
"what do you mean—" sana stepped closer. her boots left small, lonely prints in the snow.
your jaw clenched.
"you didn’t even acknowledge the food i gave you," you said, your voice tight. "i asked eunji to pass it to you. i thought that was your answer. i thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
her brow furrowed, confused and sharp with emotion. “what food?”
"what food?" she said again, louder, desperate now. “what are you talking about?”
you looked at her. saw the confusion. the hurt.
it wasn’t a lie.
a sick weight pulled in your stomach.
“did you give your number to eunji?”
she nodded, slowly. lips pale. “yeah. she said she’d—”
and that was it.
the drop.
that moment just before the fall, where everything hangs still, perfect, poised — and then it shatters.
your body reeled like it had been pushed.
you caught yourself on the edge of the bench.
the snow didn’t stop falling.
it landed on your hands. your shoulders. the back of your neck. it melted there. turned cold to water. turned water to silence.
you laughed once. it sounded like it hurt your throat.
“she never gave it to me,” you said. not looking at her now. “she never gave me anything.”
the silence stretched.
the river rippled, dark and slow.
“i checked,” she said, voice cracking. “i kept checking. your instagram. just to see if you were okay. if you remembered me. i didn’t want to text first. i didn’t want to be stupid—”
"you weren’t," you said. too fast. too bitter.
sana flinched.
“we were both stupid,” you added, softer. “just for different reasons.”
she didn’t speak. just looked down at her hands like they were broken things. like maybe they were the problem.
and the snow kept falling.
light, and relentless, and quiet.
for a second, it felt like hawaii again. that last day. that last look.
but colder.
colder than anything. colder than the wind.
and all that time — all those years — you’d both been waiting.
for each other.
for nothing.
-----
you should’ve walked away.
but instead, your hand moved first. quiet. like instinct, or something older. you stepped forward, took your extra coat, and gently draped it over her frame.
she blinked.
not at the coat — at you.
your hands stayed on her arms a second longer than needed. the fabric was too big for her. it swallowed her up. still, she looked so small inside it. fragile, like something you couldn’t bear to drop again.
you shook your head once, slow. not at her. not at you. just the ache.
then, without a word, you turned toward the street.
she followed.
you didn’t look back, but you heard her behind you — her steps crunching against the snow, her breath hitching in a way that didn’t sound like cold anymore.
the snow kept falling, more tender now, like the sky was softening too. the streets were quieter out here, shining in the pale yellow of old lamps and flickering signs. your footsteps were slow. hers, unsteady. she had to hug the coat tighter to her chest just to believe it was real.
because none of this felt real.
a week ago you were still a ghost. an ache behind her ribs. and now you were here, your shadow stretching long beside hers, your scent faint on the collar she curled into.
you found a convenience store. the kind with flickering lights and soft fluorescent hums. warm. too warm. the bell above the door chimed like a lullaby.
the light inside the convenience store buzzed faintly, humming low like it knew not to speak too loudly. outside, the snow fell slow — quiet little ghosts drifting past the windows. inside, it was warmer, but not by much. just enough to thaw fingers, not hearts.
then the light — cold and artificial, but merciful. she blinked through it, watching as you nodded politely to the cashier and led her to a tiny seating area by the window: just two plastic chairs, a metal table, and a dusty radiator ticking faintly.
“sit,” you said, quiet.
she did. still shivering a little, still glancing over her shoulder, like the spell might break.
you were already at the aisles — grabbing ramen cups, pouring water into a machine, picking out bottled drinks with practiced hands. she watched you like it was a ritual. like you’d done this a thousand times before — maybe alone, maybe with someone else. the latter hurt more than she expected.
you came back with a tray. placed it down gently.
one bowl slid toward her. “it’s hot.”
you sat across from her in the narrow seating area tucked beside the instant noodles aisle. the plastic chairs were flimsy, slightly uneven. one wobbled under sana’s weight every time she shifted, but she didn’t complain. she was wrapped in your extra coat — the one you’d taken from her place earlier, now draped over her shoulders like it had never belonged anywhere else. it dwarfed her frame. swallowed her neck. but she didn’t adjust it. didn’t even try to pull it tighter.
your hands were red from the cold. one held a plastic fork. the other nursed a canned coffee gone lukewarm.
you glanced up when she chuckled softly — just a breath, just enough to be heard over the low whir of the heater overhead.
“ice cream in winter?” she asked, nodding to the half-melted cone near your tray.
you stared at it, then gave a small shrug. “i never really adjusted. not to seoul’s winter.”
your voice came out quieter than you meant. it didn’t sound like a statement. more like an apology to no one.
sana looked at you for a long time.
then, gently, “how long have you been here?”
you hesitated. fiddled with the tab of your drink. “two weeks.”
she blinked. “that long?”
“eunji invited me,” you said. the name caught in your throat, dry and sharp. “i didn’t really plan to stay.”
you didn’t tell her that you hadn’t even unpacked fully. you didn’t say anything more.
and sana didn’t press.
outside, a car passed slowly, headlights skimming across the snow-covered glass. inside, the air felt too still.
her knees brushed against yours under the table. not fully — just the softest graze. like breath against skin. like memory.
neither of you moved.
she turned her face slightly, watching you from beneath her lashes.
“…when are you leaving?”
you exhaled, low. the steam from your cup twisted into the air between you.
“tomorrow.”
a pause.
then a frown bloomed between her brows. not sudden — slow and reluctant, like it hurt to let it show.
she looked down. “that’s soon.”
you nodded once, then broke your gaze to stare out the window again. the world outside felt unreal. just frost and blur and noise you couldn’t name.
she was the one who broke the silence again. quietly. carefully.
“you and eunji…”
her voice trailed.
you turned your head back toward her. she wasn’t looking at you. her fingers were curled around her can of corn tea, knuckles faintly white.
you watched her.
then shook your head once. “no.”
sana blinked. her lashes trembled, catching the light.
“the day at jyp…” she started, voice unsure. “they said—”
“it was an act.” your voice was low, rougher than before. “she didn’t want to look bad in front of staff. so i… i went along with it.”
you paused. frowned deeper. your gaze dropped to your lap. your hands had curled into fists without you noticing.
“honestly,” you said, “i'm disappointed in her.”
sana stayed silent.
you rubbed your thumb against the edge of the table. your eyes didn’t lift. “i wanted to be closer to you before. not… hidden. not kept away like some—”
you didn’t finish the sentence. just let the words hang, fraying.
“i don't like it.”
the heater clicked once. the sound of the soup boiling behind the counter faded. even the workers had gone quiet, leaving the space around you dim and flickering.
then—
“did you… date anyone after i left?” sana asked.
you blinked once. didn’t answer.
your fingers twitched. your shoulders curled in slightly.
then, slowly, you nodded.
“yeah,” you said. voice stripped bare. “fuck, i did date to forget about you.”
the words fell like something you couldn’t catch in time. as soon as they left your mouth, your body recoiled — just slightly — a wince folding your brow, your gaze falling.
“sorry,” you muttered quickly. “i didn’t mean to— sorry for the curses, sana...”
you shifted an inch away, as if trying to put space between your shame and her silence.
but sana didn’t move.
you kept your head down. your voice cracked quieter now. “i tried. i really tried. to forget you. to un-feel it. to fill the space you left. even if you were there for only a week.”
your jaw tensed. “nothing worked.”
a beat passed.
her knee touched yours again, this time firmer. not an accident. and still, she didn’t move away.
your eyes lifted.
she was looking at you like she hadn’t stopped. her cheeks were flushed, but not from the cold. her breath was caught in her throat.
her voice came out like silk rubbed raw. “i didn’t date anyone.”
you stared.
“i was waiting for you,” she said.
and the air left your lungs.
like a door closing inside your chest.
your pulse stuttered. your fingers curled into your palms. the coat slipped slightly off her shoulder, but she didn’t fix it. her eyes were glassy. the corner of her lip trembled.
you didn’t speak.
you couldn’t.
the heater buzzed. your soup had gone cold. her knees were still touching yours. her fingers still clutched the cup, as if anchoring herself in the moment.
neither of you moved.
and outside, the snow kept falling. quiet. steady. like it had never stopped.
the ringtone broke first.
not loud. just a sharp little jingle against the quiet hum of the store. sana blinked, slow — like surfacing from a dream — and fished her phone from the coat pocket you’d lent her.
she glanced at the screen. didn’t hide it.
jihyo unnie~
you didn’t say anything. just lowered your gaze and gently stirred the noodles in your cup, their steam softening the tips of your lashes.
she answered.
“hello?”
her voice was gentle, a little dazed.
and then — jihyo’s voice, from the other end, sharp and unmistakable, even without speaker on. fast, worried, scolding. like a leader who’d paced her apartment three times already. “yah, sana! where did you even go? you didn’t take your coat! what were you thinking—”
you slurped your noodles quietly, trying to stay small in the background. your ears were pink.
“unnie, i’m okay,” sana said, trying to keep her tone light. “really. i’m warm now.”
“don’t lie! did you even eat anything?”
sana glanced at you. her eyes softened. her voice followed.
“…i’m eating now.”
your hand froze for a moment around your fork. your ears burned red geez, why did she look at you and not her food..
but then jihyo’s voice cut again — lower now, more teasing. the kind that pokes just enough to hit the nerve. “okay, okay. just let us know if you and your partner made up already. seriously, you two gave us a heart attack today—”
sana jolted.
you coughed — too hard — and choked on a mouthful of noodles, smacking your chest once, eyes wide.
“what—” you wheezed.
sana scrambled to hang up. “okay love you unnie bye!!” she rushed into the phone, her voice rising three pitches in panic before she jabbed the red button.
silence.
then sana slowly turned her head to you, her eyes round as moons. her cheeks glowed crimson. she tried to stammer something but failed.
you stared at her. still chewing.
then, wordlessly, you checked the time on your phone. you look flustered and slightly tried to hide your phone's wallpaper hoping she won't see. 11:03 pm.
you exhaled. stood up. started gathering the trays.
“…let’s get you home.”
she didn’t argue. just nodded, small. the coat slid down her shoulder again. you reached over without thinking and fixed it for her, brushing her collar gently back into place.
she looked away too fast.
the walk to the curb was quiet. the snow had softened again, sticking in your lashes, whispering into your collar. your hand hovered near her elbow once, just in case she slipped.
you hailed the first taxi that passed. it was old, yellowed, with soft fabric seats that smelled faintly of coffee and dust.
you opened the door for her.
not smoothly — your hand slipped a little on the handle — but you managed it. and still, you kept your eyes averted as she stepped in.
she smiled.
you followed after. sat beside her in the back, not too close, but close enough that her sleeve brushed yours.
the driver glanced back at you through the mirror. “where to?”
sana named her apartment building.
you nodded faintly.
then fished out your wallet. thumbed a few bills nervously, then leaned forward slightly toward the driver.
“…uh. two payments, sir. one for her place, one for me, and… could you wait for me while i take her up? i’ll give extra.”
your voice cracked a little near the end.
the driver blinked.
then smiled.
“such a cute couple,” he said warmly. “of course i’ll wait.”
you made a strangled noise and sat back in your seat like you’d been pushed.
sana pressed a hand over her mouth.
“ugh. cutie,” sana whispered to herself, like she couldn’t help it. the word dropped from her lips like it had been begging to be said.
her ears were red. the kind of red that crept down her neck. her knees knocked gently against yours again as the car rolled forward, but this time, she didn’t flinch or pull away.
you groaned under your breath, hiding your face.
the car moved. outside, the snow turned to lace against the windows. inside, everything was warmer now — from the heater vents, from the nearness, from her smile lingering on you.
you looked away — out the window, anywhere. the city was all smudged lights and wet reflections. your heart pounded too loud for such a quiet ride.
you didn’t speak.
you just sat there.
quiet, hearts loud, knees almost touching.
and for once — her silence didn’t hurt.
—
the taxi rolled to a stop with a gentle lurch. before the wheels had even settled, you were already pushing the door open, stepping out quickly and glancing over your shoulder just to make sure—
“careful,” you muttered under your breath, eye flicking to where sana was stepping down onto the pavement. she wobbled slightly, so you moved closer, as if your presence alone might catch her.
she didn’t fall. but she glanced up and caught you watching.
you looked away, muttering a quiet “sorry,” and turned to face the driver again.
“we’ll just be a minute,” you said, tugging your wallet from your coat pocket.
the driver, older and kind-faced, waved a hand. “it’s alright. i’ll take a smoke break. take your time, young love.”
you flushed. again. nodded quickly. “thank you. really. i won’t be long.”
you turned back to sana, who was already halfway to the door, glancing back at you with a tiny, lopsided smile. you caught up without thinking. you caught up in the lobby, breath shallow, coat still hanging awkwardly off your shoulders as the glass doors hissed shut behind you. she was already pressing the elevator button — hair slightly damp from the snow, fingers twitching from the cold.
your steps slowed beside her. not from hesitation — but from the weight in your chest.
you could feel your pulse under your palm. loud. impatient. like it couldn’t believe this was real.
the elevator pinged.
you shifted slightly, feeling the edge of her coat sleeve brush yours. her arm was warm. or maybe it was you. or maybe it was just the heat between you that wouldn’t stop rising.
she pressed the button to her floor. didn’t speak. neither did you.
but your hand didn’t leave your chest.
your heart wouldn’t let you.
the elevator climbed. you swallowed.
a soft ding.
the elevator opened.
you stepped out with her. the hallway was dimly lit, carpet soft beneath your shoes, the kind of silence that echoed.
when she opened her door, the scent hit you first — faint jasmine and something warmer underneath, something lived-in. the place was tidy but full. plush furniture, warm wood, golden light from standing lamps. not overly fancy. but not cold either.
like her.
warmth.
the apartment greeted you like a memory: mismatched slippers by the door. it was warmer than you remembered. more alive. more hers.
you looked around, slower this time. eyes tracing the edge of her countertops, the curve of the furniture. the spill of light from the kitchen. your coat still hung on her shoulders, loose and oversized, like it belonged there.
“you can keep the coat,” you said, suddenly — before you could think. “i mean. it suits you.”
she raised an eyebrow. “it’s yours.”
“still looks better on you.”
a beat passed — then she looked away, flustered. her cheeks pink again.
you stepped further in. something dark on the floor caught your eye — a towel. stained faintly with blood. your breath hitched, but you bent down quietly, lifting it by the corners like it was fragile. you carried it to the kitchen sink and ran water over it, gently squeezing out the worst of it.
“you didn’t have to,” she said softly behind you.
"it's my mess. and i wanted to."
you turned. she was still standing in the same place, hands in your coat pockets, watching you with a gaze that melted like candlewax. slow, fond. like she was memorizing something.
you cleared your throat.
but she was watching you.
smiling.
you cleared your throat. dropped your gaze. “sorry, i didn’t say this earlier, but… your apartment’s really pretty.”
“mm.” she turned, flicking on a lamp near the window. it bathed her face in warm amber. “it’s big, huh?”
you nodded, still glancing around. your fingers brushed the back of a chair as you passed. “yeah. i didn’t notice these doors before either. they’re—huge.”
“they’re for the future,” she said, casually.
you blinked. turned back. “huh? like… storage?”
she smirked. not even trying to hide it. “no. for when i have a family.”
your breath caught.
you looked at her.
she was still smirking. still smug. eyes sharp with amusement.
“…not a house?” you asked, dumbly.
and her grin widened like the moon. “oh? so you want a house?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again. your face flushed hot. too fast.
“n-no,” you stammered, looking at the door, the wall, anything that wasn’t her. “i mean yes—i mean—i should go, the taxi guy’s waiting, he probably—”
“ah,” she said, still grinning, still holding back a laugh. “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“you didn’t,” you muttered.
you stepped back, nearly tripping over the shoe rack. she laughed again. then — quieter, this time — she said, “will you be online later?”
you paused.
then nodded. “if you want me to text, i will.”
she didn’t answer right away. just nodded slowly, her gaze dipping to the floor. her fingers brushed the edge of your coat sleeve again — once, almost absentminded — before stepping back.
you didn’t look back when you left. couldn’t.
your heart was too full.
you opened the taxi door and stepped in. the car was warm, still humming softly with the radio. the driver looked up in the rearview mirror and smiled.
“she’s a beautiful woman,” he said, pulling gently away from the curb.
you looked down at your hands. they were shaking. you pressed them together.
“…yeah,” you whispered. “overbearing. complicated. loud sometimes.”
you smiled.
“but i like it..”
i like her.
the driver didn’t reply.
but he smiled to himself.
and when the city lights passed by again — golden halos, bright snow falling, seoul glowing like something alive — you finally felt it in your bones.
this place didn’t feel like a memory anymore.
for the first time, it felt like it fit. like it filled something in you.
like it wasn’t just seoul.
it was hers.
and maybe — slowly, finally — it was yours too.
—---
the taxi slowed in front of your building.
you hadn’t said much after that last glance through the window. hadn’t even looked at the driver until now. the soft warmth in your chest was starting to settle, and underneath it — colder, sharper — was the memory of why you left the apartment in the first place.
you nodded, quietly. “thanks.” you gave him the extra money like you promised.
he gave you a knowing smile, then tapped the steering wheel. “take care, kid.”
you stepped out into the dim entry lights. the door buzzed open. your shoes echoed on the tiled floor. each step up the stairwell felt heavier than the last.
and when you opened the door to her apartment — she was already there.
“where the hell were you?”
eunji.
she was standing barefoot in the hallway, sleeves pushed up, eyes frantic and glistening. the moment she saw you, she rushed forward, her arms wrapping tight around your shoulders.
you didn’t move.
“you ran off,” she whispered against your shoulder. “you didn’t answer. i didn’t know where—”
“i saw her.”
you felt her body tense.
you pulled back just enough to look at her.
“i met sana,” you said again, quieter this time. “outside. I helped her with something..”
eunji’s eyes flickered. her arms dropped.
she stepped back. “what did you do?”
the way she said it — not what happened, but what did you do — stung.
your frown deepened. “why does it sound like i’m in the wrong?”
“i didn’t say that,” she muttered.
you stared at her. and then, finally, you said it.
“why did you keep her away from me?”
she flinched.
“i—” her mouth opened, then closed. her eyes darted. “i didn’t.”
you shook your head, once, slowly. “eunji.”
she still didn’t meet your eyes.
“you’ve been lying. you know how i can tell?” your voice cracked slightly. “i know you since college, eunji. i already memorized everything about you.”
a long silence stretched between you.
then, like something broke loose, her voice came out sharp and trembling.
“what was i supposed to do?” she said. “what if she broke you? i thought you’d forget. i thought if i didn’t say anything, you’d finally—”
she paused. her jaw clenched.
“—you’d finally see me.”
your breath caught.
her hands were curled into fists at her sides.
“do you know what it felt like?” she said, voice lowering. “watching you fall in love over someone who will leave you? and every time you picked yourself up, you never looked at me. not really. even when i stayed. even when i held you through it all first.”
you didn’t know what to say.
your hands dropped uselessly to your sides. your heart was pounding again, for a very different reason now.
“i loved you,” she whispered. “i—i love you. i’ve been here this whole time, and you never even—i just wanted you to see me.”
her voice broke on the last word.
the apartment was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft hiss of the radiator.
you finally looked up at her.
your voice, when it came, was hoarse. tired.
“…i’m sorry.”
her face crumpled.
you stepped forward, slowly. not to hug her — but to be near, to not leave her alone in this.
“i’m sorry, eunji. you didn’t deserve to wait for someone who couldn’t give you what you wanted.” your voice trembled. “but i still love her. i tried to stop. i did.”
you swallowed.
“but i saw her again, and it’s like—nothing ever left. it’s still her.”
she shook her head, tears now slipping past her lashes, silent and fast.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you added, soft. “but lying to me… taking that choice away from me… that wasn’t fair either.”
eunji’s shoulders shook once — a breath, a sob, maybe both.
and for a long time, neither of you spoke.
just two people, standing in the dim hallway of a too-quiet apartment. one full of regret, the other full of a love that still belonged to someone else.
—-
you zipped your suitcase halfway, then paused.
your arms rested on the edge. your breath hung low in your chest.
the apartment was dim, lit only by the desk lamp in the corner, where its faint yellow glow hit the open drawers, the scattered socks, the half-packed shirts folded too neatly for how tired you were. your shadow shifted as you sat back on your heels, thumb pressed to your ribs like it could slow your heartbeat down.
it had been hours since eunji closed her door behind her.
you didn’t sleep. you couldn’t. not after everything. not with the silence so loud it pressed behind your eyes like a weight.
you had said sorry. over and over. you meant it.
she had cried. she hadn’t yelled, even when she could have. she just listened. and when you finally hugged her goodnight, her fingers trembled against your back. she hadn’t said goodbye. just nodded.
you knew what that meant.
it wouldn’t be the same anymore. and maybe that was fair.
but still, your heart ached.
you stared down at your phone for a long moment. then, finally, you typed.
hey...
just wanted to say i talked to eunji tonight.
you hovered. then added:
she told me she liked me.
that’s why she never told me about you.
you hesitated — then hit send.
the response came slowly. a full minute passed. then two.
finally, sana replied:
oh...
then:
i didn’t know that.
that must’ve been hard for her. and for you.
you pressed your lips together.
then, after another pause, you typed:
i felt sad for her.
but i told her she deserves someone who’ll wait for her the way she waited for me.
and... i told her i’m sorry.
and that i want to learn to love someone else now.
your heart stammered. you stared at the message.
then, softer, you added:
i told her i want to learn to love you.
this time, sana didn’t respond for a while.
meanwhile sana's tired eyes were fluttering open, her breath catching as she sat up, hair mussed, blanket slipping down her shoulder.
your phone vibrated.
you’re serious?
you smiled, fingers warm now.
yeah.
if you’re still okay with that.
sana’s reply came faster this time.
are you kidding
i’m smiling so hard i look stupid rn
then, a minute later:
let’s start tomorrow
pick me up at 10?
you stared at the screen, heart suddenly too full for your chest.
you typed back:
okay. 10.
i’ll see you tomorrow.
you didn’t say goodnight. didn’t need to.
the lamp buzzed faintly above you. outside, the city was quiet.
and for the first time since you arrived in seoul — maybe for the first time in years — you finally smiled without doubt.
—-
you knock twice, then once more, softer. the morning's quiet. the hallway still carries a hush from the night. when the door clicks open, it’s like the whole world exhales — and standing there is sana, wearing a long-sleeved blue polo with thin white stripes tucked loosely into light jeans.
you blink. then laugh under your breath.
“you’re kidding,” you say, eyes dragging down her outfit. “we match.”
she stares at you for a second, then bursts into a small laugh — pink already blooming high on her cheeks. “no way.”
you step back a little to show her the full view: same soft denim, same sky-blue shade, sleeves rolled once at the forearm. same understated attempt to look casual. it’s like the universe couldn’t help itself.
“just like hawaii,” you murmur, and it must be the way your voice drops that makes her quiet for a moment, tucking her lip between her teeth before smiling again.
“you ready?” she asks, tilting her head.
you nod, and she grabs her keys. neither of you say it, but the walk is slow. slower than usual. like your feet are afraid of where the sidewalk ends.
the café is quiet this early. just the barista humming, some jazz whispering through ceiling speakers. you order a java chip, and sana asks for an iced americano. the contrast makes you grin.
“haven’t changed at all.”
she sips from her straw with a smirk. “i miss the way you made the americano.."
you find a small table by the window. the street’s bright with summer, the light scattering over her hair, her sleeves, the way she holds her cup with both hands like it anchors her. there’s a silence, but it’s not heavy. it’s careful. a breath between pages.
“i keep thinking,” you start, “that it’s been three years. but this feels like yesterday.”
sana looks up, a little surprised. then: “yeah.”
you stare down at the melted whip of your drink. “like hawaii never ended. like i blinked and suddenly you’re here again.”
“i thought it’d be awkward,” she says quietly. “but it wasn’t. with you, it just… never is.”
you nod, slow. and then, almost as an afterthought, you add, “my flight’s at nine tonight.”
a pause. she doesn’t look at you when she says it.
“i know.”
your gaze lifts. “you know?”
her fingers tighten around her cup. “i mean… nothing. doesn’t matter.”
you don’t press. you want to — your chest twists at the way she shifts her eyes — but something in you says not now. not when the minutes are ticking toward evening. not when this, too, is a kind of goodbye.
after the last sip, you walk her home again. she walks close this time. not quite brushing your arm, but not far.
at her door, she hesitates.
“thanks for today,” she says, and you try not to memorize the way her hair falls into her face.
“yeah,” you smile. “it was perfect.”
you walk away before you can say anything else.
you get home by seven. your suitcase is already by the door. eunji’s waiting with your passport and keys, quiet but steady.
in the taxi, neither of you talk much.
when you reach the airport, she steps out first.
“i’m sorry,” she says again, voice thinner than usual.
you hug her tight, the way you used to when you didn’t know what was coming next.
“you’ll be okay,” you whisper. “you’ll meet someone who waits back.”
“you better text me when you land,” she mutters.
“you better get some sleep.”
you smile. she does too, a small one, then watches you go.
it’s 8:45 pm when you text sana.
i’m here now. airport’s loud.
thanks again for earlier. it meant a lot.
there’s no reply. you check again at 8:50. then 8:57.
you sit near your gate, hoodie pulled up, watching people come and go. no notification.
at 9:10, they call final boarding.
you sigh, shoulders heavy, and stand. your feet drag a little.
your phone buzzes once, but it’s a flight update.
you board slowly. last one in line.
someone behind you shouts — a voice, high and clear, feminine.
“wait—!”
you half-turn, but your headphones are in. just another late passenger, probably. you don’t look back.
when the wheels lift, seoul disappears in blue and blur. your phone stays dark.
but your heart — your heart feels full.
just like hawaii.
and this time, you don’t feel like you’re leaving something unfinished.
but even if the timing cracked and shifted — you were lucky enough to find her again.
–-
“i missed you, hawaii, you goddamn—!”
your voice cracks mid-shout as the wind knocks you sideways and the surfboard flies clean out under you. saltwater slams into your face. keoni’s cackling in the distance, the kind of laugh that could peel paint off walls. “yo, language! the ocean hears you!”
you burst up from the water, slick hair clinging to your forehead, arms raised. “i don’t care, keoni! hawaii missed me too!”
keoni rides past with a crooked grin, cutting the waves like he owns them. “hawaii missed you, sure — but not your godawful form.”
you flip him off with both hands, still grinning. your whole body aches from the burn of salt and sun and joy. you haven’t laughed this hard in weeks. your skin is hot, stretched tight across your bones. you're soaked in everything good.
“bite me!” you yelled back, grinning hard, your chest aching with something bright and stupid and real.
you hadn’t laughed like this in weeks.
not since seoul. not since—
you reached the shore, board under your arm, water dripping off your sleeves. and for a moment, as the sun burned high above and the wind kissed your skin, it almost felt like none of it happened. like you imagined her, the airports, the flower, everything.
because the truth was... you never texted sana again.
after the airport. after the flight. you said nothing.
not because you didn’t want to.
and now, with your feet digging into warm sand and your heart still stubborn in your chest, you let it all go — tipped your head back, shouted to the sky:
“i missed you, hawaii!”
and that’s when you heard her laugh.
not in your head.
real.
you turned, squinting into the sun.
and there she was.
barefoot in the sand, wearing a soft white beach dress that clung lightly to her frame. the breeze tugged at the hem. her hair was loose, glowing gold at the ends. she had something behind her back.
and her smile —
oh.
your chest cracked wide open.
she was here.
and now you know why you never texted her back.
because she was already beside you.
you blink water from your lashes. her hair’s longer. cheeks pinked up from the sun. she doesn’t move — not until you’re almost close enough to touch.
“hi, ten out of ten flips earlier by the way.” she says, soft rating your flips when you were surfboarding, as if the day hadn't already shouted it in every way.
you don’t answer at first. you just step forward, dripping and breathless and still stunned, and you hold something out to her — a tiny pink flower, fragile in your fingers.
“come here,” you murmur.
she tilts her head.
you step closer, push back her hair, and gently tuck the flower behind her left ear.
she blinks. her breath catches.
she doesn't say anything. she doesn't need to. she turns, just slightly, lifting her phone. sunlight spills over the shoreline. she snaps a photo — just her, the ocean behind, the flower bright against her hair.
then she posts it.
you both sit down after that, side by side in the sand, knees almost touching. keoni’s still out there, flipping over waves like he’s auditioning for a commercial. you whistle once and he throws you a salute.
your phone buzzes.
m.by__sana just posted a photo.
you tap it.
you like it.
you’re the first one.
sana turns her head slowly. "you liked it?"
"hell yeah, i liked it. first like. i win."
she chuckles, opening her own phone. the screen lights up with chaos.
chaeyoung: UNNIE YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING ON A DATE NOT INTERNATIONAL ESCAPE???
nayeon: why is your dress WHITE WHAT ARE WE MISSING
jihyo: we let you skip practice for a date WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY?
jeongyeon: send us the coordinates rn
dahyun: marry them or don’t come back.
tzuyu: pretty unnie~
mina: just sends a GIF of a slow clap
momo: yah, i spat out my ramen when i saw the post..
sana rolls her eyes, locks her phone, and tosses it onto her towel.
“not gonna answer?” you ask.
she shrugs, gaze shifting to the sunset. “maybe later.”
you look at her then. how the orange and pink light reflects in her eyes. how the flower’s still tucked behind her ear. how she hasn’t stopped smiling since she arrived.
she catches you staring. lifts a brow.
“what?”
“nothing,” you murmur. “it’s just—”
you gesture at the sky, the waves, her, all of it.
“it’s beautiful.”
she leans her head on your shoulder, warm and real and solid beside you.
“yeah,” she whispers. “it is.”
and this time, no one was leaving. no one was late. no one was missing the moment.
because she came.
and this was the ending you both chose.
kino's note — kino will be offline for a while—school begins this week, and the days ahead already feel heavy with numbers and names i haven’t met yet. there’s a mina oneshot/series quietly forming somewhere in the back of my mind. it might take time. thank you for waiting, even when i disappear. 🌙
