I don’t really know how these work… so ig just basic info!
I write smaus and short form traditional fanfic series, I'm open to requests and trying out more things!
Mainly writing for &team but as I get more comfortable I write for other groups
I would prefer to keep my blog pretty sfw and friendly for younger Lunes, Moas, or anyone else. Eventually I might make another blog solely for more nsfw and 18+ works.
As of right now I have no written much smut so either way I wouldn't have stuff to post
I would love to make more moots especially any lune or moa, or if anyone wants to become friends I am up for it too!!
Pronouns: honestly wtv you want but i go mostly byshe/her
&team Bias line: EJ, Jo, (wrecker) nicholas <3
I like boys (˶' ꒳ '˶) sorry to disappoint you ladies (though I have 12 wives)
relationship status: singleeee
groups i stan: newjeans, &team, tomorrow x together, xikers, close your eyes, xdinary heroes, ampers&one, P1harmony, cortis, Nmixx, Illit, kiiikiii, enhypen, boynextdoor
multistan at heart im sorry
(Other biases: Danni, Beomgyu and Soobin, Sumin, Kyoungbae, Junhan, Kyrell and Seongmo, Jongseob, Bae, Iroha, Kya, Jungwon, Woonhak)
non-kpop: scrubb, four-mod, Claude debussy, Keshi, Eaj, Rocco, grentperez, the backseat lovers, dpr ian, wave to earth, whatmore, daniel caesar, lamp, etc.
I’ve been a kpop fan since like i want to say 2021 (my larping ass more like 2022). I’m still pretty much a baby in everything i stan because i stan SO MUCH and idrk how to put a lot of effort into getting to know things better
as you can tell I love love love music and I make my own.
I don’t consider or have ever seen myself be a hateful person, but when it comes to music i’m not going to hesitate to have an opinion on it, I have listened and worked with musicians, sound designers, and production crews enough to have a good understanding on music, and that’s why I will be critical on things at time. Plus it’s just fun to think about things from other ways than just only enjoying an artist because i like that one song they made or because their face is pretty
Nicholas was weird... He was rich but refused to ever use it, unless on fashion. He had a sworn rule that he would never buy his own food unless absolutely necessary. So why did he pay for takeout tonight, the typical Chinese food you bought for the both of you when you were too lazy to cook. Why was he suddenly opening doors for you, taking out the trash, doing your chores and his own? Going as far to let you barrow his precious pair of doc martens, and not say a word when you got them scuffed?
Note #1 - Why him?
m.list | next
tags: cursing, college au, suicide jokes, rich!nicholas, fem!reader, fashion student!nicholas, nichojoo crumbs, use of y/n, teamies
wc: 2.7k
"Oh my gosh, Nicho, stop talking." You groaned, running your hand through your hair for what felt like twenty times too many, the boy still yapping your ear off.
You were so close to finishing this last minute edit of your essay due tomorrow, but you were also very close to snapping his neck as he kept droning on and on about the cutest boy he's ever seen, named ouja board or something.
Nicholas groaned back, pouting as he leaned deeper into his crossed arms, which he had dramatically slammed on the table three minutes ago when you weren't paying attention to him. When you weren't jealous that he thought someone else was attractive.
After another minute of him drilling his pout into the side of your head, you spared him a glance.
His frown turned upside down. "You do love me!"
You shook your head, turning back to your laptop and notebooks that were sprawled across the little table in the apartment you two shared, chipped corner from one too many times of Nicholas rage quitting half way through playing a roblox game with Harua and kneeing the poor table when he stood up to fast, the table surprisingly taking more damage than Nicho had even though he had a worse reaction to the bump.
You could feel him pout again, another groan pouring from his throat as he set his head back down, still staring up at you.
"...His eyes sparkle. He's like.. the sweetest person ever, and he smells good- did I tell you he smells good- heavenly!" Nicholas started up again before sighing, "Even his name is pretty, Euijoo.. Juju."
You swear Nicho was making heart eyes with how he talked about this Squeegee- squeejoo guy.
"He sounds like a normal guy." You shrugged, typing in the last few sentences that added that extra umpf to your essay.
Nicholas shot up, shaking his head. "Nuh uh, you haven't even ever seen him. He's gorgeous. Prettier than you."
"Ah, so I'm not that pretty?" You asked, not really paying attention to what your roomie was saying.
He froze. He couldn't just admit that you were, than your ego would grow and you would use it against him every time he pretended to be completely unfazed every time you wore wore that one blue sweater, or when you put your hair up, or did a little something extra with your eyeliner. I mean... you looke great in blue and with your hair up.
He's a man. Who wouldn't be effected by that. Right? ...Right?
Nicholas cleared his throat, realizing he suddenly went quiet when the sound of you closing your laptop snapped him out of it. "No- just- Euijoo's prettier."
"Why are you telling me this?"
There you go again, asking him a question that would clearly trip him up, make him let his guard down, this was low, even for you (you're genuinely curious why he keeps talking about this Weegoo boy).
He shrugged, trying to look innocent. "I just.. wanted to tell you."
You hummed, closing your last notebook and stacking it on top of the other as a cloud moved over the sun, the open room going a bit darker as it hid the afternoon light fluttering through the blinds. "You're trying to set me up aren't you?"
"No!" Nicholas replied to quickly, standing up just as fast and bonking his knee like he has way too many times to be on accident now.
"So you just like hearing yourself talk?"
Ouch.
"What- No. Friends talk to each other, do they not?" He spoke softly, hand rubbing over the sore spot on his knee as you stood up too.
You pursed your lips, making sure to grab your pencil after grabbing the rest of your things.
"We're friends?" You whispered.
Brutal.
You didn't intend for that to come off harmful, not until recently has Nicholas actually talked to you regularly outside of you having to remind him to run the dishwasher and him claiming he will remember (he never does). You never saw him as a friend because, well he never made it seem like he wanted to be anything other than someone you shared a roof with and split rent, occasionally watching the same show that aired on tv together, a few common friends, nothing more, nothing less.
But recently, it's been weird. Every time you would come out of your room, or come back home after classes, work, or whatever else you had going on and he was in the room, he would sit up straight, no longer sitting in a weird why on the couch biting his nails, fix his shirt that rode up his abdomen. He would avoid eye contact, or even worse, sometimes he would give too much. He actually started the dishwasher without needing to be reminded, he even took out the trash for you when you were studying for a quiz.
He started talking to you more, hanging out together with your mutual friends, much to Maki and K's delight, making sure you had everything, he even stopped making a face when he clearly disapproved of whatever outfit you put on.
"Yeah." Nicholas muttered, shrugging back when you shrugged, trying to get away. "Are we not?"
"I dunno, up to you, you usually ignore me." You said softly, noticing the way his brow furrowed as you walked over to your room.
"We're friends." He said firmly, wanting to confirm it to you.
With a nod you opened your door, shutting it behind you with a sigh.
Nicholas let out an inaudible grumble into his glass, two bottles of cheap rum in and he was already out.
"Seriously, dude, you need to chill." Maki laughed, trying to pry the cup away from Nicholas's ringed fingers, who babbled in protest.
"no- more... I want more!" Nicholas hiccuped, blinking afterward like that was the weirdest thing that had ever happened
The party continued to bustle around them, girls in miniskirts and guys in button downs or graphic tees, bass booming through out the apartment they were in.
Nicholas sniffled, nose falling back into his glass when maki gave up trying to take it from the older, letting out a drunken sob. "She doesn't love me!"
"Who broke his heart?" Yuma approached, placing his hand on Nicho's shoulder who just cried harder. He wore a black tank and low rise jeans, red cap on top of his messy head of blonde locks.
Maki shrugged, leaning back on the couch. "His roomie."
"Oh?" Yuma frowned, sitting down next to Maki. "I thought he didn't like her."
"That was until he found out she thought he was cocky dickhead, annoyingly smug I think she said." The younger explained, looking over at Nicholas with an empathetic glance.
Nicholas wailed harder, "don't remind me!"
Yuma scoffed, knowing Nicho, telling him was a dumb idea. "Who the hell told him she said that?"
Maki rubbed the back of his neck, zip up jacket rolled up his forearms before Nicholas leaned over, using it as a tissue. "hey!"
"that was deserved for spilling she hated him." Yuma laughed, trying to pry Nicholas off when he lunged for Yuma this time.
Nicholas frowned when he finally got pushed back down, pouting and crossing his arms. "She doesn't hate me..." He muttered, looking elsewhere.
"She doesn't love you either." Yuma clarified which landed him a slap from Maki.
Somehow Nicholas managed to frown more as the bass boomed louder, churning his alcohol filled stomach. "Am I that bad of a roommate?"
"Well..." Nicho's two friends said in unison, sharing a glance.
"She told me you never do your chores and get all bratty when she tells you too." Maki said lighty, resisting the urge to be flat out and tell him he was being shitty.
"And I heard from her that you have no concept of having a shared space, you play music too loud, you leave dishes out, you leave shoes scattered all over by the door, you walk around naked." Yuma explained his side too, leaning back into the couch.
"I wasn't naked! I just didn't have a shirt on..." Nicholas tried to explain himself, but sighed either way. "I'm a shitty roommate. She hates me..."
Maki shrugged. "So what if you aren't her favorite person in the whole world, just stop being a dick and caring what she thinks."
"but-" Nicholas was about to make some drunken rebuttal before a tipsy K plopped down next to him.
K let out a hooler, throwing his arm around Nicholas's shoulder. "I hear you have a crushy crush on your roomie-"
"the hell I don't." Nicho deadpanned, trying to shrug K off when the older started patting Nicholas's hair, he wasn't a cat.
Yuma laughed, full on. It made Nicholas's stomach hurt. No way he liked her, he was just mad that she didn't care about him, or thought of him as some hot shot cool guy with amazing fashion taste and an even better body. Why did she talk about him walking around half naked like it was a burden when it was a gift from god?
She wasn't even all that.
She was snobby, acted like she was better than everybody just because she was smart and occasionally wore a neck tie casually.
He didn't like her. Nope, no way.
No matter how many times Maki would tell him that she's actually really funny when she warms up and has the same sense of passion for things that Nicholas does, how caring and kind hearted she is under all this initial "bad" impressions of her.
Even if he did like her, she would never like him.
She's too unattainable.
You sighed.
Finally, peace and quiet. You figured Nicho had gone out with friends after the usual shuffling around before the door slammed behind him, so this was the perfect time to eat your secret stash of ice cream and watch this new show you heard was good.
With a low hum and giving a good three scoops worth spoonful into your bowl, the one with a chipped edge, which was caused, again, by Nicholas, you noticed a package on the edge of the counter, a piece of paper on top.
You shrugged it off at first, taking a bite of your ice cream before turning to grab chocolate chips.
But the box caught your attention again. It was definitely Nicho's, but why'd he leave it out?
You looked around for amount before leaning over the package, spoon still in your mouth as you read the paper on top.
"to my beautiful roomie, p.s. out with Maki"
You raised a brow. It was for you? You haven't purchased anything recently. Since when was Nicholas buying things for you?
After mulling over if whatever was inside the box was really for you, or some dumb prank, and his choice of words to address you, you decided to screw it and open up the package.
Inside was a shiny new pair of doc martens, the same exact ones that Nicholas had surprisingly let you barrow last week when you practically begged to use them, they just went perfectly with your outfit.
You held the shoes behind your back, just coming back from the interview, a sheepish look on your face as Nicholas looked up at you like you were the craziest person in the whole world for how much you squirming well standing there awkwardly, hand still dangling from his fingers.
He was mid scroll when you came home looking oddly guilty.
"What?" Nicholas eventually asked after another minute of you standing there biting your lip.
You choked on your words, "I accidentally scratched them- I swear I'll buy you a new pair when I get enough money- or I'll even get you better ones- " you explained, trying not to drop his shoes with how quickly you were talking. "These are your children and I harmed them..."
To your surprise, all he did was shrug, snagging the shoes away from you to expect the damage. It wasn't that bad of a scuff.
"It's fine."
It wasn't fine, clearly. Maki told you Nicholas had posted a story on close friends about holding a funeral for Marty (the name he gave the doc martens) that night, and had blown up the younger's phone with dramatic wails and "I'm going to end it all"s, and "bridges looking really good and jumpable right now even though I'm afraid of heights"s.
You smiled down at the shoes, then gazing back at the note that you tossed onto the counter. I guess he remembered the few times you mentioned liking the style of Marty.
Weird. He was acting really weird.
You glanced back at the note again, "beautiful roomie?" you repeated out loud, shaking your head as you fidgeted with the flimsy yellow sticky note.
Was he seriously trying to compliment you through paper? His ego never softened, did it.
You picked up the note with a chuckle, just as it flipped out of your fingers, landing face down on the floor, that's when you realized there was words scratched onto the back in pen just like the front.
With a furrow of your brows you picked the note back up, reading over the words.
"I'm sorry for distracting you yesterday. I want to be your friend."
A weird feeling turned over in your chest at the words, you could imagine it took him seven times writing and rewriting the note before actually leaving it there before he left.
You couldn't help but smile. Maybe Nicholas wasn't as much as a dickhead as you thought.
Nicholas didn't say anything about the note when he came home, still a bit drunk from early.
"you're up late- hic." He muttered, holding onto the wall to keep himself from falling over when kicking his shoes off.
You were sitting on the couch, just scrolling through your phone, catching on emails, doing a little bit of online shopping.
With a shrug you spared him a glance, if he wasn't going to bring it up you weren't either. "So are you. Did you drink too much?" You asked softly, not really looking up from your phone.
He pouted, slumping down onto the couch. "Yeah..."
"Maki take you home?" You scrolled through someone's feed on insta you barely knew.
"Yeah..." He repeated, just staring over at him.
It was silent a bit before you sat up, crossing one leg over the other, clicking on the @ of some pretty looking guy who was tagged in a post with your mutual you were stalking."Who's that guy you were talking about the other day? Squeejoo or something?"
"Euijoo." Nicholas corrected, staring at a blank spot on the wall above the TV. "Why?"
"huh.. he is pretty." You whispered more to yourself, scrolling through Euijoo's posts.
Nicholas shot up. "What! No he's not." He said with a snarl, crossing his arms.
You looked over at him like he was crazy. "You were telling me how pretty he was yesterday for half an hour."
"Well- I- I lied." He said sternly, looking away from you and turning to stomp off to his bed room. "He's not pretty- and don't stalk him. Forget me."
"It's not like I'm going to steal him, he's all yours."
That made nicholas frown more, hand stiffening against the door handle to his bedroom, there's no way you just said that. Nicholas didn't want Euijoo, he wanted you to want him, Nicholas, not this indifference shit.
"I don't want him."
"So why can't I look at him?" You asked, zooming in on a particularly good looking picture of Euijoo.
"Because- Because it's him." Nicholas choked out.
You looked over your shoulder. What was he on about. "Why him?"
"Because-"
"You know what, I don't want to know." You yawned, standing up from the couch and stretching your arms above your head. "Night, Nicholas, sober up."
He huffed once you entered your room.
Why didn't you care?
Why did all you think of him stop at big baby prick with deep pockets?
Was he not hot enough, cool enough?
Was he not good enough for you? He had money, influence, people liked him, gravitated towards him. So why were you the only one who hated his guts.
Only because he forgot to turn the stove off once?
summary: lately, your boy best friend has been dropping hints that he wants something more, as if it weren't obvious enough already
tropes: friends to lovers, princess treatment, romcom, fluff
word count: 1.1k
warnings: not proofread sorry if it's not good lol
a/n: i genuinely do think it would be this easy w him ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
masterlist
fuma is a patient man. that's why he's the only one in the friend group that's willing to put up with you and your shenanigans.
"i really want to throw tomatoes at people like in shakespearean times," you say one saturday morning, your head in his lap on the couch.
by the afternoon, he's already taken you to the grocery store.
the entire group chat shows up to watch you throw tomatoes at him in his bathing suit and swim goggles.
"he wouldn't let me do this," k mutters to you as you take aim.
the tomatoes aren't even ripe yet, so they're mostly just bouncing off of fuma's abs and rolling into the grass.
"you'd take throwing them too seriously," you tell k, finally releasing the last tomato from your hand. it doesn't even reach fuma, who's been standing as still as a statue with his hands on his hips.
when he realizes you're done, he takes off his goggles and runs to join the rest of you.
"you can put a shirt on now," yuma complains. "the rest of us would like to go get ice cream."
"i like the view," you laugh, and fuma smiles brightly. "but yeah, you should probably go put on a shirt."
he runs back inside and comes back with his abs covered, much to your dismay.
when you finally get to the ice cream parlor, you swear everyone can see your heart break as soon as your eyes spot the "no samples allowed" sign.
"that's my favorite part!" you whine. "i never know what i'm actually in the mood for until i try it."
fuma rubs your arm and tells you he'll pay for yours just in case you don't like it.
you order two scoops of mint chocolate chip. as soon as your tongue touches the ice cream, you know that it was a mistake.
"fuma," you pout, eyeing his cup of matcha soft serve. without a word, he nods and lets you have a taste, bringing his spoon to your mouth.
"taste good?" he asks. you nod, and he takes your cone and hands you his cup.
harua and maki exchange looks to see if anybody else noticed how intimate the exchange was.
"guys," maki starts, staring the two of you down.
"hmm?" you hum, tilting your head at him.
"you know dating is legal, right?" he asks. "like, if you want to be together, none of us will stop you."
"i don't know what you're talking about," you laugh. you turn to fuma, who has melted ice cream on his chin, which you quickly reach over to wipe away with your thumb.
"that! that right there," harua joins in, pointing in accusation.
"we're friends," fuma smiles, wrapping his arm around your waist. "good friends. right?"
"right," you agree, leaning into his touch. maki and harua both groan.
it's a pattern that's been noticeable ever since you joined the friend group. you ask for something, and fuma answers. by now, he's learned how to take your requests telepathically.
the first time you watched him open a pack of pokemon cards, you instantly fell in love with a rare full art of tandemaus.
"it's so cute," you say, your eyes sparkling almost as much as the holographic details. "they're like us!"
it's only worth probably $15, and your happiness is worth much more to fuma than that. so, he lets you keep it, smiling at the thought of being two little mice that go everywhere together.
over time, you've grown an entire collection of all of the cards he's gifted to you just because you liked them for one reason or another.
"you do realize some of these are worth a lot of money," taki says one day, flipping through your binder. "the average pokemon card is worth three cents. this one is worth at least a hundred dollars."
he points at one of your espeon cards, where she looks like she's made out of crystals.
"very funny," you reply in disbelief. there's no way fuma would let you keep that one if it were that valuable.
taki looks the exact card up to prove it to you, leaving you speechless.
it's not that you're unaware that fuma treats you differently. it's just that he does it so often that it seems normal. really, you're not sure how else the two of you could operate.
when you're tired of walking, fuma carries you. if you complain about being too lazy to cook dinner, he's knocking on your door with takeout.
last halloween, he was the howl to your sophie, even going so far as to bleach his hair to make the costume perfect.
one day, after you've been teased by the group about your dynamic a little too much, you decide to just ask him.
"fuma," you stop him at the front door when everybody else is filing out. "can i ask you something?"
"anything," he nods, his arms crossed as he waits for your question.
you fiddle with the charms on your bracelet. the tiny metal cake slice—a gift from fuma on your last birthday—feels cool beneath your fingertips.
"are you in love with me?"
the question doesn't seem to shock him.
"i am," he says without thinking, as calm as if he's talking about the weather.
you know how to tell when he's doing one of his silly lies, and this isn't one of those times.
"how come you've never said anything?"
"you never asked," he shrugs, his nonchalance pissing you off.
"and you're not going to ask if i love you back?"
"do you love me back?"
"yes," you grumble, hesitant to show any emotion.
"and?" fuma steps closer.
"i'm mad at you."
he smirks, used to your attitude. "any particular reason?"
"many." you do your best to look angry, although your heart is about to jump out of your chest from the way he's looking at you. “but mostly because you should’ve confessed sooner instead of making me ask.”
he smiles, before leaning in and kissing you on the top of your head.
your eyes go wide. "what was that?"
"i thought it would make you feel better."
you hate how well he knows you. almost all of your annoyance has melted away.
"do it again," you say softly.
he does. you tilt your head up to look at him and tap your index finger against your lips, signaling where you want him to kiss you next.
and if fuma is going to do anything, it's give you what you want.
warnings: mommy issues, lots of overthinking, miscommunication
a/n: i couldn't not include snowman juju lol, also sorry it's a lot shorter and also not very good idk i'm my own biggest hater
masterlist
DECEMBER
It’s the time of year when everything starts to feel too quiet.
The air is cold and dry, and snow has started to fall. The museum has no new exhibits coming up for you to work on.
Your mom has already texted to let you know that she’s going to be on a cruise in the Caribbean for the holidays. Nicholas is flying home soon to Taiwan.
A few days before winter break, Euijoo asks you to meet him in his classroom after the school day ends.
When you get there, he’s dressed in all white, with a red scarf and a giant white ball enclosing his torso.
He’s a snowman.
“Surprise!” He strikes a silly pose. “They usually draw straws for who has to wear it every year. I just volunteered.”
“Juju the Snowman,” you grin. “You should keep it. I think this might be your look.”
“Do you want to see the dance I did?” Euijoo asks, although he’s going to show you whether you say yes or no.
You nod, and he hums the tune to Frosty the Snowman and does a bunch of silly dance moves.
When you can’t stop laughing, he feels butterflies in his stomach.
“Please tell me you’re going to wear it for the rest of the week,” you say once you’ve finally caught your breath.
“I can’t let the kids get used to it,” he shakes his head. “Then they’ll never want to see plain old Mr. Byun ever again.”
“I like Mr. Byun just fine,” you argue. “Both are good. Both are you.”
Euijoo knows you don’t realize the effect of your words on him. You always sing him praises just because, and that’s part of why he likes you so much.
“Are you going home to see your family?” you ask him, breaking his train of thought.
“No,” he answers, although he doesn’t seem very sad. “They’re coming to visit me.”
It’s not like you expected to spend the holidays with Euijoo. You know how important his family is and how little opportunities he gets to see them in person.
You just thought that if you were going to be alone on Christmas, then it would at least be because Euijoo had left the country.
“That’s nice,” you smile, realizing that you hadn’t actually said anything back to him. “I hope you have a good time together. I know it’s been a while.”
He doesn’t ask about your plans. You don’t tell him that you don’t have any.
He doesn’t invite you to meet his family either, and you have to ask yourself whether or not you thought that he would. You’re just his friend. You’ve known each other for a few months.
You’ve always been so good at managing your expectations. You never ask for too much. Never try to make yourself take up more space than you need to.
But Euijoo has always given you his time without you ever asking for it. Even on days when you’ve convinced yourself he’s too busy with work, or he’d rather hang out with his other friends, or have a quiet day to himself, he shows up for you anyway.
The idea that you’ve gotten used to having him around starts to terrify you.
The two of you spend the days leading up to his family’s visit like you always do—walking around town, doing little activities, sharing meals. You even help him shop for gifts, trying your hardest to never let him notice how much is on your mind.
When they finally arrive, Euijoo spends the first few days texting you pictures of their meals or something he’s walked past that reminded him of you.
You heart each message, although you don’t reply much on your end. There isn’t really anything to say that’s important enough to interrupt his time with his family.
Eventually, on Christmas Eve, you decide that it’s time for you and Cutie to get out of bed and venture outside.
You bundle her up in a little coat and scarf, making sure that her feet are covered by tiny knitted socks.
She’s more prepared for the cold weather than you are.
You walk around the city in the snow, looking at Christmas lights and perusing holiday markets for hours, watching as people scramble around for last minute presents.
When you finally get back to your apartment after dark, your nose is runny and your throat is dry. You run a hot bath in the hopes of counteracting any incoming sicknesses.
On Christmas morning, though, you wake up with a fever. You change into a pair of festive flannel pajamas and text your entire contact list a message, before burying yourself in a pile of blankets on the couch.
You and Cutie are in the middle of your third holiday movie when there’s a knock on your door.
When you open it, Euijoo is standing in front of you, his cheeks red from the cold.
“Merry Christmas,” he smiles, pulling his hat off and shaking out his hair. “I have a delivery for you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be with your family right now?” you ask.
“Dinner’s not until later. My sister is out sightseeing and my parents are resting up at the hotel. Plus, I wanted to bring you your present.”
Euijoo finally finishes taking off his winter gear, looking at you, all disheveled in your comfy clothes. You do your best to hold in a cough, but it manages to come out anyway.
“You’re sick,” he says, placing his hand against your forehead. “And burning up.”
“It’s just a cold,” you deflect, wrapping your blanket tighter around you. “I’m fine.”
“How long have you been like this?”
“Just today,” you shrug, crossing your arms.
“And you didn’t tell me?” He looks disappointed.
“You’ve been with your family.”
“I can still receive texts.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you shrug. “It’s my fault, anyway.”
“What?”
“I took a walk in the snow and I didn’t dress warm enough.”
“Y/N…”
“I think someone stole my gloves at work,” you sniffle. He laughs.
“I would’ve come sooner if I had known.”
You have to stop yourself from explaining that that’s exactly why you didn’t tell him.
He knows, regardless of whether you say it out loud, though.
“I don’t need to be back until seven,” Euijoo says.
“Hmm?” you tilt your head.
“I thought we could spend the day together.”
“Do you want to?”
“I do,” he nods.
“Okay,” you smile. “I got you something. One second.”
You disappear for a moment into your bedroom, before coming back holding the scrapbook you’ve been working on for the past month.
“It’s not wrapped. I didn’t think I’d see you until after your family left.”
He runs his hands over the cover. You’ve carefully cut out each letter from fabric and stitched it down: MR. BYUN’S FIRST YEAR.
When he opens it, it’s full of pictures he never realized you were taking. Some of him in his classroom, others of him on his days off with you.
The second half of the book is blank, and inside, you’ve tucked a note: For more memories.
“Thank you, Y/N,” he smiles softly, before pulling you into a hug. “I love it. Thank you.”
“I wish I had gotten more pictures of you actually teaching,” you sighed.
“It’s perfect,” he says, stopping you from being disappointed in yourself. He takes his backpack off and unzips it. “I brought you something too.”
He pulls out a small wrapped package with a big bow on top, and immediately you can guess by the shape and size what kind of gift it is.
You carefully lift up the taped corners of the wrapping paper to reveal an old, worn paperback book.
A copy of Blizzard of the Blue Moon from the Magic Tree House series.
“This was my favorite book when I was little,” you say, staring at the cover and tracing the flurries that surround Jack and Annie. “I wanted to save a unicorn in a snow storm so bad.”
“I know,” Euijoo nods.
You can tell by the way it’s wrapped in mylar and the label on the spine that it’s from a library.
The realization hits when you look inside the back cover for all of the children who’ve read this book before it became yours. It’s from the elementary school that you attended as a child.
Your name is written at the top of the library card.
“How did you get this?” Your voice cracks, and you can already feel warm tears starting to well up.
“I sent an e-mail,” he says, softly. “They said it hadn’t been checked out in a long time.”
“Thank you,” you tell him, although it doesn’t feel like enough. Your gift to him feels so impersonal now.
You know the last thing Euijoo wants right now is for you to be hard on yourself, though.
You sit down on the sofa and gesture for him to join you, a big dopey smile on your face.
“I almost forgot. My mom made this for you.” He reaches back into his backpack and pulls out a knitted scarf, its stripes made out of all of your favorite colors. “She wanted you to have something new, since my present was so ‘old and used.’ I told her you get cold a lot.”
“She knows who I am?” you ask, staring at all of the different stitches used. This wasn’t a quick project.
“She likes to ask about my life here,” Euijoo says plainly. “It’s hard for you to not come up.”
“I didn’t get her anything,” you frown.
“You didn’t have to,” he assures you. His phone rings and he looks at the screen. “It’s my sister.”
“Answer it,” you encourage him. He sits down next to you on the couch.
You can hear a muffled voice on the other line. Throughout the conversation, Euijoo laughs and teases and sometimes even whines before rolling his eyes and fighting back.
You don’t know any of what he’s actually saying, but you can just tell by the expressions he’s making and the tone of his voice. It’s a side of him you’ve never really seen before.
Then, you realize, there’s an entire version of him that exists in a language that you don’t understand.
You start to wonder how often he has to translate things in his head before talking to you, or how he probably dreams in Korean. The thoughts eat away at you.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, right when the little elf admits he wants to be a dentist in Rudolph. He’s not used to you not talking through a movie.
“It’s stupid.” You tuck yourself further into your blanket, as if it might hide you.
“No,” he pulls the blanket away from in front of your face. “Tell me.”
“During the phone call earlier…” you start, doing your best to collect all of the thoughts you’ve had throughout the afternoon. “I just started thinking about how much of yourself exists in another language. Like, there’s a part of you that gets left behind when you have to translate everything just to talk to me.”
“Are you saying I’m bad at English?” he pokes fun at you, making a silly face in the hopes of cheering you up.
“I’m saying I’m bad for not thinking about it. For not considering once before today that I might never be able to understand you.”
“You understand me perfectly. Not much gets lost in translation, you know.”
“Not the way that I want to,” you say quietly. “I want to know all of you.”
He doesn’t know how to convince you that you already do, better than anybody else ever has.
You realize how much of the day has slipped away when you check your phone in the middle of The Santa Clause 2.
“You should go,” you tell Euijoo. “For dinner.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” You start to get anxious at the thought of his family disliking you for keeping their son away from them.
“They’re at the restaurant.”
“Then I’ve already made you late.”
“They uninvited me,” he laughs.
“What?”
“They didn’t want you to spend Christmas sick and by yourself.”
He must’ve told them during the phone call earlier, you realize.
It doesn’t make sense to you. How people who never met you before could care that much about how you spend the holiday.
You have no idea how much they appreciate you for taking care of Euijoo while they’re half a world away. How much he gushes about how happy he is to them after every day that you spend together.
It’s never occurred to you that you might have accidentally become important to an entire family just by being yourself.
Euijoo can tell by the way you’ve gone quiet again that you’re overthinking.
“I want to be here,” he tells you. “Just in case you were thinking of sending me away.”
“I wasn’t,” you shake your head. “I just feel funny.”
“My mom said I should make you soup,” he says. “She sent me a recipe.”
You don’t have the heart to tell him that you weren’t talking about your cold before he’s all dressed in his coat and promising to be back from the grocery store soon.
He comes back less than half an hour later shivering, his face flushed from the cold.
“Oh my god,” you laugh, holding open your blanket cape for him to join. “Come here.”
He drops the bag of vegetables and chicken stock onto the floor before wrapping his arms around you and burying his head into your shoulder.
“You’re so warm,” he sighs.
“And you’re a human popsicle,” you peer up at him, smiling.
Euijoo gets nervous once he realizes he’s never been this close to you, pulling away to pick the ingredients back up and head to the kitchen.
“I–uh, I feel better now. Thanks.”
You sit on the counter, kicking your legs and watching him chop up carrots and onions before dropping them into the broth.
“You’re making me nervous,” he laughs, seeing you stare out of the corner of his eye. “It’s like I’m on a cooking show and you’re about to tell me I’m eliminated.”
“Fear will make the soup taste good and give it the magic to heal me instantly,” you explain, and Euijoo can tell the cough syrup has kicked into full gear.
After the two of you finish eating, you put on yet another movie, except this time you’re knocked out after ten minutes with your head resting against Euijoo’s shoulder.
By the time you wake back up, the credits are rolling.
Euijoo hasn’t moved an inch since you fell asleep.
“You’ve been sitting here this entire time?” you ask, your voice rough and groggy.
“You seemed peaceful,” he says. “And it was a good movie.”
“The trains stopped running because of the storm,” you gasp, scrolling through the weather warning notifications on your phone. “You’re staying here tonight.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Nope. You’re keeping me company while I’m sick.”
“Okay,” he nods, knowing that you won’t let him go out into the snow no matter what reason he comes up with. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Euijoo, you’re six feet tall,” you cross your arms. “I’m not having you sleep on our little couch.”
“Then I can sleep on the floor.”
“Absolutely not. You can sleep in my bed.”
“What?!” His eyes shoot wide open, and he almost looks scared of the idea.
“Don’t worry,” you reassure him. “We can build a pillow wall.”
The two of you stack all of your extra pillows and blankets into the middle of the bed, setting Cutie on top as a security guard.
“She’s fierce,” Euijoo nods. “I know not to cross her.”
“She’s a three-year old bunny,” you laugh. “I think you can take her."
“Three?” he asks. Cutie has always looked new, but Euijoo figured it was just because you took really good care of her. It had never occurred to him that she came into your life so recently.
“Yeah,” you start, picking her up to stroke her ears. “I bought her at a grocery store when I finished college as a present to myself. She was sitting next to the checkout and I liked her spots.”
He finally puts the pieces together. Cutie isn’t some relic from your childhood, but something that you bought on a whim and made part of your life. It’s almost hard to believe from the way you love her that there isn’t a bigger story behind how you got her.
But he knows how much you’re able to find the magic in ordinary things. That’s what drew him to you in the first place.
You steal a pair of Nicholas’s fancy pajamas from his room for Euijoo to wear to bed, and he looks so out of place in the silky patterned fabric.
“I would say we probably have to dry clean them after this, but Nico is a freak and might like that you’ve worn them,” you laugh.
“What?” Euijoo asks, his face full of concern.
“Nothing,” you brush him off with a smile.
You and Euijoo awkwardly climb into bed once the lights are out.
It takes all of twenty minutes of pretending to sleep before your eyes are wide open again, staring at the ceiling.
“Euijoo?” you say softly. “Are you still awake?”
“Mhmm,” he hums sleepily. “What’s up?”
“How did your parents meet?” you ask, almost embarrassed that this is what you’ve been dwelling on.
Euijoo wills himself awake to tell you the story.
“In school. My dad followed my mom around for two weeks asking her out and one day she finally said yes. They’ve been together ever since.”
“Maybe I should stalk someone too,” you laugh.
“I don’t think you’d need to do that. Besides, my mom said that she liked my dad before he ever asked her out. She just wanted to play hard to get.”
“That’s cute.”
“Yeah, it is,” he yawns happily.
“It’s really nice that your parents love each other.”
You say it so plainly, as if it’s not the norm. Euijoo has never really considered what it would be like for them not to.
“When I was little, I would pray every night that one day my parents would wake up and take me to the park and push me on the swings together, and they’d hold hands and smile. We’d look like the families that everybody drew in class. It was silly.”
Suddenly, Euijoo is wide awake too.
He wants to tell you so badly how it’s normal to want things for yourself. How he wants you to want something, anything. To want him.
But he knows that if you’re going to believe he’s never going to leave, then he can’t admit his feelings. He can’t make you think that he’s only around because he wants something back, and that one day, he might change his mind.
Euijoo decides that night that he’ll only be your friend. A good friend, a great one, who’s always there and never makes you doubt whether they’ll show up when you need them to.
If he really loves you, he’ll stay even if he never gets what he truly wants.
“I’m sorry, if that was too sad,” you apologize, breaking him from his thoughts. “I hope you had a good day today, Euijoo. Thank you for spending it with me.”
“No, it wasn’t. And it wasn’t silly either,” he tells you, as gently as he can to make you feel okay. “I had a really good day, too. Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Goodnight, Euijoo.”
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
JANUARY
Nicholas leaves you unsupervised at his New Year’s Eve party for thirty two minutes.
He’s rented out some rooftop bar next to his office and hired a jazz trio to help set the mood, complete with tons of champagne.
By the time Euijoo arrives around 11, you’re already two glasses deep.
“Hi Juju!” you grin, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” he laughs, immediately picking up on your slurred speech. “Nicholas gave me this shirt. He said it was a late Christmas present, but I think he just didn’t want me to wear my own clothes tonight.”
“You look nice,” you repeat, staring up at him with a dopey look on your face. He’s never seen you drink before, and your skin is flushed and hot against his.
“You look nice, too,” he says, taking in your sparkly headband and sequined dress. “Very shiny.”
“Just shiny?” you pout at him, doing a twirl. “Not pretty?”
He looks at you for a second before leaning down to whisper something in your ear.
“You’re pretty,” he smiles, barely loud enough to be heard over the band. He places his hand on your arm to steady you.
When his gaze meets yours, you’re grinning. “Let’s dance!”
You drag him into the center of the dance floor and the two of you do your best impressions of dance moves, although it’s mostly just jumping and spinning.
The music shifts from upbeat to something slower. Couples immediately begin to pair off around the two of you.
Euijoo stares at you, awkwardly offering his hand. “Do you—”
“Yes,” you smile, placing your hand into his. His other one hovers over your waist until you reach down and press it against you.
You step forward a bit and lean your head against him, and the two of you gently sway to the beat.
You’ve never been this close for so long before, and you can feel your heart beating out of your chest.
“Last year, I was home by myself eating twelve grapes at midnight,” he laughs softly.
“I was hiding from one of Nicholas’s friends who really wanted to kiss me,” you groan.
“I’ve never had a New Year’s Kiss,” Euijoo admits.
You lift your head to look at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“How come?” Euijoo is handsome. Smart. Kind. You can’t imagine that it’s because nobody wanted to.
“Just hasn’t happened,” he shrugs, although he doesn’t seem too bothered by it.
The song ends and the band switches back to something more lively. After a few more songs of jumping around like idiots, the crowd finally starts to count down until midnight.
Seconds later, everybody around you erupts in cheers and fireworks shoot through the sky, illuminating Euijoo’s face. He’s looking right at you, as if you’re the only thing in the world.
“Happy New Year!” you squeal. Before you can think about it, you’re throwing your arms around Euijoo’s neck and standing on your tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “There.”
When you pull away, your faces are so close that you can feel the warmth from his breath.
He’s smiling, and his cheeks are flushed. You can’t imagine how silly you must look.
Euijoo’s eyes glance down to your lips. All of the noise of fireworks and music and people fade away.
His hands are on your waist again, this time without the excuse of slow dancing.
For a moment, you think that maybe, just maybe, he feels the way you feel.
When you tip your face upward and lean in closer, Euijoo realizes quickly that it’s not to hug him, or even to give him another kiss on the cheek.
“Y/N,” he says, stopping you just before your lips touch his. You pull back a bit, still smiling at him with wide, sparkling eyes. “Not like this.”
Euijoo watches as your smile falters, and he knows that you’re probably unable to rationalize it with all of the drinks you’ve had tonight.
His heart sinks to his stomach with guilt.
Not because he didn’t let himself kiss you, but because he almost did. And even now, staring at how disappointed you look, he can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you are.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I just—I thought—”
He doesn’t know what to say without revealing how much he’s in love with you.
Instead, Euijoo sets his desires aside.
“I’m going to take you home,” he says softly.
“Okay,” you nod.
In the cab back to your apartment, you fall asleep on his shoulder, soft and warm and smelling like vanilla.
When you reach your building, you cling onto him as you stumble up the stairs together.
“My head hurts,” you complain while he unlocks your front door.
“I know,” he says, guiding you to your bedroom. He sits you down on the mattress and runs back to the kitchen to grab some water.
When he comes back moments later, you’re plopped down against your pillow and already asleep.
He finds Cutie and tucks her into your arms, before sitting on the edge of the bed to watch as your breathing slows down.
Your hair is messy and falling over your face, and Euijoo reaches over and gently brushes it aside.
You look peaceful. Happy, even. He pulls your comforter over you, and you snuggle deeper.
For some reason, he can’t fathom that taking care of you and wanting you aren’t mutually exclusive.
He hopes for both of your sakes that you don’t remember what happened tomorrow.
He can already imagine how embarrassed and apologetic you’d be, and he’d hate to let his self-restraint be the reason why you shrink away.
Those couple of seconds at midnight keep replaying in his head. The way you looked at him moments before he stopped you.
He shuts your bedroom door quietly on his way out, and spends his entire walk home telling himself that he did the right thing.
FEBRUARY
For Valentine’s Day, the museum prepares an exhibition on historical love letters.
Meanwhile, Euijoo prepares a cute craft for his students involving paint, pipe cleaners, and construction paper.
You tell yourself that if he wanted to hang out with you, then he would have asked.
Euijoo tells himself the exact same thing.
So, the two of you go to work and then straight home on February 14th. Alone. Thinking of each other.
You even wonder for a second if maybe Euijoo is on a date with someone that you don’t know about, and then you talk yourself down from the ledge by remembering that he spends all of his free time with you. You think.
Nicholas is sitting in the living room when you get there. It’s the one night a year he refuses to go out with anybody because he doesn’t want to imply that he’s looking for something serious, not that he’s ever given off that impression.
“Why are you here?” he asks as soon as you come through the front door.
“I live here,” you tell him, setting your bag down and plopping onto the couch next to him.
“No, I meant why aren’t you with Euijoo?”
“We don’t hang out every day,” you shrug, reaching for the popcorn bowl.
Nicholas blinks back at you before pulling out his phone, frantically typing.
An hour later, the doorbell rings.
Your eyes go from the TV screen to Nicholas.
“I invited a friend over,” he says casually, getting up to answer the front door. “We’re going to play board games.”
You get up to head to your room and give Nicholas and his friend some privacy.
Except when he opens the front door, you realize that his “friend” is Euijoo.
Your Euijoo, wearing an obnoxiously cute sweater with a couple of dogs kissing inside a big heart that says “Puppy Love.”
You glare at Nicholas, who shrugs.
“Hi,” Euijoo says sheepishly as he steps inside. “These are for you. And these are for you.”
He hands each of you a bouquet and then takes off his shoes.
You’re standing with your hands on your hips, wondering how this situation came to be.
Euijoo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny bouquet made out of felt. “And this one’s for Cutie.”
You take it out of the palm of his hand and stare at it. “Did you make this?”
Euijoo nods.
Nicholas can’t believe the two of you hadn’t planned anything.
Ten minutes into his game night, after setting up Monopoly, Nicholas yawns.
“I’m tired,” he says, pretending to stretch his arms and standing up from the living room floor. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”
“It’s 7:13,” you mutter in disbelief.
“Should I leave too?” Euijoo looks between the two of you.
“You stay,” Nicholas commands, pointing at him. “I worked very hard dealing out that fake money.”
Euijoo sits back down. Nicholas retreats to his bedroom, clearly satisfied with his performance as your own personal Cupid. You brainstorm ways to kill him in his sleep.
“We can’t play Monopoly with just two people,” you frown, sorting the bills back into their spaces in the box.
“Wanna order takeout?” Euijoo asks, staring at the Chinese food menu sitting on the kitchen counter.
Thirty minutes later, you’re sharing char siu fried rice and putting on When Harry Met Sally.
“I’ve seen this movie so many times,” you tell him in between bites of crab rangoon. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Euijoo admits. “But I trust your taste.”
By the time the movie ends, both of you are wondering the same thing.
Is Nora Ephron right? Can men and women never be just friends?
But you’re just friends with Nicholas, you reason with yourself.
“I don’t think men and women can’t be friends,” you say during the credits.
“I don’t either,” Euijoo agrees quickly.
“We’re friends,” you add.
“Yep,” he nods.
Neither of you say anything else.
“Maybe we should’ve just watched 13 Going on 30,” you sigh.
“What’s that one about?”
“A thirteen year old travels to the future when she’s thirty,” you start explaining, before your voice falters. “...And then realizes that she’s been in love with her friend the entire time.”
Euijoo looks at you for a second, thinking extra hard on what to say.
“They’re just movies,” he finally decides. He shakes Cutie’s head yes in agreement.
“Yeah,” you say, gathering up the takeout containers. “Just movies.”
I genuinely am so grateful for the friendships I have now. There was a time I had no one when I was for everyone, but now it's almost weird that I'm being taken care of back.
summary: being neighbors with the kindest and best looking man you've ever met sounds like a dream, until you're both trying to ignore the fact that you've completely fallen for each other
tropes: artist!jo, model!jo, neighbor!reader, city AU (basically nyc lol), friends to lovers, talkative x quiet, slice of life, fluff, yearning
word count: 3.7k
warnings: some swearing, otherwise very sweet and calm like him
a/n: this picture of jo went triple platinum in my head... also stream fire escape by tws <3
jo has seen you at your worst over and over again.
the first time you met, you were walking up and down the stairwell knocking on every door until someone opened up.
“hi,” you start, out of breath from all the flights climbed. “sorry to bug you. i’m locked out of my apartment and i was wondering if i could use your fire escape to break into it.”
he blinks back at you before nodding and holding up his finger to tell you to wait. he shuts the door in your face without a word.
you press your ear to the door and listen in, hearing the shifting around of furniture on the floor before the footsteps approach again.
you make sure to back away before he can realize you’re being nosy.
“i’m sorry,” you start, as he leads you down the long hallway of the apartment that looks like an exact copy of yours. “my roommates don’t like me, so they weren’t gonna come home on a saturday night to let me in. but they are chain smokers, so our living room window is always open. maybe i shouldn’t have told you that. please don’t murder me.”
he laughs softly, the only sound he’s uttered to you since he first opened his front door.
while the layout of his unit is identical, the vibe is completely different. there's frames of artwork hanging on the walls and instead of using the built-in ceiling fluorescents, everything is lit entirely by warm paper-lamps.
you realize how sterile the place you call home feels in comparison.
when you reach his living room, your brain puts together the sounds from earlier with large wooden easel that's been moved away from the window, holding a canvas that's not yet finished.
"you're an artist," you think out loud. "that's nice. i always wanted to try to be a starving artist in the city. i mean, i'm sure you aren't starving. like, some of this stuff—all of it, really, it's really good. you're talented. and i'm rambling. i should just climb out of your window, shouldn't i?"
you look over at him, expecting the meanest frown you've ever seen. instead, he's smiling. blushing, too.
"you think they're good?" he asks, rubbing his neck. "i don't really show people."
"they're amazing," you muse, pointing at one of the pieces on the wall behind him. "i like the one of the dog."
he turns around, and then back to you. "that's a horse."
"oh. fuck."
"i'm just kidding. it's a dog."
you stare at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. the quiet boy has a sense of humor.
"do you have roommates?" you ask him.
"no."
"generational wealth?" you know how much a third of one of these apartments cost. you can't imagine paying for the entire thing on your own.
"i have a job," he laughs. "i model."
your mouth goes dry as you squint a bit harder in the low light. he does have a shockingly symmetrical face. and he's tall. like, really tall.
your crisis of being locked out must have distracted you at first, but now you're hyperaware of how good looking he actually is.
"that tracks," you nod, suddenly feeling shy. "i should go now."
"the window is unlocked. i can push it open for you, though."
"i got it," you say, a bit too quickly. and then he watches you struggle for all of ten seconds before coming up beside you to open it without any effort.
"good luck," he says softly. "see you around."
"see you," you smile, before climbing onto the fire escape and heading up the ladder to your floor.
thankfully, your living room window is open like always, and you crawl inside like a burglar.
you spend the entire night thinking about how you're going to thank him before realizing that you never even exchanged names.
after a week of stewing over whether or not to knock on his door again, you decide to gather your courage and bake a loaf of banana bread.
when you knock, you hope and pray that he's not home. and then he opens the door.
"hi, again," he smiles that annoyingly perfect smile. "glad to see you survived."
"i made this for you," you say, holding the pan out while staring at the floor. "to say thank you. for letting me use your fire escape. it's banana bread. no nuts, in case you're allergic. i guess i didn’t consider a gluten allergy. or a banana one. fuck."
"i like banana bread," he says, taking the pan from you. "this is kind of a lot, though."
"i'm sorry. you don't have to eat all of it. you don't have to eat any of it, really. you could just take the entire thing and throw it away, pan and all, if you wanted to."
"i'll eat it."
you stare at him, afraid if you open your mouth you'll just keep making things worse.
"do you want some too?" he asks. "if you have time."
"i have time."
that afternoon, you learn that his name is jo, he's from japan, and has an older brother. he has a super cute cat named mint. he moved to the city because he got scouted to model, and it paid well, so he kind of just kept up with it because it gives him lots of time to work on his art.
you tell him about how your roommates are two girls who have been friends since childhood and how they're really passive aggressive because they don't like being asked to wash their dishes.
"you're always welcome to come hang out with me if they're bothering you," he says quietly. "if you want to. i don't mind."
"i'd like that," you smile.
and just like that, the two of you spend all of your free time binging TV shows, ordering takeout, and ranting about your work days. sometimes, you just sit on jo's couch and watch him sketch or paint.
mostly, it's you talking and him listening.
it becomes a routine for the two of you.
"i've never seen you outside," you laugh one saturday morning, watching him mix gouache. "how do i know you're not a vampire?"
"i'd rather be a werewolf," he replies, concentrating on making the perfect shade of blue. "and you've seen me during a full moon."
"i think you'd look pretty in the sunlight," you say, snuggling into mint's fur. your words catch jo off guard, and he almost drops his palette knife.
mint wriggles free, and you realize that you've said something that you had meant to keep as an inside thought.
the thing is, jo knows that he's handsome. he's built his entire career on how he looks. but he's never heard you say anything about it, until now.
"we can go outside," he says, setting his tools down and taking off his smock.
you spend the day walking around the city, buying pastries and matcha lattes and window shopping. eventually, you pass by a small art gallery and drag jo inside, and his entire face turns red when you tell the owner that he's an artist.
still, jo takes his business card and places it carefully inside his wallet.
the two of you end up in the park after the sun has set, on a bench watching rats scurry across the pavement.
"i feel really bad for pigeons," you frown. "like, we had them employed for so long and then we just abandoned them when we didn't need them to carry little messages around anymore. and now everybody just thinks they're dirty and throws crumbs at them."
"you know what we’re looking at are rats, right?" he laughs softly, rubbing his hand on your head to cheer you up. "maybe we should get your eyes checked."
"yeah, but they're all treated the same. and pigeons don't even know how to make nests! that's how domesticated they were. like, imagine if mint had to start living outside."
"mint is very spoiled," jo nods. "are you ready to head home?"
home. you know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds, as if you've built a life together. still, it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.
when you say goodnight in the stairwell, a small part of you wishes you could spend the night with him, if only to see if he's just as pretty when he wakes up in the morning.
the first time you see jo in model mode is when you spot him on the cover of a magazine, with his hair pushed back and dressed in designer clothes. he looks so different compared to your version of him, who's usually wearing something simple and covered in ink or paint.
you immediately buy a copy and send him a selfie of you holding it.
he thumbs down the image and replies: i knew you'd find it.
you reply back with a string of cute emojis: i didn't know i was best friends with a celebrity!!!
he reacts to that one with a heart.
on days that you're too hyper to just sit and watch, jo gives you a sketchbook of your own. you're not bad at drawing, but you're certainly not good either.
"how's this?" you ask, turning the paper to him.
"is that supposed to be me?" he holds in a laugh, walking closer to get a better look. it definitely has... a face and hair. the only thing that really screams jo is the fact that you've drawn the ears bigger than the average person's.
"don't make fun of me," you pout. "i worked really hard on it."
"it's good," he smiles. "can i have it?"
"you want it?"
"mhmm," he hums. "i'll hang it up."
you happily rip the drawing from the sketchbook and hand it to him, satisfied with your stint as an artist.
the next time you hang out, he's already framed it and put it on his bedroom wall, right above his nightstand.
a week later, you're storming into his apartment in a bad mood.
"i just went on the worst date ever," you groan, plopping onto his couch and snatching up mint before he can run away.
"i didn't know you were dating," he says, trying to keep his voice even and calm. it's his way of asking: how long has this been going on without me knowing?
"i'm not," you cross your arms. "it was a first and last date. i don't even know why i did it. he came into work and he seemed nice enough and i wanted to prove to myself that someone could still want me because god knows the last time someone wanted me."
the words "i want you" are stuck in jo's throat, and all he can do is stare at you with a frown on his face.
instead, he takes the easy route. "do you want to watch love is blind?"
and instantly, you're happy again, and he's ordering your usual from the chinese restaurant on the corner.
your mouth is full of lo mein when you decide that you're finally ready to recount the horrors of what happened.
"he kept cutting me off," you say, exasperated at the memory. "right in the middle of my rant about the donner party. and then he had the audacity talk about his job at a bank. i don't care about banks! i want to talk about survival cannibalism!"
"you can talk about survival cannibalism with me" he smiles, passing you a napkin for the sauce on your lip.
"i can talk about anything with you," you counter. "you know, you're the only friend i have who just lets me talk. sometimes i feel bad."
"why?" he seems genuinely confused, as if he can't imagine ever not wanting to hear what you have to say.
"because i talk a lot," you shrug, stealing a piece of his chicken without asking.
"i like it," he says, placing a few more pieces onto your plate.
"and that's why you're my favorite person."
you feel like you’ve truly hit rock bottom when the roommate that you share a wall with gets a boyfriend.
“he’s here all the time,” you complain. “and they both snore.”
jo can tell by the way your eyes are red that you haven’t been sleeping well.
“you can sleep here if you need to,” he offers.
“i’m not in the mood for a nap right now,” you huff. “i have four shots of espresso in my system.”
“i meant that you can spend the night.”
“oh."
“it’s quiet.”
“it is,” you nod, considering the proposition.
“you can sleep in my bed.”
“where will you sleep?” you frown.
“the couch.”
you laugh. jo has three rooms all to himself and he doesn’t even have a guest bed, just oversized canvases and gifted clothes.
in the middle of the night, you toss and turn in jo’s sheets, which smell exactly like him. but it’s cold even though the air isn’t on, and you know he’s probably too big for the couch anyway.
you sneak up on him in the living room, curled up onto the cushions and somehow looking peaceful as ever.
“jo,” you gently shake his shoulder. his eyes flutter awake. “i’m cold.”
“do you need another blanket?” he asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“well… could you just join me?”
“i can do that.” he’s too tired to overthink things.
you smile and he follows you back to his bedroom, as if you’re the one who lives there and he’s the guest.
“which side of the bed do you want?” you ask.
“either is fine,” he replies, trying not to seem too eager to sleep next to you.
you let him take the side next to the wall and crawl in next to him.
he’s warm, just like you expected. you curl into him like you’ve done it a million times, making sure to leave a good amount of space in between the two of you.
before you know it, you’re fast asleep.
you wake up tangled together, your head on his chest and his arm around your waist.
for once, you’re speechless. you don’t even really remember inviting him into bed last night, but here he is, holding you and looking just as pretty as you imagined he would in the morning.
his hair is messy and his face is so relaxed, that the thought of waking him up makes you feel bad.
you try to slip away, but he pulls you in closer and tighter, mumbling something in japanese that you don’t understand.
so, you let yourself fall back asleep for just five more minutes.
jo's eyes open in the middle of you trying to carefully peel his hand from your waist. when he realizes what's going on, he immediately pulls back. "sorry."
"no, it's okay," you say immediately.
"i move around a lot when i sleep," he replies, his face red.
"me too," you lie in an attempt to make him feel better. it's much easier than telling him that you liked it. "i should go back to my actual apartment now."
jo nods and you leave him cuddled up in his bedsheets, making sure to close the front door quietly on your way out.
after you're gone, he covers his face with his hands and lets out a sigh, worried he's made you uncomfortable. he has no idea that you're smiling ear to ear when you climb back into your own bed.
things go on like usual for the two of you. eating takeout, watching movies. you even go grocery shopping one night when you complain you've been spending too much money ordering food.
when the vegetables are being misted as the two of you pick out lettuce, you feel cold, and suddenly you remember how warm jo was when you called him into bed with you.
you miss the feeling of his arms wrapped around your waist.
meanwhile, jo is worried by how withdrawn you've seemed lately, although it's mostly all in his head.
a few days later, he brings you to set with him after you've spent weeks begging for a more comprehensive look at his life as a model.
everybody is really nice, and gorgeous, and you watch as he gets his hair and makeup done. he falls asleep in the chair. you quietly snap pictures of him before he wakes back up.
they have him paired up with an equally gorgeous girl, and for once, jo doesn't seem shy. he laughs in between shots and holds her waist and they spend a couple minutes just gazing into each other's eyes.
these are the kinds of girls he sees every day, you think to yourself. you recognize now that you could never compete, and that he probably only held you because he was asleep.
you have no idea that the reason he's so comfortable with the women that he works with is because they don't matter to him the way you do.
every time he brushes his knee against yours, or your fingers touch for a second, it drives him crazy. sometimes, he can barely look at you without feeling his face turn hot and his ears red.
it's a miracle he's able to speak to you at all, let alone spend all of his free time with you, but he's really glad you knocked on his door all that time ago.
he wants so badly to be able to say how much you mean to him. instead, he notices how quiet you are on the subway ride home, and how your eyes don't quite meet his when you say goodbye.
after you've gone up the stairs, jo makes himself a promise—if he can't tell you how he feels, then he'll just have to show you.
he makes a sacrifice without realizing it, telling you he's busy more often and shutting himself away in his studio.
weeks go by with the two of you barely seeing each other, until one day, jo is the one knocking on your door.
"hi," he says, nervous as if you aren't best friends. "this is for you."
he hands you a small envelope, sealed with wax.
"should i open it now?" you ask him, running your fingers over the embossing.
he nods, and you do your best to open it without ruining it.
you pull out a small card, the details on it carefully written by hand.
it's an invitation to a gallery opening, for jo. you realize now what he's been hiding from you for the past few weeks.
"can you come?" he asks, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
you look up at him, smiling. "i wouldn't miss it for the world."
in the days leading up to the exhibition, things between you and jo slowly return to normal, although you feel more anxious around him than usual.
you can't quite put your finger on it, but something about him seems different. you're both excited and scared to see if his exhibition will help you solve the mystery.
when you show up outside the gallery, jo is already waiting for you at the door. the lights are still dim and nobody else seems to be waiting to come inside.
"am i early?" you ask, as he leads you toward the back.
"by an hour," he answers.
"oh. did you do that on purpose? am i here to help you set up?"
"everything's ready," he says, his voice small. his hands are shaking.
"you're nervous," you say, walking over to hold his hands and steady them. "it's going to go well, jo."
"i know," he gulps. his eyes are glossy. you've never seen him like this before. "i know."
"i believe in you." you smile and smooth his collar before fixing a stray piece of hair on his forehead.
"can i show you around?" he asks, and you nod, following him.
"this is the first one i did," he says, pointing at an empty park bench depicted in watercolors. "i, uh, wanted to play around with light."
"it looks like the one we usually sit on," you observe. "but i guess all benches look the same, huh?"
jo worries that maybe he's been too subtle with his message. still, he shakes it off and leads you to the next painting.
it's of two mismatched coffee mugs sitting on a kitchen table, and you recognize them as the ones from jo's apartment.
you patiently wait for him to give an explanation on the piece, but instead, he's staring at the floor.
"jo?" you ask softly. "is everything okay?"
"i can't do this," he mutters.
"the opening?"
“no.” jo shakes his head. he looks at you, realizing how unfair he's been asking you to figure out his feelings just from context clues.
"i love you," he blurts out. "i was going to walk you around the gallery and show you all of these things i painted about how i see the world whenever you're with me and it was supposed to be super romantic but i got really nervous and i—"
you stop him with a kiss, standing fully on your tip toes to reach him.
when you pull away, he looks shocked.
"i never thought i'd ever have to tell you to stop talking," you laugh.
jo laughs too.
“wanna finish showing me around?” you ask, trying to keep yourself from smiling too hard.
“no,” jo says, before leaning down to kiss you again.
when he pulls away, you almost can’t believe that this is actually happening.
“so, uh,” he starts, shy again. “does that mean you feel the same way?”
“mhmm,” you hum. jo grins ear to ear.
“do you wanna move in with me?” he asks, catching you off guard. “not today! i mean, you could move in today if you wanted. i just meant no rush. you basically already live there, and i don’t plan on ever letting you go, unless you want to leave me at any point but please don’t. like, it could be practical. you could save on—“
“jo,” you interrupt him, wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with his hair. “shut up and keep kissing me.”
he doesn't need to be told twice.
around you, his art waits patiently. you'll get to the rest of it eventually.
this blog is for song recs, music reviews, playlists, and original music! Basically all to do with everyone's favorite thing
I will be posting new things I'm listening to, faves, and recommendations pretty regularly
feel free to send song recs as well <3
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . About Me . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
MBTI: INFP
Bday: March 27th
Name: Laney (not my real name)
Pronouns: honestly wtv you want but i go mostly byshe/her
&team Bias line: EJ, Jo, (wrecker) nicholas <3
I like boys (˶' ꒳ '˶) sorry to disappoint you ladies (though I have 12 wives)
relationship status: singleeee
groups i stan: newjeans, &team, tomorrow x together, xikers, close your eyes, xdinary heroes, ampers&one, P1harmony, cortis, Nmixx, Illit, kiiikiii, enhypen, boynextdoor
multistan at heart im sorry
(Other biases: Danni, Beomgyu and Soobin, Sumin, Kyoungbae, Junhan, Kyrell and Seongmo, Jongseob, Bae, Iroha, Kya, Jungwon, Woonhak)
non-kpop: scrubb, four-mod, Claude debussy, Faye webster, Lizzy mcalpine, Keshi, the backseat lovers, dpr ian, wave to earth, whatmore, daniel caesar, lamp, etc.
I’ve been a kpop fan since like i want to say 2021 (my larping ass more like 2022). I’m still pretty much a baby in everything i stan because i stan SO MUCH and idrk how to put a lot of effort into getting to know things better
as you can tell I love love love music and I make my own.
I don’t consider or have ever seen myself be a hateful person, but when it comes to music i’m not going to hesitate to have an opinion on it, I have listened and worked with musicians, sound designers, and production crews enough to have a good understanding on music, and that’s why I will be critical on things at times. Plus it’s just fun to think about things from other ways than just only enjoying an artist because i like that one song they made or because their face is pretty
One thing you love about yourself: I have no idea honestly 😭 I guess I'm passionate about my hobbies... And I love how I look, like I'm pretty confident about myself👀
If you could be any animal, what would you be?: i feel like I'd be either a hamster or a kitty!
Dream place to visit: Egypt, Switzerland, Hawaii
One thing I look forward to: nothing 😭 I try not to get my hopes up for the future since we could literally all die tomorrow. But i really wanna be a mother before I die, so that🙂↕️
Biggest dream: I would like to succeed in what I want to be, and hopefully be able to work with my brother one day
Song that's permanently on repeat : Honestly— Riize / Mismatch— &Team / Limbo— Keshi! 💗
thank you for the tag!
Hair color: brown but my bangs are blonde
Favorite color: orangeee ( I LOVE EUIJOO)
Favorite drink: Vanilla latte (basic ahh answer)
Smt I love about myself: I would say humor, it's more of a trait you get to see irl than online but I'm always making everyone laugh, i would also say my musical talent but only when im good :D
if i could be any animal what would it be?: oomf told me it would be ferret tho i've taken those representative animal quizzes and kept getting fox
dream place to visit: Kamakura Japan or Thailand
Smt I look forward to: gelboys s2 💔💔
biggest dream: traveling a lot, meeting lots of new people
song that's on repeat: my moon my man - feist, 595 - violet grohl
warnings: mommy issues, mentions of divorce, children
a/n: this is actually the first fanfic i wrote for this blog and i'm kinda insecure about it not being my usual style... regardless, here it is lol
masterlist
AUGUST
It starts with an e-mail.
SUBJECT: Kindergarten Class Visit
Dear Miss Y/N,
I’m writing to ask about your program’s new lesson, “The Magic of Everyday Objects." I see that it’s recommended for ages 8 and up, but I’ve been gifted with the most wonderful class of kindergarteners and was wondering if it would be possible to arrange for them to attend a presentation.
I look forward to hearing back from you.
Best,
Mr. Byun
From there, in between cataloguing artifacts and proofreading exhibit labels, you spend all of your time rewriting slides and adding in cute stickers.
Eventually, you scrap the slideshow and spend an entire weekend replicating different objects throughout the museum out of felt, perfectly sized for little hands.
Being an assistant at a museum isn’t always easy. Most of your days are spent doing the grunt work of curators, or doing your best to get middle schoolers to pay attention to the slideshows that you spent hours making. Sometimes, all you do for the entire day is greet visitors, fetch coffee, and help restock the gift shop.
Still, you’ve always had a love for things that most people would deem ordinary, whether their histories are significant to entire civilizations or just a single person.
It isn’t until Mr. Byun’s class visits at the end of August that you start to believe that someone can share that love.
Twenty-six of the cutest kindergarteners march into the museum on a sunny Friday morning, forming a perfect single file line through the heavy brass doors.
“Miss Y/N?” a young man in a pastel yellow sweater speaks up.
“Yes, hi! That’s me,” you greet him, scanning the group for a second chaperone. “Is Mr. Byun here?”
“I’m Mr. Byun,” he laughs, holding out his hand. It takes a split second for his words to click. The teacher you had been e-mailing back and forth with was not the middle-aged guy with a combover that you had been imagining.
“I’m so sorry,” you cringe at yourself, shaking his hand and fighting the urge to hide behind your clipboard. “You’re not what I expected.”
“I could say the same for you,” he says, smiling. He’s so tall that you have to look upwards to meet his gaze, and between his perfect nose and full lips, you have no idea what he’s doing stuck in an elementary school and not on the cover of a magazine.
“The classroom is toward the back of the museum,” you stutter, turning on your heels in the hopes that he hasn’t noticed how flushed your face has become. “Follow me.”
The kids ooh and ahh as you pass exhibits, and Mr. Byun falls to the back of the line to gently usher them along.
“Miss Museum Lady,” a girl with pigtail braids calls as you enter the classroom. She approaches you while Mr. Byun helps the others into their seats. “Where are the dinosaurs?”
“Miss Y/N,” you introduce yourself, crouching down until you’re at her eye level. “We don’t have any dinosaurs here. That’s a different type of museum.”
“Oh,” she says, clearly disappointed with your answer and turning away to run to her seat.
“Miss Y/N may not have dinosaurs, but I’m sure she has lots of other interesting things to teach you about, Hannah,” Mr. Byun reassures her, giving you an encouraging glance from where he's standing at the back of the room. “Why don’t we all turn on our listening ears so she can tell us.”
Like magic, all twenty-six of the students hum and fiddle with their ears before turning to face you, completely quiet and locked in.
“Usually, I make students sit through presentations,” you begin, your heart pounding as if the crowd of five-year olds are in charge of your annual performance evaluation. “But Mr. Byun told me that he was bringing a very special group of children today, so I prepared something equally special.”
A few of the kids sit up straighter, leaning their heads to try and see what’s inside the basket you’re holding.
“I need a favor first, though,” you say, pulling the cloth that sits on top tighter.
“What is it, Miss Museum Lady?” Hannah asks, practically shaking in excitement.
“Miss Y/N,” Mr. Byun reminds her.
“What is it, Miss Y/N?" another student asks. He’s wearing blue plastic glasses that make his eyes look enormous, and his voice is so quiet that it’s almost inaudible.
“I need us all to close our eyes and think about our favorite thing ever, and on the count of three, I want us all to say it at the same time.” You watch as they all squeeze their eyes shut, waiting for you to begin the countdown.
“Is everybody ready?” you continue. A chorus of tiny voices echo back in agreement. “Okay. One…”
You begin placing your felt replicas down in front of them.
“Two…” you continue, making your way around the room. “Three!”
“Pizza!”
“My dog!”
“LEGOLAS.”
“Very good job!” you clap, excited by how eager they seem to participate in comparison to your typical guests. “Now, open your eyes and look at the table in front of you.”
They look in front of them. A teacup, a movie ticket, a golden coin. You watch as they pick each one up, half-distracted by the soft material and half-confused on what exactly you’re trying to tell them.
“The objects you’re looking at might not seem special. But they’re someone else’s favorite thing. You see, museums were made to keep important things safe over a long time. And what makes something important?”
“You saying so!” a spiky haired boy calls out.
“Raise your hand next time and wait to be called on, Charlie,” Mr. Byun interjects, his voice soft and gentle despite giving a warning.
Charlie nods before raising his hand. You smile and point at him.
“Museums know what’s important because they have museum ladies like you look at them and pick,” he explains, rocking back and forth in his chair.
“Very good answer, Charlie,” you say, walking over to offer him a high five that he happily accepts. “I’m not one of those museum ladies yet. They’re called curators. But I’m asking about before things come to us. How do we know they’re important?”
“Because of love,” the same quiet boy with the blue glasses squeaks. “We love things and that makes them important. That’s what my mommy and daddy say about me.”
“Exactly!” you say, hoping that your enthusiasm is more encouraging than scary. “Take another look at the things I’ve given you. They might seem boring. Nothing like yummy pizza or a handsome elf prince. But behind each one is a story of someone who loved it. That’s how they ended up here in the museum.”
You glance between the students, hoping you haven’t lost their attention yet.
“Can anybody tell me who they think loved the object I’ve given you and why?” you ask, and watch as they look between each other and back at Mr. Byun.
“It’s okay to make it up,” you add. Almost immediately, everyone’s hands shoot up. You point at a girl whose long, black hair reaches her waist.
“Hi, my name is Ava,” she smiles, pointing at her shirt which has her name written on it in glitter letters. “And I have this broken spoon and I think a princess named Ava owned it and she used it to become friends with a dragon by sharing ice cream but the ice cream was too cold and hard and it got bent, but they became friends anyway and she got to ride it through the sky and set her big brother on fire.”
You blink back at her, your eyes meeting Mr. Byun’s for a split second as the two of you try to maintain your composure. “What a wonderful imagination you have, Ava. I think that’s the perfect answer. Would anybody else like to share what they think about their object?”
A few more students raise their hands again, and one particularly eager boy wearing earmuffs waves his toward the back of the classroom. You point at him and he pumps his fist in celebration of being chosen.
“MY NAME IS JOEY AND I HAVE A TICKET AND I THINK THIS TICKET IS FOR THE FIRST LORD OF THE RINGS MOVIE AND IT BELONGED TO MY DAD AND HE LOVES IT BECAUSE IT’S WHERE HE MET MY MOM.”
“Joey, inside voice,” Mr. Byun tells him, patting him on the shoulder. He nods back, as if he’s finally remembering that he isn’t supposed to be speaking at full volume.
“My name is Joey and I have the movie ticket and I think it was my dad’s and it was for the Lord of the Rings—the first one—that he watched in theaters because he’s old and then he met my mom there and then they fell in love and they had me so that’s why he loves the ticket.”
“Thank you, Joey,” you reply, and you can tell he’s waiting to see if you approve of his explanation. “Your answer was so good that I’m happy I got to hear it twice.”
A grin breaks across his face and he turns to Mr. Byun for a fistbump, which he rewards immediately and without question.
“Mr. Byun,” a voice pipes up. It comes from a girl sitting toward the front. She’s smaller than the others, and her hair is cut into a bob and adorned with a flower headband. “Is it almost nap time?”
“Almost, Emmy,” he assures her. “Why don’t we let Miss Y/N finish her presentation and then we can go back to school and rest?”
“Okay,” she agrees, fighting back a yawn and leaning her head against the table. You take that as your cue to start wrapping things up.
“Before you all leave, I want to introduce everybody to a special friend of mine.”
“Is it Mr. Byun?” Charlie asks, once again forgetting to raise his hand. “Because we already know him.”
“No,” you laugh, shaking your head and reaching back into the basket. You pull out a small stuffed animal—a bunny—whose white fur is accented with rainbow polka dots. It’s dressed in a pastel yellow dress that you had sewn a while back. You hold her up high enough for everyone to see. “This is Cutie. She’s my favorite thing.”
“She matches Mr. Byun!” one boy who has a Paw Patrol sticker stuck to his forehead points out. “Wait… she’s a Byun-ny!”
The students who are still awake giggle as they realize the accidental matching outfits.
“That was a good pun, Bryan,” Mr. Byun nods.
“I don’t know what that means,” Bryan replies with a big smile. He turns back to you with his arms extended. “Can I hold her? I have a baby sister and my mommy and daddy let me hold her, so I can be really careful with Cutie, Miss Y/N. I promise.”
“Well, if you make me a promise, then I have to believe you,” you say, walking over to gently place her into his arms. He cradles her, rocking back and forth.
“I have a bunny at home just like Cutie, Miss Y/N,” a girl with puffy sleeves and space buns points out, her eyes focused on Bryan. “Her name is Button. Oh, and my name is Phoebe. She has a shirt with four buttons on it. I want her to have a pretty dress like Cutie too, but it should have lots and lots of buttons. Like… seven!”
“Thank you for sharing Phoebe. I think Cutie would love to be friends with Button and share her dresses.”
“Really?” she asks enthusiastically, bouncing in her chair. “Button has a lot of friends already, but I think she’d like Cutie because they’re both bunnies!”
“Really,” you smile, watching as Phoebe’s eyes glitter with excitement. “That was all I had to share with everybody. Thank you so much for coming and learning with me. I hope you’ll come back to the museum and see me another time.”
You do another scan of the room, and quickly realize that in just a few minutes, over half of the class had finally succumbed to their midday sleepiness.
“I’m so sorry,” you say to Mr. Byun as you walk around the classroom to gather your materials.
“What?” he asks, meeting you halfway with a handful of your felt replicas. “Why are you apologizing?”
“They fell asleep,” you sigh, turning to all twenty-six of them now happily snoozing against the tabletops.
“They’re five years old,” Mr. Byun reminds you. “And it’s 12pm on a Friday. I’d be more concerned if they weren’t napping right now.”
“Right,” you nod, packing up the basket before glancing over at Bryan cuddling Cutie and snoring softly. Without a word, Mr. Byun walks over and expertly plucks her from the boy’s grip and hands her back to you.
“Really, thank you,” he says, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. “It’s my first year teaching. I’ve been with these kids for a few weeks and I’ve never seen them as engaged in any of my lessons as they were today. I could learn something from you.”
You laugh. It isn’t until you look up from tucking Cutie away that you realize he’s being completely sincere. “I’m sorry. I thought it was a joke.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad I could make you laugh, even if it was by accident.”
“Y/N,” your coworker, Liv, pops her head into the classroom. “Team meeting starts in five.”
You glance at your watch with a frown, realizing that you've let time slip away from you.
“I’m sorry,” you begin, your gaze alternating between Mr. Byun and the twenty-six children who were fast asleep, knowing he’d have to wake them all up and make them walk back to school by himself soon. “I have to go.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures you. “This isn’t my first rodeo. Thank you, again, Miss Y/N.”
“Thank you, Mr. Byun,” you reply from the doorway. “Feel free to e-mail me. If the kids have any more questions when they wake up.”
“They always do,” he laughs, giving a small wave. You smile as you turn the corner, excited at the thought of hearing from him again.
SEPTEMBER
After a few weeks of nothing in your inbox from Mr. Byun, you accept that he and his class have probably forgotten all about you.
And then, on a random Saturday afternoon, an e-mail from him pops up in your notifications.
SUBJECT: A Belated Thank You
Dear Miss Y/N,
I’m sorry that this e-mail is coming so late. I don’t want you to think that I didn’t appreciate all of the work you had done to adjust your lesson for my students.
Unfortunately, shortly after our visit, there was an outbreak of chicken pox at the school and things got a bit hectic. I hope you can forgive me.
I’ve been thinking about the way you described everyday objects and how it changed not only the perspectives of the students, but mine as well. To be frank, I had never been much of a museum person before that day.
I know I promised to let you know if any students had questions regarding your presentation, but I wanted to ask a bigger favor. I would love to build a project for the students around meaningful objects and the stories behind them, and would really appreciate it if you were able to recommend any readings so that I could have a better understanding of the topics you discussed during our visit.
Please don’t trouble yourself with this request. I’d be happy to research everything on my own, but I figured I’d ask the expert first.
Looking forward to hearing back and I hope you’ve been well. Have a good weekend.
Sincerely,
Euijoo Byun
Euijoo. You repeat his first name quietly to yourself, making sure to look up the proper pronunciation. The way he's written the e-mail feels so sincere, and you find yourself reading his words over and over.
Suddenly, you’re stuck in a cycle of writing and rewriting a response to him, your words feeling too robotic compared to his easygoing warmth.
Eventually, you settle on a short list of essays and a few exclamation points.
SUBJECT: Re: A Belated Thank You
Dear Euijoo,
I really can’t thank you enough for your kind words, and I’m excited to hear that you’ll be implementing last month’s visit into your lesson plan!
I’ve compiled a list of resources below. Coincidentally, I wrote my senior thesis on the topic, so I’ve attached a PDF of that as well.
Please don’t feel compelled to read any or all of it—I know it’s long, and I’m sure I’ve changed my mind about much of what was written.
If you’d like, I also have a copy that’s printed and bound that I’d be happy to let you borrow.
Please keep me updated on your student’s projects and have a good weekend!
Sincerely,
Y/N
Less than an hour later, he replies back asking if you’re free the next morning to meet at a café and give him your copy of your thesis.
When you get home that evening, you skip dinner to dig through your closet for the bound version that hasn’t been touched in years.
Nicholas, your roommate, walks into the apartment close to midnight to see you and the coffee table you’ve covered in highlighters and sticky notes.
“Y/N,” he sighs, dropping his camera bag and tripod near the door before taking off his boots. “What’s going on?”
“Someone asked for my thesis.”
“You mean the bible on candy wrappers and quilts that you wrote three years ago when we were in uni? Someone asked to read it?”
“A kindergarten teacher asked.”
“A kindergarten teacher,” he repeats in disbelief, plopping onto the sofa in between your mess.
“He brought his class to the museum and now he wants to know more about my research.”
“So, send him the PDF,” he groans, digging between the papers and couch cushions for the remote control to the TV. “I don’t even understand what you’re doing. It’s already written.”
“I’m annotating it,” you shrug, chewing on the end of your pen.
“You’re what?” Nicholas sits up, abandoning his quest to binge watch Gossip Girl to focus on you suffering through what he considers some sort of mental breakdown.
He picks up your abandoned sticky notes, each one somewhere between a footnote and an argument with your past self.
I would actually phrase this differently now. In fact, I’m not sure I agree at all.
Ignore pages 43-46. I was wrong and stupid.
Actually, this part aged surprisingly well.
“Y/N…” Nicholas continues, struggling to capture your attention as you analyze each passage. “What’s this guy’s name?”
“Euijoo Byun,” you reply absentmindedly, distracted by a particularly weak argument that makes you want to call the university and give back your degree.
“Uh huh,” he nods, attempting to sound it out in his head before giving up. “Can you spell that?”
“E-U-I-J-O-O B-Y-U-N.”
“Got it, thanks.” Nicholas pats your head while his Instagram search loads. “Oh.”
You look up, his change in tone breaking you from your daze. “What?”
“Oh.” He raises his eyebrows as he scrolls.
“Nico, explain,” you frown, watching as he smirks at his phone screen.
“I get it now,” he says, turning his phone toward you. For a split second, you have no clue what you’re looking at. And then you feel your face get hot as the realization hits.
It’s Euijoo. At the beach on a family vacation. Shirtless.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, unable to process that that is what he looks like under his button ups and colorful sweaters. “Oh my god.”
“When do you have to give this to him?” Nicholas asks, your mouth still hanging open.
“Tomorrow morning…” you whine, suddenly feeling hopeless in your sea of incoherent scribbles. “At nine a.m.”
“You talk, I’ll write,” he says, sitting up to grab a pen and a stack of sticky notes. You haven’t seen him this locked in since the last season of Singles Inferno.
“I love you.”
“I’m only doing this in case he prefers guys, you know.”
“I know.”
It’s not a date, you remind yourself. Your leg is bouncing up and down under the café table as you play with the hem of your cardigan, which took you all morning to pick out. It’s just a quick meeting and he’ll pick up the book and make small talk and go home.
Except he pays for your coffee. And his hair is the perfect combination of neat and undone, and his glasses sit just right, and when you hand over your thesis, he smiles the cutest smile ever as his whole face lights up. But it’s not a date.
“Did you write all of these notes for me?” he asks in wonder as he skims through all of the pages.
“Yes,” you reply sheepishly, hoping he can’t tell that you’re blushing under your makeup. “I didn’t know how much context you’d need. Not that I think you’re uneducated! You’re obviously smart. Probably smarter than me. I just meant that it was written to be read by professors who’ve spent decades teaching history and anthropology and that maybe it would be helpful if I clarified a few things. I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice just as soft and warm as when he spoke to his students during the field trip. “That was really considerate of you. I hope it didn’t take too long.”
“Not long at all! Just like, six hours,” you blurt out, before realizing that it’s basically the same amount of time that's passed since he asked to borrow it, and now you look like a complete loser.
Euijoo blinks back at you for a split second, unsure of how to respond to the implication that you've spent all of your free time preparing the book for him, although a smile creeps onto his face before he can actually decide.
“I really appreciate it, Y/N. I’ll make sure to read every word.”
Even with how formal he is, you like the way he says your name.
“You know, my students asked if you’ll be there when they present their projects. I told them you’re probably too busy.”
“I can make time,” you blurt out, almost too enthusiastically, before realizing he hasn’t even told you the date. “When is it?”
“On Friday,” he smiles softly, his shoulders relaxing. “I’d give them more time, but I’m afraid little brains don’t hold on to information for as long as ours do.”
“I’ll be there,” you promise, already knowing you’ll be counting down the days until the end of the week.
On Tuesday night, you e-mail Euijoo to ask if you should bring anything. Minutes later, he replies:
SUBJECT: Re: Friday
Hi Y/N,
Nothing but yourself, and Cutie if she’s available!
Feel free to text me as well if that works better for you.
384-566-2986
See you soon,
Euijoo
You blink back at his phone number, wondering what you could say that’s worth texting. It feels too accessible, like you haven’t yet earned the ability to contact him so easily.
But then, if you don’t say anything, he might think that you see the relationship as strictly professional.
Nicholas finds you sitting in the living room on Wednesday night, staring at the front door as if you were waiting for him to get home from work.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, laying down in his usual spot on the couch. “You have that look on your face. The overthinking one.”
“Euijoo gave me his phone number. To text him.”
“And? Is that not a good thing?”
“I don’t know what to say. And it’s already been a day and I never even replied to his e-mail and—”
“Give me your phone,” he says, grabbing it out of your hand before you can even process his words. “Hi Euijoo. It’s Y/N. Super excited for Friday. Exclamation point. Just wanted to make sure you had my number. Blushing smiley face emoji. And send. There. You’re welcome.”
Nicholas calmly places the phone in front of you before grabbing the remote, determined to finally continue his binge of Gossip Girl.
“Nico,” you panic as you stare at the screen. “He read it. And reacted with a heart. And now he’s typing.”
You throw the phone back into his lap like a hot potato.
“No, he’s not.” Nicholas says, trying to hand it back to you.
“He was! I saw the three dots.”
“Well they’re gone,” he says, still dangling the phone above your head. “Wait, actually. He’s typing. No, he stopped. And he’s typing again. Damn, you’re both overthinkers.”
“Keep it until he replies,” you say, your voice muffled. “If he replies.”
A few seconds later, you hear a ding.
“Hi Y/N. Exclamation point. I’m glad to hear from you. Period,” Nicholas reads out in a deadpan voice. “Everybody is so excited to see you again. Exclamation point. Smiley face emoji. End of text. God, he wants you so bad. I don’t know if I’m happy for you or irritated by how middle school this feels.”
“Everybody,” you repeat, ignoring your roommate’s snark and grabbing the phone back from him to stare at the text. “Everybody. That includes him!”
“That’s usually what the word means,” he groans. “This is insufferable. Either turn off your notifications and find out what happens to Blair in Paris with me or go be in love in the privacy of your bedroom.”
“I should reply,” you pout.
“That’ll take four years. Just heart the message.”
“Just heart the message?”
“Yes. Now hurry up and come be the big spoon.”
On Friday, you wear your most colorful sweater and pack Cutie carefully into your work bag. She’s dressed in an outfit that you had specifically made for her to wear on special occasions, although you still feel kind of silly bringing your stuffed animal around in public.
But Euijoo specifically requested that you bring her, and the kids love her, and she makes you feel safe. So, into your bag she goes until it’s time for you to head over to the school at the end of the day.
The hours breeze by as you launch tours and give presentations and take notes on research papers that your team has dumped on you last minute.
And then, disaster in the form of thunder and a biblical rainstorm strikes.
You look out the window and see the torrential downpour, knowing that by the time you manage to walk over, your shoes will be soaked and your hair will be frizzy.
Except when you step outside of the museum, a familiar mop of brown hair is waiting for you, wrapped up in a lavender parka and holding an extra umbrella.
“Euijoo?” you blink at him in disbelief. “Don’t you have a class to be teaching?”
“They’re in the library for storytime,” he smiles, as if the weather behind him doesn’t look like it’s about to turn into a natural disaster. “I didn’t want you walking over on your own. Not when it’s like this. I mean, I planned on coming over anyway, but I was worried that you didn’t have an umbrella or a jacket, which you don’t, and then I remembered you might have Cutie with you too and I especially couldn’t let her get wet either.”
“I have a bad habit of not checking the weather when I leave the house,” you admit, taking the umbrella he's holding out for you. “Thank you.”
“Here,” he says, unzipping his jacket and shaking the rain off. “Wear this. I think it’s big enough to fit over your bag too.”
“Oh, Euijoo, it’s really okay–”
Before you can protest any further, he drapes the parka over you, still warm from his body heat.
“The color suits you,” he says, his soft voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain hitting the pavement. “Now, can you finish putting it on yourself or do you need my help with that too?”
“I–I can do it,” you stutter, rushing to pull your arms through the sleeves, zipping the front up to your chin. Euijoo laughs when you pull the hood over your head, your eyes barely visible from how much it hangs down onto your face.
“Cute.” The word slips off his tongue so naturally that you barely realize it’s a compliment as he ushers you along. “Come on, let’s go.”
Walking ten minutes through a thunderstorm isn’t so bad with him by your side.
You're so preoccupied with jumping over puddles that you almost don't notice his hand on your back, keeping you from getting washed away.
Finally, you make it inside the school with Euijoo. The older woman at the front desk smiles at the two of you, your visitor’s pass already filled out and ready to go.
“I haven’t been in an elementary school, well, since I finished the fifth grade,” you laugh as you follow him to his classroom, remembering how small you must’ve been back then. “My favorite thing was walking down the hall and making sure that I stepped in every tile perfectly—no cracks allowed.”
Now, your feet are almost too big to fit inside the squares.
“You can wait here if you want, while I go pick up the kids,” he says, gesturing inside toward his desk. “It’ll only take a few minutes. You and Cutie can get comfortable.”
It always strikes you how he never fails to acknowledge Cutie. To most people, she’s your stuffed animal, but Euijoo seems to understand just how important she is despite never asking why.
You carefully unpack Cutie, smoothing down her dress and brushing the fur on her ears down before wandering around the room.
It looks exactly how you imagined it. Bright colors and the alphabet and cute cartoons decorate the walls, but every crayon and toy is organized into neat containers. Even the desks have handwritten nametags that are laminated and adorned with stickers.
Some of the picture books on the shelves look old and worn, and you wonder if they belonged to Euijoo as a child.
“Miss Museum Lady!” a girl’s voice calls from behind you, and you turn to see Hannah excitedly running up to hug you, followed by several other students.
“Alright class,” Euijoo laughs, grabbing their attention. “Let’s all come sit on the rug and give Miss Y/N some space, okay?
“Yes, Mr. Byun,” they say in unison, quickly scrambling into their designated spots on the rainbow carpet. A few kids run off to dig through their backpacks, and a couple more grab something from their cubbies. Each one sits down with something that’s special to them in their laps and eagerly awaits Euijoo’s instructions.
He sits cross-legged against the bookshelves facing the students, and pats the space beside him for you and Cutie to join.
A girl raises her hand, and you smile as you notice she’s holding onto her own stuffed bunny. Phoebe and Button, you remind yourself.
“Phoebe,” Euijoo says, calling on her.
“Can I go first, Mr. Byun?” she asks, her eyes never leaving you and Cutie.
“I was just about to ask for volunteers,” he smiles, gesturing for her to come to the front of the class.
Phoebe jumps up, Button’s ears flopping as she hops past her classmates to the front.
She holds Button up high for everyone to see, like baby Simba.
“This is Button! She has buttons for eyes and buttons on her shirt and she’s a very good bunny. She was my mommy’s before she was mine, so she’s kind of old like Mr. Byun and Miss Y/N, but we still get along. We love each other very much and cuddle together every night at bedtime. Oh, and she wants to be friends with Cutie so she can have pretty dresses too! Um… uh… Mr. Byun. Can I be done now?”
“That was very good, Phoebe. You and Button can sit back down.”
“Miss Y/N,” she turns to you, suddenly shy. “Can Cutie come sit with Button?”
“Cutie would love to sit with Button!” you say, happily handing her over.
“Thank you!” Phoebe squeaks, pressing the two bunnies into a hug before running back to her spot with them.
Twenty-five more presentations happen, and you aren’t sure if you would have ever predicted using your degree to listen to five-year-olds ramble about pet rocks, Pokemon cards, and their late grandma’s dentures, but you’re happy to be there regardless.
Lastly, Euijoo presents his own object. It’s a picture book, maybe even older than the ones you had seen on the bookshelves earlier, and you swear you recognize the character on the front despite it being written in a language you don’t understand.
“Does anybody know who this is?” Euijoo asks the class, pointing at the little fish on the cover.
“PONYO!” several kids shout back, jogging your memory of the long-forgotten animated film that you had seen on TV as a little girl.
“Ponyo,” Euijoo confirms, nodding his head. “In Korea, where my family is from, Ponyo’s movie is called Byeolang Wiui Ponyo, or Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea. My mom and dad, or amma and appa in Korean, used to read this book to me when I was your age.”
“Mr. Byun, you look like her,” Bryan points at Ponyo, and then back at his teacher. “You have the same face.”
“You kind of do,” you giggle, glancing between Euijoo and the little Ponyo on the cover of the book. “I think it’s your eyes.”
Euijoo blushes. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. My friends used to sing the song to me whenever we had swimming lessons as kids.”
“Can we sing the song?” Emmy asks.
“It can be our clean up song today,” Euijoo smiles, putting the book down. “But before we get ready to head home, does anybody have any questions for Miss Y/N.”
“I do!” Ava asks, waving her hand high so everyone can see. She brought in a tiara from a beauty pageant that she had competed in over the summer, calling it a reminder of “how much prettier and better she was than every other girl.”
“Okay, Ava, go ahead,” Euijoo prompts.
“Is Miss Y/N your wife?” she asks with a completely straight face.
The class erupts in giggles as you and Euijoo exchange glances that are a cross between mortified and amused.
“She can’t be,” Charlie argues. “They don’t have matching rings! Miss Y/N has, like, four rings and Mr. Byun has zero. My dad just got married to my stepmom and I had to carry the rings on a little pillow during the wedding.”
The crowd falls silent, with twenty-six pairs of little eyes looking to the two of you for a confirmation of Charlie’s claims.
“We aren’t married,” you admit, resulting in several awws and a few frowns.
“Well, when will you get married?” Ava continues, not understanding. “Can I be the flower girl? Or are teachers not allowed to get married?”
Before you can struggle with coming up with an answer, the theme song to Ponyo starts blasting. You turn to Euijoo, who has snuck away to connect his phone to the speaker. The kids immediately get up and start running around, singing the lyrics sort-of correctly while tidying the room and packing up their bags.
Phoebe comes over to you to return Cutie, whose ears have been flipped up into little buns, and Button gives her another hug goodbye.
It isn’t much longer until the kids are being escorted outside to buses or pickup lanes, and then it’s just you and Euijoo.
“That went about as well as I thought it would,” he laughs, and for the first time, you notice that he has a dimple on one of his cheeks. “I’m sorry they thought you were my wife. Or my fiancée. Or any sort of romantic partner.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” you say, tucking Cutie back into your bag for the journey home. “I had a lot of fun today.”
“Me too,” he agrees, running his hand through his hair. It’s still messy from the rain earlier, but he looks good anyway.
“It really means a lot to me that you asked me to be here. Or that you even put this together at all. You know, I spend a lot of time trying to convince my colleagues that some things are worth being put on display, and with you and your students… I feel like I don’t have to try so hard.”
“I’m glad, Y/N. I think you’re brilliant. I mean, I read your thesis and the amount of passion you have and the way you think… It’s so different. In a good way.”
“You finished it?” you ask, slightly shocked at how it’s only taken him a little under a week to go through your original writing and the insane amount of extra notes you and Nicholas crammed inside.
“No,” he frowns, a bit embarrassed. “I’m only halfway through. But you can have it back if you need it.”
“I don’t. It’s been sitting in my closet for years.”
“It has?” The confused look on his face tells you that maybe you should have just said it was on a bookshelf.
“Keep it as long as you need,” you smile awkwardly.
“Okay. Do you need to head back to the museum? I can walk you over.”
“I took a half day.”
“Ah,” he nods.
The classroom goes quiet.
“Are you going home?” you ask.
“I was going to cut some butterflies out of construction paper for next week.”
“Do you need help?”
Euijoo thinks for a split second.
“No,” he replies.
“Oh.” He wants you to leave, you think to yourself. “Okay.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, realizing how rude he must have sounded. “I just meant that I could do it myself.”
“I understand.” You pretend to check the time on your watch. “I’ll head to the train station then.”
“I can walk you out,” he insists. God, he’s so eager for you to go that he wants to personally escort you out of the building.
“I won’t get lost,” you laugh, walking towards the classroom door.
“I know,” he smiles, following you and closing the door behind him.
You don’t hear from him after the visit. You don’t reach out, either.
Nicholas watches you agonize for two weeks straight over the loss of your sexy kindergarten teacher.
“Just text him,” he says. “Tell him you want him.”
“You’re crazy,” you reason. “He’s clearly not interested.”
You have no idea that for the past two weeks since you visited his classroom, Euijoo hasn’t stopped thinking about you either.
“Can we go back to the museum?” one student asks.
“When is Miss Y/N coming back?” another says a few days later, getting a couple more students to agree that they miss you.
“Have you proposed to her yet?” Ava checks in with him daily. One day, she even comes into class with a printed out image of what dress she’d wear to be the flower girl.
Not to mention the stack of thank-you notes the kids have written for you. They pester him about when he’s going to give them to you, and then he agonizes over whether he should text or e-mail and spends so long stressing himself out that he gives up.
Eventually, he decides that an e-mail feels safer.
SUBJECT: Thank You Cards from the Class
Dear Y/N,
The class wrote thank you cards after your visit. Would it be okay for me to stop by the museum to give them to you?
Sincerely,
Euijoo
Your heart jumps out of your chest when you get the notification for it, too excited to hear from him to care how overly formal his language seems.
“Do you think this means he doesn’t want me to text him?” you ask Nicholas.
“I think it means he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to text you,” he replies in between bites of his sandwich, the answer seeming so clear to him. “So, you should text him. Hi Euijoo, that sounds good. Exclamation point. Stop by at any time. Period. Just let me know when you’re here. Period. See you soon. Exclamation point. Smiley face emoji. Send.”
“Okay,” you nod, opening up the text thread to type exactly what he’s just said.
“I can’t keep orchestrating these conversations,” he reminds you. “You’re going to have to learn how to text him yourself eventually.”
“He hearted the message,” you say, ignoring him and staring at the three blinking dots. “He’s typing.”
“This is my life now,” he sighs, using the moment to steal a fry off your plate.
Euijoo stops by on a Wednesday at the end of your work day, the cards tucked safely into a manila envelope to avoid getting smushed inside his bag. His bike is propped against one of the pillars nearby.
“Hi,” you say when you step outside.
“Hi,” he replies, awkwardly holding out the envelope like a mailman. “These are for you.”
When you open it and pull out the first one, you laugh. Not because it’s written in crayon, or that 'museum' is spelled wrong, or that there’s a really crude drawing of you and Button.
It’s because they’re written on construction paper butterflies.
“These are the butterflies,” you start, looking up at Euijoo. “The ones you said you were going to cut out after the presentations. I offered to help you and told me no.”
“I remember,” he nods, fiddling with the strap of his bag
“How come?” you ask, tilting your head.
Euijoo shrugs, “I didn’t want you to help make your own gifts.”
You realize how much you had misunderstood him that afternoon.
He didn’t say no because he wanted you to leave. He said no because he didn’t want to make you work on something that was intended to thank you.
Museum visitors shuffle past you, in and out the front doors of the building.
“Have you eaten yet?” You peer up at him to see his eyebrows raised.
“No,” he answers. “Have you?”
“No.” You stare at your shoes, an invitation on the tip of your tongue, held in by embarrassment.
A group of senior citizens walk past, complaining about the stairs.
“Do you want to get dinner together?” Euijoo asks, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” you answer a bit too quickly.
You walk over to an udon shop together. The meal lasts an hour. The conversation lasts until the waiter has to come over and tell you that they’re closing for the night.
It starts with small talk—how you ended up in your respective fields, what kind of TV shows you like. And then it devolves into silly stories from the classroom, an interlude about Nicholas, and how often you watch horror movies even though they give you nightmares because you love how they make you “feel alive.”
He walks you to the train station after.
You go to bed with a smile on your face. Euijoo goes to bed with a list of showtimes for the newest zombie movie saved on his phone.
OCTOBER
Six movies and several meals together solidifies Euijoo as a regular fixture in your life.
“Have you kissed yet?” Nicholas asks every time you come home, and every time, you shake your head no and insist that things are strictly platonic between the two of you.
Nicholas is never quite convinced.
“How many times have you bought your own movie ticket?” he asks you. The answer is zero. Then, he reminds you that you’ve also never paid for a meal. Then, he finishes off his argument by looking up the average salary of an elementary school teacher in your area.
Arguing with him is starting to get really difficult.
Eventually, he starts asking if he can come hang out with the two of you. For research purposes, of course.
“I don’t want him to feel awkward,” you say.
“Why would he feel awkward?” Nicholas asks.
“You’re attracted to him.”
“So are you,” he shrugs.
“But you’d make it obvious.”
“You’re not as subtle as you think,” he laughs. “Look, just admit they’re dates and I’ll leave the two of you alone.”
You stare back at him, speechless.
Minutes later, you book a brunch reservation for three.
“So, how long have you guys been dating?” Euijoo asks once you get seated at the restaurant.
You look at Nicholas. He’s holding back a laugh.
Euijoo waits patiently for an answer before he realizes it’s not coming.
“I’m sorry,” he starts again. “That was rude, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” Nicholas replies, turning to you. “Did you tell him I was?”
“No!” you swear. “I guess I just never said the word roommate?”
“You didn’t,” Euijoo confirms, filing away this new tidbit of information. “You’ve only ever called him Nicholas.”
Your face flushes with embarrassment as you try to remember every time you’ve brought him up to Euijoo in the past couple of months. Statements like “Nicholas is making dinner tonight” or “I'd love to, but Nicholas and I are going to the aquarium” pop into your head.
“Oh my god,” you say, mortified at the idea that your crush has assumed your roommate was your boyfriend this entire time and it’s all your fault.
“We’re not dating, by the way,” Nicholas says, completely amused by the situation.
“Understood,” Euijoo nods.
A few seconds later, the waiter brings over menus and the three of you manage to have a relatively normal and pleasant conversation.
You tell Euijoo that you and Nicholas are friends from college. Nicholas clarifies that he’s your only friend from college. You kick him underneath the table.
Euijoo finds out Nicholas speaks a little bit of Korean. Nicholas asks Euijoo if he has any fancy skincare recommendations and says he has beautiful skin. Another kick.
Euijoo makes a bad joke. You laugh really loudly anyway. This time, Nicholas kicks you.
The meal ends with Nicholas picking up the check, using the moment to flash his fancy credit card.
“My treat,” he clicks his teeth and winks at Euijoo, “I know how much you’ve been spoiling my girl.”
Euijoo’s face turns bright red. You give your roommate one final kick.
Nicholas teases you about the boyfriend thing on the entire walk home while limping.
A week later, Euijoo asks if you’re doing anything for Halloween.
“The school is having a festival,” he explains. “I thought you might like to come. My students miss you.”
“Do I need to wear a costume?” you ask, already mentally planning an outfit.
“Only if you want to,” he answers. And that’s how easily plans get made between the two of you now.
Somehow, without coordinating anything, the two of you end up matching.
When Euijoo comes to your apartment to pick you up, Nicholas opens the door and immediately groans.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he says loud enough for you to hear from your room, gesturing for Euijoo to come inside.
“What is it?” you call back, walking out while adjusting your bunny ear headband. Then, you see him.
You’re dressed as Cutie. Euijoo is also dressed as Cutie. The two of you look like Mr. and Mrs. Cutie, with the real Cutie being your baby.
Nicholas is dressed as a “sexy werewolf,” which means he has on a fur coat, no shirt, and claw marks he made you draw onto his neck using one of your lip liners.
“I thought you said the two of you weren’t going to match,” Nicholas says from the couch.
“I said we hadn’t talked about our costumes,” you correct him. “I kept changing my mind.”
“So, you’re telling me this happened naturally,” Nicholas continues.
“Yes,” Euijoo confirms, holding Cutie while you buckle the straps on your mary-janes. “I thought she’d like it.”
“I do,” you smile at him.
“I’m going to throw up,” he whines, although you know he’s secretly happy for you. In his own way, of course.
“Go get drunk at your own party,” you counter, sticking out your tongue. “Bye Nico. Stay safe. Use protection. Love you.”
“Bye, Nicholas,” Euijoo waves as the two of you walk out the front door.
In between passing out candy to students, you realize that this is the first time you and Euijoo are hanging out without the pretense of watching a movie or eating a meal.
It’s not like conversations between the two of you are difficult. In fact, they’ve only gotten easier the more time you spend together, but they're usually limited to topical things like whether or not he liked a certain scene or how your food tastes. Sometimes, the two of you just eat in silence.
You don’t really know much about him. You want so badly for that to change.
When Ava walks in with her parents, she’s dressed as Elvis. Almost immediately, she points at you and Euijoo with a big grin on her face.
“Look,” she yells at her parents. “Mr. Byun and the museum lady that he won’t marry are bunnies!”
They nod before smiling apologetically at the two of you.
“Ava,” her mother reminds her. “You’re supposed to say ‘trick or treat.’”
“Trick or treat,” she says as she skips up to the desk.
“Hi Ava,” Euijoo laughs, grabbing a handful of candy from the pumpkin-shaped bowl. “Happy Halloween.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” she says in her best Elvis impression, and then swaggers out with her parents in tow.
“What kind of music did you listen to when you were a kid?” Euijoo asks. “Elvis?”
“No,” you giggle. “I liked Taylor Swift. And Hannah Montana. And High School Musical.”
“I didn’t listen to any of that,” he replies, almost embarrassed. “I really liked Girl’s Generation.”
“That’s a k-pop group, right?” you ask, sure that you’ve heard of them before. Euijoo nods.
“I used to listen to Wonder Girls a lot,” you continue. “Well… one song. It was called Nobody. I don’t think I knew they were singing in Korean, though.”
“I really liked them too,” he smiles. “I used to think I would grow up one day and marry Sohee.”
“Is that the one from Train to Busan? The baseball girl?”
“Yep,” he says, seemingly impressed by your very limited knowledge of Korean pop culture.
“She’s pretty,” you nod, mentally comparing your features to hers.
“Y/N,” Euijoo interrupts your thoughts. “Can you make me a playlist? I can make you one, too. If you want.”
“Of course,” you smile.
Later, Emmy comes in dressed like a blueberry, explaining that she’s allergic to them and that they were the scariest thing she could think of.
“That’s my big brother,” she smiles, revealing that she’s lost one of her front teeth. She points at the boy that walked in with her.
He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing a plain hoodie and cargo shorts. He looks old enough to be in high school.
“You deserve some candy, too,” you motion him over with a smile. “For being such a good blueberry escort.”
He hesitates before walking over, accepting the candy.
“Thanks,” he says, stuffing it into his pocket.
“Our dad works the night shift,” Emmy adds, before dragging her brother to the next room.
Afterwards, Euijoo asks if you have any siblings.
“I’m an only child,” you tell him. “What about you?”
“I have an older sister,” he answers. “She still lives in Korea. I think she’d like you a lot if she met you, though.”
“That sounds really nice.” You hesitate before continuing. “I always thought it would be nice to have someone else around.”
“You had your parents,” Euijoo says. “At least you never had to worry about who was the favorite child or fight over the remote control.”
Immediately, he can tell by the face you make that his words have landed wrong.
“My parents are divorced,” you admit, your voice quieter than before. “And my mom was always at work. Or she was tired and just wanted to sleep.”
He nods, staring at you with a sad look on his face. Silence creeps in.
“Please don’t feel bad for me,” you continue, your grip on Cutie tightening, worried that you’ve said too much.
“I wasn’t,” he counters, his eyebrows furrowing. “I promise. I just… felt guilty.”
“Guilty?” you ask, surprised by his choice of words.
“It was wrong of me to make assumptions. I wanted to make you feel better and instead I said something stupid.”
“It’s not your fault,” you reply.
Euijoo takes a moment to think about what he wants to say next.
“I don’t like thinking of you being lonely.” His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose from him staring at the floor for so long.
“I’m not lonely anymore,” you say gently.
Euijoo looks up to see you smiling at him.
“Good,” he says, smiling back.
NOVEMBER
“You know,” you say, watching Euijoo unlock his bike from the rack after school one day. “I don’t actually know how to ride a bike. I never had one growing up, and I always felt like it was too embarrassing to try and learn as an adult.”
“If it makes you feel better, I can’t drive. Or rollerskate.”
“I can’t do those things either,” you counter.
“So, nothing with wheels?”
“Basically.”
“I could teach you… how to ride a bike. I think mine might be a bit too big for you, though, but we could rent one.”
“I don’t really want to pay to humiliate myself in front of you and whoever else is nearby.”
“I’ll pay.”
“This isn’t really about the money,” you laugh, although you know he’s not going to take no for an answer.
You meet in the park on Sunday morning, the leaves crunching beneath your feet as Euijoo wheels a rental bike beside you.
You stop when you reach a patch of grass that’s relatively flat, and more importantly, devoid of human life.
He helps you clip the chin strap of your dorky helmet and you already feel like quitting.
“Euijoo,” you pout. “Wouldn’t you rather do something else? We can go home and watch a Doosan Bears game.”
“You don’t even like baseball,” he says, walking toward the bike and kicking up the stand. “Or speak Korean.”
“But you do,” you attempt to reason with him, getting close and batting your eyelashes. “And I know you’ll explain everything to me.”
He swallows hard and for a split second, you think you’ve won.
“One hour,” he tells you, his voice soft even though you can tell he wants to be strict. “And then we can watch a Doosan Bears game.”
The hour consists of you sitting on the bike seat while Euijoo holds the handles, getting scared, and then begging to get off. Plus, a snack break. And a water break. And a cloud watching break.
“I told you I didn’t want to learn,” you say as Euijoo peels the orange that you brought for him.
“I underestimated just how stubborn you are,” he says, handing you the first segment.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“I never said that,” he frowns.
“You rented a bike for me and I didn’t even pedal it.”
“But I still had fun,” he insists. “I got to spend time in the park with you. You gave me this orange. I saw a cloud that was shaped like a guinea pig.”
Your guilt melts at how the simplest of things seem to make him happy. “I had fun too.”
“I'm glad,” he smiles. “That’s all that matters.”
You’re confused when Nicholas asks if you want to host a Friendsgiving at the apartment this year.
“You don’t like cooking,” you remind him. “Or inviting people over because it means you have to clean.”
“What’s your point?” he shrugs, as if you’re supposed to read his mind.
“I’m not sure what you have to gain from this,” you continue.
“Ouch.” He pretends to be hurt. “Who said everything’s about me? What if a little birdy told me that he doesn’t have any plans for the holiday and I just want to make sure that he gets fed.”
You stare at him blankly.
“The little birdy is named Euijoo,” he adds.
“Yeah, I got that,” you reply.
It doesn’t take long to put together a guest list of people who will still be in town—Euijoo, his friend, Fuma, from his rec baseball team, two of your coworkers, and three people that Nicholas just… knows.
On the day of the party, Euijoo brings a basket of chestnuts and persimmons and spends the morning trying to teach you how to make jeon, except your attempts somehow turn out both raw and burnt. His are perfect, though.
“My amma taught me,” he smiles, flipping another jeon using chopsticks. “I’d always help her make these for Chuseok.”
He looks over to see you with a smudge of flour on the tip of your nose as you watch him fry the next batch.
“Y/N,” Euijoo says to grab your attention, setting his chopsticks down. You look up at him, confused.
Without a word, he gently reaches to wipe the flour from your nose. “That’s better.”
He quickly goes back to watching the pan. You distract yourself from overthinking the feeling of his skin touching yours, squatting down to stare at your cake baking in the oven.
“How does it look?” he asks.
“Looks fine,” you tell him, standing back up. “I should probably make the frosting soon.”
“I’m almost done. I’ll help you.”
He doesn’t understand the idea of a hummingbird cake. Bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, walnuts, and cream cheese seem random. The name doesn’t make sense to him, either.
Still, he helps you mix up the frosting ingredients and level out the cake layers because you’re scared of knives.
You take a scrap of cake and some of the frosting to do a taste test. Euijoo does the same.
“It’s good,” he says, a bit surprised. “Really good.”
“I told you it would be,” you smile.
Before you know it, your cake is all decorated and everybody is showing up with their own homemade dishes.
Fuma brings yaki onigiri and Japanese potato salad. Your coworkers arrive together with trays of pasteles and mac and cheese. Nicholas’s guests, all a bit fashionably late, file in with jalapeño cheddar cornbread, lumpia, and stuffed grape leaves.
You stare at the large platter of Chiayi turkey rice that Nicholas has paid some fancy Taiwanese restaurant to deliver, sitting right in the middle of the table, and laugh at the fact that of course he’s broken his own rules.
“Hold on,” Nicholas says, while everybody holds their plates and waits for permission to dig in. “I wanna get a picture.”
He pulls out his digicam and spends five minutes tweaking the layout and finding the perfect angle and lighting to capture each dish. Finally, he puts it away and lets everybody eat.
It doesn’t take long for people to break away into their own conversations.
“Y/N,” Fuma says, sitting down next to you. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“I’m really glad you could make it,” you smile at him. “I think you’re the only person who brought two dishes.”
“I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving,” he confesses. “Or, Friendsgiving, I guess. And I was excited to finally meet you.”
“You were?” you raise your eyebrows while biting into one of the rice balls he made.
“Mhmm,” he hums. “Euijoo talks about you a lot. I always say that he should bring you to one of our games and he always says that you’d just make him nervous.”
“I don’t know why he’d say that,” you laugh. “I’d just cheer like normal. Plus, I still don’t really know anything about baseball.”
Fuma is amused by how you downplay your effect on his friend, who he’s spent every week for the past couple of months trying to get to ask you on a real date.
“Is that an Eevee keychain?” your eyes go wide when you notice his bag.
“She’s my favorite,” he smiles and nods. “You like Pokémon?”
“I don’t know that much about it, but I do have a few cards,” you explain sheepishly. “And I made up a team for if I were a trainer, but it was mostly just the cute ones.”
Euijoo is a few feet over talking to Nayeli, one of your coworkers, who’s telling him about her research. He overhears your laugh and smiles when he sees you getting along with Fuma.
It’s not long before everybody’s saying thank yous and goodbyes before heading home, leaving you with a mountain of dirty dishes.
“I told you we should’ve just bought paper plates,” Nicholas groans.
“If you’re just going to complain the whole time then I can do them by myself,” you tell him, already pulling on rubber dish gloves.
“I can help,” Euijoo offers.
“You’re a guest,” you shake your head at him.
“Let the man help,” Nicholas tells you before retreating to his bedroom to begin his food coma.
You know Euijoo well enough to know that he’s going to help whether you give him permission or not.
“I’ll wash and you dry,” you explain. He nods, moving to stand on your right.
For a little bit, the two of you quietly complete your tasks like an assembly line, using the silence to decompress.
Usually, hanging out with someone and not saying anything would make you nervous. You’re used to rambling in order to fill up the conversation, but with Euijoo, you don’t feel the need to perform.
“I wish I could’ve made galbi,” he says, breaking the silence.
“That sounds so good,” you muse, handing him another plate. “Next year.”
The words slip out of your mouth before you’re able to realize what you've said.
It’s not like you to promise things so far ahead in the future. But when you think of celebrating the holiday again, you know more than anything that you want him to be there.
Euijoo tries not to let you see him smile too big.
