an archive

if you got good taste, check these fics out. it's just an archive for my tbr and fav fics.

[secretbookshelf]

Welcome to my bookshelf

Enjoy going through the tags (I'll update later)

if you love me baby

let me hear you say it

i know am your favourite

[aeri2000s]

♱ ─── ❝SHOW!SHOW!SHOW!❞

𓏲ּ𝄢… 2ND GEN IDOL BF MARTIN EDWARDS 𝔁 2ND GEN IDOL GF FLREADER # ─── 𝓨outube 𝓥ideo 𝓕ormat ♫ currently playing! show!show!show! ❝If you wanna be my boy, I’m gonna be with you, forever and more. just tell me you love. ❞ - girls generation

𝓒ortis is a 5 member boy group that was formed in august 2007 & 𝓖irlife is a 9 member girl group that was formed in september 2008. both groups are under the same label.

𓏲ּ𝄢… MARTIN & YN MOMENTS WHEN THEY WERE A SECRET IN HONOUR OF IT BEING 10 YEARS SINCE THEIR RELATIONSHIP WAS CONFIRMED.

#… your leader yuri adjusted the fur lined hood of her jacket before looking back toward the camera with an easy smile, gently nudging james with her elbow as he stepped into frame beside her.

“look who's here,” she said, gesturing toward him with the hand she wasn't adjusting her mic with, “straight off of stage.”

james laughed quietly, offering the camera a small wave as yuri continued speaking without missing a beat.

“this is his second year doing the company family concert,” she explained, turning between him and the lens, “and this is our first year.”

as the two of them continued talking for the camera, laughing about things that have happened so far during the show, neither of them noticing what was happening behind them.

a few feet away, you stood with your arms folded beneath your chest, the oversized fur trimmed hood of your sparkly cropped jacket pulled over your head to shield yourself from the cold december air that drifted through the backstage loading area.

martin had wandered over sometime during the conversation.

now he stood directly in front of you, absentmindedly, his fingers played with one of the fluffy pompoms hanging from the strings of your hood, rolling it between his fingers as he said something too quiet for the microphone to pick up.

whatever it was made your eyebrows knit together and you rolled your eyes dramatically before turning on your heel as though you were done entertaining him altogether, your hood bouncing slightly with the movement.

martin immediately laughed, the sound was silent to the audience behind the music and yuri's voice, but his shoulders shook enough to give him away as he hurried after you.

before you could get more than a couple of steps away, he reached out and gently caught your arm, still laughing while he leaned in to say something else that once again never reached the camera.

you tried and failed to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth before you pulled your arm free and continued walking, martin falling into step beside you like he'd planned on following you anyway.

#… you sat with your members across from cortis, your hands resting neatly in your lap as you stared off into space, only half listening to the conversation happening around you. the variety show hosts were doubled over laughing at something juhoon had just said, the room filling with overlapping voices while you remained completely lost in your own thoughts.

“yn!” your head snapped up immediately at the sound of your name, your eyes finding one of the hosts who was now holding up a large photo board with a picture of you taken during a performance a few weeks earlier.

“everyone is so obsessed with how you look lately and your beauty,” they said, turning the board so the audience could see it before picking up another photo. “but then we found this.”

they held up a pre debut picture of you from when you were a trainee . “you look the same, just a little older.” they tilted their head curiously. “you really are all natural?”

every pair of eyes in the studio landed on you including your members and cortis who turned toward you.

you simply tilted your head, a small smile creeping onto your face.“I’m completely all natural,” you replied without missing a beat, a cocky grin spreading across your face. “that's perfect all natural beauty.”

one of your members immediately reached over and playfully smacked your arm, making you laugh as the rest of the room erupted into amused groans and dramatic ahhs at your shameless confidence.

“what an ego,” martin's voice suddenly cut through the laughter from his side of the studio. he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with an amused smile. “she's got a big head, doesn't she?”

the entire room burst into laughter again while you turned toward him, sending him a small glare that held absolutely no real annoyance behind it while martin only laughed harder.

#… you stood on stage with your members as more and more groups continued filing in behind you, everyone politely bowing to one another while trying to find enough room to stand without bumping into the next group. staff members hurried back and forth just offstage, quietly directing people into place as the ending stage slowly came together.

you reached up to adjust the bedazzled sailor style hat that completed your stage outfit before letting your hand fall back to your side. with a small smile, you linked your arm through your leader's and waited patiently for the mcs to make their way onto the stage so the live broadcast could wrap up.

the noise around you was a mixture of polite conversations, laughter and idols greeting friends they hadn't seen in weeks.

you barely had time to look around before a pair of hands landed on your shoulders with enough force to make you flinch.

your head immediately whipped around, ready to see which one of your members had decided to scare you, only to be met with martin standing directly behind you.

he was already fighting back a laugh the second your eyes met his, he flashed you the most ridiculous smile imaginable, eyebrows raised as though he'd done absolutely nothing wrong.

you stared at him for a second and then rolled your eyes while one of your members gyuri who had witnessed the entire interaction from beside you, let out a quiet giggle behind her hand.

completely refusing to entertain him, you turned back toward the front of the stage without saying a word, your expression as composed as if nothing had happened.

martin, however, didn't get the hint, his hands stayed comfortably resting on your shoulders, his thumbs absentmindedly tapping against the fabric of your sparkly sailor jacket as he stood behind you without the slightest intention of moving.

you let out the tiniest sigh, trying your best to ignore him despite being painfully aware of the cameras sweeping across the stage.

behind you, martin only smiled to himself.

he leaned forward just enough for only you to hear, to the audience it could’ve been anything but you didn't even spare him a glance.

instead, you reached up, grabbed one of his wrists, and casually lifted his hand off your shoulder before setting it back at his side.

a second later, it was right back where it'd been.

keonho who stood beside him snorted quietly, quickly covering his mouth when he realized he’d laughed out loud.

you closed your eyes for the briefest moment, before turning to look back at him.

martin only shrugged innocently, the corners of his mouth tugging into another grin as the opening music for the ending stage began to play, leaving you no choice but to stand there with his hands still resting on your shoulders.

#… martin leaned casually against the hallway wall, one shoulder resting against it as a staff member held the camera steady in front of him. with an easy smile, he flipped open his silver flip phone before holding it closer to the lens.

“a friend of mine gave this to me,” he said, turning the phone slightly so the charm hanging from it caught the light. “it's cool right?”

the cameraman zoomed in on the small keychain as it swung back and forth beneath the phone, getting a close up of the tiny charm before slowly pulling back out.

martin was just about to lower his phone when movement caught the corner of his eye.

without warning, you walked straight through the space between him and the camera, completely unaware or at least pretending to be.

your bright pink flip phone was pressed against your ear as you talked to whoever was on the other end of the call, a water bottle dangling loosely from your other hand while you made your way toward the practice rooms.

the camera followed you for a split second as you passed and that's when it caught it, hanging from your pink flip phone was a charm that looked almost identical to martin's.

same design, same shape just a different colour, the kind of thing that very obviously looked like it had come from a matching pair.

for a brief moment, the camera lingered between the two keychains before drifting back to martin.

martin's eyes instinctively followed you as you disappeared farther down the hallway, watching until you turned the corner and disappeared from view.

only then did he remember the camera was still rolling.

he looked back toward the lens, a bashful smile slowly spreading across his face before he ducked his head and turned it away with a quiet laugh.

𝓣HANKS FOR WATCHING !!!

[secretbookshelf]

SHE DROPPED OMFG LETS GOOOOKO AM HEALED 🥹🥹🥹🔥🔥❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[pikapipipu]

THE ONLY PERSON HE LISTEN TO.

PAIRING! • bf!martin x gf!reader

GENRE! • Fluff / Soft Romance / Domestic Fluff / late night comfort

SYNOPSIS! • Martin is stuck in the studio again, refusing to leave no matter how much the members beg. Hours pass, the song is already perfect, but he still won’t stop. Until they call you.

based on this ask

The studio lights were still on past 2 a.m.

Martin sat hunched over the console, one earbud in, fingers flying across the trackpad as he adjusted the same two-second vocal run for the twelfth time. The rest of the members had already given up and gone to the dorm hours ago. Or so he thought.

The door creaked open.

“Hyung.” Seonghyeon’s voice was tired. “It’s almost three. Come on.”

Martin didn’t look up. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“I mean it this time.”

Juhoon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Martin. The song is finished. You’ve been polishing the same ad-lib since midnight. Your eyes are going to fall out of your head.”

Martin just waved a hand without turning around. “I’m almost there. Go sleep. I’ll lock up.”

They tried everything.  

Threatening to unplug the equipment.  

Offering food.  

Dramatic sighs.  

Even the silent treatment.

Nothing worked.

Finally, seonghyeon pulled out his phone, muttered something under his breath, and stepped into the hallway. Two minutes later he returned, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

Martin still hadn’t moved.

Then the door opened again, softer this time.

“Baby?”

Martin’s hands froze mid-click.

Y/n stood in the doorway, hair a little messy from sleep, soft smile on your face like you hadn’t just been dragged out of bed at this ungodly hour.

Martin turned so fast the chair spun.

“y/n?” His voice was small, almost guilty. “What are you doing here?”

You walked over slowly, stopping right beside his chair. “The boys called. Said someone was being stubborn.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The members behind you were grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

You reached out and gently took the mouse from his hand, setting it down. 

Then you cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing under his tired eyes.

“You’ve been here long enough, love,” you said softly. “Come home with me.”

Martin’s entire body melted.

“…Okay.”

No argument. No “five more minutes.” 

No dramatic protest.

Just okay.

The members exchanged looks of pure disbelief.

You leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Martin’s eyes fluttered shut like he’d been waiting for this exact medicine all night.

“I’ll save the file,” he mumbled against your lips when you finally kissed him properly, soft and sweet and a little sleepy. “Then we can go.”

“I’ll wait,” you whispered.

While he quickly saved everything and powered down the monitors, you stood behind his chair and carded your fingers through his hair. He leaned into the touch like a cat that had finally found the sun.

When he stood up, he immediately reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together tightly.

Juhoon shook his head as the three of you walked out. “Unbelievable. We beg for hours and you show up for five seconds and he folds like a napkin.”

Martin just squeezed your hand and muttered, “Shut up,” but there was no real heat in it. He was too busy looking at you like you hung the moon.

Outside, the night air was cool. Martin shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders, then pulled you into his side as you walked toward the car.

“Sorry,” he murmured against your hair. “I didn’t mean to make them wake you up.”

You smiled and tucked yourself closer. “I don’t mind. I like being the only person you listen to.”

martin stopped walking for a second just to look at you. the streetlights painted his tired face in gold, and his cheeks went the prettiest shade of pink.

“…yeah,” he said quietly, almost shy. “you are.”

then he leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to the top of your head, lingered there for a second longer than necessary, and let you lead him to the car.

the entire ride home he kept your hand in his lap, thumb tracing little circles over your knuckles. every time the car hit a red light he’d turn and just… stare at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. when you caught him looking, he’d smile that tiny, shy smile that only ever appeared for you and look away, ears turning red.

by the time you reached the dorm, martin was already half-asleep on your shoulder.

you helped him out of the car, still wrapped in his own jacket, and guided him upstairs. the moment the door closed behind you, he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder and let out the longest, softest sigh.

“carry me,” he mumbled, only half-joking.

you laughed quietly and tugged him toward the bedroom. he followed without a single complaint, toeing off his shoes, letting you peel the jacket off him, letting you push him gently onto the bed. the second his head hit the pillow he reached for you again, arms open, eyes already heavy.

you climbed in beside him. he immediately pulled you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin, one hand sliding under your (his) hoodie so his warm palm rested against the small of your back. his other hand found yours and laced your fingers together over his heart.

“thank you for coming to get me,” he whispered into your hair, voice already fading. “i only ever want to listen to you.”

you pressed a tiny kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“always, baby.”

martin smiled against your forehead, small, soft, completely content, and finally, finally drifted off, holding you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

and somewhere in the other room, seonghyeon and juhoon were still whispering in pure awe.

“dude… he actually listened.”

@kiiramsu ( comment under this post for taglist ! )

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

GIRL IN THE STANDS — KIM JUHOON

SYNOPSIS :: Juhoon has spent months allowing the rumours on if he has a girlfriend or not to spread, hoping the endless barrage of confessions he faces daily would eventually stop. One day he’s finally decided he’s had enough and chooses to put the rumours to rest.

W.C :: 3.6k

CONTAINS :: popular!footballer!juhoon, high school au, established relationship, other girls like jju, secret relationship, angst if you squint, tiny jealousy, fluff, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Lover is a day - Cuco; Out of my league - Fitz and The Tantrums; Kiss me - Sixpence None The Richer; Cariño - The Marias

The first bell was mere minutes away when the main courtyard of the school turned into an utter circus.

Juhoon noticed this before he even stepped out of the bike shed. A girl he vaguely recognised from the dance department had planted herself directly in his path, flanked by two giggling friends holding a rather tragic handmade sign that read ‘BE MY BF, JUHOON?’ in glitter glue.

He stopped, blinking slowly before he let out an eventual sigh.

"Juhoon!" The girl declared, voice trembling but brave. "I've liked you since the winter recital. Will you go out with me?"

The crowd that materialised from thin air was a testament to his particular brand of fame: part football star, part unreasonably good-looking, all mysterious smiles and sharp jawlines that granted him endless unwanted attention.

"Sorry," he said, not unkindly, but with zero hesitation. "I'm not interested."

Her face crumpled slightly, he spotted the slight tremble of her lips but chose to ignore it, he had been asked out by far too many girls he didn’t even know the names of. To make things worse the crowd erupted and ooooh'd, Juhoon wanting the ground to swallow him whole just so he could escape.

And then—because this was always the follow-up, there was always a follow-up—she pressed further. "Is it because of that rumour? About you and that girl?"

Juhoon's expression didn't change an inch, he remained entirely neutral. He'd been asked this before, dozens of times actually. In classrooms, in hallways, in DMs he never opened.

"There's no rumour," he said carefully, calculated. "There's just me, and I'm not interested."

It wasn't a denial, but it wasn't a confirmation either. It was a door left slightly ajar, and he knew it. He'd learned, over the past few months, that saying too much would only make things worse. Confirming would bring a different kind of attention: the curious, invasive kind that might scare you away, and Juhoon was doing anything in his power to protect you from that.

So he stayed quiet and let people wonder and spin the rumour mill, but his gaze was already drifting, snagged by a flash of recognisable hair and chunky sneakers thudding against the floor near the iron gates.

He spotted you walking onto the school ground, plugged into the earphones you carried around like they were your own child. Your head was down and you were moving through the morning like water through rocks, oblivious and unhurried, having absolutely no idea that a crowd of forty people was watching a girl get rejected over glitter glue by your very own secret boyfriend.

His eyes tracked you as you passed behind the building, feeling something in his chest tighten once you disappeared from his view.

He should stay and let the crowd dissipate naturally, let the dance girl save face, let the rumours simmer without him adding fuel.

Instead, he decided to push through the people encircling him. An elbow here, a muttered apology there. By the time he broke free, he was almost jogging, passing the last few remaining students entering school grounds.

"Y/N!" He called out once he was sure the crowd was outside of sight, though you didn't hear him and kept walking forward.

Of course you didn't. Your world existed behind those headphones, tucked away somewhere he'd somehow wrangled himself into a few months ago. He quickened his pace, closing the distance between you just as you entered the doors to the humanities wing.

He reached out and tugged gently on the cord of your left earbud.

You startled,  a tiny jump that made him want to apologise and laugh at the same time. Your eyes went wide for a split second before they registered who it was, softening immediately.

"Oh." You pulled the other earbud out, placing them into the same pocket as your phone. "Hi, Jju."

"Hey, yourself." He fell into step beside you, matching your pace like it was second nature. His shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your arm. "You planning on doing anything after school today?"

You looked up at him, seeing the slight smile resting against his lips that always seemed present when he was watching you.

"Why…?" You dragged out, but you knew all too well what he was about to ask. You'd had the same exchange many times before.

He tilted his head, that smile widening just a fraction. "My game’s at four. Home field. Against Busan."

"You play Busan every month."

"And every month I ask you to come." He shrugged, like it was obvious, though the slighting reddening of his cheeks gave far too much away than he would’ve liked. "And every month you say you'll think about it."

"Maybe this month I will."

He stopped walking and you kept going for two more steps before you realised he wasn't beside you anymore. You turned around, finding him standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, expression caught somewhere between hopeful and terrified.

"Wait," he said. "Really?"

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. The morning light was filtering through the hallway windows, catching the edges of his hair, and he looked so genuinely thrown off that you almost felt bad.

Almost.

"I said maybe," you reminded him, turning back around and continuing toward your classroom. You heard his footsteps rush to catch up and you attempted to suppress the smile crawling onto your lips.

"That's not nothing," he said, falling back into step beside you. "That's closer to a yes than you've ever given me."

"Don't read into it."

"I'm going to read into it so hard."

You laughed despite yourself, a quiet, breathy thing that you tried to hide by looking straight ahead though how could he not notice it? However, in your attempt at indifference you failed to spot the softening of his gaze as he watched you, the smile on his lips mirroring your own. His shoulder brushed yours again, and this time you didn't move away.

"Four o'clock," he said again, like he was making sure you remembered.

"I know you play at four o'clock, Jju."

"Just making sure."

You stopped outside your classroom. The door was still propped open, students filing in, the familiar chaos of first period settling into place. You should have gone in by now, you were already late by hallway standards, but he was still standing there, looking at you like you'd just offered him something precious and something in your chest twisted.

"I'll think about it," you said softly.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "That's all I'm asking for."

Someone suddenly bumped into him from behind—a freshman who immediately turned purple and stammered an apology. Juhoon waved it off without even sparing the boy a glance, his attention not once wandering from your face.

"You should get to class," you finally said, maintaining eye contact despite the flood of heat rushing up your neck.

"I should," he agreed, though neither of you moved.

The bell rang, shrill and insistent. You watched his expression shift from soft to reluctant to something that looked almost like resignation. He wanted to say something—you could see it in the way his jaw worked, the way his lips parted slightly before pressing shut again.

"Go," you said gently, insistently.

He exhaled. "See you at the game?"

"Maybe."

"Y/N."

"I said maybe."

He shook his head, but he was smiling again. "Fine," he said, already backing away. "Maybe. I'll take maybe."

You watched him walk backward down the hallway for a few steps before he finally turned around, running a hand through his hair as he disappeared around the corner.

You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorframe, feeling the ghost of his shoulder against yours. That boy had you completely wrapped around his fingers and you don’t think he even realised it.

The thought was quickly pushed aside as you entered the class, already wishing the day would just pass by faster.

By the time four o'clock rolled around you had already made up your mind.

You stood at the edge of the field, hands tucked into the pocket of your hoodie, watching the crowd filter into the bleachers. The sun was starting its slow descent, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The air smelled like grass and sweat and the faint sweetness of someone's overpriced coffee from the concession stand.

You entered the bleachers, your eyes trained on the field watching the players warm up.

You didn’t know if he had seen you yet, it was hard to tell from this distance, he was focused, sharp, his dark hair already sticking to his forehead despite the cool evening air. He moved across the field like he owned it, like the grass was an extension of his own body.

Someone bumped into your shoulder.

"Oh, sorry!" A girl with braces and a phone case covered in stickers smiled at you. "Are you here for the game?"

You hesitated for a brief moment. "I know someone on the team."

"Me too!" She grinned, gesturing toward the field. "I'm here for Juhoon. He's so cute, right? Do you think the rumour is true? About him having a girlfriend?"

Your stomach tightened. "I don't know."

"I hope it's not," she said, already turning toward the bleachers. "He never confirms anything, so there's still a chance, right?"

Right, you thought. There's still a chance.

You watched her bounce down the metal steps and settle into the front row—the fanclub row, you realised—spotting the familiar cluster of matching headbands and handmade signs. There were at least fifteen of them today, maybe more. They had a choreographed cheer that they practiced during warm-ups, their voices carrying across the field in a high-pitched chorus.

You found a spot midway up the bleachers that was off to the side: far enough from the fanclub that you wouldn't be lumped in with them, close enough that you could still see your boyfriend’s every movement.

The whistle blew and the game began

Juhoon was everywhere in the first half. He was in the midfield, then on the wing, then tracking back to defend, then sprinting forward again. His jersey was already dark with sweat, but he didn't slow down

The fanclub screamed every time he touched the ball, and you remained completely, and utterly silent.

He had a chance in the fifteenth minute: a loose ball that bounced his way just outside the box. He didn't hesitate, striking it first time, and the crowd held its breath as the ball curved toward the top corner.

The goalkeeper just barely got a hand to it and it deflected wide.

Juhoon swore, loud enough that you could just catch the sound of it from the bleachers. Then he turned and jogged back into position, shaking his head.

But in that moment—just before he turned—his eyes swept the stands.

And found you.

His whole body stilled for half a second and his expression flickered from frustration to something softer. He didn't smile nor wave but his hand came up, just briefly, and touched his chest, right over his heart.

Then he turned and disappeared back into the play.

Beside you, someone gasped. "Did he just—did you see that? Who was he looking at?"

You pulled your hoodie strings tighter and said nothing.

The score reached 1-0 by the second half when Juhoon stole the ball from a Busan midfielder.

It was a beautiful tackle: perfectly timed, perfectly clean. He won possession and burst forward, two defenders closing in on either side. The crowd was on its feet, the fanclub shrieking, the air electric.

He feinted left, went right, and suddenly he was through.

There was only one defender left, and the goalkeeper was rushing out toward him.

Juhoon didn't panic. He waited momentarily, and then he slotted the ball into the bottom corner, so casual it looked effortless.

The net rippled and the stands exploded.

Juhoon was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face in droplets before he looked up at the bleachers, directly to where you were, as though he had memorised exactly where you were positioned in the short second he had noticed your presence.

You had risen up the moment he scored, though your reaction was far less exaggerated than the fanclub that stood before you. Instead, when your eyes locked onto his, you beamed at him, a sight that was so rare to come by in public that Juhoon’s legs almost gave out.

His teammates mobbed him, pulling him into a group hug, ruffling his hair. but over their shoulders, you saw him grinning, that private grin that was just for you. 

Quickly the team recollected themselves and continued the game, Juhoon’s eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer before he ran after them

The final whistle eventually blew indicating the end of the game, and Juhoon’s team ended up winning 3-1. He had scored twice, assisting on the third, and it was, by any measure, a phenomenal performance.

The crowd filtered out of the bleachers in waves. You waited at the bottom of the stands, pretending to check your phone, pretending you weren't watching the players pack up near the bench.

The fanclub was already there.

You saw them from across the field: a cluster of maybe fifteen girls, all wearing those matching headbands, all pressing forward like moths to a flame. They surrounded the bench area, calling Juhoon's name alongside the names of his many other teammates, waving their phones, jostling for position.

You watched one of them grab his arm before hgently extract himself. Another quickly pushed forward with a water bottle, and a third with a handmade card.

He was smiling  that polite, practiced smile he used for people he didn't know, but his eyes kept drifting, scanning and searching, looking for you.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, suddenly aware of how far away you were standing. How separate. How invisible.

You wondered what to do. The possibility of going over there and having to push through a stampede of teenage girls just to talk to your boyfriend made you feel sick. But you had also sat through the entire game and wanted to congratulate him on his plays, so leaving was out of the question.

A girl with pigtails grabbed his sleeve. "Juhoon! Is it true you're single? My friend wants to know!"

The other girls giggled, leaning in and waiting to hear his answer. Juhoon's expression didn't change. "I don't talk about that stuff."

"That's not a no!"

"It's not a yes either."

The girls laughed like he'd said something funny. You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists inside your hoodie pocket. You wanted to tell them that he’s yours, that they needed to back off, but the words got stuck in your throat.

Because you'd never said it out loud. Because you'd never claimed him publicly. Because for all these girls knew, the rumour was exactly that: a rumour, a ghost story, a maybe that didn't mean anything.

You couldn't blame them for trying.

Whilst lost in the maze of your thoughts, Juhoon's gaze finally found you.

You saw the exact moment it happened. His polite, practiced smile had flickered like a mask slipping, just for a second. His eyes locked onto yours across the field, and something in his expression shifted. 

The girl with pigtails was still talking. Something about a photo, about waiting all season, about how her friend really liked him. But Juhoon wasn't listening anymore.

He was looking at you, and you were looking right back at him. Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment. The fanclub chattered around him, entirely oblivious. The rest of the team packed up their bags whilst the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass.

Then Juhoon moved, just a shift of weight initially, a turning of shoulders. He gently extracted his arm from the girl's grip, murmured something you couldn't hear, and then he was walking straight toward you.

The fanclub turned, confused, following his gaze. One by one, they spotted you standing by the corner flag in your hoodie and sneakers, hands still buried in your pocket, heart pounding so loud you were sure everyone could hear it.

Whispers rippled through the group, likely questioning who you were and if you were the rumour girl, but you paid attention to none of it, your focus remained entirely on the boy appraoching you.

Juhoon didn't look back. His cleats squelched softly on the grass; his hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead; his cheeks were flushed from the game.

And his eyes—those dark, steady eyes you adored so deeply—were locked on yours, paying no mind to anything else around.

You should say something, you should smile, wave, do something normal. But your voice had abandoned you, and your feet felt nailed to the ground, and all you could do was watch him get closer.

He was ten meters away. Then five. Then—

"You scored," you blurted out, because the silence was too loud and your heart was too fast and you needed to fill the space between you with something. "Jju, you played so good today—"

His hands were on your cheeks before you could finish.

Warm palms with calloused fingers from years of gripping football balls, from hours of practice, from the way he'd been clenching and unclenching his fists all game, waiting. He cupped your face like you were something precious, something breakable, like you might shatter if he didn't hold you carefully enough.

And then he was pulling you toward him.

There was desperation in the way he closed the distance, months of restraint finally snapping. His fingers curled around the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his, and suddenly his lips were on yours.

The world stopped.

The field. The sunset. The fanclub. The whispers. The entire universe condensed into a single point of contact: his mouth against yours, soft and certain and hungry, like he'd been waiting all day for this. 

He kissed you as though he was afraid you'd disappear. Like every time he'd watched you walk away to your classroom, every time he'd bitten his tongue when someone asked about the rumour, every time he'd wanted to reach for your hand in the hallway and stopped himself—it had all been building to this.

His lips slanted over yours, and you felt the sigh he let out, felt the way his shoulders dropped like he'd been holding his breath for weeks and could finally exhale.

Your hands came up automatically, fisting in the fabric of his jersey. The material was damp with sweat beneath your fingers, but you didn't care. 

His nose pressed against your cheek, his breath was warm on your skin, he tasted like the mint gum he always chewed before games, mixed with something saltier, something that was just him, a taste you couldn't name but would recognise anywhere, in any lifetime.

One of his hands slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape. The other stayed where it was, thumb still stroking gentle, absent arcs against your cheekbone. He wasn't rushing anymore, the desperation had softened into something else: something deeper, something that felt like finally.

Behind you, someone gasped. A phone clattered to the ground. Someone else whispered, oh my god.

You didn't care.

You couldn't care. Not with the way he was kissing you, slow and deliberate now, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your lips and tell you everything he'd never been able to say.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

Your eyes fluttered open to find his were still closed, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your breath. His hands were still on you—one in your hair, one on your cheek—and neither of you moved to break the contact.

"Jju," you whispered.

"Took me long enough," he murmured, voice rough.

You let out a shaky laugh. "Took you long enough to what?"

He finally opened his eyes. They were dark, intense, holding yours like he was afraid you'd disappear if he blinked. "To do that," he said. "To stop lying and pretending you're just a rumour."

Behind him, the fanclub stood frozen. Some had their phones out: filming, probably, or taking photos. Others just stood there, mouths open, processing the fact that the boy they had been daydreaming about just kissed a girl in a hoodie by the corner flag.

You should have felt embarrassed, even self-conscious.

But Juhoon was still holding your face, still looking at you like you'd hung the moon, and somehow that made everything else fade away.

"The rumour," you said quietly. "It's not a rumour anymore."

"No," he agreed. "It never was."

You looked at him, seeing how the tension that had previously been in his shoulders now dissipated and left a calmness that only appeared when you were within his reach.

"Juhoon," you whispered.

"Y/N."

"You should probably let go of my face now."

He smiled gently, his thumb tracing your cheek once more as his eyes tracked your features. "Probably."

Instead he pulled you towards him again, this time his lips lingered on your forehead, a soft comfort against the lingering stares of everyone watching the two of you.

Though you could only focus on the boy in front of you, holding you with so much love and care your heart wanted to burst. You didn’t have it in your heart to even pretend to complain about the secret being out now, not if it meant he could love you outwardly like this more often.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

A SUITABLE ARRANGEMENT — KIM JUHOON

SYNOPSIS :: To be born a pureblood means you are hounded to pick a perfect suitor of similar position in the wizarding society. Juhoon suggests a simple solution to get your parents off your back: date him, just make sure you don’t catch any feelings.

W.C :: 11.9k

CONTAINS :: slytherin!juhoon, fake dating, both purebloods, slow burn, both emotionally inept and oblivious, not a lot of dialogue (more storytelling), mini harassment (reader being touched without permission), blood/injury, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Pretty boy - The Neighbourhood; The complete knock - Blood Orange; Sweater weather - The Neighbourhood; Knee socks - Arctic Monkeys; Sad girl - Lana Del Rey; She’s my collar - Gorillaz, Kali Uchis

Everyone had assumed you and Juhoon were together long before your arrangement ever began.

To the rest of Hogwarts, the two of you made perfect sense. Two Slytherins from old pureblood families, always standing beside one another at functions, always paired together during gatherings, always carrying yourselves with the same composed elegance expected from families like yours.

A match made in heaven, according to the whispers that followed the two of you through the halls.

The irony was that your families could barely tolerate one another.

They played polite well enough during pureblood gatherings, all sharp smiles and expensive robes and poisoned compliments hidden beneath crystal glasses. But beneath the carefully maintained civility lay years of rivalry neither side ever bothered to truly conceal.

Still, neither family could exactly complain.

After years of relentless pestering about finding a “suitable” partner, the two of you had solved the problem yourselves.

No unbearable introductions arranged by your parents. No carefully selected heirs from respectable houses being paraded in front of you at dinners. And, most importantly, no risk of either of you ending up with what your mother so delicately referred to as ‘one of those horrid half-bloods polluting wizarding society’.

The arrangement had happened late one evening in the library.

You still remembered the way Juhoon had slid into the seat across from you without invitation, expression unreadable as always. The Slytherin prefect pin gleamed faintly against the dim candlelight.

“You’ve been avoiding your mother’s letters,” he had said plainly.

You glanced up from your book. “And you know this because?”

“She complained to mine.”

Of course she had.

You let out a quiet sigh, shutting your book with more force than necessary. “If this is another conversation about suitable suitors, I might actually throw myself into the Black Lake.”

To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Date me.”

You could only stare at him, the gears shifting as your brain tried to process his words. “What?”

“Pretend to,” Juhoon corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “People already think we’re together. It would solve the problem.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately, suspicious. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”

“My parents stop introducing me to insufferable pureblood daughters every holiday.”

“That bad?”

“One of them cried because I didn’t compliment her dress.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Juhoon continued, calm and composed as though he were discussing homework rather than proposing an entirely fabricated relationship. “We keep appearances up around our families. Attend events together. Act convincing enough that they stop interfering in our lives.” His gaze flickered toward you then, steady and sharp. “In return, they leave us alone.”

It was practical and honestly far less miserable than enduring another year of your parents’ endless matchmaking.

So you agreed, and perhaps that had been your first mistake because the lie came far too easily.

The news spread through Hogwarts within days. Apparently, you were officially off-limits now—though neither of you had exactly struggled with unwanted attention before, both considered far too intimidating for most students to approach in the first place. Still, people looked at the two of you differently afterward, as though the confirmation merely solidified something everyone had believed from the start.

Because in everyone else’s eyes, you and Juhoon fit together effortlessly enough that some couldn’t tell if your relationship was truly for the mere essence of maintaining pureblood expectations or something far more genuine.

Most assumed the latter because how could they not?

You and Juhoon moved around one another with a familiarity too natural to appear rehearsed, too instinctive to feel manufactured. None of how you interacted looked forced enough to be an arrangement crafted purely for convenience.

To many students, it looked painfully obvious: love disguised poorly beneath Slytherin composure and aristocratic restraint.

Even among the more cynical pureblood circles, whispers followed the two of you with something almost resembling admiration. A perfect match between two influential families, yes, but also something strangely sincere beneath all the politics and reputation.

Others found it romantic in an insufferable sort of way. The terrifyingly composed Slytherin heir who looked at no one the way he looked at you and the equally intimidating pureblood witch somehow capable of softening the sharpest edges of Juhoon’s cold demeanor simply by standing beside him.

Though there remained a smaller, far more rational group of students who viewed the situation differently.

They observed the timing too carefully. The convenience of the sudden announcement arriving perfectly alongside increasing pressure from both your families.

To them, it looked less like a love story and more like an agreement between two ambitious pureblood heirs intelligent enough to understand exactly what was expected of them.

And truthfully, they would have been correct, it was a strategic alliance meant for nothing more than for you both to finally get some peace in your life.

Still, no one dared voice such theories aloud.

Not when Juhoon’s gaze alone could silence most people where they stood. And certainly not when the two of you looked altogether too convincing beside one another for anyone to comfortably question it for long.

The two of you had established a set of simple, but necessary rules that night in the library as well.

No real feelings.

Public affection only when required.

Family events would be attended together, appearances maintained carefully enough to keep suspicion away. If either of you wished to end the arrangement, it ended immediately—no questions asked.

It was practical and controlled. Exactly the sort of agreement expected between two pureblood heirs raised on reputation before emotion.

At least, that was what you had told yourself.

The problem was that Juhoon had always been unfairly easy to exist beside even before the arrangement had been established

You had spent years at his side during endless pureblood functions and insufferable dinners, years exchanging sharp remarks across Slytherin tables and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the library. Being around him had never required effort and silence with him had never felt uncomfortable.

Pretending, it turned out, felt alarmingly natural, to the point where almost none of it felt staged anymore.

Not when he would pull a chair out for you before you even reached the table, or when his eyes would find yours across the Great Hall with quiet, terrifying ease. Nor when he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, and certainly not when you began forgetting there had ever been rules to begin with.

The reaction from Hogwarts had been almost insulting.

You had expected surprise, perhaps even outrage considering the nature of your families. At the very least, some degree of shock.

Instead, the majority of the school responded with an almost unbearable sense of satisfaction as though they had all collectively won a bet neither you nor Juhoon had known existed.

“Finally,” Jaehyun had drawled the morning after the rumors spread, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slid into the seat across from the two of you at breakfast.

Mina looked equally smug. “You were honestly fooling no one.”

You nearly choked on your tea. Beside you, Juhoon remained perfectly composed, lazily stirring his coffee as though the attention surrounding your table did not exist. Which somehow only made the rumors worse.

The professors were no better. Slughorn, in particular, looked positively delighted by the arrangement.

In his eyes, the two of you were practically the embodiment of everything he adored: prestigious pureblood heirs, academically gifted Slytherins, socially influential students with families woven so deeply into wizarding society it existed beyond the ancient historical texts.

You suspected he had been waiting for this development longer than the rest of Hogwarts combined.

“Well, well,” Slughorn beamed during Potions one afternoon, eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly. “Young love among noble houses. How very classic.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

You stared at him in horror. To your right, Juhoon looked mildly appalled for perhaps half a second before his usual composure settled back into place.

Unfortunately, several students had witnessed it and that resulted in the teasing afterward being relentless. Not that either of you reacted strongly enough to discourage it.

That was the problem.

At first, maintaining the act required actual effort, though you had expected that much. The first few days were painfully awkward in ways neither of you anticipated. Every movement felt overly deliberate, every touch carefully calculated beneath the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.

Juhoon offering you his arm before entering the Great Hall, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve during pureblood gatherings, sitting together during meals, quiet conversations close enough to appear intimate.

It felt staged at first, like two people attempting to imitate a relationship they did not fully understand.

And then, somehow, it stopped feeling unnatural altogether. The shift happened so gradually neither of you noticed it immediately.

One day Juhoon was offering you his arm because people were watching and the next, he was doing it automatically without glancing around first.

You stopped choosing the seat beside him consciously. Your body simply carried you there out of habit now, settling comfortably into his presence before your mind caught up.

He began fixing your collar absentmindedly whenever it sat crooked, his fingers just grazing your throat as you maintained a straight face, though the goosebumps littering your skin almost gave you away.

You started stealing pieces of fruit from his plate during breakfast without asking.

Shared notes became shared textbooks, whispered conversations stretching late into the night within the Slytherin common room while green candlelight flickered against the dungeon walls.

And then there was the touching. Subtle enough to escape notice if one wasn’t looking carefully, yet somehow constant all the same.

Juhoon’s hand began to rest against the small of your back in crowded hallways and your knee started brushing his beneath library tables. 

None of it should have felt significant yet each touch lingered far longer in your mind than it ought to have. Perhaps because Juhoon was not naturally affectionate, especially with everyone else.

He tolerated very few people willingly, less so physical contact. Most students avoided standing too close to him altogether, intimidated by the sharp calmness he carried so effortlessly.

But with you, the distance between your bodies seemed to disappear more and more each day.

And the truly dangerous part was that neither of you seemed to notice anymore when you were pretending and when you were simply… being yourselves.

The realisation came slowly.

So slowly, in fact, that you hardly noticed it at all.

It settled quietly into the spaces between lingering glances and absentminded touches, weaving itself into your routine before either of you had the chance to stop it. Somewhere along the way, Juhoon had ceased to feel like a performance and instead become something constant, expected even.

You found him beside you in every corner of Hogwarts without needing to ask.

In the mornings at the Slytherin table, already pouring tea into your cup before you had even sat down, the steam curling softly between the two of you as though he had done it his entire life. During lessons, where his chair always seemed to end up angled subtly toward yours no matter where the professors placed you. Across from you in the library during late-night study sessions, silver rings tapping idly against the wooden table while he skimmed over your essays with quiet criticism.

“Your conclusion is weak,” he remarked one evening without looking up.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve said that for the past three of my essays.”

“Because it continues to be true.”

And then, not five minutes later, he slid a fresh piece of parchment toward you with several rewritten sentences already scrawled neatly across it.

Even outside of lessons, Juhoon simply… appeared.

Waiting outside classrooms between periods, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while groups of students parted around him instinctively. Falling into step beside you through the corridors without greeting, as though your company had long since become assumed. Occupying the seat beside yours in the common room before anyone else could take it.

There was no discussion or hesitation, only certainty.

And perhaps the most dangerous part was that he noticed things no one else ever bothered paying attention to.

He knew when you were irritated before you spoke, recognising the slight tightening in your expression long before anyone else caught on. Knew exactly which desserts you avoided in the Great Hall and quietly traded them off your plate whenever they appeared. Knew the difference between your genuine smile and the polite, practiced one reserved for pureblood gatherings.

Sometimes it felt as though Juhoon observed you too carefully. As though he had spent years memorising every version of you long before either of you called this a relationship.

It seemed almost instinctive, the sort built through diving to see more than what appeared at the surface.

You began noticing it everywhere once you allowed yourself to look.

He’d automatically shifted closer whenever conversations in the common room became too loud, subtle enough that no one else would recognise the gesture for what it was. His eyes searched for you first whenever he entered a room, immediately locating you within seconds as though it were unconscious now.

And Merlin, the staring.

You did not know when that had begun.

Perhaps he had always looked at you that way and you had simply never paid enough attention before.

Juhoon’s gaze had always been intense by nature—sharp, assessing, difficult for most people to hold comfortably. He looked at people as though dissecting them quietly in his mind, cool and unreadable in a way that made even older students nervous.

But with you, it was different. Softer, somehow. Not openly affectionate. Juhoon was not the sort for obvious displays of emotion.

Still, there were moments when you caught him looking at you from across the Great Hall or over the top of a book in the library, expression unreadable yet strangely focused, as though he had momentarily forgotten anyone else existed.

And every single time, your stomach betrayed you because Juhoon was composed by nature. Controlled down to the very way he spoke. Nothing about him was careless.

And yet, around you, cracks had begun appearing in that perfect restraint. Small, nearly invisible ones.

The subtle tightening of his jaw whenever another student lingered too close to you. The way his gaze darkened almost imperceptibly whenever someone flirted too openly. The instinctive way he would place a hand against your waist while guiding you through corridors that were not even vastly populated, fingers lingering just a second too long against the fabric of your robes.

Protective.

Possessive, perhaps.

Though you weren’t entirely sure you minded, and that alone should have terrified you. Instead, it settled warm beneath your ribs like a secret you were too afraid to name. And it only became worse after Potions.

Slughorn’s classroom smelled overwhelmingly sweet that morning, thick curls of shimmering steam spiraling upward from the cauldron positioned at the center of the room. Students leaned forward curiously as the potion glimmered beneath the candlelight, its surface shifting in pearlescent swirls.

“Amortentia,” Slughorn announced proudly, gesturing dramatically toward the cauldron. “The most powerful love potion in the world. Quite distinctive, of course. It smells different to each person according to what attracts them most.”

A chorus of amused reactions spread throughout the room almost immediately. Several students laughed whilst others leaned forward eagerly, excited to reveal their own.

You had barely paid attention until the scent reached you.

Rain against stone.

Cedarwood.

Mint.

Old parchment.

Your stomach dropped instantly because it smelled exactly like Juhoon.

Not vaguely similar or close enough to dismiss. It smelled undeniably, unmistakably like him—like the lingering scent left behind whenever he shrugged his robes over your shoulders after Quidditch practice, and sitting beside him in the library beneath flickering candlelight while rain battered softly against the dungeon windows.

Heat crawled painfully up your neck but you forced your expression to remain neutral, staring firmly ahead while panic curled violently in your chest.

Surely no one else noticed.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted your gaze downward toward your notes, pretending sudden fascination with your parchment.

Then silence settled beside you, the atmosphere surrounding the two of you growing far too heavy for you to ignore. Against your better judgment, you glanced sideways to find him already looking at you. And for the first time in as long as you had known him, Juhoon looked unsettled.

Only slightly.

A nearly invisible tension lingered in his expression before disappearing just as quickly, gone so fast you might have imagined it entirely had you not spent months learning the smallest shifts in his composure.

But you knew him too well now to miss it.

He had smelled something too.

Someone.

And judging by the way his gaze lingered on you afterward: thoughtful, quiet, almost unbearably intent, you had a terrible feeling you already knew who.

Neither of you spoke about it afterward, both far too emotionally inept to even consider attempting such a conversation. Instead, the two of you did what Slytherins did best: you avoided it completely. Painfully so.

The moment class ended, you gathered your things far too quickly before standing abruptly from your seat, your robe nearly getting caught on the table. Around the classroom, students continued laughing and teasing one another over the potion while Slughorn rambled enthusiastically about the “fascinating nature of adolescent attraction.”

You wanted to disappear into the Black Lake and never emerge again.

Juhoon, unfortunately, followed you out of the classroom almost immediately because that’s what he always did.

You could hear his footsteps behind you as you moved through the dungeon corridors, measured and unhurried in a way that somehow made your nervousness worse. He said nothing at first, merely falling into step beside you as naturally as breathing.

Usually, the silence between you was comfortable. Now it felt suffocating.

“You’re walking unusually fast,” Juhoon observed after several moments.

You kept your eyes fixed ahead. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

A pause passed between you. Then, quieter: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me since class ended.”

Heat crept instantly back into your face. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“Hm.” The sound alone told you he didn’t believe a word of it.

You risked a glance toward him then, only to regret it immediately. Juhoon was already watching you, and it wasn’t casual, either. It was intent, like he was trying to solve something. It made your stomach twist painfully.

“You’re staring,” you muttered.

“And you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Another pause.

“Hm.”

You hated when he did that.

The worst part was that Juhoon himself did not appear entirely unaffected either, no matter how composed he attempted to remain. His shoulders seemed slightly tenser than usual beneath his robes, jaw tightening faintly every few seconds like he was restraining thoughts he had no intention of voicing aloud.

Which, somehow, only confirmed your suspicions further.

Merlin. Juhoon had smelled you in the Amortentia potion.

You nearly walked directly into another student before a hand closed instantly around your wrist, pulling you smoothly out of the way before impact.

“Careful,” Juhoon murmured.

The touch burned far hotter than it should have. His fingers remained around your wrist for one second too long before releasing you, though whether he noticed that fact himself, you couldn’t tell.

Neither of you moved immediately afterward.

The corridor around you buzzed with distant conversation and footsteps, students brushing past without a second glance, yet the space between you suddenly felt strangely still.

Dangerously still.

Juhoon’s gaze dropped briefly toward your face, lingering there with unsettling focus, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might actually say something. Maybe ask or even acknowledge it.

Instead, he simply adjusted your cloak where it had slipped from your shoulder during your near collision, movements careful and composed despite the tension crackling quietly between the two of you.

Then he stepped back.

“There’s a Slytherin meeting tonight,” he said smoothly, as though neither of you were internally unraveling. “Don’t be late.”

And just like that, the moment vanished like any other time you had come close to branching further than just an arrangement.

Days passed as such, and you continued your… whatever it was you and Juhoon had become.

Not quite fake. Not entirely real. Something dangerously in between.

The awkwardness following the Amortentia incident never truly disappeared, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud. Instead, it settled quietly beneath your interactions, lingering within prolonged glances and near touches that suddenly felt far too intentional.

If Juhoon noticed the shift between you, he gave no indication of it. But afterward, he seemed even more attentive than before.

His hand found the small of your back far more often in the corridors, not that you had been keeping track though. His gaze lingered longer whenever you spoke. Sometimes, during late evenings in the common room, you would glance up from your book only to find him already watching you with that same unreadable expression that made your stomach twist painfully every single time.

It was unbearable.

Worse still, it was becoming impossible to tell where the act ended anymore.

Perhaps that was why the letter from your mother unsettled you as much as it did.

The envelope arrived during breakfast one icy December morning, bearing your family crest stamped neatly into dark green wax. You already knew it would be unpleasant before even opening it.

Across from you, Juhoon glanced up briefly from his tea as you broke the seal.

Your mother’s elegant handwriting greeted you immediately.

You and Juhoon are expected to attend the Rosier Winter Solstice Ball during holiday recess. Considering recent developments, your appearance together will be beneficial for both families.

Do try not to embarrass us.

You stared at the letter for several long moments before sighing deeply and handing it across the table.

Juhoon scanned the contents silently. “The Rosier ball,” he murmured.

You groaned softly. “I was hoping to avoid that this year.”

“So was I.”

That alone was enough to tell you exactly how insufferable the event would be.

The Rosier Winter Solstice Ball was infamous amongst pureblood society—less celebration and more political performance disguised beneath expensive robes and orchestral music. Old families gathered beneath enchanted chandeliers to exchange alliances, gossip, and carefully concealed threats while pretending it was all perfectly civilized.

Children of noble houses were displayed like prized assets.

And now, apparently, the two of you would be attending together officially.

Wonderful.

“You realise everyone’s going to stare at us the entire night,” you muttered.

Juhoon folded the letter neatly before setting it back down beside your plate. “They already do.”

Annoyingly enough, he wasn’t wrong.

The Rosier estate looked almost unreal beneath winter snowfall.

Ancient stone walls towered against the dark sky, every window glowing with warm golden light while enchanted snow drifted elegantly through the air without ever touching the ground. Inside, the manor glittered beneath towering crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls lined with moving portraits older than Hogwarts itself.

The ballroom itself was already crowded upon arrival.

Pureblood heirs draped in expensive fabrics moved gracefully through clusters of conversation while orchestral music echoed softly throughout the hall. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath candlelight, dark tailored suits embroidered subtly with family crests and ancient runes.

Politics disguised as elegance.

Exactly as exhausting as you remembered.

The moment you entered beside Juhoon, attention shifted immediately.

Not openly, of course, pureblood society was far too practiced for something so crude. But you felt it all the same: eyes following the two of you across the ballroom, whispers murmured quietly behind crystal glasses as your arrival spread through the crowd.

Because this was the first time many of them had seen you together publicly since the announcement.

And Juhoon played the role far too well.

His hand settled against your waist almost instantly upon entering the ballroom, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress as he guided you smoothly through the crowd. The gesture appeared effortless, natural enough that no one would question it for a second, yet the touch lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.

You became painfully aware of him throughout the evening.

The way he pulled your chair out before you could sit during dinner, and he leaned down slightly whenever speaking near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Even how his fingers brushed absentmindedly against your own while passing you a drink.

Every action was perfectly measured. Perfectly convincing.

That should have reassured you.

Instead, it unsettled you more with every passing hour because Juhoon was terrifyingly good at acting like he adored you.

At one point during the evening, an older witch smiled knowingly as the two of you crossed the ballroom together. “You make a beautiful couple,” she remarked warmly and your polite smile nearly faltered.

Juhoon’s hand tightened subtly at your waist.

“Thank you,” he replied smoothly before you could answer. As though he meant it.

That haunted you for the remainder of the night.

Especially once the dancing began.

His hand rested against your waist while the other held yours carefully, guiding you effortlessly across the ballroom floor beneath glittering chandeliers and floating candlelight. Every movement felt controlled, elegant, practiced from years of aristocratic upbringing.

And all the while, people watched the two of you.

You could feel their attention constantly. Admiration, curiosity, approval for the perfect pureblood pair. Exactly what your families wanted.

The thought should have disgusted you, but your attention remained fixed on Juhoon.

His gaze never truly left your face while you danced and he instinctively guided you away whenever couples drifted too close. There was an almost protective way he carried himself beside you throughout the evening, calm and watchful like he was aware of everything happening around you at all times.

None of it felt forced or fake, and somewhere between his hand against your waist and the quiet sound of his voice near your ear, a dangerous thought began settling heavily into your chest.

How much of this was actually pretending anymore?

The thought lingered uncomfortably for the rest of the evening.

You tried to dismiss it. Tried to blame the atmosphere instead—the golden candlelight, the orchestral music swelling softly throughout the ballroom, the overwhelming intensity of old pureblood traditions wrapped so elegantly around the two of you.

But every time you convinced yourself you were overthinking things, Juhoon would do something small and devastating.

A witch from the Parkinson family attempted to pull you into conversation near the refreshments table, speaking animatedly about Ministry affairs while several older purebloods listened nearby. You barely managed a polite response before feeling Juhoon’s presence settle beside you once more.

He didn’t interrupt, he was never rude enough for that. But somehow the conversation ended less than a minute later regardless and his hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you away through the crowd.

“You looked miserable,” he murmured.

You glanced sideways at him. “And you decided to rescue me?”

“You say that like it’s unusual.”

The response came so naturally that your steps faltered slightly before you recollected yourself.

At some point during the evening, your mother approached the two of you with a satisfied expression that immediately made you wary.

“You look lovely together,” she commented, gaze flickering approvingly between you and Juhoon. “People have been speaking very highly of your relationship tonight.”

You resisted the urge to grimace. Beside you, Juhoon remained flawlessly composed. “That was the intention,” he replied smoothly.

Your mother seemed pleased by the answer, though her attention lingered suspiciously on the hand resting against your waist before she eventually disappeared back into the crowd.

The moment she left, you exhaled quietly. “I think she’s planning our wedding already.”

Juhoon took a slow sip from his drink. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”

You nearly choked. He glanced at you then, one eyebrow lifting faintly as though amused by your reaction.

“You’re joking.”

“Mostly.”

That was not reassuring whatsoever.

The longer the evening continued, the more impossible Juhoon became to ignore. You noticed the way people reacted to him around you.

How conversations shifted whenever he stepped closer and other pureblood heirs kept a respectful distance without needing to be told. His eyes would follow you instinctively anytime someone else attempted to monopolize your attention for too long.

Protective. Always protective.

Though there was something sharper threaded beneath it tonight.

You first noticed it properly when Eunwoo Carrow approached you near the ballroom balcony.

Eunwoo was charming in the polished, aristocratic sort of way most pureblood sons were taught to be: handsome enough, socially graceful enough, and entirely too aware of both facts.

“Enjoying the evening?” He asked pleasantly, offering you a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

“Trying to,” you replied lightly.

Eunwoo smiled. “I must admit, your relationship came as quite the surprise.”

You hummed softly. “Did it?”

“To everyone else? Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered briefly across the ballroom before returning to you. “To Juhoon’s admirers, however, it was devastating news.”

You almost laughed. The idea of Juhoon inspiring admiration rather than fear within Hogwarts remained endlessly amusing.

Still, before you could respond, Eunwoo stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, just enough to be noticed.

“You know,” he continued smoothly, “if things between you and Juhoon ever become… less serious, I’d be very interested in—”

A hand settled suddenly against the small of your back. Warm, steady and wholly possessive.

Juhoon.

You had not even seen him approach.

“Carrow,” Juhoon greeted calmly beside you and Eunwoo’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“Juhoon.”

There was no hostility in his tone, and that somehow made the tension worse.

Juhoon’s hand remained firmly against your waist as his gaze settled on Eunwoo with quiet composure. “I believe she was just about to join me for the next dance.”

You blinked. You had not been aware there was another dance but Eunwoo clearly recognised the dismissal for what it was. Still smiling faintly, he inclined his head. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner.”

Then he left.

The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence settled briefly between the two of you.

Juhoon’s hand had not moved. In fact, if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten slightly against your waist before relaxing again.

“You disappeared,” you said eventually, mostly because the tension had become unbearable otherwise.

“I was speaking with my father.”

“You looked thrilled.”

“I considered poisoning my drink halfway through the conversation.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself and the sound seemed to catch his attention immediately. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward you then—fully toward you—and for one strange, suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely into the background.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

Then his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd behind you, expression cooling almost instantly. “Eunwoo was standing too close to you.”

The words startled you. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Controlled

Jealous.

You stared at him.

Juhoon, meanwhile, seemed to realise only afterward what he had admitted aloud.

A strange flicker crossed his expression before his composure slid immediately back into place.

“He has a reputation,” he added smoothly as though that explained anything. As though your pulse had not just quickened violently at the implication hidden beneath his words.

Before you could respond, the orchestra began another slow waltz somewhere across the ballroom. Juhoon held your gaze for one lingering second before finally speaking once more. “Dance with me.”

It was not phrased like a question.

Juhoon was already extending his hand toward you, expression calm and unreadable beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers overhead. Around the two of you, couples began drifting back toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra swelled into another slow waltz.

For a moment, you simply stared at him.

Then, against every sensible thought currently screaming through your mind, you placed your hand in his.

The ballroom blurred softly around you as Juhoon guided you back onto the dance floor, one hand settling once more against your waist while the other held yours with practiced ease. The movement between you felt almost instinctive now, frighteningly natural as he led you effortlessly through the crowd.

You hated how easily your body responded to him and how naturally you fit beside him.

The music echoed softly throughout the hall while candlelight flickered against polished marble floors, shadows dancing across expensive fabrics and glittering jewelry. Pureblood heirs moved elegantly around you beneath floating chandeliers, every step carefully perfected through years of aristocratic upbringing.

Yet somehow, despite the sheer number of people surrounding you, your attention remained painfully fixed on Juhoon alone and how his gaze lingered on your face with unnerving intensity every time you looked up.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

A faint flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “And yet you continue letting me.”

Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly and you looked away immediately, but that only seemed to amuse him further.

You weren’t embarrassed merely because Juhoon was flirting, but because he did it so rarely that every small remark carried far too much weight.

Especially when directed at you.

For several moments, neither of you spoke again, you simply danced. The orchestra played softly around you while the rest of the ballroom faded into meaningless noise, your attention narrowing dangerously to the person standing impossibly close before you.

You became painfully aware of every tiny detail: the faint scent of cedarwood lingering against his clothes, the smooth fabric beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his hand through the layers of your clothing.

And perhaps worst of all was the look in his eyes, because Juhoon looked at you like someone trying very hard not to say something.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You’re quiet,” he observed eventually.

“So are you.”

“I usually am.”

“That’s true.”

There was a brief lull between you as you attempted to avoid his eyes, it becoming far too overwhelming.

“You’ve been avoiding me since Potions.”

Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course he would notice that, Juhoon notices everything. “I have not.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You walked into a suit of armor yesterday because you were too busy pretending not to look at me.”

Heat rushed immediately to your face. “That happened once.”

“You apologised to it.”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

To your horror, the corner of Juhoon’s mouth twitched faintly upward.Not quite a smile, but worse. Fond amusement.

Juhoon was enjoying your embarrassment far too much for your liking.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“So I’ve been told.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly and the sound seemed to affect him instantly. Something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly, the usual sharpness in his gaze easing for half a second before his composure returned.

But you saw it, and suddenly the air between you felt far too warm.

The dance slowed gradually as the music neared its end though neither of you moved apart immediately afterward. Juhoon’s hand remained against your waist, your own still resting lightly against his shoulder while the final notes echoed softly throughout the ballroom.

People continued moving around you yet the moment felt strangely isolated all the same. Dangerously intimate.

Then someone called Juhoon’s name from across the ballroom and the spell shattered instantly.

His expression cooled back into practiced neutrality as he glanced toward the source of the interruption: his father standing near a cluster of Ministry officials, already looking impatient.

You felt the shift immediately. The reminder of where you were. Who you were. What this arrangement was supposed to be.

Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose before lowering his gaze back toward you. “I need to speak with him.”

“Go,” you replied, perhaps a little too quickly.

Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your waist and the absence of it felt far more noticeable than it should have.

“I’ll find you afterward,” he said, and before you could properly process the implication hidden within those words, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

You remained standing there for several moments after he left, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs.

Across the ballroom, people continued watching you. Whispering quietly behind jeweled glasses and polite smiles. A perfect pair, a future alliance, apureblood success story.

If only they knew.

Though, standing there beneath glittering chandeliers with the ghost of Juhoon’s touch still lingering against your waist, you were no longer entirely certain what the truth actually was anymore.

The ball ended late into the night.

Snow drifted softly outside the manor as guests gradually disappeared through the Floo network one by one, the grand ballroom slowly emptying of music and conversation. By the time you finally stepped outside onto the manor steps, exhaustion had settled heavily into your bones.

Cold winter air bit instantly against your skin.

Beside you, Juhoon adjusted his gloves silently before glancing toward you.

“You’re cold.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Hm.”

Before you could question the sound, he removed the heavy dark cloak draped over his shoulders and settled it carefully around yours.

Your breath caught slightly. “Juhoon—”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

The familiar scent of cedarwood and mint wrapped around you immediately beneath the warmth of the cloak, making your chest tighten painfully all over again.

Neither of you spoke for several moments afterward. Snow fell quietly around the two of you while golden light spilled from the manor windows behind you, soft orchestral music still faintly audible through the walls.

“You handled tonight well,” Juhoon finally spoke, cutting through the silence.

You blinked softly. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”

“It is.”

You looked at him then, seeing the slight exhaustion beneath his composed expression and the careful way he stood beside you despite clearly wanting to leave the event hours ago. Even the way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever it rested on you for too long.

And suddenly, horrifyingly, one realisation settled heavily in your chest above all others.

You liked this version of him far too much.

The thought terrified you, because this was never supposed to become real.

The return to Hogwarts following that night was as regular as it could have been.

You maintained what had already been present between the two of you: quiet touches, shared glances, the familiar ease that had long since settled into your routines. If anything, the aftermath of the Rosier ball only seemed to deepen the strange intimacy growing steadily between you and Juhoon.

Though neither of you acknowledged it, why would you? That would have required emotional honesty, something both of you had been raised to avoid almost professionally.

Instead, life simply… continued.

Mornings at the Slytherin table, late nights in the library, walking side-by-side through crowded corridors while students instinctively moved aside to let the two of you pass.

He still looked at you in that quiet, dangerous way that made your pulse stumble embarrassingly every single time, and it was becoming a problem. A rather significant one.

Especially because Juhoon himself appeared entirely unaffected, at least outwardly.

Though there were smal moments where his composure slipped just enough to make your chest tighten painfully.

Like after Quidditch matches.

Juhoon rarely lingered after practice or games. Once finished, he usually disappeared quickly with the rest of the Slytherin team, expression unreadable beneath windswept dark hair while students crowded noisily around the pitch.

And yet, recently, you had developed the unfortunate habit of waiting for him afterward.

You weren’t entirely sure when that started.

Maybe after one particularly brutal practice where he had shown up in the common room with blood running down his jaw from a stray Bludger hit and still calmly asked if you had finished your Potions essay. Or maybe after realising he always searched the stands for you before matches began.

Either way, it became routine.

So when the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match ended beneath a cold grey February sky, you found yourself lingering near the edge of the pitch while students poured noisily from the stands around you.

Slytherin had won by the skin of their teeth.

The atmosphere buzzed loudly with excitement and irritation alike as students argued over fouls and close calls while snow crunched beneath moving crowds.

You spotted Juhoon almost immediately.

He stood near the locker room entrance speaking briefly with another teammate, broom tucked beneath one arm while his Quidditch robes clung slightly to his frame from exertion. Even from a distance, he carried himself with the same composed sharpness he always did, though a faint flush lingered across his cheeks from the cold.

And, as though sensing your attention instantly, his gaze lifted, finding you immediately. Something subtle softened in his expression before he nodded once toward you, small enough that no one else would notice.

Your stomach betrayed you instantly.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

“You know,” a voice drawled beside you suddenly, “he’s terrifyingly possessive for someone pretending to date you.”

You turned to find a Gryffindor boy leaning casually against the wooden railing nearby, red-and-gold scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

Cormac McLaggen.

Wonderful.

You had spoken to him perhaps twice in your entire life, both interactions equally unpleasant.

“You Gryffindors spend an odd amount of time thinking about Slytherin relationships,” you replied flatly.

Cormac grinned, entirely unbothered. “Hard not to when your boyfriend looks ready to kill anyone who breathes too close to you.”

Your eyes flickered instinctively toward Juhoon.

Unfortunately, Cormac was not entirely wrong. Even across the crowded pitch, Juhoon’s attention remained fixed on the two of you now, expression unreadable from this distance.

You sighed internally. “He’s not going to murder you, McLaggen.”

“Shame,” he mused. “Would’ve made this conversation more entertaining.”

Before you could respond, he stepped slightly closer.

“You know,” he continued lightly, “I still think it’s strange.”

“What is?”

“You and Juhoon.” His mouth tilted faintly. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the romantic type.”

You folded your arms. “And you’re an expert on romance?”

“Not particularly. But I am excellent at recognising when someone looks one inconvenience away from homicide.”

Despite yourself, you nearly laughed, and unfortunately that only encouraged him.

“You could do better, you know.”

The comment immediately soured your expression. “And there it is.”

Cormac shrugged. “I’m serious. Half the school’s terrified of him.”

“That sounds like their problem.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Juhoon again. “You know, I think he’s glaring at me.”

“He glares at everyone.”

“Not usually like that.”

Before you could respond, Cormac’s hand landed suddenly against your waist. Lightly, casually and entirely intentionally.

The reaction was immediate.

A hand closed sharply around Cormac’s wrist.

“Remove your hand.”

The temperature around you seemed to drop instantly.

Juhoon stood beside you now, expression perfectly calm despite the dangerous stillness settled beneath his voice. Snow drifted softly around the three of you while nearby conversations gradually began faltering one by one.

Because everyone had noticed.

Cormac looked almost entertained. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “you almost sound jealous.”

Juhoon did not answer immediately which somehow only made the silence infinitely worse. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable and his eyes cold.

“Don’t touch what’s mine.”

The entire pitch seemed to fall silent. You felt the shift ripple outward through the surrounding students almost instantly. Shock. Interest. Tension.

Because pureblood men did not say things like that lightly.

Not publicly. Not unless they meant them.

And Merlin—

Juhoon had sounded terrifyingly serious.

Cormac’s amusement finally faltered slightly beneath the weight of Juhoon’s stare. After one long moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped backward.

“Relax,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise the act had become so convincing.”

Act.

Right.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

Juhoon said nothing as Cormac disappeared back into the crowd.

He simply remained beside you, jaw tight beneath his calm expression while snow drifted silently between the two of you. Then, after several long seconds: “Are you alright?”

The question startled you because despite everything that had just happened, genuine concern still threaded quietly beneath his voice.

You stared at him, seeing the cold fury lingering carefully restrained behind his eyes, feeling the hand still hovering faintly near your waist as though resisting the urge to touch you again.

And suddenly one horrifying thought repeated loudly through your mind over and over again.

That didn’t sound fake at all

Students were still staring, but were pretending not to, of course.

But you could feel it all the same: the curious glances, the whispered conversations beginning almost immediately now that Cormac had retreated somewhere into the crowd looking considerably less smug than before.

Beside you, Juhoon appeared entirely unaffected by the attention.

Though you knew him well enough now to recognise the tension lingering beneath his composure. His jaw remained slightly tight with his shoulders rigid beneath dark Quidditch robes.

He was still angry.

Juhoon finally looked down at you properly, expression cooling slightly once he confirmed you were unharmed. “You should head back inside,” he said calmly. “It’s freezing.”

The normalcy of the statement almost made you laugh. As though he had not just publicly implied ownership over you in front of half the school. “You threatened him.”

“I told him to remove his hand.”

“You called me yours.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them and for the first time since arriving at the pitch, Juhoon went still. Not visibly enough, most people would not have noticed it.

But you did. Always.

A strange pause settled between the two of you while snow drifted quietly around your shoulders. Then, in that carefully neutral tone you recognised all too well as him attempting to keep composure: “Would you have preferred I let him continue touching you?”

That was not an answer. You knew it and he knew it. Still, the quiet sharpness beneath his voice made your pulse stumble embarrassingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

His gaze lingered on your face for one long moment. Then he looked away first.

“I dislike people treating you disrespectfully,” he said finally, tone measured. “McLaggen was aware of what he was doing.”

Again, not an answer.

And somehow, that only made things worse because Juhoon was many things, but careless with words was not one of them.

If he truly had not meant what he said, he could have—would have—corrected himself easily.

Instead, he had sidestepped the issue entirely.

Coward.

The realisation should have annoyed you more than it did. Unfortunately, all it really accomplished was making your heartbeat increasingly difficult to ignore.

The walk back toward the castle passed in unusual silence.

Students parted around the two of you instinctively as you crossed the grounds, several Slytherins glancing toward Juhoon with poorly concealed amusement while others looked faintly alarmed.

The story was already spreading.

Mina nearly looked delighted when the two of you entered the common room later that evening.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” she announced immediately from her spot near the fireplace. “People are saying Juhoon nearly hexed McLaggen’s hand off.”

“I did not,” Juhoon replied flatly.

Jaehyun looked up from the armchair beside her, expression unbearably smug. “Pity. That would’ve been romantic.”

You dropped into the sofa opposite them with a tired groan. “It was not romantic.”

Jaehyun snorted softly. “Right. Because publicly claiming someone in front of half the school is completely casual behavior.”

Beside you, Juhoon removed his gloves with slow precision, appearing utterly unbothered by the conversation despite the faint narrowing of his eyes. “He touched her intentionally,” he said simply.

Mina’s grin widened immediately. “And you cared enough to threaten him over it.”

“I told him not to touch what belongs to me.”

Your stomach flipped violently. Apparently hearing the sentence repeated aloud was somehow even worse.

Jaehyun looked genuinely entertained now. “Merlin, you’re serious.”

Only then did Juhoon finally seem to realise how his words sounded to literally everyone else in the room. A strange flicker crossed his expression, brief and unreadable.

Then his composure returned almost immediately. “You’re all being dramatic.”

“No,” Mina replied cheerfully, “you’re just painfully repressed.”

You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough while Jaehyun outright lost composure beside her.

Juhoon, meanwhile, looked moments away from leaving the room entirely, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that they had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, Mina was nowhere near finished.

“You do realise,” she continued, still entirely too pleased with herself, “that half the school thinks the two of you are practically engaged now?”

“Half the school already thought that,” you muttered.

“Yes, but now they think Juhoon is one mild inconvenience away from committing murder over you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Honestly, it’s very romantic in a concerning sort of way.”

Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

“But I’m still correct.”

The room dissolved into amused conversation afterward, though you barely registered most of it. Your mind only consumed one thing.

Don’t touch what’s mine.

The words repeated themselves relentlessly, lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs in a way that made concentrating nearly impossible. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, your stomach twisted all over again.

None of it had sounded fake. And perhaps worse still was the fact that a part of you desperately wished it wasn’t.

Across the common room, conversation carried on around you almost normally now, though several students still occasionally glanced toward the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity.

Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected. At least outwardly.

He sat beside you with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, expression calm as Jaehyun continued provoking Mina into increasingly dramatic arguments near the fireplace.

Yet every so often, you caught him briefly looking at you like he was thinking too hard about something, and it made your pulse unbearably uneven.

Eventually, sometime past midnight, Juhoon stood abruptly from the sofa. “I have something to deal with,” he said simply.

Jaehyun frowned faintly. “At this hour?”

“It won’t take long.”

Something about the answer unsettled you immediately, though before you could ask anything further, his gaze shifted briefly toward you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then he left and the common room suddenly felt colder afterward.

That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.

Moonlight filtered dimly through the Slytherin dormitory windows while the Black Lake cast shifting shadows against the stone walls, the distant sound of water echoing faintly throughout the silence.

Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back toward the Quidditch pitch. Toward Juhoon’s voice. Toward the possessiveness threaded through it so naturally it frightened you.

You rolled over with an irritated sigh, you were being pathetic honestly.

Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed quietly.

Then came the knock. Barely audible.

Your brow furrowed immediately. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you crossed the dormitory carefully so as not to wake the others before opening the door slightly—

And froze.

Juhoon stood in the corridor.

For one horrifying second, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing.

His dark robes were disheveled, damp with melting snow near the hems, and a thin line of blood traced down from beneath his sleeve onto his hand. A bruise had already begun darkening along the sharp line of his jaw.

Your stomach dropped instantly. “Juhoon—”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

The lie would have been more convincing if blood wasn’t actively dripping onto the dungeon floor.

You grabbed his wrist immediately and pulled him inside before anyone else could see. “What happened?”

“Nothing serious.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

He said nothing as you shut the door behind him.

Only once the room fell quiet again did you realise how exhausted he looked.His usual composure remained intact, but thinner somehow, stretched carefully over something heavier beneath the surface.

And suddenly you remembered Jaehyun’s question earlier.

‘At this hour?’

Pureblood business. You hated the phrase because it always meant something unpleasant.

“Sit down,” you ordered softly.

To your surprise, Juhoon obeyed without argument, and that alone worried you more than the injuries.

You retrieved your wand quickly, murmuring a healing spell beneath your breath as you knelt carefully in front of him. The cut along his hand sealed slowly beneath the glow of magic, though bruising still lingered stubbornly across his knuckles.

Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist while adjusting his sleeve. He went very still.

“What did your father send you to do?” You asked quietly.

A long silence followed until he eventually answered. “It doesn’t matter.”

Which meant it mattered very much.

You looked up at him properly then, and Juhoon avoided your gaze, which was another first.

Anger flared suddenly beneath your concern, though not at him. At the fact that someone had hurt him badly enough for him to show up at your door in the middle of the night pretending he was fine.

“You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” you murmured while examining the bruise near his jaw carefully.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

The question hung quietly between the two of you. Juhoon finally looked at you then and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression became painfully visible beneath the careful restraint he wore so constantly around everyone else.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

“I trust you more.” He spoke quietly, and the words hit harder than anything else possibly could have.

Your breath caught instantly, the air suddenly feeling far too thin inside the quiet dormitory.

Because Juhoon did not trust people.

Ever.

Not professors. Not classmates. Not even most of his own family.

Trust, to someone like him, was not given lightly. It was not something carelessly handed out through affection or familiarity. You had spent years watching him keep everyone at arm’s length with that cold, perfect composure of his, allowing people only carefully measured versions of himself and nothing more.

He trusted strategy, logic and control.

People were another matter entirely.

And yet somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun seeking you out first. Standing beside you instinctively. Looking for you in crowds. Coming to you tonight instead of anyone else despite the blood staining his sleeve and exhaustion carved quietly beneath his expression.

Trust from Juhoon was not soft.

It was dangerous. Intimate. Rare.

And he had handed it to you so simply it nearly shattered something inside your chest.

The silence afterward felt unbearably fragile.

Your hand still rested lightly against his wrist, fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve while moonlight spilled silver-blue across the room around you. Outside the dungeon windows, the Black Lake shifted restlessly against the glass, shadows dancing faintly along the stone walls.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily, dark eyes quieter than you had ever seen them before. Not guarded or unreadable.

Just tired, maybe even honest. Somehow that vulnerability unsettled you more than all his sharpness ever had.

Because Juhoon was terrifying when controlled. But this version of him: exhausted enough to lower his walls around you, felt infinitely more dangerous to your heart.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his free hand toward your face. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch you like this and this mattered enough to make even him nervous.

That realisation alone made your pulse stutter painfully.

He gave you every possible opportunity to pull away, but you didn’t.

His fingers brushed gently against your jaw, warm against your skin despite the cold lingering from outside. The touch was careful, almost reverent in a way that made something tight unravel slowly inside your chest.

You had never seen Juhoon uncertain before. Never. Yet now, looking at you, there was the faintest trace of hesitation beneath his composure. Like this frightened him too.

“Juhoon…” you whispered softly.

His name left your lips almost unintentionally, barely louder than the shifting water outside.

But the effect it had on him was immediate. Something in his expression changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable.

The final crack in his restraint.

His eyes lowered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your gaze again, as though searching for any sign you wanted him to stop.

You didn’t.

He was still watching you.

Even now—even with his face inches from yours and his breath warm against your lips—Juhoon's gaze searched yours one final time. Looking for hesitation. Looking for the smallest sign that you wanted to pull away, that this was too much, that the months of careful restraint had been there for a reason.

You held his stare and didn't blink.

And something in him broke.

Not dramatically. Juhoon was not built for dramatics. But you felt it in the way his exhale shuddered almost imperceptibly against your mouth, in the barely-there tremble of his fingers where they pressed against your jaw.

Then his eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that saw everything, that had been watching you for years, closed and he kissed you.

The first brush of his lips was impossibly soft, almost reverent, he seemed afraid you might dissolve beneath his touch if he pressed too hard. His mouth moved against yours with devastating care, slow and searching, as though he was memorising the shape of you one breath at a time.

You felt everything.

The slight roughness of his lower lip. The warmth of him, spreading through you like something slow and honey-thick. The way his thumb traced a gentle arc along your cheekbone as he tilted his head, changing the angle, finding the place where you fit together best.

A small sound escaped you that was barely a whisper, barely anything at all, and Juhoon swallowed it like it was something sacred.

His free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading carefully into your hair. Just holding and grounding himself in the reality of you.

The kiss deepened by millimeters.

Still slow. Still careful. But surer now: his lips parting slightly against yours, the barest brush of warmth that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve.

He smelled like cedarwood and mint and something underneath that was simply him, the scent you had been catching across library tables and common room sofas for months, that had haunted you after the Amortentia until you couldn't smell it without thinking of him.

Now it surrounded you completely.

Your hand slid from his sleeve to his chest without conscious thought, palm flat against the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. It was racing. Juhoon's heart was racing.

The realisation struck you like a stunning spell, that beneath all that careful composure, beneath the exhaustion and the blood still drying on his sleeve and the bruised knuckles he hadn't explained, he was just as affected as you were. Just as undone.

The tension bled from his shoulders slowly, minute by minute, as the kiss continued. What had started almost tentatively softened into something more certain, more trusting. Like he had finally stopped waiting for you to push him away.

When his lips gentled against yours, soft and lingering, you felt the question in it.

Is this alright?

You answered by leaning into him, by letting your fingers curl against his chest, by kissing him back with everything you had been too afraid to name for months.

His breath caught.

And then, finally and impossibly, he smiled against your mouth.

Just a small thing, barely there. But you felt it in the curve of his lips beneath yours, and something warm and devastating bloomed behind your ribs.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven in a way you had never heard before.

Neither of you spoke. The dormitory was silent around you, just the distant ripple of the Black Lake against the windows and the soft, shared warmth of two people who had stopped pretending.

His thumb traced once more along your jaw. For the first time in as long as you could remember, Juhoon looked entirely at peace. His eyes lingered on yours for several long seconds before he exhaled softly, almost like he was still processing what had just happened himself.

“So,” you whispered weakly, still slightly breathless, “this is becoming a problem.”

To your surprise, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. “A significant one.”

You laughed quietly despite yourself, the sound soft in the silence between you.

And suddenly, with his forehead still resting against yours and warmth lingering against your skin, one devastating realisation settled fully into your chest at last.

This had stopped being fake a very long time ago.

The days following that night changed something between you.

Not visibly. To everyone else, very little seemed different.

You and Juhoon still moved through Hogwarts exactly as before: side by side through crowded corridors, seated together at the Slytherin table, existing within each other’s orbit with the same quiet inevitability that had long since become normal.

But now there was an awareness neither of you could ignore anymore. Every touch lingered longer than before, every glance felt heavier.

Kissing Juhoon had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake for someone attempting to remain emotionally detached because now you knew how careful he could be. How gentle and devastatingly soft he became only with you. It ruined you completely.

The worst part was that neither of you discussed what happened afterward.

The kiss had not magically transformed the two of you into people capable of openly discussing emotions. If anything, it only made the tension between you sharper, quieter, more intimate in ways that felt almost unbearable.

Still, there were moments.

Late evenings in the common room where his fingers absentmindedly traced against yours beneath the table. Lingering touches in empty corridors. The way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever you laughed now, as though he no longer bothered hiding it properly.

And Merlin, the staring had somehow become worse.

You noticed it constantly, it was as if he was still trying to understand how this had happened. As though he found himself just as dangerous to you as you did to him.

Perhaps that was why the realisation settled so heavily inside your chest one quiet evening near the end of term.

The two of you sat alone in the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the castle silent beneath you while cold night air drifted softly through the open arches. The sky above stretched endlessly dark and glittering, moonlight spilling silver across the stone floor where you sat beside one another.

Juhoon rested against the wall beside you, one knee drawn slightly upward while absentmindedly turning one of his silver rings between his fingers.

Comfortable silence settled naturally between you as it always had.

You glanced toward him eventually. “You know,” you murmured quietly, “this arrangement has become complicated.”

The words were light, attempting humor, but your chest tightened anyway because suddenly the weight of it all felt painfully obvious. The fact that somewhere along the way, Juhoon had become the first person you searched for in every room.

He went still beside you, then his gaze shifted toward yours slowly, moonlight catching faintly against the sharp line of his jaw.

“It was complicated the moment I asked you.”

Your breath caught instantly. The world seemed to narrow painfully around those words. You stared at him and suddenly every moment replayed itself differently in your mind.

The way he had looked at you before the arrangement ever started, how quickly he proposed it, how natural everything between you had always felt from the very beginning.

“You already liked me.” Your voice came out quieter than intended. 

Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily for several long seconds.

Then, finally, he spoke: “Yes.”

The simple honesty of it nearly unraveled you and your heartbeat turned uneven instantly.

“How long?” You asked softly.

A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though considering the question carefully. “I don’t know.”

Which meant a long time.

Merlin.

You looked away briefly, overwhelmed by the realisation settling slowly into place inside your chest. All this time, you had thought Juhoon adapted too naturally to pretending, but he had never really been pretending at all. Not entirely.

“I thought you hated most people,” you whispered weakly.

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I do.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you and the sound softened his expression immediately. There it was again.

That look he only ever seemed to have around you now: quieter than his usual sharp composure, stripped of all the careful distance he maintained with everyone else.

Then, after a long pause, Juhoon quietly spoke again. “You were the only person I wanted beside me.”

The words settled heavily between you, devastatingly sincere, somehow making them infinitely worse.

Because Juhoon did not ever say things he didn’t mean.

Your chest ached painfully beneath the weight of it. He had chosen you long before any arrangement existed, before you had even considered Juhoon to be your own. Through all his restraint and careful control, it had always been you standing at the center of his attention.

You swallowed hard. “Juhoon…”

His eyes remained fixed on yours steadily, patient in a way that felt almost unbearably intimate now.

There were no masks or pretending, it was just him. And maybe that was the moment you finally understood the true danger of loving someone like Juhoon, because once he gave someone his trust, his loyalty, his care—

He gave it completely.

Below the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts slept quietly beneath moonlight and drifting clouds, distant torchlight glowing warmly through castle windows while cold night air curled softly around the stone arches.

Neither of you moved away from each other.

Juhoon still sat close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever either of you shifted slightly, his presence warm and steady beside you in the chill of the tower.

And suddenly, absurdly, you didn’t know what to say.

Because what response even existed for something like that?

You were the only person I wanted beside me.

The words continued echoing somewhere deep inside your chest, dangerously gentle in a way that made your throat tighten painfully.

Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely calm again. Though by now you recognised the signs well enough to know better: the slight tension in his fingers where they rested against his knee, and the way his gaze avoided yours for perhaps half a second longer than usual afterward.

He was waiting for your response.

For all his composure, Juhoon was still giving you something fragile here. Trusting you with pieces of himself he clearly offered to almost no one. And that mattered more than any dramatic declaration ever could have.

“You know,” you said quietly after a long moment, “you’re terrible at communicating.”

A faint huff of laughter escaped him unexpectedly. “You’re not particularly good at it either.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m choosing denial intentionally.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “If that is what you want to believe.”

Your chest tightened embarrassingly at the sight.

Merlin. You had become far too attached to the rare moments when Juhoon looked openly amused around you.

You found yourself smiling faintly back at him without thinking and his expression softened almost immediately at the sight.

Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous now.

Another quiet pause settled between you before you finally spoke again. “So,” you murmured carefully, “when exactly were you planning on telling me?”

“I wasn’t.”

You blinked. “What?”

Juhoon looked entirely unbothered by your confusion. “The arrangement was useful,” he replied calmly. “You were comfortable. I had no intention of complicating things further.”

“You mean more than fake dating me for months while secretly being in love with me?”

There was a brief pause.

“Yes.” He answered.

You stared at him in disbelief while he remained perfectly serious. “That is deeply concerning behavior.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you still continued?”

His gaze shifted toward you again then, quieter now. “You were happy.”

The simple sincerity behind the answer stole every sarcastic response directly from your mouth.

Because that was the problem with Juhoon. Beneath all the sharpness and composure and carefully restrained emotion, he cared with terrifying intensity once someone mattered to him, and that felt infinitely more intimate than grand gestures ever could have.

Your voice softened before you could stop it. “You really were just going to keep pretending forever.”

“If necessary.”

“Merlin.”

A faint trace of amusement flickered across his face again at your horrified expression. Then his eyes lowered briefly toward your hand resting against the stone floor between the two of you.

You barely noticed the movement before his fingers brushed lightly against yours tentatively, as if he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to do that now despite everything.

The thought alone nearly ruined you.

Without thinking, you turned your hand slightly beneath his, allowing your fingers to slide carefully between his.

Juhoon went still beside you, though not because he disliked it. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. You felt the subtle way his hand tightened around yours almost immediately afterward and your pulse stumbled softly.

“You know,” you murmured after several seconds, unable to stop yourself, “you’re significantly softer than people think you are.”

Juhoon looked unimpressed. “Don’t spread that around.”

You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the tower, swallowed quickly by the night around you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke again. You simply sat there together in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined while moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. It felt strangely peaceful. 

At some point, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles. The tiny gesture nearly stopped your heart entirely.

“How unfortunate,” you murmured weakly.

His brows lifted faintly. “What is?”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The words slipped out before you could reconsider them, and silence followed immediately afterward. You stared straight ahead at the night sky, suddenly unable to look directly at him.

“Well,” you continued awkwardly, “that sounded less humiliating in my head.”

For one terrifying second, Juhoon said absolutely nothing. Then you felt his hand tighten around yours.

When you finally forced yourself to glance sideways, his expression had gone strangely soft again—that same rare look he reserved only for you, stripped entirely of sharp edges.

And very quietly, like something precious, he replied: “I know.”

Your breath caught. “You know?”

“You look at me the same way I look at you.” The devastating thing was that he sounded so certain about it, like he had noticed long before you had because of course he had. Juhoon noticed everything about you.

“You’re frighteningly observant.”

“Hm.”

His gaze lingered on your face for another long second before he leaned forward slightly, pressing another slow kiss against your mouth.

This one felt different from the first. It was certain now. Neither of you needed to question what this was anymore.

And beneath the silver glow of the moon high above Hogwarts, with Juhoon’s hand warm around yours and years of restrained affection finally unraveling quietly between you, you realised something almost laughably simple.

You had been his long before the fake dating arrangement ever began.

And somehow, impossibly—

He had been yours too.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

SHE'S KINDA HOT — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: The sight of the queen bee with the school’s loser was peculiar to everyone who had been witness to your constant bickering, but they don’t see how he seems to be the only person you can truly be yourself with. (skater!keonho x regina!reader)

WC :: 13.4k

CONTAINS :: arguing, both of them are kinda mean (especially reader), profanities, reader is rich, Keonho is poor (is insulted for it), kissing, skinship, pet names, description of injury, use of dollars, some cringe/cliché dialogue, time skips (choppy)

PLAYLIST :: She's kinda hot - 5sos; sk8er boi - Avril Lavigne; Cupid's chokehold - Gym Class Heroes; Dirty little secret - The All-American Rejects; Cherry waves - Deftones; Colors - Halsey

SPINOFF :: She looks so perfect (6.6k)

Keonho was currently lying on his front in your bed, the pink fluffy blanket pulled up around him like he belonged there. His head rested on his crossed arms, dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes half-lidded as he tracked you pacing back and forth across the massive room. You were on the phone, your voice clipped and sharp.

"Well, if she said that to you, she obviously doesn't care how you feel." A pause. A flurry of muffled words from the other end. "No, don't cry. Crying is what she wants. You cry, she wins."

Keonho pressed his smile into his forearm. You were wearing his hoodie. The black one with the ripped sleeve. You'd stolen it three weeks ago and hadn't given it back.

He wasn't going to ask for it.

The sight of you wrapped in his clothes while he laid on your bed was peculiar to say the least. Especially to your entire school, who had spent months watching you argue in hallways and courtyards, never realising you were toeing the line between hatred and something neither of you had a name for yet.

The first time you'd really noticed him, he almost hit you with his skateboard.

It was the second week of junior year. The leaves were turning, and you were walking across the courtyard with Hana, mid-sentence about someone's ugly backpack—"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend four hundred dollars on a bag, at least make it look like four hundred dollars"—when a blur of motion came flying around the corner.

Shhk shhk shhk. Wheels on pavement. Then a body slammed into your side.

Not hard enough to knock you over. Hard enough to send your phone flying out of your hand and skidding across the concrete, face-down, the sickening crack of impact echoing off the fountain your family had donated.

"Shit—sorry—"

You stumbled, caught yourself on Hana's arm, and whipped around.

A boy you'd never seen before was already crouched down, scooping up your phone. His skateboard had rolled several feet away, still wobbling on its side. He was wearing the school uniform, but barely. The tie was missing and the top button of his shirt was undone. His dark hair was a mess under a gray beanie, and there was a small scrape on his palm where he'd caught himself.

He stood up and held out your phone.

The screen was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spreading from the top left corner, right through your home screen. Your perfect, carefully curated home screen.

"You broke my phone," you said. Your voice was flat and cold. 

He looked at the screen. Then at you. Most people would have started apologising immediately, groveled, turned red, stammered, promised to pay for it, even got down on their knees if that's what it took.

He just shrugged. "It's just a screen. You can get it fixed."

Just a screen.

As if you hadn't spent hours picking out the perfect case. As if the crack didn't ruin the entire aesthetic of the phone you'd only had for three weeks. As if he hadn't just barreled into you like a human wrecking ball and then had the audacity to act like it was nothing.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" you asked.

He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that wasn't quite recognition. More like mild curiosity. The kind you'd give a mildly interesting bug on the sidewalk.

"No," he said. "Should I?"

Hana snorted behind you. You could feel her phone already out, probably recording or texting the group chat. 

You snatched the phone from his hand, holding it up so he could see the full extent of the damage. "This is a thousand-dollar phone."

"It was a thousand dollars," he corrected. "Now it's a thousand-dollar phone with a cracked screen. Still works, probably."

"Probably."

"Did you check?"

"No, I was too busy being hit by a skateboard."

He didn't apologise and didn't even look sorry. He just walked over to his board, kicked it up into his hand with a smooth, annoyingly practiced motion, and slung it under his arm.

"You should watch where you're going," he said. "You walked straight into my path. I had the right of way."

"Right of way?" Your voice came out half an octave higher than usual. "This isn't a road. It's a courtyard. For walking. There's no such thing as right of way."

"There's always right of way. It's basic physics. Object in motion stays in motion. You were an object. I was in motion."

"You're not a physicist. You're a guy on a toy."

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It's not a toy."

"It's a board with wheels."

"It's transportation."

"It's a mere hobby."

"At least I have a hobby." His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. "What's yours? Judging people? Making lists? Seeing how many compliments you can fish for in one outfit?"

Your mouth dropped open. Actually dropped. Nobody talked to you like that. Nobody. Not the teachers, not your parents, not the other kids who whispered behind your back but smiled to your face. Nobody had the nerve.

"I don't fish for compliments," you said.

"Sure you don't." He nodded at your outfit: designer boots, perfectly pressed skirt, blazer that cost more than most people's rent. "You just dress like you're going to a brunch meeting with your publicist because it's comfortable."

"I like fashion."

"You like attention, that’s obvious."

Hana made a small, strangled sound that was either a laugh or a gasp. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think. Your face was hot, your hands were shaking, and this absolute nobody was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd already solved.

"My family donated that fountain," you said, pointing to the marble monstrosity in the center of the courtyard. "My name is on a plaque in the main hall. I could make one phone call and you'd never eat in this courtyard again."

He looked genuinely unimpressed. "Cool. Doesn't make you immune to the walkway."

And then he just walked away with his skateboard under his arm and his beanie pulled low. His shoulders were loose, like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't just committed social suicide in front of half the junior class.

You stood there, frozen, watching him disappear around the corner.

"Who the hell was that?" Hana whispered.

"I don't know." You were gripping your cracked phone so hard your knuckles went white. "But he just declared war."

The next day, you found him in the cafeteria.

He was sitting alone at the end of a table, eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich. The same gray beanie. The same frayed hoodie under his uniform blazer. His skateboard was propped against the table leg, and he was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room was stealing glances at him.

Or maybe he wasn't oblivious and he just didn't care.

That made you angrier than anything else.

You walked straight up to him, dropped your bag on the table with a loud thump, and planted both hands on the surface before leaning in, making sure he couldn't ignore you.

"You owe me three hundred dollars for the screen repair."

He looked up slowly, still chewing on his sandwich before he eventually swallowed. 

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You broke it."

"You dropped it." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. "I bumped you. You dropped it. That's on you. Physics."

"Don't start with the physics again."

"Why not? It's a solid argument. Cause and effect. Your hand let go of the phone. My skateboard didn't even touch you. I touched you. With my body. Which is flesh and blood, not a weapon."

He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open just to annoy you. You could tell but you didn’t say anything, too shell shocked from someone actually biting back.

"You've been thinking about me all night, haven't you?" He said, gesturing at you with the sandwich. "Couldn't sleep. Just lying there, replaying it, getting mad all over again."

Your face heated. Because he was right. You had been up half the night, tossing around, furious at the memory of his stupid face and his stupid skateboard and the way he'd looked at you like you were nothing. Like you were just another person, instead of the person.

"I don't think about you," you lied.

"Sure you don't." He picked up his sandwich again. "That's why you tracked me down in a cafeteria with like two hundred people in it. Because you don't think about me."

"I didn't track you down. I'm eating lunch."

"You don't eat in the cafeteria. Everyone knows that. You eat in the courtyard with your friends." He nodded toward the window. "The courtyard you apparently own. The one with the fountain. Your fountain. The one your family donated."

Your nails dug into the table. "How do you know where I eat?"

He shrugged. "I notice things."

Something about the way he said it so casually made your stomach flip. A tiny, traitorous flip that you refused to acknowledge.

"Three hundred dollars," you repeated.

"Zero dollars."

"Two hundred, then."

"Still zero."

"One hundred and fifty. Final offer."

He set down his sandwich and looked at you properly for the first time. His eyes were dark and warm, with little gold flecks you hadn't noticed before, not that you cared anyways.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Never."

He sighed theatrically and reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Worn soft, the edges frayed. He slid it across the table toward you.

"That's all I have. Take it or leave it."

You stared at the twenty. Then at him. Then back at the twenty.

"You're serious."

"I'm a skateboarder, not a trust fund kid. Sorry I don't have a fountain donation in my back pocket."

The jab hit exactly where he meant it to. You snatched the twenty off the table and stuffed it into your blazer pocket.

"This isn't over," you said.

"I know." He picked up his sandwich again. "See you tomorrow, fountain girl."

"It's Y/N."

"I know that too."

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make you want to throw something at his head.

You turned on your heel and walked away, Hana falling into step beside you, already asking a million questions you didn't have answers to.

After that, the arguments became routine.

Every day, you found a reason to cross paths with him. Every day, he had a lazy comeback that made your blood boil. Every day, you walked away angrier than before, promising yourself that tomorrow you'd ignore him completely.

And every day, you never did.

"You're obsessed with him," Hana said one afternoon, watching you scan the courtyard for the familiar gray beanie.

"I'm not obsessed, I'm just dedicated like I always am."

"No, this is something else."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been looking for him for ten minutes. We haven't even sat down yet."

"I'm not looking. I'm observing my environment."

Hana gave you a long, flat look. "Your environment is a courtyard full of people eating lunch. What exactly are you observing?"

You spotted him near the bike racks where he’d moved to eat lunch after your canteen run in, the same as every other day, lacing up his skate shoes, and your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up.

"Keonho!"

He looked up, and that small smile appeared. The one that made you want to scream.

"Fountain girl. Right on time."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay… princess." He said it under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. Your jaw dropped.

"Princess? Did you just call me princess?"

"You heard me." He didn't even look guilty. Just went back to tying his laces, all casual, like he hadn't just committed a felony against your entire brand. "You prefer 'your highness'? Because that feels like a mouthful. Lots of syllables. I might get tired halfway through."

"I prefer my name."

"Right. Y/N." He drew out the syllables like he was tasting them. "Y/N, who crossed the entire courtyard just to yell at me about a twenty-dollar bill I already gave you. A transaction which we both agreed was final."

"That twenty dollars didn't even cover the tax on the repair."

"Not my problem."

"Everything is your problem. You're the one who hit me with your skateboard."

"You walked into me."

"I was walking. On my feet. Like a normal person."

"So was I. On my skateboard. Which is a form of transportation, last time I checked. Legally recognised. Some cities have lanes."

"Skateboards don't belong in lanes. Skateboards don't belong anywhere near people."

"They belong everywhere. That's the beauty of it. I can go anywhere. No rules or restrictions. Just me and the board and the open road."

"You sound like some lame commercial."

"You sound like you've never had fun a day in your life."

The words landed. You felt them land. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again.

"I have plenty of fun."

"Name one fun thing you've done in the past month."

"I—that's—that's none of your business."

"That's what I thought." He stood up, grabbing his board. "No fun. Just school and social obligations and making sure everyone knows you're the most important person in the room."

"I don't have to make sure. Everyone already knows."

"Sure they do." He spun the board in his hand, a lazy, practiced motion. "That's why you're here. Talking to me. Because everyone already knows how important you are, and you're bored of it."

"I'm not bored."

"You're definitely bored. You're the most bored person I've ever met. You have everything, and you're still bored. That's kind of sad, actually."

Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking. How on earth could he read you so easily?

"You don't know anything about me," you said quietly.

"I know you're still standing here." He tilted his head, those dark eyes boring into yours. "I know you could have walked away five minutes ago. I know you didn't. I know you won't."

"Maybe I will."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But probably not."

He started walking, and you fell into step beside him without thinking. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I've been eating lunch by the bike racks for two months since you banished me from the canteen," he said. "You'd never been here once before that. Not once. Now suddenly you're here every day?"

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Maybe you wanted a change of someone."

You stopped walking. He stopped too, a few steps ahead, looking back at you with that insufferable half-smile.

"What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.

He turned to face you fully. The courtyard was mostly empty, everyone else already inside. It was just you and him and the sound of wind through the bike racks.

"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you're not as complicated as you think you are. You've got your perfect life and your perfect friends and your perfect little routines, and you're bored. And I'm the only thing in this school that doesn't bore you."

"That's not—"

"It means," he continued, like you hadn't spoken, "that you don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me."

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. "And what do you want to do with me?"

The question hung between you, heavier than you'd intended. His smile faded, just slightly, and for a second he looked almost... serious. Almost vulnerable.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out."

He turned and kept walking toward the side door of the science building.

"Hey, Keonho?" you called out.

He looked back.

"You still owe me a hundred and thirty dollars."

His laugh echoed across the empty courtyard. "Keep dreaming, fountain girl."

"Stop calling me that!"

"In your dreams!"

You grabbed a pebble from the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, grinning, and disappeared through the door.

You stood there for a long moment, alone in the cold, your left eyebrow doing something you couldn't control.

You don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me.

The worst part was, you were starting to think he was right.

Weeks continued like that. The arguments became the best part of your day.

It was strange, admitting it to yourself. You'd spent years building a life that was supposed to make you happy: the right friends, the right clothes, the right words at the right times. You were good at it. Everyone said so. You had everything anyone could want.

But nothing had ever made your heart race like stepping into the courtyard and spotting that gray beanie.

Some days you found him at the bike racks. Some days near the vending machines. Some days you'd round a corner and there he'd be, like he'd been waiting, like he knew you were coming before you did.

"You're late, princess,” he said one Tuesday, not looking up from his phone.

"I'm not late. Class ran over."

"Excuses."

"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

He looked up then, and that small smile was there. The one that made your stomach flip.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Obviously."

"So do I."

"Then we have a problem."

"We've always had a problem." He pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bike rack, arms crossed. "That's kind of our whole thing."

You hated how easily he said it. Our whole thing. Like there was an us to have a thing.

"There is no our," you said.

"Sure there isn't." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That's why you're here. Every day. Like clockwork."

"I'm here because the courtyard is crowded."

"The courtyard is always crowded. You've been eating there for two years. You never left before."

Your jaw tightened. "Maybe I wanted a change."

"Maybe you wanted me."

Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "That's—you're—no."

He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way you'd never seen before. It was annoyingly beautiful. His nose crinkled and his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked like a completely different person.

"Your face is so red right now," he said.

"It is not."

"It's the color of your bag."

You looked down at your pink designer handbag. You wanted to throw it at him.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

He seemed to be the only person able to leave you speechless

The turning point was February. Valentine's Day, actually, which made it worse.

You'd been crying in the greenhouse behind the science wing. Not because you were sad, exactly. Because your mother had called and she'd reminded you, in that sweet, sharp voice she used when she was disappointed, that your "little art hobby"— the one thing you actually cared about, that made you feel like a real person instead of a performance—was "lovely but impractical." That you should probably focus on something that would "actually matter" in college applications. That there were expectations.

You'd thought you were alone.

You hadn't been.

Keonho was sitting in the corner, behind a rack of potted ferns, eating a granola bar. He had his beanie pulled low and his knees drawn up. He'd clearly been there first. Maybe he'd been there for a while.

"Go away," you said, your voice thick.

He didn't move. "No."

"I said go away, Keonho."

"And I said no." He took another bite of his granola bar, chewing slowly. "You're not gonna throw things at me, are you? Because you have scary good aim and I'm not trying to catch a rock with my face."

You stared at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, too exhausted to even be properly angry. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care about anything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I care about stuff. I just don't care about the stuff you're supposed to care about."

Something about that, the simplicity of it, the way he said it like it was obvious, made something crack inside you.

You sat down on the dirty greenhouse floor. Right across from him. And you cried for real. Not pretty tears. The ugly ones that left your face blotchy and your nose running and every single wall you'd ever built crumbling into dust.

He didn't say anything. Didn't try to comfort you with empty words. He just handed you a crumpled napkin from his pocket and waited.

When you'd finally stopped, you looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I will end you."

"I know," he said. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I won't."

You sat there for a long time in silence. The greenhouse was warm and smelled like dirt and flowers, the ferns cast dancing shadows on the floor. Eventually you pushed yourself up, walking away without looking back.

After that, the hatred started to feel different.

Like a game neither of you were really playing anymore, but neither of you knew how to stop. The insults got softer. The fights got shorter. You found yourself seeking him out in crowds, just to see what he was doing, just to make sure he was still there.

"I think he likes you," Hana said one afternoon, and you laughed so hard you choked.

"He doesn't like me. He's messing with me."

"That’s the same thing sometimes."

It wasn't the same thing. It couldn't be. Because you didn't do boys like Keonho. You did boys with trust funds and family names and futures already planned out. Boys who understood the rules and played by them. Boys who would never dream of sitting on a dirty greenhouse floor or eating convenience store sandwiches or looking at you like they could see every single crack in your armour.

You didn't do boys who made you feel seen.

But maybe that was exactly the problem.

"Judging me again, princess?"

He was sat under the bleachers, back against the chain-link fence, knees drawn up with his skateboard across his lap. The afternoon light filtered through the metal slats, casting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. His beanie was crooked, his uniform shirt untucked, and he was looking up at you like you were exactly who he'd been waiting for.

You stood in front of him with your arms crossed, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "I'm not judging. I'm wondering how you haven't been expelled yet."

"Charming."

"I'm serious. You don't do the work. You don't follow the rules. You show up late every single day. What's the point of even being here?"

He set his skateboard aside and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up toward you. "Free wifi. Heated building. Sometimes they hand out granola bars in the front office."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be honest." He shrugged. "You should try it sometime."

"I'm always honest."

"No you're not." His voice was flat. Certain. "You've never had an honest conversation in your life. You just say whatever keeps you on top."

Your jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you fake-laugh when your friends make jokes that aren't funny, which is all the time. I know you wait until everyone's looking before you do anything nice. I know you've never apologised to anyone for anything, ever, because that would mean admitting you were wrong." He tilted his head. "Should I keep going?"

"You don't know me."

"I know you better than your friends do."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're insufferable." Your voice was rising now. You could feel the heat climbing up your neck, the tightness in your chest. "You think you're so smart. You think you've got everyone figured out. But you're just a guy with a skateboard and a chip on his shoulder who can't even afford—"

You stopped yourself. The words hung in the air, half-finished.

He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt off his pants. His face had gone very still.

"Can't even afford what?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. You were saying something. Don't stop now."

"Keonho—"

"Can't even afford what, Y/N?" He stepped closer. "New shoes? A car that isn't fifteen years old? Lunch that didn't come from a gas station? What was it? What were you about to say?"

You took a step back. Your heel caught on a rock. You stumbled, caught yourself, and hated him for making you stumble.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were. You always are. That's your whole thing." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walk around this school like everyone beneath you is a bug you might step on. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see the way you look at me?"

"How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm dirt." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. "Like I'm something you stepped in and can't scrape off your shoe. And you know what? Fine. I don't care. I've been looked at like that my whole life. By people richer than you. By people meaner than you. By people who actually had a reason."

"I have a reason."

"What reason? Because I bumped into you one time? Because I didn't fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness when your precious phone cracked?"

"You called me fountain girl."

"And you’ve called me poor."

You flinched. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.

"I didn't mean—"

"You’ve meant every word. That's what kills me. You're not even pretending to be sorry. You just stand there with your arms crossed and your perfect hair and your perfect shoes and you look at me like I'm the problem."

"You are the problem!"

"How? How am I the problem, Y/N? Because I don't bow down to you? Because I don't laugh at your jokes? Because I won't pretend you're something you're not?"

"Because you won't just leave me alone!"

The words tore out of you. Loud and raw, echoing off the metal bleachers above.

He stopped. Blinked.

"You heard me," you said, your voice shaking now. "You won't leave me alone. You're everywhere. The bike racks. The vending machines. The greenhouse. Every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid beanie and your stupid skateboard and your stupid eyes."

"So now I'm the problem because I exist?"

"Yes! No! I don't—" You pressed your hands to your face, breathed in, breathed out. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes you do. You're saying you can't stop thinking about me."

Your hands dropped. "That is not what I'm saying."

"That's exactly what you're saying. You're just too proud to admit it."

"I am not—"

"You are. You're standing under a set of bleachers with me instead of eating lunch with your friends. You're shouting at me instead of ignoring me like you ignore everyone else. You're here, Y/N. You've always been here. You just don't want to admit why."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"Then tell me yourself. What do you want?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples.

"Nothing," you said.

"Liar."

"I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop making me feel like—like—" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. You hated him for making it crack. "Like I'm not allowed to just dislike you. Like I have to have a reason. Like I have to justify it."

"You don't have to justify anything. You just have to admit it's not dislike."

"It is dislike."

"It's not." He stepped closer. "You don't seek out people you dislike. You avoid them. You destroy them. You don't show up to them every single day with your arms crossed and your face flushed like—"

"My face is not flushed."

"Your face is so flushed right now." He laughed. Not the mean laugh from before. Something almost... fond.

You stood there, frozen, your arms still crossed, your heart still pounding, your face definitely still flushed. He was too close. He'd been too close for months. Too close in the hallways, too close in the greenhouse, too close in every argument that had somehow become the best part of your day.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.

"Because—" You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Because I don't know what to do when I'm not here."

His expression shifted. The teasing faded. Something else took its place: something softer, something almost tender.

"Y/N—"

"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you care."

"Maybe I do."

"Well, stop. People don't care about me. They're afraid of me. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"Then you're stupid."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Or maybe I just see something everyone else is too scared to look at."

Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. You weren't going to cry. You weren't. You'd cried in front of him once and you'd sworn you'd never do it again.

"What do you see?" The words came out smaller than you wanted. Quieter.

He stepped close enough to the point that you could smell him: cold air and soap and something warm underneath.

"I see someone who's exhausted," he said. "Someone who's been performing for so long she forgot there was a person underneath. Someone who's smart and talented and so terrified of being ordinary that she'd rather be hated than ignored."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what I'm missing. Tell me what I'm saying wrong. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like to just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop performing. Stop pretending. Stop being the person everyone expects you to be." His voice dropped. "Tell me you've never looked at me and thought about being free."

Your breath caught.

"I've seen you," he continued, quieter now. "In the art room. When you think no one's watching. You make things; real things, messy things, things that aren't for anyone but you. That's who you are. That's who you could be all the time if you weren't so busy being who everyone else wants you to be."

"You don't know anything about my art."

"I know you're good at it. I know you care about it more than anything else in your life. I know you'd rather be in that room than anywhere else in the world."

"Stop."

"And I know," he said, stepping even closer, "that you feel more alive arguing with me than you do with anyone else."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're—because you can't just—because—" Your voice was rising again, cracking again, falling apart in your hands. "Because you don't get to stand there and see me like that. Because no one sees me like that. Because if you see me like that, then I have to be real, and I don't know how to be real, I only know how to be her—"

"Then stop being her."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." He grabbed your arms, not hard, just firm enough to stop you from pacing, from running, from falling apart completely. "You can. You just don't want to."

"I don't know how."

"Then let me help you."

"You can't help me. You're just a guy with a skateboard. You don't have a plan. You don't have a future. You don't have anything."

The words landed like stones. Heavy and unforgivable.

His hands dropped from your arms. His face went blank.

"Wow," he said quietly. "Okay."

"Keonho—"

"No, you're right. I don't have anything. I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a fountain with my name on it. I don't have a future planned out for me by people who care more about appearances than they care about me."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant." He stepped back. "It's what you always mean. You just said it out loud this time."

"I didn't—I was angry—"

"You're always angry. That's not an excuse."

"I know, I just—"

"You just what? You just wanted to hurt me? Congratulations. You did." He ran a hand over his beanie, hair poking out at the ends. "You always do. And I always let you. Because some part of me thought maybe underneath all the armour there was someone worth waiting for."

Your heart stopped.

"But maybe I was wrong," he said. "Maybe there's no one underneath at all. Maybe you're just the armour."

"That's not—"

"Then prove it." His voice cracked on the last word. "Prove me wrong. Show me there's someone in there. Just once. Just for a second. Please."

That broke something in you.

You didn't think. You just moved.

You grabbed the front of his stupid, frayed, too-big shirt,and yanked him down. The fabric bunched in your fists, pulling him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into your space as you twisted awkwardly. His hands shot out instinctively, bracing against the chain-link fence on either side of you, caging you in without meaning to.

And then your mouth was on his.

It wasn't gentle or soft. It was months of frustration and confusion and the unbearable weight of being seen finally cracking open. You kissed him like you were trying to win an argument. Like you were trying to prove a point. Like you were trying to shove every word you'd never said directly into his lungs and make him breathe them.

Your lips crashed against his, off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw before you corrected course. You didn't care. You couldn't care. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his collarbone, and you were pulling him closer even as you were kissing him harder.

His lips were warm and softer than you expected for a boy who spent his afternoons falling off skateboards. The contrast sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

For a single, suspended second, he was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His body went rigid against yours, his hands still pressed flat to the fence, his lips parted but unresponsive beneath yours. You could feel his breath: caught somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, trapped in his throat like he'd forgotten how to let it out.

Then something shifted.

His hands uncurled from the fence. His fingers found your waist, the touch light at first, almost questioning, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away.

You didn't.

You kissed him harder. 

His lips finallymoved against yours. Slowly at first, like he was waking up from a long sleep. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently: better, deeper. 

Your fingers loosened in his shirt, then tightened again, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, firm and solid. His heart was pounding—you could feel it, or maybe that was your own heart, maybe they'd synced up somewhere in the chaos of the kiss. You couldn't tell anymore.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you into him. The other hand came up to your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you deeper now, with more confidence, like he'd finally caught up to what was happening and was making up for lost time.

Your head was spinning. Your lungs were burning. You couldn't remember how to breathe through your nose, and you didn't care, because pulling away meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting what you'd just done.

So you didn't stop.

You kissed him until your lips were numb. You kissed him until his thumb was tracing patterns on your jaw and his other hand was pressed flat against your spine and the chain-link fence was digging into his knuckles and neither of you cared. You kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin, like you were trying to prove that you were more than armour, like you were trying to make him understand something you didn't have words for.

And then, finally, you pulled back.

Your hands uncurled from his shirt. The fabric was wrinkled now, permanently creased where your fists had been. You sideways, one step, then two, putting distance between you. Your heels sank into the dirt. Your chest was heaving. Your lips were swollen and wet and tingling.

You crossed your arms. Locked your knees. Lifted your chin.

And you looked at him with the most neutral expression you could muster.

"You talk too much."

Keonho was still standing before the fence. His hands were braced where you had left them, fingers curled around the chain-link like he needed it to stay upright. His beanie had slipped sideways, and a strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and his lips were parted, pinker than before, slightly swollen.

He looked like someone had reached into his chest, rearranged his organs, and forgotten to put them back in the right order.

"You—" His voice came out rough. Cracked. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again, turning to face you fully. "You just—"

"I just what?"

"You kissed me."

"Did I?" You tilted your head, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face. 

He blinked. Once, then twice. His hands dropped from the fence, and he ran one of them over his mouth, fingers pressing against his lower lip like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

"I'm—you can't just—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his beanie entirely. It fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "You can't just kiss someone and then act like—like that—"

"Like what?"

"Like you didn't just short-circuit my entire brain."

You shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. Like your whole world hadn't just flipped upside down, and your lips weren't still buzzing, and your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your ribcage.

"Maybe you should stop talking so much," you said. "I warned you."

"You didn't warn me about anything—"

"I've been warning you for months."

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

And then something shifted in his expression, the shock faded, the confusion cleared,  something else took its place.

"You think you're funny," he said slowly.

"I think I'm hilarious."

He was at a loss for words and you watched him struggle, try to reach for words that weren't there, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was trying to physically grasp a sentence and failing. His chest was still rising and falling too fast. His lips were still parted. His eyes kept darting from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he couldn't decide which one to focus on.

"You're staring," you said.

"I'm not staring. I'm... processing."

"Process faster. You're making it weird."

"I'm making it weird?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You just—you just kissed me. Out of nowhere. In the middle of an argument. While I was begging you to be real with me for one second. And now you're standing there like you didn't just—like you didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at his mouth, at the air itself. "Like you didn't just do that."

"What do you want me to do? Apologise?"

"I want you to acknowledge it!"

"I acknowledged it. I kissed you. You were there. You felt it."

"That's not—that's not acknowledging it, that's just doing it—"

"Same thing."

"It's really not!"

"It really is."

There was a beat of silence. He stared at you and you stared back. The afternoon light shifted, stripes of gold sliding across his face, catching the flush on his cheekbones.

The wind picked up, rattling the chain-link fence beside him. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. The world was still moving, still spinning, still completely unaware that yours had just cracked open and rearranged itself into something you didn't recognise.

Keonho bent down and picked up his beanie. He didn't put it back on. Just held it in his hands, twisting the fabric, avoiding your eyes.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

"You asked me to prove you wrong."

"That's not—" He let out a breath, slow and shaky. "That's not a reason."

"Sure it is."

"No, it's not. It's an impulse. It's a reaction. It's not a reason." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were different: softer, almost vulnerable, stripped of the emotionless facade he usually wore. "I've been asking you for months. Months. To just be honest with me for five seconds. And you finally do something real, and I just... I need to know why. It wasn’t just because you were trying to win an argument or to shut me up, you know that. Just tell me why."

Your throat tightened.

You could lie. You were good at lying. You'd been lying your whole life, to everyone, about everything. You could tell him it meant nothing, and you were just frustrated. You could tell him a hundred different things that would make this easier, simpler, less terrifying.

But he was looking at you like he could see every crack and he'd been waiting inside one of them for months just hoping you'd eventually climb down to meet him.

"Because I couldn't not," you said.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I couldn't not do it." Your voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "You were standing there, and you were saying all those things, and you were looking at me like… like you actually wanted to see me." You paused, swallowed, forced yourself to continue. "And I thought about walking away. I thought about saying something mean. I thought about every single thing I usually do to keep people at a distance. And then I thought—what if I just... didn't. For once. What if I just did what I actually wanted to do instead of what I was supposed to do."

"And what did you actually want to do?"

You met his eyes. Held his gaze. Let him see.

"I wanted to kiss you," you said. "I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I wasn’t keeping track."

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and enormous.

Keonho didn't move. Didn't speak. His hands had stopped twisting his beanie. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and unreadable.

"You're not joking," he said finally.

"No."

"You're not trying to mess with me."

"No."

"You actually—" He stopped, swallowed, then started again. "You actually want—"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being real. You know that. I’ve never known how to be anything other than what I’ve always been at this stupid school."

"And now?"

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. You curled them into fists, then uncurled them, then curled them again.

"Now I don't know what I am," you admitted. "But I know I'm still standing here with you and I'm not running away."

He took a step closer and his beanie dropped to the ground again, forgotten.

"You're really bad at this," he said softly.

"I know."

"The whole vulnerability thing. You're terrible at it."

"I know."

"It's kind of endearing, actually."

"Keonho."

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips were still slightly swollen from your mouth. "You kissed me."

"I'm aware."

"You said you've wanted to for weeks."

"I'm aware of that too."

"And now you're standing here, shaking, looking at me like you're about to either kiss me again or throw up."

"I’m not throwing up—"

"So kiss me again."

Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, certain. "You kissed me to prove a point. Now kiss me because you want to. No argument. Just you and me."

You looked at him and saw it all: the mess of his hair from his hand running through it too much, the frayed shirt collar, the dark eyes that had been seeing you for months when no one else bothered to look.

"You're annoying," you finally whispered.

"I know."

"You're insufferable."

"I know."

"You're—"

He kissed you to shut you up and it was nothing like the first kiss.

His fingers slid into your hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just there, a warm weight against your scalp. His other hand found your waist again, palm spanned the curve of your side like he was memorising the shape of it. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, and you could feel each individual fingertip through the thin material.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Where your mouth had been frantic and desperate against his, his was deliberate. Measured. His lips moved over yours slowly, like he was learning you from the start, like he was tracing the outline of something he'd been waiting to touch for months. He started at the center, pressing his mouth to the seam of your lips, then tilted his head and tried again from a different angle. And again. And again. Each kiss was a question. Each press of his lips was a sentence he didn't need words for.

Your hands, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, found their way to his chest. Not pushing him away, nor pulling him closer. Just resting there, palms flat against the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers. It was fast, much faster than his movements suggested. The contrast made something in your chest tighten.

He pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were still closed. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and you could feel his breath warm against your mouth.

You stayed like that for a moment, his thumb still tracing small circles on your waist and his fingers still tangled in your hair. The world under the bleachers had gone completely silent, like even the wind was holding its breath.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, his mouth was softer. He brushed his lips over yours once, feather-light, then again, then a third time, each touch gentler than the last. It was as though he was asking permission for something he'd already been given and he couldn't quite believe you were still there.

When he finally pulled back, after many more minutes, his eyes were open and he was watching you like you were something precious and breakable and he was terrified of dropping you.

His thumb came up to brush across your lower lip, where his had just been. The touch was so light it was almost not there.

"Say something," he whispered.

You couldn't. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in your throat, buried under the weight of everything you'd just felt.

So instead, you pulled him down by his shirt again. And you kissed him.

Slower and far more certain this time.

His mouth met yours halfway. His hand cradled the back of your head. His body pressed against yours from chest to hip, and you could feel the warmth of him through both your shirts, solid and real and there.

You kissed him until your lips were numb and your lungs were burning and you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

And that was the start of whatever was going on between the two of you.

Neither of you named it. Not that day under the bleachers, not in the weeks that followed, not even when you found yourself seeking him out between classes or staying late after school just to walk with him. There was no conversation about what you were, no labels, no promises. Just the quiet, unspoken understanding that something had shifted, and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The arguments didn't stop. If anything, they got worse.

Because you were still you: sharp-tongued and quick to deflect, armoured in expensive clothes and sharper smiles. And he was still him: infuriating and observant, unwilling to let you hide behind your walls now that he'd seen what was underneath. You'd crack open for him once and now he expected cracks all the time. Expected you to be soft. Expected you to be real.

And you couldn't. Not when the hallways were full of eyes and the courtyard was full of whispers and your whole life was a performance you'd been rehearsing since birth.

So you fought. Loudly and publicly. You called him a burnout to his face in front of the vending machines. He called you a robot in front of the bike racks. You told him he had no future ahead. He told you your designer bag cost more than his mom's rent and what did that say about you, really?

People stared. People whispered. People placed bets on when one of you would finally snap.

What they didn't see was what happened after.

The way you'd find him behind the gym twenty minutes later, breathless from running, your hands shaking as you grabbed his shirt. The way he'd already be waiting, like he knew you'd come, like he'd been counting on it. The way he'd pull you into the shadow of the building and kiss you like the argument had never happened—or like it had, and this was the only way to finish it.

"You're late," he'd murmur against your mouth.

"I hate you," you'd breathe back.

"Sure you do."

And then you'd kiss properly, desperate and hungry, your fingers twisting in his frayed collar, his hands pressing into your waist. You'd stay there until the bell rang, until the world demanded you return to your separate lives, until you could compose your face into something that didn't look like a girl who'd just been kissed within an inch of her sanity.

Then you'd walk back to class. Straighten your skirt. Lift your chin. And pretend nothing had happened.

People noticed, though. How could they not?

You'd always been careful; meticulous, even. You knew where every camera was, where every teacher stood during passing periods, which stairwells stayed empty and which bathrooms had broken locks. You'd spent years cultivating your image, protecting your reputation, making sure no one ever saw anything you didn't want them to see.

But Keonho made you sloppy.

It started small. A hallway glance that lasted a second too long. A pause by the bike racks when you should have kept walking. The way your eyes shone when they tracked him across the courtyard, following the gray beanie like a compass pointing north.

Hana noticed first, because Hana noticed everything.

"You keep looking at him weird," she said one day at lunch, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

"I'm not looking at him weird."

"Y/n, you literally look at him like he’s the answer to everything."

"I’m looking at him the same as I’ve always done."

Hana stared at you. You stared at your salad.

"You're seeing him, aren't you?" she said quietly. "Like, seeing him seeing him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Hana."

She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you. Last week. Behind the science building."

Your heart stopped and your face went cold. "You saw what?"

"Nothing. I didn't see anything. That's the point." She paused. "But I saw you go behind the science building. And I saw him go behind the science building. And then you both came out five minutes later looking like—" She gestured at your face. "Like that."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who just got kissed and is trying really hard to pretend she didn't."

You set down your fork very carefully.

"You didn't see anything," you said.

"I know."

"Because there's nothing to see."

"I know."

"And if you tell anyone—"

"I won't." Hana held up her hands. "I'm not an idiot. I'm just... surprised."

"At what?"

"That you picked him." She glanced across the courtyard, where Keonho was sitting alone by the bike racks, eating his usual gas station sandwich. "I mean, he's cute. In a scruffy way. But he's not exactly... you know."

"Not exactly what?"

"Your type."

You looked down at your salad. At your perfectly manicured nails. At the designer bag hanging off the back of your chair.

"Maybe I don't have a type," you said.

Hana didn't respond. She didn't have to. Her silence said everything.

After that, you tried to be more careful.

You stopped seeking him out between classes, started taking different routes to the vending machines, sat with your back to the bike racks so you wouldn't be tempted to look.

It lasted three days.

On the fourth day, you found yourself behind the art building at 3:15, your back against the brick wall, his body pressed against yours, his mouth locked on yours.

"We have to stop," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair.

"I know," he murmured against your lips.

"We're being stupid."

"The stupidest."

"Someone's going to see."

He pulled back just enough to look at you with slightly swollen lips.

"Then stop me," he said.

You didn't.

You kissed him instead. Harder than before. As though you were trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his hands felt on your waist.

And you were terrified of how much you didn't want to stop.

The first time anyone properly saw you alone together was behind the bleachers.

Someone's little brother was looking for a lost phone and he found you instead.

You were sitting with your back against the fence. Keonho was lying with his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers absently running through his hair. Neither of you was talking. Neither of you was fighting. You just... existed.

His hair was softer than you expected. His breathing had evened out until you weren't sure if he was awake or asleep. The late afternoon sun made everything gold and warm and stupidly cinematic.

You should have moved. The moment you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, you should have shoved him off and stood up and smoothed down your skirt and pretended this never happened. The old you would have sensed someone coming from a hundred yards away. The old you was always watching, always calculating, always performing.

But the old you hadn't spent the last hour with her fingers in Keonho's hair, watching the clouds drift past, feeling something in her chest unfurl like a flower she'd forgotten she'd planted.

You looked up. The kid was standing at the edge of the bleachers, frozen mid-step. His mouth was open. His phone was in his hand, must have found it, and you realised with a sinking feeling that he'd been taking pictures. Or filming. Or both.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he. For one long, suspended second, the three of you existed in perfect, terrible stillness: you with your hands still in Keonho's hair, Keonho still half-asleep and oblivious, the kid staring like he'd just witnessed a unicorn.

Then the kid turned and ran.

His footsteps echoed off the floor, fast and frantic, disappearing around the corner. 

Keonho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like someone running."

"It was nothing." You pulled your hand out of his hair and your fingers felt cold without him. "We should go."

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He looked at your face and something in his expression shifted.

"Someone saw us," he said. Not a question.

"Someone's little brother."

"Did he—"

"He had a phone."

Keonho was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back on his hands and tilted his face toward the sky.

"Well," he said. "That's that, then."

"What do you mean, that's that?"

"I mean people are going to talk. Your friends are going to freak out. The whole school's going to know by tomorrow morning." He looked at you sideways. "You okay with that?"

You should have said no. You should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. You should have spent the rest of the week damage-controlling, spin-doctoring, finding ways to convince everyone that what they'd seen wasn't what they thought.

Instead you said, "I don't know."

Keonho nodded and didn't push any further.

"Come on," he said, standing up and offering you his hand. "I'll walk you to your car."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, your fingers lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary.

"Your hair's a mess," you said.

"You're the one who did it."

"You shouldn't have fallen asleep on me."

"You shouldn't have been playing with my hair."

You took a good look at him: his crooked smile and his tired eyes and his stupid, beautiful, infuriating face.

“Your hair was too soft for me to stop," you said quietly.

His smile softened and he squeezed your hand once before letting go.

"Come on, fountain girl. Let's go cause some rumors."

The school lost its collective mind.

The photos spread like wildfire, your friends asked countless questions on if you were really dating him of all people.

Hana seemed to be the only one capable of at least showing a bit of support, in her own way of course.

"Okay, I don't understand it and I think you're making a mistake and I think you're going to get hurt." She reached to take your hand. "But you're my best friend. And if this is what you want then I'm not going to stand in your way."

"He's not—I don't—" You stopped. Took a breath. "I don't know what I want. I just know I'm tired of pretending I have it all figured out."

Hana squeezed your hand. "Then stop pretending."

You looked down at your joined hands and saw her perfectly manicured nails next to yours. 

"I don't know how," you admitted.

"Figure it out." She let go of your hand. Leaned back in her chair. "But do me a favor?"

"What?

"Next time you're going to make out with the skateboard boy behind the bleachers, maybe pick a spot without a line of sight to the school."

Your face went hot. "We weren't making out—"

"Your lips in those photos say otherwise."

"The photos weren’t taken after we—he was sleeping—"

"Sure he was."

“He was! His head was in my lap and he fell asleep and he I was just playing—”

“Uh huh.”

"Hana."

"Y/N." She smiled a real smile, the first one you'd seen from her all day. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But seriously. If you're going to be with him, be with him. Don't sneak around, or lie, or pretend he's something you're ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed of him."

"Then don't act like you are."

And from then on, you didn’t hide. You stopped crossing to the other side of the hallway when you saw him coming. Stopped pretending not to know where he ate lunch. Stopped taking the long way to class just to avoid being seen walking next to him.

Everyone now knew that you two were a thing of some sorts, and maybe it was better that they all knew. The secrecy had been exhausting. The sneaking around, the lying by omission, the constant fear of being caught; it had been eating at you, wearing you down, making you someone you didn't want to be.

Now there was nothing to hide.

You no longer had to explain why you’d stopped driving to school just to be able to walk with him, his skateboard rolling beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours and your shoulders bumping as you talked. Or the new scratches on your knees, the scuffs on your formerly pristine shoes, the tiny bruise on your palm from catching yourself when you fell from Keonho attempting to teach you to ride his skateboard.

"You're doing it wrong," he said one afternoon, watching you wobble across the parking lot after school.

"I'm doing it exactly the way you showed me."

"You're doing it exactly the way I told you not to."

"You told me to not lean back, so I'm leaning forward."

"Don't do that either." He ran his free hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grab your arm, steadying you before you could tip over. His fingers wrapped around your bicep firmly, keeping you upright. "Leaning forward is just as bad as leaning back. Actually, it's worse. When you lean forward, the board shoots out from under you and you land on your face."

"I'd rather land on my face than on my back because I’ll catch myself before I hit the ground."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"I've said stupider things."

"Name one."

"I told Mina her new haircut looked good."

He stared at you. "That's not stupid. That's just mean."

"It was stupid and mean. Her haircut was terrible."

He adjusted his grip on your arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Okay. Listen. Actually listen this time."

"I always listen."

"You listen to argue, not learn."

"I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do."

"Stop talking."

"Stop proving me right." He stepped around to face you, both hands on your arms now, looking down at you with that exasperated expression you'd grown weirdly fond of. "Keep your weight centered. Right over the board. Imagine there's a string pulling you up from the top of your head."

"That's the worst visualisation I've ever heard."

"It works."

"It works for you because you're weird."

"I'm not weird. I'm effective."

"You're weird and ineffective."

"I taught myself to skateboard when I was twelve. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"You taught yourself. That explains why you're such a bad teacher."

"I'm not a bad teacher. You're a bad student."

"I'm an excellent student. I get straight A's."

"In history. This isn't history. This is physics."

"It's a board with wheels, Keonho. It's not that deep."

"It's literally that deep. Center of gravity, momentum, weight distribution—"

"You're using big words to sound smart."

"I'm using big words because they're the right words."

"The right words are 'stand still and don't fall.'"

"The right words are 'engage your core and relax your shoulders.'"

"My core is engaged. My shoulders are relaxed."

"Your shoulders are up by your ears."

"No they aren’t."

"Princess, they're literally trying to escape through your neck right now."

You glanced down at your shoulders. They were, in fact, up by your ears. You forced them down. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely ecstatic that your shoulders are no longer trying to flee your body."

"You're so annoying."

"You're so tense."

"I'm not tense. I'm focused."

"You're so focused that you're forgetting to breathe."

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're holding your breath."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"You just turned purple."

"I did not turn purple."

"You turned a very lovely shade of lavender."

You exhaled. Hard. Right in his face.

He didn't flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No."

"Then take a real breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

"I know how to breathe."

"Then prove it."

You took a breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth straight onto his face again. He blinked.

"Did you just exhale onto me again?"

"Maybe."

He just sighed, already realising he was losing this battle, and let go of your arms, stepping back. "Okay. Try again. Keep your weight centered. Shoulders down. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop leaning."

"I'm not leaning."

"You're leaning."

"I'm standing perfectly upright."

"You're leaning so far forward you're practically bowing."

You wobbled as you adjusted but managed to catch yourself.

"Look," he said, smiling at you softly. "You're doing it."

"I'm doing it."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed with myself—"

Before you could even finish your gloating, your weight shifted. One moment you were upright, almost steady, almost balanced, almost doing it. The next, the board slipped out from underneath you like the ground had turned to ice. Your arms windmilled. Your center of gravity betrayed you completely. And then your knees hit the asphalt hard: a sharp, jarring impact that sent shockwaves up your thighs before Keonho could even properly react and grab you.

His hands reached for you a second too late, fingers closing on empty air where your arm had been.

You stayed there for a moment, on your hands and knees, breathing hard. The asphalt was rough and warm beneath your palms, little bits of gravel digging into your skin. Your knees throbbed. Your pride throbbed harder.

"Y/N." His voice was closer now. His hand landed on your back, warm and steady. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're not fine. You're on the ground."

"I'm resting."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm bleeding and resting. Multitasking."

"Y/N."

"Keonho."

He crouched down beside you, his face level with yours and his eyes wide, scanning your face, your knees, your hands. "You went down hard."

"I've gone down harder."

"That's not—" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the flex you think it is."

He reached for your arm, gently pulling you up from the ground. His hands were more careful than usual, and you let him guide you to your feet, wincing as your weight settled onto your scraped knees.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I can walk."

"You're limping."

"I'm not limping. I'm just… taking my time."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

He led you to the concrete steps outside the gymnasium, and you sat down heavily, stretching your legs out in front of you. The damage was worse than you thought: both knees scraped raw through what used to be your favorite pair of tights, thin lines of blood beading up through the torn fabric.

Keonho sat down next to you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. He pulled a crumpled gas station napkin from his pocket and held it out to you.

"That's not going to be enough," you said.

"It's all I have."

"Then get more."

"Where am I supposed to get more?"

"I don't know. The bathroom. The nurse's office."

He ignored you and dabbed at your knee with the napkin anyway, gentle and inefficient, the cheap paper sticking to your skin. You hissed through your teeth.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You should be. This is your fault."

"How is this my fault?"

"You're the one who put me on the board."

"You're the one who wanted to learn."

"I wanted to learn from a competent teacher."

"I am competent."

"You let me fall."

"You fell before I could catch you."

"You were literally right in front of me."

"You went down way too fast for me to react."

“Well maybe next time I’ll get an actual competent teacher to teach me how to skate.”

“Oh really? And would that competent teacher still be here tending to your wounds?” He looked at you and something in your chest tightened. You looked away, down at your scraped knees, at his hand still holding the crumpled napkin against your skin.

"You're bleeding too," you said.

He looked down at his own hand. There was a small scrape on his palm, must have happened when he reached for you and caught the asphalt instead.

"That's nothing," he said.

"It's bleeding."

"It's a scratch."

"It's bleeding and you're not even complaining."

"Why would I complain?"

"Because that's what people do when they're hurt. They complain."

"I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're bleeding."

"It's a scratch, Y/N."

"It's a bleeding scratch."

He stared at you. Then he started laughing, bright and surprised, his whole face lighting up.

"What?" you demanded.

"Nothing." He shook his head, still laughing. "You're just—you're sitting there with two knees that look like ground beef, telling me my paper cut is a medical emergency."

"It's not a paper cut. It's a gash."

"It's literally smaller than my fingernail."

"Size isn't everything."

"That's not—" He stopped, his smile wide whilst he rubbed his hand over his face. "You're looking way worse than me."

You wanted to be annoyed at the fact that he was still laughing, his shoulder shaking against yours. You wanted to push him away and tell him this wasn't funny, that your knees were ruined and your tights were ruined and your pride was in shambles on the asphalt.

But instead, you started laughing too.

It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere you'd forgotten existed. You laughed until your stomach hurt and your scraped knees throbbed and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You laughed because you'd just fallen off a skateboard in front of half the school and Keonho was sitting next to you with a napkin stuck to his palm, his eyes full of light, watching you finally, finally, be yourself.

When the laughter finally faded, you were both breathing hard. His shoulder was still pressed against yours. His hand had somehow found yours, fingers laced together, resting on the concrete step between you.

You eventually leaned your head against his shoulder. Just rested it there, your temple pressing into the worn fabric of his hoodie. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there with you in the warm afternoon sun while the rest of the world went on around you.

At some point he turned his head and his lips brushed against your hair so softly you almost missed it, but you felt it. You felt everything.

People walked past, some gawked at the sight of you, others turned and whispered amongst each other, but neither of you seemed to care.

That seemed to become a recurring thing. The stares and the whispers. People still took photos when they thought you weren't looking. The speculation never ended: were you dating? Were you enemies? Were you friends? Were you something in between that no one had a word for?

But you stopped noticing. Or maybe you just stopped caring.

They couldn't understand what was going on between you two. How you'd go from wanting to strangle each other to cuddling up just a second later. How you'd be screaming in each other's faces one moment and then sitting in comfortable silence the next, your head on his shoulder, his hand in yours. How you'd call him every name in the book and then defend him viciously when someone else tried to do the same.

It didn't make sense. Not to them. Not to your friends, who still looked at you like you'd grown a second head every time you walked past the bike racks without stopping to sneer. Not to his friends—the few he had that you had only learnt about recently—who raised their eyebrows every time you appeared and said nothing.

And, to be honest, neither of you understood it either.

But none of that mattered. 

Not when he'd sit there and let you ramble for hours about whatever new person who annoyed you had done. How a girl had worn the same dress as you to a party and actually looked good in it: "She had no right, Keonho. No right. I specifically told her I was wearing the green one with the flowers, and she showed up in the exact same dress like it was nothing." Or how Hana had started talking to her ex again, the one from the football team, the one who'd cheated on her at summer camp two years ago: "I don't understand it. I don't understand her. He literally lied to her face for a whole weekend and she's just going to pretend that didn't happen?"

He never interrupted. Never told you to calm down or change the subject or stop caring so much about things that didn't matter. He just listened with his eyes half-closed, his head tilted back, and his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. Sometimes he'd nod. Sometimes he'd make comments like "that's messed up" or "she sounds exhausting" or "you're right to be annoyed." Sometimes he’d just watch you, a look in his eyes that made you feel giddy.

Not when he laid on your bed, still watching you pace back and forth whilst on a call that felt never ending. 

He should have been paying attention and following the conversation, tracking the drama, even offering the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. But his eyelids were heavy, his body was warm, and the sound of your voice, even when it was sharp, annoyed, and mid-takedown, was somehow the most soothing thing he'd ever heard.

”Okay, call me later once she replies.” 

Keonho perked up as he heard you wrapping up the call, his chin lifting from his arm. His eyes tracked you still walking back and forth, back and forth, like you couldn't quite remember how to stop.

"You're gonna wear a hole in that ridiculously expensive rug," he commented, his voice thick with sleep.

You ignored him. Kept pacing. Kept muttering under your breath, something about ‘can't believe she said that’ and ‘who does she think she is’ and ‘wait until I get my hands on her’.

"Y/N."

Nothing.

"Y/N."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for like ten minutes. Think quicker.”

“I’d be able to if you shut up.”

He just blinked at you, slow and unbothered. “I’m not the one who’s been pacing around for an hour.”

”It was literally twenty minutes, and last I checked you were asleep.”

”That was before you left me all by myself.” He pouted, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide and faux-tragic, and you scrunched your face in disgust, though you'd never admit it secretly made your heart swell. The stupid, infuriating, adorable pout. The way his hair was all messed up from the pillow. The way the pink blanket was pulled up to his shoulders like a child who didn't want to get out of bed.

He mumbled something you were only just able to catch, his voice thick and sleepy: "Twenty minutes too long."

"I was on the phone."

"You were on the phone without me."

"You were asleep."

"So? You could have woken me up."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face before stepping forward. He twisted to lay on his side, the pink blanket pooling around his waist, and lifted the blanket up at your approach.

You climbed under the blanket with him, the sheets cool against your legs, the duvet soft beneath your head. His free arm enveloped you immediately, your face pressing into his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone, and your breath warm against his skin.

”You’re so clingy.” You grumbled.

"You love it."

"I hate it."

"You love hating it."

You elbowed him and he didn't even flinch, just tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I was in the middle of something," you said.

"You were in the middle of pacing."

"I was strategising."

"You were spiraling and I needed to stop it."

His hand found your hair. His fingers threaded through it, slow and steady, the way he knew you liked. His thumb brushed against your scalp, gentle circles that made your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm still thinking about it," you murmured.

"I know."

"I'm going to keep thinking about it."

"I know."

"I'm going to talk about it. A lot. For a long time."

"I know."

"And you're going to listen?"

"I'm going to try. No promises. I'm very tired."

"You're always tired."

"You're always thinking too much."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fire back something sharp and cutting that would wipe that sleepy smile off his face. But his hand was in your hair and his heartbeat was steady under your ear and the world outside your bedroom door had stopped mattering.

"She's going to reply later," you said. "And when she does—"

"You're going to do nothing."

"I'm going to do something."

"You're going to do nothing," he repeated. "Because it's late. And you're tired. And whatever she said, it'll still be there tomorrow."

"But—"

"Tomorrow," he said. "You can destroy her tomorrow. Right now, you're going to sleep."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did."

"And I'm not doing it."

"You're literally in my arms with your eyes closed."

"That doesn't matter." Despite your words, you snuggled into him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressing deeper into the hollow of his throat. He was warm, so, so warm, and his heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your palm, a rhythm your own heart had started to match without your permission.

You felt him press a kiss onto your hair, it seemed to be a thing he did subconsciously now.

"Mhm." He just about managed to say, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His arms were loosening around you, his grip going slack, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was drifting off, you could feel it in the way his breathing had slowed, in the way his hand had stopped moving in your hair, in the way his heartbeat had dropped to a deep, steady thrum.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him as you felt him settle.

His face was soft in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw had blurred, his lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair was a mess across his forehead and he looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the boy who argued with you in parking lots and more like the boy who pressed kisses to your hair when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You should have woken him up. Should have told him to go home, to sleep in his own bed, to stop taking up space in yours.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the line of his brow, the curve of his temple, the soft skin just above his cheekbone.

He didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just sighed in his sleep and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist even as he dreamed.

You smiled, just a little, placing a featherlight kiss onto his jaw.

"You're impossible," you whispered, so quietly that not even the fairy lights that hung above your bed could hear.

Then you settled back against his chest, closed your eyes, and let yourself drift.

Tomorrow, you'd argue. Tomorrow, you'd pace and mutter and plot revenge. Tomorrow, you'd be sharp and cutting and impossible in all the ways you knew how to be.

But tonight, you let him have the last word.

You could be nice to him sometimes.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

SHE LOOKS SO PERFECT — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: You’d think having spent months ‘dating’ that the two of you would’ve sorted out whatever issues underlined every argument you shared, but, truthfully, you both enjoyed the bickering far too much to want it to stop.

W.C :: 6.6k

CONTAINS :: skater!keonho x regina! reader, a spinoff of she’s kinda hot, can be read as a standalone (but highly recommend reading the first fic), angst + fluff, description of injury, mentions of death/killing (joking), bickering/arguing, kono’s friends are haters, use of dollars, cliché, skinship, pet names, the love bomb, kissing

PLAYLIST :: She looks so perfect - 5sos; My own worst enemy - Lit; Still into you - Paramore; Teenage dirtbag - Wheatus; Take me away - Christina Vidal Mitchell

You and Keonho had been… something for about three months now.

Three months of arguing over everything. The thermostat. The last slice of pizza. Whether or not a hot dog was a sandwich (he said yes, you said absolutely not, and you'd nearly broken up over it twice). You fought like cats and dogs, like fire and gasoline, like two people who had absolutely no business being in the same room.

But the thing that got you the most—the thing that made you want to scream, to pull your hair out, to shake him until his teeth rattled—was his complete and utter inability to plan.

You planned everything. You had spreadsheets. colour-coded calendars. Alarms set on your phone for things that were still three weeks away. You knew where you needed to be and when and what you needed to wear and who you needed to impress and exactly how many minutes late you could arrive before it went from fashionable to disrespectful.

Keonho just… existed.

And apparently, for him, that was enough.

"We'll figure it out," he'd say, whenever you tried to pin down a date, a time, a commitment. "It'll be fine," he'd say, when you asked him what he was wearing to something important. "Don't worry so much," he'd say, when you were clearly, obviously, rightfully spiraling.

You wanted to strangle him.

You wanted to kiss him.

Usually both at the same time.

Tonight's fight had been brewing for weeks, simmering under the surface of every text he left on read, every plan he showed up late for, every time he looked at you with those stupid, calm eyes and said "we'll figure it out" like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The dinner was important. People who mattered would be there. People whose opinions could make or break things you'd been working toward for years. A single wrong move could, and would, unravel everything.

You'd told him about it three times. Texted him the address twice. Sent him a reminder the morning of, complete with a photo of the venue and a highlighted map. Told him, specifically, explicitly, begged him to wear something nice.

He showed up forty-five minutes late in a wrinkled band tee and ripped jeans.

You spotted him the second he walked through the door: that stupid beanie, that lazy slouch, the skateboard he'd somehow snuck past coat check. Your blood went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.

You excused yourself from a conversation and crossed the room in what felt like slow motion. Your heels clicked against the marble floor. Your perfectly applied lipstick felt like warpaint.

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway before he could say a word.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Traffic," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked completely unbothered and completely unaware that he'd just detonated a bomb in the middle of your perfectly constructed evening.

"You don't have a car."

"Pedestrian traffic."

"Keonho."

He shrugged. That infuriating, shoulders-up, I don't see the problem shrug. His beanie was crooked. His hair was a mess. There was a small rip in the knee of his jeans that you were pretty sure hadn't been there yesterday.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"You're late." Your voice came out sharp, each word a knife. "You're dressed like that. I told you—I specifically told you—"

"You told me a lot of things, princess."

"Don't call me that."

He tilted his head, beanie slipping further over one eye. There was something in his expression, not quite a smirk yet not quite a challenge, that made your stomach twist. "Then stop acting like one."

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him by that wrinkled band tee and shake him until he understood.

"Do you have any idea how this looks?" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd inside. Laughter spilled through the doorway. Glasses clinked. The world you were supposed to be performing in continued on without you. "I've been talking you up for weeks. Telling people you're coming. Telling them you're—"

"What? Worthy of being seen with the great and mighty you?"

"That's not—"

"Is that what this is about?" He stepped closer, and suddenly the hallway felt smaller. His voice was quiet now, but no less sharp. "How it looks?"

"It's about respect, Keonho. It's about showing up when you say you will. It's about not making me—" Your voice caught and you closed your eyes to recollect yourself. " —not making me look stupid for defending you to everyone who said I was making a mistake."

He went quiet.

"Who said that?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"It should matter to you that you were late. That you're wearing that. That you can't seem to—" You stopped and pressed your fingers to your temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsed behind your eyes. "I had a plan. I had everything planned. I knew exactly how this night was supposed to go, and you just— you just—"

"We'll figure it out."

"We'll figure it out?"

You laughed. It came out sharp and bitter, nothing funny about it. The sound echoed off the hallway walls.

"That's your answer to everything." You were pacing now, heels clicking against the marble, back and forth, back and forth. "'We'll figure it out.' 'It'll be fine.' 'Don't worry so much.' You don't plan. You don't think. You just show up whenever you feel like it and expect everyone to be grateful that you bothered to exist in their direction."

"Maybe because I trust that things will work out without me having to control every single detail."

"Not everyone has that luxury."

He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall and watched you pace. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You stopped and faced him, your chest heaving. 

"It means some of us don't have the option to just exist and hope for the best. Some of us have to earn our place. Some of us have to fight for every single thing we have, and one wrong move, or late appearance, or bad outfit can take all of it away."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Do you understand how embarrassing this is for me?" You asked, and your voice was more tired now. "How it feels to stand there and watch people's faces when they see you? To know they're thinking that's who she chose?"

He pushed off the wall.

"Embarrassing."

"Yes."

"I'm embarrassing to you?"

"That's not—" You stopped. Swallowed. The lump in your throat was hard to get past. "You're not trying, Keonho. You're not showing up. Not really. You're just—here. Floating. Existing. And that's not enough. Not for this. Not for—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

He stared at you. His face was unreadable—that careful blankness he wore when he was actually hurt, when he was trying not to show it. His jaw was tight. His hands were in his pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Why does embarrassment matter so much to you?"

The question landed like a slap.

"What?"

"Embarrassing." He said the word slowly, like he was tasting it, turning it over in his mouth. "Why does it matter so much? Why do you care what they think?" He gestured toward the doorway, toward the laughter and the clinking glasses. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't know anything. They're just people with opinions that don't actually mean anything."

"Opinions mean everything."

"To who?"

"To me."

He nodded slowly. Something flickered across his face: disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. It was hard to tell.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

The silence between them was heavy. Wrong. Stretching like taffy, thin and about to snap.

You could hear your own heartbeat atop his breathing, the distant murmur of the party you were supposed to be charming slicing through the quiet.

"Look," he said, running a hand through his hair, knocking his beanie completely off. It landed on the floor with a soft thump. "I'm sorry I was late. I'm sorry I wore this. I'm sorry I'm not—whatever you need me to be for this to work."

"Keonho—"

"I'm trying, princess." He bent down and picked up his beanie, dusted it off against his thigh. His voice was quiet, as though he was choosing every word carefully. "I'm just not trying the way you want me to. And I don't know if I can."

He turned toward the door and something in your chest cracked.

"Don't."

He stopped. His back was to you still and his shoulders were tense.

"Don't walk away," you said. "Not from me."

"I'm not walking away." His voice was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse. "I'm giving you space to go back in there and do your thing, make it the perfect evening." He glanced back at you over his shoulder. "I know you need that. I know you planned for that. So go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"And what about us?"

He was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that felt like a held breath.

"We'll figure it out."

"Stop saying that."

"It's all I've got."

There was a momentary lull until you crossed the room before your brain could catch up with your body.

You grabbed the front of his wrinkled band tee, pulled him down and you kissed him.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white, pulling him closer like you were afraid he'd disappear. His free hand caught your waist and the other dropped his beanie again, completely forgotten, his fingers threading into your hair, loosening pins, ruining your perfect updo.

He kissed you back like he'd been waiting for it. Like the fight had been building toward this all along: every argument, every slammed door, every "we'll figure it out" and this was the only possible conclusion.

His mouth was warm. He tasted like the energy drink he'd been nursing on the way over, sweet and sharp, and his lips were slightly chapped, and you didn't care. You didn't care about any of it.

The party behind you faded away, the carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building came crashing down. All that existed was his hand on your waist, his fingers in your hair, his mouth moving against yours like he was trying to tell you something he didn't have words for.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, your chests heaving, your foreheads pressed together, he let out a shaky breath.

"What was that?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"You kissed me."

"I know."

"Why?"

You opened your eyes. He was so close that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the way his lips were slightly swollen.

"Because—" You swallowed. Your voice was shaking. You couldn't remember the last time your voice had shaken in front of anyone. "Because I didn't want you to leave. Because I don't care about the dinner. Because you're right, embarrassing doesn't matter. It never mattered. I just—"

"Just what?"

"I don't know how to be anything other than this." You gestured vaguely at the party behind you, at your perfect dress, at the life you'd built out of sheer will and terror. Your hand was trembling. "I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to trust that things will just work out. I don't know how to be like you: how to just exist and believe that's enough."

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hip, through the fabric of your dress. His other hand was still in your hair, loose strands falling around your face.

"I'm not asking you to be like me," he said finally. His voice was soft and gentle in a way that made your chest ache. "I'm just asking you to let me in."

You stared at him. His eyes were dark and steady and warm. There was no judgment or frustration there. Just... him. Just the boy who showed up late in wrinkled band tees and said "we'll figure it out" like it was a prayer.

"I don't know how to do that either," you whispered, and watched as his eyes scanned your face.

"Then we'll figure it out," he said. "Together."

He said it like a promise. Like a vow. Like he meant it.

You kissed him again and this time it felt less like a fight and more like a surrender. Your hands slid up from his chest to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled.

When you finally pulled back his band tee was even more wrinkled than before, your perfect lipstick was definitely smeared across both your mouths, and your updo was a lost cause.

"You're still late," you said.

"I know."

"You're still dressed like that."

"I know."

"And I still want to kill you."

"I know." He grinned that stupid, lopsided, infuriating grin that had made you want to scream the first time you saw it. "But you still kissed me."

"Shut up."

"Make me, princess."

And that sums up pretty much the entirety of your… whatever you are. You’ll be at each other’s throats constantly, and yet you can’t seem to stay away from one another.

Another aspect of you two being together was that you had the emotional expressiveness of a rock and would close in on yourself whenever something upset you, driving Keonho absolutely mad.

The first time you stopped going to the skate park, he didn't say anything.

He noticed, though. Of course he noticed. Keonho noticed everything about you: when you were tired, when you were faking, when you were one wrong word away from shattering.

And most of all he noticed when you started pulling away, though he let you be by yourself for a few days to mellow until he finally had enough.

You were half-asleep when you heard it: the soft scrape of a shoe against the trellis, the creak of the window frame, the quiet thud of a body dropping onto the roof that sat just below your window with a few too many scuff marks. Your heart lurched and you sat up, pink blanket pooling around your waist, hair a wild mess from tossing and turning.

And there he was.

Keonho, in the flesh, backlit by the dim glow of the streetlights outside, pulling your already slightly open window wider. You immediately rose, moving towards him and shoving your curtains aside, already knowing what this was about.

"Talk to me," he said, already swinging his leg through the frame. "Or I'm climbing in."

"You're already climbing in."

"So talk to me faster."

"You can't just show up at my window at two in the morning," you said, your voice still thick with sleep and something a bit too close to relief, moving back to sit on the edge of your bed.

"I can't? Because I just did."

"It's breaking and entering."

"My feet were already in the room before you said you didn’t want me here." He dropped his skateboard against your wall, kicked off his shoes, and stood at the foot of your bed with his arms crossed. "That's not forceful. That's just... hovering without opposition."

"That's not a thing."

"It's a thing I just came up with." He tilted his head, beanie askew, hair falling into his eyes. "Now. Talk."

"I don't have anything to say."

"That's a lie." He took a step closer. "Your left eye is twitching."

"My left eye is not—" It was, you could feel it. You hated him. "I'm fine."

"Stop saying that."

"Stop meddling."

"No."

You glared at him and he glared back. The air between you crackled. This was your love language: two people who cared too much and didn't know how to say it any other way.

"I heard your friends," you said finally.

He went still. Completely, utterly still. Like someone had frozen him in place.

"They said I was using you." Your voice came out flat, practiced, like you'd rehearsed it in the mirror a hundred times. "That I'd get bored. That I'd throw you away." You swallowed but your throat was dry. "And I thought maybe they're right. Maybe that's what I do. Maybe that's all I know how to do."

Keonho didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, looking at you with an expression you couldn't read: something between frustration and tenderness and a third thing you were too scared to name.

Then he walked around the bed, sat down next to you, and knocked his shoulder against yours. Hard.

"Ow," you said.

"That's for ignoring me for six days."

"I wasn't ignoring you, I was—"

"Busy." He knocked his shoulder against yours again, softer this time. "Yeah, I know. You're always busy when you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." He turned to face you, close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes from staying up toolate. "You're so scared you can't even say it without your voice going up at the end like a question."

Your breath caught.

"My friends are idiots," he said. "They don't know you."

"Neither do you."

"I know you leave your shoes in the middle of the floor even though you yell at me for the same thing—"

"Because I live here. You're a guest."

"—I know you pretend not to like my music but you added three of my songs to your playlist—"

"I added them so I could identify them and properly hate them."

"—I know you're mean because you're scared, not because you're cruel."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He was looking at you with something far too soft for his sharp face that made your chest ache and your eyes burn and your heart beat too fast. "I know you haven't thrown me away yet. And I've given you plenty of reasons."

"You are annoying," you whispered.

"Yeah." He almost smiled. "But you keep me around anyway."

"I'm reconsidering."

"No you're not."

"Get off my bed."

"It's my bed now." He leaned back on his hands, looking up at your ceiling like he owned the place. "I call dibs."

"You can't call dibs on someone else's bed."

"I just did."

You sat there for a couple of seconds, weighing up your options, then you grabbed your pillow and hit him square in the face with it.

He grabbed it and hit you back.

What followed was a full-scale pillow war, leaving feathers floating in the air and both of you breathless and laughing, his beanie somehow on your head and your silk scrunchie around his wrist.

You eventually ended up tangled together in the pink blanket, his chest against your side, your leg thrown over his, both of you gasping for air.

"See?" he said, grinning. "This is why you keep me around."

"I'm going to push you out the window."

"You'd miss me."

"I'd watch you fall."

"Kinky."

"Keonho!”

A week later, he crashed.

The call came from his friend, one of the ones who still looked at you like you were a bomb waiting to go off. "He's at your place. He said you'd know what to do."

You did.

You were already climbing out of bed, already pulling on the nearest hoodie (his, you realised later), already running down the stairs before your brain caught up with your body.

You found him on your front steps.

It was worse than you'd imagined. Worse than any of the scenarios that had played out in your head while you were running. He was sitting on the cold concrete, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at an awkward angle. His jeans were torn at the knee and there was far too much blood. His palm was scraped raw, little flecks of gravel embedded in the skin, and his board was lying in the bushes where he'd apparently thrown it in frustration.

"Keonho."

"Hey princess." He looked up, and smiled like nothing was wrong and he wasn't bleeding on your mother's precious front steps. "Nice pajamas."

"You're bleeding on my steps."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine, get inside."

"I can't feel my left hand."

"Keonho."

He let you pull him up, though winced at the sudden weight on his injured leg. He let you drag him inside, through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall to your bathroom. He let you push him onto the marble counter, that he had always commented was way too expensive, and he let you kneel in front of him to push his ripped jeans up his legs.

"It's fine," he said again.

"You keep saying that like it's going to become true."

"Optimism."

"It's delusion."

He watched you dab antiseptic on his knee—watched your face, specifically, the furrow between your brows, the set of your jaw, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a flood of words you didn't know how to say.

"You look like you're about to fight someone," he said.

"I'm about to fight you if you don't stop crashing into concrete."

"Skateboarding involves concrete. It's kind of the whole thing."

"Then stop skateboarding."

"Now that's delusion."

You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He hissed through his teeth.

"Serves you right."

"You're so mean."

"You love it."

He went quiet, his gaze following your every move as you attempted to patch him up as well as you could. "You're really worried about me."

"I'm worried about your knees." You dabbed at a particularly nasty scrape, your touch gentler now. "They're going to be nothing but scar tissue by twenty-five."

"That's not what I meant."

You looked up at him and his face was soft in the bathroom light: no smirk, or teasing, or armour. Just Keonho. Just the boy who somehow, against all odds, makes you feel safe and loved and more yourself than ever before.

"Of course I'm worried about you," you said quietly. "You're an idiot who throws himself at the ground for fun."

"That's not why you're worried."

"You're very annoying today."

"You're avoiding the question."

"I'm cleaning your wounds. Show some gratitude."

He caught your wrist before you could pull away. His thumb pressed against your pulse point that was racing, betraying you, telling him everything you were trying to hide.

"You're scared," he said.

"I'm annoyed."

"You're scared and you're pretending to be annoyed because that's easier."

"You're scared and you're pretending to be fine because that's easier."

He blinked. You'd surprised him. Good.

"See?" You said, pulling your wrist free. "We both have things we don't want to talk about. Now let me finish cleaning you up so I can go back to hating you in peace."

"You don't hate me."

"I'm working on it."

He laughed, or at least attempted to, his breath hitching because moving his ribs hurt. You flicked his forehead.

"Ow."

"Stop making me worry."

"I can't promise that."

"Then stop crashing."

"I can't promise that either."

You sighed, long and dramatic, and went back to work on his other knee. 

"You're gonna give me gray hair," you muttered more so to yourself.

"You'd look good with gray hair."

"Keonho."

"What? You would."

You pressed a kiss to his kneecap before you could think better of it—a quick, impulsive thing, your lips brushing against his scraped skin.

He went very still, then very red. The flush crept up his neck, spread across his cheekbones, turned the tips of his ears pink.

"Don't," you said.

"I wasn't gonna—"

"You were gonna smirk."

"...Maybe."

You flicked his forehead again. This time, he caught your hand and kissed your knuckles instead of complaining, one slow and deliberate kiss to each finger, his lips warm against your skin.

"That's cheating," you said.

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Your face says yes."

"My face says I'm going to smother you in your sleep."

"I'd love that."

"Get off my counter."

After that, he started coming over just to be there, sprawling across your pink blanket like he pays rent, watching you exist with an intensity that should have been illegal.

"Can I help you?" You said, for the fifth time, as you stood at your vanity.

"Nope."

"Then why are you staring?"

"Because you're doing something interesting."

"I'm doing my skincare routine."

"Exactly. Interesting."

You stared at him in the mirror. He stared back from your bed, chin propped on his hands, looking like a cat who'd found the warmest spot in the house. His scraped knee was bent, his bandaged hand resting on the blanket, and he looked so comfortable that it made your chest ache.

"What's that one do?" He asked, pointing at your toner.

"It balances my pH."

"Your... what?"

"pH. The acidity of my skin."

A pause. "That's a thing?"

"Yes, Keonho. That's a thing. Some of us care about our skin."

"I care about my skin."

"You use bar soap on your face."

"It works!"

"It works against you. Your pores are screaming for help."

He snorted. "You're so dramatic."

You ignored him, choosing to move through the steps—cleanser, toner, serum, moisturiser—explaining each one as you went. He asked questions just to annoy you. You answered them just to prove you knew more than him. It was a dance you'd perfected over three months, a back-and-forth that felt like second nature.

"So this one," he said, pointing at your serum, "is basically magic water?"

"No, it's… actually, yes. Kind of. But expensive magic water."

"So you're putting magic water on your face."

"Antioxidant-rich magic water."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's a real thing that costs eighty dollars."

He sat up so fast his hair became disshevelled in a scruffy mess that made him look almost… adorable. "Eighty dollars? For water?"

"It's not just water, I literally just explained the ingredients to you—"

"You said 'fermented something' and I stopped listening!"

"That's on you!"

"I could buy three decks for eighty dollars!"

"You don't need three decks!"

"You don't need eighty-dollar water!"

You threw a cotton pad at his face and it ended up stuck to his forehead. He left it there, too focused on your current bickering.

"This is why I don't explain things to you," you said.

"This is why you should explain things to me. I'm learning."

"You're judging."

"Learning and judging. They're the same thing."

"Get out of my room."

“No.” He grinned, cotton pad still stuck to his forehead, looking like the stupidest person you'd ever been in love with. "You'd be sad if I left."

"I'd throw a party."

"You'd cry."

"I'd celebrate."

"You'd cry while celebrating."

"Keonho."

"What's that one?" He pointed at the smallest bottle on your vanity.

You picked it up. "That's eye cream."

"What's it do?"

"It... moisturises my eyes."

"Your eyes?"

"The skin around my eyes."

He stared at you and you stared back. The cotton pad was still on his forehead because he still hadn't removed it.

"So," he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face, "most of these are just... different kinds of water?"

"I'm going to kill you."

"You put water on your face. Then more water. Then different water."

"I'm going to kill you and hide your body in my closet."

"You'd miss me too much."

"I'd miss nothing."

He tilted his head, the cotton pad finally falling onto the blanket, his smile so wide it made your chest hurt. "Say that again but look me in the eyes this time."

You threw the eye cream at him.

He caught it one-handed like some kind of action hero, and immediately shoved it into his hoodie pocket.

"I'm keeping this," he said.

"That's forty dollars."

"Then I'm keeping forty dollars."

"Keonho. You're not keeping the eye cream," you said, crossing your arms and turning to face him fully.

He patted his pocket. "Already in there. It's warm now. It's bonding with me."

"Take it out."

"No."

"Keonho."

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

You glared at him and he only looked back utterly unbothered and the absolute picture of smug satisfaction. 

"You're actually going to steal from me?"

"I'm not stealing. I'm... relocating."

"To your pocket."

"Temporary relocation."

"You're not going to give it back."

"Temporary can mean a lot of things princess." He shrugged, utterly shameless.

You lunged for him.

You grabbed his hoodie sleeve and tried to shove your hand into his pocket. He twisted away, laughing that stupid, warm laugh that made your stomach flip, and you ended up half on top of him, both of you grappling like children fighting over the TV remote. The pink blanket bunched beneath you and your hair came loose from its clip.

"Give it," you hissed, your face inches from his.

"Make me."

"I will actually hurt you."

"You've been saying that for three months and I'm still standing."

"Barely."

He snorted. You used his distraction to jam your hand into his pocket. Your fingers closed around the tiny bottle—yes—but his hand closed around your wrist at the same time.

"Nice try," he said, breath warm on your face.

"Let go."

"Say please."

"I'd rather die."

"Dramatic."

"Keonho."

He grinned, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were tangled together on your bed, his back against the headboard, you half-sprawled across his lap, your hand in his pocket and his hand on your wrist and his face entirely too close to yours. 

"You're ridiculous," you said quietly.

"You love it."

"I love nothing."

"You love me."

The words landed differently than they had before. He'd said them casually—joking, teasing, the way he always did. But something about the way he was looking at you now, something about the way his thumb was tracing slow circles on your wrist, something about the way his voice had dropped an octave made it feel less like a joke and more like a test.

You pulled your empty hand out of his pocket, though you didn’t care about the cream anymore.

"I'm serious," you said, sitting back slightly, though you didn't move off his lap. "Give me the cream."

"I'm serious too." He didn't let go of your wrist. Didn't stop tracing those circles. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"You know what."

"I really don't."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar. I've built my entire social reputation on it."

"Then be honest." His voice went quiet. "For once. With me. Just say it."

Your heart was doing something stupid in your chest. Something loud and panicked and entirely out of your control. It was hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, and you were sure he could feel it through your wrist, through the thin skin where his thumb was pressed against your pulse.

"I don't know what you want me to say," you whispered.

"You do."

"Keonho—"

"Three months." He shifted, sitting up straighter, bringing his face closer to yours. "Three months of fighting and stealing my hoodies and pretending you don't care. Three months of you letting me climb through your window at 2 AM. Three months of this." He gestured between you with his free hand. "And you're still going to sit there and tell me you feel nothing?"

"Yes."

"Stop lying to me."

You looked at him. His eyes were dark and steady and completely, terrifyingly sincere. There was no escape route. No exit strategy. Justhim, waiting and patiently choosing you.

"Why do you do this?" You asked, and your voice was smaller now. Smaller than you wanted it to be, than you'd ever let yourself sound in front of anyone else.

"Do what?"

"Stay." Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. "Even when I'm like this. Even when I push. Even when I say things I don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "Why do you stay?"

"Because I know you don't mean it."

"What if I do?"

"You don't."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." He reached up with his free hand and brushed some hair off your forehead and tucked it behind your ear, the way he always did when he was being gentle. "I know you're scared. I know you've been hurt. I know you push people away before they can leave so you don't have to feel it when they go." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I know—" He paused. Took a breath. "I know that underneath all of that, there's someone who just wants to be chosen. For real. Not for the crown. Not for the reputation. Just... chosen."

You couldn't breathe.

"I'm choosing you," he said. "Right now. Every day. I'm choosing you. And I'll keep choosing you. Even when you're mean. Even when you push. Even when you throw things at my head." A small smile tugged at his lips. "Especially then, actually. You have crazy good aim princess."

"Keonho—"

"I love you."

There it was. Not a joke. Not a test. Not a weapon. Just... the truth. Dropped into the space between you like a stone into still water, sending ripples through everything.

"I love you," he said again, softer this time, like he was telling you a secret. "And you don't have to say it back. You don't have to do anything. I just needed you to know. Because someone should choose you. For real. And I'm done pretending that's not what I'm doing."

The room was too quiet and your heart was entirely too loud. You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and you blinked them back furiously.

"You're an idiot," you said.

"I know."

"You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."

"I know."

"You steal my skincare products and you put your shoes on my rug and you never shut up and you—" You ran at of steam for a brief moment, breathing heavily. "You climb through my window at 2 AM and you see me and you stay and I don't—I don't know how to—"

You stopped, pressing your palms against your eyes. "I don't know how to be loved," you whispered. "I don't know how to receive it. I only know how to perform and defend and attack and—"

"Then let me teach you."

You looked up. His face was so open. So vulnerable. So completely unlike the lazy, smirking boy who'd nearly murdered you with his skateboard when you first met. His eyes were bright, almost wet, and his lips were parted slightly, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Let me teach you," he said again. "Slowly. Badly. While we fight about the thermostat and the last slice of pizza and whether or not hot dogs are sandwiches—"

"They're not."

"—they're absolutely sandwiches—"

"They're not—"

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Avoiding."

You closed your mouth and he waited.

Then, finally, quietly, like you were admitting something you'd been hiding your whole life:

"I love you too."

His whole face changed. Like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Like you'd handed him something precious and fragile and entirely unexpected, and he was holding it with both hands, afraid to drop it.

"Say it again," he said.

"You heard me."

"Say it again anyway."

"No."

"Say it and I'll give back the eye cream."

"Liar."

"Okay, I won't give it back." He was grinning now, wide and real and bright. "But I'll actually shut up.”

"You won't."

"No." He laughed. "I won't. But I'll try."

You laughed surprised and almost giddy. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, and you couldn't stop it, and you didn't want to.

"I love you," you said. "I love you and you're the most annoying person I've ever met and if you ever tell anyone I said this first—"

"You didn't say it first. I did."

"Semantics."

"I'm telling everyone."

"I'll kill you."

"Worth it."

He kissed you as soon as the words left his mouth.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your head spin—slow at first, then deeper, then hungry, like he'd been waiting for this, and he'd been starving for it.

You kissed him back with everything you had. Your fingers tangled in his hair: soft, slightly messy, smelling like his cheap shampoo and the skate park. His other hand slid around your waist, pressing you against him until there was no space left between your bodies.

His mouth was warm. Addictive, even. He kissed you until your lungs burned and your lips tingled and the world outside your bedroom had ceased to exist entirely.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours. His thumb traced your cheekbone. His eyes were dark and soft all at once.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey."

"I love you."

"You said that already."

"I'm going to keep saying it."

"I know."

He kissed you again—softer this time, just a brush of lips, a promise. Then again, a little longer. Then again, like he couldn't help himself from memorising the shape of your mouth against his own.

You smiled against his lips. "You're going to give me permanent lip damage."

"Worth it."

"Keonho."

"What? You're kissable."

"That's not a word."

"It is now. I invented it."

"You can't just invent words."

"I just did. Kissable. It means deserving of many kisses." He demonstrated. Twice. "See?"

You shoved his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed each of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way he'd done in the bathroom.

"You're ridiculous," you said.

"You love it."

"I love you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes."

He grinned, and you kissed him again just to wipe that stupid thing off his face.

It didn't work. You could feel him smiling the whole time.

When you finally settled: both of you tangled in the pink blanket with your head on his chest and his arms wrapped around you, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"The eye cream is still mine," he said.

"Over my dead body."

"We can arrange that."

You shoved him. He fell back against the headboard, laughing, and you let yourself fall on top of him, face buried in his hoodie, heart so full it hurt.

"I love you," you mumbled into his chest.

"I know."

"Don't get cocky."

"Too late."

You could feel him smiling against your hair. His arms tightened around you, one hand tracing lazy shapes on your back—circles, spirals, a heart. The other hand was definitely still clutching the eye cream in his pocket. You could feel the little bottle pressing against your hip.

"Hey," he said again.

"Mm?"

"You're my favourite person to fight with."

"You're my least favourite person to exist near."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

"Shut up and let me hold you."

"You shut up."

He laughed a warm, rumbling sound that traveled through his chest and into yours. You smiled into his hoodie. And somewhere in his pocket, your forty-dollar eye cream sat warm between your bodies, a tiny hostage in the middle of a war neither of you wanted to win.

Because winning meant stopping.

And stopping meant no more fights.

And no more fights meant no more this.

And this—messy and loud and full of arguing that truly served no purpose—was exactly where you wanted to be.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

THE BATTLE OF BRITPOP — JAMES CHAO

SYNOPSIS :: In which you met your boyfriend through failing to ragebait him about the battle of britpop

W.C :: 1.0k

CONTAINS :: bf!James, blurfan!James x oasisfan!reader, heacanons, kissing, skinship, ragebaiting

PLAYLIST :: Tender - Blur; Slide away - Oasis

bf!James who actually didn’t care that much when you first commented on his post of Blur lyrics in an attempt to ragebait him by saying Oasis was miles better, because sure he preferred Blur, but he also didn’t mind Oasis. he just replied with  “okay 😭” and went on with his day.

bf!James who started getting amused when you kept replying anyway, acting personally offended over “mid blur propaganda” and insisting the whole battle of britpop should’ve ended with Oasis winning by default. he could tell you were trying way too hard to annoy him, especially when half your arguments made no sense, but he was one of the rare few who didn’t actually pick a side in the rivalry.

bf!James who finally took the bait when you said nobody under the age of forty willingly listened to “woohoo song #2.” he sent back three paragraphs defending Song 2 like his life depended on it.

bf!James who kept telling himself he was only replying because he was bored, but suddenly it was 2 a.m. and you were both ranking britpop albums in his comment section like music critics with personal grudges.

bf!James who secretly laughed every time you called Damon Albarn “that pretentious british man” because technically you weren’t wrong, but the same could arguably be said for Liam and Noel.

bf!James who eventually moved the arguments to private messages after his friends kept screenshotting your fights and reposting them with captions like “enemies to lovers speedrun.”

bf!James who made you a playlist titled “for people with terrible opinions” and filled it with Blur songs he swore would fix your taste.

bf!James who dragged you into tiny record shops because “you need a proper Blur education,” then acted betrayed when you wandered off to the Oasis section instead.

bf!James who stared at you in genuine horror after catching you replace one of his Blur songs in a shared playlist with Wonderwall.

bf!James who claimed your music taste was hopeless but still memorised your favorite Oasis songs anyway, just so he could sing them obnoxiously off-key to make you laugh.

bf!James who nearly passed out when months later you casually showed up wearing one of his old Blur tees at his door and said, “don’t get excited. i still think Oasis clears.”

bf!James who kissed you mid-argument once because you were ranting about the battle of britpop with so much fake passion he couldn’t even take you seriously anymore.

bf!James who started noticing that every single one of your arguments somehow circled back to defending Oasis like it was your full-time job. “do you even like them that much,” he asked once. you stared at him for a second before admitting, “not really. i just like annoying you.”

bf!James who looked genuinely offended the first time you called Blur “elevator music for art students.” he spent the next hour trying to prove you wrong with a level of passion that honestly concerned you.

bf!James who would randomly send you screenshots of people online praising Blur with captions like “SEE??? PUBLIC OPINION.” as if he was gathering evidence for a legal case.

bf!James who acted smug for weeks after catching you adding Girls & Boys to one of your playlists. you tried claiming it was ironic listening. he never believed you.

bf!James who loved putting on Beetlebum during car rides specifically because he knew you’d start complaining dramatically within the first thirty seconds, even though you always ended up singing along anyway.

bf!James who once pulled out an entire timeline of the battle of britpop just to win an argument with you, only for you to say, “this is the nerdiest thing you’ve ever done,” while trying not to laugh.

bf!James who got ridiculously soft the first time you admitted one of his favourite songs actually reminded you of him whenever it came on. he pretended to stay calm about it, but later he added the song to three separate playlists he’d made for you so you could always be reminded of him.

bf!James who threatened to revoke your aux privileges forever after you interrupted his Blur marathon by blasting Don’t Look Back in Anger through the speakers.

bf!James who would hold your face in both hands after particularly stupid arguments and go, “you know we could be having normal couple conversations instead of debating 90s british men right now.”

bf!James who secretly adored that your relationship started because you failed at ragebaiting him initially. according to him, the fact that you kept coming back to argue meant you liked him from the beginning—even if neither of you admitted it yet.

bf!James who still has screenshots of your very first arguments saved somewhere in his camera roll because he thinks it’s funny how hard you tried to sound like the number one Oasis defender alive while clearly googling half your points.

bf!James who once got so competitive during a debate that he made you both sit down and listen to entire albums back-to-back “for objective analysis,” only for the night to end with you both yelling lyrics across the room at each other.

bf!James who loves wrapping an arm around your waist and whispering “be honest, Blur changed your life a little bit” whenever he catches you enjoying one of their songs too much.

bf!James who acted devastated when you told him Tender was actually beautiful because according to him, “bullying you about britpop was more fun when you were committed to the bit.”

bf!James who keeps trying to get you to watch old Blur interviews with him, then spends half the time pausing to explain band lore while you stare at him like he’s become a middle-aged man trapped in a young person’s body.

bf!James who nearly started a real argument after you said Blur only won because they had “better unemployed person music.” he didn’t even know what that meant, but it sounded insulting.

bf!James who once caught you defending Blur to somebody else online and went completely silent. when you noticed him staring, he just went, “oh my god. i converted you.”

bf!James who still argues with you for fun even after you both admitted the whole Oasis vs Blur thing stopped being serious months ago. now it’s basically flirting with extra steps.

bf!James who kisses you after every fake argument like it’s the official ceasefire agreement in your own embarrassingly specific britpop war.

[blushdarkberries]

whenever brit pop rock bands (just any rock band) comes up on my feed u know im so up 😭 U KNOWWWWW U KNOW I AM 🤧🤧 the back and forth cute lil arguments and when he kisses her as reader yapped n yapped LORDDDD GIVE IT TO MEEEE

in my head im imagining a blur fan! james x rhcp fan! mari bc im doped up in copium kill me it’s so easy to 😔 n this exact same thing happened as well 😌🤷‍♀️🩷

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

MR AND MRS CAMP COUNSELOR — EOM SEONGHYEON

SYNOPSIS :: Your campers see you and Seonghyeon beating around the bush and decide to take matters into their own hands.

W.C :: 6.4k

CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, the campers are matchmakers, confessions, crack, fluff

PLAYLIST :: Everybody talks - Neon Trees; Are you bored yet? - Wallows, Clairo; I’m yours - Jason Mraz; Can I call you tonight? - Dayglow

The sun shone brightly over camp that afternoon, scattering stars across the surface of the lake as the water shifted in slow, shimmering waves beneath the weight of the summer heat. Along the shore stood you and Seonghyeon, both decked out in full counselor regalia: whistles hanging from bright lanyards around your necks, clipboards tucked firmly beneath your arms, sunglasses perched on your faces like armor against both the glare and the chaos currently unfolding in the swimming area.

Or, more accurately, the chaos you were attempting to manage.

“Cabin Three,” you called out, pitch carrying across the water, “if I see one more person pretending to drown, swimming privileges are gone for the rest of the day!”

A chorus of dramatic groans answered you.

Beside you, Seonghyeon snorted quietly, pushing his sunglasses higher up his nose with the hand that wasn't clutching his coffee. “You say that like they fear consequences.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your own sunglasses. “Mine do.”

Right on cue, one of your campers cannonballed directly into the roped-off shallow section, sending a spray of water across three indignant lifeguards.

“Never mind,” you muttered.

Seonghyeon laughed under his breath, the sound almost drowned out by the shrieking kids and the relentless splash of water. It was a nice sound, you noticed distantly. Warm, even.

You pushed the thought away immediately.

Out in the lake, however, neither of your cabins were paying the slightest bit of attention to the actual swimming. Clusters of campers floated near the wooden docks, treading water in loose circles as they whispered amongst themselves with all the subtlety of investigative reporters.

“I'm telling you,” one of Seonghyeon's campers whispered dramatically, her voice carrying across the water despite her best efforts, “they were together during breakfast again. Sitting at the same table. Sharing the syrup.”

“Counselors eat breakfast together all the time,” your camper argued, though she sounded uncertain.

“Not. Like. That.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means there was eye contact.”

A beat of silence passed between the floating conspirators.

“…Oh my god.”

Further out in the water, another camper squinted toward shore, shading his eyes with one dripping hand. “Wait, wait, look. He's smiling.”

Half the group gasped as if they'd just witnessed a crime.

“No, because he only smiles like that around her. Did you see his face during archery this morning? Stone cold. Stone. Cold.”

“You're insane.”

“I'm right.”

Back on shore, completely oblivious to the psychological warfare taking place twenty feet from where you stood, you reached for the sunscreen bottle sitting on the wooden bench beside Seonghyeon at the exact same moment he picked it up.

Your fingers brushed. Barely a touch that lasted less than half a second.

From somewhere in the lake came the distinct sound of a child choking on pool water.

“DID YOU SEE THAT?” Someone whisper-screamed, so loudly that several nearby children glanced over.

“He definitely did that on purpose.”

“No way!”

“Yes way,” the camper insisted, aggressively dog-paddling closer to the group, eyes wide with conviction. “That was, like, straight out of a movie.”

“You guys are actually delusional.”

“Look,” another one cut in, pointing dramatically toward shore with the kind of urgency usually reserved for shark sightings, “they're still staring at each other.”

Every head in the water turned at once.

Onshore, Seonghyeon was indeed still holding the sunscreen bottle, though now mostly because you refused to let go of it. The two of you stood frozen in a ridiculous tableau, your fingers tangled around the plastic bottle like neither of you knew how to let go.

“You know there are, like, six other bottles,” you said, your voice flatter than intended.

“And yet,” Seonghyeon replied, entirely too calm, “you reached for mine.”

“Oh my god,” someone in the water whispered, voice trembling with barely contained glee. “Flirting.”

“It's not flirting if they don't know they're flirting.”

“Yes it is!”

Seonghyeon finally released the bottle with a laugh, shaking his head as you nearly stumbled backward from the sudden lack of resistance. The shift in balance caught you off guard, your heels sinking into the sand as you fought to stay upright.

“Careful,” he said easily, reaching out to steady your arm before you could lose your balance completely. His fingers wrapped around your elbow to ground you.

Silence fell over the lake.

Then—

“HE TOUCHED HER AGAIN.”

Several campers began smacking the water in disbelief, sending up sprays that caught the sunlight like confetti. One of yours grabbed another by the shoulders, shaking her with desperate excitement.

“THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT,” she hissed.

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the chaos you'd just unleashed, you were glaring at Seonghyeon over the rim of your sunglasses, your arm still tingling where his hand had been.

“You're so annoying,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

Before he could respond, a sharp whistle cut across the lake from further up the shore—three short, piercing blasts that sliced through the noise like a knife.

Immediately, groans erupted from every direction.

“Nooo!”

“We just got in!”

“Five more minutes! Please!”

One of the camp managers stood near the dining hall path with her hands cupped around her mouth, her silhouette unmistakable against the trees. “Activity time is over! Back to cabins, shower up, and be at dinner in twenty minutes!”

The swimming area descended into chaos almost instantly. Campers scrambled toward shore in dripping, panicked groups, abandoning floaties and goggles in the sand as counselors everywhere started shouting instructions that no one was really listening to.

“Cabin Three, line up before someone breaks an ankle!”

“Who stole my shoe?!”

“Stop throwing water at each other—Jasper, I saw that!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind your eyes.

Seonghyeon, meanwhile, looked entirely too relaxed for someone whose cabin was currently attempting to body-slam each other into the lake one last time. He stood with his weight shifted to one hip, watching the chaos unfold like it was a nature documentary rather than his responsibility.

“How are they still this energetic?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

As campers continued flooding past one of yours suddenly skidded to a stop directly in front of the two of you. Water dripped from her hair in steady streams, pooling in the sand around her feet, but her expression was deadly serious.

“Counselor,” she said breathlessly, looking between you and Seonghyeon. “Cabin Three has a question.”

You already knew, with the bone-deep certainty of someone who had been dealing with these children for three weeks straight, that this was going to be terrible.

“…What.”

The camper pointed directly at Seonghyeon, her arm steady as a compass needle. “If he asked you to go stargazing with him, would you say yes?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, from somewhere behind her:

“OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY ASKED.”

Seonghyeon choked on air beside you, his composure finally cracking as he coughed into his fist.

“You guys are unbelievable,” you said, though your face had gone noticeably warmer beneath the afternoon sun. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks like a slow sunrise.

The camper ignored you completely, her eyes wide with anticipation. “Well?”

“Go shower,” you deadpanned.

“That's not an answer.”

“Now.”

She groaned dramatically before jogging backward toward the cabins. As she went, she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled to the others still lingering by the dock:

“SHE DIDN'T SAY NO!”

Instant screaming broke out down the trail and you could only cover your face with both hands, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

Beside you, Seonghyeon was very obviously trying not to laugh. His shoulders shook with the effort, and when you peeked through your fingers, you could see him biting the inside of his cheek.

“Oh, don't start,” you warned without looking up.

“I didn't even say anything.”

“Your face is saying plenty.”

You ignored him after that, already turning to follow after your campers as they sprinted up the path toward the cabins in a trail of wet footprints and continued shrieking. Their voices echoed through the trees, bouncing off the cabin walls like rubber balls.

“Walk!” You called after them automatically, the word as reflexive as breathing at this point.

Nobody listened. They never did.

You could only sigh as you trudged up the path, the sand giving way to packed dirt and scattered pine needles. Behind you, Seonghyeon watched you go, and even without turning around, you could feel his gaze on your back: warm, steady, and entirely too distracting.

“Mr. Seonghyeon.”

One of his campers stood a few feet ahead on the trail, hands planted on her hips as she stared at him. 

The small smile on his face disappeared almost instantly.

“…What.”

She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head like a bird examining something interesting. “You are very obvious.”

“About what?”

She didn't respond. Just gave him a long, pointed look before turning and running after the rest of the campers, her wet ponytail bouncing behind her.

Seonghyeon stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her go.

Then he sighed, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, and followed.

The very next morning, you stood outside the main lodge with a fresh clipboard in your hands, eyes scanning down the list of counselor duties pinned beneath layers of brightly colored sticky notes and doodled smiley faces. 

Breakfast cleanup. Archery supervision. Arts and crafts rotation. Lifeguard rotation. Tandem canoe—

You nodded absentmindedly until your eyes caught a very familiar name directly beneath yours.

Your brows furrowed. Then lowered.

“Did you sign me up for tandem canoe duty?”

Across from you, Seonghyeon looked up slowly from the clipboard resting in his lap, his expression far too calm for someone about to be accused of conspiracy. He was sitting on the lodge steps, long legs stretched out in front of him, looking for all the world like he didn't have a care in it.

“No?” He said, and the upward tilt at the end of the word was definitely suspicious.

“Then why,” you asked carefully, holding up the clipboard like evidence in a trial, “are our names written with hearts around them?”

A beat passed as he leaned forward slightly to inspect the paper, squinting at the glitter-covered section you were pointing to.

“Oh,” he said finally, as if just noticing. “Purple glitter pen.”

You stared at him.

“That means my campers,” he clarified, as if this explained everything.

Sure enough, surrounding both your names on the duty chart were aggressively drawn purple hearts, silver stars, and what appeared to be two very badly sketched wedding rings. One of the rings had a giant sparkle in the center. The other appeared to be on fire, though that might have been a drawing error.

One particularly ambitious camper had even written: ‘MR + MRS ???’ in loopy cursive beside it, complete with a question mark that had been turned into a tiny heart.

You closed your eyes briefly, counting to ten in your head. “They're evolving.”

Seonghyeon snorted into his coffee, narrowly avoiding snorting it out of his nose in the process. “You sound concerned.”

“I am concerned.”

“You should be,” he agreed lightly, dabbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mine have started calling you ‘Counselor Y/N-Seonghyeon’ behind your back. I heard two of them arguing about whether you'd hyphenate or just take the name.”

Your head whipped toward him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “They what?”

“It's mostly the younger ones.” He shrugged, but his eyes were bright with amusement. “The older ones are focused on wedding venues.”

“That's somehow worse.”

Before Seonghyeon could answer a blur of camp shirts sprinted across the field toward the counselor board. Two figures moving fast, their feet barely touching the grass.

Both of you turned just in time to watch two of his campers abruptly freeze upon realising you were already standing there, mid-stride, looking like deer caught in very guilty headlights.

Silence descended over the morning.

One of them slowly lowered the uncapped purple glitter pen still clutched in her hand. A single drop of sparkle ink plopped onto the grass between them.

“…Good morning,” she tried weakly.

You pointed at the clipboard, not bothering to hide your accusatory tone. “Was this you?”

Immediately, they turned on each other with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for reality TV reunions.

“Why are you looking at me?”

“You literally brought the pen!”

“You drew the hearts too big!”

“I told you subtlety mattered!”

“You wrote MR AND MRS!”

“The moment called for it!”

Seonghyeon made absolutely no attempt to hide his laughter now, shoulders shaking beside you as the campers descended into mutual betrayal. 

“You think this is funny?” you asked flatly.

“A little,” he admitted.

“You're the reason they're like this.”

“That feels deeply unfair.”

One of the campers gasped loudly, whipping around to face the other. “Wait, wait, listen—they're bickering like an old married couple again.”

The other slapped her arm urgently, eyes wide. “Write that down.”

You blinked. “Are you documenting this?”

“No,” they answered immediately, in perfect unison, which meant yes.

A small notebook labeled OPERATION: SUMMER ROMANCE — DO NOT READ (unless you're part of the mission) stuck halfway out of one camper's pocket. It was covered in glitter glue, heart stickers, and what looked like a dried noodle that had been glued on for texture.

Seonghyeon spotted it too. His laughter cut off abruptly.

“…Is that glitter glue and pasta,” he said.

The camper slowly pushed the notebook deeper into her pocket.

Nobody said anything.

Safe to say, you and Seonghyeon ended up spending the next two hours stuck in the same canoe.

Not alone, unfortunately. The campers were everywhere: bobbing across the lake in mismatched practice canoes, splashing each other with paddles, and generally creating the kind of chaos that made you understand why some animals ate their young.

Around you, the water glittered under the late morning sun as campers struggled to steer their rented canoes across the lake with varying levels of success. Some were actually doing quite well, gliding in smooth, straight lines toward the far shore. Others were… less successful.

You and Seonghyeon sat in the middle of the water in a canoe that had seen better decades, attempting to coach from your position as the designated "lead canoe." Attempted being the key word.

“No, no—if both of you paddle on the same side, you're just gonna—”

One canoe spun violently in a circle, the two campers inside yelping as water sloshed over the sides.

“—there it is,” Seonghyeon finished with a sigh.

From the front of your canoe, one of your campers twisted around to face you, nearly tipping the whole vessel in the process. “Counselor,” she called out, cupping her hands around her mouth, “we can't focus when the tension between you two is so distracting.”

You nearly dropped your paddle.

“There is no tension,” you called back, your voice pitching higher than intended.

“That sounds exactly like someone with tension would say!” Another camper shouted from a nearby canoe, and a ripple of knowing laughter spread across the water.

Seonghyeon leaned back slightly in his seat, his paddle resting across his knees, clearly enjoying this far more than he should have been. The morning light caught the side of his face, illuminating the faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You know,” he mused, loud enough for the nearby canoes to hear, “they might have a point.”

You turned toward him so quickly your canoe rocked dangerously to one side. Several campers screamed dramatically, clutching the sides of their own vessels as if expecting a capsize.

“Sit properly!” you snapped.

“I am sitting properly.”

“You're instigating.”

“That too,” he admitted, and his smile widened.

A splash suddenly erupted nearby as one camper completely lost balance trying to stand up inside their canoe despite your clear instructions not to. The canoe tipped, the camper shrieked, and then there was a large splash as they went overboard.

“Oh my god—”

“Don't stand up!”

“WHY WOULD YOU STAND UP?”

The camper resurfaced laughing, sputtering water out of their mouth while their canoe drifted away riderless, spinning lazily in the gentle current.

At least four other campers abandoned their own paddling to yell updates about the situation like sports commentators. 

Meanwhile, your own canoe had started drifting lazily toward the middle of the lake, away from the main group, away from the shouting, away from everything except the glittering water and the warm sun.

You sighed, dipping your paddle back into the water with a practiced stroke. Beside you, Seonghyeon mirrored the movement automatically and the canoe straightened almost immediately, gliding forward like it was on tracks.

The synchronisation made several campers go eerily silent.

One of his campers pointed shakily, her finger trembling like she'd witnessed a miracle. “Did you see that.”

“They paddled at the same time.”

“That's actually insane.”

“It's because they're soulmat—”

“Finish that sentence and you're cleaning cabins tonight,” Seonghyeon warned, but there was no heat in it. He was still smiling.

The camper only grinned, utterly unafraid.

You shook your head, trying—and failing—to hide your own smile as the canoe glided over the water, sunlight reflecting in scattered patterns around you both like shattered glass. The lake was beautiful this time of day, all gold and blue and shimmering warmth.

Unfortunately, your campers noticed your expression too.

“She's smiling.”

“No, because look at him smiling behind her too. They're doing it at the same time. That's a thing people in love do.”

“Guys,” another camper whispered urgently, already pulling out the glitter-covered notebook again, “this is huge we have to write it down.”

Packing up afterward was chaos and you'd offered to handle it with your cabin while Seonghyeon took his campers back up the hill. The logic was sound: if you split up, the cabins’ shower schedules wouldn't overlap, and everyone would make it to lunch on time.

Logic, unfortunately, had very little power over a group of determined campers.

“Counselor.”

You glanced up from where you were hauling dripping life jackets into the storage bin near the docks. The afternoon heat had settled over the lake like a blanket, and sweat was already beading at your temples despite the breeze.

One of your campers stood nearby holding an armful of paddles, her expression far too innocent to mean anything good. The paddles were clutched to her chest like a shield, but her eyes were sharp and calculating.

“Yeah?” You said warily.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, the picture of casual curiosity. “If you and Mr. Seonghyeon got married, would that make you Mrs. Seonghyeon?”

Your brain stopped functioning.

Completely.

Somewhere behind you, another camper dropped a paddle with a loud clatter into the sand. The sound echoed across the dock like a gunshot.

Your cheeks burned instantly. You could feel the heat spreading from your chest up your neck, across your face, all the way to the tips of your ears. You probably looked like a tomato wearing a counselor polo.

Because honestly, what were you even supposed to say to that?

If you corrected her—if you said well, technically, his last name is Eom, so I'd be Mrs. Eom—they would absolutely twist it into:

“So you HAVE thought about it.”

Which you hadn't.

At all.

Never.

Definitely not during counselor meetings when he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. Or when he laughed at something stupid during dinner. Or when he looked at you like that—

Nope. Absolutely not.

“Why,” you said carefully, enunciating each word, “would you ask me that.”

The camper shrugged, still holding the paddles. “Just curious.”

“Liar,” another one muttered from somewhere behind you.

Immediately, the first camper whipped around, paddles swinging dangerously. “Whose side are you on?”

“The truth's side.”

“The romance side.”

“The same thing!”

You made a strangled noise somewhere in the back of your throat. “Okay,” you interrupted quickly, holding up your hands, “I think we're done talking forever actually.”

Several campers burst into laughter, their voices carrying across the water.

“But you didn't answer,” one pointed out.

“I noticed that too,” another agreed suspiciously, narrowing her eyes at you like a detective who had just found a crucial clue.

You grabbed the nearest stack of towels entirely to avoid eye contact, clutching them to your chest like a lifeline. “Some of you need hobbies.”

The campers refused to let it go.

Any time you and Seonghyeon so much as stood next to each other, whispers instantly broke out behind cupped hands, entire groups of children watching the two of you like they were tracking a slow-burn drama in real time. 

It was unbearable.

And somehow, impossibly, getting worse.

By free period the next day, the situation had escalated so badly that both cabins had apparently merged into one large investigative unit with a single mission: aggressive matchmaking.

You discovered this in rather harsh fashion.

One of your campers had come running up to you with wide, panicked eyes, claiming there was a raccoon trapped in the large storage cupboard inside the boys' cabin. She'd been very convincing: teary-eyed, trembling, the whole performance. You'd followed her without question because, frankly, you'd dealt with raccoons at camp before and they were not to be trifled with.

Meanwhile, somewhere across camp, a similar story involving a "massive spider" had sent Seonghyeon hurrying toward the same location.

The result was predictable in hindsight.

The door slammed shut behind you both before you'd even processed what was happening. The sound was loud in the small space: a heavy thunk of wood against wood, followed immediately by the scrape of something being wedged through the door handles on the outside.

You stared at the door.

Then at Seonghyeon.

Then back at the door.

“Did your campers just lock us in here?”

From the other side came muffled whispering, frantic shushing, and the unmistakable sound of someone stage-whispering: “GO GO GO RUN BEFORE THEY BREAK OUT.”

The sound of retreating footsteps faded almost immediately, replaced by the distant shrieking of triumph echoing across the camp grounds—a chorus of children who had just committed a crime and felt absolutely no remorse.

You pressed your palm flat against the storage closet door. It didn't budge. Not even a little.

“I can't believe this,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I actually can't believe this.”

Behind you, Seonghyeon exhaled slowly in half a laugh, half a sigh. His footsteps shifted on the wooden floor as he turned to survey the prison.

A beat passed in the darkness. The closet was small. Much smaller than you'd realised from the outside. Shelves lined both walls, crammed with extra sleeping bags, board games with missing pieces, a deflated volleyball, and what smelled like several summers' worth of forgotten arts and crafts supplies. The air was warm and close, thick with the smell of dust and old wood.

And you.

And Seonghyeon.

Who was currently standing close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his arm without even trying. Close enough that if you turned your head a little to the right, your shoulder would brush his. Close enough that you could hear him breathing.

“We could just push it open,” he said after a moment, his voice low in the darkness. “It's not locked. They just jammed a broom handle through the handles.”

You tested the door again, pushing harder this time. The wood groaned, but the handles didn't give. “There's no way we'd be able to break a broom handle from this angle.”

“So we're stuck.”

“Temporarily,” you said, because admitting otherwise felt like admitting defeat.

He shifted slightly beside you, resettling his weight, trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped space—and something on the shelf above him clattered dangerously. A box teetered, then stilled.

“Careful,” you warned, your hand shooting out instinctively to steady the shelf. “If you knock over the craft glitter onto us, I'm going to kill you.”

He laughed quietly, barely more than a breath. It reverberated off the close walls, wrapped around you like the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the cracks in the wood.

And you were suddenly, acutely, almost painfully aware that there wasn't enough room to step back.

Not that you wanted to.

Not that you were thinking about that.

“Your campers are feral,” you said instead, steering the conversation firmly away from whatever your brain was trying to do. The words came out sharper than intended, a little too fast.

“Your campers shoved us in here.”

“They're a joint effort at this point. A collaborative disaster.”

“True.” He tilted his head slightly, and even in the dim light filtering through the cracks around the doorframe you could see the smile tugging at his mouth. “Cabin Three-and-a-half.”

“Don't encourage them.”

“I'm not encouraging anyone.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm simply observing that our names are still on the counselor board with wedding rings drawn around them.”

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the door. The wood was cool against your scalp. “Don't remind me.”

“The hearts have doubled in number since yesterday.”

“When did you see the board?”

“I walked past it this morning.” A pause. “There's a Venn diagram now.”

You turned to stare at him, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. His face was half in shadow, half illuminated, and he looked entirely too serious for someone who was trapped in a closet with his coworker.

“I'm serious,” he said, and his lips twitched. “Labeled ‘traits they share’ and ‘traits that would make them good parents.’”

“Parents?”

“They're very invested.”

You made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, dropping your head back against the door with a soft thunk. The sound echoed in the small space. “They're going to be insufferable when we get out of here.”

“We'll just have to wait and see,” Seonghyeon said, and there was something in his voice that made you open your eyes again.

He wasn't looking at the door anymore.

He was looking at you.

The dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder where his counselor shirt pulled tight across the fabric. His sunglasses were hooked into the collar of his shirt instead of on his face where they belonged, and without them, his eyes were… intense. Dark and focused and fixed entirely on you.

You realised abruptly that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to. That you were, in fact, already counting them without meaning to.

You didn't want to.

You absolutely did not want to.

“I'm going to kill them,” you said, and your voice came out slightly thinner than usual. Slightly higher. Completely unconvincing.

“The campers?”

“All of them.”

“Murder seems extreme.”

“They locked us in a closet, Seonghyeon.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, but he was still looking at you like that, and you couldn't look away.

Neither of you moved.

From somewhere outside, distant shouting echoed—campers running, probably, or maybe just general chaos. The lake glittered somewhere beyond the cabin walls, invisible but present. The afternoon sun shifted through the cracks in the wood, striping Seonghyeon's face in gold and shadow, and the world felt very small and very large all at once.

“Your campers asked me something yesterday,” he said quietly. The shift in topic was so abrupt that it took you a moment to process.

You blinked. “What?”

“They cornered me after archery.” His voice was casual, almost conversational, but something underneath it made your stomach flip. “Wanted to know my intentions.”

You stared at him. “…Your intentions.”

“Toward you.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest: a stutter, a skip, a full stop and restart. Something warm and dangerous spread through your ribs like honey.

You ignored it.

“And what did you say?”

He was quiet for a moment, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath. The closet seemed smaller suddenly, the air between your bodies feeling charged.

“I said I didn't know what they were talking about.”

“Good answer.”

“They didn't believe me.”

“My campers don't believe anyone.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, and you weren't sure when that had happened.

“True.” He shifted again, and this time his shoulder brushed yours—deliberately or accidentally, you couldn't tell. The contact sent a spark down your arm, a trail of heat that lingered even after he pulled back. “But they weren't wrong.”

The words hung in the dim air between you, suspended like dust motes in a sunbeam.

Your throat felt tight. Too tight to speak, too tight to breathe, too tight for anything except the pounding of your heart against your ribs.

“What does that mean?” You asked, and your voice came out quieter than you intended. Softer. More honest.

Seonghyeon turned toward you fully. The movement brought him closer—close enough that you could count the freckles scattered across his nose, the faint shadows beneath his eyes from too many late nights and early mornings. Close enough that you could see the way his pulse flickered at his throat, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

“I think,” he said, and his voice was low, careful, like he was handling something fragile, “you know what it means.”

Outside, someone screamed with laughter, the distant, joyful sound of children being children.

Inside, the world had gone very still.

You stared at him and he stared back. The space between you had never felt smaller.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

No sound came out.

Seonghyeon didn't move or push or attempt to fill the silence with nervous chatter or awkward jokes. He just stood there in the dim light with his shoulder almost touching yours and his eyes steady on your face, patient as the tide, like he had all the time in the world.

Which, technically, you both did. The door wasn't opening itself.

“I don't—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“The truth usually works.”

“The truth,” you repeated, and you laughed a little. “The truth is that my campers have been asking me if I'm going to marry you for three days, and I haven't said no once.”

Something soft and wondering flickered across his face. Like you'd just confirmed something he'd been hoping for but hadn't dared to believe.

“But,” he said carefully, and his voice was gentle in a way that made your chest ache, “you haven't said yes either.”

“To marriage? Seonghyeon, we've known each other for—”

“Not to marriage.” His voice dropped slightly, barely above a whisper now. “To anything.”

The air between you felt charged now, like before a thunderstorm. Like the moment the lake goes still right before the wind picks up, the moment when the world holds its breath and waits for the sky to crack open.

You looked away first—couldn't help it. Your eyes landed on the shelves beside you, the dusty board games, the half-empty bag of marshmallows someone had clearly hidden from their cabinmates days ago. Anything to avoid the weight of his gaze.

“You make this really difficult,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Being normal about you.”

He didn't laugh or make a joke. When you mustered the courage to glance back, his expression had gone serious in a way you almost never saw.

“You don't have to be normal about me,” he said quietly, and his voice was rough at the edges in a way that made your stomach flip. “I'm not normal about you either.”

Your heart stopped.

Then started again, twice as fast, beating so hard you could feel it in your throat.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

His hand moved—just slightly, just enough that his pinky brushed against yours where they rested against your thigh. The touch was barely anything. Barely there. A ghost of contact, a question more than a statement.

“It means,” Seonghyeon said, and his voice was steady even though his hand was not, “that I signed us up for tandem canoe duty.”

Your breath caught. “You told me you didn't.”

“I lied.”

“The hearts on the clipboard?”

“My campers. But I didn't stop them.” His pinky curled around yours, tentative, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn't. “It means I've been volunteering for breakfast cleanup even on my off days because that's when you're scheduled. It means I told the camp director the lakeside cabins needed two counselors for night checks even though they don't, just so I'd have an excuse to walk you back to your cabin after evening activities.”

Your chest felt too full. Like something was cracking open inside you, something you'd been trying very hard to keep shut and locked and buried. Something that wanted very badly to be seen.

“Why didn't you say anything?” you asked, and your voice cracked on the last word.

“Because you're my coworker.” He said it simply, like it was obvious, like he'd turned it over in his mind a thousand times. “Because we're here for the kids. Because I didn't want to make it weird if—” He stopped. His hand tightened around yours, just slightly, just enough that you could feel the warmth of his palm against your skin. “If you didn't feel the same.”

The closet was so quiet you could hear both of you breathing. His breath, steady and slow. Yours, shallow and quick.

“Seonghyeon,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“I almost dropped an entire pile of life jackets because one of my campers asked me what my last name would be if we got married.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. His hand tightened around yours.

“I mean,” you continued, and now the words were spilling out like water over rocks, unstoppable, undeniable, “I didn't even correct her. I just stood there like an idiot holding a life jacket while my face turned approximately the color of a strawberry popsicle. And then i thought about how you’ve always smiled at me and I—” You stopped, suddenly aware of how much you were saying. How much you were admitting. How much of yourself you were laying bare in the dusty darkness of a storage closet.

Seonghyeon was staring at you like you'd just handed him something precious. Something breakable. Something he'd been reaching for his whole life without knowing it.

“You what?” he prompted softly.

You took a breath and held it for a moment before eventually letting it go.

“I thought about it,” you said. “The last name thing. Not because I want to get married—I mean, not that I don't want to get married, someday, to someone, hypothetically—but because I look at you and I just think… oh.” Your voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Like—oh. Like I've been looking at a half-finished puzzle my whole life, and suddenly someone handed me the last piece. Like everything makes sense when you're standing next to me, and I don't know how to be normal about that. I don't know how to be casual about someone who looks at me the way you do.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then Seonghyeon laughed, disbelieving. His forehead dropped toward your shoulder, his breath warm through the fabric of your counselor polo, and he stayed there for a moment. Just breathing. Just being.

“You can't just say things like that,” he said, his voice muffled against your shirt.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm trying very hard to be respectful right now,” he admitted, and you could hear the smile in his voice, “and you're making it impossible.”

You couldn't help it. You laughed too:giddy and ridiculous and probably a little hysterical. And somewhere in the middle of it, his hand found yours properly, fingers threading together like they'd been made to fit, like they'd been waiting for this moment their whole existence.

“Okay,” you said, when you could breathe again.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, we're doing this.” You looked up at him, at his bright eyes and his smiling mouth and the purple glitter dusted across his shoulders the excess droppings of a crafts box. “Whatever this is. We're doing it.”

He lifted his head. His eyes were bright in the dim light, warmer than the afternoon sun streaming through the cracks in the walls. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You squeezed his hand. “But if your campers put another drawing on the counselor board, I'm denying everything.”

“Liar.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know you.” He squeezed back, his thumb tracing a slow circle across your knuckles. “I've been watching you teach eight-year-olds how to paddle a canoe without capsizing for three summers. I know you'd frame the drawing and hang it in our apartment.”

“Our apartment?”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, hanging in the air between you like a promise neither of you had meant to make.

Seonghyeon's ears went pink. Actually, visibly pink, right there in the dim light, spreading from the tips of his ears down to his neck.

“I meant—hypothetically—”

“Mhm.”

“Shut up.”

“You said our apartment, Seonghyeon.”

He groaned, dropping his head back against the shelf behind him—and that's when the box of glitter, already teetering from earlier, finally gave up the fight.

Purple sparkles rained down on both of you like an explosion in a craft store, dusting your hair, your shoulders, the collars of your counselor shirts. You blinked up at the falling glitter, too surprised to move, and felt a flake land on the tip of your nose.

You stared at each other.

Seonghyeon had glitter in his eyelashes, is hair looked like a disco ball and there was a purple sparkle directly in the center of his forehead, right between his eyebrows like a third eye made of craft supplies.

Then you both started laughing so hard you nearly knocked over the rest of the shelves.

Outside, a camper's voice drifted through the door, hushed and urgent:

“Are they… laughing?”

Another camper responded, equally hushed but clearly delighted: “That's either a very good sign or a very bad one.”

“Should we let them out?”

A pause. A heavy, dramatic pause that you could feel through the wood.

“Absolutely not. Let them cook.”

You buried your face in Seonghyeon's shoulder—purple sparkles and all, the glitter scratching gently against your cheek—and felt his arm wrap around you like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there, and you'd both just been too oblivious to notice.

“Your campers,” you said into his shirt, your voice muffled but smiling, “are menaces.”

His chest shook with quiet laughter, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. “Our campers,” he corrected.

And okay. Yeah.

You could get used to that.

[kiwijinnieee]

I am very much obsessed with camp aus, so believe me when I say this was like reading Shakespeare for me.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

HEAD OVER HEELS ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS : Your annoyingly charming boyfriend throws rocks at your window in the middle of the night and demands you come out with him, how could you say no to a face like that?

W.C : 6.2k

CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, established relationship, stealing, sneaking out, kissing (lots of it), physical touch, lots of flirting, mentions of jumping off a cliff, brief mention of injury

PLAYLIST : Head over heels - Tears for fears; Heaven - Bryan Adams; Is this love - Whitesnake; True - Spandau ballet; Be like a woman - Chris Rainbow; (I just) died in your arms - Cutting crew

The phone cord stretched across your bed, wound twice around your wrist, the plastic warm from your skin. You lay on your stomach, chin propped on one hand, flipping through a magazine you'd already read twice. The pages were soft now, the corners curling, the articles blurring together.

“—He does this thing,” you muttered. “He comes up behind me and just stands there.”

A pause, your friend mumbling something.

“Yes. Just stands there. For, like, a full minute. And then he leans down like he's about to say something actually important and then just—”

You lightly flicked your own forehead with the hand holding the magazine, the paper crinkling.

“Every. Single. Time.”

Your friend's laugh crackled through the line, sharp and delighted. You pulled the receiver away from your ear, wincing, but you were smiling too.

“It's not funny,” you said, but there was no heat in it. “He thinks he's so clever.”

She asked something, her voice breaking up over the crackle, but you caught the gist.

“No, I don't hit him back.” You paused, chewing on your lip. “Okay, I did once. But he moved into me! Like he saw it coming and just sidestepped. Made me look like an idiot.”

Another laugh, louder this time, and you let it wash over you.

“And then he just smiles,” you went on, your voice softening without permission. “That stupid smile. Like he's proud of himself.”

A beat. She was waiting.

“I don't hate it,” you admitted, quieter now. “I just… he's so annoying.”

Your friend said your name in that tone. The one that meant she knew something you didn't want to admit.

“Don't,” you warned, pointing at the phone like she could see you.

She said something else, teasing but gentle, and you could hear the grin in her voice.

“He's cute, okay? Obviously. I'm not blind, why do you think I'm dating him?” You let out a breath, staring up at the ceiling. “He's just… him. I don't know how else to explain it.”

She spoke again, softer now, and you could feel the warmth in her words even through the crackle.

“Yeah, yeah. I'll see you tomorrow.” You reached for the receiver, already smiling. “Goodnight.”

You hung up before she could say anything else, and the room settled into silence around you. For a moment, you just sat there, the phone still warm in your hand, the magazine open beside you. Then you pushed yourself up off the bed.

The brush was on your desk where you always left it. You picked it up, ran it through your hair once, twice, whilst your reflection stared back at you: messy hair, flushed cheeks, that look you got when you'd been talking about him for too long.

The house was quiet, everyone else had already gone to sleep. You could feel them in their rooms: your parents down the hall, your brother next door. All that stillness pressing in.

The clock on your nightstand ticked. Outside, the streetlight glowed orange through your curtains.

You were still sat there, brush sifting through your hair when—

Tap.

The sudden noise made you turn toward the window, your hairbrush frozen halfway as your eyes widened slightly.

Tap. Tap.

You glance at your door, scared your parents may have heard, already knowing who was guilty of making a ruckus. You stand quickly, approaching the window and pulling the curtain aside.

He was standing under the streetlight, a small rock still in his hand. When he saw you, he dropped it like he’d been caught doing something he definitely shouldn’t be doing. His other hand was behind his back.

You shoved the window open. “Eom Seonghyeon, are you serious?”

He looked up at you, all easy confidence and that half-smile you knew too well. “What, no hello? No 'I missed you, my wonderful, amazing, loving boyfriend'?”

“It's been six hours.”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “Felt longer.”

You stared at him. “You're going to wake someone up.”

“Then you better come down before I throw another rock.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “What do you want?”

“You.”

The word hung in the air. He didn't smile. Didn't look away. Just let it sit there between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand tightened on the windowsill. “…What?”

“Come out,” he said, and now the smile was back, small and knowing. “I promise it's worth it.”

You glanced back at your door, then at him. He was already reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling something out, holding it up just enough that the light caught it.

A cassette tape. Handwritten label. You couldn't read it from here, but you recognised the handwriting.

“I made you something,” he said. “But you gotta come get it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You could've just given it to me at school.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

Another glance at your door. The hallway outside was dark and quiet, your room was the only one with the light still on.

“…Give me a second.”

He grinned. It was the kind of grin that probably got him out of trouble more often than it should. “Don't take too long. I get lonely.”

You shut the window before he could see you smile, pulling the curtain back into place as you turned away, already moving. Your closet door creaked softly as you grabbed something random to throw on: a sweater and jeans, changing quickly, your movements rushed but quiet.

A quick glance in the mirror where you smoothed the clothes down, and you were out of your room.

You stepped carefully, easing your door shut behind you as gently as you could. Every sound felt louder now: the floor creaking faintly under your weight, the house settling around you.

You skipped the one step you knew would give you away, hand brushing the wall as you made your way down.

At the bottom, you paused and listened, but heard nothing. Reaching down, you grabbed your shoes, spending less than a second deciding which pair before continuing to walk forward.

Slowly, you reached for the front door, turning the handle as gently as possible.

Click.

You froze.

Waited.

Still nothing.

You slipped outside, closing it just as carefully behind you.

Outside, the air was cool. Seonghyeon was leaning against the low wall at the edge of your yard, arms crossed, watching your door like he was waiting for a show.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

You shoved your feet into your shoes. “I had to not get caught.”

“You look stressed.”

“I'm not stressed.”

“Okay.” He pushed off the wall, walking toward you with his arm still hidden behind his back. “You look cute.”

You stopped mid-lace. That boy and his flirting. “What?”

He shrugged, easy. “You heard me.”

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could see the way his hair was still slightly damp from a shower he’d obviously taken after practice, meaning he had probably rushed over immediately afterwards.

You straightened up, crossing your arms. “You dragged me out of bed to tell me I look cute?”

“No.” He finally pulled his hand from behind his back, and there they were: a small bunch of flowers, messy and uneven, tied with kitchen string. Cornflowers. The exact kind that grew in Mrs. Park's garden. “I brought you these.”

You blinked at them. “…Did you steal those?”

Seonghyeon looked offended. “Borrowed.”

“From Mrs. Park’s garden?”

“She wasn't using them.”

You stared at him. He stared back, that stupid smile tugging at his mouth.

“You're such a sap,” you said, and took the flowers.

The stems were cool, slightly damp. You turned them in your hands, trying not to smile. One was bent.

“These are uneven.”

“They're perfect.”

“This one's bent.”

“It's got character.”

You looked up at him. He was watching you, not the flowers, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach flip.

“You picked these yourself.”

“Maybe.” Seonghyeon stepped closer. “You gonna keep complaining, or are you gonna say thank you?”

You lifted your chin. “Thank you.”

“See? That wasn't so hard.” He tilted his head, looking down at you. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was close now. Close enough that you could smell whatever soap he'd used, something clean and warm.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, light and quick, and then he was pulling away, already walking toward the car parked down the street.

“Coming?” He called over his shoulder.

You stared after him, your face warm. “Where?”

He turned, walking backward for a few steps, that grin firmly in place. “You'll see.”

You followed, the flowers pressed against your chest.

The convertible was burgundy, rusted around the edges, definitely not his. You slowed when you recognised it. “That's your dad's car.”

Seonghyeon opened the passenger door like the gentleman he is, looking at you expectantly. “Yep.”

“You're not allowed to drive that.”

He leaned slightly against the open door, casual as anything. “You gonna tell on me?”

You crossed your arms, staring him down. “This is a bad idea.”

“The best ideas usually are.” He nodded toward the seat. “Get in.”

You hesitated. “…You want me to sit there while you illegally drive your dad's car?”

He raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “You'd rather sit on my lap?”

Your face went hot and he was looking at you like he was enjoying this way too much, a smirk on his face as he watched you internally panic.

“You're so annoying,” you said, sliding into the seat.

“That's not a no,” he said, and closed the door.

You watched him walk around the front of the car, that stupid swagger in his step. The flowers were crushed a little against your chest. You fixed them, smoothed the bent stem, told yourself your heart wasn't racing.

He slid into the driver's seat, the car dipping under his weight before he reached into his pocket without looking and pulled out the tape he'd shown you earlier, sliding it into the deck.

The song started playing and you instantly recognised it, a song he constantly played whenever you were near because he knew it was your favourite. It cut in midway, like he had been playing the tape on his way over to your house. 

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

He leaned back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, and looked at you.

“You’re so cheesy for this.” You squint your eyes at him, but the smile on your face gave you away.

‘I never find out until I’m head over heels’

“I can’t play my girlfriend’s favourite song now?” Seonghyeon throws you a cheeky smile as you just roll your eyes, shifting to face forward so he couldn’t see you blush. He could anyway.

He reached over, turned the music up a little before turning the key. The engine rumbled to life. “Seatbelt.”

‘Something happens and I’m head over heels’

You turned to look at him. “What?”

“Seatbelt,” he repeated, nodding toward the strap hanging beside your shoulder. His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something in his expression that wasn't. “I'm not getting yelled at by your mom if you crack your head open.”

“Oh, so you have limits.”

“Apparently.”

You reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across your chest. The metal latch clicked into place and you settled back into the seat. The flowers shifted in your lap, and you adjusted them again, making sure they wouldn't fall.

‘Ah, don’t take my heart, don’t break my heart’

He watched you do so, his eyes tracking your face mainly before you looked up, your cheeks reddening further, if even possible, when you realised he was staring.

“Go on then.” You mumble, looking straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact as he smiled to himself before turning forward.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t throw it away.’

Seonghyeon eventually pulled away from the curb, one hand easy on the wheel, the other reaching over to rest on the back of your seat as he looked over his shoulder. Smooth.

The streetlights slid across his face, light and shadow as the song continued in the background.

He glanced at you, quick and warm. “You're gonna love this.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Because it's true.” He looked back at the road, but his hand didn't move from the back of your seat. “Believe me?”

You looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the small smile that said he already knew your answer.

You looked down at the flowers in your lap. 

“…Okay,” you breathed. “Fine.”

His smile widened. He took the next corner a little too fast, and you slid across the seat, your shoulder bumping his.

He didn't apologise and you didn't move back.

You watched the houses slip by, dark and quiet, their windows blank. Streetlights cast long shadows across Seonghyeon's face, carving out the shape of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other now resting on the centre console between you, fingers loose. You noticed he'd moved it there after the last turn, like he was waiting for you to do something about it.

You didn't. Not yet. But you also didn't move away from where your shoulder was still pressed against his, and you could tell he'd noticed that too.

The flowers sat in your lap, their stems cool against your jeans. You kept touching them without meaning to, smoothing a petal, adjusting the string. Something to do with your hands.

“You're gonna wear those things out,” he said.

“They're already bent.”

“They're fine.” He glanced at you, quick, and his eyes lingered on your face for a beat too long. “Almost as cute as you.”

You blinked. “Did you just compare me to stolen flowers?”

“Borrowed.” He grinned. “And yeah. You're both pretty. Both a little bent.”

“I am not bent.”

“You're dating me, aren't you?” He raised an eyebrow. “That takes a certain kind of crazy.”

You shoved his arm. He caught your hand before you could pull it back, pressed a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road, and let go like it was nothing and he hadn't just made your entire face go warm.

The car hummed beneath you, the engine a low, steady pulse as the tape continued, playing through as many love songs Seonghyeon seemed to have found. Outside, the neighbourhood was giving way to something emptier: fewer houses, more trees, the road starting to climb. You'd been driving for a while now, long enough that you'd lost track of the turns, the streets narrowing into something that felt less like a road and more like a suggestion.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“Somewhere good.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only one you're getting.” He glanced at you sideways, that half-smile playing at his lips. “You trust me, don't you?”

“Debatable.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you'd wounded him. “After seven months. After I brought you flowers. After I let you keep my jacket—”

“You didn't let me keep it, you left it in my room and never asked for it back.”

“Same thing.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck just slow enough to make your breath catch. “I like seeing you wear it.”

You swatted his hand away. “Eyes on the road.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He saluted, insufferable, but his hand found yours on the console and laced through your fingers. His thumb traced circles on your skin, slow and absent, and you let your head fall back against the seat, watching the trees blur past.

The road curved, then curved again, climbing higher. The trees began to thin, giving way to rock and scrub brush, and somewhere ahead you could see the sky getting lighter, not with dawn but with something else. City lights, you realised. The whole valley, spread out below.

He pulled off onto a dirt turnout, gravel and dust crunching under the tires, and came to a stop, keeping the engine going so the tape didn’t stop.

He didn't move. Just sat there, one hand still on the wheel, the other still holding yours, looking out at the view. You watched his profile, the way the dashboard lights caught the edge of his face, the way his jaw was relaxed now, easy.

“Seonghyeon.”

“Yeah?”

“What is this place?”

He let go of the wheel, turned in his seat to look at you. “Found it last summer. Used to come up here sometimes when I needed to get out.” He shrugged. “Never brought anyone else, though.”

You looked out at the city below, the sprawl of lights stretching to the horizon, tiny and distant and beautiful. “It's incredible.”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But not as incredible as you.”

You turned to look at him. He was already looking at you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead.

“That was so corny,” you said.

“Was it?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “I thought it was pretty smooth.”

“It was terrible.”

He reached out, tugged lightly on a strand of your hair. “You're smiling though.”

You were. You couldn't help it. He had that effect on you, had since the beginning, and he knew it—he definitely knew it, from the way his grin widened.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for his door handle. “I wanna show you something.”

The air outside was cooler up here, thinner, carrying the smell of dust and dry grass and something green underneath. You pulled your sweater tighter around you, the flowers still clutched in one hand. He came around the front of the car, hands in his jacket pockets, his steps slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

He stopped in front of the hood, leaned back against it, and looked at you with an expression that made your stomach do something complicated.

“Put the flowers down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to come here.”

You narrowed your eyes but eventually set the bouquet on the hood beside him, careful with the bent stem. The metal was cool under your fingers, still holding the evening's chill as the tape kept playing in the background.

“Baby…” He said with the only intention to tease you, and your face went hot.

“Don't.”

“Don't what?” His eyes were bright, amused. “You like it when I call you that.”

“I do not.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

You crossed your arms. He uncrossed them, pulling you forward by your wrists until you were standing between his legs, his hands settling on your waist.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “That's better.”

“You're so full of yourself.”

“Maybe.” He looked up at you, and his expression shifted to something warmer. “But you still got in the car with me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

“You can keep saying that.” His thumbs traced small circles on your waist, light and slow. “But you're still here.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was looking at you in the way he knew made your knees weak.

“What?” he asked, innocent. “Cat got your tongue?”

“You're impossible.”

“You've mentioned before.” He pulled you closer, until you had no choice but to brace your hands on his shoulders. “Anything else? Or are you just gonna stand there looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kill me.” He grinned. “Or kiss me. I can never tell with you.”

“Both,” you said. “Usually both.”

“That's my girl.”

He tugged you forward, and you stumbled into him, your hands sliding up his chest to steady yourself. He caught you easily, his arms wrapping fully around your waist now, his face tilted up toward yours.

“You look good from this angle.”

“You look annoying from every angle.”

He laughed, low and warm, and you could feel it through his chest, through your hands, through everywhere he was touching you.

“You love me,” he said.

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

He pulled you down, and you went, because you always did, because you'd been doing it since he'd first asked you out and you'd never once regretted it.

The moment your lips met his, the world seemed to narrow to just this: the warmth of his mouth, the way his hands found the small of your back, the way your fingers threaded through his hair before you'd even made the decision to move them.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Slow and deliberate. 

His lips were soft, softer than you’d expect from someone who spent half his afternoons throwing himself around in games, and they moved against yours with an ease that came from months of practice, from the hundred other kisses you'd shared in cars and hallways and once, memorably, behind the bleachers when you'd both skipped third period.

He tasted like the mint gum he was always chewing and something else underneath, something that was just him, and you wanted to drown in it.

His hands slid up your back over your sweater, palms flat, fingers spread wide like he was trying to cover as much ground as possible. The fabric was thick, but you could still feel the warmth of him seeping through, the slight roughness of his palms from whatever he'd been doing at practice that afternoon. He pulled you closer, and you let him, your hands pressing against his shoulders, his knees bracketing your hips, the metal of the car cool on your shins but everything else so, so warm.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. It was soft there, at the nape of his neck, the ends curling slightly around your knuckles. You'd always loved the way his hair felt: thick and just long enough to get your hands into, hair that begged to be touched. 

His hands moved, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, the other pressing flat against your spine, holding you against him like he was afraid you might disappear. His thumb traced the curve of your skull, slow and absent.

He eventually pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in warm, uneven puffs against your lips. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck, the way his chest was rising and falling beneath your hands.

He then opened his eyes, taking one look at you before immediately grinning like he'd won something, his chest still heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen, his hair a mess from your fingers. He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.

“See?” he said, breathless. “Told you it was worth it.”

“You haven't even shown me the view yet.”

“I'm looking at it.”

You shoved his chest. He caught your hands and held them against his jacket, right over his heart. You could feel it beating, fast and steady, the same way yours was.

“You're so annoying,” you said.

“You’re still here.” He kissed your palm softly.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn't pull away. He shifted, sliding off the hood and before you knew it, he was lifting you up onto the hood of the car.

“Seonghyeon!”

“What?” He stood between your legs, arms locking around your waist, looking down at you with that stupid, insufferable grin. “Better view from up here.”

“I'm going to push you off this cliff.”

“No you're not.” He leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth. “You like me too much.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him closer. “I really don't.”

“Liar.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his arms tightened firmly around you, his hands splaying flat against your back and pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you, until your chest was pressed against his, your ribs aligned with his ribs, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it. 

His fingers pressed into your back, five points of pressure on each side, and you couldn't move even if you wanted to—which you didn't, not really, not ever when it came to this. The position should have felt precarious, balanced on the hood of a car at the edge of a cliff, but his arms were locked around you like iron, like he'd never let you fall, and somehow, impossibly, you'd never felt safer in your life.

His mouth moved against yours, insistent but not demanding, and you could feel him smiling. Actually smiling. The curve of his lips pressed against yours, and you could feel the shape of it, the way the corners of his mouth tilted up, the way his teeth grazed your bottom lip just slightly because he was too busy grinning to kiss you properly.

It was infuriating. It was so, so infuriating.

You wanted to shove him. You wanted to kiss him harder. You wanted to tell him to stop smiling and kiss you properly, and also you never wanted him to stop smiling, not ever, not for any reason, because when he smiled like this—like he was happy, like he was exactly where he wanted to be—it did something to your chest that you still didn't have words for after months of dating him.

You hated it. You hated him. You really, truly hated him.

Except you didn't. You never had.

You thought about all the times you'd told yourself you hated him: the forehead flicks, the way he'd appear behind you without warning, the way he'd wait until you were mid-sentence to do something that made you forget what you were saying. You'd been telling yourself you hated him since you started dating, maybe earlier, maybe since that first day he'd sat next to you in class and asked to borrow a pen and then never gave it back, just kept it in his jacket pocket like a trophy.

You'd never hated him. Not once.

Not when he flicked your forehead so hard it left a red mark between your eyebrows. Not when he dragged you out of your house in the middle of the night, throwing rocks at your window like some character in a movie, like he had any right to pull you away from your bed and your sleep and your sensible, reasonable life just because he wanted to see you.

You'd never hated him. You'd never even come close.

What you felt for Seonghyeon was so far from hate that you almost laughed at the word, at how small it was, how inadequate. Hate was for things that didn't matter. Hate was for teachers who gave too much homework, for the cafeteria's mystery meat, for the way your hair frizzed in humidity. Hate wasn't for the boy who stood under your window in the dark, who picked you flowers he didn't have permission to pick, who drove his father's car without permission just to take you somewhere beautiful.

Hate wasn't for the way he looked at you, the way he was looking at you right now, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard, his breath warm against your lips, your breath warm against his.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, and his eyes shone in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something else there too: something soft, something wondering, something that made your chest ache in a way you were starting to recognise, in a way you were starting to accept.

His hands were still pressed flat against your back, still holding you against him, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his breath was still coming in short, uneven pulls. His hair was even more of a mess from your hands, sticking up in the back, falling across his forehead, and he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“Okay,” he said. “Now you can look at the view.”

You turned your head, and there it was: the whole city spread out below, gold and white lights flickering in the dark, stretching to the horizon. The sky above was deep blue, almost purple, with stars starting to show through. It was beautiful. It was the kind of view that made your chest ache.

But his hands were warm on your waist, and his hip was solid against your knee, and he was looking at you like you were the view.

“You're not even looking,” you said.

“I told you.” His thumb traced a pattern on your side, slow and deliberate. “I'm looking at it.”

You reached down, grabbed the flowers from where they were sitting on the hood, and hit him in the chest with them.

He caught them, laughing. “What was that for?”

“For being too flirty.”

“You love it.” He placed the flowers far on the side of the hood, shifting to slide onto the hood beside you, his hand never leaving your waist and his eyes tracking you the entire time. “Admit it.”

“Never.”

“Come on.” His nose brushed against yours, the hood creaking slightly under both your shared weight. “Just say it.”

“No.”

“Say 'Seonghyeon, you're the most charming, handsome, incredible boyfriend in the entire world'.”

“I would literally rather jump off this cliff.”

He laughed, full and bright, and you felt it everywhere. “That's fine.” He kissed you once, quick. “I'd jump with you.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and his hand tightened on your waist, his breath catching.

A new song began playing from the tape, and you instantly recognised it as his favourite song. The piano intro of ‘heaven’ by Bryan Adams filled the air as he stared at you for a long moment, something flickering across his face. 

Seonghyeon then laughed, shaking his head, and rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“You're gonna kill me,” he said, muffled against your sweater. “You know that, right?”

You ran your fingers through his hair softly. “Probably.”

He lifted his head, looked at you. His expression had softened, the teasing edges worn off, leaving something else underneath.

“I'm really glad you came out tonight,” he said quietly.

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before tracing the collar of his jacket with your finger. “Me too.”

He kissed you, quick this time, barely allowing you time to close your eyes and embrace the feeling of his lips on yours again before he pulled back, his eyes bright.

“Come here,” he said, tugging you sideways towards him whilst his other hand braced himself against the hood.

“I'm already here.”

“Closer.”

Seonghyeon pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you, and you went willingly, letting yourself be held. His chin rested on top of your head, and you could feel the rumble of his voice when he spoke, could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

“Look,” he said softly.

You turned your head, and faced the exact same view, except the lights seemed softer, the stars seemed closer, the whole valley seemed smaller and all you could focus on was his warmth wrapped around you.

“It's beautiful,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “But not as beautiful as you.”

“Again?” You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed, breath warm against your hair.

“I had to,” he said. “It was right there.”

“You’re such a flirt.” You say, shifting into a more comfortable position as he adjusts his arms to fit you properly, letting out a small sigh whilst his thumb traced a circle onto your sweater.

“You know the other mixtape I'm making you.” Seonghyeon ignored your comment, eyes just watching the horizon as the song continued to surround you both.

“The one that's been in progress for three months?”

“Almost three,” he corrected. “I figured out how to end it.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached behind him, grabbed the flowers, and tucked one of the cornflowers behind your ear, his eyes looking at you so intensely you felt you were going to melt. His fingers lingered, brushing against your cheek. “I'm gonna put this song on it.”

That’s when your ears finally acknowledged the song properly, listening to the lyrics.

‘Baby, you're all that I want, when you're lyin' here in my arms’

“This song?” you asked.

“This song.” 

‘I'm findin' it hard to believe, we're in heaven’

Seonghyeon slid off the hood again, pulling you along with him into his arms, his hands finding your waist, yours finding his shoulders. He thought for a moment. “Remember how this song was playing at Mina's party? How you made me dance to it?”

You laughed. “I didn't make you do anything. You asked me.”

“I asked you because you were standing in the corner looking at me until I gave in.”

“I was not.”

“You were, ‘cause you know it’s my favourite song.” He kissed the top of your head quickly. “And you were wearing that blue dress. The one with the buttons.”

You went warm. “You remember what I was wearing?”

“I remember everything.”

Seonghyeon’s face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours, and there was something in his expression that made your chest ache in the best way.

‘Yeah, love is all that I need, and I found it there in your heart’

“Dance with me.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s my favourite song.”

At that he started swaying slowly, and you let him pull you into it. The city lights flickered below. The stars blinked between the faint clouds. His voice was low and warm against your ear as he lightly hummed along to it, and you could feel the vibration of it in your chest, in your bones.

‘It isn't too hard to see, we're in heaven, yeah’

You ran your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face to attempt to fix the mess you’d made. It fell right back, the way it always did. “You're such a romantic.”

“Don't tell anyone.” He leaned into your touch, just slightly, just enough that you noticed. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“What reputation? The one where you flick your girlfriend's forehead every chance you get?”

“That's called flirting.”

“That's called annoying.”

He grinned, continuing to sway with his hands on your waist, your arms now wrapping around his neck, hands toying with the hair on the nape of his neck. “Same thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the song continuing in the background but your attention remained focused on the boy in front of you. “Your secret's safe with me.”

He spun you once, slow, and pulled you back in, your back against his chest, his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, his voice now humming along, and you closed your eyes and let yourself be held.

“Seonghyeon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for stealing the flowers.”

He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Borrowing,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms, faced him. His face was soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

“Borrowing,” you agreed.

He kissed you again, and everything faded into the background. There was nothing but him, his mouth on yours, moving like he was trying to memorise the shape of them, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do with his time. 

When you finally broke apart, it was slow, reluctant, like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes so impossibly soft, and there it was. That smile. The one that had gotten you into trouble from the very beginning.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, careful of the flower. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

“About how I'm gonna have to make that mixtape even longer now,” he said. “Because I’ll keep finding new songs that make me think of you.”

Your chest tightened. “What new songs?”

Seonghyeon shrugged, easy, but his eyes were warm. “Ones I haven't heard yet. Ones that I’m gonna hear and instantly think of you.” He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose. “You're gonna have to stick around for a while.”

“How long?”

“Dunno.” He pulled you closer, if even possible, and tightening his arms around you, his chin on top of your head. “Maybe forever.”

You pressed your face into his chest, felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and real.

“Forever's a long time,” you said.

“Yeah.” His arms tightened around you. “Guess that means you're stuck with me.”

The city hummed below. The stars wheeled overhead. Seonghyeon held you against him, humming along to the song that he didn’t realise was now your favourite, because it was his and it would always be his, because everything that belonged to him seemed to belong to you now. And you let yourself stay there, right where you belonged.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

THE CHASER ౨ৎ 𝐀𝐇𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐎

SYNOPSIS : Keonho acts like that with everyone. That's what you tell yourself when he looks for you in the stands, when he walks you back after every game, when he asks if you're coming to his next match every single time. Everyone says it's not normal. But that's just Keonho being Keonho, right?

W.C : 8.2k

CONTAINS : chaser!Keonho, both reader and Keonho are gryffindor, reader is clueless and in denial, slow burn (kinda), kissing

PLAYLIST : I will - The beatles; Japanese denim - Daniel caesar; I love you - Fontaines d.c; Champaign coast - Blood orange; Juna - Clairo; Kingston - Faye Webster

The walk from the library to the Gryffindor common room made you almost wish you had requested to be Slytherin each day. Almost. You'd never admit that out loud. The rivalry ran so deep that you'd nearly been crucified when the confession slipped out to Mina on a random Wednesday night in third year. She'd stared at you for a full ten seconds before deciding you were joking. You'd let her believe it, nodding along as she launched into a passionate defense of Gryffindor superiority, and you'd never brought it up again.

Still. Life would be easier. Four fewer staircases. No moving stairs that seemed to have a personal vendetta against you, catching you so often that you’d started bracing for it, half-expecting the castle itself to work against you.

Your legs ache by the time you reach the third staircase, each step just slightly heavier than the last, the muscles in your thighs burning with a slow, persistent fatigue.

Your arms aren't doing much better.

The five books stacked unevenly against your chest dig into your forearms, their weight no longer manageable in the way it had seemed back in the library. At the time, it had felt reasonable, logical, even. You’d convinced the librarian with a promise you fully intended to keep, insisting you’d return them all before your last class tomorrow.

Now, with your fingers beginning to go numb and your grip slipping by the second, you’re reconsidering every decision that led you here.

The corridor ahead is quieter than usual.

Most students have already retreated to their common rooms, your footsteps making the only sound as they echo faintly against the stone, blending with the distant murmur of voices you can’t quite place. Torchlight flickers along the walls, stretching shadows that shift as you pass.

You adjust your grip on the books for what feels like the hundredth time, trying to redistribute the weight across your arms.

Five might have been a mistake.

The top one tilts dangerously, and you huff under your breath, pressing your chin down against the worn cover to keep it from sliding off completely. Your arms burn with the effort, muscles protesting as you tighten your hold.

“You’re going to drop those.”

The voice comes from your left, casual and entirely too familiar.

You glance sideways and there he is.

Keonho leans back against the stone wall like he’s been there long enough to get comfortable, one foot braced behind him, broom resting loosely at his side. He’s still in his practice gear: sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, a faint flush lingering across his cheeks from exertion.

You don’t stop walking, though your pace almost slows. “I’m not.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the wall, falling into step beside you with far too much ease. “Give it five seconds.”

“I’ve made it this far.”

“Barely.”

Before you can react and even think to protest he reaches over and lifts four of the five books straight out of your arms.

The sudden absence of weight is so abrupt it almost throws you off balance. Your arms feel strange, too light, your shoulders releasing tension you didn't even realise you'd been holding. You stumble half a step before catching yourself, blinking up at him.

"Keonho—"

"You're welcome."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"You didn't have to." He adjusts the stack in his own arms, settling them against his chest like he'd been carrying them all along. The broom hangs from the crook of his elbow, balanced with ease.

"I was fine." The protest comes out weaker than you intended, your arms still tingling from the sudden release of pressure.

"You were struggling."

"I was not—"

The single book left in your hands slips slightly as you gesture, forcing you to tighten your grip quickly to keep it from falling. He glances down at you, one eyebrow lifting in a way that manages to be both amused and deeply unimpressed.

"…sure."

You shoot him a look, your cheeks warming. "Say it and I'm taking them back."

"Go on, then."

You reach for them, and without even looking at you, he lifts the stack just slightly higher, completely out of your reach. His arm doesn't even strain. You're left with your hand outstretched, fingers brushing empty air, and he's watching you with a grin that's entirely too satisfied.

You let your hand drop. "You're actually the worst."

"I'm literally carrying your problems for you." His grin widens, and there's something almost warm beneath the teasing. "That feels pretty heroic, actually."

"These are not my problems. They're books."

"Five of them." He shifts the stack again, his forearm flexing with the movement, and you notice a completely normal amount. "That's a problem."

You huff, but don’t try again.

For a while, the two of you walk in relative quiet, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm despite yourself. His presence is warm at your side, steady in a way that feels annoyingly familiar, and you find yourself unconsciously matching your pace to his, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm.

“You’re out late,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, shifting the stack of books slightly in his arms like they weigh nothing at all.

“So are you.”

“Practice ran over.” He shrugs dismissively as if it’s not worth mentioning, but the evidence is still there: the slight dampness at his hairline, the way his shirt clings just a little, the fast smell of grass and sweat. “Coach thinks we’re slacking.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “You? Unlikely.”

“I know,” he replies, mock-serious. “Tragic, really. All that talent, wasted on discipline."

You roll your eyes, but you can feel the corner of your mouth threatening to lift. "Poor you."

There’s a pause that stretches just long enough to settle into something quieter.

You eventually reach the staircase that leads toward Gryffindor Tower, and without hesitation, he follows as you start up it.

The climb feels longer than usual, your legs still aching from earlier, but the weight in your arms is manageable now with only one book left to carry. You glance at the books he's holding, stacked neatly against his chest, his grip steady, then back up at his face.

Halfway up, you glance at him again. "You can give those back, you know."

"Mm." He doesn't look at you, but there's a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"That's crazy," he says lightly, his voice carrying a note of mock innocence. "It really sounded like one."

You narrow your eyes, though there's no real heat behind it. "Keonho."

"Relax." He finally looks at you, and there's something softer beneath the teasing now, something almost patient. "I'll give them back."

"When?"

"When you stop looking like you're about to collapse."

The words are light, but there's a weight beneath them that makes your chest tighten slightly. You look away first, focusing on the stairs ahead of you.

"I am not—"

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

The staircase shifts beneath you, a familiar lurch that you've long since stopped being surprised by, and you brace yourself against the railing out of habit. Keonho doesn't even seem to notice, his balance unshaken, the books in his arms barely shifting. Quidditch players have a fundamentally unfair relationship with gravity that you don’t resent at all, not even the slightest.

You hesitate for a moment, the protest dying on your lips, and your shoulders sag just slightly.

"—maybe a little."

He smiles then, eyes softening as he briefly scans your face, making something in your chest tighten.

The staircase settles into place with a final shudder, and he gestures for you to go ahead, falling into step behind you as you reach the top.

The portrait of the Fat Lady greets you at the end of the corridor, half-asleep in her frame. She blinks down at you both, clearly unimpressed by the interruption, her head resting against the painted branches of her orchard.

"Password?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

You shift the book in your arms and give it, and she yawns before swinging open with a soft creak.

Warmth spills out immediately: the low glow of the fire, the murmur of a few lingering conversations, the comfortable, lived-in quiet of the Gryffindor common room at night.

You step inside and Keonho follows.

He walks with you across the common room, past the couches and the fire and the few lingering glances from people who notice but don't comment. He's been doing this long enough that no one really questions it anymore: the two of you crossing the common room together, his arms full of your books, his presence so familiar it's become background noise.

You reach the foot of the staircase to the girls' dormitory and turn to him, expectant.

He stops, looking down at you, then at the books still stacked in his arms, like he's considering something. The firelight catches his face from the side, illuminating the lingering flush from practice, the faint crease between his brows that appears when he's thinking.

"…now?" He asks, and there's something almost reluctant in his voice.

"Yes, now."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I'd been handling it before you came."

"I know." He says it simply, without the usual teasing edge, and something in his expression shifts before he eventually hands them over.

The weight settles back into your arms all at once, heavier than you remember, and you can't quite stop the small wince that escapes as your shoulders adjust. The books press against your chest, your forearms straining, and for a moment you wonder how you managed to carry them this far on your own.

He notices immediately. Of course he does.

"Wow." He watches you adjust your grip, his head tilting slightly. "You really were dying."

"I was not dying." You shift the stack again, trying to find a comfortable angle. "I was managing."

"You were dying," he repeats, with the certainty of someone who has made up his mind.

You exhale, something that's almost a laugh but not quite. "Leave."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't thank you."

"You meant to."

You pause, just for a moment. "I absolutely did not."

He laughs quietly, softer now in the dim light and for a moment, he doesn’t speak, just brushing his hand gently through his hair whilst his eyes remain on you.

“You’re coming to my game tomorrow, right?”

There it is. The question lands the same way it always does: casual, almost careless, like it doesn’t matter either way. Like he hasn’t asked you the same thing before every single game for years.

You don’t hesitate. “Obviously.”

He studies you for half a second before something in his expression eases.

“Good,” he says.

You shift the books again, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your chest. "You'd be unbearable if I didn't."

"I'm unbearable anyway."

"True."

He grins, but it's softer than before, more real. "But you still show up."

You pause, just slightly. “…yeah.”

Something flickers in his expression at that, quick enough that you almost miss it. He recovers quickly, but there's a new quality to the silence that follows. A quietness that feels different than before.

"Don't be late," he says finally, stepping back smoothly toward the boys’ dorms. But his eyes stay on yours for a second longer than necessary, lingering in a way that makes your chest feel tight. "I'll be looking."

The words land somewhere beneath your ribs, warm and unexpected.

Then he turns, heading back across the common room, and you watch him go, just for a moment, before adjusting the books in your arms again and heading up to your dorm.

"Keonho did what?!"

Mina's voice shot up before you could stop her, sharp and bright in the quiet of the dormitory. The sound seemed to bounce off the stone walls, too loud in the small space, and you lunged forward from your desk, grabbing at her sleeve before she could get any louder.

"Be quiet!"

"I am being quiet," she hissed back immediately, though her voice was still pitched high enough that anyone passing in the corridor outside could probably hear every word. She didn't seem to notice, or care, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

"You're not." You glanced toward the door, half-expecting it to swing open, though the dormitory was empty aside from the two of you. The other beds were undisturbed, their hangings drawn back. For now, at least, you had privacy—though Mina's voice was doing its best to eliminate that advantage. "Just lower your voice."

Mina pressed her lips together, visibly restraining herself, but her eyes were still wide as she leaned forward on her bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, the hangings shifting slightly with the movement, and she planted her hands on either side of her knees like she needed to physically hold herself back from launching across the room.

"You're telling me," she said, slower now, enunciating each word like she needed to make sure she had this right, "that he carried your books halfway across Hogwarts right after practice?"

You shrugged, turning back toward your desk and trying for casual. The chair creaked slightly as you sat back down, and you busied your hands with arranging the books you'd just brought up, lining up their spines, anything to give your fingers something to do. "It wasn't halfway. Just… a few staircases to get here."

Mina stared at you.

"He came to the common room from the pitch?" Mina's voice had gone quieter now, but somehow sharper. "The route where there's a shortcut literally every player uses that doesn't require them walking up the five million staircases? He was just casually hanging around in the castle when he could just cut through somewhere else?"

You hesitated, your fingers pausing against the spine of the top book. The leather was worn smooth under your fingertips, cool and familiar. "Well. Yeah."

"And you think that's a coincidence."

"It is a coincidence."

She didn't say anything to that. Which, coming from Mina, was worse.

You shifted slightly in your chair, the wood creaking slightly again, suddenly very aware of how quiet she’d gone. When you glanced up, she was still looking at you.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said finally.

“I’m right.”

“You’re delusional.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair. “I’m realistic.”

“No,” she shot back immediately, sitting up straighter on her bed. “You’re actively choosing the least realistic explanation because it’s more convenient.”

“That’s not—”

“He waited for you.”

You blinked. “He didn’t—”

“You literally said he was just standing there,” she cut in, her voice faster now. “In a random hallway. After practice. For no reason.”

“He wasn’t waiting,” you insisted, even as your voice lost a bit of its certainty. “He was just… there.”

"Right." Mina nodded, but there was nothing agreeing in her expression. "Just standing around. In full practice gear. With his broom. In a corridor that is not on the way to anything useful."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The image formed itself in your mind despite yourself: Keonho leaning against the wall, his broom at his side, his hair still damp from practice. The way he'd looked up when you approached, like he'd been waiting for the sound of your footsteps. The way his expression had shifted when he saw you, something easing behind his eyes before he'd even spoken.

You pushed the thought away.

“…He could’ve been taking a break.”

“A break,” she repeated, her voice flat. “In a hallway.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of the pitch. Or the locker room. Or literally anywhere else.”

You frowned. “You’re making it sound weird.”

“It is weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you said, more firmly now. “He does stuff like that all the time.”

Mina’s expression shifted slightly at that, something sharper settling behind her eyes.

“…No,” she said slowly. “He does stuff like that with you all the time.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your books like that settled it. The movement was sharper than you intended, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that grated in the quiet. "That's not true."

"Really?" She pressed, and you could hear her shifting on the bed, leaning closer. "Because I don't remember him carrying anyone else's things. Or walking anyone else back to the common room after training. Or asking anyone else if they're coming to his games every single time."

You flipped a book open a little harder than necessary, the pages fluttering under your hands. The ink on the first page blurred slightly in the low light, the words refusing to settle into meaning. "He asks people."

"Name one."

You didn't answer. The silence stretched and you could feel her watching you, waiting.

"Exactly."

You frowned down at the page, not really reading it. “He’s just… like that.”

“Like what?”

“Friendly.”

Mina let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That is not just friendly.”

“It is,” you insisted. “He jokes with everyone. He flirts with everyone—”

“But he doesn’t look for everyone.”

That made you pause. Just for a second. You shook it off quickly, turning a page you hadn’t read. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really—”

"He asked if I was coming to the game," you cut in, the words spilling out before you could stop them, like they proved something you couldn't quite articulate.

Mina blinked, momentarily thrown. "Okay?"

"He always asks." You could hear yourself talking faster now, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Every game. It's not a big deal."

Mina tilted her head slightly, and the expression on her face had shifted. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

"Yes."

"And that doesn't sound strange to you?"

"No."

"It doesn't sound like he specifically wants you there?"

You hesitated again, quieter this time. “…He asks people.”

“He asks you.”

“He asks other people too.”

“Not like that.”

You exhaled sharply, the sound escaping before you could stop it, and closed the book with a soft thud. Your hands rested on the cover, feeling the worn leather beneath your palms, and you stared at it without really seeing it. "It's not like that."

Mina watched you for a moment, her expression softening just slightly, but not enough to drop it.

“…Okay,” she said finally, though her tone made it very clear she didn’t agree. She leaned back against her pillows, the hangings rustling with the movement, and you could see her deliberately settling in, making herself comfortable. "Then let's say it's not."

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion prickling at the back of your neck. "It's not."

"Sure." She said it easily, too easily, reaching for the edge of her blanket and pulling it over her lap. "Then you won't mind if you don't go tomorrow."

You blinked.

"That's not—" You sat up straighter, your hands coming off the book, your body moving before your brain had fully caught up. "I'm going."

"Why?"

"Because I always go."

"Exactly."

You frowned. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Mina didn’t respond right away. She just watched you, waiting.

"It doesn't," you repeated, and this time it came out like you were trying to convince yourself.

"Then don't go," she said again, and her voice was soft now, almost kind. The sharp edges were gone entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like sympathy.

You hesitated.

And for just a second you actually considered it.

The thought felt… wrong. Off. Like skipping something important you couldn’t quite name, something you'd been doing for so long it had become part of the rhythm of your life..

“…I’m going,” you said finally, and the words came out firmer than you expected.

Mina hummed, like she’d expected that.

“Right,” she said, settling back against her pillows. “Because it doesn’t mean anything.”

You didn’t answer.

You turned back to your books instead, eyes scanning the same line three times without processing a single word.

The stands were already filling by the time you and Mina get there.

The wind tugs at your scarf as you settle against the railing, your usual spot, the worn wood familiar under your palms. Below, the pitch stretches out, green and still, waiting.

Players are already in the air for warm-ups, red and gold cutting through the grey sky in sharp, practiced movements. Your eyes find the shapes automatically, scanning the formation the way you always do.

Without thinking, you look for him.

"You're doing it again."

Mina's voice comes from beside you, casual but knowing. You glance sideways, find her watching the pitch with an expression that says she's already figured out what you're going to say.

"Doing what?" you ask, though you know.

She doesn't look at you. "Looking for him."

"I'm not—" You stop, the denial thin even to your own ears. You exhale, turning back to the field. "I'm just watching."

"Sure."

You ignore that, your eyes already sweeping across the players again.

It takes you a second to pick him out from the motion: the familiar shape of his shoulders, the way he holds his broom just looser than the others. But when you do, it's immediate.

Keonho.

He catches a pass one-handed, barely slowing, his body curving as he sends it back across the field in a clean, effortless arc. He looks focused, loose, controlled. The way he moves makes it hard to look away.

You watch him for a second longer than necessary.

Then he looks up, and it’s direct, immediate even. His gaze lands on you like he already knew where you'd be, like he didn't need to search because he’s spent years knowing exactly where you sat watching him. For a second, everything else fades—the noise, the wind, the crowd pressing in on either side of you.

Then his mouth lifts at the corner, quick and almost private, and he shifts his broom to fly a little closer to your side of the stands before pulling back into formation.

Beside you, Mina makes a quiet sound.

"You saw that," she says.

You keep your eyes on the pitch. "He's just warming up."

"He didn't look at the rest of the stands."

"He probably did."

"I was looking at him." Her voice is flat. "He didn't."

The whistle blows before you can respond, and the game begins.

It starts fast. The Quaffle moves in sharp passes, players accelerating and diving, the crowd's noise swelling with every play. You track Keonho without meaning to—or maybe you do mean to, maybe you've been doing it for so long that you've stopped pretending otherwise.

He gets the Quaffle early. He could pass it, but instead he pushes forward, cutting between two players, his broom dipping low before pulling up sharply toward the goal. He releases clean, and the Quaffle sails through the center hoop.

The stands erupt.

You don't look at the scoreboard. You look at him.

And he's already looking at you.

Not at his teammates. Not at the celebrating crowd. At you, just for a second, before he turns away like nothing happened.

Your grip tightens on the railing.

"He does that every time," Mina says, quieter now.

"He just scored."

"And he looked at you."

You swallow. "He looks at the stands."

"No." She shakes her head slowly. "He looks at you."

The game pushes on. Slytherin fights back, the plays getting tighter, more aggressive. A Bludger cuts close to one of Keonho’s teammates, and the crowd gasps.

Then Keonho intercepts a pass he shouldn't have been able to reach. He stretches for it, his body tilting off-balance, and for a moment your heart stops. He recovers quickly, but your pulse doesn't settle. Your hands are locked on the railing, your shoulders tight.

He steadies, looks up, and finds you again.

Something tightens in your chest. Mina is quiet beside you.

"He's showing off," she murmurs.

You shake your head. "He's playing."

"No." Her voice is soft now. "He's making sure you're watching him play."

You don't respond. Because now that she's said it, you can't stop seeing it. Every pass is a little sharper. Every turn is a little cleaner. And every time, after something worth watching, he looks for you.

The final whistle blows, and you barely register it. The crowd is moving, voices rising, people already heading back toward the castle. But you stay where you are, your hands still on the railing, your eyes still on the pitch.

Below, players are landing one by one, boots hitting the ground, brooms tucked under arms as they regroup. Keonho touches down, pulls off his gloves, runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks up.

Like he's checking again.

Your chest feels unsteady, something shifting into place that you've been avoiding for a long time.

"You still think it doesn't mean anything?" Mina asks quietly.

You don't answer right away. Below, Keonho is standing apart from his teammates now, his head turned toward the stands. You can't see his face clearly from that far, but you don't need to.

He's looking. He's always looking.

Your fingers curl against the railing.

"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice quieter than you expected, and Mina just watches your eyes follow the boy.

The noise eventually thins out around you.

People leave the stands in clusters, their voices overlapping as they replay the game in loud, animated bursts. The energy that filled the air just minutes ago is shifting, dissolving into smaller conversations, the crowd spreading out across the grass as the match comes to its end.

You don't move right away, just continue to watch Keonho huddle with his teammates, bumping shoulders with each other.

"You just can’t help watching him, can you?" Mina says quietly beside you.

You exhale, pushing yourself back from the railing. "We should go before it gets crowded."

"That doesn’t answer my question"

"I know." The words come out a little too quickly, and you don't look at her as you start toward the stairs.

She doesn't argue. Just watches you for a second longer before falling into step beside you.

The walk down the stands is slower than usual, the wooden steps creaking underfoot as you weave through the lingering groups of students. You keep your eyes forward, deliberately not looking back toward the pitch, even though you can feel the pull of it. You've done this enough times. You don't need to think about it.

By the time your feet hit the grass, the crowd has thinned, the air down here different from the stands, closer to the lingering energy of the game. You slow slightly without meaning to, and Mina notices.

"I'm going to head back," she says, her voice casual in a way that isn't really casual at all.

You glance at her. "Already?"

"Yeah." She shrugs, adjusting her scarf against the wind. "I've seen enough."

There's a pause. Then, more pointed: "You'll be fine."

You frown slightly. "I'm always fine."

"Mhm." She gives you a look that you don't fully understand—or maybe don't want to—and then turns, heading toward the path back to the castle without another word.

You watch her go for a second, her figure growing smaller against the grey afternoon light, then turn back toward the pitch, not moving

You tell yourself you're just waiting for the crowd to clear. That's all. Students pass by you in small groups, voices fading in and out. Time stretches, just slightly, and your eyes drift almost against your will back to the field.

Players are still there. Talking, moving, breaking off. You spot him again, further out this time, near the edge of the pitch. His broom is slung over his shoulder, his posture looser now, like the game has finally left his system. He says something to one of his teammates, and they laugh. He looks normal. Like he always does.

Your chest tightens, just a little, and you look away, turning to the side.

This is stupid. You look stupid. You don't need to stand here. You don't need to—

"Hey."

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel it before you fully register it. You turn, and Keonho is right there, closer than you expected.

Up close you can see the faint flush still on his skin from the game, his hair is still slightly damp at the edges and the lingering breath he hasn't quite caught yet. His broom rests against his shoulder, and his eyes are on you with an intensity that makes the rest of the field seem to fade.

"You're still here," he says, his voice casual.

You blink once, then force your expression into something normal. "I was leaving."

"Mm." His gaze lingers on you for a second, like he's checking something. "Didn't look like it."

"I was about to."

"Right."

There's a pause, one that’s heavier than usual. He shifts his grip on the broom, then glances past you, as if just now noticing the space around you.

"Where's Mina?"

"She left."

He nods once, like that makes sense. "You stayed."

You hesitate, just barely. "I always do."

Something in his expression flickers at that. Quick and subtle, but you catch it. Like it matters more than it should.

"Yeah," he says, quieter now. "You do."

The pause that follows is different from the others. You've stood here with him after games a hundred times, fallen into this same rhythm of walking back together, and you've never thought twice about it. But now, with the crowd thinning and Mina gone and his eyes still on you, the familiarity feels like something else entirely.

You shift your weight, looking for solid ground. "You played well."

He huffs out a small breath, something between a laugh and a deflection. "I was alright."

"You nearly fell off your broom."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I recovered." There's a flicker of amusement in his voice, but it doesn't fully settle there. He's quiet for a moment before speaking again. "You saw that?"

The question is light, but there's something underneath it. Something that makes your stomach tighten.

"Everyone saw that," you say, and your voice comes out a little faster than you intended.

"Yeah." He watches you for a second longer, his expression unreadable. "Right."

You look away first, your gaze dropping to the grass, to the worn path leading back to the castle. Anything to break the weight of his attention.

"You don't have to walk me back," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know you're probably busy. Or whatever."

The moment they leave your mouth, you almost regret them. Because now it sounds like you expected him to. Like you've been standing here waiting for him to offer.

Silence.

You glance back up, and he's looking at you differently now. Not teasing, not casual. Just looking, his expression open in a way it rarely is.

"Do you not want me to?" he asks, and his voice is quieter than before.

The question catches you off guard. "What? No—I just meant—"

"That's not what I asked."

You falter. Because you don't actually know how to answer that. You've never had to. This has always been the rhythm: he walks you back, and you let him, and neither of you ever questions it.

"It doesn't matter," you say finally.

His gaze doesn't leave yours. "Right," he says after a second, but it doesn't sound like he agrees. He shifts his broom again, then jerks his head slightly toward the castle. "Come on."

You blink. "What?"

"I'm walking you back."

It's not a question. It never is.

You hesitate for half a second, then fall into step beside him anyway. Of course you do.

The walk back is quieter than it should be.

Your footsteps find the same rhythm it always has, your shoulders nearly brushing when the path narrows, the familiar ease of walking beside him settling into your limbs. He's still close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when the wind picks up, still moving with that loose, unhurried stride that makes everything look effortless.

But neither of you is talking. Not at first.

You glance at him once, briefly, out of the corner of your eye. He's looking ahead, one hand loosely gripping his broom, the other shoved deep into his pocket. His profile is sharp against the grey sky, his expression neutral in a way that feels practiced, deliberate. Like he's focusing very hard on something in the distance. Like he's making a point of not looking at you.

That's new.

You reach the first set of stairs, climbing side by side like you've done this a hundred times. A hundred walks back from the pitch, a hundred evenings where the game fades into the background and the castle rises up to meet you.

But it doesn't feel easy tonight. It feels like something is hovering just beneath the surface, something that's been there for a while, waiting for you to notice it.

Your thoughts keep circling back. To the game. To the way he looked at you. To the way Mina had said it like it was obvious, like you were the only one who couldn't see what was right in front of you.

You grip the railing slightly tighter as you climb, the cold metal pressing into your palm.

"You were playing differently today," you say, keeping your voice as casual as you can manage. The words come out lighter than you feel, and you hope he doesn't notice the way your fingers curl against the stone.

There's a small pause beside you. "Differently how?"

You shrug, like it doesn't matter. Like you haven't been turning it over in your head for the past hour. "I don't know. Just… more reckless."

"I always play like that."

"No, you don't."

He glances at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. "You've been keeping track?"

You hesitate, your eyes fixed on the stairs ahead, trying to not give away things just yet. "I've seen enough of your games."

"Yeah." His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. "You have."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten, but you push past the feeling, forcing your voice to stay steady. "You almost fell. That wasn't normal."

"I told you, I recovered."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

You open your mouth and stop. Because you don't actually know how to answer that. The words tangle on your tongue, caught between what you've always told yourself and something else. Something you're not sure you're ready to name.

You look away first. "Nothing."

He doesn't respond right away. You can feel his gaze on you now, even without looking, the weight of it settling against your skin. It's not heavy, exactly. Just present. Waiting.

"Right," he says eventually, but the word doesn't land the way it usually does. It sounds like he knows you're avoiding something. Like he's letting you, for now, but not because he believes you.

You reach the top of the stairs, stepping into the next corridor. The castle is quieter here, the noise from the pitch fading into something distant, muffled by stone walls and the soft echo of your footsteps. 

"You always look for me."

The words come out before you can stop them, pulled from somewhere you didn't know they'd been hiding. The second they leave your mouth, you feel them land: heavy, irreversible, hanging in the air between you as something you can't take back.

Beside you, Keonho goes still. Not completely—his feet keep moving, his stride doesn't falter, but you can feel the shift. The way his attention narrows, sharpens, focuses entirely on you.

"What?" he says, and his voice is different now. Not teasing. Not light. Just waiting.

You swallow, forcing yourself not to backtrack. Not to hide behind the same excuses you've been using for years. "During the game."

He doesn't answer immediately. His hand has tightened slightly around his broom, you notice. A small thing, barely visible, but you see it.

You keep going, because stopping now would be worse. "You keep looking at the stands," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "At me."

Silence. The corridor seems smaller suddenly, the walls closer, the air thicker. You finally glance at him, and he's not looking ahead anymore. He's looking at you. Really looking, in a way that makes your breath catch. And for once he's not smiling. There's no joke waiting at the edge of his mouth, no easy deflection in his eyes.

"And?" he asks. The word is quiet. Careful. Like he's standing at the edge of something and waiting for you to decide whether to follow.

Your pulse picks up, a steady rhythm that you can feel in your throat. "I just—" you start, then falter. "Mina said—"

"Mina." His voice flattens slightly, and something flickers across his expression. Not quite annoyance, but close.

You hesitate. "She thinks that—"

"I don't care what Mina thinks."

That stops you. You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden edge in his voice, the way his jaw tightens just slightly as he says it.

His gaze doesn't waver. If anything, it holds you more firmly, more steadily, than anything he's ever done.

"What do you think?" he asks.

The question lands heavier than anything he's said before. It settles in your chest, warm and unsettling, and for a moment you don't know how to answer. Because the truth is you're not sure anymore. Not after today. Not after watching him look for you, again and again, like you were the only thing in the stands worth seeing.

"I think," you say slowly, the words coming out quieter than you intended, "that you're just like this with everyone."

There it is. The thing you've been telling yourself for years. The thing that's always made this easy. The thing that let you stand beside him, walk with him, let him carry your books and bring you food and look for you in the crowd, all without having to ask what any of it meant.

For a second, he just looks at you. His expression is unreadable, and you can't tell if he's waiting, or thinking, or something else entirely.

Then something shifts. It's small, barely a change in his posture, barely a flicker across his face, but you feel it.

"No," he says.

You frown slightly, the word catching you off guard. "No?"

"No." He says it more firmly this time, and there's no room for argument in his voice. No teasing. No deflection. Just simple, absolute certainty.

Your breath catches, just slightly. "You are," you say, but your voice sounds weaker now, the conviction draining out of it. "You joke with everyone. You—"

"Not like this."

He steps a little closer as he says it. Not enough to startle you, but enough that you notice. Enough that the space between you feels suddenly, unmistakably smaller. His broom shifts against his shoulder, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, the faint flush still lingering on his skin from the game, the way his eyes haven't left yours.

Your words stall in your throat. Because suddenly you're not entirely sure how to argue with that. Every excuse you've carried, every explanation you've wrapped around his presence like armour, feels thin now. Transparent.

"You don't—" you start, and your voice comes out quieter than you expected, almost fragile. "You don't get to just say that."

His head tilts slightly, a small movement that draws your gaze to the curve of his jaw, the shadow of his lashes. "Why not?"

"Because," you falter, searching for something solid to hold onto, something that will make this feel the way it always has. "Because you've never said anything like that before."

"I have."

You shake your head immediately, the denial automatic. "No, you haven't."

"I have." His voice is softer now, but no less certain. "You just didn't take it seriously."

The words land somewhere in your chest, heavier than you expected. You think about all the times he's asked if you're coming to his games. All the times he's waited. All the times he's shown up, exactly when you needed him, and you've told yourself it was nothing. That he was just like that. That it didn't mean anything.

"That's not fair," you say, but it comes out weaker than you want it to, the protest already crumbling.

He watches you for a second, and something flickers across his expression. Not frustration, not impatience, something softer, almost like understanding. 

"I know," he says.

The honesty in it catches you off guard. You look at him properly then, seeing that for once he's not hiding behind anything. No teasing grin waiting to deflect. No half-joking tone to make it easier to brush off. Just him. Just Keonho, standing closer than he ever has, looking at you like he's been waiting for this moment for longer than either of you want to admit.

Your breath catches.

"Then why didn't you just say it?" you ask, and your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Because you kept doing this." His voice is low, steady.

You blink. "Doing what?"

"Pretending it didn't mean anything."

You look away instinctively, your gaze dropping to the stone floor, your fingers curling at your sides. "I wasn't pretending."

"You were."

"I just—" You stop, frustrated, because you don't know how to explain something you barely understand yourself. How do you tell him that you've spent years telling yourself that the way he looks at you doesn't mean anything, because the alternative meant wanting something you weren't sure you could have. "You're always like that."

"With you," he says immediately, the words coming faster now, like he's been holding them back.

You shake your head, the movement small but insistent. "With everyone."

"No."

There it is again. That certainty. It leaves no room to hide, no space for the comfortable denials you've wrapped around yourself like armour. Your chest feels tight, your thoughts catching on themselves, spinning in circles you can't seem to stop.

"Then why me?" The question slips out before you can stop it, quieter than everything else you've said. But heavier. So much heavier.

For a second, he doesn't answer, his lips just remain parted slightly like he’s processing what you said.

His gaze softens slightly, just enough that it throws you off balance.  "Do you really not know?" He asks.

You don't respond. Because the truth is you're not sure if you don't know, or if you've just been avoiding it. Avoiding the way your chest tightens when he says your name. The way you look for him before you look for anything else. The way you've been coming to his games for years, sitting in the same spot, watching him, and telling yourself it was nothing, that you were nothing.

He exhales quietly, and then he steps closer. Not by much. Just enough that you can feel it. Enough that the air between you shifts, becomes something different.

Your breath catches again, sharper this time.

"Every game," he says, and his voice is lower now, steadier. "I look for you first."

Your heart stutters in your chest.

"You think I care that much about the score?" His eyes hold yours, steady and sure. "About anything else, as long as you're there?"

You don't know what to say to that. The words you've always relied on: the deflections, the jokes, the careful distance, have abandoned you entirely. So you don't say anything. You just look at him and let yourself finally see it. All of it. The way he's always there, always looking for you, in every crowd, in every room, in every moment you've ever shared.

Your chest tightens, something shifting into place in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Like a door you didn't know you'd been holding closed, finally opening.

"I thought," you start, your voice barely above a whisper, "I thought you were just—"

"Being myself?" he finishes.

You nod slightly, the movement small, almost ashamed.

"I am," he says after letting out a soft breath. Then, after a beat, quieter: "Just not with everyone."

Your heart is beating too fast now. Too loud. You can feel it in your throat, your chest, your fingertips. You don't even realise you've stepped closer until there's barely any space left between you; close enough to see the way his pulse moves in his throat, the faint crease between his brows, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second before finding your eyes again.

"I didn't know," you admit. The words feel small, inadequate for everything you're trying to say. But they're honest. More honest than you've let yourself be in years.

Something in his expression softens even more at that, if possible. The last of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he looks at you in a way that makes your chest ache.

"I know," he says, and for a second it falls silent between you both, the space between you smaller than it’s ever been.

Your gaze drops to his mouth without meaning to, then back up again. It's barely a glance, barely a movement. But he notices. Of course he notices.

His eyes flicker, something shifting behind them. Something that feels like a decision.

"Can I—" he starts, and his voice is rougher now, less steady than before.

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Because you already know what he's asking. You see it in the way he's looking at you, in the way his hand has moved slightly from his broom, in the way he's leaning in just enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

Your breath catches. And instead of overthinking it, deflecting, doing what you've always done, you don't.

You nod. It's small, barely there, but it's enough.

That's all he needs.

He closes the distance properly this time. One hand comes up, hesitant for half a second, before it settles lightly against your arm. 

And then he kisses you.

It's not rushed or careless. It's slow, deliberate, like he’s been holding this moment in his mind for so long that now that it's here, he wants to feel every second of it. His lips are warm against yours, soft at first, almost tentative, as if he's learning the shape of you, memorising how you feel against him. There's a gentleness to it that makes your chest ache, a carefulness that feels at odds with the way he threw himself across the pitch just an hour ago, reckless and certain all at once.

His hand slides from your arm to your waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your robe, and you feel the warmth of his palm through the layers like a brand. His other hand comes up almost shyly, fingertips brushing against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. The touch is featherlight, hesitant in a way you've never seen him be, as though he's still not entirely sure this is real and he's holding out, waiting for you to pull away.

You don't.

For a moment, your mind goes completely blank. Everything else falls away and all you're aware of is him. The warmth of his hand at your waist, steadying you or holding himself steady, you're not sure which. The soft brush of his lips against yours, unhurried. The way his breath mingles with yours when he pauses for just a second, his forehead pressing against yours, his nose brushing your cheek, before he tilts his head and finds your mouth again.

Your hand finds his sleeve without thinking, your fingers curling into the fabric, holding on to something solid in a world that suddenly feels like it's shifted beneath your feet.

His thumb traces a slow arc against your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, and you lean into him without meaning to, your body moving closer, seeking more of the warmth he seems to give off like heat from a fire.

When he pulls back, it's not far. Just enough to look at you. To check. His hand hasn't left your waist; if anything, his grip has tightened slightly, afraid the space between you might grow if he lets go. His forehead is almost touching yours, his breath warm against your skin, and his eyes are searching yours for something you hope he finds.

Your breathing is uneven. Your thoughts even more so. The world feels softer somehow, quieter, like it's holding its breath.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Then a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, similar to the one you’ve always seen, just slightly easier now

"You still coming to my next game?" he asks.

You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, your heart still racing in your chest and your lips tingling from the feeling of him on them.

"Obviously," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected.

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, and he smiles gently, eyes scanning your face like he can't quite believe this is happening. Your chest tightens at that, but you return the smile, your heart beating rapidly as you feel his fingers slightly stroke your scalp.

"Good."

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

BABY COME BACK ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS :: After a stupid fight that was blown way out of proportion, Seonghyeon turns up at your window with a mixtape and a dream. (TAGLIST)

W.C :: 8.2k

CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, angst with comfort, argument, resolution, yearning seonghyeon, stubborn reader, established relationship, kissing, cliché’s

PLAYLIST :: Baby come back - Player; Out of touch - Daryl Hall & John Oates; Under the milky way - The Church; With or without you - U2; Listen to your heart - Roxette; Right here waiting - Richard Marx

You and Seonghyeon had fought. Badly.

It wasn't supposed to blow up like that, that was the worst part. If it had been something big that was worth the screaming, silence, and days of not speaking, maybe it would've made sense. But it wasn't big. It was small and stupid, the kind of thing that shouldn't have mattered, except it did, because it was never just about the one thing.

He'd forgotten. Again.

A study date. You had a biology test coming up, and he'd promised to help. You'd waited for him in the library for an hour, watching the door, watching the clock, watching the light shift from gold to grey. He never showed.

You found him at the arcade.

"I'm sorry," he said when he saw you. "It slipped my mind."

"It slipped your mind."

"Yeah. I'll make it up to you."

"You always say that."

"Because I always mean it."

"Then why does it keep happening?"

He shrugged.

That was what did it. Not the forgetting or the lateness. The shrug. His shoulders going up and down like it didn't matter, and your time didn't matter, and you hadn't sat in that library for an hour and a half watching the door like an idiot. Like you weren't worth remembering.

"Forget it," you said.

"Come on, don't be like that—"

"Like what? Upset? Sorry for expecting my boyfriend to show up when he says he will."

"I said I was sorry."

"And I said forget it."

You turned around and walked out. The arcade door swung shut behind you, cutting off the noise, and suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet. The evening air hit your face, cool and damp, and you realised your hands were shaking.

He called your name once. Twice. His voice was muffled through the glass, distant, like he was calling from underwater.

You didn't look back.

That was three days ago.

The first day, you were furious.

The kind of furious that felt good, felt right, felt like armor. You wore it everywhere: to class, to lunch, to bed. You rehearsed speeches in your head while you brushed your teeth, while you walked to class, while you lay in bed with the lights off. Sharp, cutting things, all the words you should have said at the arcade but had been too hurt to think of in the moment.

You don't get to make me feel like I'm asking for too much.

I'm not crazy for wanting you to show up.

I deserve someone who remembers.

You told yourself you were right and he was wrong. You told yourself you didn't need him. You almost believed it.

The second day, you were stubborn.

The anger had cooled overnight and settled into something harder that felt more deliberate. You weren't shouting anymore, not even in your head. You were just... done. Done explaining. Done hoping. Done waiting for him to change.

You walked past him in the hallway like he wasn't there. He said your name. You kept walking, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your bag heavy on your shoulder. He fell into step beside you, his hands in his pockets, his voice careful like he was approaching something that might bite.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"Just for a minute—"

"I said no."

You turned down another hallway by the science wing and he didn't follow. Good. You didn't want him to follow. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to hear his excuses or his apologies or his promises to do better. You'd heard them all before, and they'd never stuck. They were like water off a raincoat: shed easily, leaving nothing behind.

At lunch, Mina asked where he was. You said you didn't know. She gave you a look—the kind that meant she knew you were lying but wasn't going to call you on it. She passed you a fry instead. You ate it. It tasted like cardboard.

That night, the phone rang constantly. You didn't pick it up.

The third day, you were still stubborn.

But it was heavier now. It had become a weight you had to carry. Your shoulders ached. Your eyes burned from lack of sleep. 

You saw him again between second and third period as he was standing by your locker, waiting. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wall like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hair was a mess—unwashed, sticking up in the back—and there were dark circles under his eyes that matched your own. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

You didn't care. You told yourself you didn't care.

"Hey," he said.

You walked past him and spun your lock. The combination felt wrong under your fingers, too many turns and too much fumbling on your part. You could feel him standing behind you, the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, the space between you feeling like a physical thing, thick and heavy.

"Can you just—please. Just listen for a second."

You didn't answer. Your lock clicked open and you reached in to grab your book, though not really paying much attention to which one your hand latched onto.

"I messed up. I know I messed up. I should've been there. I should've called. I—"

You turned and walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the tile. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you heard him behind you. Heard his footsteps, faster than yours, closing the gap.

He caught up in three steps. His hand reached forward to hold your elbow, but he stopped himself beforehand, unsure on if he was allowed to touch you anymore.

You shook your head, refusing to meet his eye. "Stop trying to talk to me."

"Then stop walking away from me."

"Then stop following me."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"I don't care."

The words hung in the air and you still didn't look at his face. You couldn't. Because you knew if you looked at his face, you'd see the hurt there, and the hurt would make you falter, and you couldn't afford to falter. Not yet.

He stopped walking and you kept going. You could feel him watching you, could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, heavy and sad. You chose to not look back.

But your hands were shaking. And your eyes were burning. And when you turned the corner and disappeared from his view, you had to stop for a second, lean against the lockers, and breathe.

He tried again at lunch.

You were sitting with Mina and Martin at your usual table by the window, your tray sitting in front of you, untouched except for the few bites you'd forced down to make Mina stop giving you that look. You were pushing a piece of broccoli around your plate, mashing it into the plastic with the tines of your fork, not really seeing it.

You saw him approach before they did. The familiar jacket with that familiar walk, and that easy swagger he didn't even know he had, except today it wasn't easy. Today his shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his whole body folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space. The familiar way he ran his hand through his hair when he was nervous, messing it up even more than it already was.

"Incoming," Martin said, nodding toward Seonghyeon. He didn't sound surprised, none of them were surprised anymore.

You didn't look up. Just stabbed a piece of vegetable with your fork and put it in your mouth. It tasted like nothing, everything had tasted like nothing for days.

"Hey," Seonghyeon said. He was standing at the end of your table, his hands in his pockets, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand still. His voice was careful, quiet, the way you'd talk to a stray cat you didn't want to scare off. "Can we talk?"

"No."

"Just for a minute."

"I'm eating."

You weren't eating. You were pushing food around your plate. The broccoli had turned into mush, and the chicken was getting cold, and everyone at the table knew you hadn't taken more than three bites. But he didn't call you out on it, he just stood there, looking at you and waiting.

Mina shot you a look from across the table—her way of saying just talk to him, please, for the love of God, just talk to him—and you ignored her. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"Please," he said. His voice cracked on the word, just slightly, and you hated the way it made your chest ache.

You picked up your tray and stood up. The plastic was cold against your palms, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you: Mina's worried glance, Martin's careful neutrality, the other kids in the cafeteria staring and whispering like you were a show they'd paid to see.

"I'm done," you said. You didn't look at him. You couldn't.

You walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, your tray balanced on your palm. You could feel his eyes on your back, heavy and sad, but you didn't turn around. 

He didn't follow this time.

He tried again after school.

You were walking toward the front entrance, your bag slung over your shoulder, your headphones on, connected to a mixtape you had made. You'd turned the volume up loud enough that you couldn't hear anything else. Loud enough that you almost didn't hear him calling your name.

Almost.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. You stopped walking and pulled the headphone off your ears.

"What?"

"Can you please just—"

"No."

"You won't even let me explain?"

"There's nothing to explain. You forgot. You didn't show up. You shrugged. End of story."

"I know. I know I messed up. But it's not—it's not the end of the story. It doesn't have to be."

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in three days. He looked tired: dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, his jacket rumpled like he'd been sleeping in it.

You didn't care.

"Move," you said.

"Not until you listen."

"Move, Seonghyeon."

"No."

You stepped around him. He reached for your arm. You pulled away.

"Don't touch me."

"Then stop ignoring me."

"I don't have to stop anything. You're the one who messed up. You're the one who should be trying to fix it."

"I am trying. You won't let me."

"You're not trying hard enough."

You walked away. He didn't follow.

That night, he called.

Your phone rang at 8pm. Then 8:30. Then 9. You let it ring. You watched it from your bed as the receiver shook in its cradle.

Your mother poked her head in. "Are you going to get that?"

"No."

"It might be important."

"It's not."

She looked at you for a long moment and you could see her trying to decide whether to push. 

"Okay," she eventually said, still eyeing you suspiciously. "Dinner's in an hour."

She closed the door, and the phone’s ringing soon halted. A minute later, it started again.

You turned over and faced the wall.

The next morning, there was a note on your locker.

It was folded in half, your name written on the front in his handwriting. You recognised it immediately—how he looped his letters and pressed too hard with the pen. You'd seen it on a hundred notes before. Meet me after school. I love you. Don't forget to eat lunch.

You unfolded it.

I'm sorry. I know I keep saying it. I know it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I'm sorry. I messed up. I'll do better. Just give me a chance.

You read it twice. Then you folded it back up, tucked it into your pocket, and walked to class.

You didn't write back.

He left another note on your locker the next day. And the next. Each one shorter than the last, like he was running out of things to say.

I miss you.

Can we please just talk?

I'm not going to stop trying.

You read each one. You kept each one, folded small, tucked into the back pocket of your jeans where no one could see. But you didn't respond. You didn't call. You didn't stop ignoring him in the hallways.

Your friends noticed. Mina asked you about it at lunch, her voice careful, her eyes searching.

"He keeps trying to talk to you," she said.

"I know."

"And you keep ignoring him."

"I know."

"Aren't you going to eventually—"

"No."

She was quiet for a moment before she then she sighed. "You're so stubborn."

"I know."

She didn't push and neither did Martin. They could see it on your face, you were serious this time around.

By the fifth day, Seonghyeon was running out of ideas.

He'd tried talking to you in the hallways and you'd walked away. He'd tried calling and you hadn't picked up. He'd tried notes and you hadn't written back.

He stood by your locker between classes, waiting. You turned the corner, saw him, and kept walking.

"Come on," he said, falling into step beside you. "You can't ignore me forever."

"Watch me."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"You already did."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

You stopped walking and turned to face him. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you didn't care. Let them hear.

"Because I'm tired," you said. "I'm tired of you forgetting. I'm tired of you apologising and then doing the same thing over and over. I'm tired of waiting for you to show up and being disappointed when you don't."

He flinched. "I know. I know I've been—"

"You know? Then why haven't you changed?"

He didn't have an answer. You could see him searching for one, see the words dying on his tongue.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned and walked away. He didn't follow.

And you felt bad for it. How could you not? Watching the shine slowly disappear from his eyes every time he saw you—it did something to your chest. He looked smaller now than he used to. That easy confidence he always carried around like a second skin had cracked, and underneath it, he just looked... tired.

But you were tired too.

Tired of him forgetting. Tired of making excuses for him. Tired of telling your friends he's not usually like this when he was, actually. He was usually like this. That was the problem.

The study date wasn't the first thing he'd forgotten. It was just the last straw.

He'd forgotten your friend's birthday party last month. Shown up two hours late with a half-hearted apology and a bag of chips he'd grabbed from the corner store on his way over. You'd let it slide because he'd looked sorry, because he'd kissed your forehead and promised to make it up to you.

He'd forgotten the movie you'd planned to see the weekend before. Texted you at 7pm to say practice ran late, he'd catch the next showing, don't wait up. You'd waited anyway. Sat in the dark theater by yourself, watching the previews, saving the seat next to you like an idiot.

He'd forgotten to call you back that time you'd had a bad day. You'd sat by the phone for hours, waiting, replaying the conversation in your head where you'd told him you needed him, you really needed him, and he'd said I'll call you tonight, I promise.

He hadn't called.

And every time, he said sorry. Every time, he looked at you with those big brown eyes, and you forgave him. Because you loved him, and you wanted to believe him, and you thought maybe this time would be different.

It wasn't different. It was never different.

So yeah, you felt bad. You weren't a monster. You saw the way his face fell when you walked past him without a word. You saw the way his friends clapped him on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up, and the way he'd nod along and pretend he was fine.

But feeling bad wasn't enough anymore. Feeling bad didn't fix anything. Feeling bad didn't make him show up.

That night, you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

The phone sat on your nightstand, silent. He hadn't called tonight. Maybe he was finally giving up. Maybe he'd realised you weren't worth the effort and had decided to move on to someone who was easier, and didn't expect him to remember things, or would get upset when he forgot.

The thought made your stomach hurt.

Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on your desk and spotting the stacked crooked tower of tapes that were held together by sheer will and lack of anywhere else to put them.

Cassette tapes. Dozens of them. Spines lined with Seonghyeon's handwriting, the title always underlined twice because he said it looked more official that way.

For you. Volume 1.

Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2).

Late night driving mix (for when you can't sleep).

The one with all the love songs. You know the one.

You'd listened to every single one of them. Some of them so many times the tape had started to wear thin, the sound warbling in places, the songs skipping in the way that meant you'd played them too much and your brother had told you to buy a CD player already, it was the 80s, not the Stone Age.

Each tape had a story. You could trace your relationship through them like a timeline.

Volume 1 was given to you the night he asked you out. Tucked it into your hand with stolen cornflowers tied with kitchen string. You'd played it that night in your room, lying on your bed, the volume turned down low so your parents wouldn't hear. 

Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2) was left in your locker with a note that just said "Hi." You'd played it on repeat for three days straight, until your brother threatened to throw your stereo out the window.

The third one. The fourth. The fifth.

They were everywhere now. Spilling off your desk, stacked on your nightstand, crammed into the drawer of your bedside table. You'd find them in your coat pockets sometimes, tucked into your textbooks, hidden under your pillow. He left them like breadcrumbs, like love letters, like proof that he was thinking about you even when he wasn't there.

You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to your desk.

Your fingers brushed the spines of the tapes, one by one. The plastic cases were warm from sitting in the sun. The handwriting blurred in the dim light, but you didn't need to read it. You knew every word.

For you.

For you.

For you.

You pulled one out—The one with all the love songs. You know the one.—and held it in your hands. The case was worn, the edges soft, the plastic cracked at the corners. You'd played this one so many times it probably had permanent grooves in the tape.

He'd made this one for you last month. Not for any special reason, just because. He'd shown up at your door with it and a bag of your favourite snacks and a grin that made your heart do something stupid in your chest.

"What's this for?" you'd asked.

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always a reason with you."

You'd played the tape that night, lying in bed with your headphones on, and you'd listened to every single song. Some of them you knew: ones he'd played for you before and had gradually become yours. Some of them were new, songs you'd never heard that he'd found just for you.

He'd spent hours on this. You knew he had. Sitting in his room with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing right. His mother had probably yelled at him to turn it down a dozen times. His father had probably asked him why he was wasting his time on something so silly.

But he'd done it anyway. For you.

You looked at the tape in your hands. The label was smudged now, the ink fading, but you could still read it. "You know the one."

He'd written that. For you.

You thought about the study date. The hour and a half you'd spent in the library. The way he'd shrugged when you confronted him. The way you'd walked away.

And then you thought about the tapes. Dozens of them. Hours of his time. Proof that he loved you, even when he forgot. Even when he messed up. Even when he made you want to scream.

You put the tape back on the stack, then climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.

You still weren't going to call him. But you weren’t going to throw the tapes away either.

Across town, Seonghyeon was going mad, to put it lightly.

He lay in his bed, staring at the same ceiling he'd been staring at for four nights. 

He hadn't slept at all. He'd dozed off here and there, in brief, fitful bursts, but his dreams were filled with your face: the way you'd looked at him in the arcade, the way you'd spoken to him like you’d finally given up, the way you'd walked away and he hadn't followed.

His room was a mess: clothes on the floor, empty glasses on his nightstand, jacket still rumpled and draped over the back of his chair

He picked up the phone again, held it in his hand and stared at the rotary dial.

He'd called you every night for three nights. Every night, you hadn't picked up. The first night, he'd let it ring fifteen times before he gave up. The second night, ten. The third night, five. Tonight, he hadn’t even tried, because what was the point? You weren't going to answer. You'd made that clear.

He put the phone back and dropped his arm over his eyes, breathing a sigh.

He knew you weren't going to forgive him. He knew it was his fault. He'd been a complete idiot let you walk away when it was entirely his fault. He'd done all of it, and now he was lying in his bed at—he glanced at the clock—almost 2am, staring at the ceiling, going slowly insane.

He thought about the tapes.

Dozens of them. Hours of his time. He'd made them in his room, late at night, when his parents were asleep and the house was quiet. He'd sat on his floor with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing just right. He'd wanted them to be perfect. For you.

"You're wasting your time," his father had said once, watching him from the doorway. "She's not going to care how many tapes you make if you can't remember to show up on time."

He'd been right. His father had been right, and Seonghyeon hadn't listened, and now here he was.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to his desk.

His desk was a mess too: apers scattered everywhere, a half-empty mug of coffee that had gone cold days ago, and stacked in the corner, a pile of blank cassette tapes, still wrapped in plastic, waiting to be filled.

He'd bought them last week, before the fight had even occured. He'd had plans: songs he wanted to put on them that had made him think of you and that he'd been saving for a special occasion.

He picked up one of the blank tapes. Turned it over in his hands and watched as the plastic crinkled.

He thought about making you another one and filling it with all the songs he should have been listening to instead of being at the arcade. Even thought about leaving it on your doorstep with a note that just said "I'm sorry" over and over until you believed him.

But what was the point? You wouldn't listen to it. You'd probably throw it away without even opening it.

He put the tape back. Ran his hands over his face. Breathed.

He missed you. That was the worst part. He missed you so much it felt like someone had reached into his chest and pulled something vital out that he couldn't live without. He missed your laugh. He missed the way you said his name. He missed the way you'd look at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to memorise his face.

He missed you and it was his fault.

He turned his head, closing his eyes as he breathed a sigh. Then his eyes caught on something.

A lone cassette tape. Sitting on the corner of his desk, slightly hidden behind a stack of notebooks. And stuck to the front of it was a sticky note, yellowed at the edges, the adhesive long since dried. Written on it in his own handwriting, messy and rushed: ‘for when you need it.’

He stared at it for a long moment. His brain felt sluggish, slow to catch up. And then the memory dawned on him, rising up from somewhere deep that he'd tucked it away and forgotten about.

Months ago you’d had anothet fight that wasn’t as bad as this one, but had still bruised him just as deeply. You'd been angry at him for something stupid, something he couldn't even remember now. You'd ignored him for a whole day, a full twenty-four hours of silence, and he'd practically gone insane.

He'd sat in this same room, at this same desk, and he'd made you a tape full of songs that made him think of sorry, I miss you, please come back. He'd spent hours on it, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the order just right. He'd wanted it to be perfect. He'd wanted to give it to you and have you listen to it and understand everything he couldn't say out loud.

But he never gave it to you.

You'd forgiven him before he had the chance. Shown up at his door the next morning with a bag of his favourite snacks and a small smile, and he'd kissed you, and the fight was over, and the tape sat forgotten on his desk. He'd meant to put it away, meant to save it for the next time—because there was always a next time, wasn't there?—but he'd forgotten. He'd shoved it behind his notebooks and let it collect dust.

Until now.

His hand reached out, almost without his permission, and picked up the tape. The case was dusty. The sticky note was peeling at the corners. He turned it over in his hands, reading his own handwriting again. For when you need it.

He needed it now more than he'd ever needed anything.

He sat down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He brushed the dust off the case, opened it, pulled out the tape. The label on the cassette itself was smudged, but he could still make out the tracklist: song titles he'd chosen carefully and deliberately, each one a message he'd been too scared to say out loud.

He held the tape in his hands for a long moment and the plastic was cool against his palms.

He thought about making you a new, better one that had songs from the last few months, songs that had made him think of you since then. But there wasn't time. He couldn't wait and spend hours in his room, fast-forwarding and rewinding, while you were out there somewhere, still ignoring him, still hurting.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, shoved the tape into his pocket, and grabbed his keys from his nightstand. His shoes were by the door; he shoved his feet into them, didn't bother with socks.

His parents were asleep. The house was dark. He crept down the stairs, his hand trailing along the wall for balance, until he arrived in front of the back door, clicking it open before he slipped through.

The night air hit his face, cool and damp, smelling like cut grass and distant rain. He sucked in a breath and started to run.

His sneakers pounded against the pavement. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The streets were empty, the houses dark, the streetlights casting pools of orange on the pavement like stepping stones leading him toward you. None of that mattered. None of it registered. Because to him, time felt like a ticking bomb, each second another excuse for you to decide he wasn't worth it, each moment he wasted giving you more reason to leave him for good.

He thought about what he'd say when he got to your house. Rehearsed the words in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn't quite get right. I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I'll do better. Please. Just give me one more chance. But the words felt small, inadequate, nothing compared to the weight of what he was feeling.

He thought about whether you'd even let him in. Whether you'd even open the window. Whether you'd take one look at his face and close the curtain, lock the latch, walk away.

He reached your street. Your house sat at the end of the block, the porch light on, the way it always was—a warm glow spilling across the front steps, a beacon he'd followed a hundred times before. Your parents' car was in the driveway. Your brother's bike was on the lawn, lying on its side where he'd left it. Everything was the same. The same house, the same street, the same familiar shape of your bedroom window at the side of the building.

But everything felt heavier, ike the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe.

He didn't go to the front door. He knew your father would open it, and he'd take one look at Seonghyeon's face—the dark circles, the desperation, the four days of sleeplessness written all over him—and close it again without a word. So he went around the back, to the side of the house, to the window he'd climbed through a hundred times before that you always left unlocked on nights when you were expecting him.

He didn't know if it would be unlocked tonight. He didn't know if you wanted to see him. He didn't know if you'd even let him in.

But he had to try.

He stood beneath your window, his chest heaving, his hands shaking at his sides. His breath fogged in the cold air, small clouds that disappeared as quickly as they came. The curtain was drawn so he couldn't see anything, or even tell if you were awake or asleep or somewhere in between, lying in your bed with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling the way he'd been doing for four nights straight.

He reached up, fingers curling around the ledge beneath the window before he hauled himself up, his sneakers scraping against the siding, his muscles straining. The ledge was narrow, just wide enough for his feet. but he'd done this before. He'd done it a hundred times. He knew exactly where to put his weight, exactly how to balance.

He steadied himself. Pressed one hand against the glass to keep from wobbling. Then he raised his other hand and knocked three times, harder than he intended.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed through the quiet night, louder than he meant it to, louder than it should have been. The glass rattled in its frame but he didn't care. Let your parents hear. Let the whole street hear. Let the whole world know he was here, outside your window, begging.

He waited. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers where they pressed against the glass. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.

The curtain moved. Just slightly, just a flicker, like someone was peeking through the gap.

Then, all at once, it was shoved aside, and you were standing on the other side of the glass. 

Your hair was a mess: tangled, falling across your face in waves you hadn't bothered to brush. Your eyes were puffy, ringed with dark circles that matched his own, proof that you hadn't been sleeping either. You were wearing his gray t-shirt that he’d left at your place after a sleepover, and always made his chest ache every time he saw you in it. 

For a long moment neither of you moved, just staring at each other. The streetlight caught the side of your face, illuminating the shadows under your eyes, the slight frown on your lips, the way your brow was furrowed like you were trying to figure out if he was real.

"You've got to be kidding me," you said, sliding the window ajar for him to hear you.

"I'm not kidding."

"It's two in the morning, Seonghyeon."

"I know what time it is."

"My parents are asleep."

"I know."

"You could have woken them up."

He swallowed. "I know."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained unmoving.

"What do you want?" you asked.

"You know what I want."

"No, I don't. That's the problem. I never know what you want. One minute you're making me tapes and leaving notes on my locker, and the next you're forgetting I exist."

"I don't forget you exist."

"You forgot our study date."

"That's not the same thing."

"It feels the same from where I'm standing." You crossed your arms over your chest, your jaw set. "You forgot, Seonghyeon. Again. You were at the arcade with your friends while I sat in the library like an idiot, waiting for you."

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry—"

"You're always sorry."

"Because I'm always messing up."

"Then stop messing up!"

The words hung in the air between you, loud and sharp. You blinked, like you hadn't meant to shout, but you didn't take it back. You just stood there, your arms crossed, your chest heaving, your eyes bright with something that looked like tears.

He pressed his forehead against the glass. The cold bit into his skin, but he didn't move. He couldn't.

"I don't know how," he said. His voice was quiet, barely audible. "I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to be the person you deserve."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I can't—I can't just—" He pulled back, looked at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking. "I can't lose you. I can't. I know I mess up. I know I forget things. I know I'm late and I don't call and I make you feel like you don't matter. But you do. You matter more than anything. And I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try. I have to."

You were quiet for a long moment. Your arms were still crossed, your jaw still set, but your face had shifted to something softer.

"What's that?" You asked, nodding toward his hand.

He looked down. The tape was still clutched in his fingers, the plastic case warm from his palm. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it.

"I made this for you," he said. "Months ago. After our last fight when you ignored me for a day and I thought I was going to lose my mind."

Your eyes flicked down to the tape, then back up to his face.

"I never gave it to you because you forgave me before I had the chance. And I was relieved, so I shoved aside and forgot about it." He swallowed. "But I found it tonight. And I thought—I thought maybe you'd listen to it. If you still wanted to."

"Baby Come Back," you said, reading the tracklist through the glass. "Really?"

"It's a good song."

"It's cliché."

"Clichés exist for a reason."

You shook your head, but your lips twitched just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "You're impossible."

"I know."

"You're standing outside my window at two in the morning holding a cassette tape like some bad movie."

"I know that too."

"You don't even have socks on."

He looked down at his feet and realised you were right. His sneakers were loose, his bare ankles visible above the heels. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed anything except the need to get here.

"I didn't have time for socks," he said.

You stared at him for another long moment. Your hand moved from the window frame to the latch. You hesitated and he held his breath.

Then you unlocked the latch and slid the window open fully.

The night air rushed in, cool and damp, and you stepped back, just enough to give him room. Your arms were crossed again, your face guarded, but you'd opened the window and let him in, and that had to mean something.

He didn't wait. He hauled himself over the sill, his sneakers scraping against the frame, and landed on your bedroom floor with a soft thud. The tape was still clutched in his hand as he was now standing in the middle of your room, his chest heaving.

You closed the window behind him, pulling the curtain shut before turning to face him.

The room was dark except for the orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the fabric, casting long shadows across the floor. 

"Play it," you said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The tape. Play it. If you came all this way, you might as well."

He crossed the room to your stereo, the same one he'd used a hundred times before. He slid the tape into the deck, pressed play, and stepped back.

Static. Silence. The soft hiss of the tape spinning.

Then music.

The opening notes of 'Baby Come Back' filled the room and the words hung in the air between you like a confession he couldn't make himself.

‘Spending all my nights, all my money going out on the town

Doing anything just to get you off of my mind, yeah

But when the morning comes, I'm right back where I started again

And tryna forget you is just a waste of time’

"You're such an idiot," you finally spoke again, but your voice was softer this time. Quieter.

"I know."

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know."

"One song doesn't make up for four days of silence."

"I know."

"And I'm still mad at you."

He nodded. "I know."

‘Baby come back, any kind of fool could see

There was something in everything about you’

You took a step closer. Then another. Your arms fell to your sides. Your face was still guarded, but your eyes were wet, and your hands were shaking slightly.

"You forgot," you said. "You forgot, and you were late, and you shrugged at me like it didn't matter."

"It did matter. It does matter. You matter."

"Then why do you keep doing this?"

He didn't have an answer. He'd been asking himself the same question for days, and he still didn't have an answer. He was scared, maybe. Or stupid. Or both.

‘Baby come back, yeah, you can blame it all on me

'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know why I keep doing this. I don't know why I can't just—remember. I don't know why I keep hurting you when you're the last person I want to hurt."

"Then figure it out."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

The song played on. He could see you fighting it—fighting the way your eyes kept dropping to his lips, the way your hands kept twitching at your sides like you wanted to reach for him.

"I'm scared," he said.

You blinked. "Of what?"

"Of you. Of this. Of how much I need you." His voice cracked. "I've never needed anyone the way I need you. And it terrifies me. Because what if I'm not good enough? What if I keep messing up? What if one day you wake up and decide I'm not worth the trouble?"

You stared at him. "Seonghyeon—"

"That's why I forget things. Not because I don't care. Because I do. I care so much it scares me, and I don't know how to handle it, so I just—shut down. And then you're upset, and I'm upset, and I don't know how to fix it."

‘All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado (false bravado)’

You crossed the room in three steps. Your hand found his face, your palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing away a tear he hadn't even realised had fallen.

"Idiot," you whispered.

"I know."

"You should have told me this days ago."

"I didn't know how."

‘Tryna keep up a smile that hides a tear (hides a tear)’

You were close now, close enough that he could see the way your breath hitched when his hand came up to cover yours.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know."

"Like, really mad."

"I know that too."

"This doesn't mean I forgive you."

He nodded. "I know."

‘But as the sun goes down, I get that empty feeling again

How I wish to God that you were here’

But you didn't step back. And neither did he. The song played on, soft and sad, and you stood there in the middle of your room, your hand on his face, his hand over yours, neither of you willing to be the first to let go.

"Well," you said finally, "are you going to kiss me or not?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I thought you were still angry at me."

"I am."

"So why—"

"Because I'm also tired, and I missed you, and you're standing in my room at two in the morning with a cassette tape like some lovesick fool, and it's kind of pathetic, honestly."

"Gee, thanks."

"But it's also kind of sweet." You shrugged, but your eyes were soft, and your thumb was still tracing circles on his cheekbone. "And I've been lying awake for four nights wondering if you were going to show up. So are you going to kiss me or not?"

He kissed you as the chorus finally swelled once more.

The moment his lips met yours, something in him broke open.

They were chapped from the cold, from the wind, from four days of not taking care of himself. They were rough against yours, almost unfamiliar, and he tasted like salt from the tears he'd shed running through the dark, and the ones that still clung to his lashes.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he'd been holding his breath for four days and you were the only thing that could save him. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly at your sides, slid to your waist and pulled you flush against him. There was no space between you now, just the warmth of his chest pressing against yours, the rapid thrum of his heartbeat echoing through his ribs into your own.

Your fingers slid to tangle through his hair. The strands were soft at the nape of his neck, curling around your knuckles the way they always did.

His hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, spanning the space between your shoulder blades. He pulled you closer, closer, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

Your hands slid from his hair to his jaw, cupping his face like you had moments ago. His skin was cold from the night air, and you could feel the muscles working beneath your palms as he kissed you: the way his jaw moved, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. The song was still playing, soft and sad, the words washing over you both like a wave.

‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me

I was wrong, and I just can't live without you, no’

His forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the tear tracks glistening in the dim light. His breath was warm on your lips, uneven, hitching, and you felt his hands lower back down to your waist.

"Seonghyeon," you whispered.

He opened his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made your breath catch—something that looked like awe, like wonder, like he couldn't quite believe you were real.

"I'm not going to forgive you just because you showed up with a tape."

He nodded. "I know."

"But I'm also not going to pretend I didn't miss you."

His hands tightened on your hips. "I missed you too."

"So much it hurts."

"So much I couldn't breathe."

You looked at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, the ones that matched your own. At the way his hair fell across his forehead, messy and unwashed. At the way his lips were red and slightly swollen, parted like he was still trying to catch his breath.

"You look terrible," you said.

"I feel terrible."

"Have you been sleeping?"

"A little."

"Eating?"

He hesitated and you raised an eyebrow.

"A little," he said again.

You sighed and shook your head, but you didn't let go of his face, and he didn't let go of your hips.

"Idiot," you said.

"Your idiot."

"My idiot," you repeated. The words felt heavy in your mouth, weighted with everything you hadn't said in four days. "But only if you stop being an idiot."

"I'm going to try."

"That's not a promise."

"It's the best I can do."

You were quiet for a moment. The song played on, a hum in the background.

‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me

'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’

"I guess that'll have to do," you said.

And you kissed him again as the electric guitar soared, blurring your every sense as all you could feel was him.

This time, it was slower. You kissed him like you were trying to tell him something you didn't have words for that had been sitting in your chest for four days waiting to come out.

I love you. I hate you. I missed you. Please don't leave again.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Like this moment, right here, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Your hands slid from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. It was pounding under your palm: fast, uneven, the same rhythm as yours. His hands slid from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. 

He broke the kiss first. Not because he wanted to—you could see it in his eyes, the way they were still dark, still desperate, still fixed on your lips—but because he couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving, his shoulders shaking, and his forehead dropped to yours again, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

"I love you," he said. His voice was wrecked: raw and rough, like he'd been screaming, or crying, or both. "I love you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."

You brushed your thumb across his lower lip. It was still wet from the kiss, still chapped, still trembling just slightly.

"I know," you said.

"I'm going to do better."

"I know."

"I'm going to remember."

"I know."

"I'm going to—"

You kissed him again, soft this time, just a brush of your lips against his. "Stop talking," you whispered.

He nodded and swallowed, pressing his forehead to yours.

The song ended and the tape clicked off, waiting for you to confirm the next track. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the stereo and the sound of both of you breathing.

"I missed this," you admitted quietly, your thumb lowering to trace his jaw. "I missed you. Even when I was angry. Even when I didn't want to."

His breath hitched. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened just slightly. "I missed you too," he said, his voice rough. "Every second. Every minute. I couldn't breathe." He pressed his forehead harder against yours, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. "Don't ever shut me out again. I can't—I can't do that again."

You didn't promise. You couldn't. But you let your forehead rest against his, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, and you stayed there. Breathing the same air. Feeling his heart beat against your palm where your hand had settled on his chest. The clock ticked past three and the tape still waited. But neither of you moved. You just stood there in the dark, holding onto each other, and for the first time in four days, you finally felt back home.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

TAN LINES — AHN KEONHO

SYNOPSIS :: Your boyfriend swears he'll be fine without sunscreen despite your insistence, though he doesn't mind being proven wrong if it means you'll take care of him.

W.C :: 5.0k

CONTAINS :: athletic!keonho, fluff + crack, high school au, established relationship, cringe + cliché teen love, cheesy dialogue, sports day, sunburns, pet names, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Sweet boy - Malcolm Todd; The perfect pair - Beabadoobee; Puppy love - Paul Anka; No.1 party anthem - Arctic Monkeys

The school field was already buzzing with energy despite the early hour. Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green banners rippled in the warm morning breeze, and the sound of excited chatter mixed with the occasional shriek of laughter as students ran around with face paint, glitter, and makeshift foam fingers. The smell of freshly cut grass and the distant sizzle of the food stalls being set up hung in the air.

Keonho had claimed a spot against the old brick wall near the Red House base, far enough from the chaos to hear himself think but close enough to be part of the action. He sat cross-legged on the grass, a small pot of red face paint beside him and a thin brush in his hand. His other hand was resting on his knee, tapping along to a song only he could hear.

"Come here," he said, his voice soft but commanding as he looked up at you. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, the corners of his mouth already curving into that teasing smile you knew so well. "Hold still, baby."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the warmth that spread through your chest at the endearment. You knelt in front of him, tucking your knees under you on the grass whilst his hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face gently toward him. His fingers were warm, a little calloused from all the hours he spent practicing basketball, and they lingered on your skin just a moment longer than necessary.

"Perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to you, as he studied your face like it was a canvas he was about to create a masterpiece on. His brow furrowed in concentration, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing at how serious he looked.

He dipped the brush into the red paint and began to work, his strokes careful and deliberate. He painted two bold streaks on your cheeks, mirroring the ones he'd already applied to Seonghyeon beforehand. Then he added a small star on your forehead, right between your eyebrows, because apparently he thought that was necessary for good luck.

"There," he announced, leaning back to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like a proper Red House warrior."

You laughed, reaching up to touch the star on your forehead. "Really? I feel like I look a bit silly."

"You could never look silly, baby," he said with a shrug, his grin widening. "You’re too cute anyways."

Your eyes drifted to his hand to avoid his eyes, his fingers still holding the paintbrush. Specifically, you noticed the way his fingers looked completely normal. No white cast, no greasy sheen. The sun was already warm on your own arms, and the sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue that promised a scorching day ahead.

"Give me the brush," you finally said, holding out your hand and ignoring his flirtation.

He raised an eyebrow but handed it over. "Bossy."

"Someone has to be," you shot back, dipping the brush into the paint. "Now hold still, and don't blink."

He obediently froze, his eyes fixed on you as you reached forward. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw, tilting his face so you could see the streaks you were about to paint. Your thumb rested against the curve of his cheekbone, and you paused for just a second.

Something felt off.

You ran your thumb along his jawline, feeling the smooth, warm skin. There was no tackiness, no residue, no protective layer of sunscreen that should have been there on a day like today. His skin felt suspiciously, alarmingly normal.

"Keonho," you said slowly, still holding his face, still staring at his skin. "Did you put sunscreen on today?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Huh? No. Why would I?"

The incredulity in your voice was unmistakable. "Why would you? Because we're going to be outside in the sun for the next six hours! Because you're pale! Because you burn like a vampire in direct sunlight!"

He scoffed, pulling back slightly from your grip. "I do not burn like a vampire, and my skin is not that sensitive."

"Your ears turn red if you stand near a window for too long," you reminded him flatly.

"That's different," he insisted. "That's just... temperature. The sun is not that strong today. It's barely even warm."

You stared at him, then gestured dramatically at the blazing sun overhead, the bright blue sky, the students already fanning themselves with their hands. "It's literally a heatwave. The weather forecast said it's going to be the hottest day of the month."

"Forecasts are always wrong," he said confidently. "It's fine. I'm fine. The sun is not going to murder me."

"You're so stubborn," you muttered, but you couldn't help the fond exasperation in your voice.

He reached up and grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand, that was still holding the brush, back toward his face. "Just paint my face, baby. Stop worrying. I'm a grown man, I can handle a little sunlight."

"You're a grown man who once got sunburned through a car window," you pointed out.

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

"Okay, three times, but this is different. We're in a competition and I have to focus on winning, not on... skincare routines."

You sighed, shaking your head, but you couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. This was so utterly, completely Keonho: stubborn, confident, and convinced he knew better than everyone else, especially when it came to things he didn't actually know anything about.

"Fine," you said, moving closer again. "But I'm going to say this once more. You are going to get sunburned badly. You're going to look like a tomato by the end of the day."

"Tomatoes are healthy," he quipped. "I'll be a very attractive tomato."

You snorted, nearly dropping the paintbrush. "That's not how that works."

"It is if I want it to be." His grin was infuriatingly smug, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked so completely, utterly certain of himself, like he couldn't even conceive of a reality where he might be wrong about something.

You raised an eyebrow, dipping the brush back into the paint. "Okay. But when you're bright red and peeling for the next week, I don't want to hear a single complaint."

"I won't complain," he promised, his tone dismissive.

"You'll complain."

"I won't."

"You'll be whining by noon."

"Not if I win the races, I’ll be too busy celebrating."

You leaned in, using your free hand to tilt his face again, and you painted the streaks with care and precision. The red pigment stood out starkly against his pale skin, and you couldn't help the small pang of worry that lingered in your chest. He was going to get burnt. You knew it. He knew it too, probably, somewhere deep down, but he was too proud to admit it.

"There," you said, finally finishing the second streak. "You look... like you're about to lose a fight with the sun."

"Charming," he deadpanned. "You really know how to boost a guy's confidence."

"I'm just being honest."

"Honesty is overrated."

You set the brush down and leaned back, studying your work. The streaks were even, symmetrical, and somehow made him look even more attractive than usual. It was annoying, really, how good he looked even when he was being a complete idiot.

He caught you staring and smirked. "What? Already admiring your work?"

"You wish," you said, but your cheeks flushed slightly. "I'm just mentally preparing myself for the inevitable 'I told you so' moment later."

"Oh, you're going to be waiting a long time for that one," he said confidently. "I'm not going to get sunburnt. I have naturally resilient skin. It's a genetic gift."

"Your genetics are going to betray you today," you predicted.

"Wanna bet?"

"No, because I don't want to profit off your suffering. I'd rather just be smug and supportive."

He laughed at that, a warm, genuine sound that made your heart do a little flip in your chest. He reached out and ruffled your hair carefully, so he didn't ruin the hairdo you had it in, and his expression softened into something fond.

"You're really worried about me, aren't you?" He asked, his voice gentler now.

"Of course I am," you admitted. "I don't want you to be in pain, even if it is your own fault."

He was quiet for a moment, and something flickered across his face before he then shook his head, that familiar confident smirk returning.

"I'll be fine," he promised. "And even if I do get a little pink, it'll be worth it. I'm going to win so many events today. You're going to be so impressed."

"I'm already impressed by your ability to be this wrong about the weather," you said dryly.

He just laughed, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. "Keep watching. You'll see."

Your gaze drifted to his arms, his neck, the exposed skin that was already warming under the morning sun. You felt a familiar, sinking certainty settle in your stomach. His skin was so pale, so vulnerable. Even now, in the early hours, you could see the faint pink beginning to bloom on his ears.

He was going to get absolutely cooked, and you were going to have the best 'I told you so' moment of your entire relationship.

"Fine," you said, getting to your feet and brushing the grass off your knees. "Go win your little events. I'll be right here, cheering you on and waiting."

"Waiting for what?" He asked, tilting his head with that infuriatingly innocent expression he always wore when he was pretending not to know exactly what you meant.

"For you to realise I'm always right," you said sweetly, reaching out to fix a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "But don't worry, I'll be patient."

He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, that familiar, lopsided grin that made your heart do little flips in your chest. He got to his feet in one smooth motion, brushing the grass off his own pants, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

The noise of the crowd faded into background static. The sun warmed your shoulders, the paint on your cheeks felt like a second skin, and all you could see was him, standing there with that soft look in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice suddenly sincere. "For painting my face, and for worrying about me. For everything."

Your cheeks flushed beneath the paint. "You don't have to thank me for worrying. It's basically a full-time job with you."

He laughed, that warm, genuine sound that always made you want to smile. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone. His skin was warm, so warm, and you knew it was only going to get hotter as the day went on.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "You know that, right?"

"Keonho," you started, suddenly flustered. "You don't have to—"

But he didn't let you finish. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss. His hand cradled your face like you were something precious, something worth protecting. The kiss lingered, gentle and warm, a goodbye and a thank you all at once.

When he pulled back, his eyes were bright, his smile soft. "That's for being you," he said. "And for putting up with my stubbornness."

"Your stubbornness is part of your charm," you said, your voice a little breathless. "Annoying, but charming."

"Annoyingly charming," he agreed, pressing one more quick kiss to your forehead. "I'll be back. Don't go anywhere."

"I'll be right here," you promised. "Watching you get progressively redder whilst winning."

He laughed, shaking his head, and turned to jog off toward his friends. He called something over his shoulder, something you couldn't quite hear over the noise of the crowd and the sudden thumping of your own heart.

It didn't matter. You already knew how this day was going to play out.

"Just you wait, Ahn Keonho." You murmured to yourself, watching his figure be swallowed into the surrounding group of students. “Just you wait.”

The morning events kicked off with the relay race, and Keonho was running second leg. You found a spot near the finish line, your face painted, your voice ready. When the starter gun fired, you watched him tear down the track, his legs pumping, his expression fierce. He passed the baton cleanly, and his team ended up taking second place.

After the race, he found you immediately, jogging over with that victorious grin on his face. He was sweaty, breathless, and absolutely glowing with adrenaline.

"Did you see me?" He asked, grabbing your shoulders. "I passed like, three people. Three people!"

"I saw," you said, laughing and handing him a bottle of water. "You were fast, really fast. You also look a little pink."

"Shut up," he said, but he was laughing, shaking his head at your persistence. "It's just from running, blood flow and all that."

"Uh-huh." You eyed his ears, which were already starting to turn a faint shade of pink. They were practically glowing against his pale skin. "Keep telling yourself that."

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He downed half the water in one go, then draped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

"Come watch the long jump with me," he said, already steering you toward the field. "Martin is competing. He's going to get destroyed, but I want to see it."

"You're such a good friend," you said dryly.

"The best," he agreed. "Now come on. I want to hold your hand and mock my friends simultaneously. It's my ideal afternoon."

You let him drag you across the field, settling into a familiar rhythm of teasing and easy conversation. Between events, you sat together in the shade of the Red House canopy, sharing a bag of crisps and taking photos with your friends. He kept pulling you close, pressing kisses to your temple, whispering jokes in your ear that made you snort with laughter.

Every now and then, you'd glance at him and see his skin getting progressively redder. His ears were now a distinct, unmistakable pink. His neck was starting to flush. His arms, usually pale, had taken on a faint reddish hue.

"Keonho," you said during a lull in the conversation, gesturing to his arm. "You're literally turning red right now as we speak. Right in front of my eyes."

"I'm fine," he insisted, not even looking at his arm. "It's just warm. Everyone's a little red."

"I'm not red," you pointed out, holding up your own arm: normal and sunscreened. "Because I'm responsible."

"Responsible and annoying," he teased.

"Responsible and right," you corrected.

He just shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. You gave up, deciding to let him figure it out on his own. He was stubborn to a fault, and arguing with him was pointless.

The afternoon events were more intense. Keonho competed in the three-legged race with Seonghyeon, and they somehow managed to win despite nearly falling twice. Then he was in the tug-of-war, pulling with everything he had, his face contorted with effort. His team won, and his friends lifted him onto their shoulders in celebration.

You cheered from the sidelines, laughing at his triumphant expression. But when he came back to you, sweaty and breathless, you noticed the sunburn had progressed significantly. His neck was a deep, angry red. His ears were practically glowing. His face, protected by the paint, was still pale, but his nose was starting to turn pink.

"Keonho," you said slowly, reaching up to touch his neck. "You're cooked. Like, really cooked. You're at medium-well right now, and you're going to be well-done by dinner."

"I'm fine," he said automatically, but his voice was a little weaker now. He was starting to feel the sunburn, you could tell. He kept touching his ears, wincing slightly. "It's not even that bad."

"It's bad," you insisted, your voice softening with genuine concern. "You're going to be in so much pain tonight."

"It'll go away."

"Sunburns don't just 'go away,' Keonho. They get worse. Tomorrow you're going to be peeling, and it's going to hurt, and I'm going to be very, very unsympathetic."

"Wow," he said flatly. "You're so supportive."

"I told you this morning," you reminded him, poking his chest. "I gave you multiple warnings. I was very clear about the consequences and you still didn't listen."

He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture of affection despite the teasing smile arising on his lips. "I love you," he murmured. "Even when you're annoyingly right."

"I love you too," you said, your voice softening. "Even when you're burning yourself to a crisp like an idiot. Which is always."

The final events wound down as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. The sports day closing ceremony was a blur of announcements, awards, and exhausted students heading home. Keonho found you in the crowd, his hand finding yours, his skin hot to the touch.

"Let's get out of here," he mumbled, his voice tired. "Go back to your place?"

"Sure," you said, threading your arm through his. "I’m going to be tending to your new sunburn anyways, it looks like it hurts."

"Ugh," he groaned as your fingers grazed his reddened skin, his facade not being able to stand up much longer. "It’s not that bad."

"Keonho, shut up and just admit it’s painful and that I was right.”

“Never!”

Your house was quiet and cool when you finally arrived, a welcome relief after the heat of the day. You kicked off your shoes by the door, and Keonho followed suit, his movements slower, more tired. He was still in good spirits, but you could see the exhaustion settling into his bones.

In your room, he collapsed onto the edge of your bed, letting out a long sigh. His hair was a mess, his face paint smudged, and his skin was radiating heat like a furnace.

"Okay," you said, heading into the bathroom. "Let's get this paint off. I'm getting you some aloe vera after this."

"Aloe vera?" He asked, his voice skeptical. "I don't need aloe vera."

"Keonho, you're literally burning up. You need aloe vera."

"I'm fine."

"You've said that fifteen times today, I'm going to ignore you."

You came back with a warm, wet towel, positioning yourself just in front of him. He looked up at you, his expression softening, a tired smile on his lips.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" He asked.

"Never," you promised. "This is the most satisfying moment of my life. I've been looking forward to this all day."

He rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he let you work, closing his eyes as you gently began to wipe away the red paint from his cheeks, his hands sneaking onto your waist.

"Hold still," you murmured, using the same words he'd used on you that morning. "This might be a little messy."

The paint came off in streaks, the red pigment smearing across his skin before disappearing into the towel. You worked carefully, making sure to get every last bit. Underneath, his skin was pale, almost translucent compared to the angry red around it.

Then you paused.

Your hand froze mid-motion. You stared at his face, your brow furrowing in confusion. Something was... different. The paint was gone, but the area where it had been was noticeably lighter than the rest of his face. Two perfect, pale streaks stood out against his reddened skin.

"Keonho," you said slowly.

"What?" He asked, his eyes still closed as his thumbs slightly caressed your sides.

You didn't answer. A snort escaped your lips, followed by a giggle you couldn't quite suppress. Then, the giggle turned into a full-blown laugh that erupted from your chest, loud and uncontrollable.

He opened his eyes, looking at you with alarm. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you gasped, doubling over. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. This is perfect. This is the most perfect thing I've ever seen."

"Y/N, stop laughing! Tell me what's happening!"

But you couldn't. You were too busy laughing, your shoulders shaking, tears starting to form in your eyes. He stared at you, bewildered and increasingly concerned.

"Did I have something on my face?" He asked. "Is it still dirty?"

"It's not dirty," you managed, wheezing. "It's... you're..."

"You're going to have to use words at some point," he said flatly, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. He was trying to be annoyed, but your laughter was infectious, and he could feel his own smile threatening to break through. "Use your big girl voice."

"Tan lines," you finally choked out. "You've got tan lines."

He blinked, uncomprehending. "What?"

"On your face," you said, pointing. "Where the paint was. It blocked the sun, and now you have two perfect, pale stripes on your cheeks. It looks like you got attacked by a ghost."

He stared at you, his brain slowly processing your words. He moved his hands from your waist and touched his cheeks, feeling the smooth, cool skin and then, further out, the hot, tight skin that was definitely, painfully sunburned.

"Oh no," he breathed.

"YES," you cheered, clapping your hands together. "Yes, yes, yes! This is the moment I've been waiting for!"

"Let me see," he demanded, scrambling to his feet. "Where's your mirror?"

You practically skipped over to the full-length mirror on your closet door, pulling him along with you. He stood in front of it, his reflection staring back at him, and his face fell in pure, unadulterated disbelief.

Two perfect pale streaks ran down his cheeks, exactly where the red paint had been. The rest of his face was a blotchy, uncomfortable-looking red. His nose was pink. His ears were crimson. His neck was an angry, mottled mess. But his cheeks, protected by that stupid paint he'd insisted didn't matter, were completely pale, completely untouched by the sun.

He looked like a raccoon. A very red, very embarrassed raccoon.

"I told you so."

He could hear the smugness in your voice, a smugness that had been building all day, a smugness that was now reaching its peak. He didn't even need to turn around to see the smirk on your face.

"It's not that bad," he said weakly.

"Oh, it's bad," you assured him. "It's incredible, it's a masterpiece, I'm going to frame this moment in my memory forever."

He turned to look at you, and you were practically glowing with satisfaction. Your arms were crossed over your chest, your eyes dancing with amusement, your smile so wide it looked like it might split your face.

"You're enjoying this way too much," he grumbled.

"I've been enjoying this since eight o'clock this morning," you said. "This is the payoff for six hours of watching you get progressively redder while insisting you were fine. I deserve this."

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "I can't believe this. I literally can't believe this."

"I can," you said, stepping closer. "I told you this morning. I warned you. I was very, very clear about what was going to happen."

"I know," he mumbled. "You were right."

"I was right," you repeated, savoring the words. "You should say that again."

"Don't push it."

"Say it."

"You were right," he said, his voice muffled through his hands. "Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic," you confirmed. "This is the best day of my life."

He turned to look at himself in the mirror again, studying his reflection with a mixture of horror and disbelief. The pale stripes stared back at him, like a permanent reminder of his own hubris.

"Everyone's going to see this tomorrow," he realised. "Everyone at school, all my friends, all your friends."

"Absolutely," you said cheerfully. "I'm already thinking about all the photos I’m going to take."

"Y/N, you can't—"

"I can and I will. This is too good not to share."

He turned to face you, his expression a pleading mess of embarrassment and desperation. His cheeks were flushed—more flushed than they already were—and his eyes were wide with alarm.

"Please don't show anyone," he begged. "I'll do anything. I'll buy you dinner every day for a month. I'll carry your books. I'll—"

"You'll wear sunscreen next time," you interrupted.

He blinked. "What?"

"You'll wear sunscreen," you repeated, stepping closer to him. "Every time we're outside. You'll let me put it on you yourself if you have to. You'll stop being an idiot about your own health."

He considered this for a moment, then sighed, a long, defeated sigh. "Fine," he said. "I'll wear sunscreen. You win."

"I know I win," you said sweetly. "Now come here."

You reached up and grabbed his face gently, turning it from side to side to examine the tan lines. He let you, too tired and too defeated to resist.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "it's kind of cute. In a pathetic, cute way."

"I'm literally in pain," he deadpanned. "My skin is on fire. This is the worst day of my life."

"It's the best day of mine," you countered. "I'm going to remember this forever."

He tried to glare at you, but he couldn't quite manage it. The corner of his mouth kept twitching, his smile fighting its way through despite his embarrassment.

"You're so smug," he said.

"I'm right," you corrected.

"Same thing."

You laughed, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek—one of the pale parts, just to be safe. He made a sound of protest, but it was weak, half-hearted.

"I love you," you said softly, your eyes meeting his. "Even when you're a sunburnt raccoon."

"Raccoon?"

"Raccoon. The stripes, you know. It's a good look, very trendy."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

He sighed, but his eyes softened, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against yours. "I do," he admitted. "I really do."

"Good," you said, pulling away and grabbing your phone. "Now, say cheese. I need documentation for future blackmail purposes."

"Y/N, wait—"

You snapped a picture before he could stop you, capturing his horrified expression for all eternity. His face was a perfect combination of embarrassment, disbelief, and a hint of amused resignation.

"Perfect," you announced, already scrolling through the photo. "This is going in the group chat."

"Y/N!"

"I'll give you a ten-second head start before I click send," you offered.

He stared at you, then at your phone, and then made a decision. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the phone out of your hands and held it above his head, out of your reach.

"You're going to have to fight me for it," he said, a grin finally breaking through his embarrassment.

"I will," you threatened, lunging for the phone. He dodged, laughing, and the two of you started a ridiculous chase around your room.

But he was tired and sunburnt, and you were faster. You tackled him onto your bed, pinning his arms down and grabbing the phone from his hand. He lay there, defeated, staring up at you with that familiar, infuriatingly fond smile.

"Fine," he said. "You win."

"Obviously," you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "I always do."

You spent the rest of the evening on the bed, you scrolling through the Sports Day photos while Keonho alternately groaned and laughed. He insisted he was going to wear a hat for the entire next month, and you insisted you were going to bring this up at your wedding.

When the laughter finally died down, he turned to look at you, his eyes soft despite the exhaustion and pain. "Baby."

You glanced up from your phone. "Yeah?"

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, guiding you closer. "You’re so pretty," he murmured. "Even when you’re annoyed at me."

Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was slow and tender, a quiet promise beneath all the teasing. His hand cradled your jaw like you were something precious, and when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.

"I love you," he said softly. "Even when you're insufferably right."

"I love you too," you whispered back. "Even when you're a sunburnt raccoon."

He laughed, pulling you into his side and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"Never," you confirmed, snuggling into him. "I'm bringing this up at our graduation, our ten-year anniversary, our retirement—"

He groaned, but he was smiling. "I've created a monster."

"The photos are going to be shown too," you added. "I’ll make sure of it."

"I wouldn’t expect anything less."

You both fell quiet, the comfortable silence settling around you like a warm blanket. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing, and you felt the heat still radiating off his skin.

"You're going to be so sore tomorrow," you murmured.

"Don't remind me."

"You're going to peel."

"Y/N."

"And you're going to have to explain the tan lines to everyone at school."

He turned his head, giving you a look. "Are you done?"

"Not even close," you said sweetly. "I'm going to be making comments about this for years."

He sighed dramatically, but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and his expression softened into something unbearably tender.

"Good," he said quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Your heart swelled. You leaned up and pressed another kiss to his lips: quick, soft, full of everything you couldn't quite put into words.

"I love you," you said again, because you could never truly say it enough.

"I love you too," he replied, his voice warm. "Even when you're smug."

"Especially when I'm smug," you corrected.

"Especially when you're smug," he agreed, pulling you closer.

He was an idiot. A complete, utter, stubborn idiot.

But he was your idiot, and you were never, ever going to let him forget it.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

MY LOVE WILL NEVER DIE ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS :: Your father finally caves and lets Seonghyeon sleep over, complete with a very long list of rules. There's just one problem: your boyfriend has never met a rule he couldn't, and wouldn’t, break.

W.C :: 5.1k

CONTAINS :: 80s!seonghyeon, established relationship, sleepover, overbearing/strict father, sneaking around/rule breaking, fluff, cliché, dancing, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: My love will never die - The Channels, Earl Lewis; Alone - Heart; Time (clock of the heart) - Culture Club; Open arms - Journey; Making love out of nothing at all - Air Supply; Alone with you - The Outfield

It had taken weeks of convincing for your father to finally agree to this.

Not because he didn’t know Seonghyeon. In fact, that actually was the problem.

Unfortunately, your father knew Seonghyeon very well.

He knew about the late-night drives, the missed curfews, the sound of a car engine idling outside your house fifteen minutes after you were supposed to be home. He knew Seonghyeon smiled his way through trouble instead of avoiding it, and somehow always managed to drag you directly into the middle of whatever terrible idea he’d had.

By the third time Seonghyeon had shown up at your house past midnight, and the second time your father had caught him trying to quietly drop you off only to nearly reverse into the mailbox, any chance of him being viewed as a respectable influence had disappeared completely.

So when you’d first brought up the idea of a sleepover your father had looked at you like you were insane.

"No," he'd said.

Then no again.

Then absolutely not.

Then not in this house, not while I'm breathing, not over my dead body, and did you think he was born yesterday?

You'd persisted anyway. You'd brought it up at dinner, pushing peas around your plate while your mother hid a smile behind her wine glass. You'd caught your father in the hallway before bed, in the kitchen over his morning coffee, in the garage while he swore at something under the hood of his car. You'd asked so many times that your brother had started mimicking you: "Dad, can Seonghyeon sleep over?" in a high-pitched whiny voice that made you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You even attempted dramatically insisting that everyone else’s parents allowed it, which only earned you a long look and a “I’m not everyone else’s parents.”

All of these attempts earned you nothing but your father's disapproving gaze and, consequently, the slow squashing of your heart. Every time you brought it up, he'd fix you with that look that said don't push your luck, and you'd feel your hopes deflate a little more.

Eventually, you'd recruited your mother.

Your father had always been weak when it came to her. It was something only years of love could really create—that quiet power she held over him, the way he'd soften around the edges whenever she asked for something. He'd deny you for weeks, but she could undo all his resolve with a single look across the dinner table.

Maybe you and Seonghyeon would be like that when you were older.

Not that you ever thought about that, obviously. That would be crazy. You were only seventeen. You definitely hadn’t ever dreamed what it would be like to have your own house with Seonghyeon. Not at all.

But your mother was your secret weapon and over the following days she slowly wore him down.

"He's a good student," she'd mention the next night, stirring her coffee. "I saw his report card. You saw it too, didn't you?"

Your father would grunt.

“They’re good kids.”

Another grunt.

“You used to sneak out too, you know.”

That usually got a longer silence.

And every single time, you’d watch your father try very hard not to look affected while your mother hid a tiny smile behind her coffee cup.

It took nearly three weeks.

Three weeks of promises. Three weeks of “we’ll stay apart.” Three weeks of “the door will stay open.” Three weeks of your father looking personally exhausted by the entire situation.

But eventually, somehow, he caved. Not happily or gracefully, but he did.

The conditions came immediately after.

“Guest room,” your father had said firmly, pointing directly at Seonghyeon from across the living room. “Down the hall.”

Seonghyeon had been sitting on the couch so stiffly it was almost painful to watch, hands flat on his knees, posture straight like he was interviewing for a scholarship instead of asking to sleep over at his girlfriend’s house.

“Yes, sir.”

“Not her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not near her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And absolutely no funny business upstairs.”

At that, you’d nearly choked trying not to laugh while Seonghyeon nodded with suspicious seriousness.

“No funny business,” he repeated solemnly, like he was signing a legal contract.

Your father narrowed his eyes immediately, clearly unconvinced by how agreeable he sounded.

The worst part was that Seonghyeon looked entirely too amused underneath it, like he was enjoying this.

Your mother had stepped in before your father could change his mind completely, patting Seonghyeon lightly on the shoulder as she stood.

“He likes you,” she’d whispered kindly once your father disappeared into the kitchen.

Seonghyeon had glanced toward the doorway your father had vanished through before looking back at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is,” your mother insisted. “He would have killed you by now if he didn’t.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d had to look away because you were already starting to laugh.

Even now, hours later, lying awake in bed, you could still picture the expression Seonghyeon had worn all through dinner afterward: trying and failing to hide his smile every single time your father repeated one of the rules.

Which was exactly why sleep felt impossible now.

The house had been quiet for almost an hour.

The movie downstairs had ended. Your father had fallen asleep in his armchair halfway through it, your mother eventually nudging him awake while Seonghyeon tried very hard not to laugh. Everyone had gone upstairs after that, lights shutting off one by one until the whole house settled into silence.

And Seonghyeon was right down the hall.

Not far enough away to ignore.

You rolled onto your side again with a sigh, tugging the blankets higher before immediately kicking them back down again.

It was ridiculous, you saw him almost every day and yet somehow knowing he was only a few rooms away made you feel restless in a way you couldn’t fix.

The worst part was that the two of you had actually behaved all evening. Mostly.

You’d sat together on opposite ends of the couch at first, which was your father’s idea obviously, but little by little Seonghyeon had started inching closer whenever nobody was paying attention.

A shift of his knee against yours under the blanket. His shoulder brushing yours when he leaned over for popcorn. His hand lingering just slightly too long when he reached into your bowl instead of his own. Tiny, barely noticeable things.

Except your father noticed everything. Every single time your knees touched, you could practically feel your father narrowing his eyes from across the room without even looking away from the television.

At one point, Seonghyeon had leaned over to whisper something in your ear during the movie, and your father had immediately gone: “What was that?”

“Nothing,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

Which honestly only made it worse.

By the time everyone finally headed upstairs, you’d barely even gotten a proper goodnight. Just a quick glance, a small grin from him halfway down the hall, and a quiet: “Sleep well.”

Like that was actually possible now.

With a quiet sigh, you sat up in bed, throwing your blankets aside and pushing your hair back from your face as you stared toward your bedroom door.

This was ridiculous. You weren’t twelve. He was literally just a few doors away. You’d survived entire weekends without seeing him before. So why did knowing he was in your house suddenly make sleep impossible?

You flopped back dramatically for half a second, staring at the ceiling again. Then you immediately sat back up.

Just for a minute. That was all.

You’d go down the hall, see him, complain that you couldn’t sleep, maybe make fun of the guest room your father had stuck him in, and then come right back upstairs before anyone noticed.

Easy.

You slipped carefully out of bed, the floor cool against your feet as you crossed the room. The whole house had that deep, late-night stillness to it now, where every tiny sound suddenly felt dangerous.

The hallway outside your room was dark, lit only faintly by the pale moonlight spilling through the window at the far end. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, the old house creaking softly around you as if it were settling deeper into sleep.

You reached for your doorknob slowly, trying not to make noise.

The hinges gave the faintest creak as you pulled it open—

—and froze instantly.

Seonghyeon was already standing right outside your room. For a second your brain genuinely stopped working.

He looked equally caught off guard, though far less guilty about it. One hand was half-raised like he’d been about to knock, his hair slightly messy from sleep or from running his hands through it too many times.

You just stared at each other silently in the dark hallway. Then his eyes flicked over your face once, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward slowly. “You too?” He whispered.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“You’re supposed to be down the hall.”

“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again because unfortunately, it really wasn’t. He looked far too pleased about that realisation.

You tried crossing your arms, aiming for annoyed, but it lost some effect considering you were standing there in oversized sleep clothes staring at him in the middle of the night.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the guest room,” you whispered again, quieter this time.

“And you weren’t supposed to open the door.”

His voice stayed calm and low, but there was amusement tucked into every word. You rolled your eyes automatically, though your heartbeat had already started picking up.

He noticed, even in the darkness, how you were unable to meet his gaze for a moment.

Of course he noticed. Despite the impression you gave about not getting nervous around him, small parts of yourself that only he noticed ratted you out to him every single time. He’d known you long enough to tell.

Seonghyeon took a small step closer, enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent from the sweatshirt he’d changed into earlier. “You couldn’t sleep either?” He asked.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Maybe.”

“Mm,” he murmured, clearly not believing you for a second.

Then, before you could think too hard about it, his hand slid around your waist naturally, easily, like it belonged there. The movement pulled you closer in one smooth motion and your breath caught before you could stop it.

He leaned down slightly, giving you barely enough time to realise what he was doing before his mouth met yours.

Soft at first, careful enough that you almost thought he was trying to behave.

Though that lasted about three seconds because the second you kissed him back, his grip tightened slightly at your waist, and you felt him smile against your mouth like he’d just proven himself right about something.

Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his sweatshirt, bunching the fabric lightly, and you melted into him, making a small sound against his mouth, a sigh of relief. He chuckled slightly. You could feel it, the small gust of air that escaped him, and you wanted to stay here forever.

But then you remembered where you were, how your parents' bedroom was at the end of the hall that now felt increasingly small and dangerous

You pulled back and his mouth chased yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted. He leaned in for another kiss until you put your hand on his chest, pushing him back gently.

His eyes opened and he blinked, confused. His lips were pink, slightly swollen, he was looking at you like you'd just taken something vital away from him, a frown forming on his face. “Why?” He whispered, sounding genuinely betrayed by the interruption.

You stared at him incredulously before pointing toward your parents’ bedroom farther down the hall. “We cannot get caught,” you mouthed carefully.

He glanced once in that direction, then looked back at you completely unbothered. “They’re asleep.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And I was right last time.”

“You almost got hit with a shoe.”

“That wasn’t that serious.”

You gaped at him quietly. “My dad threatened to kill you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered thoughtfully. “But he says that every time he sees me now.”

Which was, annoyingly, true.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You like me.” The smugness in his whisper made you roll your eyes again, even though the warmth climbing into your face completely ruined the effect.

Unfortunately, he noticed that too. His expression softened instantly, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Before he could lean down again, you grabbed his wrist suddenly. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as you tugged him backward down the hallway. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Shh,” you whispered immediately. You started guiding him carefully toward the stairs, both of you moving slowly to avoid the loud spots in the floorboards.

The old house creaked anyway. Every single noise made you freeze for half a second before continuing. At one point, the stair beneath Seonghyeon’s foot let out an especially loud groan, and you whipped around so fast you nearly ran into him, only to find his shoulders were already shaking silently with laughter.

“This isn’t funny,” you mouthed.

“It kind of is.”

You glared at him while trying not to laugh yourself.

By the time the two of you finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the house had gone still again.

Moonlight spilled through the living room windows in pale strips, turning everything soft silver-blue. The furniture looked different at night somehow: quieter, softer around the edges. Even the air felt still.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen alongside the hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall.

Seonghyeon glanced around slowly before looking back at you, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Now what?” He whispered.

You shrugged, trying to act like dragging him downstairs in the middle of the night had been a completely normal decision. “I don’t know,” you said quietly. “You’re the one lurking outside my bedroom.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth immediately. “I was being romantic.”

“You were standing in the dark outside my door.”

“Romantically.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. He wandered away before you could answer, moving toward the vinyl cabinet beneath the stereo system in the corner of the room. Immediately, suspicion hit you. “Oh, don’t touch those.”

Too late.

Seonghyeon crouched in front of the cabinet anyway, flipping through your father’s records with the kind of confidence people only had when they absolutely should not be touching something. “You own, like, fifty sad old man albums,” he murmured.

“My dad likes music.”

“Your dad likes depression.”

You rolled your eyes, moving closer as he continued flipping through them one by one.

“What even is this?” He whispered, holding up a record sleeve covered in dramatic black-and-white photography.

You glanced at it. “I don’t know.”

“That guy looks miserable.”

“He’s probably singing about heartbreak.”

“Yeah, well. He should cheer up.”

You laughed quietly through your nose, quickly covering your mouth when the sound echoed slightly too loud in the room. Seonghyeon looked very pleased with himself for causing it.

He kept searching until one particular record made him pause. Slowly, he pulled it free from the shelf.

“My Love Will Never Die,” he read under his breath.

You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He asked, already grinning.

“You cannot be serious.”

He turned the sleeve over in his hands dramatically. “This is perfect.”

“It’s ancient.”

“Barely.”

“It literally belonged to my parents before I was born.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Classic.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself while he carefully slid the vinyl from its sleeve. For all his usual recklessness, he handled it surprisingly gently.

“That thing’s older than both of us,” you whispered.

He glanced up at you while setting it onto the player. “Still works better than your dad’s rules.”

“You are obsessed with annoying him.”

“He makes it easy.”

A soft crackle filled the room as the needle settled. Eventually the music started low and warm, instantly making the whole room feel slower.

‘I know, I know I love you (love you)

And I really love you so, need you (love you)’

Something about it changed the atmosphere immediately. The teasing quieted a little and the darkness around you suddenly felt softer instead of sneaky.

Seonghyeon stood there for a second listening before turning toward you again and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

‘And I'll never let you go, honey (love you)

My love for you will never die, ooh, ooh’

You stared at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because this is embarrassing.”

“It’s literally just dancing.”

“In my living room. At like one in the morning.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “Makes it better.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

“You dragged me downstairs.”

“That does not mean I owe you a dance.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings.”

“Wow.”

You tried to stay serious, but his smile was already ruining it. Especially because he looked completely unashamed standing there holding his hand out like some dramatic movie character. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Still waiting.”

You let out a quiet sigh, already losing the argument.

‘So, come on over (love you)

I want you to hold my hand, tell me (love you)’

Before you could properly refuse again, he stepped closer and took your hand himself. Your stomach flipped stupidly fast at the contact. “You’re so annoying,” you whispered.

“You’re still dating me,” he murmured, pulling you gently toward him anyway.

One of his hands settled naturally against your waist whilst the other stayed wrapped loosely around yours, and just like that something softened. The teasing faded a little around the edges.

You could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, could feel his thumb moving absently against your side while the music drifted quietly through the dark room.

Neither of you were really dancing properly. Just swaying slowly in place, being close enough that your slippers kept brushing against his socks every few seconds.

The floor creaked once beneath your feet and both of you froze instantly before trying not to laugh.

“Oh my god,” you whispered through a grin. “We’re actually going to get caught.”

“We’re fine.”

“That’s exactly what you said before my dad almost killed you.”

“He didn’t almost kill me.”

“He threw a shoe at your head.”

“And missed.”

You laughed quietly again, shaking your head as he smiled down at you.

‘That I'm your lover man, darling (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

For a little while, neither of you said anything after that. The music played softly around you while moonlight stretched across the floorboards. Somewhere outside, a car passed faintly in the distance before everything settled quiet again.

Seonghyeon looked down at you after a minute, his expression softer now, less teasing. “This song’s ridiculously old,” he murmured.

You glanced up at him. “You’re literally dancing to it.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. His hand shifted slightly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Because you’re here.”

And somehow that was worse than his usual flirting, because he said it so simply like it wasn’t even a line to win you over, it was just the truth embedded so deeply into his soul he couldn’t help but share.

Your eyes dropped away from his immediately, warmth rushing into your face as you tried very hard to focus on literally anything else besides the way he was looking at you.

Which only made him smile a little more. You hated when he did that: looking at you like that afterward, all quiet and unfairly sincere, like he knew exactly what it did to you.

You glanced down at the front of his sweatshirt instead, fingers curling lightly into the fabric near his shoulder. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you muttered.

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

A small pause passed between you before he spoke again, quieter now: “You get shy.”

Your head snapped back up immediately. “I do not.”

“You do,” he whispered, smiling a little wider now. “Right now.”

“I’m literally looking at you.”

“Yeah, after avoiding eye contact for like thirty seconds.”

“It was not thirty seconds.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Felt long.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was still holding you close in the middle of your dark living room while some ancient love song played softly behind him.

“This is why my dad doesn’t trust you,” you informed him.

“He didn’t trust me before this.”

“That’s true.”

“See?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh again.

‘Love's so necessary (wow)

That's why I just gotta be your man, oh, come on’

The record crackled softly between verses, the sound warm and familiar in the quiet house. Seonghyeon swayed lazily with the music, more interested in watching you than actually dancing properly.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “your mom definitely knew we were gonna sneak downstairs.”

You looked up immediately. “No, she didn’t.”

“She definitely did.”

“She wouldn’t allow that.”

“She likes me.”

You snorted. “She tolerates you.”

“She offered me more dessert at dinner.”

“She felt bad for you because my dad kept threatening your life.”

“Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes, but he only grinned.

‘Oh, girl (love you)

I want you to hold me tightly, kiss me, baby (love you)’

The song kept playing low through the speakers while the two of you moved slowly across the living room in uneven little circles. Every now and then the floor creaked beneath your feet, and both of you would instinctively freeze before dissolving into muffled laughter when nobody came downstairs.

At some point, his hand slipped lower against your waist, settling against your hip.

“So this is your definition of ‘no funny business?’” You whispered.

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “We’re dancing.”

“You are absolutely pushing it.”

“Your dad specifically said no funny business upstairs.”

You stared at him and he stared back completely serious for about two seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, trying not to laugh too loudly. “You’re horrible.”

“Still won you over though, huh.”

You groaned quietly, dropping your forehead briefly against his shoulder as he laughed softly under his breath, the sound warm and sleepy.

The living room smelled faintly like dust and laundry detergent and your father’s aftershave lingering in the furniture. Outside, wind brushed softly against the trees near the window, and somewhere far off, a car drove past on the main road. Everything felt suspended somehow, as though the whole world had gone quiet around the two of you.

Your eyes drifted half-shut for a second before you felt Seonghyeon shift slightly.

“You tired?” He whispered, his lips just grazing your hair as you hummed in response.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“You first.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You yawned like six times during the movie.”

“That was acting.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why would you fake being tired?”

He shrugged lightly. “Wanted your mom to think I was innocent.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You are actually unbelievable.”

“Worked, though.”

“No it didn’t.”

“She called me sweet.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you.”

He grinned. “You do.”

Unfortunately.

That stupid warm feeling hit your chest again. You looked away before he could notice it this time, but his hand squeezed lightly at your waist like maybe he already had.

‘And make me know how much you love me (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

The record neared its end, music softening under the crackle of vinyl, though neither of you moved to stop it.

Seonghyeon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head for a second, voice quieter when he spoke again. “You know your dad’s gonna blame me if we get caught down here.”

“He blames you for everything already.”

“Fair.”

“You breathed too loud at dinner and he looked ready to fight you.”

“I was nervous.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “You were nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You? Nervous?”

He looked down at you like the answer was obvious. “Your dad scares me.”

You burst into quiet laughter immediately. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He threatened me with a garden tool last month.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a rake.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

You giggled slightly, forehead dropping against Seonghyeon’s shoulder for a second.

Upstairs, your father’s eyes opened immediately. He laid there for half a second, listening. Another faint laugh drifted up from downstairs and your father sat upright. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Beside him, your mother groaned softly, hands rising to rub her eyes. “What now?”

“They’re awake.”

He was already throwing the blankets off when your mother sat up and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

“They’re downstairs.”

“So?”

“So?” He repeated in disbelief. “It’s one in the morning.”

Your mother squinted at him sleepily. “And?”

“And he’s down there with her.”

“You allowed him over.”

“That is suddenly feeling like a mistake.” Another muffled sound floated upstairs completely incoherent; for all he knew Seonghyeon could be plotting sneaking you out again. Your father pointed toward the floor. “You hear that?”

“I hear two teenagers.”

“I hear bad decisions.”

Your mother snorted softly, letting go of his wrist and lowering herself back onto the mattress. “You used to climb through my bedroom window.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Your mother smiled a little, already pulling the blankets back up. “Leave them alone. Let them have this.”

Your father stared at the bedroom door for another long second, clearly still considering marching downstairs anyway. Then he sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. “If he breaks my record player, he’s dead.”

“Sure, honey.”

Your father grumbled something under his breath before dragging a pillow over the side of his head dramatically. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.

Your mother laughed quietly beside him, reaching over to switch the lamp off again while downstairs, completely oblivious, the static kept playing softly through the house, the two of you in your own world.

"This is nice," Seonghyeon finally spoke again, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Mm."

"We should do this more often. It’s much easier sneaking downstairs than climbing through your window."

"You're going to get us killed."

"Worth it."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. The streetlight caught the side of his face, illuminating the soft curve of his smile and the way his eyes were half-closed like he was already half-asleep. You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. It fell right back, the way it always did.

"Come on," you whispered. "We should actually go to bed. Before he comes down here with a baseball bat."

He groaned but let you step back. His hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer, then dropped to his side. You walked together to the stairs, your bare feet silent on the cold floor, his heavier behind you. At the top of the stairs, you stopped, turning back to face him.

"Goodnight," you whispered.

"Goodnight."

Neither of you moved.

"You first," he said, a soft smile resting on his face.

"No, you."

He smiled—that slow, lazy smile that always made your stomach flip. His eyes softened in the dim light, crinkling at the corners, and for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face. As though he wanted to remember this exact second.

Then he leaned in.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gentle but sure. His thumb brushed against your temple and you felt your eyes flutter closed before his lips even touched your skin.

When they did, it was soft. Softer than you expected. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and they pressed against your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He stayed there longer than he needed to, just breathing you in, and his breath warmm against your hairline. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they rested against your scalp, could feel the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath, like he was trying to steady himself.

Your own hands had found the fabric of his t-shirt at some point, your fingers curled into the soft cotton, holding on without meaning to. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and you never wanted to let go.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant even. His lips brushed your skin one last time before he straightened, and his hand slid from your hair to your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes were dark in the dim light, soft, and he looked at you as though you were something precious.

"Goodnight," he whispered. His voice was low, rough, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Then he let go. His hand dropped to his side and he took a step back, then another, his bare feet silent on the carpet. The hallway was dark, but you could see the outline of him: the slope of his shoulders, the mess of his hair, the way he kept his eyes on yours even as he moved away.

He reached the guest room doorway and paused. His hand rested on the frame. He looked back at you one last time, and something warm and unspoken passed between you.

Then, eventually, he stepped inside, and he was gone.

You walked to your room, climbed into your own bed, and pulled the blanket up to your chin, still feeling the warmth of his hands in your hair. The house was silent again, the needle of the vinyl player resting in the final groove, evidence of the events of what had just happened right under your father’s nose.

You closed your eyes and, for the first time all night, felt sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.

In the master bedroom, your father lay on his back with his arm over his eyes, pretending not to have heard the faint creak of the stairs twenty minutes ago. Beside him, your mother smiled into her pillow and said nothing.

The house settled. The night stretched on. And somewhere in the dark, two hearts beat in time, separated by only a hallway and a door that did little to contain the love you had for the boy on the other side.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

THE CITY OF LOVE — JAMES CHAO

SYNOPSIS :: To celebrate your one year anniversary James takes you on a trip to Paris, and underneath the glow of the Eiffel Tower you fall in love with him all over again.

W.C :: 4.5k

CONTAINS :: bf!james, non idol au, just pure fluff, established relationship, pet names, skinship, kissing, cliché, cheesy dialogue, pda

PLAYLIST :: Only you (and you alone) - The Platters; I waited for you - Chet Baker; Misty- Lesley Gore

The first thing you feel is warmth.

James's arm is draped across your waist like it belongs there—and after a year, you suppose it does. His hand rests flat against your stomach, fingers slightly curled, and every few seconds you feel the unconscious twitch of his grip, pulling you even closer even in sleep.

His face is buried in the curve of your neck, his nose pressed into the soft skin just below your jaw. His breath comes in slow, even puffs, warm against your collarbone, and his legs are tangled with yours beneath the rumpled duvet. 

You smile before you even open your eyes.

You shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without disturbing him, but his arm tightens instinctively. A low, sleepy murmur of something unintelligible escapes his lips.

"James," you whisper now, your voice thick with sleep as you look down at him. "You're crushing me."

He doesn't move, doesn't even stir. Just burrows deeper into your neck like a cat determined to find the warmest spot, his nose nuzzling against your skin. A soft, contented sound escapes his throat.

You laugh quietly, reaching forward to thread your fingers through his messy hair. You stroke gently, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in the way you know he loves, and you feel the tension in his shoulders ease even further.

The movement finally seems to pull him out of the depths of sleep. His grip on you loosens slightly, just enough for him to lift his head. His eyes are still closed, his face slack with drowsiness, but a slow smile spreads across his lips.

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. His hand slides up from your stomach to rest just beneath your ribs, palm flat against your skin. He presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, soft and warm. "Just five more."

You laugh again, softer this time. "You said that twenty minutes ago."

"Did I?" He cracks one eye open, peering up at you with a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't remember that. I was asleep."

"You're still kind of asleep."

"Mmm." He closes his eye again, snuggling closer. "You’re so right, baby."

You shake your head, but you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your fingers continue their gentle path through his hair, and he makes another contented sound, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "We should get up soon," he says, though he makes no move to do so. 

Instead, he simply reaches up, his hand sliding into your hair as he tilts your head downwards. His fingers curl gently at the nape of your neck, warm against your skin, and he shifts himself closer, closing the small distance between you until his lips connect with yours.

His mouth is warm and slightly chapped from sleep, but there's a gentleness to the way he moves against you, unhurried and deliberate. His thumb traces a slow, soothing path along the curve of your jaw as he deepens the contact, tilting his head just slightly to find a better angle. He hums against your mouth: a low, contented sound that vibrates through you, and his hand tightens almost imperceptibly in your hair.

You melt into him, your fingers still tangled in his sleep-mussed hair, and you feel the smile that curves against his lips. 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, his eyes still heavy-lidded but warm, softened by the pale morning light. His gaze traces your face as though he's cataloguing every detail to store away for later.

"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, and the sound of it wraps around you like a second blanket.

"Good morning," you whisper back.

He leans in again, slower this time, as though he's savouring every second, and pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek, followed by another to your forehead. Each one is soft and sweet, like he's trying to pour a year's worth of love into a single moment.

"Mmm." He nuzzles back into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point. "Okay. Now I'm ready to get up."

You laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you. Your hand remains in his hair, sifting through the strands as he continues to hum at the feeling. His eyes close again, his face pressed into the curve of your neck, and he shows absolutely no sign of moving.

"James," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "You said you were ready."

"Mmm." He doesn't move. "I lied."

"You just said—"

"I know what I said." He presses a kiss to your throat, soft and lazy. "I'm a liar. A fraud. A man of weak moral character."

You snort, tugging gently at his hair. "A man who's going to miss all his 'big romantic plans' that he talked about for weeks if he doesn't get out of bed."

He groans, the sound muffled against your skin. "You play dirty."

"I learned from the best."

He lifts his head just enough to peer at you through one eye, his expression a mix of amusement and exaggerated betrayal. "I'm a terrible influence on you."

"The worst." You cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Now come on, I want to see Paris."

Something softens in his eyes at your words, and he holds your gaze for a long moment, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Let's go see Paris."

It took nearly an hour for the two of you to get ready, James's hands somehow always finding their place on your waist and slowing the process down entirely.

Every time you tried to pull away to grab your jacket or find your shoes, his fingers would curl into the fabric of your shirt, tugging you back toward him. He'd press a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your jaw—soft, distracting, maddeningly sweet.

"James," you'd said, laughing, trying to wriggle free. "We're never going to leave."

"Then we'll never leave," he'd murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble. "Sounds perfect to me."

You'd eventually managed to extricate yourself with a promise of "more later," and he'd pouted like a child who'd been denied dessert. But he'd relented, pulling on his shirt with exaggerated reluctance, and you'd watched as the soft fabric settled over his frame, the pale cream colour making his skin look warm and golden in the morning light.

Now, finally, you emerge onto the streets, his fingers immediately intertwining with yours.

The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain that lingers from the overnight drizzle. A few Parisians pased by: a woman with a baguette tucked under her arm, a man walking a small, fluffy dog, a couple arm in arm, heads bent together in quiet conversation.

James squeezes your hand, and you look over at him. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken moments ago, a few strands curling at his temples, and his cheeks were flushed with the chill of the morning air. He caught your gaze and smiled gently.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He shrugs, tugging you closer. "Just happy."

"Happy?"

"Mm." He nods, looking ahead at the street. "It's our anniversary, and I'm in Paris with you." He glances down at you, his eyes warm. "What's there not to be happy about?"

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked away, hiding your smile, but he saw it anyway, and his thumb traced a gentle pattern against your knuckles.

You walked for a while, weaving through the narrow streets. The buildings crowded close together, their honey-coloured facades softened by age, their windows reflecting the pale blue of the sky. Ivy trails from wrought-iron balconies, and here and there, a window box burst with scarlet geraniums or trailing pink roses.

You pass a small square with a fountain, the water catching the light and scattering it into rainbows. You pass a bookshop with a striped awning, its windows piled high with leather-bound volumes. You pass a café where a man sits alone, sipping espresso and reading a newspaper, his face hidden behind the broad sheets.

And then James stops.

He's staring at something across the street, his eyes bright, his lips curving into a grin.

"Look," he says, pointing.

You follow his gaze to a tiny bakery tucked between two taller buildings. Its awning is faded blue, its sign painted in elegant gold lettering. The window was filled with an array of pastries, their golden surfaces gleaming under the late morning light, and the door was propped open, spilling the warm, intoxicating scent of fresh bread and butter into the street.

"Come on," he says, already tugging you across the cobblestones. "We can have breakfast there."

"It’s nearly midday," you point out amused as he pulls you through the door. "It’s practically lunch."

"Brunch then," he corrects, his voice already distracted as he steps up to the counter.

The bakery is tiny, barely big enough for the two of you and the display case that takes up most of the space. But it's warm, the air thick with the smell of yeast and sugar and butter, and the woman behind the counter greets you with a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.

James orders in his halting, adorable French—deux croissants, s'il vous plaît—and the woman's smile widens as she hands him a small paper bag, still warm from the oven. He paid, pockets his change, and turns back to you with a look of pure triumph.

"Voilà," he says, his accent terrible as he holds up the bag in triumph.

You laugh, taking his hand again as he leads you back out into the street.

You find a small bench near the fountain, tucked away from the main tourist crowds, the metal cool beneath you, painted a faded green that's chipped and worn in places.

James settles beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, and reaches into the paper bag. He pulls out one of the croissants, its golden surface flaking in delicate layers, and holds it out to you.

You take it carefully, cradling it in your hands. The warmth seeps through the paper and into your palms, and you bring it to your nose, inhaling deeply. The scent is intoxicating: buttery and rich, with a hint of caramelised sugar.

You take a bite, and your eyes flutter closed.

It's transcendent. The croissant shatters against your teeth, impossibly light and airy, a thousand flaky layers dissolving on your tongue.

"Good?" James asks, his voice amused.

You open your eyes to find him watching you, his own croissant halfway to his mouth, a soft smile on his lips.

"Good," you manage, your voice slightly muffled. "Really good."

He laughs, the sound warm and bright, and takes a bite of his own.

You eat in comfortable silence for a while, trading bites of each other's pastries, your shoulders brushing with every movement. The fountain gurgles nearby, the water catching the light and scattering it in tiny rainbows. A pigeon lands at your feet, eyeing you hopefully, and James breaks off a small piece of his croissant and tosses it to the bird.

"Feeding the wildlife," he says, shrugging when you raise an eyebrow. "I'm a generous man."

"You're a softie."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

You're about to retort when you notice it: a small, golden flake of pastry clinging to the corner of his mouth. He's grinning, completely unaware, and you can't help the smile that curves your own lips.

"Hold still," you say, reaching up.

He freezes as your thumb swipes gently across the corner of his mouth, catching the flake. His eyes go wide, startled, and then soften as he realises what you're doing.

But when you go to pull your hand back, his own hand catches yours.

His fingers curl around your wrist, just enough to stop you. Slowly, deliberately, he guides your hand toward his face, his eyes never leaving yours. He turns his head, pressing his lips to the center of your palm, and holds them there for a long, warm moment.

Your breath catches.

He looks up at you then, his gaze dark and soft, and the morning light catches in his eyes. His thumb strokes lightly against your wrist, back and forth, a soothing rhythm.

His free hand reaches forward and his thumb traces your jawline, feather-light, and you lean into his touch without thinking. His eyes drop to your lips, then back up to meet yours.

"I love you," he says quietly, like it's a fact. Like it's the most certain thing in the world.

Your throat tightens. "I love you too."

Suddenly a drop of water lands on your nose.

You blink. Another drop lands on your forehead. Then another, cold and sharp on your cheek, and then another on your lips.

You glance up, and the sky has gone grey. The pale sunlight that had been filtering through the clouds has vanished, swallowed by a thick blanket of charcoal and steel. The first scattered raindrops are beginning to fall in earnest, pattering against the leaves of the ivy overhead and darkening the cobblestones in a thousand tiny splatters.

"It's raining," you say, your voice flat with disappointment. "Oh no. James, it's raining."

You can feel your carefully planned day slipping through your fingers like water: the open-air market you'd wanted to explore, the long stroll along the Seine you'd imagined, the picnic with cheese and baguettes and wine that James had packed in a canvas tote. All of it, washed away by the grey drizzle that's now beginning to fall in earnest.

You slump back on the bench, watching the rain darken the stone around you. A few tourists hurry past, umbrellas popping open like bright flowers. The fountain's surface ripples with a thousand tiny impacts, the water churning and dancing. The ivy above you provides some cover—not enough to keep you dry, but enough to give you a moment to breathe.

"It's going to ruin the day," you mutter, lips curving into a small pout.

James is quiet for a moment. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and thoughtful, as the rain continues to fall around you. It patters against the leaves, drips from the awning of the bakery, plinks into the fountain. The sound is everywhere, a soft white noise that fills the silence.

Then you feel his hand find yours, squeezing gently.

"Come on," he says, tugging you to your feet as you look at him in surprise. "Let’s get out of the rain, I know somewhere we can go."

The art gallery James brought you towas small and obscure, tucked away in the winding streets. James pulled you under the awning, shaking the rain from his hair, causing a few drops to scatter from the ends as you laugh, wiping one from your cheek.

"Did you plan this?" You ask.

"I planned something," he says, pushing open the door. "I didn't plan the rain. But this was on my list."

The interior was beautiful. A narrow stairwell led upward, its walls painted a soft cream, its floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps. The air smelled like old paint and dust and something faintly floral, like dried lavender. A single chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the light and scattering tiny rainbows across the walls.

The gallery itself was spread across two floors, each room a treasure trove of art. The walls were a pale dove grey, the lighting warm and dim, casting golden pools that illuminate each painting like a secret. Rain drums softly against the roof above, a steady, soothing rhythm that feels like the heartbeat of the building itself.

James buys the tickets and the attendant, a young woman with glasses and a kind smile, hands them over with a quiet, "Enjoy."

You wander through the first room, your fingers loosely intertwined with his. The paintings are mostly landscapes: rolling French countryside, sun-drenched fields of lavender, a single windmill on a hill against a blazing sunset. They're beautiful, but your focus keeps drifting back to James and the way his thumb traces absent patterns on your knuckles, just how his profile looks in the soft golden light.

He catches you looking. "What?"

"Nothing." You smile. "Just... taking it in."

He grins, and it's like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

You stop in front of a portrait.

Within stands a woman, an intrinsically lined dress falls to her feet, her eyes boring out into the distance. She is absolutely stunning, her lips a soft shade of pink and her hair cascading in soft curls down her shoulders.

You study it for a long moment, losing yourself in the details. The curve of her neck, the tilt of her chin, each detail so in depth it took your breath away.

Then you feel him stop beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushes your arm. The warmth of him radiates through the cool air of the gallery, a familiar comfort.

"She's pretty," he murmurs, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, not looking away from the painting. "She's beautiful."

"But she doesn't hold a candle to you."

You snort, finally turning to see him smiling. "James. That's so cheesy."

"Cheesy but honest," he says, and his hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traces your jawline, soft and slow, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. "I'm not even looking at the art, you know. I've been looking at you the whole time."

Your cheeks warm. "You're supposed to be admiring the paintings."

"I am." His eyes are dark, sincere, the gold flecks catching the dim light. "I'm admiring my favourite one."

"James."

"I mean it." He steps closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your lips. "It's our anniversary. Let me be sappy."

You laugh, soft and breathless, your hands coming up to rest against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, steady and familiar.

"Fine," you say, tilting your head up to look at him. "Be sappy, but don't expect me to join in."

His eyes crinkle at the corners, that soft smile playing on his lips. "Oh, I don't expect anything. I just want to tell you you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And no, I'm not just saying that because it's our anniversary."

"You're saying it because you're a hopeless romantic."

"Guilty as charged." He leans in, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. "But also because it's true. The way the light is hitting your face right now—" He gestures vaguely. "You look like you belong in one of these paintings."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "That is the most ridiculous thing you've ever said."

"Is it?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression shifting to something more serious—but his eyes are still warm, still teasing. "Because I meant every word."

"James—"

"I know, I know." He shrugs, his hands sliding from your chin to cup your face. "You're probably thinking I'm being dramatic. But it's our anniversary, I'm allowed to be dramatic. It's in the rules."

"There are rules?"

"Yep, there’s a whole handbook." He grins, raising a hand to mimic quotation marks as though he were reciting this mysterious book. "'Thou shalt be dramatically romantic on thine anniversary.'"

You laugh, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly in love with you," he says, and it's so smooth you almost miss the way his eyes soften as he says it.

"You know what? I liked you better when you were asleep."

"Liar." He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose. "You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing." He pulls back, his hands still cupping your face, and looks at you with an expression that always makes your chest feel tight. "Happy anniversary, pretty girl."

Your heart stumbles. "Happy anniversary, James."

He leans in to kiss you properly this time, his lips warm and soft, and you melt into it. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and the world around you fades. The paintings, the gallery, the rain—none of it matters. It's just him.

When he finally pulls back, you're both a little breathless.

"Okay," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "Now I'm really not looking at the art."

You laugh, shoving his shoulder gently. "You were never looking at the art."

"Exactly." He grins, taking your hand and lacing his fingers through yours. "Why would I look at paintings when I've got you?"

"How many more cheesy phrases do you have?"

"I've got more. I've been saving them up."

"Please don't."

"I'm going to. All day." He leads you out of the portrait room and toward the next gallery, his hand warm and steady in yours. "Get ready. I've been practicing."

You groan, but you're laughing, and he's laughing too, and the sound of it echoes through the quiet gallery. "James, I swear—"

"Too late." He glances back at you, grinning. "I'm committed. I've got a list."

"You have a list?" You stop walking, staring at him. "You're joking."

"I'm not joking." He pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist. "I've been planning this for months. You think I just wake up and decide to be this smooth? This takes work, baby."

"I think you're just naturally like this."

"Naturally charming, yes. But the sappy lines? Those are researched." He winks, and it's so ridiculous, so utterly him, that you can't help but laugh.

"You're so stupid."

"Sure, my love." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Now come on. I want to show you the impressionists. I've got a line about you and Monet that's going to knock your socks off."

"James, no."

"Y/n, yes."

And he leads you into the next room, his hand in yours, still laughing.

By the time you emerge from the gallery, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the horizon, the rain finally concluding. The clouds had parted, leaving behind a sky painted in soft shades of pink and gold and pale lavender. The streets were still wet, the cobblestones gleaming like polished glass, and the air smelled clean and fresh.

James takes your hand as you step out, his fingers warm and familiar between yours. He's quiet for a moment, just looking up at the sky, and you watch the colours reflect in his eyes.

"Pretty," he says softly.

"The sky?"

"You." He glances down at you, that soft smile playing on his lips. "But the sky's nice too, I guess."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "You're such a flirt."

"Only for you," he responds, his thumb tracing a gentle pattern against your knuckles.

You walk in comfortable silence, noticing how the evening light makes everything look warmer, softer. The buildings glow like they're made of honey, and the ivy that climbs the walls is touched with gold. The city feels slower now, quieter, like it's settling in for the night.

Suddenly James stops.

He's staring ahead, his eyes wide, his lips parting slightly. You follow his gaze, and there it is: the Eiffel Tower, rising in the distance against the painted sky. It's still far away, but you can see it clearly, its iron lattice catching the last of the sunset, glowing like something out of a dream.

"Wow," James breathes.

"Yeah," you agree.

You stand there for a moment, just looking. The tower is taller than you expected, more beautiful. The metal seems to shimmer in the fading light, and the longer you look, the more details you notice—the intricate patterns of the lattice, the soft curve of the arches, the way it reaches toward the sky like a prayer.

Then James tugs your hand. "Come on."

He leads you through the streets, his pace quickening with each step. You laugh, stumbling a little as you try to keep up, but he doesn't slow down. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, eyes bright, grin wide, pulling you along like he can't wait another second.

You round a corner, and suddenly the tower is right there, looming above you, impossibly close. You tilt your head back, letting the vastness of it fill your vision. The iron structure seems to stretch up into the clouds, and the colours of the sky frame it perfectly.

"It’s beautiful," you say, eyes continuing to scan the structure.

"Mm," he breathes in agreement, pausing momentarily as his eyes lock onto your face.

The crowd had thinned out, the usual rush of tourists reduced to a few scattered groups. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of the river and the distant hum of the city. A few couples linger nearby, but mostly it's just the two of you, standing beneath the tower as the sky darkens around you.

Then the lights come on, starting at the bottom, a cascade of gold that climbs up and up, illuminating the iron frame like veins of fire. The tower glows against the deepening sky, warm and alive, and you can't help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.

James's hand squeezed yours when the sparkling suddenly began.

A thousand tiny lights flicker across the tower, shimmering like stars brought down to earth. They ripple from top to bottom, a waterfall of diamonds that pulses and glows, and the tower transforms into something else entirely—magical and otherworldly. The crowd around you gasps, phones raised, children laughing, but you can't tear your eyes away.

You don't notice James moving until his hand is on your waist.

"What are you—"

He spins you, slow and gentle, pulling you into the open space beneath the tower. Before you can protest, he's swaying, guiding you with him, and you stumble forward, crashing into his chest.

"I can't dance," you laugh.

"You're dancing right now," he says, spinning you out.

You let him, your hand in his, his other hand warm on your waist. He spins you once, twice, and you laugh as you stumble back into him. He catches you easily, his arms wrapping around you, and you stay there for a moment, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arms holding you close as you continue to sway.

"Happy one year," he murmurs against your hair.

You smile, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes are bright, the tower's lights reflecting in them, and his smile is soft and warm.

"Happy one year," you say.

He kisses you, slow and sweet, right there beneath the tower. The music from a distant street musician drifts softly through the air, and when James pulls back, he's still smiling.

You lean forward again, placing a kiss on his jaw before resting your head against his shoulder, feeling his arms tighten just slightly as he moves to lay his chin atop your head.

The city breathes around you, a gentle exhale of light and shadow, and in his arms you breathe with it, your chest rising and falling against his, steady as the turning of the earth.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

TAGLIST :: @cookeyy @hyunsphoria @chaoyvfan @kkeonhoz @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @enha4cortis @its-vante @lowkhyeon @en-dream @cortismysunshines @adoure @h4chi @chrmedbyjju @taelvvrzz @kienhawon @junpom @velosiq @wouldntyuliketoknowweatherboy @peerlesspine @exclusiverinaa @eoduuung @su-m3ri @luffyloving @kiramyeo @fayepz @seonghwaswifeuuuu

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

CAMP MATCHMAKER — EOM SEONGHYEON

SYNOPSIS :: Following your campers locking you and Seonghyeon in a closet together, you try to pretend he doesn't exist, but Seonghyeon and your two cabins of relentless matchmakers have other plans.

W.C :: 4.6k

CONTAINS :: campcounselor!seonghyeon, a spinoff of mr and mrs camp counselor, the campers are menaces, stubborn reader, crack, fluff, angst if you squint, the love bomb, skinship, kissing

PLAYLIST :: Tongue tied - grouplove; It’s not living (if it’s not with you) - the 1975; Slide away - Oasis; You are the right one - Sports

It had been exactly one day since the storage closet incident that saw you and Seonghyeon finally confess that there was something between you both.

When the two of you were freed from the makeshift prison you had attempted to give the campers a thorough talking to. Really, you had.

You'd marched them all to the main lodge, mustered your most authoritative counselor voice, and launched into a speech about boundaries, respect, and the importance of not locking people in confined spaces.

They'd stood there in a ragged semicircle, faces arranged in expressions of performative contrition—and then one of them had pointed at your hair and whispered, "It's still there."

Another had started giggling, then another.

Within thirty seconds, the entire group had devolved into helpless laughter, tears streaming down their faces as they pointed at the glitter still stubbornly clinging to your part, your temples, the collar of your counselor polo, all the while you tried to maintain your composure. 

Then you'd glanced at Seonghyeon, who had somehow gotten it worse: his entire left shoulder sparkled like a disco ball, and there was a particularly stubborn cluster of purple flakes stuck to his eyebrow, and you'd lost it too.

The "talking to" had devolved into all of you laughing so hard the camp director had come outside to check if someone was dying.

Safe to say, you deemed the whole thing a wash and the lecture was officially canceled. The campers had won yet again.

And so, in your own stubborn and unrelenting methods of punishment , you refused to allow the campers to see you interact with Seonghyeon at all in the hopes that eventually the campers would stop being so persistent.

It was petty, sure, but seeing their faces: the way their eyes would light up whenever you so much as glanced in his direction, and they'd scramble for that ridiculous notebook, then they'd start narrating your every move like you were characters in their personal drama—it all made you want to scream.

So you'd decided: no interaction, no eye contact, no accidental hand brushes, no standing within ten feet of each other. No anything that could be documented, analysed, or turned into another entry in Operation Summer Romance.

You were going to starve them of content.

It was a brilliant plan. Foolproof. Diabolical, even.

It lasted approximately one day before collapsing.

You had started the morning off strong, positioning yourself on the complete opposite end of the counselor’s dining table to Seonghyeon, as far away from him as physically possible.

The campers noticed immediately, and you watched their faces drop, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Why is she sitting so far away?"

"Is she... avoiding him?"

"Why would she avoid him? They were literally trapped in a closet together yesterday."

"Maybe she's embarrassed."

"Maybe he did something wrong."

"He wouldn't do anything wrong. He's perfect."

"Nobody's perfect."

"He is. He's perfect for her."

You stabbed your oatmeal with unnecessary force.

Seonghyeon, at the opposite end of the table, was pointedly not looking at you. You could tell he was trying not to look at you. His eyes kept drifting in your direction, then snapping away, like he was fighting a physical urge.

It was kind of adorable, but you weren't going to think about that.

The whispers continued as breakfast finished up, it was only natural for them to speculate anyways, they had quite literally witnessed you two fall into each other laughing upon your release from the closet. The sudden switch up from "they're obviously in love" to "she won't even look at him" was jarring, even for the most dedicated investigators, especially considering both you and Seonghyeon still had the remnants of glitter dusted across you, so what could have possibly happened in that short time period?

You could feel their confusion radiating from the other side of the dining hall like a physical force.

Eventually you pushed your bowl away, your oatmeal a lost cause.

Standing up, you collected your tray and turned to your campers, who were still huddled together, watching you with the intensity of hawk-eyed detectives.

"Clean up," you said firmly. "We have archery in twenty minutes. I don't want to hear any excuses about being late."

Your campers exchanged glances. They clearly wanted to ask more questions and demand answers, but something in your tone made them hold their tongues for now.

You walked toward the tray return, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead. You could feel Seonghyeon's eyes on you from across the room, the weight of his attention like a physical presence, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.

You didn't look back, you refused to.

That afternoon you were walking back from the archery range when you saw him coming the other way, flanked by his campers. The path was narrow, there was nowhere to go, and you were going to have to pass him.

You squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, prepared to walk past him like he was a stranger, a complete non-entity, someone you'd never met in your entire life—

"Counselor Y/N."

His voice stopped you in your tracks.

You turned to see his campers watching with barely contained glee. Your campers were watching from a distance, having somehow materialised out of thin air the moment they sensed an impending interaction.

"Yes?" You said, keeping your voice flat.

Seonghyeon smiled that soft, private smile that was only ever for you. "You have something in your hair."

"Really."

"Really."

"Let me guess, glitter?"

"Purple."

You reached up. Your fingers brushed against a cluster of stubborn sparkles still clinging to your part. You tried to pull them out, but they were completely stuck despite your insistence.

One of Seonghyeon’s campers squealed quietly, barely able to contain her excitement as she watched Seonghyeon’s smile turn even fonder than it already had been, "He's going to help her."

"He's going to touch her hair." Another responded, swinging the arm of the camper beside them in uncontrolled glee.

Seonghyeon stepped closer, his hand already reaching out towards you. "Do you want—"

"I've got it," you said quickly, far too quickly. "I'm fine. Thank you."

You turned and walked away, continuing your trek down towards the camp. Behind you, the campers gasped. "She walked away!"

"He looks so confused." Your camper whispered behind her hand, watching Seonghyeon carefully from a distance. The crowd of kids surrounded him like concerned bodyguards, all of them tracking his every micro-expression following the... rejection, if you could even call it that.

"He looks hurt."

"She hurt his feelings."

One of the younger campers pouted dramatically, her lower lip wobbling as if she'd personally been rejected. "Why would she do that? They were so happy yesterday."

"Maybe she's playing hard to get."

"What do we do? We can’t let this stand." Seonghyeon’s camper declared, shaking his head dramatically.

"We'll fix it, somehow."

“How???”

What every single one of them failed to notice, in their mass whispers of shock and concern, was the smirk that now rested on Seonghyeon's lips as he watched you go.

He had worked out almost immediately what you were doing. The moment you'd sat at the opposite end of the breakfast table, refused to make eye contact, and now walked away from him on the path—he'd seen right through it.

You weren't rejecting him.

You were testing him, or rather, you were testing yourself. You were trying to prove that you could resist him, that you could keep things professional, that the campers hadn't already won.

It was absolutely adorable, and also completely, utterly futile.

He watched you disappear around the bend, your shoulders still squared with your chin still lifted and your hair still glittering with purple sparkles that caught the afternoon light like tiny stars. You were trying so hard to be strong, distant, and untouchable.

But he knew you.

He'd known you for three summers. He'd watched you comfort homesick campers at midnight and laugh so hard at a camper's joke that you'd snorted juice out of your nose.

He'd even watched you fall in love with him—just as he'd fallen in love with you.

This little performance of yours wasn't going to last, he'd make sure of it.

"You know," he said, not turning around to face his campers, "she's very stubborn."

"Yeah, we noticed."

"She's SOOOOO stubborn."

"Stubborn enough to walk away from true love."

Seonghyeon chuckled. "She's also very determined. Once she decides on something, she doesn't give up easily."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?"

"It is when she's determined about the right things." A camper pointed out.

"And right now, she's determined about the wrong thing."

"Don't worry," Seonghyeon said, finally turning to face his campers. His smirk had softened into something warmer and more certain. "She'll come around."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know her." He tucked his hands into his pockets, already planning his next move. "And because I'm very, very patient."

"Patient for what?"

"For her."

The campers exchanged glances. Then, slowly, their expressions shifted from despair to hope, realising they had maybe underestimated their counselor.

That evening, you found yourself back in the boys' cabin.

It wasn't by choice, exactly. The glitter situation in the storage closet had become a genuine hazard—campers were tracking purple sparkles everywhere, and you'd drawn the short straw when it came to cleanup duty. So there you were, knee-deep in craft supplies, trying to contain the chaos that your campers had unleashed.

The irony was not lost on you.

You were just reaching for a particularly stubborn cluster of glitter that had somehow migrated to the ceiling when you heard footsteps behind you: the soft tread of sneakers on wooden floorboards that were familiar and unmistakable.

"I'm not talking to you," you said without turning around.

"I didn't say anything," Seonghyeon replied.

"Your presence is saying plenty."

"My presence?"

"Yes. It's very... present."

He laughed warmly, making your stomach flip. You'd heard that laugh a hundred times before, but somehow it still managed to catch you off guard and make your heart do that annoying little skip it had been doing for three summers now.

You refused to acknowledge it.

"I was just passing by," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I didn't realise you'd be in here."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a terrible liar, Seonghyeon. You always have been." You finally turned to face him, still holding the glitter container like a shield. "You knew I'd be here. One of your campers told you, didn't they?"

He had the decency to look slightly caught out. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit you'd noticed years ago, one that he only ever did around you.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yes. Jungwoo mentioned it during free period. He said you were 'on a glitter crusade' and that I should 'seize the opportunity.'"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "They're coaching you now?"

"They're very invested."

"They're meddling."

"They prefer the term 'facilitating.'"

"Seonghyeon."

"Y/N."

You stared at each other across the small cabin. The evening light slanted through the windows, catching the glitter dust still floating in the air like tiny purple stars. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Somewhere further away, campers shouted and laughed and continued their endless chaos.

But in here, it was just the two of you.

"I'm doing this for a reason," you said.

"Which is?"

"The campers. They're watching us all the time, and if we give them any more material, they're going to—" You gestured vaguely. "—do something. I don't know what. Something worse than the closet."

"Worse than the closet?"

"Yes. They're creative and unhinged. They have that stupid notebook, for god’s sake."

Seonghyeon took a step toward you. "So your solution is to pretend I don't exist?"

"It's a temporary measure."

"For how long?"

"Until they lose interest."

He raised an eyebrow. "They're not going to lose interest."

"They will eventually."

"Y/N. They've been watching us for weeks. They locked us in a closet. They have a Venn diagram." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of colour in his eyes. "They're not losing interest."

You swallowed. "So what do you suggest?"

He reached up, very slowly, very deliberately, and brushed a cluster of purple glitter from your hair, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I suggest we stop pretending," he said quietly. "They already know. Everyone already knows. The only people who don't seem to know are us."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You opened your mouth to respond, deflect, argue, do anything other than admit that he was right, and then you heard it.

A soft gasp from behind you. Barely audible, but unmistakable.

Your eyes widened. You started to turn to see who was there and had been watching, ready to question how long they'd been listening—

But Seonghyeon's hands were suddenly on your cheeks, cupping your face, gently but firmly holding you still. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, warm and steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Don't turn around," he murmured.

"Seonghyeon."

"Don't."

"Seonghyeon, I—"

"Just look at me." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "Please. Just look at me."

You wanted to argue and pull away to see who was at the window and put an end to whatever scheme the campers had cooked up this time.

But his hands were so warm, his eyes were so steady, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world, like nothing else mattered, like the campers could be watching or not and it wouldn't change a single thing—made it impossible to move.

"Seonghyeon," you said again, and this time your voice came out as a warning, low and threatening. The kind of voice you used when campers were about to do something stupid.

He just tilted his head, his expression entirely innocent. His eyelashes fluttered and he smiled so softly you felt your heart clench.

"Yes?" He asked, his voice dripping with false sweetness.

You stared at him and he stared back, completely unrepentant.

Despite everything surrounding you at this moment, you felt the fight drain out of you.

You sighed, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your soul. "You're impossible," you said.

"I know."

"This is exactly what they want."

"I know."

"And you're just... going to give it to them?"

He smiled, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "I'm not doing it for them," he said quietly. "I'm doing it for us."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Seonghyeon..."

"Y/N." His forehead touched yours. "I've been waiting for three summers. I've been patient. I've been professional. I've been careful." He let out a soft breath. "I'm tired of being careful."

"You're tired of being careful?"

"I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you every time you laugh at one of my jokes, and watching you walk away and not following. I'm tired of—" He stopped, his voice catching slightly. "I'm tired of loving you from a distance."

Your breath caught. "Seonghyeon..."

"I know the campers are watching." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know they're going to make this into a whole thing and we're never going to hear the end of it." He smiled, soft and warm. "But I don't care."

"They’re going to actually plan our wedding."

"I figured."

"Seonghyeon."

"Y/N."

He was so close. His hands were on your face, his forehead was against yours, and somewhere behind you, through the window, a dozen campers were watching with bated breath.

But in this moment none of it mattered.

"You're not worried?" You whispered.

"Not even a little," he whispered back, his lips curving into a smile.

And then, before you could overthink it, you surged forward and kissed him.

His lips were warm, slightly chapped from the summer sun, the way they always were this time of year, and you'd noticed that detail a hundred times before without ever admitting it to yourself. You'd noticed the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he licked them before he smiled, the way they curved around words that made you laugh.

But you'd never let yourself imagine what they'd feel like against yours.

Now you knew.

His hands were still cupping your face, and as you kissed him, his thumbs traced slow, reverent circles across your cheekbones. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it made your chest ache with something you couldn't quite name.

You felt his breath hitch against your lips—a soft, surprised sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands then slid from your cheeks into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, pulling you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Which, you realised with a jolt, he had.

Three summers. Three years of stolen glances and accidental touches and breakfast cleanup shifts, three years of watching you from across the dining hall, of finding excuses to be near you, of loving you from a distance.

And now, finally, finally, you were here.

The kiss deepened, and you felt his body press against yours—warm and solid and real. His chest against your chest, his hands in your hair, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that felt almost deliberate. 

You reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his counselor polo. You tugged him closer, and he made a soft sound against your lips—a sound that was half laugh, half sigh, entirely content.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips parted slightly.

"Y/N," he whispered, and your name sounded softer on his lips now.

"I'm here," you whispered back.

He opened his eyes. They were bright, warm, filled with something that made your heart stutter in your chest. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he said.

"I know."

"You know?"

"You signed up for breakfast cleanup on your off days for three summers, Seonghyeon. I wasn't oblivious." You smiled, your fingers still tangled in his collar. "I was just..."

"Scared?"

"Patient."

"You're not patient. You're stubborn."

"Same thing."

He laughed and pressed his forehead more firmly against yours. "I love you," he said quietly. "I've loved you for three summers, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."

"I know."

"Say it back."

"Seonghyeon."

"Say it back," he repeated, and his voice was soft but insistent. "Please."

You looked at him, seeing his warm eyes and his soft smile and the single purple glitter flake still clinging to his eyebrow. He was the man who had been waiting for you for three summers, who had signed up for shifts he didn't need and duties he didn't want, who had loved you from a distance and never once given up.

"I love you too," you said.

His smile was the brightest thing you'd ever seen. "Say it again."

"I love you too."

"Again."

"Seonghyeon."

"Again."

You laughed, pulling him closer. "I love you. I love you. I love you." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. "Is that enough?"

"Not even close," he murmured, and then he was kissing you again: deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world.

Behind you, the campers erupted.

“THEY’RE KISSING!!!” One shouted as the two campers beside her screamed and covered their eyes, trying to erase the sight from their memories.

“WE DID IT!”

“OPERATION SUMMER ROMANCE IS COMPLETE!”

You felt Seonghyeon smile into the kiss as the campers voices filtered in through the cracks of the window, the sun shhining bright onto the grounds. Maybe it was time to give in and accept that the campers were victorious, though if it meant you got to kiss Seonghyeon more often, you weren’t going to complain.

EXTRA ::

The sun hung low and golden over the lake, casting long shadows across the water as the final afternoon of camp drew to a close. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sunscreen and the bittersweet weight of endings. Summer was almost over, the campers would leave tomorrow, the cabins would empty, the laughter would fade into memory.

But not yet. Not quite yet.

You stood at the edge of the dock, the wooden boards warm beneath your bare feet. The water lapped gently against the pilings, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. Beside you, Seonghyeon's hand was warm in yours, his fingers laced through yours like they'd always been there.

The campers were gathered on the shore, a chaotic cluster of cabin shirts and sunburned noses and glitter-covered notebooks. They'd been watching you both all week—following you around like ducklings, documenting your every interaction, adding to their ever-growing collection of evidence that you were now, officially, a couple. 

"Are you ready?" Seonghyeon asked softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the campers' chatter.

You turned to look at him. The golden light caught the edges of his face, illuminating the warmth in his eyes, the soft curve of his smile.  "Ready for what?" You asked, though you already knew.

He smiled gently. "To make a memory."

Your heart swelled in your chest. "I've already made enough memories with you to last a lifetime."

"Then make one more."

The campers on shore were growing restless. You could hear their whispers and excited murmurs. "They're holding hands."

"They're always holding hands now."

"It's so romantic."

"It's so gross."

"Shush!! It’s beautiful."

You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. Seonghyeon's hand squeezed yours, and you turned to face him fully. "Together?" You asked.

"Together," he confirmed.

And then you jumped.

The water was cold and shocking and perfect. It closed over your heads like a curtain, muffling the sounds of the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the weight of the water around you, the pressure of Seonghyeon's hand still gripping yours, the strange, suspended feeling of falling without falling.

You then kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

The air was warm against your wet skin. The sun was bright in your eyes. The campers were screaming from the shore, their voices a chaotic chorus of excitement and disbelief.

But you barely heard them because Seonghyeon was there, treading water beside you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes bright and laughing. Water droplets clung to his lashes like tiny diamonds and his smile was the widest you'd ever seen it.

"You're crazy," you said, laughing.

"You're the one who jumped with me."

"I didn't say I wasn't crazy too."

He laughed heartily and pulled you closer. His hands found your waist beneath the water, steadying you, anchoring you to him. "I love you," he said, and the words came easy now, as natural as breathing.

You smiled, water dripping from your chin. "I love you too."

He kissed you.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt your feet leave the bottom of the lake. You floated together, suspended in the golden water, the world reduced to the warmth of his lips and the steady beat of his heart against yours.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed.

"Best summer ever," he murmured.

"Best summer ever," you agreed.

From the shore, the campers had lost their collective minds.

"THEY KISSED IN THE WATER!"

"THAT WAS SO ROMANTIC!"

"WE DID THIS! WE'RE MATCHMAKING GENIUSES!"

"WE'RE LEGENDS!"

Then, without warning, the first camper jumped.

A splash followed by a shriek and a burst of laughter, then another, and another.

Within seconds, the air was filled with flying bodies and screaming children and the unmistakable chaos of two cabins' worth of campers launching themselves into the lake with absolutely no regard for safety or dignity or the fact that they were all still wearing their clothes.

"CANNONBALL!" One shouted before they hit the water, you quickly turned your face away to avoid the spray of water from hitting your eye.

You watched in horror and delight as the chaos unfolded around you. Campers splashed and shrieked and laughed, their voices echoing across the lake like the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

And then, as the realisation hit you—

"WHERE ARE YOUR LIFE JACKETS?!" You shouted, your counselor instincts overriding everything else.

A camper paddled past you, grinning. "Relax, Counselor! We're in the shallow end!"

"The shallow end is still deep enough to drown!"

"We're fine!"

"You're not fine! You're going to drown!"

"I can swim!"

"That’s not the point!"

Seonghyeon laughed beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist. "They're not going to listen."

"Seonghyeon."

"Just let them have this."

"Someone's going to injure themself!"

"Well at least they would be having fun whilst doing so."

You turned to stare at him. "Did you just joke about campers getting injured?"

He grinned, water still dripping from his chin. "I'm very funny."

You splashed him in response.

The water caught him square in the face, and his head snapped back with a startled laugh. For a moment, he just froze: jaw dropped, eyes wide, water streaming down his cheeks like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

Then he turned to you, and his grin turned wicked. "Oh, it's on."

Before you could react, his hand came down in a sweeping arc, sending a wall of water directly into your face. You sputtered, gasping, as the lake water invaded your mouth and nose.

It quickly devolved into the two of you splashing water at each other relentlessly, wide grins on both your faces: your hands churning the surface into a frenzy, his laughter echoing across the lake as he dodged and retaliated. Water flew in every direction, catching the golden sunlight like scattered diamonds.

One of your campers shouted: "WATER FIGHT!"

It then became an all-out war. A free-for-all, even.

Campers descended from every direction, shrieking and laughing, their bodies cutting through the water like torpedoes. You couldn't tell who was an ally or an enemy anymore—only that you were aiming to stop swallowing so much water. Hands splashed from every angle, faces appeared and disappeared in the chaos, the lake had become a battlefield of pure, unfiltered joy.

You spun in circles, trying to defend yourself, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and they were everywhere: behind you, beside you, in front of you. Water filled your eyes, your nose, your mouth. You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, you caught a glimpse of Seonghyeon. He was surrounded by at least five campers, all of them splashing him relentlessly, and he was laughing so brightly his cheeks were turning red. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to his chest, and you realised truly that you'd never loved him more.

The sun shone brightly above, its rays gleaming against the rocking water. The lake sparkled like a sea of scattered stars, each ripple catching the light and throwing it back toward the sky. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of summer. The sounds of laughter and splashing echoed across the water like music.

In the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos and campers and the golden light of the setting sun, you found yourself thinking that this was it. This was the moment you'd remember forever.

The summer you fell in love.

The summer the campers won.

The summer that changed everything for the better.

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

TAGLIST :: @cookeyy @hyunsphoria @chaoyvfan @kkeonhoz @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @enha4cortis @its-vante @lowkhyeon @en-dream @cortismysunshines @adoure @h4chi @chrmedbyjju @taelvvrzz @kienhawon @junpom @velosiq @wouldntyuliketoknowweatherboy @peerlesspine @exclusiverinaa @eoduuung @su-m3ri @luffyloving @kiramyeo

[cosmiho-deactivated20260727]

EARTH ANGEL ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍

SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.

W.C : 5.0k

CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff

PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;

"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"

"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.

"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”

Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."

”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.

Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.

“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.

"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.

"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.

He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"

You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.

"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."

His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."

He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.

"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.

You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."

Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.

"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."

You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.

He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.

He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.

"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.

"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"

"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

"What?" you say.

"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."

"You're always looking."

"Hard not to."

You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.

The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.

He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows. 

Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.

"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.

"I'm looking out the window."

"My face is not a window."

You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.

The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.

Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.

The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.

He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.

You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.

"What?" you ask.

He turns to look at you. "Nothing."

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."

He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.

"That's so corny."

"You love it."

Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.

Back to the Future.

You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.

Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.

"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.

"Mm."

"You're not watching."

"I'm watching you watch it."

You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.

"You're so weird," you say.

"You're just noticing?"

You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.

He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.

"Good?" you ask.

He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."

You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.

"You're staring," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.

"So?" he says.

You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

"Seonghyeon—"

He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.

You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.

His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.

He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi."

He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"

You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."

"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."

You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light. 

You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you came."

You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.

The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.

‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’

You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.

You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.

"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.

"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."

You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."

‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’

You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.

Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.

"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.

You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.

"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.

"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."

You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.

“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.

“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.

His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”

“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”

He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on. 

Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.

“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."

You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."

"I know."

"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."

"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You were so confident," you say.

He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."

The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.

You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.

His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.

"Mm?”

"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."

"I'm not feeling bad."

"You're pouting again."

You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."

"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."

You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.

"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.

"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."

The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.

"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.

You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

"Yeah?" you ask.

"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."

You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.

The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.

‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’

"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.

"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.

"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."

On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.

‘My darling dear, love you all the time’

You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.

"What?" you whisper.

He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.

“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”

Your heart stutters. 

On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.

It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.

His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.

‘I'm just a fool,’

The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.

His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.

When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.

‘A fool in love with you’

"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."

You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.

You lean in and kiss him again.

This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.

The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.

On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.

Neither of you notice.

His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.

"Seonghyeon," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"

"The movie's over."

He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"

"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"

He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.

"No," he says finally.

You blink. "No?"

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."

"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."

"I know."

"My dad will kill you."

"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.

But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.

"Five more minutes," you say.

His smile widens. "Ten."

"Seven."

"Deal."

He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"Baby," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You’re my density."

You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.

"And you’re mine," you say.

And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.

Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.

Some things are worth being late for.