𐙚

ℐ𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗴𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗹𝘆, 𝒿𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂

[senascoop]

❛ FREE TICKETS TO THE GHOST TOWN ✦ step into a realm where every shadow has a story and every corner holds a secret yearning to be discovered. in this ghost town, the past lingers, waiting for those brave enough to listen . . .

꒰ DREAMSCAPE. MASTERLIST.

WIPS. RULES. TAGLIST. >

both sfw and nsfw content ! ♡︎

I follow back and like from @senazzzz ! ♡︎

my zerobaseone + riize blog ! ♡︎

my reblog + fic recs blog ! ♡︎

enversena on wattpad ! ♡︎

[shortonwon]

all of my kinktober fics will be here. seven different stories, seven different men, each with its own unique feel. this is my first time participating in kinktober, so I’m pretty excited >.<

DARK MODE ON — ADVISED FOR BETTER VISIBILITY.

default taglist , @inkhoee @dulcetnostalgia @s0shroe @miauumin @babeadoobee @hearts4h00n @masochistcult @ghostlychildpolice @starry-eyed-bimbo @taesnumber1 @heeseungsgf26 @tessa365

HALO TILTED — 5K

You’re a celestial guardian sent to protect him, but he’s been trying to make you fall from the very start. Sweet smiles hide a devilish streak as he touches your wings.

WARNINGS — basically just riki being a tease to his guardian angel and tainting her with his seeds. corruption kink, angel × human, smut, touching wings, pussy eating and slight humiliation, dub-con, power imbalance, light bondage, forbidden romance, moral/ethical conflict, lmk if more...

fic taglist : @/inkhoee @/dulcetnostalgia @/s0shroe @/misuumin @/babeadoobee @/hearts4h00n @/ghostlychildpolice @/starry-eyed-bimbo @/taesnumber1 @/heezsungsgf26 @/tessa365 @/toastmenace @/lautradoesloveu @/01209r @/wondash @/hwansangel @/pinkriki @/ebitsujun @/kikidoul @/rikigoonette @/loverbyfate

BREED ME : A CONTRACT — 6.7K

In a near-future society, your fertility has a deadline—and your government-assigned mate is a complete stranger. With one week to comply, you must live as a married couple, navigating intimacy, desire, and forbidden pleasure… all while pretending it’s just for the contract.

WARNINGS — mdni, smut, impregnation implications, voyeurism, sleepy sex, drugs / fertility enhancement tablets, unprotected sex, creampie, playing house but forced to, shower sex, blowjob, oral (both male & female), dirty talk, power imbalance, teasing, breast play, nipple teasing, eating out, dubious consent, cockwarming, squirting, lmk if more.

fic taglist , @/wondash @/mheretoreadff @/rayofsunshineeee @/icing217 @/01209r @/jessie-grech @/ebitsujun @/desirejay @/k1ttyjwon @/bkatarina @/evebionc @/emilyisntreal @/smlbch @/ohmysionnzies @/enhypenlovre @/l6lp @/beaepa @/t1nywoniee @/sjakewrld @/masochistcult @/simj4k3 @/kiikiisblog @/inkhoe @/dulcetnostalgia @/s0shroe @/miauumin @/babeadoobee @/hearts4h00n @/masochistcult @/ghostlychildpolice @/starry-eyed-bimbo @/taesnumber1 @/heeseungsgf26 @/tessa365

BOO! YOU'RE MINE — 7.3K

you thought spending halloween at your childhood best friend’s house would be all fun and games. but beneath the glow of carved pumpkins, there’s something different in his eyes tonight—something darker, something you can’t quite name until it’s far too late.

WARNINGS — mdni, smut, DEAD DOVE : DO NOT EAT! horror erotica, halloween ritual, dub-con/non-con, sadomasochism, humiliation, degradation, predator–prey dynamic, yandere behavior, sexual offering, manipulation, captivity, rope bondage, hair pulling, face slamming, forced begging, knife play, wax play, blood play, biting, creampie, fear kink, disturbing themes, lmk if more….

fic taglist , @/inkhoee @/dulcetnostalgia @/s0shroe @/miauumin @/babeadoobee @/hearts4h00n @/masochistcult @/ghostlychildpolice @/starry-eyed-bimbo @/taesnumber1 @/heeseungsgf26 @/tessa365 @/cutehoons02 @/cakeforwoni @/urfavlocalgirly @/lunariansun @/stormlit-pages @/psychicjellyfishalpaca

TEXT ME, DON'T TELL — 0.0K

late-night texts, wet panties, and dares that push every limit—you thought it was just fun, but he’s got you on the edge… and he knows exactly how to make you burn.

WARNINGS — not yet.

fic taglist , not open yet.

THREE MORE FICS TO BE ADDED ! check for writing updates at @ririzparadise

[senascoop]

┊ HELLO BABY ! , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

❝ IN WHICH THEY FIND OUT ABOUT YOUR PREGNANCY ❞

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, just feeding my crowd since the tumblr algorithm already hates me now. [LIBRARY]

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

You didn’t mean for him to find it. The test had been tucked behind the mirror, hidden in a rush of nerves. But of course Heeseung had a habit of poking around the bathroom whenever he was bored—which explained the surprised laugh you heard from the hallway. “Okay,” he said, grinning as he held it up between two fingers. “Your pranks are getting way too realistic, girly.” You froze in the doorway. Heeseung turned to you, expecting a smug smirk or a cheeky comeback. But you just stared at the stick in his hand, your lips parted, expression unreadable. His smile faltered. “Wait… this isn’t—?” You gave the faintest nod. His grip loosened on the test. His eyes flicked back to it, then to you. Then, slowly, he sat down on the closed toilet lid, as if the weight of the moment pulled him to the floor.

He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at the tiles for a long second. Then looked up at you with tears lining his lashes. “You’re serious?” Another quiet nod. He let out a shaky breath, voice cracking as he laughed under it. “I’m not crying because I’m scared. I’m crying because I didn’t know I could be this happy.” You smiled, finally, as he pulled you into a soft hug, burying his face into your hoodie. The next morning, you found a tiny onesie on the bed with pixel hearts and bold letters: “Player 3 has entered the game.” And later, you caught him sniffling while brushing his teeth. “Don’t look at me,” he muttered, toothpaste foam halfway down his chin. You just laughed, walking over to kiss his cheek. “You're gonna be the cutest dad ever.”

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

You’d been planning it for days—pacing the kitchen, rehearsing lines in your head, wondering how someone like Jay, who always had everything under control, would react to something so… unexpected. So, you decided to keep it simple. Personal. That morning, you made his usual breakfast—eggs, toast, and coffee just how he liked it. But today, you placed a tiny baby bottle right next to the plate, its plastic lid catching the morning sunlight. He sat down like normal, murmured a sleepy thank-you, then froze mid-bite. His eyes locked on the bottle. He blinked once, then again. Slowly pushed back his chair, stood up without a word, walked into the hallway—And came right back.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask anything. He just wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he needed to make sure you were real. “I trust you,” he said softly, voice thick. “So I know this is real.” Later that evening, you found him hunched over a notebook titled ‘Dad Responsibilities’, scribbling bullet points with his usual laser focus. By nightfall, he’d already ordered five kinds of prenatal vitamins, booked a doctor’s appointment for the very next day, and filled the fridge with every fruit he could name. And before bed, he knelt, gently pressing his lips to your stomach with a little grin. “My heir,” he whispered. “You have no idea how loved you already are.”

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

With Jake, everything was easier. The kind of bond you shared meant you could talk about anything—no awkward pauses, no sugarcoating. It was comfort, chaos, and laughter all in one. So when the time came, you knew you didn’t have to say much. You simply left the test on the bathroom counter, right beside a sticky note that read: “Guess what?” You knew he’d find it the second he sleepily stumbled in for his morning routine. Not even a minute later, you heard the bathroom door swing open, followed by a beat of silence—then—“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!” Jake’s voice echoed through the apartment, and before you could react, he came running out, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes wide and wild with shock and joy. He scooped you up without warning, spinning you around like it was the best day of his life.

“Oh my god—oh my god,” he kept muttering, burying his face in your shoulder as laughter bubbled up from his chest. Then he stilled. Still holding you, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with something soft and stunned. “Is this real?” he whispered. You nodded, brushing a hand through his hair. Just then, Layla padded into the room, tail wagging. Jake looked down at her, then back at you. “You’re gonna be a big sister,” he told her, voice cracking slightly. That night, he lay next to you with a hand gently on your belly, whispering stories in English and humming lullabies like he already knew—from this moment on, he’d love this baby with his whole heart.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

“It’s been quiet lately,” Sunghoon murmured, the two of you sitting side by side on the couch, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between you. You glanced over at him, heart pounding a little. “It won’t be for long,” you said with a small smile. He looked at you, a curious tilt to his head. “In about nine months... you might be hearing baby cries instead.” He blinked. Once. Twice. Your words slowly registered. Then, something shifted in his expression—his lips parted, and a soft, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corners. “Wait... really?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded.

He stared at you for a second longer before exhaling a shaky laugh, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Wow... I didn’t expect to feel this happy,” he said, eyes glassy, smile tender. Later that night, while you were brushing your teeth, he was on his phone under the covers, Googling how to take care of a pregnant wife with laser focus. By morning, he’d already made a mini checklist. He even surprised you with a small penguin plushie “for the baby,” shyly placing it in your hands like it was a treasure. You caught him once, hugging the plushie close with a sleepy smile. He still acted cool, but you found out he secretly called your mom the next day—just to ask how to be better for you.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

You didn’t expect to be nervous, but your heart thudded louder with every second the small gift box sat unopened on the coffee table. Inside: a positive test and a tiny baby sock—so small it fit in the curve of your palm. It felt surreal. Sunoo finally opened it after lunch, curious and humming a tune. The second the lid came off, you braced yourself. First came the scream. Then silence. Then a loud gasp, and then—

“Oh my God—” He turned to you, eyes already shimmering with tears. “Is this real?” His voice cracked. “Are we... is this really happening?” You nodded slowly, your lips trembling into a smile. That’s when he cried—out of joy, laughter, disbelief. He threw his arms around you in the gentlest hug you’ve ever received, rocking slightly as if holding something too precious for words. “We’re going to be a family,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You, me... and our baby.”

From that moment on, he was on a mission. That same evening, you caught him scribbling furiously into a new journal labeled Baby Diaries, filling the first page with the date, your symptoms, and a little heart next to “Today we found out.” He started recording a secret video diary too, holding his phone up to his face late at night to whisper messages: “Hey little one… your mom looked so beautiful today. I can’t wait to meet you.” He treasured both of you like sunlight. And from day one, he was already the kind of father your child would be proud of.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

You were curled up in bed, the rain tapping softly at the windows, Jungwon’s arms around you, your cheek resting against his chest. He was tracing little circles on your back, relaxed and content, when you whispered it against his collarbone like it was something sacred. “We’re having a baby.” His entire body stiffened. Then slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at your face. “Wait—wait. Really?” His eyes were wide, already glossed with emotion. “You’re not joking?” You shook your head with a small smile, your hand resting over his heart.

Within seconds, Jungwon was panicking in the softest, most adorable way. “Have you eaten today? You’re not cold, right? Do you feel sick? Wait, should you be lying down like this?” He scrambled to adjust the blanket around you, flustered and red in the face. You laughed, grabbing his hand to calm him down. Then he just sat beside you, quiet now, holding your hand like it grounded him. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles as he stared at nothing, lost in thought. “I’ll do my best,” he said suddenly, voice low but firm. “To protect you. And them. I promise.” He didn’t question you. Didn’t doubt for even a second. He just believed you—and that trust alone made your heart feel impossibly full.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

You weren’t sure how to tell Riki. You’d rehearsed it a hundred times in your head, but none of the versions came out right. Maybe because you were scared—scared he’d run, or panic, or worse... leave. You knew Riki would never do that, not intentionally, but still. You were young. He was young. And this… this was huge. So you kept it simple. You wrapped the tiny hoodie—the baby-sized version of his favorite one—and placed it in a box with trembling hands. No words, no explanations. Just that.

When he arrived, he opened it with a playful grin, expecting some kind of joke. “Is this... for a doll?” he chuckled, holding it up. Then his smile faded. “Wait… is this for...?” His voice trailed off. You just looked at him. No words. Just a soft nod. He froze. Riki stood completely still for a moment, eyes wide. Then suddenly, “I need to sit down. No—I need to stand. Wait, I need to—” He started pacing, hoodie still in his hand, his other hand flying up to cover his mouth. “You’re serious?” he whispered. Again, you nodded.

And just like that, he exhaled—shaky and deep—before stepping behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. “I’m gonna be a dad… wow.” In the days that followed, he tried to act grown-up, walking straighter, talking more calmly. But you still caught him googling, “how big is the baby now” every week. And one night, he whispered with a sleepy grin, “You don’t have to be scared, okay? I’m here. We’re gonna do this right.” Then mumbled something about wanting cherry blossoms at the wedding before he drifted off to sleep.

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

SCRIPTED SMILES , P.SH !

PAIRING : sunghoon ! × afab reader

SYNOPSIS : you were never supposed to fall for each other. it was fake—just a dumb agreement to get people off your backs. he needed a “girlfriend,” and you… you didn’t think it would matter. but then he started waiting for you after school. remembered how you take your coffee. defended you when he didn’t have to. somewhere along the line, the lines blurred. and now you don’t know what hurts more: that you’re still pretending… or that you're not.

WORD COUNT : 5.5k

MASTERLIST !

SENA’S NOTE : this is basically a fic inspired out of my enha as romance tropes post. not the best but not the worst works of mine. hope y’all could shed some feedback tho <3

YOU CAN'T HELP IT—you really can’t. A smug little smirk tugs at the corners of your lips the second Park Sunghoon asks you to be his girlfriend. It’s weird. Not butterflies in the stomach weird, but weird like someone dropping a marriage proposal while you’re still deciding between Coke or Pepsi. The guy literally walked up to you and said, “Be my girlfriend?” like he was ordering takeout.

What you didn’t know—what nobody knew—was that it all started because of a dumbass joke. Sunghoon, feeling a little too proud of himself during lunch, had casually told his friends he was dating someone. Thought they’d laugh. Move on. Ha-ha. But no. They actually believed him. Started asking him things like, what’s she like? how long have you two been together? does she know your password?

And high on that weird mix of panic and pride, he blurted, “My girlfriend didn’t even want me for clout before we dated.” Bold of him, really.

Too bad the only girl in the entire school who didn’t give a single shit about his so-called clout… was you.

The same you who had once threatened to staple his tongue to the desk in seventh grade.

So it was very unexpected—no, downright hilarious—when Sunghoon came to your desk after class like a kicked puppy. His words practically tripping over each other as he begged. Begged. To be your boyfriend. Just for show, of course.

And well, you weren’t going to lie—you liked the attention. Why wouldn’t you? Park Sunghoon, golden boy of the year, groveling for your approval? This was prime entertainment.

Besides, there was a clingy bastard in your class who needed to get the hint. So maybe it wasn’t just fun—it was strategic. A win-win.

So, yeah. You said yes.

The next day, you walk out with him after school like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s tall, annoyingly so, and his arm feels too warm linked with yours. Still, you don’t look back. You hear the chorus of “oooohhh’s” from behind, the gossip already building in real time, and it feeds something wicked in you.

He leans down a bit, his voice low near your ear. “You’re really good at pretending,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head toward him, lashes low, lips just barely curving. “Then maybe you should learn from me.”

And you can feel him shiver. Not visibly, not enough to make a scene—but it’s there. In the way he breathes in too sharp, in the way his grip on your hand tightens for just a second.

“I guess,” he mutters, voice suddenly not so cocky anymore.

You don’t reply. Just keep walking like you own the pavement, dragging your fake prince charming behind you like a designer handbag.

But the second you reach the gate, you stop. Smile gone. Cold. You unlock your arm from his and step aside. “The act ends here, mister.” And just like that, you’re gone. Not a goodbye. Not a single glance back.

Sunghoon stands there like someone just slapped him with a math test. His hand runs through his hair, frustrated, already calculating the damage. When he looks up, he sees them. The same friends who started all this. The same idiots who believed him in the first place. They’re staring. One tall, one short, both skeptical as hell.

He mumbles a low “fuck” under his breath.

“She’s just upset,” he lies with a dismissive wave, trying to look casual as his pride lies twitching on the sidewalk.

“Are you really dating?” the tall one asks, brows raised.

“Like really?” the shorter one echoes, looking at him like he’s about to crack open a case file.

“Yes, obviously,” Sunghoon says, voice a little too sharp, a little too fake. He clears his throat. “Do you think I’m lying?”

The tall one pauses, then claps him on the shoulder. “We trust you, bro. Sorry for doubting. Wanna eat fried rice on the way?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, puts on a weak smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Fools. All of them.

They were fools for believing him so easily.

And he? He was the biggest one of all. For thinking he could get away with this shit.

FOR A MONTH.

That was the deal. Just long enough to let the rumors die, to get people off both your backs—no more clingy confessions in the hallways, no more girls asking him if he was “free this Saturday.” Clean. Simple. A good arrangement.

But nothing about you was ever simple.

And now Sunghoon had to survive an entire month of this confusing chaos you brought with you.

The first week was already weird as hell. You were shameless. Asking him to carry your books. Buy you snacks. Take your pictures in front of classroom windows because “the lighting’s hitting, duh.” There were moments he genuinely paused to wonder—am I being used?

But the worst part?

Even if you were using him, he didn’t really… mind.

“Hey! Carry!” you snapped, casually dropping your backpack into his arms without a second glance. He caught it mid-air with an awkward grunt, stumbling slightly under the weight.

“Uhhh,” he muttered, struggling for a moment before adjusting the strap over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. As if he hadn’t just almost dislocated his wrist.

“You know I can see you making a shit face, right?” you said, eyes trained on him with a crooked smirk as you walked beside him.

“Stop it. Is this how someone talks to their boyfriend, huh?” he threw back, voice defensive, trying to guilt-trip you into softness.

You didn’t even blink. “Who told you you’re my boyfriend?”

He stopped, blinking at you. You slowed down a bit, turning your head slightly so he could catch the seriousness in your expression.

“We’re out of school now. You don’t have to pretend,” you shrugged, the last word landing with a dull thud between you two as the evening breeze passed.

The streetlights flickered above—dim, lazy, like they couldn’t care less. You kept walking, assuming he’d catch up.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk, then dropped your bag straight onto the pavement with a dull thunk.

“Here,” he muttered, brushing off his hands like he’d just finished taking out the trash.

You turned instantly. “What the fuck—”

“You told me to stop the act,” he cut in, his voice laced with bitterness. “So I did.”

You glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t say another word either. Just turned on his heel and started walking in the opposite direction.

Then—right before the street corner—he turned back. His eyes caught yours, and his voice dropped, firm and cutting.

“After all, I’m not actually your boyfriend, right?”

And the way he said it—sharp and offended, like you’d betrayed him somehow—confused the hell out of you. This wasn’t part of the deal. This wasn’t pretend anymore. Not this tension. Not this tone.

You stood there frozen for a second. Your bag lay on the road like a kicked dog.

“Stupid boy,” you muttered under your breath, cheeks hot with something that wasn’t quite anger.

You bent down, picked up the bag, and slung it over your shoulder. Still watching the direction he disappeared into.

You already had a full-blown monologue forming in your head. A speech. A demand. Questions and half-accusations ready to be thrown like darts.

Because why the hell did he care so much?

And why, even now, did your chest ache like he just dumped you for real?

You would swear—the very first thing you wanted to do after seeing him was storm up and yell at him for being an absolute dick the night before. You’d even drafted a whole mental script, complete with dramatic pauses and a glare that could burn skin. But the second you walked into class that morning, ready to throw your righteous fury at Park Sunghoon… he beat you to it.

He caught you off guard in the dumbest way possible.

There he was, standing by your desk, awkwardly holding out your favorite white chocolate—the same one you had once defended in a heated lunch debate like your life depended on it. To anyone else, it was a simple, cutesy boyfriend gesture. Sweet. Lovey-dovey. Instagram-worthy. But to you? It was weird. No—hella weird. You had spent five entire years despising this guy for his smug attitude, his stupid hair, and the way he used to mock the way you said “schedule.” And now he was doing this?

You just stared. Words gone. Script deleted. Error 404: Anger Not Found.

Then it got worse.

Just before the bell rang, he leaned in without warning. His lips brushed your cheek—your cheek—soft and brief, but enough to make your spine jolt straight like someone poured soda into it. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the audacity to whisper, “I hope this apology would be accepted for how I behaved last night.”

You should have pushed him. Yelled. Slapped maybe. But instead… your heart fluttered. And it pissed you off more than anything else. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the deal.

Later that day, you finally snapped. Grabbing his wrist, you dragged him into the nearest empty classroom like a woman on a mission, slamming the door shut behind you with the kind of force that made even you blink twice. You turned to him, eyes sharp, voice low with frustration.

“Why the hell did you do it!”

You weren’t just angry—okay, yeah, you were angry—but mostly, you were confused. Because the plan had been clear: talk, walk, maybe hold hands when people were looking. That was it. No cheek kisses. No butterflies. No feelings. Definitely no surprises.

“I—well, my friends asked if you were really my girlfriend, and they told me to prove it by kissing you,” he said quickly, both palms in the air like you were about to physically attack him.

“You should’ve texted me this morning that you were going to do this, tho!!” you snapped, grabbing the front of his shirt with both hands and yanking him slightly forward. Your eyes bore into his like you were trying to transfer your fury into his bloodstream.

“It was a sudden thought,” he muttered, swallowing hard. His ears were turning red, and even in this tense moment, he couldn’t help but notice—damn, you were kinda hot when you were mad. It was terrifying. But still.

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it was because your friend told you to prove it. Then you suddenly thought of doing it?”

“I—yeah,” he stuttered, blinking rapidly, mentally high-fiving himself for the fast recovery. “They asked me, and then the idea just came, like—poof! Spur of the moment, you know?”

You let go of his collar with a sigh, folding your arms across your chest, still glaring like you were trying to burn a hole through his forehead. “You're not making sense,” you mumbled, voice slightly calmer but still very much loaded.

You were about to ask again—why—but the final bell rang, echoing through the hallway. You stopped, groaning. Time up. You turned towards the door, hand on the knob before you paused and looked back.

“Don’t. You. Dare. Do. It. Again.” Your tone was deadly serious. But apparently that wasn’t enough, because your next words had him freezing on the spot. “I’ll chop your dick off if you dare to do so.”

He gasped. Visibly. Hands flew down to protect the very thing you just threatened. You didn’t even smile. You just raised an eyebrow.

“You understand?” you asked flatly.

“Y-Yes man—I mean—ma’am!” he yelped, eyes wide.

And just like that, you turned and walked out, posture straight, bag slung coolly over your shoulder like you hadn’t just threatened genital homicide.

Sunghoon let out a long, exhausted sigh as soon as the door clicked shut behind you. “Gosh…” he mumbled, slumping against the desk behind him. That was way more intense than he expected. He stared at the floor, still reeling.

But if he were being honest, really honest with himself… he wouldn’t mind kissing you again.

The thought made him slap his own cheek.

“Stupid,” he muttered as he finally left the room, the hallway empty and the sky outside already starting to turn gold.

AFTER THAT DAY,

Things started changing.

Sunghoon started showing up more often—waiting for you after school, hanging around like a lost dog with a purpose. He’d text you good night every single night, even when you ignored every message, thinking he was just screwing around. You thought he’d get bored. That eventually he’d stop. But he didn’t.

Sometimes, when you sat too close, he’d start playing with your fingers—like it was nothing. Like the world was watching. “Just in case someone’s looking,” he’d mumble with a lazy grin, but you weren’t buying it. Not one bit. Because this wasn’t the same Park Sunghoon who used to trip over air and smirk when someone else cried during movies. This Sunghoon was different. This Sunghoon was confusing as hell.

You started hanging out with him after school too. He insisted on taking photos for “proof”—for the stupid illusion of a ‘real’ relationship. Couple posts. Hashtag soft launch. Like… what the fuck. But you agreed anyway, because you were two things: one, stupid, and two, free as fuck. Your homework was done before lunch even ended, so what else did you have going on? At least this was entertaining. In a weird, mildly soul-draining kind of way. Though, between pretending to love him and actually starting to tolerate him, you did start to learn things.

Like how he wrote his own songs—lyrics scribbled in the margins of his notebook, messy and thoughtful. Or how he always slept with a fan on, even in December. “White noise,” he’d say. “It’s comforting.” Just like that. He always said dumb little things so casually, and you never knew what to do with them, so you kept them. Quietly.

But then came that day. The one that made everything shatter.

You weren’t feeling it. From the second you walked into school, something was off. Something cracked. Because the girls you once called your best friends—your soul sisters, your safety net—they didn’t look at you anymore. They laughed together at lunch without glancing your way. Didn’t text you like they used to. Didn’t call. It hurt. More than you thought it would.

They’d always been your people.

But now? All you could hear were the whispers. Words you weren’t supposed to hear, but you did.

“She probably seduced him.”

“Why would a guy like Hoon even like her?”

“Bet she thinks she’s miss korea now.”

The words didn’t hurt because they were cruel. They hurt because of who they came from. That was the punch in the gut. That she—your closest friend—was the one saying them. You could’ve taken the whole world turning on you. But not her.

You held it in for as long as you could.

You kept quiet the entire day. Stared ahead, eyes burning, lips sealed, fists clenched. But the ache in your chest only grew heavier, until finally—when you couldn’t take it—you stood up from your half-eaten lunch, left your tray behind, and walked. Fast. Anywhere. Somewhere no one would follow. Somewhere you could break.

You found an empty classroom.

Door closed, not locked. And you cried. Not silent, soft tears—but raw, ugly sobs, the kind that made your whole body shudder. You buried your face into your arms on the last bench and cried like it was the end of the world. Not for a boy. Not for heartbreak in the usual sense. But for the girl who had once called you her sister. For the betrayal that felt like someone reached into your chest and twisted everything out of place.

You didn’t hear the door creak. Didn’t notice the footsteps. Only flinched when you felt a hand on your back. Gentle. Hesitant.

“Go away,” you muttered, voice thick, throat sore.

“I’m not going away. Why would I?”

And that voice—you recognized it.

You peeked sideways, barely. It was Sunghoon. Looking at you like you were the one who had been hit. Eyes wide, face tense, like he was about to cry too. It made you laugh. Not a real laugh. A tired, broken one.

“Why are you the one who looks like you're about to cry, idiot?” you snapped softly, trying to wipe your tears before he could get a better look.

He didn’t answer. Just sat beside you, quietly, before asking in the softest tone you'd ever heard from him: “What’s wrong? Who hurt you?”

You stared. Not because the question was strange—but because he said it. Sunghoon. Park Sunghoon. Your fake boyfriend. The one who used to joke about your handwriting and steal your fries.

“You’re Sunghoon?”

“Answer the question,” he pressed, firm, but not unkind.

So you did.

“My best friend… and the group. They talked about how I must’ve seduced you,” you laughed bitterly, voice cracking in the middle. “It’s not even what they said that hurts. It’s who said it. She was like a sister, hoon.”

You tried to shrug it off with another joke, something light. “Guess my first heartbreak wasn’t even from a guy, huh?” But your laugh barely made it past your lips before his arms wrapped around you.

You froze.

He pulled you into his chest, and you didn’t even resist. You just stayed there, your cheek against his uniform, your hands limp by your side. You could hear his heartbeat—fast, uneven, way too strong for someone pretending not to care. Yours matched his, syncing in a way that made you feel something you didn’t have a name for.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, not moving.

“Comforting someone,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I stopped crying, dumbass,” you muttered, trying to make it feel less serious, but even you could hear how soft your voice sounded.

He just rested his chin on your head.

And you hated how comforting it felt. Hated how easily you leaned into it. But you couldn’t deny it. No one had ever done this for you before.

“Should I go teach her a piece of my mind?” he asked, dead serious.

You pulled back slightly to glare up at him. “No, dummy. Don’t. I don’t want them to hate me more than they already do.” Your voice cracked again. “I still need time to process that we’re not… how we used to be.”

He nodded, and pulled you close again.

“If you say so,” he said softly. “But if they say anything else—you’re not stopping me next time, alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence settle. His hand ran through your hair gently, back and forth, slow enough to make your eyes flutter.

“Stop it, Sunghoon. I might fall asleep,” you mumbled into his chest, but the words were already slurring at the end.

“Then sleep,” he whispered. “Class isn’t for another hour.”

And you did.

For the first time in a while, you slept not because you were tired, but because you felt safe.

Sunghoon stayed still, arms wrapped around you, his chin tucked over your head. Listening to your breath slow. Feeling your heartbeat steady. And something strange stirred in his chest—something that wasn’t so fake after all.

That night, even after the ultimate betrayal, you found yourself smiling.

“i’m sorry,” read the text.

You frowned. From your best friend—or ex-best friend, whatever she was now.

You didn’t reply. Just stared at it. Maybe she noticed how sad you looked, how you’d been ignoring them all day, and this was her half-assed way of patching it up. But you weren’t taking that apology.

What you didn’t know, though, was that your Romeo—the boy you were “fake” dating—was the one who made them send that message. He had told the girls to shut their mouths and say sorry to you, or he’d start spreading rumors just as nasty as the ones they’d thrown at you. Harsh? Yeah. But the guy was too far in to care about morals anymore. He was just as pissed—just as hurt—as you were.

The next day, you walked into school with a little bounce in your step. And that’s when some girl, someone who barely even counted as an acquaintance, slung her arm around you and said, “So now the hottie from our class is dating the heartthrob, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

“It’s all fake. Don’t think too much about it,” you added, knowing she wasn’t gonna spill. She had too many of her own secrets, and you held every single one like a dagger to her throat. She knew it too well to open her mouth.

“What do you mean fake?” she squinted. “He kissed your cheek in front of the whole class.”

“Like I said,” you replied coolly, “it was a lie. Doesn’t mean anything.”

She nodded slowly, still looking skeptical. And then she said, “Well, you’ll probably find someone better than him anyway,” before walking off.

But her words stung.

Because it wasn’t about finding someone better.

Fuck. You didn’t even know what the hell you wanted anymore.

You turned to head toward the school gate, only to see Sunghoon walking a few steps behind. You smiled and waved.

He walked right past you.

Not even a glance.

No smile. No hello. No hand to hold like he usually did.

He just walked into class.

You stood there, confused. Stunned. And yeah, a little heartbroken.

Still, you tried to reason with yourself. Maybe he missed his friends. Maybe he needed a break. You weren’t his real girlfriend—you didn’t get to ask questions like that.

So you sat down alone.

He didn’t save your seat. He was already sitting with his friends, laughing like nothing had changed.

And you wanted to kick that stupid, pretty-faced bastard.

Once school ended, you rushed to catch up. “Hey, Sunghoon!” you called out.

He didn’t even look at you.

Just kept walking. Joking with his friends. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

The ache hit harder this time. Sharp and cold and crawling up your chest.

Still, you kept your cool. Pulled out your phone.

“listen mr. snapping turtle, you think you're the only one who can play games? fine. don't talk to me. just tell your friends we broke up bc i’m done pretending to date you 😐”

You hit send, angry enough to punch a wall.

You expected something. Anything. A half-assed apology. A guilt trip. Regret.

But all he said was:

“okay. thank you.”

A thank you?

You stared at the screen, your blood boiling. A thank you—like you’d done him a favor?

What the actual fuck?

You blocked him right then. Too proud. Too hurt. Too done.

The next few days feel like a real breakup, even though none of it was real. He stops saving your seat. Stops walking you home. Stops eating lunch with you. And worst of all? He just stops looking at you, like you’re invisible or some girl he’s never known. And it fucking hurts.

You take a bite of the fried rice your mom packed because she knows how much you hate the cafeteria food. You chew slowly, trying not to cry like a loser in public. Why does it hurt this much? You take another bite. It stings. Your so-called best friend stabbed you in the back, and the only person who made you feel okay—even when you didn’t ask for it—is acting like you dont exist. It stings like hell.

And now you’re sitting alone, at this shitty table, pretending like the food tastes good while the rest of the class buzzes with laughter. You look around and wonder if this is what losing someone who almost felt like yours is supposed to feel like. Almost. But not quite.

A WEEK PASSES.

Nothing changes. You thought you’d get used to the silence. The distance. The empty seat beside you. But nope. It still sucks. You wipe your stupid eyes again as you watch him laughing with his friends, scoring full marks like your absence doesn’t even graze him.

You end up faking a stomachache to skip school. No way you’re facing him during the stupid school festival. Not when everything feels like this. Why did he even bother messing with your head? Everything was fine before he came along with his stupid pretty face and confusing ass behavior.

Your phone rings. You ignore it. You’re halfway under the blanket, face stuffed in the pillow. It rings again. You groan and pick it up.

“What?” you snap.

It can’t be him. You blocked him. Obviously.

“Why didn’t you come?”

You freeze. His voice is so familiar it makes your stomach twist.

“As if you care,” you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. You bury your face deeper into the pillow, blanket nearly over your head now.

He’s quiet. No answer.

“Thought so,” you say quietly, then hang up.

You don’t want to hear whatever bullshit he has to say. Not after this. If he wanted out, he should’ve just walked away instead of pretending to care. Instead of making you think maybe—just maybe—he meant something.

You stop looking at him too. That’s what he wanted, right? You to disappear? Fine. Watch how good you are at it.

You could feel him put efforts to talk to you but you didn't care, this Tom and Jerry cat fight kept going for a week until it was closer to the festival day. That’s when the snapping turtle finally snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders and pulling you into an empty classroom.

“What?” you mutter.

“Stop ignoring.”

“So, I'm the one that's ignoring now? Didn't you suddenly propose to break up from the pretend dating? All of a sudden?” you mumble out your true thoughts, your anger flaring like crazy as you just glare at him.

“And I'm sorry for that. I was hurt too, okay? For you to say that it's all fake and that it doesn't matter to you.” he mutters, not sure why that sentence hurts more now that he himself says it out loud.

“Well, that's what it was tho. It was fake!” you snap back, the bitterness seeping through every word.

“Is that why you feel so much, hmm? Is that why you're so angry right now?”

“Just shut up, I'm angry only because you suddenly stopped talking. After pretending like you care!”

“That’s because I do fucking care. I was never pretending. When will you stop pretending for once?”

“I don't fucking believe you, I—”

You don’t even get to finish. Your words die as his lips crash onto yours.

Your brain short-circuits.

He’s kissing you.

All at once, your body tenses, your fists clenching into his shirt out of pure instinct. His mouth moves against yours, urgent, raw, desperate—like this is the only way he knows how to speak. Like he’s trying to shut you up with the one thing that might actually make you listen.

His hand cups the back of your head, like he did that day you cried, gentle but firm. His other arm snakes around your waist and pulls you closer, close enough that you feel his heartbeat through his chest, pounding into yours. And then he bites your lower lip—not hard, but just enough—and it sends a spark up your spine.

You feel dizzy. Too hot. Like the classroom doesn’t have enough air.

And you swear you would’ve collapsed if not for his grip on you, steadying you like he knew your knees were already giving up. Your lips part on their own, no thinking, no logic—just need—and the moment his tongue touches yours, you lose the ability to reason.

It’s messy. It’s confusing. It’s everything.

You don’t even know if you want this. Or maybe you do. But your lips keep moving, dancing with his like they’ve been waiting for this. Like you’ve done this a million times in your head. Like your mouth knows something your heart’s too scared to admit.

By the time he finally pulls away, both your lips are wet—his breath warm against your skin as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s smiling. And you hate that it makes your chest feel weird.

You’re barely standing. Your fingers are still gripping his shirt.

He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, gently wiping the mix of saliva off your lips before doing the same for himself.

“Why?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“Just wanted to shut you up from asking more questions.”

“That doesn’t explain why you did it.”

“Are you gonna grab my collar and yell at me like last time?” he teases with a small grin, but you just stare. Confused. Still hurt.

“You gonna disappear like before after this?”

“Shut up.”

“Answer the question.”

“Obviously not.”

But that kiss? He doesn’t bring it up again. Not during the school festival, not after, not ever.

And you don’t have the guts to call him out either. Because how do you even start a sentence like that?

It all feels too casual for your liking. Too easy for him to do, and too hard for you to forget. He said he was hurt, that he didn’t want to pretend, but then he kissed you like your consent didn’t even matter. Like it was his to take.

Even though you know, deep down, you would’ve let him anyway. That’s what makes it worse.

You still don’t know if he’s playing with you. And now that you’ve started caring—really caring—it all feels a thousand times more dangerous.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t either.

And somehow, it feels even lonelier than when he was ignoring you.

Because now, only your feelings accompany you.

You fix your outfit and walk out into the chaos that is the school festival. Everything is loud and colorful, balloons flying, kids screaming over candy, someone blasting newjeans from a broken speaker. It’s all too bright for how dull you feel. Like the universe didn’t get the fucking memo that your life’s been black-and-white lately.

And then—you feel a hand on your shoulder. Your heart does that stupid thing again, hope kicking in like muscle memory. Of course, it's him. It has to be. Sunghoon. You spin around, already halfway into a rant. “Oh yeah? Finally wanting to clear things out?”

But it’s not him. Of course it’s not him. It’s the clingy dude from your class—the exact reason you fake dated Sunghoon in the first place. You mentally cuss. You physically cringe.

“Thought you broke up with that jerk,” the guy mutters like he didn’t just lay hands on you uninvited. “He didn’t deserve you anyway.”

You flick his hand off your shoulder like it’s a damn bug. He flinches dramatically, like you just slapped him with a frying pan.

“Still upset?” he says, cocking his head, that fake pity tone practically dripping.

He reaches again, and you're already about to go off when someone else does it for you—hard. The clingy guy stumbles back, blinking, because surprise! A very pissed off fake boyfriend has entered the scene.

Sunghoon’s hand is still up from where he shoved the guy back. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he says, voice low and sharp like a slap in winter.

Your brain short-circuits. He’s been ignoring you for a week. A whole damn week. And now he shows up like some angry bodyguard?

“She’s not available,” he says, eyes burning holes into the guy.

“But—”

“She’s. Not. Available.”

That tone is lethal. Even you’re taken aback. It’s the kind of voice that makes people listen. The guy blinks twice and then backs off with his hands up like he's being held at gunpoint. Smart move.

You stand there, stunned. And also slightly terrified. What the fuck was that?

Once clingy dude is out of sight, you turn to Sunghoon. “Why’d you say that? We’re not together, huh.”

He shrugs like it's obvious. “I know. But I never said I wanted it to stop being real.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you, dead in the eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to date me for real. You literally cried that day.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, punching his arm because what else are you supposed to do? Die from secondhand embarrassment?

“I mean it though,” he says, checking real quick that no one’s eavesdropping before leaning in a bit. “Let’s do it all over again. But this time, I want it to be real.”

You just… stare. Who the hell does he think he is? Taehyung? Dropping lines like that with zero shame? Not even a damn “I like you” in sight, just straight to “let’s date.” But still… your head nods before your brain can stop it. Maybe because you’re scared he’ll expose you for crying like a kicked puppy. Maybe because you want to say yes more than you want to admit.

YOU CAN JOIN MY PERMANENT TAGLIST BY SENDING AN ASK OR COMMENTING HERE ┊ THANK YOU FOR READING! I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS ♡

© SENASCOOP | DO NOT CLAIM AS YOURS

[senascoop]

SCRIPTED SMILES , P.SH !

PAIRING : sunghoon ! × afab reader

SYNOPSIS : you were never supposed to fall for each other. it was fake—just a dumb agreement to get people off your backs. he needed a “girlfriend,” and you… you didn’t think it would matter. but then he started waiting for you after school. remembered how you take your coffee. defended you when he didn’t have to. somewhere along the line, the lines blurred. and now you don’t know what hurts more: that you’re still pretending… or that you're not.

WORD COUNT : 5.5k

MASTERLIST !

SENA’S NOTE : this is basically a fic inspired out of my enha as romance tropes post. not the best but not the worst works of mine. hope y’all could shed some feedback tho <3

YOU CAN'T HELP IT—you really can’t. A smug little smirk tugs at the corners of your lips the second Park Sunghoon asks you to be his girlfriend. It’s weird. Not butterflies in the stomach weird, but weird like someone dropping a marriage proposal while you’re still deciding between Coke or Pepsi. The guy literally walked up to you and said, “Be my girlfriend?” like he was ordering takeout.

What you didn’t know—what nobody knew—was that it all started because of a dumbass joke. Sunghoon, feeling a little too proud of himself during lunch, had casually told his friends he was dating someone. Thought they’d laugh. Move on. Ha-ha. But no. They actually believed him. Started asking him things like, what’s she like? how long have you two been together? does she know your password?

And high on that weird mix of panic and pride, he blurted, “My girlfriend didn’t even want me for clout before we dated.” Bold of him, really.

Too bad the only girl in the entire school who didn’t give a single shit about his so-called clout… was you.

The same you who had once threatened to staple his tongue to the desk in seventh grade.

So it was very unexpected—no, downright hilarious—when Sunghoon came to your desk after class like a kicked puppy. His words practically tripping over each other as he begged. Begged. To be your boyfriend. Just for show, of course.

And well, you weren’t going to lie—you liked the attention. Why wouldn’t you? Park Sunghoon, golden boy of the year, groveling for your approval? This was prime entertainment.

Besides, there was a clingy bastard in your class who needed to get the hint. So maybe it wasn’t just fun—it was strategic. A win-win.

So, yeah. You said yes.

The next day, you walk out with him after school like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s tall, annoyingly so, and his arm feels too warm linked with yours. Still, you don’t look back. You hear the chorus of “oooohhh’s” from behind, the gossip already building in real time, and it feeds something wicked in you.

He leans down a bit, his voice low near your ear. “You’re really good at pretending,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head toward him, lashes low, lips just barely curving. “Then maybe you should learn from me.”

And you can feel him shiver. Not visibly, not enough to make a scene—but it’s there. In the way he breathes in too sharp, in the way his grip on your hand tightens for just a second.

“I guess,” he mutters, voice suddenly not so cocky anymore.

You don’t reply. Just keep walking like you own the pavement, dragging your fake prince charming behind you like a designer handbag.

But the second you reach the gate, you stop. Smile gone. Cold. You unlock your arm from his and step aside. “The act ends here, mister.” And just like that, you’re gone. Not a goodbye. Not a single glance back.

Sunghoon stands there like someone just slapped him with a math test. His hand runs through his hair, frustrated, already calculating the damage. When he looks up, he sees them. The same friends who started all this. The same idiots who believed him in the first place. They’re staring. One tall, one short, both skeptical as hell.

He mumbles a low “fuck” under his breath.

“She’s just upset,” he lies with a dismissive wave, trying to look casual as his pride lies twitching on the sidewalk.

“Are you really dating?” the tall one asks, brows raised.

“Like really?” the shorter one echoes, looking at him like he’s about to crack open a case file.

“Yes, obviously,” Sunghoon says, voice a little too sharp, a little too fake. He clears his throat. “Do you think I’m lying?”

The tall one pauses, then claps him on the shoulder. “We trust you, bro. Sorry for doubting. Wanna eat fried rice on the way?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, puts on a weak smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Fools. All of them.

They were fools for believing him so easily.

And he? He was the biggest one of all. For thinking he could get away with this shit.

FOR A MONTH.

That was the deal. Just long enough to let the rumors die, to get people off both your backs—no more clingy confessions in the hallways, no more girls asking him if he was “free this Saturday.” Clean. Simple. A good arrangement.

But nothing about you was ever simple.

And now Sunghoon had to survive an entire month of this confusing chaos you brought with you.

The first week was already weird as hell. You were shameless. Asking him to carry your books. Buy you snacks. Take your pictures in front of classroom windows because “the lighting’s hitting, duh.” There were moments he genuinely paused to wonder—am I being used?

But the worst part?

Even if you were using him, he didn’t really… mind.

“Hey! Carry!” you snapped, casually dropping your backpack into his arms without a second glance. He caught it mid-air with an awkward grunt, stumbling slightly under the weight.

“Uhhh,” he muttered, struggling for a moment before adjusting the strap over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. As if he hadn’t just almost dislocated his wrist.

“You know I can see you making a shit face, right?” you said, eyes trained on him with a crooked smirk as you walked beside him.

“Stop it. Is this how someone talks to their boyfriend, huh?” he threw back, voice defensive, trying to guilt-trip you into softness.

You didn’t even blink. “Who told you you’re my boyfriend?”

He stopped, blinking at you. You slowed down a bit, turning your head slightly so he could catch the seriousness in your expression.

“We’re out of school now. You don’t have to pretend,” you shrugged, the last word landing with a dull thud between you two as the evening breeze passed.

The streetlights flickered above—dim, lazy, like they couldn’t care less. You kept walking, assuming he’d catch up.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk, then dropped your bag straight onto the pavement with a dull thunk.

“Here,” he muttered, brushing off his hands like he’d just finished taking out the trash.

You turned instantly. “What the fuck—”

“You told me to stop the act,” he cut in, his voice laced with bitterness. “So I did.”

You glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t say another word either. Just turned on his heel and started walking in the opposite direction.

Then—right before the street corner—he turned back. His eyes caught yours, and his voice dropped, firm and cutting.

“After all, I’m not actually your boyfriend, right?”

And the way he said it—sharp and offended, like you’d betrayed him somehow—confused the hell out of you. This wasn’t part of the deal. This wasn’t pretend anymore. Not this tension. Not this tone.

You stood there frozen for a second. Your bag lay on the road like a kicked dog.

“Stupid boy,” you muttered under your breath, cheeks hot with something that wasn’t quite anger.

You bent down, picked up the bag, and slung it over your shoulder. Still watching the direction he disappeared into.

You already had a full-blown monologue forming in your head. A speech. A demand. Questions and half-accusations ready to be thrown like darts.

Because why the hell did he care so much?

And why, even now, did your chest ache like he just dumped you for real?

You would swear—the very first thing you wanted to do after seeing him was storm up and yell at him for being an absolute dick the night before. You’d even drafted a whole mental script, complete with dramatic pauses and a glare that could burn skin. But the second you walked into class that morning, ready to throw your righteous fury at Park Sunghoon… he beat you to it.

He caught you off guard in the dumbest way possible.

There he was, standing by your desk, awkwardly holding out your favorite white chocolate—the same one you had once defended in a heated lunch debate like your life depended on it. To anyone else, it was a simple, cutesy boyfriend gesture. Sweet. Lovey-dovey. Instagram-worthy. But to you? It was weird. No—hella weird. You had spent five entire years despising this guy for his smug attitude, his stupid hair, and the way he used to mock the way you said “schedule.” And now he was doing this?

You just stared. Words gone. Script deleted. Error 404: Anger Not Found.

Then it got worse.

Just before the bell rang, he leaned in without warning. His lips brushed your cheek—your cheek—soft and brief, but enough to make your spine jolt straight like someone poured soda into it. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the audacity to whisper, “I hope this apology would be accepted for how I behaved last night.”

You should have pushed him. Yelled. Slapped maybe. But instead… your heart fluttered. And it pissed you off more than anything else. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the deal.

Later that day, you finally snapped. Grabbing his wrist, you dragged him into the nearest empty classroom like a woman on a mission, slamming the door shut behind you with the kind of force that made even you blink twice. You turned to him, eyes sharp, voice low with frustration.

“Why the hell did you do it!”

You weren’t just angry—okay, yeah, you were angry—but mostly, you were confused. Because the plan had been clear: talk, walk, maybe hold hands when people were looking. That was it. No cheek kisses. No butterflies. No feelings. Definitely no surprises.

“I—well, my friends asked if you were really my girlfriend, and they told me to prove it by kissing you,” he said quickly, both palms in the air like you were about to physically attack him.

“You should’ve texted me this morning that you were going to do this, tho!!” you snapped, grabbing the front of his shirt with both hands and yanking him slightly forward. Your eyes bore into his like you were trying to transfer your fury into his bloodstream.

“It was a sudden thought,” he muttered, swallowing hard. His ears were turning red, and even in this tense moment, he couldn’t help but notice—damn, you were kinda hot when you were mad. It was terrifying. But still.

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it was because your friend told you to prove it. Then you suddenly thought of doing it?”

“I—yeah,” he stuttered, blinking rapidly, mentally high-fiving himself for the fast recovery. “They asked me, and then the idea just came, like—poof! Spur of the moment, you know?”

You let go of his collar with a sigh, folding your arms across your chest, still glaring like you were trying to burn a hole through his forehead. “You're not making sense,” you mumbled, voice slightly calmer but still very much loaded.

You were about to ask again—why—but the final bell rang, echoing through the hallway. You stopped, groaning. Time up. You turned towards the door, hand on the knob before you paused and looked back.

“Don’t. You. Dare. Do. It. Again.” Your tone was deadly serious. But apparently that wasn’t enough, because your next words had him freezing on the spot. “I’ll chop your dick off if you dare to do so.”

He gasped. Visibly. Hands flew down to protect the very thing you just threatened. You didn’t even smile. You just raised an eyebrow.

“You understand?” you asked flatly.

“Y-Yes man—I mean—ma’am!” he yelped, eyes wide.

And just like that, you turned and walked out, posture straight, bag slung coolly over your shoulder like you hadn’t just threatened genital homicide.

Sunghoon let out a long, exhausted sigh as soon as the door clicked shut behind you. “Gosh…” he mumbled, slumping against the desk behind him. That was way more intense than he expected. He stared at the floor, still reeling.

But if he were being honest, really honest with himself… he wouldn’t mind kissing you again.

The thought made him slap his own cheek.

“Stupid,” he muttered as he finally left the room, the hallway empty and the sky outside already starting to turn gold.

AFTER THAT DAY,

Things started changing.

Sunghoon started showing up more often—waiting for you after school, hanging around like a lost dog with a purpose. He’d text you good night every single night, even when you ignored every message, thinking he was just screwing around. You thought he’d get bored. That eventually he’d stop. But he didn’t.

Sometimes, when you sat too close, he’d start playing with your fingers—like it was nothing. Like the world was watching. “Just in case someone’s looking,” he’d mumble with a lazy grin, but you weren’t buying it. Not one bit. Because this wasn’t the same Park Sunghoon who used to trip over air and smirk when someone else cried during movies. This Sunghoon was different. This Sunghoon was confusing as hell.

You started hanging out with him after school too. He insisted on taking photos for “proof”—for the stupid illusion of a ‘real’ relationship. Couple posts. Hashtag soft launch. Like… what the fuck. But you agreed anyway, because you were two things: one, stupid, and two, free as fuck. Your homework was done before lunch even ended, so what else did you have going on? At least this was entertaining. In a weird, mildly soul-draining kind of way. Though, between pretending to love him and actually starting to tolerate him, you did start to learn things.

Like how he wrote his own songs—lyrics scribbled in the margins of his notebook, messy and thoughtful. Or how he always slept with a fan on, even in December. “White noise,” he’d say. “It’s comforting.” Just like that. He always said dumb little things so casually, and you never knew what to do with them, so you kept them. Quietly.

But then came that day. The one that made everything shatter.

You weren’t feeling it. From the second you walked into school, something was off. Something cracked. Because the girls you once called your best friends—your soul sisters, your safety net—they didn’t look at you anymore. They laughed together at lunch without glancing your way. Didn’t text you like they used to. Didn’t call. It hurt. More than you thought it would.

They’d always been your people.

But now? All you could hear were the whispers. Words you weren’t supposed to hear, but you did.

“She probably seduced him.”

“Why would a guy like Hoon even like her?”

“Bet she thinks she’s miss korea now.”

The words didn’t hurt because they were cruel. They hurt because of who they came from. That was the punch in the gut. That she—your closest friend—was the one saying them. You could’ve taken the whole world turning on you. But not her.

You held it in for as long as you could.

You kept quiet the entire day. Stared ahead, eyes burning, lips sealed, fists clenched. But the ache in your chest only grew heavier, until finally—when you couldn’t take it—you stood up from your half-eaten lunch, left your tray behind, and walked. Fast. Anywhere. Somewhere no one would follow. Somewhere you could break.

You found an empty classroom.

Door closed, not locked. And you cried. Not silent, soft tears—but raw, ugly sobs, the kind that made your whole body shudder. You buried your face into your arms on the last bench and cried like it was the end of the world. Not for a boy. Not for heartbreak in the usual sense. But for the girl who had once called you her sister. For the betrayal that felt like someone reached into your chest and twisted everything out of place.

You didn’t hear the door creak. Didn’t notice the footsteps. Only flinched when you felt a hand on your back. Gentle. Hesitant.

“Go away,” you muttered, voice thick, throat sore.

“I’m not going away. Why would I?”

And that voice—you recognized it.

You peeked sideways, barely. It was Sunghoon. Looking at you like you were the one who had been hit. Eyes wide, face tense, like he was about to cry too. It made you laugh. Not a real laugh. A tired, broken one.

“Why are you the one who looks like you're about to cry, idiot?” you snapped softly, trying to wipe your tears before he could get a better look.

He didn’t answer. Just sat beside you, quietly, before asking in the softest tone you'd ever heard from him: “What’s wrong? Who hurt you?”

You stared. Not because the question was strange—but because he said it. Sunghoon. Park Sunghoon. Your fake boyfriend. The one who used to joke about your handwriting and steal your fries.

“You’re Sunghoon?”

“Answer the question,” he pressed, firm, but not unkind.

So you did.

“My best friend… and the group. They talked about how I must’ve seduced you,” you laughed bitterly, voice cracking in the middle. “It’s not even what they said that hurts. It’s who said it. She was like a sister, hoon.”

You tried to shrug it off with another joke, something light. “Guess my first heartbreak wasn’t even from a guy, huh?” But your laugh barely made it past your lips before his arms wrapped around you.

You froze.

He pulled you into his chest, and you didn’t even resist. You just stayed there, your cheek against his uniform, your hands limp by your side. You could hear his heartbeat—fast, uneven, way too strong for someone pretending not to care. Yours matched his, syncing in a way that made you feel something you didn’t have a name for.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, not moving.

“Comforting someone,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I stopped crying, dumbass,” you muttered, trying to make it feel less serious, but even you could hear how soft your voice sounded.

He just rested his chin on your head.

And you hated how comforting it felt. Hated how easily you leaned into it. But you couldn’t deny it. No one had ever done this for you before.

“Should I go teach her a piece of my mind?” he asked, dead serious.

You pulled back slightly to glare up at him. “No, dummy. Don’t. I don’t want them to hate me more than they already do.” Your voice cracked again. “I still need time to process that we’re not… how we used to be.”

He nodded, and pulled you close again.

“If you say so,” he said softly. “But if they say anything else—you’re not stopping me next time, alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence settle. His hand ran through your hair gently, back and forth, slow enough to make your eyes flutter.

“Stop it, Sunghoon. I might fall asleep,” you mumbled into his chest, but the words were already slurring at the end.

“Then sleep,” he whispered. “Class isn’t for another hour.”

And you did.

For the first time in a while, you slept not because you were tired, but because you felt safe.

Sunghoon stayed still, arms wrapped around you, his chin tucked over your head. Listening to your breath slow. Feeling your heartbeat steady. And something strange stirred in his chest—something that wasn’t so fake after all.

That night, even after the ultimate betrayal, you found yourself smiling.

“i’m sorry,” read the text.

You frowned. From your best friend—or ex-best friend, whatever she was now.

You didn’t reply. Just stared at it. Maybe she noticed how sad you looked, how you’d been ignoring them all day, and this was her half-assed way of patching it up. But you weren’t taking that apology.

What you didn’t know, though, was that your Romeo—the boy you were “fake” dating—was the one who made them send that message. He had told the girls to shut their mouths and say sorry to you, or he’d start spreading rumors just as nasty as the ones they’d thrown at you. Harsh? Yeah. But the guy was too far in to care about morals anymore. He was just as pissed—just as hurt—as you were.

The next day, you walked into school with a little bounce in your step. And that’s when some girl, someone who barely even counted as an acquaintance, slung her arm around you and said, “So now the hottie from our class is dating the heartthrob, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

“It’s all fake. Don’t think too much about it,” you added, knowing she wasn’t gonna spill. She had too many of her own secrets, and you held every single one like a dagger to her throat. She knew it too well to open her mouth.

“What do you mean fake?” she squinted. “He kissed your cheek in front of the whole class.”

“Like I said,” you replied coolly, “it was a lie. Doesn’t mean anything.”

She nodded slowly, still looking skeptical. And then she said, “Well, you’ll probably find someone better than him anyway,” before walking off.

But her words stung.

Because it wasn’t about finding someone better.

Fuck. You didn’t even know what the hell you wanted anymore.

You turned to head toward the school gate, only to see Sunghoon walking a few steps behind. You smiled and waved.

He walked right past you.

Not even a glance.

No smile. No hello. No hand to hold like he usually did.

He just walked into class.

You stood there, confused. Stunned. And yeah, a little heartbroken.

Still, you tried to reason with yourself. Maybe he missed his friends. Maybe he needed a break. You weren’t his real girlfriend—you didn’t get to ask questions like that.

So you sat down alone.

He didn’t save your seat. He was already sitting with his friends, laughing like nothing had changed.

And you wanted to kick that stupid, pretty-faced bastard.

Once school ended, you rushed to catch up. “Hey, Sunghoon!” you called out.

He didn’t even look at you.

Just kept walking. Joking with his friends. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

The ache hit harder this time. Sharp and cold and crawling up your chest.

Still, you kept your cool. Pulled out your phone.

“listen mr. snapping turtle, you think you're the only one who can play games? fine. don't talk to me. just tell your friends we broke up bc i’m done pretending to date you 😐”

You hit send, angry enough to punch a wall.

You expected something. Anything. A half-assed apology. A guilt trip. Regret.

But all he said was:

“okay. thank you.”

A thank you?

You stared at the screen, your blood boiling. A thank you—like you’d done him a favor?

What the actual fuck?

You blocked him right then. Too proud. Too hurt. Too done.

The next few days feel like a real breakup, even though none of it was real. He stops saving your seat. Stops walking you home. Stops eating lunch with you. And worst of all? He just stops looking at you, like you’re invisible or some girl he’s never known. And it fucking hurts.

You take a bite of the fried rice your mom packed because she knows how much you hate the cafeteria food. You chew slowly, trying not to cry like a loser in public. Why does it hurt this much? You take another bite. It stings. Your so-called best friend stabbed you in the back, and the only person who made you feel okay—even when you didn’t ask for it—is acting like you dont exist. It stings like hell.

And now you’re sitting alone, at this shitty table, pretending like the food tastes good while the rest of the class buzzes with laughter. You look around and wonder if this is what losing someone who almost felt like yours is supposed to feel like. Almost. But not quite.

A WEEK PASSES.

Nothing changes. You thought you’d get used to the silence. The distance. The empty seat beside you. But nope. It still sucks. You wipe your stupid eyes again as you watch him laughing with his friends, scoring full marks like your absence doesn’t even graze him.

You end up faking a stomachache to skip school. No way you’re facing him during the stupid school festival. Not when everything feels like this. Why did he even bother messing with your head? Everything was fine before he came along with his stupid pretty face and confusing ass behavior.

Your phone rings. You ignore it. You’re halfway under the blanket, face stuffed in the pillow. It rings again. You groan and pick it up.

“What?” you snap.

It can’t be him. You blocked him. Obviously.

“Why didn’t you come?”

You freeze. His voice is so familiar it makes your stomach twist.

“As if you care,” you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. You bury your face deeper into the pillow, blanket nearly over your head now.

He’s quiet. No answer.

“Thought so,” you say quietly, then hang up.

You don’t want to hear whatever bullshit he has to say. Not after this. If he wanted out, he should’ve just walked away instead of pretending to care. Instead of making you think maybe—just maybe—he meant something.

You stop looking at him too. That’s what he wanted, right? You to disappear? Fine. Watch how good you are at it.

You could feel him put efforts to talk to you but you didn't care, this Tom and Jerry cat fight kept going for a week until it was closer to the festival day. That’s when the snapping turtle finally snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders and pulling you into an empty classroom.

“What?” you mutter.

“Stop ignoring.”

“So, I'm the one that's ignoring now? Didn't you suddenly propose to break up from the pretend dating? All of a sudden?” you mumble out your true thoughts, your anger flaring like crazy as you just glare at him.

“And I'm sorry for that. I was hurt too, okay? For you to say that it's all fake and that it doesn't matter to you.” he mutters, not sure why that sentence hurts more now that he himself says it out loud.

“Well, that's what it was tho. It was fake!” you snap back, the bitterness seeping through every word.

“Is that why you feel so much, hmm? Is that why you're so angry right now?”

“Just shut up, I'm angry only because you suddenly stopped talking. After pretending like you care!”

“That’s because I do fucking care. I was never pretending. When will you stop pretending for once?”

“I don't fucking believe you, I—”

You don’t even get to finish. Your words die as his lips crash onto yours.

Your brain short-circuits.

He’s kissing you.

All at once, your body tenses, your fists clenching into his shirt out of pure instinct. His mouth moves against yours, urgent, raw, desperate—like this is the only way he knows how to speak. Like he’s trying to shut you up with the one thing that might actually make you listen.

His hand cups the back of your head, like he did that day you cried, gentle but firm. His other arm snakes around your waist and pulls you closer, close enough that you feel his heartbeat through his chest, pounding into yours. And then he bites your lower lip—not hard, but just enough—and it sends a spark up your spine.

You feel dizzy. Too hot. Like the classroom doesn’t have enough air.

And you swear you would’ve collapsed if not for his grip on you, steadying you like he knew your knees were already giving up. Your lips part on their own, no thinking, no logic—just need—and the moment his tongue touches yours, you lose the ability to reason.

It’s messy. It’s confusing. It’s everything.

You don’t even know if you want this. Or maybe you do. But your lips keep moving, dancing with his like they’ve been waiting for this. Like you’ve done this a million times in your head. Like your mouth knows something your heart’s too scared to admit.

By the time he finally pulls away, both your lips are wet—his breath warm against your skin as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s smiling. And you hate that it makes your chest feel weird.

You’re barely standing. Your fingers are still gripping his shirt.

He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, gently wiping the mix of saliva off your lips before doing the same for himself.

“Why?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“Just wanted to shut you up from asking more questions.”

“That doesn’t explain why you did it.”

“Are you gonna grab my collar and yell at me like last time?” he teases with a small grin, but you just stare. Confused. Still hurt.

“You gonna disappear like before after this?”

“Shut up.”

“Answer the question.”

“Obviously not.”

But that kiss? He doesn’t bring it up again. Not during the school festival, not after, not ever.

And you don’t have the guts to call him out either. Because how do you even start a sentence like that?

It all feels too casual for your liking. Too easy for him to do, and too hard for you to forget. He said he was hurt, that he didn’t want to pretend, but then he kissed you like your consent didn’t even matter. Like it was his to take.

Even though you know, deep down, you would’ve let him anyway. That’s what makes it worse.

You still don’t know if he’s playing with you. And now that you’ve started caring—really caring—it all feels a thousand times more dangerous.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t either.

And somehow, it feels even lonelier than when he was ignoring you.

Because now, only your feelings accompany you.

You fix your outfit and walk out into the chaos that is the school festival. Everything is loud and colorful, balloons flying, kids screaming over candy, someone blasting newjeans from a broken speaker. It’s all too bright for how dull you feel. Like the universe didn’t get the fucking memo that your life’s been black-and-white lately.

And then—you feel a hand on your shoulder. Your heart does that stupid thing again, hope kicking in like muscle memory. Of course, it's him. It has to be. Sunghoon. You spin around, already halfway into a rant. “Oh yeah? Finally wanting to clear things out?”

But it’s not him. Of course it’s not him. It’s the clingy dude from your class—the exact reason you fake dated Sunghoon in the first place. You mentally cuss. You physically cringe.

“Thought you broke up with that jerk,” the guy mutters like he didn’t just lay hands on you uninvited. “He didn’t deserve you anyway.”

You flick his hand off your shoulder like it’s a damn bug. He flinches dramatically, like you just slapped him with a frying pan.

“Still upset?” he says, cocking his head, that fake pity tone practically dripping.

He reaches again, and you're already about to go off when someone else does it for you—hard. The clingy guy stumbles back, blinking, because surprise! A very pissed off fake boyfriend has entered the scene.

Sunghoon’s hand is still up from where he shoved the guy back. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he says, voice low and sharp like a slap in winter.

Your brain short-circuits. He’s been ignoring you for a week. A whole damn week. And now he shows up like some angry bodyguard?

“She’s not available,” he says, eyes burning holes into the guy.

“But—”

“She’s. Not. Available.”

That tone is lethal. Even you’re taken aback. It’s the kind of voice that makes people listen. The guy blinks twice and then backs off with his hands up like he's being held at gunpoint. Smart move.

You stand there, stunned. And also slightly terrified. What the fuck was that?

Once clingy dude is out of sight, you turn to Sunghoon. “Why’d you say that? We’re not together, huh.”

He shrugs like it's obvious. “I know. But I never said I wanted it to stop being real.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you, dead in the eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to date me for real. You literally cried that day.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, punching his arm because what else are you supposed to do? Die from secondhand embarrassment?

“I mean it though,” he says, checking real quick that no one’s eavesdropping before leaning in a bit. “Let’s do it all over again. But this time, I want it to be real.”

You just… stare. Who the hell does he think he is? Taehyung? Dropping lines like that with zero shame? Not even a damn “I like you” in sight, just straight to “let’s date.” But still… your head nods before your brain can stop it. Maybe because you’re scared he’ll expose you for crying like a kicked puppy. Maybe because you want to say yes more than you want to admit.

YOU CAN JOIN MY PERMANENT TAGLIST BY SENDING AN ASK OR COMMENTING HERE ┊ THANK YOU FOR READING! I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS ♡

© SENASCOOP | DO NOT CLAIM AS YOURS

[senascoop]

TIED UP IN YOU , N.RK !

﹙ 🍫 ﹚ ぃ ──── THIS MIGHT SOUND CRAZY BUT TRUST ME IT'S TRUE!

PAIRING : phone guy ! riki × student ! afab reader

SYNOPSIS : Niki was a good guy, no doubt about it. The only problem? He was your phone. How, exactly, did your phone transform into this strikingly handsome guy? It was baffling, frustrating, and, honestly, a bit overwhelming. Here you were, trying to navigate a world where your device had somehow become a charming, infuriatingly attractive human being. And to make matters worse, he was as stubborn and endearing as any person you'd ever met.

GENRE : fluff + crack

WARNING(S) : I don't really think there's any aside from mentions of period and blood in the start, kissing (can be slightly suggestive) and a possible sad ending but if there's more—please lmk.

WORD COUNT : 15.9K

MORE LIKE THIS? ┊ MASTERLIST

NOTE FROM SENA , it's been exactly two months since i’ve actually written a fic from the dreamscape series lol (but I'll make sure to write the other ones too!!) even a little feedback really fuels me—it doesn't necessarily have to be appreciation, it's okay for it to be constructive criticism. Also, happy birthday to our dearest maknae riki 🫶🏻💕

YOU HATE THIS.

You hate everything about it: the constant ache in your lower abdomen, the bloating that makes you uncomfortable, and worst of all, the emotional chaos you're forced to go through while navigating the constant tension your family adds to your life. It's almost too much. Almost.

Stepping into the bathroom, you peel off your bloodied underwear with a groan. This feels just another battle in a war you are losing. The step forward into the shower brings down upon your body warm water flowing. It streams down along your back and legs carrying away the last drops of blood. For that one instant, it soothes all the pain, but not for long.

You press your palms flat against the cool tiles of the wall, leaning forward as the steam rises around you. “Why can't one thing be easy?” you mutter, your voice barely audible over the rush of water.

The thought of your so-called friends creeps into your mind. Friends? you scoff internally. They aren't friends. They're just people who keep you around to have someone to poke fun at, and you? Too naïve, too hopeful, let them.

Your school's anti-bullying policy flashes across your mind next. What a joke. The only time they ever step in is when someone like you stands up to the bullies. It's infuriating.

With a disgusted huff, you twist the shower handle, dialing up the heat until the water is near-scalding. For an instant, the burn feels even slightly more pleasing than the general dull ache throughout your body. But that comfort loses itself too soon as well as the water becomes unbearable (too hot) to touch. “Great,” you say sarcastically and twist the knob off entirely.

The bathroom is silent except for the sporadic drip of the faucet. You take a towel and dab at yourself slowly, deliberatively drying yourself. You wince as your clothes touch your sore skin but continue through the motions nonetheless.

You then walk into the counter, reach in for the pack of pads, and pull one out. You stare at it for a moment before letting out a deep breath. The thought of using tampons crosses your mind. You shudder. Some things are just too much of a hassle to consider: the fumbling with the applicator before inserting something. You shake your head, muttering “Not for me,” place the pad carefully in a fresh pair of underwear you slip on, and feel familiar, slightly cushioned comfort.

The next comes the outfit. Half-day at school, of course means no uniforms—but, in keeping with the school's dress code, naturally. You rifle through your closet before settling on the usual choice: oversized, baggy. So comfortable. So practical. How can some of those girls make such a racket and carry themselves about in what would have otherwise been flashy, tight clothes? How do they manage to study?

As you pull the hoodie over your head, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For a moment, you pause, taking in the faint puffiness under your eyes and the dull expression on your face. You look tired. No, you look exhausted. You let out a sigh as you run a hand through your damp hair, tying it into a loose ponytail.

As you step out of the bathroom, still adjusting your hoodie, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. There’s a man—a complete stranger—sitting casually on your bed like he owns the place. Your first instinct is to scream, but the sheer absurdity of his presence silences you momentarily. He looks…naive, almost harmless, as if he hasn't just committed a blatant act of breaking and entering.

But harmless or not, he’s still a stranger in your room. Your instincts kick in, and you grab the closest thing within reach—a dusty second-grade participation trophy your sister once won. You don’t care about the trophy. It’s been collecting cobwebs for years, and if it breaks while bashing in this intruder's head, so be it.

With the makeshift weapon clutched tightly in your hand, you take a step toward him. He notices, his head tilting slightly, and for a brief second, confusion flashes across his face. He raises his hands, palms out in surrender, and says in the calmest tone imaginable, “You’re not actually going to hit me, are you?”

His question catches you off guard. What? Of course you’re going to hit him! How dare he act so calm, as if he’s the victim here? You narrow your eyes, gripping the trophy even tighter.

“Well, if you’re going to intrude in my room and act like you’re some innocent little boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing, you’ve got another thing coming!” you snap, taking a step closer. “I’ll call the police!”

Your voice rises with conviction as you mentally prepare to shout for your mom, who’s probably awake by now. Surely she’d hear the commotion and come running. But the man, completely unfazed, leans back slightly on the bed. He rolls his eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, then. Go ahead. Call the police,” he says, his tone dripping with nonchalance, as if this is the most mundane situation in the world.

The sheer audacity leaves you momentarily stunned. Who does this guy think he is? Acting like this is his room, like he’s inviting you to call for help. Your grip loosens slightly on the trophy as your mind races. Why isn’t he scared? Why isn’t he running? Has he done this before?

You glance around, searching for your phone. Where is it? You could’ve sworn you left it on your desk, but it’s nowhere in sight. Panic creeps into your chest. He still hasn’t moved. His eyes flick around the room, scanning the details, but he doesn’t seem in a rush to do anything.

The way he observes everything so calmly only fuels your fear. Your gut tells you this guy is dangerous, no matter how unbothered he looks. Your heart pounds as your brain screams: Stranger danger. Stranger danger.

“I’m serious,” you blurt out, your voice quivering slightly despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I’ll scream. I’ll—”

“Then scream,” he interrupts, his voice sharp but not loud. His gaze finally locks with yours, and for the first time, you notice something unsettling in his expression. A flicker of something you can’t quite place. Not anger, not malice—just…calculation.

Your breath catches. He’s not leaving. He’s not running. This isn’t over.

With a frustrated sigh, you blurt out, “Where’s my darn phone?!”

Your eyes scan the room, darting over every surface in search of it. The guy—still sitting lazily on your bed—doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head slightly and says, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, “Why are you searching when I’m right here?”

You freeze mid-step, slowly turning to look at him. What? Did he just…? Your first thought is this guy is absolutely insane. No rational person would say that, and suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s got some kind of mental illness. And, because your irritation is outweighing your common sense, you let the words slip right out of your mouth:

“I’m searching for my phone, you idiot. Just wait—just you see—I’m gonna call the police on you!”

It’s a dumb move, announcing your plan to the potential intruder. But at this point, logic has taken a backseat to sheer annoyance.

The guy blinks at you, seemingly unfazed, and mutters in that same emotionless tone, “I am your phone.”

You stare at him, disbelief written all over your face. “If you’re my phone,” you snap, crossing your arms, “then call the cops yourself.”

You return to searching, hands rummaging through the clutter on your desk. But then you hear something that makes you stop cold: a dialing sound. Not from a phone, but from him. Slowly, you turn back to see a faint, glowing screen appear above his head. The digital display shows numbers being dialed.

Your heart races as the call connects. A voice crackles through the air—an officer, calm and professional, asking, “Hello? Is everything alright there?”

Your jaw drops. What do you even say? Panic sets in. “Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice shaking. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The officer pauses, clearly unconvinced, but then ends the call with a polite goodbye.

You stare at the man—your phone?—in complete shock. He looks at you as if nothing unusual has happened, his expression blank. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, pressing a trembling hand to your forehead.

“What the hell…” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. This can’t be real. Phones don’t turn into people. And yet, the evidence is sitting right in front of you—a very real, very handsome guy, casually perched on your bed like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He shifts slightly, his head tilting again. “You seem stressed,” he says, his tone flat but oddly observant.

“Stressed?” you snap, gesturing wildly. “Of course I’m stressed! My phone—my phone—just turned into you! How is this even possible?!”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You dropped me too many times. I think I just… evolved.”

“EVOLVED?!” You bury your face in your hands, groaning. None of this makes sense. You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or check yourself into a psych ward.

“How…” you start, your voice muffled behind your hands, “how is this even happening?”

“That’s what I’m here to figure out,” he replies simply, leaning back on his elbows.

You peek at him through your fingers, still in disbelief. “This can’t be real. There’s no way. You—no, this—” You cut yourself off, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Your phone—no, the guy—tilts his head again, studying you. “You’ll get used to it,” he says, almost like a promise.

But you’re not so sure about that.

“So… you’re my phone?” you ask, your voice tinged with disbelief, eyes narrowing as you study the boy in front of you.

“No doubt,” he answers almost immediately, like he’s personally offended you’d even question it.

You squint at him, crossing your arms. “Then prove it. What’s my name, my last semester grade, and… my favorite boy band?”

You’re sure this will trip him up. After all, your phone holds all your secrets. If he’s lying, he wouldn’t know the answers. You’ve texted casually about your life, sure, but your grade? That’s buried deep in your notes app. And your favorite K-pop group? Well, okay, maybe you’ve obsessively streamed their content, but still.

“Y/N, C-minus, and TXT,” he says without hesitation, his gaze steady as he stares you down.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “What the hell?” you mutter, stunned. No one knew your last semester grade—not even your parents. You hid it like a crime. And how could he guess your favorite group so easily?

You scowl, determined to poke a hole in his claim. “That’s not enough. Maybe you stalked me or paid too much attention to my life,” you argue, crossing your arms smugly, waiting for him to stumble.

But instead, he smirks—an infuriatingly cocky smirk. “Those videos you watch while pretending to be asleep under your blanket—”

“Shut up!” you cut him off, your cheeks instantly flaming. Oh, my god. That was not something anyone was supposed to know. “Fine, I believe you!” you snap, desperate to stop him before he digs up more embarrassing truths.

But he’s not done. He leans closer, his voice dropping as he adds, “And how about that sob story you wrote in your digital journal? The one you cringed at so hard you almost deleted the whole app?”

Your entire face burns. “I said I believe you! Now shut the fck up!” The words come out louder than you intended, practically echoing in the room.

There’s a knock on the door, followed by it swinging open.

“You seriously aren’t ready for school yet?” your mom complains, arms crossed as she glares at you.

Your heart stops. You whip around, fully expecting her to freak out at the sight of a random guy in your room. But when you look back at your bed…

He’s gone.

In his place lies your phone—ordinary, rectangular, and definitely not a human boy.

You stare at it, dumbfounded, while your mom narrows her eyes at you. “Well?” she snaps.

“I—I’m getting ready,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. You glance back at the phone, half-expecting it to sprout arms and legs again. But it doesn’t move.

Your mom sighs, muttering something about you being late, and slams the door shut.

You flop down onto the bed, your head spinning. Did you just imagine all of that? Was it some kind of stress-induced hallucination? But… no, it felt real. Too real.

Your hand hovers over your phone. “What the hell just happened?” you whisper, the memory of his smug face flashing in your mind. You’re not sure if you’re losing it or if your phone just pulled the biggest prank of your life. Either way, it’s going to be a long day.

You couldn't focus at all during school. The weight of your phone in your pocket felt heavier than usual, as though it was a ticking time bomb waiting to spring legs and arms again. The thought of keeping it in your bag seemed like a bad idea—what if it turned into him again and someone saw? The last thing you needed was to explain that.

And yet, your mind kept wandering back to him. The guy. The phone. Whatever he was. He was… kind of handsome.

You mentally slapped yourself. Snap out of it, Y/N. It’s your phone, not a K-drama lead! Still, the thought lingered, making your stomach churn. What if you’d imagined everything? What if it was all in your head?

You tried to shake the unsettling thought, but it stuck. Maybe you were losing it. After all, you weren’t exactly what anyone would call normal. You’d always kept to yourself, avoided making friends, and generally preferred your own company. Isn’t that how they describe psychopaths in true crime documentaries?

You shivered at the thought. Maybe Eunmi would understand. She was quiet, kept her distance from people too. You glanced across the classroom and spotted her sitting by herself. Perfect. You grabbed your stuff and slid into the seat next to her.

Eunmi turned to you, her brows furrowing in confusion. Without a word, she grabbed her things and moved to another seat across the room.

“Wtf?” you muttered, glaring after her. “Some people are so ungrateful. She could’ve just said she didn’t want to talk.”

You slumped back in your seat, fuming and plotting petty revenge in your head. But before you could dwell on it too much, the classroom door creaked open. Miss Shin walked in, her expression as flat and lifeless as her lectures.

History. Great.

You suppressed a groan as she began her lesson, droning on about wars and treaties in the most monotone voice imaginable. You weren’t saying history couldn’t be interesting—it totally could. But with Miss Shin? She made even the most exciting historical events feel like watching paint dry.

Why was she even hired as a teacher? She should’ve been a librarian or something.

You stifled a yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. The effort was pointless, though. Half the class was already yawning or staring blankly at their desks.

Your hand brushed against your pocket, the outline of your phone reminding you of the chaos from this morning. You couldn’t help but peek down at it. Was it just your imagination, or did it feel warmer than usual?

Stay calm, you told yourself. Don’t freak out. But the thought lingered—what if this wasn’t over? What if he—or it—came back?

You swallowed hard and glanced around the room. No one was paying attention to you, thankfully. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something about today was far from normal.

“So this…” Miss Shin droned on, gesturing at the board where her half-hearted notes were scrawled. Whatever she was explaining had already flown over your head. You didn’t care. You weren’t in the mood to pay attention, let alone write anything down.

You flipped open your notebook—still blank, as usual—and stared at the empty page. The thought of filling it with Miss Shin’s monotony made your eyelids droop. All you wanted was to go back home, crawl into bed, and pretend this bizarre day hadn’t happened. Maybe that was the real reason you were seeing things—exhaustion messing with your brain.

A faint ding from your pocket pulled you out of your thoughts. You frowned and pulled out your phone. A notification glared up at you:

“Write it down.”

What the…? You didn’t remember setting up anything like that. Before you could process it, you sneezed unexpectedly, the sharp sound echoing across the silent classroom. Heads turned toward you, your classmates throwing judgmental looks your way.

You tried to ignore them, but then your phone started to vibrate—loudly. The desk buzzed beneath your hands, and you could feel the attention of the entire room shifting onto you.

This was a nightmare.

Your classmates whispered among themselves, some shooting you annoyed glances. You were already the so-called “bad influence” in the school, the one parents warned their kids to stay away from. But this? This was next-level humiliation.

The phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. You tried pressing random buttons, but nothing worked. It was as if your phone—or he—was demanding your cooperation.

You sighed, gripping your pen. Maybe, just maybe, the only way to shut it up was to do what it wanted. As ridiculous as it sounded, you decided to test your theory.

The moment your pen touched the page and you started copying the notes on the board, the vibrating stopped. Silence finally returned, and you let out a breath of relief.

But your heart raced. This wasn’t normal. None of it was.

Your father had gifted you this phone before he passed away. It was sentimental, irreplaceable. But now it felt like a curse. A device that had taken on a life of its own—or, more disturbingly, a human form.

You glanced at your pocket where the phone rested quietly, as if nothing had happened. You couldn’t shake the thought that whatever this was, it wasn’t over. For now, though, you had no choice but to keep writing, pretending like everything was fine.

The park is quiet, save for the distant chatter of kids playing and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. You sit on a bench, your elbows resting on your knees, and your gaze fixed on the ground. Your phone lies next to you, placed carefully on the seat, as if you’re afraid it might suddenly sprout arms and legs again.

Your schoolbag acts as a barrier between you and the phone, like it’ll somehow protect you from whatever is going on. You sigh heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on you. “I should really see a therapist,” you mutter under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

The unexpected sensation of an arm draping casually over your shoulder sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as your head snaps to the side. And there he is—again. The guy who claims to be your phone, lounging as if nothing about this is strange.

“Why did you disappear this morning when my mom came in?” you ask, your voice a mix of confusion and exasperation.

He shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back on the bench like he owns the place. His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, his expression completely void of emotion. “Nobody else can see me except you.”

His answer is so matter-of-fact that it takes you a second to process. You lean forward, resting your forearms on your knees, and glance at him sideways. “Great,” you say dryly, “so not only do I have a talking phone, but it’s also invisible to everyone else. Just my luck.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the sky like he’s analyzing the clouds. The silence stretches, and you realize something that’s been bugging you since the first time he appeared.

“Do you even have a personality?” you blurt out, sitting up straight to face him. The question isn’t kind, but at this point, you don’t care. He doesn’t seem to have feelings, anyway—why would he? He’s a phone.

He finally turns to look at you, his face as blank as always. Then, without missing a beat, he says, “Apparently, the phone takes after its owner.”

His words hit you like a slap. Your jaw drops, and you feel a rush of indignation. “Excuse me? Are you saying I don’t have a personality?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he replies, completely unfazed.

You stare at him, stunned. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to you before. Sure, you’ve had fake friends talk behind your back and parents who sometimes pointed out your flaws, but being insulted by your own phone? That’s a new low.

“You’ve got some nerve,” you snap, crossing your arms.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an object of mild interest. “I’m just stating the facts. You’ve been carrying me around all this time; I’m bound to reflect you.”

You scoff, turning away to glare at the horizon. The breeze ruffles your hair, and you feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You know,” you mutter, “for something that’s supposed to be mine, you’re awfully rude.”

“Rude?” he echoes, sounding genuinely curious. “I didn’t realize honesty was rude. Maybe that’s another reflection of you.”

You whip your head back toward him, your mouth opening to retort, but the look on his face—calm, blank, unbothered—leaves you speechless.

For a moment, you just sit there, glaring at him while he stares back with that same neutral expression. It’s infuriating. You slump back against the bench, throwing your head back and groaning in frustration.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you say to no one in particular.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at you with something that might almost be amusement. “You kept me for years. This is just karma.”

“Karma for what?” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“For ignoring the warranty,” he deadpans, and for the first time, you think you see the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at him, utterly done. “I hate you.”

“You’ll still carry me everywhere,” he points out, leaning back again and crossing his arms smugly.

You groan again, pressing your palms to your face because of how annoying he truly was. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“Why would you vibrate in class? That was so embarrassing,” you say, breaking the tension and changing the subject. You’re not about to argue further, so you sling an arm around his shoulder like you’re old friends.

He immediately stiffens and shrugs your arm off with a look of mild disgust. “Because you weren’t writing the notes,” he replies flatly, brushing off your gesture like you’ve personally offended him.

You blink, stunned. The audacity.

“And why do you care so much about that? You’re supposed to be my phone,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Because, well…” He pauses, and suddenly, that glowing screen appears above his head again. It’s flipping through your search history.

Your heart drops. “What are you doing?! Close it!” you hiss, panic bubbling in your chest as you glance around to make sure no one’s nearby.

He doesn’t even flinch at your tone, completely unbothered. “Relax. I’m just looking for something,” he says, his voice taking on an infuriatingly smug edge.

“I searched those things because they’re private,” you mutter, your frustration building. You ball your fists at your sides, resisting the urge to throttle him—not that it would make any difference. He’s a freaking machine.

“You shouldn’t have searched them if you didn’t want anyone to see,” he replies, his monotone voice now laced with an evil undertone. His smirk grows as the glowing screen halts, revealing a to-do list. Your middle school to-do list.

You feel the blood drain from your face. “No, no, no,” you mumble, already dreading what’s coming next.

“Let’s see,” he says, clearly enjoying this. He leans forward slightly, reading aloud:

001. Get A’s in at least three subjects.

002. Get a boyfriend before graduation.

003. Make at least one friend.

The list glows mockingly between the two of you.

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re not seriously going to dwell on something I wrote as a literal kid,” you mutter, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Why not? You still haven’t checked anything off,” he points out, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious about your failure.

“Because—” you start, your voice rising in frustration, “that was middle school! None of that even matters now!”

“Well, well, well... If I’m looking at your past history and the things in your other notes...” He trails off, his glowing screen flipping again as though searching for the most humiliating detail to dig up.

Then it stops. His screen flashes: 15% character development since middle school.

Your jaw drops. The sheer amount of disrespect—oh, lord. You point an accusatory finger at him, utterly offended by your own phone.

“That is so false! If I hadn’t had character development, I wouldn’t have stood up to the bullies in middle school. Or cut off all my toxic friends!” you argue, arms crossing tightly over your chest. The nerve of this guy.

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “That’s why it said 15% development. The other 85%? Still not there. Let’s just say, you need to study harder instead of spending hours watching those—”

You slap a hand over his mouth, glaring up at him despite the fact that he’s way taller. “SHUT UP!”

He doesn’t resist, just blinks at you like this is all beneath him. Meanwhile, you grab your water bottle and take a sip, trying to calm your boiling frustration. After a deep breath, you lower the bottle and mutter, “If you’ve turned into a human, why can’t you, I don’t know, switch to being female? Maybe I’d connect with you better.”

It’s not really a question. More of a passive-aggressive command for him to get out of your life entirely.

“Well,” he starts, completely unfazed, “cheap phones apparently only transform into males. If your phone was more expensive, maybe I’d be a girl.”

The silence that follows is deafening. His expression is as emotionless as ever, so he clearly doesn’t realize the massive mistake he just made.

You stare at him, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. Slowly, you lower your gaze, your voice quieter now. “It was gifted by my dad… my late dad,” you mumble.

His screen flickers uncertainly, but he doesn’t say anything. You sigh, pressing your palms against your face, trying to hold back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

Your dad had been the best—kind, patient, your biggest supporter. And then, when you were seven, everything changed. After he passed, your mom remarried. You didn’t want to accept the man as your stepdad, not when you still held on so tightly to the memory of your father.

It wasn’t until you were older—seventeen, to be exact—that you realized how selfish you’d been. Your mom had spent years grieving, and she deserved love, even if it hurt you to see someone else in your dad’s place.

The man was nice to you, patient even when you were rude. But every time you looked at him, it reminded you that your dad was gone.

The phone sitting next to you now—this phone—was your dad’s. You’d taken it after growing up, cherishing it because it had been his. Back then, it brought you comfort.

You never could’ve imagined it would one day transform into some smug guy with no tact whatsoever.

“If I wanted my phone to transform into someone… it would be my dad,” you mutter, swiping at a tear that threatens to escape the confines of your closed eyelids.

He stays silent for a moment, his screen flickering dimly before he mumbles, “But… wouldn't it be sad? Seeing him trapped inside a device?”

The softness in his voice makes you laugh—an awkward, bittersweet laugh. What were you even doing? Seeking comfort from your phone?

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“Since you’re so smart and apparently great at giving correct statements, why don’t you figure out yourself why I’m laughing?” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He looks thoroughly puzzled, his glowing eyes blinking as though trying to process. Of course, he wouldn’t understand. He was a machine. A device that knew nothing about the complexities of the actual world.

Before you can explain—or tell him to drop it entirely—the skies open up. The first raindrop splatters onto the ground, quickly followed by another, then another. Within seconds, it’s pouring.

Your smile fades, replaced with pure horror as realization strikes. He’s your phone. Not a regular guy. Meaning— “You’re not waterproof!” you yelp, panic kicking in.

“What?” he asks, his confusion somehow even more clueless than before.

“We need to run!” you blurt out, already yanking off your jacket.

You grab his shoulders, tugging him down since he’s ridiculously tall—and far too proud of it. Wrapping the jacket over his head as a makeshift cover, you mutter under your breath, “I swear, if you short-circuit on me, I’m going to lose it.”

He mumbles something, but you’re not listening. You grab his hand, practically dragging him through the downpour. The jacket flutters slightly as you shield him, doing your best to keep him—and by extension, your phone—dry.

If anyone saw you, they’d think this was a scene straight out of a romance movie. The two of you running through the rain, hands intertwined, your jacket protecting his head.

But no. This wasn’t a romantic moment. Not even close.

This was you desperately trying to save your phone. A phone that was probably going to haunt you later by bringing up your middle school to-do list the second it powered back on.

The next day, you hug your pillow tightly, the soft fabric providing a fleeting moment of peace as sleep lingers in your half-conscious mind. The blanket drapes over you completely, cocooning you in warmth, and for a blissful second, you forget the bizarre events of the day before.

That is, until a cold splash of water shocks you into reality.

“WHAT THE HELL?” you hiss, bolting upright, water dripping from your hair and stinging your eyes. You frantically swipe at your face, blinking to focus on the perpetrator.

Standing there with a glass in hand and an infuriatingly calm expression is him.

“Just waking you up,” he says with a shrug, as if drenching someone in cold water is the most reasonable way to start a morning.

Your patience snaps. Without thinking, you grip his shoulders and push him down onto the now-soaked bed, your movements fueled by a mix of irritation and disbelief. You hover over him, faces mere inches apart, as you glare.

“If you ever pull that stunt again,” you growl, your voice low and dangerous, “I swear I’ll punch you. Hard.”

For a moment, he stares up at you, unflinching. His expression remains annoyingly blank, devoid of any real emotion. “You won’t,” he says flatly, his voice laced with the same maddening nonchalance.

The tension in the air is palpable, and just as you’re about to argue—or maybe prove him wrong—the sound of your door creaking open freezes you in place.

Your mother stands in the doorway, her expression teetering between confusion and concern as she takes in the scene: you, soaking wet and hovering over what appears to be… nothing.

You glance down, heart sinking.

The boy is gone.

In his place, lying on the bed, is your phone—completely ordinary, as if nothing ever happened.

You gape at it, then back at your mom, trying to string together some sort of explanation. But what could you even say? That your phone turned into a person yesterday, drenched you in water, and then vanished the second she walked in?

The bed is still soaked with the cold water your phone—now suspiciously ordinary—had poured on you moments ago. Your mother’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a whip, her tone sharp and unforgiving.

“Did you wet your bed?” she demands, though it’s not really a question. Her eyes are blazing with indignation, and you can tell she already believes the answer.

Your stomach twists in frustration. Of all things, this has to happen on a weekend—a day meant for rest, now utterly ruined by this bizarre, unbelievable mess. And all because of that darn phone.

“No, Mom… I don’t know how the water got there,” you mutter, keeping your voice as steady as possible. The truth is out of the question. Telling her your phone had somehow turned into a boy and splashed you awake would sound absurd even to you.

“So the water just appeared there by itself?” she snaps, crossing her arms as if she’s daring you to double down on your story. Her disbelief burns in the air between you, and you feel a spark of anger flicker beneath your skin.

Your mother has always been quick to anger, her patience worn thin ever since your dad passed away. You love her—of course, you do—but moments like this stretch your tolerance to its limit.

She huffs loudly, a sound filled with both exasperation and finality. “I expect this mess cleaned up before you go anywhere,” she says curtly, her words laced with a warning. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and shuts the door behind her with a thud.

You’re left alone in the room, staring at the wet mattress and the phone in your hand. The absurdity of the situation hits you all over again, and a bitter laugh bubbles in your throat.

“Thanks for that,” you mutter under your breath to the device, as if it could still hear you.

But it remains silent—an ordinary, lifeless phone. And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere within its circuits, it’s smirking.

You sit on the soaked bed, hugging your knees to your chest. The chill from the cold water clings to your skin, but in the biting cold of December, it doesn’t really matter anymore. The wet bed is just another indignity added to the list of things you’re enduring today—courtesy of your phone.

Your eyes trail to the closed door, and a heaviness settles in your chest. Your mom hardly speaks to you unless it’s about your studies. Anything else—your health, your feelings—just turns into a sharp yell, as though shouting could substitute for care.

With a sigh, you get up, water dripping from your clothes as you grab a cloth to clean the floor. Kneeling down, you watch the fabric soak up the water, leaving dark patches on the cloth as it gets heavier.

“Such a sad life I have,” you mutter irritably, throwing a glance toward your phone sitting innocently on the desk. Its stillness is almost mocking, like it’s pretending to have no part in this disaster.

Your lips curl into a taunting smirk as you direct your words at it. “Must be nice, huh? Creating a mess and then leaving me to deal with it. Why not become a human and help me clean this up?”

You roll your eyes, half-hoping—no, fully expecting—it to transform and lend a hand. But no. The lazy little piece of tech remains where it is, as lifeless as any other phone. The longer you stare at it, the more ridiculous you feel.

“Figures,” you huff under your breath, dragging the damp cloth across the floor. The absurdity of it all makes you question yourself. Did it ever really turn into a human? Or are you just losing your mind?

Either way, it’s not helping. And now, the floor’s dry, but your patience is wrung out completely.

“When we reach there, you don’t get to disturb me, Niki,” you say firmly to the guy walking beside you. He’s the embodiment of your phone—a fact you’re still trying to wrap your head around.

“Niki?” he repeats, tilting his head in confusion, his expression as blank as an untouched canvas. “Who’s Niki here?”

“You,” you reply with an exasperated sigh. “I’m naming you Niki. Or Riki, whatever. It’s too weird to keep thinking of you as my phone.”

“That’s a weird name,” he comments, his tone matter-of-fact.

Your eyes narrow at him. “Be happy I’m not holding a grudge for what you did this morning,” you snap, barely holding back your frustration.

“What did I do so wrong?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. His human brows knit together in confusion, and it almost makes you doubt his intentions. Almost. “You set an alarm, and I woke you up,” he adds, as if the logic is foolproof.

“You created a mess!” you counter, gesturing emphatically with your hands. “Yes, I set an alarm—but a virtual alarm. Not an invitation for someone to literally pour cold water on me in the middle of freezing winter!”

He stares at you, his innocent expression unshaken, and you groan in defeat.

Scolding him feels pointless. At the end of the day, he’s still a phone—albeit a bizarrely human one. And while his actions drive you up the wall, you remind yourself that yelling at him won’t change anything. Technology doesn’t have feelings.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

And now, here you are, on your way to a study session with two classmates. Not because you’re overly eager or dedicated, but because you’re failing your classes. Hard. And your phone—master of your life apparently—had made it a point to remind you of the ancient to-do list you’d scribbled in middle school.

The list wasn’t exactly groundbreaking:

i. Get a boyfriend. ii. Get a friend. iii. Score at least three A’s in school.

Simple, right? Wrong.

Studying alone never worked for you. If you tried, you’d inevitably end up daydreaming, scrolling through social media, or finding creative ways to procrastinate. So, you’d resorted to digging through the school’s study groups and joining the only active one left. You didn’t know who the other two members were, but that was a minor detail.

You grab your phone—yes, the normal phone, since Riki decided to turn back into his original form. You still cringe at how uninspired his name is, but for now, it works.

The plan is simple: fit into the study group, make a friend (or something that vaguely resembles friendship), and start checking boxes off the list. Not that your phone would ever know, you think with a sly smirk.

Shoving the device into your pocket, you make your way to the designated spot, but as soon as you see the two group members, you freeze.

It’s Eunmi and Jungwon.

Eunmi—the same girl who once shot you a disgusted look and turned her back on you like you were nothing more than yesterday’s trash. Oh, how you’d love to knock that smug grin off her face.

And then there’s Jungwon. Handsome, quiet Jungwon. You’ve never spoken to him, but he has an air about him that practically screams “perfect study partner.”

Suddenly, you realize how this could work in your favor.

Step one: Get a boyfriend. Jungwon’s good looks and his apparent lack of social drama make him the ideal choice. You’re not looking for love; you’re looking to cross a line off your list.

Step two: Make a friend. Eunmi? Ugh. As much as it pains you, she qualifies—even if you have to grit your teeth and fake it. If not her, then someone else will eventually fit the bill. Surely, you’re not that unfriendable… right?

Step three: Score three A’s. With Jungwon’s brains and a bit of effort on your part, that goal might actually be achievable.

It’s a win-win-win, you tell yourself, a cunning glint in your eye. You take a deep breath and plaster on your most convincing smile. It’s time to work some magic—your reputation be damned.

You slide into the seat opposite Jungwon, deliberately ignoring Eunmi. The phone in your pocket is entirely forgotten for now as you focus on your new plan.

“So, I guess I’ll be studying with you guys?” you ask, letting a soft, harmless smile linger on your lips while keeping your gaze locked on Jungwon. You casually unzip your bag, pulling out a battered zoology book and setting it on the table as if you’re here for serious business.

Jungwon, polite as ever, gives you a small nod. “Well, kind of. You can say that,” he replies. He doesn’t seem unfriendly, though you can tell by his tone that he and Eunmi have been in this study group for a while. Of course, that makes you the outsider. Not that it bothers you—this is just a stepping stone to your ultimate goals.

And then Eunmi speaks.

“What made you want to study all of a sudden, Miss Bad Grades?”

You clench your jaw but force your face to remain neutral, even though your fingers itch to grab a fistful of her perfectly styled hair and yank. How dare this girl try to ruin your impression in front of Jungwon? Sure, your reputation in school isn’t stellar, but she didn’t have to say it out loud.

“I wanted to do better,” you reply smoothly, keeping your voice calm and unbothered. Your smile doesn’t waver, though inside, you’re plotting about five different ways to get back at her if she keeps this up.

The study session has barely begun, and already, you’re wondering how you’re going to survive without snapping. You glance at Jungwon, hoping he’ll say something to shift the conversation, but he’s already flipping through his notebook, oblivious to the silent tension brewing between you and Eunmi.

The session drags on, and while your eyes occasionally skim the words in your textbook, your brain is busy analyzing the way Jungwon’s lips press together when he’s concentrating. You imagine how soft they must feel, how it would be to kiss him. But no, not yet. You can’t. Not until you’ve executed your plan.

Time slips away unnoticed until your phone starts buzzing in your pocket, jolting you from your daydreams. Internally, you curse. What does Riki want this time? That mischievous, human-turned-phone was always up to something.

Eunmi, of course, notices. She shakes her head in that condescending way that practically screams, See? I told you she’s not serious about studying. You don’t need to hear her words to know she’s silently plotting to turn Jungwon against you. The smug look on her face makes your fingers twitch.

“Such a bitch,” you mutter under your breath before quickly masking your irritation.

“I’ll—be right back,” you say with a sheepish smile, standing up from the table. The chair scrapes against the floor, earning you a scoff from Eunmi. She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain.

Jungwon gives a distracted hum, barely lifting his head from his book. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Could this guy act like he cares for once? I’m right here, desperate for your attention, and you’re more invested in spermatogenesis?

Your phone is still vibrating as you weave through the tables, making your way to the restroom. Once inside, you slip into a stall and lock the door behind you. Pulling out your phone, you press the power button like you’re interrogating a criminal.

“Hey, Riki? Why are you buzzing?” you hiss, glaring at the glowing phone in your hand. Frustration bubbles in your chest as you slump onto the toilet seat, trying to avoid drawing more attention.

Before you can even blink, the phone morphs, and there he is—Riki. Towering over you, his presence taking up the cramped stall like he owns it. You freeze, your eyes widening as you realize just how compromising this position looks. His knees brush yours, and his hands press against the walls, effectively trapping you in place.

“H-Hey! Get off me!” you stammer, squirming as much as the limited space allows. But even when he shifts slightly, it doesn’t make much of a difference. He’s still leaning in way too close for comfort.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he says, his voice low but cutting. “Why were you staring at Jungwon instead of finishing the chapter?”

The question knocks the breath out of you. You gape at him, your brain scrambling to come up with an excuse. How does he even know? He’s just a phone!

“That’s—none of your business!” you sputter, crossing your arms defensively.

“Oh, it is my business,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t I the one keeping track of your precious little checklist?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “One of the tasks is getting a boyfriend, isn’t it? So yeah, I was looking at him. Got a problem with that?”

Riki’s expression shifts, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something almost human in his sharp gaze. Disbelief? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it’s enough to make him scoff audibly.

“You’re thinking him? That guy? Seriously?” he asks, his voice dripping with judgment. “Your taste in men is worse than I thought.”

“Excuse me?” You glare, feeling your blood boil. “He’s charming and—”

“You wouldn’t know charming if it hit you in the face,” Riki cuts you off, rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh. For someone who used to be a piece of metal and glass, he’s got an awful lot of opinions.

Before you can retort, he turns back into your phone in the blink of an eye, falling toward the floor. You scramble to catch him, nearly fumbling in the process, and clutch him tightly in your hand.

“You are the worst,” you mutter, shoving him back into your pocket.

But as you stand up and unlock the stall, brushing yourself off, the thought lingers: Why did he get so worked up? You shake your head, pushing the question away. Who cares? It’s not like his opinion matters, right?

Right.

A week passes, and you’re still not fully adjusted to the bizarre reality that your phone occasionally transforms into a sarcastic, human-sized headache named Riki. It’s unsettling but oddly entertaining—though you’d never admit that to him.

The study group, on the other hand, is a battlefield you didn’t sign up for. Not because of the studying—oh no, that’s manageable. It’s Eunmi, who seems to have declared you her mortal enemy the moment you walked in.

Her latest tactics are as subtle as a neon sign. First, there was the juice incident. She accidentally spilled her drink all over your notes, forcing you to grit your teeth and smile like a beauty pageant contestant while internally screaming. You knew it wasn’t an accident—her little smirk gave her away—but yelling at her in front of Jungwon? No way. That would only play into her hands.

Then came the note-snatching debacle. Eunmi sweetly asked to borrow your notes, even though hers were perfectly fine. Next thing you know, there’s a loud rip as she flips a page too aggressively. Your precious, perfectly organised notes—ruined. You’re convinced she’s trying to provoke you into losing your temper, hoping Jungwon will see you as the unhinged maniac she wants you to be.

But you’re smarter than that. You refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Jungwon, oblivious as ever, doesn’t seem to notice the cold war brewing at the table. Over the past week, you’ve come to realise just how clueless he is—not just about Eunmi’s schemes but also about your less-than-stellar reputation.

How is it possible that he doesn’t know? You were practically infamous for your fiery temper in school. Yet here he is, helping you with notes, explaining concepts patiently, even sharing his own work with you—all without a hint of hesitation.

Sometimes, he surprises you even more. Like when he casually suggests the two of you study alone. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest each time he does, but you force yourself to decline.

Not because you don’t want to.

You do—desperately.

But according to your well-studied guide on “How to Win a Guy Over,” playing hard to get is essential. If you said yes too quickly, wouldn’t he stop finding you interesting?

So, with every ounce of willpower, you smile, place a hand over your racing heart, and politely refuse.

“Maybe next time,” you say, pretending to be unfazed, when really, you’re screaming internally.

You tell yourself it’s working. Jungwon seems more intrigued every day—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to justify the agony of sitting through another study session with her.

Lately, Riki—or Niki, or whatever you had whimsically decided to call him—had taken it upon himself to discipline you. Whenever study time rolled around, he would shut your bedroom door with the finality of a prison warden, ensuring zero distractions.

At first, it was kind of helpful. You begrudgingly admitted that. But as the days went on, it started to get unbearable.

Without your phone—because your phone was, unfortunately, a human being now—there was no scrolling through your feed, no binge-watching your favorite group’s reels, and no celebrity TikToks. Worse, you hadn’t even heard TXT’s latest song or watched their new music video because someone refused to let you.

You tapped your pen against your desk, fidgeting with boredom. “Please,” you whined, turning in your chair to face him. “I studied for like, three hours, didn’t I? Now be a good boy and let mama see some reels or TikToks!” You added the last part with a teasing lilt, hoping to fluster him.

But you forgot—this was Riki. Your sentient, emotionally unavailable phone. Feelings? Not his thing.

“No,” he replied flatly, arms crossed like he was the boss of you.

“Please, Miki!” you tried again, throwing in some puppy-dog eyes for good measure.

He raised a brow, unimpressed. “Miki? Didn’t you already name me Riki?” His tone was laced with exasperation, like he couldn’t fathom how you’d forgotten the name you gave him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you huffed, brushing off his sarcasm. “I swear, it’s just one music video. That’s it. I’ve earned it!”

He didn’t respond immediately, his face a mix of suspicion and resignation. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But just one video.”

Your face lit up as a glowing screen materialized above his head, displaying the thumbnail of TXT’s latest music video. As it began to play, you clapped in delight and sang along, fully immersing yourself in the moment.

But just as you were getting into it—pausing to admire Soobin’s part—Riki froze the video mid-frame.

“Enough,” he said, his tone as dry as the Sahara.

You glared at him, fists clenched as if contemplating whether punching him was worth the effort. Instead, you let out an exaggerated groan, slumping in your chair.

Riki ignored your dramatics, a timer popping up in the digital display above his head. It ticked down with cruel efficiency, mocking you.

“Can you believe this?” you muttered under your breath. “My phone is moody.”

“I wish I was with Jungwon,” you muttered, shooting a glare at the sulking figure in front of you. You didn’t even try to hide the exasperation in your voice.

Riki’s eyes snapped to yours, his expression hardening as if you’d just insulted his entire existence. “Why the blonde-haired guy?” he asked, his lips twisting into a bitter frown.

It was the first time you’d seen him show this much emotion, and it was shockingly clear—he despised Jungwon.

“He has a name,” you said defensively, crossing your arms.

Riki wasn’t having it. “So, you’re now his personal lawyer?” he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “This is why you don’t get good grades. Stop running after that guy.”

You blinked, caught between indignation and disbelief. “Excuse me?” His logic—or lack thereof—was baffling. He’d been the one insisting you get a boyfriend before high school ended. But now? Now he was acting like you’d committed some unspeakable crime.

Before you could form a retort, he sighed dramatically and transformed back into a phone, flopping onto your bed with a heavy thud.

You groaned, snatching him up. “What is your problem?” You pressed the power button, trying to unlock the screen, but the phone didn’t respond. No matter how many times you swiped or tapped, it stubbornly refused to work.

“Are you kidding me?” you hissed, your annoyance bubbling over.

From your bed, the phone-turned-human smirked, lounging like he owned the place before flickering back into a phone. The audacity.

“Aghhh, fine! I’ll study!” you snapped, stomping back to your desk. Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you plopped down, glaring daggers at the sulking phone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him flickering in and out of human form, like some glitching video game character. One moment he was there, leaning against your pillows with his arms crossed and an unimpressed look; the next, he was just a lifeless phone.

It was almost…cute? No, no, you shook your head. There was nothing cute about your phone-human hybrid being this petty.

Still, you found your eyes wandering back to him more often than you’d like to admit. And each time, you caught the faintest hint of a smug expression on his face, as if he knew he was winning this ridiculous battle of wills.

“Yes, Mom, I’ll go! Just two minutes!” you shout, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a passable top in a rush. All this, just to take out the trash. A noble cause? Hardly. But it was enough to earn your mom’s approval.

Riki—or your phone, rather—lay silent on your desk. He wasn’t in human form right now, but if he were, you could already picture him sulking. He’d been unusually quiet since you decided to help your mom instead of following his meticulous study schedule. Not that you minded the silence; it felt like a small victory.

With a sigh, you grab the trash bag, sliding your phone into your pocket. “Be good,” you mutter under your breath, half expecting some smart-aleck comment from him, but the screen remains dark.

Slipping into your worn-out slippers, you trudge down the apartment stairs, the trash bag swinging lightly in your grip. The cool evening air brushes against your face as you step outside, breathing in the faint scent of street food from the stalls down the block.

“Phew,” you murmur to yourself, relieved to have made it out without any drama. That is until your heart nearly stops.

There, by the communal trash bins, is Jungwon. Casual and effortlessly perfect, dressed in a plain hoodie and jeans, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn’t look this good.

Your gaze drops to your outfit—a mismatched catastrophe of sweatpants, an old shirt, and slippers. You might as well be cosplaying a beggar (according to your mom).

Mentally cursing your life choices, you toss the trash bag into the bin, dusting your hands and praying for a clean escape. But before you can make your getaway, a hand touches your shoulder.

“You live around here?” Jungwon’s voice is light and curious, but it feels like a spotlight on your very soul.

“Uh, yeah… kind of,” you stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous you must look.

“And that is…?” His voice trails off as he points behind you, his brows knitting together.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. Standing a few feet away is Riki, in his fully human form, arms crossed, looking like he’s been summoned from the depths of your worst nightmares.

Your hand shoots into your pocket, fumbling for your phone. Except—your pocket is empty.

Your brain short-circuits. He can see Riki?!

“Boyfriend. Her boyfriend,” Riki announces sharply, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. His eyes narrow at Jungwon, his disdain palpable. If looks could kill, Jungwon would have been incinerated on the spot.

Your mouth drops open, no words forming. Riki, your phone-human hybrid, is showing emotion. And not just any emotion—jealousy.

Jungwon’s lips part, clearly taken aback, but he quickly recovers, a polite smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh… I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Riki snaps, stepping closer and crossing his arms protectively.

All you can do is stand there, torn between laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation and wanting the earth to swallow you whole. This is your life now—your phone pretending to be your boyfriend in front of your crush. Fantastic.

“Is it true?” Jungwon asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is soft, uncertain, like he’s piecing together a puzzle that suddenly doesn’t make sense. He had never known you had a boyfriend. The poor guy had even started thinking maybe—just maybe—you might be interested in him. But now? He thinks otherwise.

“Yeah… I think so,” you mutter, your voice barely audible as you glance at Riki. Confusion swirls in your head like a storm. Why on earth is this bastard acting like a full-fledged human, let alone ruining the sliver of progress you'd made with Jungwon?

“It’s 100% true,” Riki cuts in, his voice low and menacing as he steps between you and Jungwon. “So, I suggest you stay away from my girlfriend.”

Jungwon blinks, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. “Oh… okay,” he says after a moment, his voice a mix of confusion and reluctant acceptance. Relief flashes briefly across his face—better to find out now than after he’d fallen for you completely, he reasons.

He tosses his trash into the bin, bows politely—because, of course, Jungwon’s still a gentleman—and turns on his heel, walking back toward his apartment.

As soon as he’s out of sight, you whirl on Riki, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “You ruined it, Niki!” you hiss through gritted teeth, your voice a harsh whisper to avoid attracting any curious neighbors.

Riki just shrugs, utterly unbothered. A screen materializes above his head, glowing faintly in the dim light. It displays a graph, bold and undeniable: Jungwon negatively affects your study efficiency by 60%.

“See?” he says, pointing at the glowing data like it’s irrefutable proof. “I’m doing you a favor. Jungwon’s presence is literally detrimental to your academic success.”

You stare at the screen, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You’re at a loss. How are you supposed to argue with statistics? It’s infuriatingly logical, and yet, entirely absurd.

Your foot taps impatiently on the pavement as you cross your arms. “Why do you hate Jungwon so much?” you ask, your voice sharp with exasperation. Deep down, you’re fighting the urge to smack him—though you quickly remind yourself that assaulting your phone probably isn’t the best idea.

“Like I said,” Riki replies, folding his arms with a dramatic sigh. “That boy ruins your studies. You could look for a boyfriend somewhere else.”

You groan, running a hand down your face. The memory of Jungwon’s hurt, betrayed expression as he walked away is burned into your mind. But there’s something even more pressing you need to know. You fix Riki with a narrowed gaze, your brow arching suspiciously. “Why did you say you were my boyfriend?”

For the first time, Riki hesitates. His usually confident demeanor falters, and a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your glare like a guilty child caught red-handed.

“I mean… it’s the most effective method to turn a guy away,” he says finally, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you deadpan, but Riki presses on, completely unfazed.

“It’s just basic strategy,” he explains, nodding as though he’s a seasoned love expert. “I’ve read enough online to know that guys back off when they think someone’s already taken. Works like a charm.”

You stare at him, incredulous. The audacity of this device—no, this thing—is beyond anything you’ve ever encountered. “You’re basing my love life on… internet articles?”

“Trust me,” he says with a wink, flashing a smug grin. “I’ve got access to all the data.”

You groan again, louder this time, wondering if tossing him into the trash bin would solve all your problems. If only.

Riki trails behind you as you climb the stairs to your apartment, his steps eerily silent despite his human-like form. At your door, you stop abruptly and turn to him, panic creeping into your voice. “Turn back into a phone, Niki. Now.”

He folds his arms and tilts his head, looking every bit like a rebellious teenager. “You literally named me Riki. Can you settle on one name for once?” His tone carries a tinge of irritation, and you blink in disbelief at the audacity of your phone to talk back to you.

“Okay, fine. My dear Riki, please turn back into a phone—”

Before you can finish, your mother’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Y/N! Are you back yet?”

Your heart lurches, a surge of panic shooting through you. Your eyes dart to Riki, your expression pleading. “Turn back into a phone. Now,” you hiss under your breath, motioning wildly for him to do something—anything—before disaster strikes.

To your immense relief, Riki flashes you an exaggerated wink and morphs seamlessly back into your phone, the glowing screen dimming as he settles into your palm. You clutch him tightly, hiding him in your fist just as the door swings open.

Your mother appears, her usual stern expression replaced with something unnervingly mild. “Why are you standing there? Come inside and study.”

Her voice is calm—too calm. It sends a shiver down your spine. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe this gentleness was her true nature. But you do know better, and you don’t trust it for a second.

“Coming,” you mumble, stepping inside. Your stepdad is lounging on the couch, the rustle of his newspaper the only sound he makes. You deliberately avoid his gaze, moving as quietly as possible. Your footsteps are measured and light as you head straight for your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Once inside, you let out a long, weary sigh, your body sinking onto the bed. The room is dim, curtains drawn tightly shut to block out the evening light. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out Riki and place him beside you on the bed.

“Hey,” you whisper, exhaustion evident in your voice. “You can turn into a human now.”

Barely a second passes before a familiar presence materializes next to you. Riki sits there, leaning back casually against the headboard like he owns the place. His eyes sparkle with that same smug mischief, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

The two of you are lying side by side, close enough for your shoulders to brush. The thought hits you suddenly: if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were a couple. The intimacy of the moment feels strangely... natural.

But you shake the thought away, annoyed at yourself for even entertaining it. You’re not interested in Riki like that. You’re not. Except...

You steal a glance at him. His human form is alarmingly realistic, right down to the faint curve of his lips and the way his hair falls perfectly out of place.

Maybe you’re not interested in Jungwon anymore. Maybe—just maybe—you like Riki instead.

But there’s no way you’d ever admit that. Not to him. The moment those words leave your mouth, he’ll launch into some long-winded lecture about how technology can’t reciprocate feelings. You’d never hear the end of it.

Riki catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What?”

“Nothing,” you snap, turning away quickly, cheeks heating up.

“Sure,” he drawls, his tone dripping with playful suspicion. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N.”

You groan, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it. He laughs, the sound annoyingly human, as he ducks out of the way.

This is your life now, you think, burying your face in your hands. And somehow, against all odds, you don’t entirely hate it.

An idea sparks in your mind as you turn onto your side, your gaze landing on Riki. He’s sitting upright, leaning back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. You hesitate for a moment before speaking, voice soft yet teasing. “Hey… since you’re a phone—”

Riki tilts his head slightly, intrigued, the faintest arch of his brow urging you to continue. He lets out a curious hum, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he waits for whatever nonsense you’re about to spout.

For all his smugness, you remind yourself, Riki is still a phone. And phones are supposed to be smart, right? Smarter than this, at least.

You clear your throat, sitting up just enough to meet his gaze. “So, I’m in search of a boyfriend,” you begin, the words tumbling out too quickly. You falter for a second as Riki’s side-eye nearly makes you choke on your own sentence. His expression is the perfect mix of judgmental and unimpressed—eerily similar to your mom’s whenever she catches you slacking off on your studies.

“Of course, while studying too,” you add hastily, holding your hands up defensively. You know better than to ignore the unspoken priorities Riki seems to share with your mother.

He doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue. You take a deep breath, your next words tumbling out in one rushed, embarrassed blur. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you… you know, taught me how to kiss?”

Riki’s reaction is immediate and comical. His eyes widen, and his lips part as if he’s about to say something, only for his voice to falter into a confused sputter. “What??”

His expression is so innocent, so utterly clueless, that you almost feel guilty. But not enough to take it back. A tiny part of you is curious—what would it feel like, even if he isn’t technically human?

“Is that how single you really are?” Riki’s voice drips with mockery, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Seriously?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you throw the nearest pillow at him in a half-hearted attempt to regain your dignity. “Don’t act like you’re better than me,” you snap, though your voice lacks bite. “I’m just—curious, okay? And you’re the first guy I’ve been close to, so it’s only natural!”

Riki doesn’t look convinced. If anything, he looks even more amused. “Natural? That’s bold coming from someone asking her phone for kissing lessons.”

You roll your eyes, frustrated but undeterred. “You’re not just a phone! You’re—well, you’re you. And besides,” you mutter, lowering your gaze, “it’s not like you’ll judge me for being bad at it. You’re not even real.”

“Ouch.” Riki places a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Not real? I’m literally the only reason you’re not failing your exams right now.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Forget I said anything.”

But Riki isn’t letting this go. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” he says, leaning back with a smug grin. “Is it because you think I don’t understand emotions the way a human does?”

You hesitate, guilt pricking at the edges of your conscience. “No! That’s not—”

He cuts you off with a knowing look, his smirk softening just slightly. “Relax. You’re single. It’s pathetic, but I get it.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you grab the blanket and throw it over the both of you.

You roll closer to him, your face buried in his chest as you sigh dramatically. “See?” you mumble, your voice muffled. “I’ve been single my whole life. No boyfriend, no first kiss, nothing. You’re the only guy who’s stuck around, and even then, you’re technically stuck with me.”

Riki rolls his eyes, a mix of pity and exasperation crossing his face. “Wow. Way to guilt-trip your phone.”

You peek up at him, hopeful. “So… will you?”

He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a yes?”

Riki sighs, muttering something under his breath about how pathetic humans are. But he doesn’t move away, which you decide to take as a yes.

After all, he’s just a machine, right? He doesn’t understand what this means. Not really. And that’s exactly why you’re doing this—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself as your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes light up the moment Riki nods, the glowing screen above his head dimming to black. Without a second thought, you grab a pillow and plop it over his face as you climb onto him, pinning him down. Or at least, you try to pin him down—because no matter how much determination you pour into your stance, it’s painfully obvious you’re more like an ant attempting to subdue an elephant.

Still, you try to exude confidence, looking down at him with a smirk. “Only for research purposes… of course,” you announce dramatically, hands planted on his chest like you’re staking your claim.

Riki, unimpressed as always, rolls his eyes. “Yeah… research purposes,” he repeats with dripping sarcasm.

He shifts under you, and for a brief moment, you forget he’s a phone. Forget that his abilities extend far beyond your average human knowledge. Within seconds, he’s analyzing articles, tutorials, and even kissing technique videos from the depths of the internet. His hands move to cup your cheeks, startling you with the sheer firmness of his touch.

“Hey, gentle!” you mumble, your words muffled by the pressure on your cheeks. You raise a hand to tap against his shoulder, a mix of surprise and irritation bubbling up. “You’re squishing my face!”

Riki’s hands retreat instantly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. For all his snark and superiority, you realize he doesn’t quite know his own strength—or, perhaps, he doesn’t understand the delicacy required for moments like this. After all, he’s a phone. Why would he know?

He clears his throat, his tone shifting into something more clinical, more detached. “According to the articles—”

You don’t let him finish. Before he can launch into a lecture, you lean forward and press your lips to his, cutting him off entirely.

It’s messy, clumsy even, your inexperience showing in the way your lips move against his. But the taste of him—soft, cool, and faintly electric—takes you by surprise. Not that you’ve kissed anyone else before, but something about this feels… better. Different.

“Just feel,” you whisper against his lips, your breath mingling with his in the quiet room. For once, Riki doesn’t argue, doesn’t mock. His hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that betrays his otherwise flustered expression.

He’s stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. For a first kiss, you’re better than he would have expected, not that he’d ever admit it. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what those articles meant by connection.

And then, just as he’s starting to process the whirlwind of sensations, you stop. You rest your head against his chest, your body growing heavier as exhaustion takes over.

“Wait—are you falling asleep?” he asks, incredulous.

Your response is a barely coherent mumble, your lips still lightly pressed against his. “Mhm. Tired.”

Riki sighs, frustration laced with disbelief. He feels the faint trickle of drool escaping from your mouth onto his, his lips parting in distaste. “Hey, you’re drooling—”

“Charge you in the morning,” you murmur sleepily, cutting him off again.

He stares at you, torn between exasperation and something he can’t quite place. He adjusts you carefully, shifting your weight so you’re resting more comfortably against his chest. He makes sure your head doesn’t slide too close to his charging port—because as awkward as this moment is, he’s not about to risk short-circuiting because of you.

Still, as he looks down at your peaceful expression, a strange sensation tugs at him. It’s foreign, unquantifiable, something no article or video could explain. He brushes a hand over your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, and lets out a soft sigh.

“Is this… what they meant?” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

The answer doesn’t come, but for once, Riki doesn’t feel the need to know.

You wake up with a soft murmur, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your skin. You realize, half-dazed, that your arms are wrapped around what feels like a body—Riki’s body. His form is strangely solid and comforting, and in your sleepy haze, you have no intention of moving. His warmth against you is too cozy, and the soft rise and fall of his “chest”—though artificial—makes you feel safer than you have in a while.

“Riki...” you murmur again, still unsure of what time it is, your words heavy with drowsiness. But then, you feel the slight shift of his body, and you hear his voice—distorted and rough, as though it's being dragged from the depths of a drained battery.

“My battery's low,” he whispers, a groan underlying his words. “Please charge me real quick...” His voice cracks, but you can't help but chuckle at how human it sounds, despite him being technically not a person.

You bury your face deeper into his chest, too comfortable to get up, and in a daze, you mumble, “Just five more minutes... I'm too cozy...”

But Riki doesn’t let you get away with it. There’s a slight, almost exaggerated sigh from him before he says, “No... It's literally six a.m.... Please get ready... for school.”

You groan in response, the panic setting in as you finally start to register his words. “Mom should've woken me up...” You shoot out of bed, suddenly scrambling to get ready. The weight of the morning hits you all at once—your mind still fuzzy but your body on overdrive as you throw yourself into a frenzy of motion.

Your fingers tremble as you tug off your pajama top, realizing with horror that you haven't even showered. You curse under your breath, glancing at Riki, who’s still next to you.

Your heart skips a beat. Wait.

“Riki,” you mutter, an unsettling thought popping into your head. You pause, standing mid-action, your clothes half-changed. “Did you always see me change?” Your voice cracks as you ask, and your cheeks start to heat up, a flush spreading across your face as the realization creeps in.

You’ve always placed your phone on the bed or on the drawer while changing. Could he have been watching all this time, even before his human-phone transformation?

You glance over at Riki, and to your surprise, you see his screen flicker with a rapid flush of red, like he's embarrassed. His voice, strained and hurried, shoots back at you, “NO!” It's a sharp refusal, almost defensive, and it makes you pause in your tracks.

“Did you...?” you ask again, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“I said NO!” His voice is forceful now, though still faint from the low battery, and you can see the unmistakable redness flickering across his screen. It’s such a far cry from the dispassionate, cold phone he once was, and it throws you off. Was this the same Riki who had no emotions at all when he first turned into a human? The same one who would have no qualms about anything?

The thought makes you chuckle nervously, trying to dismiss the awkwardness that crawls up your neck. “Okay, okay, I get it. Stop yelling.”

You roll your eyes and go back to getting dressed, though the entire room suddenly feels way smaller than it should. You can’t help but throw a glance at Riki again—who, despite being a phone, seems to be desperately looking away from you, his screen flickering like a bashful person avoiding eye contact.

As you change, you remind yourself over and over that Riki is just a phone—a very advanced phone, yes, but still just a phone. It’s only logical that he can’t be embarrassed. You try to shrug it off, but the blush still lingers on your cheeks.

Once you’re dressed, the urgency hits you again. You’re running late, and the panic sets in like a wave. You grab your bag and rush around the room, tossing items into it without thinking—until you remember.

“Oh shoot! Riki!” You scramble for your phone, your fingers fumbling as you finally find him on the bed. You look at his screen, blinking. Wait. Is he still charging?

But before you can get the chance to plug him in, Riki’s voice cracks again, a little louder this time, and it’s so faint you barely catch it. “You’re really going to leave me like this...?” he asks, almost accusing.

You freeze, your guilt swelling as you gaze at him, knowing that if you didn’t charge him now, he’d be completely dead by the time you get back. With a deep breath, you plug him in quickly, hoping the connection will last until you return.

But the weird thing is, for the first time, you realize that in a twisted way—this phone might actually be the one who understands you better than anyone else.

You’re practically panting by the time you get to school, the weight of your backpack pressing down on you with every step. Your stomach growls in protest, reminding you that in your mad rush, you forgot your tiffin at home. Great. Just great.

But the real problem is the five marks. The professor’s new rule is burning a hole in your mind: Whoever comes late will have five marks deducted. It's just five marks, but it might as well be the difference between life and death. Okay, maybe not life or death, but definitely failure.

You’re barely scraping by in math, and losing even those five marks would push you into the dreaded abyss of failure. You can already feel the weight of your mother’s disapproval on your shoulders, and you really don’t want that. Not today. Not ever.

Your school isn’t far—just a fifteen-minute walk—but with the panic setting in, your legs are moving faster than your brain. Walking = fine. Running = late. You’d prefer to walk but today, you’re in run mode, your heart hammering against your chest, your breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.

“Who even made schools?” you mutter under your breath, sweat trickling down your neck. You can already feel your body protesting against the injustice of it all. As if it weren't bad enough, your backpack feels like a weight you’re carrying to the moon.

You round the corner, spotting a few other late students sneaking in, looking as panicked as you feel. The guard is too busy talking to someone else to notice, and you take full advantage of it, slipping through the gate like a ninja trained by your mother herself. You’ve gotten really good at this.

When you reach the classroom, relief floods over you. The professor isn’t there yet. Thank goodness. You rush to the nearest available seat—right next to Jungwon. It's the only one left, and you’re not about to argue. You plop down with a loud sigh, feeling the adrenaline start to wear off, leaving you a little breathless.

But then Jungwon turns to you, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Does your boyfriend not come to our school?”

You blink. Boyfriend? Who—what?

“I have a boyfriend?” You ask, clearly puzzled, still catching your breath.

“Uh… the one I met last night when you were throwing trash…” he adds, trailing off awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself now. “Is he not your boyfriend?”

Your stomach flips. Oh, God. This is it. Your brain starts spinning, and suddenly your mouth feels dry. You can’t go back on yesterday's statement. You definitely can’t let Jungwon go back to your mom and casually mention you have a boyfriend. That would end with your mother’s legendary interrogation skills being put into full force, and you’re not sure you’d survive it.

You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

OPTION (A) : You could admit Riki isn’t your boyfriend, but that would open a whole new can of worms, and you can already hear Jungwon’s voice in your head: “Wait, so who was that guy?” Not a conversation you want to have.

OPTION (B) : You could tell him that Riki is just a friend, but that might lead to even more awkward questions, and you have no idea how you’d explain that whole situation without sounding like you’re caught in a web of lies.

But before you can choose, the door creaks open, and the professor walks in, immediately starting the lesson. You have no choice but to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes, he’s my boyfriend.” The words come out, and you instantly regret them. You can practically hear the sound of your own gulp echoing in your ears. Jungwon, looking slightly taken aback, awkwardly nods, unsure of how to respond. He’s clearly not going to ask more questions—at least not here—and his attention turns back to the professor.

You breathe a sigh of relief, but the panic is still bubbling inside you. You’ve just added another layer of complication to your already messy life. Now, you’re officially that girl—the one with a mysterious, possibly nonexistent boyfriend who has a habit of turning into a human phone. What could go wrong?

You sneak a glance down at your phone, trying to be as discreet as possible. Back in the day, you would’ve been nervously fidgeting in your seat next to Jungwon, trying not to spill your awkwardness all over the place. But right now? You couldn’t care less about Jungwon. All you could think about was that handsome guy who had somehow turned into your phone.

Why are you so cute, Riki?

You tap your phone screen, waiting for it to light up, but nothing happens. You try again, your frustration building. Come on... please respond. This is getting ridiculous.

“Hey, Riki! Respond, please!” you whisper under your breath, glancing around quickly to make sure no one else is noticing your little outburst. Jungwon, who’s sitting right next to you, doesn’t seem to catch on. He’s too busy, probably thinking about his own thoughts. You, on the other hand, are glued to your phone, silently begging for Riki to do anything.

But no, nothing happens. It's like he's just… ignoring you. And that drives you crazy. Why isn't he responding? Was it because you're sitting next to Jungwon? Did he suddenly become jealous?

The thought of Riki acting all possessive, even from within your phone, actually makes you giggle. But your giggles quickly turn into frustration again as your screen stays blank.

So, you do what anyone would do in this situation: you bury yourself in your notes, hoping that focusing on your studies will distract you from the fact that Riki, your human-turned-phone boyfriend, is giving you the silent treatment. You're still a bit puzzled by the whole situation.

Finally when classes end, and your backpack feels impossibly heavy as you hurriedly shove your books inside. You’re already planning your escape when Jungwon calls out to you.

“Hey Y/n, would you be up for a study session? You can bring your boyfriend too…” His words trail off, clearly surprised by how quickly you’re moving to leave.

Your reaction is instantaneous: you bolt out of there like you’ve just been given an Olympic sprinting challenge, the door swinging behind you with a dramatic swoosh. You don’t even wait for a reply, practically disappearing from his sight.

Jungwon, stunned, blinks a couple of times before finally muttering, “What… just happened?”

“Must be her boyfriend,” Eunmi remarks, her voice strangely neutral instead of the usual sharp tone she reserves for anything remotely related to you. She looks over at Jungwon, her gaze lingering for a moment, before turning her attention elsewhere. Jungwon, though, is far less enthusiastic about packing his bag now, his thoughts clearly on something else.

Meanwhile, you can’t help but laugh a little as you make your way out of the building. There’s no way you were going to let Riki’s weird silence ruin your day. Besides, you’d figured it out—he's just being a dramatic phone, and you’re not about to let that control you. At least, not for now.

As you leave, you can’t stop thinking about how ridiculously possessive he’s been lately. Maybe he does feel something. You can’t help but smile, a little too fond of your human-turned-phone.

As soon as you get home, you plug Riki in, sighing in relief as the charging icon pops up on your screen. You can hear your mom in the background, rambling about your day at school, but honestly? You don’t have the energy to care. You flop onto your bed, completely drained, and let out a deep breath as you watch Riki slowly transform back into a human.

“Thank goodness,” you mutter, finally feeling a little more at ease.

“You should've just charged me in the morning,” he grumbles, still holding the charging wire in his mouth. It's almost comical how he’s still acting like a phone despite being human now.

“Sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, a small smile creeping onto your face despite how tired you are. But then, as the moment settles, a thought hits you, and you can't help but ask, “Do you ever think you'll go back to being a normal phone? Or am I stuck with you like this forever?”

Riki hums in response, the charging wire still hanging from his mouth. “Not sure.”

“Of course you're not sure,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. But a tiny knot of worry tightens in your stomach. The idea of him eventually disappearing back into your phone, of him going back to being just an object, stings more than you'd like to admit. He might be your phone, but the human version? He's been becoming something else to you lately. And you don’t know if you're ready to lose that just yet.

Two months had passed, and it was starting to feel like Riki was slowly slipping away. At first, it was subtle—just a few hours of the day where he stayed in phone form. But today? Nothing. No human version of Riki, just your regular, lifeless phone.

You poke at your lunch with a fork, but how could you even eat when your mind keeps wandering back to your phone? It’s just sitting there on the table, performing like a regular device, no magic, no human form.

“Is something wrong?” Jungwon asks, glancing up from his own lunch. Eunmi’s sitting across from you, not even trying to be friendly, as usual.

“You should watch your phone less,” Eunmi comments, and you roll your eyes, trying to ignore her. If only she knew how much your phone meant to you right now.

You swipe left and right, desperately trying to find something—anything—that could explain why Riki’s still not turning human. You’re not sure what you’re expecting, but this feels like some sort of betrayal from a phone.

“Hmmph,” you mutter under your breath, but it doesn't help. The weight of Eunmi’s voice still lingers in your mind, but you’re too focused on the empty feeling of staring at a screen that’s supposed to be connected to something more.

“Why is he not becoming a human?” you mumble, too frustrated to care that you’re speaking aloud. The problem? Only you know about Riki’s transformation, so you can’t even vent about it to anyone.

“What?” Eunmi asks, her eyebrow arching as she shares a confused look with Jungwon.

You wave it off, brushing away the awkwardness, and go back to stabbing at your lunch. But it’s no use—the food tastes bland, almost like cardboard. Honestly, at this point, the only thing that could make it better is if Riki turned back into the human version of himself and saved you from this mess of a lunch. But nope, your phone’s just sitting there, mocking you.

You somehow manage to finish the rest of the school day, the classes dragging by like a blur, but the one thing that kept bothering you was that Riki was still not turning human.

“Ugh, this isn’t working,” you mutter to yourself as you stand in front of the repair shop owner, trying not to look too ridiculous. You can already feel the weight of the situation—the shopkeeper can’t possibly know about your phone turning into a human, can he? That would be absurd.

“What exactly is the problem?” he asks, tilting his head as he takes your phone to inspect it.

You freeze. What exactly do you say? You can’t tell him that your phone is a person who’s been hanging out as a human every now and then, right? It sounds insane.

“Uh…,” you stammer, struggling for an explanation, but it’s useless. You’re not sure what to say that wouldn’t get you committed to some strange techy cult or a mental hospital.

“It’s all good, ma’am,” he says with a sigh, handing your phone back to you, like everything is totally normal. But if everything is “all good,” why isn’t Riki turning back into a human?

You leave the store, confusion taking over. The lighthearted, slightly strange feeling you once had about Riki being a human version of a phone has now been replaced with a gnawing emptiness. You can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gone for good.

Your bag feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in your mind. You drag yourself home, the steps feeling longer than normal, as if the world is slowly sinking into a gray, monotonous fog.

“How was school?” your stepdad asks, the usual cheerful tone in his voice, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. You barely acknowledge his question, as you’re still lost in your own thoughts. You hear your mom sigh, disappointed, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You head straight to your room, exhaustion taking over. You plug Riki in to charge, desperate to see that familiar human version of him again. The seconds tick by as you watch the charging light glow. But nothing changes. The charging is full. Riki is still… just a phone.

You sigh heavily, sinking down on your bed. What if he’s really gone for good? You can't help but feel like you're losing a part of your world, and suddenly, the idea of just using a regular phone feels... boring.

Tears well up in your eyes as you stubbornly mutter, “I won’t talk to you ever if you don't turn in now!” The words feel hollow the second they leave your lips, but it’s a lie you tell yourself. You would never stop talking to Riki, not for anything. But a small part of you is desperate for him to just... come back. You need to see him as a human again, even if you know that it might not happen.

“Please!” you whisper desperately, pressing your lips against the cold screen of your phone, leaving a red imprint there. It’s a pathetic gesture, but it’s all you can think of. A little kiss for him, as if that might somehow wake him up from whatever spell he’s trapped in.

“Fine. Don’t come,” you mutter, frustration taking over as you place the phone back on the study desk. The weight of the situation settles in as you slump down onto the bed, still in your school clothes. You don’t even care to change—you're too tired, too emotionally drained from everything.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there, staring at the ceiling, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep overtakes you, and you drift off in the quiet of your room, lost in the silence.

Suddenly, you feel it—the presence of someone standing above you. A familiar weight in the air, but not the same as before. You rub your eyes, blinking away the grogginess, and then you see him.

Riki.

He’s standing there, in front of you, and your breath catches. But then, your eyes widen in shock. His body is covered in marks. Red, faint imprints that make your face burn as you realize—those are from your kisses. The ones you left on the screen, desperate for him to turn back. It’s embarrassing, but there's no time for that now. You throw yourself at him, arms wide as you practically tackle him with a hug.

His shirt wrinkles beneath your fingers as you clutch it tight, a mixture of relief and frustration in your chest. You pull away, looking up at him, almost desperate. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you turn back?” Your voice cracks, the raw emotion flooding through you, but the words tumble out in a mess of desperation.

But then, he pushes you away. You stumble back slightly, the sudden distance between you too much to handle.

“I couldn’t turn,” he says, his voice low, almost pained. “And I think it’s better if you don’t get too attached. I’m just a device, remember?” He speaks the words softly, but there’s a coolness to them that hurts.

You blink, the words settling into your chest like a stone. “Why can’t you stay like this forever?” The question slips out before you can stop it, eyes burning with the need to understand. You feel his thumb brush away a tear that’s escaped down your cheek, but it only makes you feel more fragile. “I don’t understand… How can a phone... with no feelings... like me... feel something?”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze softening for just a moment. And then, for the first time since this entire weird and wonderful thing began, he steps closer. Your heart races as he closes the distance, and before you can even think, your hands are on his shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing that’s keeping you grounded.

You pull him into a messy kiss, lips moving against his in a rush of desperation, a wild need to feel him close. You kiss him over and over again, each one more frantic than the last, but just as quickly as he was there...

Your lips meet nothing.

You pull back in confusion, eyes wide as you try to make sense of it. Where did he go? You open your eyes fully, but there's nothing in front of you. Just empty space.

Your phone falls to the ground, the sharp sound of it hitting the floor snapping you back to reality. You kneel down quickly, heart pounding, and check it, relieved to see that it's still in one piece. No cracks, no breaks. Just a phone.

And then, it hits you.

You can’t keep holding on to something—or someone—that isn’t real. You swallow hard, tears welling up in your eyes again as you stare at the device in your hands, the phone that was once a person to you. The bittersweet smile on your lips isn’t one of happiness, but of acceptance and yet... sadness.

“Fine,” you whisper to no one in particular. “I’ll check off the three tasks on my to-do list. You’ll be proud of me.”

But as you stare at the phone, your thumb grazing over its screen, you know deep down that it’s not the tasks that need to be checked off.

It’s your heart.

YOU CAN JOIN MY PERMANENT TAGLIST BY SENDING AN ASK OR COMMENTING HERE ┊ THANK YOU FOR READING! I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS ♡

© SENASCOOP | DO NOT CLAIM AS YOURS

[senascoop]

❝ I dare you to say we're just friends again. ❞

sena’s note , this is how i imagine an argument with fwb hoon—just a random scenario that popped up so thought of writing and posting it 🥹 ⪩⪨ 1.2k words . . .

The rain pelts down, a relentless curtain of silver that soaks your clothes and plasters your hair to your face. Each drop feels like a cold reminder of the tears you’re barely holding back, mingling with the dampness on your cheeks. You’re not even sure why you’re crying—maybe it’s the fight, the sharp words exchanged with Sunghoon, or the way your heart twists painfully at the thought of him. You’re not his girlfriend, and he’s not your boyfriend, so why does it hurt this much?

A month ago, you stopped answering his texts. The “Wanna come over?” and “I miss you” messages that once set your skin ablaze with anticipation now sit unread, each one a pang of indifference you forced yourself to feel. His late-night “I wanna bury my face in that pussy so bad” used to make your thighs clench, but now it just feels… hollow.

You huddle under the awning of a small shop, cursing your luck. Of course, you forgot an umbrella—typical for a rainy season that’s as unforgiving as your own emotions. The street is a blur of hurried figures, their umbrellas bobbing through the downpour, when a familiar silhouette catches your eye. Sunghoon. His long strides falter as he spots you, and before you can duck away, he’s jogging across the street, his black umbrella cutting through the rain like a shield. He stops in front of you, tilting the umbrella to cover you both, and the sudden closeness makes your breath hitch. His scent—clean, musky, with a hint of the cologne he always wears—wraps around you, dizzying.

“Why?” His voice is low, laced with worry, his dark eyes searching your face. “Are you okay? You didn’t answer my calls, and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, like he’s holding back a flood of words. His gaze flickers over your soaked clothes, the way you’re shivering, and something softens in his expression, almost breaking your resolve.

You step back, out from under the umbrella, letting the rain hit you again. It’s easier to feel the cold than the warmth of his presence. “It’s okay, Sunghoon,” you murmur, voice barely audible over the patter of rain. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re just—”

“I dare you to say the word friends,” he snaps, cutting you off. His tone is sharp, almost desperate, and it stops you cold. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding as the rain drips from your chin. Your tears are one blink away from spilling, and you swallow hard, trying to hold it together.

“That’s what we are, Hoon!” you fire back, voice cracking as you step closer, uncaring of the curious glances from passersby. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? That’s all this ever was!” The words taste bitter, a lie that burns as it leaves your lips. You want to scream that it’s more, that it’s always been more, but the fear of rejection chokes you.

His eyes blaze, dark and intense, as he steps toward you, closing the gap. “Yeah? And you want to stay like that? Just friends?” His voice drops, rough with emotion, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the rain. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. Tell me you don’t think about me when you’re alone, touching yourself, wishing it was my hands, my mouth—”

“Stop it!” you gasp, your face flushing hot despite the cold. But he doesn’t stop. He steps closer, the umbrella tilting to shield you both again.

“I’ve never looked at another girl since we started this… whatever the fuck it is,” he says, his voice low and raw, like he’s peeling back layers he’s never shown you before. “Every time I’m inside you, when I’m kissing you, when I’m so deep in that perfect fucking pussy that you’re all I can feel—I say I love you, and I fucking mean it. Every. Single. Time.” His words hit like a shockwave, stealing your breath. Your heart stutters, heat pooling low in your belly as his confession sinks in, filthy and tender all at once.

You shove at his chest, your fist landing weakly against the hard planes of muscle beneath his jacket. “Just shut up!” you choke out, not because you’re angry at his words, but because the entire street seems to be watching, their eyes prickling on your skin. Your tears finally spill, hot and unstoppable, mixing with the rain. “Everyone’s staring, Hoon.”

He glances around, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he grabs your wrist, tugging you closer. “Let them stare,” he murmurs, but there’s a softness in his tone now, a plea. “I don’t care. I just need you to hear me.” His thumb brushes over your wrist, and the simple touch sends a jolt through you, your body betraying how much you still want him. “Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you don’t dream about me fucking you senseless, about me saying I love you while you’re coming undone around me.”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping as his words paint vivid, filthy images in your mind—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your skin, the way he fills you so completely it’s like he’s claiming you. Your thighs press together instinctively, and you know he notices, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smirk.

“Hoon…” you whisper, your voice trembling, torn between fear and the aching need that’s been eating at you for weeks. “What are we doing?”

He steps closer, so close his lips brush your ear, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “We’re done pretending this is just sex,” he says, and the words send a thrill through you, your body humming with want. “I want you—every part of you. The way you laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous, the way you come so fucking hard when I’m buried inside you, whispering how much I love you. I’m not letting you run from this anymore.”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

┊ ENHA AS ROMANCE TROPES , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, not sure if anyone did anything similiar to this before but I just wanted to give it a go [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

(📷) IDOL X FAN — You were waiting by the bus stop, when someone bumped into you. A guy in a hoodie, bucket hat pulled low, and a mask. “Wha—?” Before you could finish your sentence, you noticed a small group of girls hurrying in your direction, giggling and pointing. The guy beside you stiffened, eyes darting for an escape. You didn’t recognize him—not immediately. Acting on impulse, you stepped forward and looped your arm through his. “There you are! I waited way too long—seriously, looking like a celebrity’s not helping,” you joked, laughing like an old friend. His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t move. The girls slowed down, whispering among themselves. Then one said, “Nah, it’s not him. Just looks like heeseung.” The girls lost interest and walked away. You let go, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry—just thought you needed help.” Then, with a small bow of gratitude, he turned and walked off without saying anything. You stood frozen for a second—Your breath caught as you recalled the name. Wait. What if it was?

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

(👔) CEO X SECRETARY — Every time you stepped into his office, nerves danced beneath your skin. The scent of his cologne hit instantly—sharp, expensive, unforgettable—lingering in the air like him. Park Jongseong was composed to the point of coldness, with rolled sleeves, silver cufflinks, and eyes that never missed a thing. He looked like he belonged on the cover of every novel you secretly read. Today was no different. You walked in, clutching the file to your chest, eyes darting anywhere but him. “Do you have the papers?” His voice was low, precise—and paired with the slow way he adjusted his glasses, it sent your heart into a spiral. You nodded, a quiet, breathless “Yes, sir,” slipping out before you quickly turned to leave. Behind you, he glanced up from his desk, a rare curve to his lips. “You always run away like that?” And suddenly, your hands were shaking.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

(⭐) ACCIDENTAL ROOMMATES — you weren’t sure why, out of everyone, you had to be paired with Jake. You were supposed to have this tiny dorm to yourself—your peaceful little space, just the way you liked it. But because he showed up late, the housing office had no choice but to assign him to your room. So now, you were stuck. With him. “Can you move out of the way?” you huffed, trying to sweep the floor, broom in hand while Jake clumsily shifted the furniture with that signature goofy grin. At least he helped. But he didn’t follow your rules. He made ramen at midnight, threw on late-night movies, and insisted you stay up to watch every single one. He’d share snacks, laugh too loudly, and sometimes—without meaning to—fall asleep on your bed instead of his. You called him annoying. But he was warm. Loud. Kind. A golden retriever in human form. And then came that one morning. You woke up tangled in blankets—and him. His breath tickled your collarbone, and when you tried to move, he stirred. “Don’t go…” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

(🎭) FAKE DATING — You let out a quiet sigh as you sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes trailing after the boy everyone thought was your boyfriend. Park Sunghoon—golden boy of the football field, the one who made girls trip over their words and hearts. But none of this was real. It was just a deal. He needed a fake girlfriend to get his friends off his back, and you? You said yes because… why not? He was handsome and the attention was flattering. The curious stares, the whispers of “how did she pull him?” it was all a game. At least, that’s how it started. Until he began waiting for you after school. Offering his hand without thinking. Laughing over shared ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world. And one day, as the sky turned pink, he leaned in—eyes gentle, steps hesitant. “I—” you whispered just as his lips brushed yours. But the moment shattered when a friend’s voice rang out, teasing. You both pulled away, awkward smiles covering the silence. You told yourself it was part of the act. But your heart? It wasn’t pretending anymore.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

(☁️) CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS —You’ve known Sunoo since kindergarten. You were there when he cried over scraped knees, when he proudly showed off his glittery pencil box, and yes—even when he once peed himself during a school play. So naturally, you saw him like a brother… right? At least, that’s what you told yourself. But lately, things felt off. Your heart would flutter when he slung his arm around your shoulder—something he’s done for years. The warmth in his voice, the way he smiled at you… suddenly it all felt different. Too soft. Too much. You even looked it up one night: “Is it normal to fall for your best friend?” And then came that one quiet walk home, when he looked at you and said, “You’ve been acting weird lately.” your breath hitched. “Huh?” you couldn’t even meet his eyes—afraid they’d give everything away.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

(📚) LIBRARY CRUSH — You always sit across from him—the quiet boy everyone whispers about but never approaches. The library is almost always empty, tucked away from the noise of school life, and yet somehow, he’s always there. Same seat. Same calm focus. It becomes routine: your books, your highlighter… and stolen glances over the pages. They say girls fall over themselves for Yang Jungwon. You never cared. Not until he started making you stay longer—just by being there. One afternoon, you glance up and find his seat empty. Disappointed, you lower your book—only to turn and freeze. He’s standing behind you, one brow raised. “You always stare at people when they’re not looking?” Your breath catches. Your hands go clammy. “N-No—I mean, not people. Just…” He laughs softly. Then leans closer. “Then maybe next time, I should sit next to you instead.” And just like that, you’re gone in your dreamland, already thinking of a happily ever after together.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

(💢) ENEMIES TO LOVERS — No one really knows when it started—how you and Riki became that pair. The constant eye rolls, bickering in class, the way he always seems to be watching you... whether out of annoyance or something else, you never quite know. One day, half-joking, you nudge him and ask, “You into me or something? You keep staring.” He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a flicker in his gaze you don’t catch. What you don’t know is that behind your back, Riki’s grip tightens every time someone talks about you with anything less than respect. He doesn’t say a word—just makes sure they don’t do it again. Then one day, you overhear it. Someone muttering that Riki fought a guy for calling you “easy.” That night, when you ask him why, he shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I am into you. So, what about it?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

❝ I dare you to say we're just friends again. ❞

sena’s note , this is how i imagine an argument with fwb hoon—just a random scenario that popped up so thought of writing and posting it 🥹 ⪩⪨ 1.2k words . . .

The rain pelts down, a relentless curtain of silver that soaks your clothes and plasters your hair to your face. Each drop feels like a cold reminder of the tears you’re barely holding back, mingling with the dampness on your cheeks. You’re not even sure why you’re crying—maybe it’s the fight, the sharp words exchanged with Sunghoon, or the way your heart twists painfully at the thought of him. You’re not his girlfriend, and he’s not your boyfriend, so why does it hurt this much?

A month ago, you stopped answering his texts. The “Wanna come over?” and “I miss you” messages that once set your skin ablaze with anticipation now sit unread, each one a pang of indifference you forced yourself to feel. His late-night “I wanna bury my face in that pussy so bad” used to make your thighs clench, but now it just feels… hollow.

You huddle under the awning of a small shop, cursing your luck. Of course, you forgot an umbrella—typical for a rainy season that’s as unforgiving as your own emotions. The street is a blur of hurried figures, their umbrellas bobbing through the downpour, when a familiar silhouette catches your eye. Sunghoon. His long strides falter as he spots you, and before you can duck away, he’s jogging across the street, his black umbrella cutting through the rain like a shield. He stops in front of you, tilting the umbrella to cover you both, and the sudden closeness makes your breath hitch. His scent—clean, musky, with a hint of the cologne he always wears—wraps around you, dizzying.

“Why?” His voice is low, laced with worry, his dark eyes searching your face. “Are you okay? You didn’t answer my calls, and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, like he’s holding back a flood of words. His gaze flickers over your soaked clothes, the way you’re shivering, and something softens in his expression, almost breaking your resolve.

You step back, out from under the umbrella, letting the rain hit you again. It’s easier to feel the cold than the warmth of his presence. “It’s okay, Sunghoon,” you murmur, voice barely audible over the patter of rain. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re just—”

“I dare you to say the word friends,” he snaps, cutting you off. His tone is sharp, almost desperate, and it stops you cold. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding as the rain drips from your chin. Your tears are one blink away from spilling, and you swallow hard, trying to hold it together.

“That’s what we are, Hoon!” you fire back, voice cracking as you step closer, uncaring of the curious glances from passersby. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? That’s all this ever was!” The words taste bitter, a lie that burns as it leaves your lips. You want to scream that it’s more, that it’s always been more, but the fear of rejection chokes you.

His eyes blaze, dark and intense, as he steps toward you, closing the gap. “Yeah? And you want to stay like that? Just friends?” His voice drops, rough with emotion, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the rain. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. Tell me you don’t think about me when you’re alone, touching yourself, wishing it was my hands, my mouth—”

“Stop it!” you gasp, your face flushing hot despite the cold. But he doesn’t stop. He steps closer, the umbrella tilting to shield you both again.

“I’ve never looked at another girl since we started this… whatever the fuck it is,” he says, his voice low and raw, like he’s peeling back layers he’s never shown you before. “Every time I’m inside you, when I’m kissing you, when I’m so deep in that perfect fucking pussy that you’re all I can feel—I say I love you, and I fucking mean it. Every. Single. Time.” His words hit like a shockwave, stealing your breath. Your heart stutters, heat pooling low in your belly as his confession sinks in, filthy and tender all at once.

You shove at his chest, your fist landing weakly against the hard planes of muscle beneath his jacket. “Just shut up!” you choke out, not because you’re angry at his words, but because the entire street seems to be watching, their eyes prickling on your skin. Your tears finally spill, hot and unstoppable, mixing with the rain. “Everyone’s staring, Hoon.”

He glances around, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he grabs your wrist, tugging you closer. “Let them stare,” he murmurs, but there’s a softness in his tone now, a plea. “I don’t care. I just need you to hear me.” His thumb brushes over your wrist, and the simple touch sends a jolt through you, your body betraying how much you still want him. “Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you don’t dream about me fucking you senseless, about me saying I love you while you’re coming undone around me.”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping as his words paint vivid, filthy images in your mind—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your skin, the way he fills you so completely it’s like he’s claiming you. Your thighs press together instinctively, and you know he notices, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smirk.

“Hoon…” you whisper, your voice trembling, torn between fear and the aching need that’s been eating at you for weeks. “What are we doing?”

He steps closer, so close his lips brush your ear, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “We’re done pretending this is just sex,” he says, and the words send a thrill through you, your body humming with want. “I want you—every part of you. The way you laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous, the way you come so fucking hard when I’m buried inside you, whispering how much I love you. I’m not letting you run from this anymore.”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

TIL DEATH DO US PART , S.JY !

PAIRING: husband ! jake × afab reader

SYNOPSIS: In an arranged marriage where sparks never flew, you finally chose divorce as the only path to freedom. But when your husband died in a sudden accident, life took an unexpected turn, binding you to a reality marked by guilt, grief, and the shadows of unfulfilled words. Now, you must navigate a world that holds him forever gone.

GENRE: fluff + angst

WARNING(S): not proofread, kissing, dirty jokes, a little bit suggestive, mentions of suicide and death, insecurities, mentions of pregnancy. lmk if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 16.2K

FEAT: JAY from ENHYPEN + some ocs

MASTERLISTS ARCHIVE !!

NOTE FROM SENA ┊ had this idea going from quite a lot of time (two months lol) though i wasn't sure of posting it... but here you go i guess. was supposed to post this a day ago for Jake’s bday (🎂) but I hope this still works. definitely won't claim this as one of my best works but hope it's not too bad. would love to know your opinions <3

DEAR JAKE,

I’m sorry, but I can’t continue living like this. I’m leaving. Our marriage has become a constant battle, and I believe we’re both suffering more by holding on than we would by letting go. I know neither of us wanted it to come to this, and I wish things were different. But deep down, I think we’re better apart. I hope one day you’ll understand.

With regret, Y/N.

TEARS BLURRED YOUR VISION AS YOU STARED AT THE CRUMBLED NOTE IN YOUR HAND—the one you had written to Jake months ago. The one that now felt like a curse. Your hands shook as you traced the familiar words, guilt twisting your insides. I’m leaving. I’m sorry. He had never known the true weight of those words. And now he never would.

The police had found it in his pocket. They said he’d carried it with him, even after everything. Even when he... when he was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch, clutching the note like a lifeline, but it only felt like a reminder of how far you had pushed him. How much you had wanted out, and now, how deeply you regretted it. A year together, two lives constantly at odds, and it had ended in this way. A divorce that never came, an accident that did. You didn’t want this, didn’t want him gone, but now, all you had was this—regret, and a body that was too still in your bed to hold. The anger, the frustration of him being gone—it consumed you, ate at your soul.

Why couldn’t you have waited?

You had hoped time apart would fix things, give you both breathing room. But he hadn’t lived long enough for you to see the good you could have made of it. The guilt ate you alive, deeper than the frustration ever had. You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t your fault, that you couldn’t have known, but deep down, the truth stung. Your note had been his last reminder of your marriage. His last memory. He had carried your rejection right until the end.

Would things have been different if you hadn’t written that letter?

The thought raked at your mind like shards of glass, shredding everything in its path. What if you had kept fighting for him, for the marriage? Would he have been here? Would you have learned to love him? Or would he still have left, still have been gone, no matter what?

Your thoughts flickered back to moments with him—so small, so easy to overlook. The way Jake had rolled his eyes every time you’d scolded his niece Semi for spilling juice, or how he had tried to hide his smirk as he pretended to act innocent. The little things that used to irritate you, that you had never really appreciated until now.

You remembered the way he defended you against his relatives, his words sharp and protective as they made cruel comments about your body. They didn’t understand, but Jake did. He had always been there, not perfect but trying.

“She suits me well enough.”

The memory felt like a slap now, a cruel joke. You had spent so much time pushing him away, not seeing that he cared. You hadn’t seen that he had tried.

“Why couldn’t I have seen it?” you whispered to the empty room, curling up on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow. The tears soaked into the fabric, and the sobs wracked through you like a storm. Why was it only now, when he was gone, that you realized how much he had mattered?

You had never kissed him, never held him the way a wife should. You thought you had the luxury of time, but now you had nothing left but his memory. The memory of a man you barely knew but had somehow been the one constant in your life. How selfish of you to push him away. How stupid to think it was all about the fights, the annoyances, and not about the love you could have had.

“Please... Jake. I’m sorry...”

The words escaped you as your sobs grew louder, choking your breath. Your body trembled with grief, the weight of regret pressing down on you until you couldn’t breathe. If only you could undo it, go back and rewrite the note. If only you hadn’t given up on him, on the marriage, on the chance for something more.

The room felt suffocating now, as though the walls were closing in around you. What now? you thought. There was no future with him anymore. No next step. No reconciliation.

Why had you waited so long to realize how much he meant to you?

You sank deeper into your pillow, tears soaking your face and your hair, wishing for the impossible: for him to walk through the door, to come back, to make everything okay again. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

And all that was left was you. And the note.

YOUR MOTHER IN LAW’S HANDS TREMBLE AS SHE EXTENDS THE ANCESTRAL RING TOWARDS YOU, her eyes glistening with raw grief. The ring's delicate gold band catches the light, an unwanted reminder of everything Jake represented—strength, love, an unfinished story.

“He wanted you to have this… but I never thought I’d give it to you now. Not like this,” she whispers, her voice breaking before dissolving into quiet sobs. The sound is so raw it scrapes at your heart. For a moment, the room feels unbearably small, closing in with the suffocating weight of shared loss.

You stare at the ring, fingers hovering uncertainly. The thought of accepting it feels like admitting he’s really gone. Yet, you know you can’t refuse it; Jake’s wish, even unspoken now, feels sacred. You slip the ring onto your finger, a silent acknowledgment of the man you had once promised yourself to, a man you’ll never get the chance to truly know.

With a hesitant step forward, you place your hand on her shoulder, the touch meant to soothe but feeling fragile, as though it could shatter under the weight of her grief. The older woman leans into you, body racked with tremors as she buries her face in her hands. Her sobs rise and fall in uneven waves, echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“Please… don’t cry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracking at the edges. The night had drained you, leaving your eyes dry yet still burning, poised for more tears that you no longer had the strength to shed.

Her grief pierces deeper. “He wouldn’t want to see you in pain,” you add, voice low, carrying the weight of a plea that even you don’t believe.

“I-I know,” she manages between sobs, her shoulders trembling. “But… he was so young, so full of life. It should’ve been me, not him. He barely started his life, and now…”

The room seems to warp under the heaviness of her words. You know she’s right. The unfairness of it all gnaws at you. But what would Jake want? The question echoes in your mind, clawing for answers you wish you didn’t have to seek.

You close your eyes for a brief second, conjuring his face in your memory—the way his smile would sneak out when he thought you weren’t looking, the stubborn tilt of his chin when he was determined. You imagine him here, telling you what to do, how to be strong for her when he couldn’t be.

Drawing in a shaking breath, you shift, wrapping your arms around your mother-in-law. She stiffens for a heartbeat before collapsing into the embrace, her body convulsing with grief. Her head rests on your shoulder, and you stroke her back, the gesture rhythmic, almost desperate, as if the act itself could soothe the unsoothable.

“My poor boy… he must’ve been so scared, so alone in those final moments,” she chokes out, and it’s as if a knife twists in your chest. The image of him in pain, of his last moments, blurs the edges of your control. A tear slips down your cheek, a singular escape among the multitude waiting behind your lashes.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” you whisper, barely audible. The guilt is relentless, intertwining with the ache of loneliness that had settled deep within you long before he passed. You were alone when he was alive, and now that emptiness has transformed, sharpened by grief, into something more unbearable.

Her sobs quiet, just enough for her to lift her head and take in your expression, your tears mingling with unsaid words. She studies you, eyes clouded by grief but touched with understanding.

“You must feel so alone too… You and Jake… barely had time,” she murmurs, her voice a weak echo of empathy.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncertain. You meet her gaze and see the exhaustion, the pain mirrored back at you. It anchors you for a moment, before she speaks again.

“You’re still young. You should think of moving forward one day. Remarry, maybe… You’ll always be like a daughter to me, but you have to live, too.”

Your heart clenches, rejecting the thought. You don’t want to. The ache of wanting Jake, even in a marriage that had felt distant, is a raw wound you can’t imagine healing. The loneliness was familiar; life without him is uncharted, unbearable.

“I won’t… I can’t,” you admit, voice shaking as the tears finally spill, unchecked. “I just want him back. Even if it means being lonely again.”

The words break you open, and this time, neither of you tries to stop the crying. You hold each other in the ruins of shared loss, hoping, against hope, that the pieces of your shattered hearts will one day feel less sharp.

YOUR HANDS CHILLED FROM THE BRISK AIR, DIG DEEPER INTO YOUR COAT POCKETS AS YOU GAZE OUT INTO THE SWIRLING SNOW, a faint numbness settling in your bones. Each snowflake that brushes against your cheek feels colder than the last, a physical reminder of the frost that’s taken root in your heart, a void Jake's absence left behind. Life has lost its rhythm, its purpose, and the bustling world seems foreign, moving on a beat you no longer recognize.

Nursing, once a passion that filled your heart, now feels suffocating. The once-simple act of caring for patients, seeing them through their darkest times, now stirs something darker inside you—an envy for their hope, their chances. These creeping, bitter thoughts had scared you enough to step back from the only profession you knew. The faces of crying relatives haunted your dreams, their grief striking chords too familiar, too close. You’d sworn to heal, never harm, yet here you are, carrying shadows of guilt too heavy to bear.

The café’s warmth hits you as you push through the door, a momentary comfort against the gnawing cold. You shuffle forward, fingers fumbling in your pocket for money as your eyes wander the room. Jake had always spoken fondly of this place, a little corner shop with its cozy mismatched chairs and the sweet aroma of cocoa and baked pastries. A small pang clenches your chest, regret whispering its usual 'what ifs.' If only you’d agreed to visit here with him, if only time hadn’t been a cruel master.

The barista, a young woman with weary eyes, glances up as she speaks. “Ma’am, are you ordering?” Her voice, though polite, carries a slight impatience with the growing line behind you.

“Ah, yes… a cold coffee,” you manage, the words falling flat as if they don’t quite belong to you. Her brows lift, a flicker of confusion.

“In this weather?” she asks, a hint of genuine concern lacing her tone.

Realizing the absurdity, you swallow, forcing a small, resigned nod. “Hot chocolate then,” you say, the warmth of Jake’s recommendation tugging at the edges of your memory.

The exchange is brief, the hot drink pressed into your hands a minute later. As you turn to leave, the weight of the ancestral ring around your finger pulls at you, its cool surface grounding and yet suffocating. The bittersweet metal reflects a dull glow, a silent reminder of promises made and broken, of the love lost and the void left behind.

The wind picks up outside, tugging at your coat as you sip the hot chocolate. Its warmth spreads through you, but it’s fleeting, never enough to touch the ache within. You shake your head, Jake’s face vivid in your mind, his teasing smile as he’d planned your future dates. You’d push the thought aside, but every step feels like dragging a part of him behind you.

“Why can’t I let go?” you murmur, voice snatched away by the icy air. Your brother-in-law’s words echo in your mind, urging you to stop living in Jake’s shadow. But how do you tear yourself away from the ghost of a love that never got to finish its story?

Snow clings to your coat as you continue to trudge through the city, each step heavy with an ache that refuses to fade. The glow of the streetlights bathes the snow in a warm, golden hue, contrasting the bitter chill that settles in your chest. Sipping the hot chocolate, you try to focus on the warmth sliding down your throat, but the sweetness only sharpens the emptiness inside. The steam curls from the cup, a fleeting comfort as your breath mingles with it in the frigid air.

You pause near a park bench, eyes darting to couples bundled up, their laughter piercing through the quiet snowfall. One couple stands close, the man adjusting the scarf around his partner’s neck with a smile that makes your heart clench. You bite the inside of your cheek, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you fight back the sting in your eyes. The jealousy gnaws at you, sour and uninvited.

The memory of Jake’s voice flits through your mind, warm and teasing: “Good things happen to good people.” You scoff, the bitterness in that statement now a cruel joke. Were you not good enough? The universe seemed to think so, because it had ripped him away, leaving a hollow shell in his place.

Lost in thought, you find yourself on the bridge, fingers trailing over the iron railing that has frosted over, leaving cool streaks on your gloves. This place, once so filled with light and memories, feels haunted now. You trace a path where your and Jake’s hands once met, where laughter and shared secrets once echoed.

A voice, small and familiar, intrudes on your thoughts. Semi’s question echoes, fragile and innocent: “Aunty, when will Uncle come home?” You close your eyes, the lump in your throat thickening as the memory sharpens. You remember her wide, unknowing eyes searching yours for an answer you couldn't give, the guilt of that half-truth searing into you as you whispered, “I’m not sure, sweetie.”

You grip the railing tighter, feeling the cold seep through your gloves as the ache of regret claws at your heart. The river below moves steadily, unaffected by the chaos in your chest. You look down, watching the water catch the light in rippling patterns, your reflection distorted and wavering. The noise of the city fades as you breathe in the freezing air, each exhale a shuddering attempt to steady yourself.

A gust of wind stings your face, and you force yourself to look up, straightening with a resolve that feels fragile. Jake’s brother and his wife were inside your apartment, their watchful eyes filled with concern disguised as casual chatter. You know why they stay—it’s not out of pity, but out of fear, a silent agreement to keep you tethered when your world felt like it was splitting at the seams.

The laughter from the park drifts over again, mingling with the hum of distant traffic. For a moment, you let yourself remember the warmth of Jake’s embrace, the way he’d nudge your shoulder and murmur, “Life doesn’t stop, even when we want it to.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t,” you whisper into the night, the words barely a breath as they dissolve in the chill.

The warmth of the hot chocolate fades as the biting wind grazes your skin, a cruel reminder of the numbing void left behind. You stare at the bridge, eyes tracing the railings where Jake’s laughter once echoed. A memory surfaces, unbidden yet vivid.

“I know this isn't what either of us planned, but... I wish we could work it out,” Jake had said, a touch of hesitation softening his confident voice. His hands, hesitant but steady, hovered near you, respecting the space you held between.

“I wish that too,” you had murmured, the lie sliding off your tongue too easily. You’d convinced yourself you didn't care enough for Jake then, but the pang of that memory now gnawed at your insides. Regret had a way of reshaping the past, twisting even the most indifferent moments into sharp blades.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Jake had prodded gently, eyes bright even as he leaned down to meet your gaze.

Caught off guard, you’d raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” The question felt foreign, untouched by anyone's curiosity until now.

“Your ideal type,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting as though challenging you. His height had always made you tilt your head back to catch his expression—a detail that now felt like a cruel nostalgia.

“Why would you ask that?” You'd played along, teasing but curious.

Jake chuckled, the sound resonant and warm. “Because we're getting married, and maybe knowing each other better will make it feel less... strange. Maybe, just maybe, we'll fall in love.” His hand, finally settling on your shoulder, had felt reassuring, a silent promise in its touch.

The memory cleaves through you like a knife, leaving behind a raw wound that no time or distance can heal. A single tear slips down your cheek as you blink, the reality of the moment washing over you like a wave. The park across the street bustles with couples walking hand-in-hand, laughter and warmth breaking through the cold that wraps around you. A fresh ache takes root, sharp and relentless.

You drop the empty cup into the trash can, the metallic clang breaking your reverie. The grief, heavy and suffocating, presses you to the edge as you turn and begin the long walk home. Your footsteps are heavy, every step an effort against the pull of the past.

“Aunty, you're so late. Did you bring Uncle with you?” Semi’s small voice meets you at the door, eyes bright with innocent hope. The guilt hits you like a punch, stealing the air from your lungs. Your throat tightens as you shake your head, eyes avoiding her searching gaze.

Jieun, seeing your reaction, sighs softly as she pulls Semi closer. “Semi, we talked about this, remember?” Her voice holds the practiced patience of a mother trying to shield her child from the pain.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Semi mumbles, eyes dropping to her tiny hands that fidget nervously. The sight twists your heart, guilt layering over the grief that refuses to ease.

You force a hollow smile. “It’s okay, Jieun. She's just a kid,” you say, your voice low and void of emotion as you shrug off your winter coat and hang it up. The familiar routine feels like a play you no longer wish to act in.

“Still, I just—” Jieun’s words falter as you cut her off, your voice breaking the tension.

“Please,” you murmur, the word sharp and desperate, silencing the room. The stillness that follows is suffocating, your breaths shallow as you fight to keep your composure.

Jieun's eyes search yours, understanding but hesitant. “We just don’t want you to be alone,” she whispers, her voice thick with worry.

“I know,” you reply, sitting on the couch with your head hung low, hands clenched tightly in your lap. After a long pause, you add, “But you need to leave. This is your home too, but you have your own life to get back to. I need time... time to figure out how to grieve.” Your eyes don’t lift to meet theirs; you can’t bear to see the disappointment or concern there.

Semi’s voice pipes up again, the innocence piercing through your defenses. “Are you sending us away, Aunty?”

The weight of guilt deepens, pressing into your chest. You close your eyes, feeling the sting behind your lids before you answer. “No, sweetie, I’m not sending you away. You can come whenever you want. Aunty will always be here.” The words come out flat, and you feel them land like lies in the air between you.

Jieun picks Semi up, nodding at you as if she understands, though her eyes glisten with worry. “We’ll give you some space. But we’ll check in. Don’t forget that, please.”

When the door clicks shut, silence wraps around you, heavy and thick. Your gaze shifts to the note you’d prepared earlier, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. The words, written in your own hand, feel foreign now: apologies to the people who stayed, memories they never knew you held, and the final confession of a heart too weary to go on.

You were battling with the urge to just end it all.

The rational part of your brain told you that you were young and had your whole life ahead and that you'd meet a lot of guys in your life but the stubborn heart won't give up and held onto the memory of the guy you once called your husband.

So, you gave up.

A smile, then another.

The city glows beneath you, lights sprawled like constellations cast on earth. The wind at this height is sharp, tearing through your clothes and chilling your skin, as if trying to pull you back from the edge. Your shoes scrape against the concrete ledge, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the battle waging within. The night air smells faintly of rain, metallic and crisp, mingling with the faint hum of traffic below.

You steady your phone in your trembling hand, its cold surface grounding you momentarily. A notification pings, an ironic reminder that life continues to tick on, indifferent to the turmoil within you. The camera lens reflects the shimmer of unshed tears as you hit record, the small red dot staring back like a silent witness.

A smile forms—hesitant, broken. Then another, and another, each one a mask that crumbles too soon. “To everyone who still cares,” you begin, your voice low and cracking, “Semi, sweet, innocent Semi. Jieun, always so patient. Jongseong... my husband’s shadow in every way. My sister, my friends, all of you who tried.”

The wind picks up, whipping strands of hair across your face as you pause, the weight of the unsaid pressing on your chest. You blink rapidly, tears slipping free, their warmth stinging against your cold cheeks. “Jake wouldn't want this. I know he'd call me stubborn, weak even.” You let out a hollow laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind. “But he wouldn’t understand how loud it is in the silence he left behind.”

Your heart hammers as you shift your weight, the city seeming to inhale with you, holding its breath in anticipation. The edge of the building digs into the soles of your feet, the space between you and the world below both terrifying and liberating.

“I miss the little moments, Jake,” you whisper, voice breaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I miss you making me feel lonely, and now... now I’m lonelier without you.” The ache in your chest is unbearable, a cavernous void that steals your breath.

One last deep breath, air burning through your lungs, and you step forward. The world blurs into a rush of sound and sensation—wind roaring in your ears, your body weightless, suspended in a moment between despair and peace.

And then the fall hits.

Pain surges through you, sharp and overwhelming, before darkness takes over. Around you, the chaos erupts into a cacophony—screams, the frantic pounding of feet, and the sharp cry of ambulance sirens slicing through the night. But these sounds are drifting away, becoming faint murmurs from a world slipping out of reach.

Silence wraps around you, one that made you feel like everything would be okay after this. Maybe, just maybe, peace waits on the other side. In death.

YOU WALK THROUGH THE DENSE, MILKY FOG, EACH REVERBERATING IN AN ECHO THAT NEVER QUITE SETTLES. The air is cool, feather-light, whispering like distant memories. Is this heaven? The question circles in your mind, unspoken. If it is, where is Jake? A quiet laugh escapes your lips, hollow. He couldn’t have done enough wrong to land in hell, you think, the hint of humor biting through your longing. Yet, the anticipation twists your heart—an ache that makes you want to see him so desperately.

You try to call out, “Jake?” but the sound stays trapped in your chest, choked by the thick fog. Another step forward and there’s nothing but endless white, stretching out, swallowing you whole. Your breath catches; suddenly, the air thins, compressing your lungs, squeezing out every ounce of oxygen. You gasp, your hands clawing at the invisible force stealing your breath. It feels like drowning in emptiness.

Then—without warning—everything shifts. White light erupts around you, blinding and all-consuming. You brace for oblivion, muscles tensing for an end you’re sure is near. But instead, there’s a softness beneath you—a mattress that cradles you like an embrace you forgot.

Your eyes snap open, pupils adjusting to the familiar pale ceiling. It’s your ceiling. Your shared room. The bed, the faint scent of Jake’s cologne still lingering in the sheets, as if he just left. You sit up, heart thundering, hands brushing over your body frantically. No pain, no bruises, no broken bones—nothing. You’re whole, intact.

Then the realization hits you like cold water, and your fingers tremble as you pull them away.

“What the…?” you murmur, eyes darting around, seeking answers that the silent room won’t give. Your gaze falls to the phone on the bedside table, its screen blank and mocking in its stillness. You grab it, breath hitching as the time blinks to life.

January 29th, 2024. 6:30 a.m.

A shiver races down your spine. The date stares back at you, sharp and impossible. You set the phone down, legs feeling weak as you stand and approach the mirror. Your reflection isn’t that of a woman who has been weeping endlessly. Your eyes, dry and wide, reflect confusion rather than the storm of emotions that you carry.

“Is this one of those flashes they say you see before death?” Your voice trembles as the words escape, and you reach up to touch the cold glass. The girl looking back at you does the same, fingers meeting yours in a silent plea.

Then, your eyes catch it. The blue gel pen resting on the dresser—a pen that has no place outside your drawer. It’s a small thing, but the sight of it makes your breath hitch. Memories slice through you, sharp and unforgiving. That pen was the one you’d used for the note to Jake, the one that demanded space, an end.

“No,” you breathe out, shaking your head, bile rising in your throat. The pen feels like a cruel token, mocking you for what came after. In a swift motion, you snatch it up, the cold plastic biting into your skin as you grip it tight. The weight of your guilt, your regret, turns your stomach, and with a sudden burst of anger, you hurl the pen into the trash, its clatter punctuating the silence like a final plea.

Chest heaving, you close your eyes. If this is some kind of twisted second chance, you don’t know if you should feel terror or relief. But the room, the sheets, the absence on the other side of the bed—everything points to one impossible truth.

You’re back.

But this isn't a romance novel, is it?

Your eyes trail back to the empty bed, where Jake should be. “Jake?” The name falls from your lips, hopeful, trembling, but the silence stretches on, suffocating.

Your heart thuds like a wild drumbeat, erratic and desperate, the rhythm matched only by the single hope that propels you forward: seeing Jake. Alive. Healthy. Breathing.

You practically jog out of the shared bedroom, your bare feet sliding slightly on the hardwood floor as you turn the corner. The guest room door is ajar, a sliver of dim light illuminating the narrow hallway. The pulse in your chest quickens, breaths shallower with each step until you reach the threshold. You pause, drawing in a trembling breath before stepping inside.

There he is. Jake. Lying on his side, dark hair fanned messily over the pillow, the soft rise and fall of his chest hypnotic in its simplicity. Relief washes over you so powerfully that your knees almost buckle. You inch closer, careful not to make a sound. The blanket is snug around his torso, exposing his bare, muscular chest—the way he prefers when he’s alone. Your throat tightens at the sight, familiar yet so foreign now.

Your hand, almost on its own accord, hovers over his face, fingers trembling as you place them under his nose. The soft, warm breath that meets your touch is enough to sting your eyes with unshed tears. Your hand drifts down, resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat—a rhythm you thought you’d never sense again.

Jake stirs, the sudden shift pulling you out of your trance. His eyelids flutter open, dark eyes glazed with sleep but sharpening as they land on you. He blinks once, then again, brows drawing together.

“What are you doing?” His voice, rough with sleep, carries a note of confusion that makes your hand fall away as though burned.

“I-I…” The words snag in your throat, scrambling to make sense of the madness. How could you possibly explain? Your eyes dart nervously to the floor, heat searing your cheeks as you mutter, “I missed your kisses.”

The room freezes. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with disbelief. He shifts, sitting up, and the blanket slips down to his waist, revealing the sharp lines of his torso. Your eyes betray you, flickering over the familiar planes before darting away in embarrassment.

“But… we never kiss,” he says, voice low and edged with confusion. The statement slices through you, painfully reminding you of the distance you both had grown used to.

“I know... I...” you whisper, fingers clenching into fists at your sides. The silence stretches, heavy, until the sharp trill of his phone alarm shatters it. Jake’s attention shifts, eyes narrowing as he leans to silence it. When he looks up again, the space where you stood is empty.

You rush back to your room, shutting the door behind you with a soft thud, heart hammering in your chest. Sliding down until you sit with your back pressed against the cool wood, you cover your flushed face with shaking hands. Your pulse thunders in your ears, mixing with the replay of his sleepy voice, the fleeting touch of his warmth.

Is this really the past? The question festers, tugging at the edges of logic, but the ache in your chest and the rawness of your emotions tell you it is. And if so, this year holds one horrifying certainty: Jake’s death.

The mere thought twists something deep inside you, bringing back the soul-crushing grief, the endless nights of regret. You glance down at your wrist, breath catching as your eyes lock on the ink-black date that marks it: November 4th. The day Jake dies.

Frantically, you rub at the skin, as if the stubborn mark will simply smudge away under your touch. But it doesn’t. The date remains, stark and immovable, taunting you.

A shiver crawls up your spine, but then a thought—a glimmer of defiance—roots itself.

What if you change it? What if this was given to you, not as a cruel joke, but a chance to rewrite what went so terribly wrong? To love him in a way you never did and save him from the fate that once tore your entire world apart.

“I can do this,” you whisper, determination threading into your voice. The regret may have once paralyzed you, but now it fuels you. If you only have until that date, then every second will be spent fighting fate, no matter how impossible it seems.

THE SOFT MURMUR OF THE COUPLE’S CONVERSATION DRIFTS DOWN THE STERILE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR, brushing against your ears like a whispered secret. The woman lies propped against crisp white pillows, her leg encased in a cast, eyes fixed on her partner with a blend of exhaustion and comfort. He leans forward, fingers interlaced with hers, voice low and tender.

“Can you please see what's wrong?” he asks, eyes glistening with concern. He gently squeezes her hand, words spilling out as quiet reassurances. “You're doing so well, love. It's going to be okay.”

A tight warmth coils in your chest as you approach, a familiar pang of bittersweetness shadowing the sight. The love, the unwavering devotion-it's moments like these that remind you why you cherish your job. The fragility of life, held together by threads of connection, has always moved you, even when those threads unraveled in your own life.

When you started nursing, blood was your greatest fear, the sight once enough to turn your stomach. Time had softened those edges, transforming anxiety into steady resolve. It was also during those early years when you married Jake, the man whose smile was warm enough to banish shadows but whose presence now only haunted your memories. The marriage had lasted five years before everything shattered with the crash.

No. Stop. The thought rushes at you like a wave, cold and suffocating. You grit your teeth, eyes burning as you push it down, push him down, refusing to let the grief claw at you. He's alive here, in this fragile present you've been thrust into. Don't let the past bleed into now.

“Sure,” you say softly, the practiced smile you wear settling on your face. You reach out, fingers moving gently over the girl's cast, checking the edges, ensuring everything is as it should be. She nods in silent gratitude, eyes fluttering shut with relief as her partner exhales.

The end of your shift arrives with the deep hues of twilight stretching across the sky. The drive home is long, punctuated by the soft rumble of the engine and the anxious thrum of your thoughts. Your fingers drum against the steering wheel, tapping out a nervous rhythm. Avoid home, your mind suggests, listing off a million errands you suddenly think of, any excuse to delay the inevitable.

But the excuses run dry when you're standing in front of your door, keys cold against your palm. The air outside is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you draw a deep breath and hold it. The weight of the morning—Jake's sleepy, questioning eyes and the ghost of your impulsive words-hangs between you and the door.

“Is it too late to back down?” The whisper escapes your lips, trembling in the chilly silence. You picture his expression, the puzzled furrow of his brow as he replayed your words. The way his fingers brushed over his phone, gaze lifted just in time to see you flee. He isn't stupid. Jake never was.

With a sigh, you slip the key into the lock, the click loud and final. The door opens, and warmth spills out to meet you, along with the faint scent of his cologne. Your pulse quickens as you step inside, the hum of your heartbeat louder than the quiet creak of the floor under your weight.

Don't run, you tell yourself, even as the urge coils tight in your muscles. You close the door behind you.

As you push open the front door, the faint glow of the television casts flickering shadows across the living room. There he is-your husband, Jake, reclined on the couch, eyes fixed intently on the news. His brows knit slightly as a montage of suited politicians gestures on screen, their voices droning promises as hollow as a whisper in the wind.

He is basically watching those politicians give some weird and untrue promises for the sake of votes.

How romantic. How normal. The bitter thought twists in your chest. But it isn't. Nothing about this is normal. Why would he be watching the news, of all things? Then, a pang of irony hits you like a wave. How hypocritical, you think. You promised Jake your forever in a ceremony that now feels like an echo. The vows shared between you had been spoken out loud but never truly lived.

You shake the memory away, an old wound you refuse to pick at as you step inside, the floor cool under your feet. Jake doesn't notice you at first, his attention locked on the screen, oblivious to the fact that the person who left him a note asking for space now stands in the doorway, wrestling with the tension roiling inside her.

“Hey,” you finally say, the word falling between you like an anchor. It comes out awkward, unsure, a fragile hope that he won't read too much into it. But Jake's eyes flick to yours, a spark of recognition cooling to something unreadable.

“You're back home?” His voice is measured, neither warm nor cold, but there's a tightness to it that you can't ignore. He shifts, the blue glow of the screen catching the sharp line of his jaw as he waits for your response.

The note. You had slipped it into his hand, asking for a break from a marriage four years deep but hollow. Your heart thuds in your chest, fingers clenched at your side as you speak before fear can pull the words back.

“The note-I take it back. I don't want a break from you or this relationship, Jake.”

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the low hum of the news anchor's voice. His eyes search yours, a hint of disbelief darkening the warm brown you once memorized. “Why?” The question slices through the quiet, clipped and cautious. You almost flinch at the hardness there, a wall built brick by brick in your absence.

“Because I don't want to stay away from you.” Your voice trembles, raw honesty exposed between you like an open wound. Jake's eyes widen slightly, the stoic mask cracking as a flush creeps across his cheeks.

“Y-You're blushing?” The soft, astonished laugh tumbles out of you, a momentary break in the storm that makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of something new. The corners of his mouth twitch, the faintest sign of a smile, but he shakes his head.

“No, I'm not. I'm just... cold,” he mutters, the lie transparent.

“Sure, sir. You're just cold.” You chuckle, sinking onto the floor beside the couch, knees drawn up as you hug them close. The laughter is sharp, almost giddy, the sound foreign in the room that has held so many silences.

Jake watches you, confusion settling into his features, the red on his cheeks fading as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You're acting weird,” he murmurs, the words half swallowed, uncertain.

“How am I acting weird if I'm seeing my husband show some attraction to me, which isn't platonic, for the first time?” The jest slips out, tinged with sincerity, but it brings a hush over both of you. The truth stands stark between you, glaring and painful. For a moment, neither of you speak, each of you weighed down by memories, by the heavy knowledge of what's been lost and what still aches to be found.

But determination flares in your chest, a stubborn warmth. So what if love had been absent before? So what if promises were half-kept and hearts guarded? You could start again. You could relearn how to be two flawed people willing to try. Your gaze meets Jake's, the hope in your eyes unyielding.

Don't let go, you silently plead. Let this be the start of something real.

Jake clears his throat, a subtle attempt to dissolve the tension settling over the living room like a blanket too heavy to lift. His fingers fidget, running nervously over the seam of the couch as he shifts his gaze downward. There you are, still seated on the floor, legs tucked to one side, eyes catching the soft glow from the TV. Cute, he thinks, the word rolling silently through his mind, too heavy with unsaid truths to speak aloud.

“So...” The word escapes him, thin and unfinished, hovering in the air. His eyes flit over your face, searching for a reaction. The awkwardness clings to the silence, but you don't falter.

“So?” you echo, your tone a notch steadier, holding the slight tremor that betrays your effort. You lean forward just slightly, a gesture that feels braver than it is. If courage could rewrite fate, you'd wield it now, not just for yourself, but for him. For Jake, who might not know the sharp edge of reality that's cut you.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side where the blue light paints his profile in soft, wavering lines. “You know... Semi's birthday is next week.” His words stumble, trailing off as if second-guessing their own existence. But you aren't in the dark. You know exactly what this moment leads to.

“Yes, I'd love to go shopping for gifts for her,” you respond, your voice quick and practiced. His eyes widen, caught off guard, the surprise stark against his usual composed expression. The tension in his jaw slackens, and he blinks, unsure if he heard you right.

“Excuse me?” He stares at you, the faint crease between his brows deepening.

“Isn't that what you were about to ask?” You tilt your head slightly, a small smile playing at your lips, testing him. He hesitates, realizing that denial means trouble, but his face softens into a relieved kind of acceptance.

“No, no... of course. You could... accompany me to shop for Semi's birthday presents.” His voice picks up, the uncertainty lifting as he finds the path back to normalcy. He notices your smile widening, the tension slipping just enough to let him breathe.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow, husband.” The word slips from you, unbidden, laced with a warmth that surprises even you as you turn on your heel. You make your way toward the guest room, feet padding softly against the floor. Jake's brows knit again, eyes following your form until you pause, hand on the frame of the doorway.

“Why are you heading to the guest room?” His question is quick, a thread of confusion laced with something else-something vulnerable.

“Because we sleep apart, and I wouldn't want my husband's back to break on that stiff, rough bed. The sheets aren't even comfortable,” you say, voice light but with an edge that dares him to react. You step into the room, but glance over your shoulder with eyes that glimmer, a playful smirk pulling at your lips. “Besides, I'd rather you break your back or get tired doing me than struggling on a bed.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide with stunned silence as the door closes between you. Jake sits back, eyes fixed on the now-empty hallway, replaying the moment in disbelief. The wife who barely spoke above a whisper at their wedding, who tiptoed through years of silence, had just turned the tables with a single teasing line. His pulse hammers beneath the stillness.

What on earth just happened?

“ARE YOU TELLING ME Y/N JUST TURNED INTO A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON?” Jay's voice, casual yet curious, echoes through the phone. He's speaking to Jake, who shifts from foot to foot, eyes glancing around the boutique as he waits for you to finish picking out a dress for his niece. The sound of soft music drifts around him, mixing with murmurs of other shoppers.

“Exactly that!” Jake's voice comes out louder than intended, drawing looks from the store's staff. A woman in a sleek uniform, brows raised in disapproval, approaches with a pointed glare.

“Sir, please keep your voice down or refrain from talking altogether,” she says, sternly but professional.

Jake's ears burn as embarrassment blooms across his face. “Yeah, I'm sorry” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Through the phone, Jay's laughter rings clear and unapologetic. “You seriously got told off by staff? Man, you're killing me!” Jay's chuckles fade into a smirk that Jake can practically hear. Jay's the same as he's always been-playful, relentless, the older brother who teases but listens when it counts.

“Fine, fine, I'll stop. Tell me what you mean by Y/N changing, just... keep it PG, will you?” Jay's tone is teasing, but curiosity laces through.

Jake's jaw tightens, eyes scanning the store for you as if your sudden return would put him on the spot. “There's nothing intimate going on between us,” he blurts, the words a knee-jerk reaction. His chest tightens with the memory of you resting your hand on him in your sleep last week, the way warmth had crept through him then. He clears his throat. “I mean, she's talking to me more, being... sweet. She listens. It's almost... submissive.”

“I told you, no bedroom details!” Jay chimes in, sarcasm sharp enough to make Jake's teeth clench.

“THIS IS NOT A BEDROOM DETAIL!!!” Jake retorts, frustration coloring his tone. It earns him another hard look from the store associate across the room, who pointedly glances over her glasses. Jake sighs and mouths an apology again, shoulders drooping as he lowers his voice.

“What I mean is, she's more... attentive. She's not arguing as much. It's like she's listening to me for the first time.”

Jay's voice softens, just a hint of seriousness slipping through. “Isn't that how she always is with others?”

“Yeah, with everyone else. Just not with me,” Jake admits, the admission heavy with a history neither of them mention.

“Interesting.” Jay's reply is contemplative, but before he can say more, Jake's voice interrupts, distorted through the line. “Oh shoot, she's coming back. I'll call you later.”

As the call ends, Jake pockets his phone, glancing up just in time to see you walking back with a smile. Jay, on the other side of the city, sets his phone down, a smirk playing at his lips as he thinks of sharing this tidbit with his wife later. Whatever was happening between his brother and sister-in-law, it was about to get even more intriguing.

On the other side, Jake stands, a mixture of amusement and curiosity on his face as you hold up a tiny pink dress. It's perfectly frilly, fit for a little girl. But all he can think is how charming it would look in a size for you—a thought that makes him shake his head, realizing how ridiculous it sounds.

“So, what do you think? Should I get this for Semi?” you ask, eyes sparkling with anticipation. There's already a growing collection of clothes for his niece in your arms, a reminder of how you've embraced being part of his family.

“Are you getting all of them?” he asks, more out of shock than judgment. He never imagined children's clothes could come with such hefty price tags.

“Yes, why? Is this too much? I can cover it if—”

Before you can finish, he interrupts, affronted. “I'll pay. It's for my lady, after all.”

The statement hangs in the air, not romantic as he'd intended but awkward, making your brows twitch slightly. You resist the urge to grimace, forcing a polite smile instead.

A staff member, the same one who had shushed Jake earlier, walks over with an unimpressed expression, exchanging a silent, almost comic glare with him. She gave Jake a look that said 'you're weird and I don't want to talk to you'

'what have I ever done to you' was the look that Jake presented back to the staff before she looked away. You glance between them, slightly confused. Then Jake clears his throat, moving the conversation forward.

“Do you have a similar dress in a bigger size?” His voice drops to almost a whisper. He feels self-conscious asking, but the idea has stuck.

The staff member blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?” She tilts her head, uncertain if she heard right.

“Yeah, do you have something like this,” Jake gestures at the dress in your hands, “but, you know, for an adult?” A flush of red creeps across his cheeks as he points to you. The staff member nods after a moment, walking off to search, while you stand there stunned, watching her go.

“Why are you buying something for me? Semi’s dress is already pricey. A woman's size will be—”

“It's just a dress,” he interrupts with a small sigh, eyes softening. “Think of it as a gift.”

“But today isn't anything special.”

“Maybe not. But I'd like to make it special,” he replies, voice lowering. “I haven't given you anything since our wedding. That was four years ago.” His words carry a quiet vulnerability as he looks at you, taller and more serious than you expect. You hold his gaze before shifting and mumbling a reluctant, “Fine,” looking away to hide the way your cheeks warm.

The staff returns holding a similar dress, but in an adult size. It's pink, short, and undeniably cute-something that looks a little too daring for your style.

“Will this do?” she asks.

“Absolutely not,” “hell yeah,” you and Jake say in unison. The staff's eyebrows raise as she turns to you, sensing you as the more level-headed one.

“We're not buying it,” you insist, giving Jake a look.

He doubles down. “We are.”

“Jake, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's too short!” you argue, exasperated. He shrugs, eyes softening as he counters, “It's knee-length. That's normal.”

With a dramatic sigh, you roll your eyes and give in. But you don't try it on in the store; the idea of wearing it in front of him makes your heart thud with a mix of nerves and embarrassment. After all, you've barely even shared a bed in weeks—how could you possibly show him a dress like that now?

JAKE’S HEART STOPS FOR A MOMENT AS HE TAKES IN THE SIGHT BEFORE HIM. You, standing in the baby pink dress that hugs your figure just right, with its soft fabric brushing just above your knees. The playful, shy smile you wear as you twirl slightly sends a wave of warmth through him. He never expected to see you like this; the reality strikes him so suddenly that it leaves him breathless.

The laughter of Semi fills the room as she runs around in her matching pink dress, giggling and pulling you along by the hand. The soft glow of the post-birthday celebration lights casts a golden hue, warming up the atmosphere in the living room. Jake sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on his knee as he watches you and Semi, his gaze softening with an emotion he hasn't felt in what seems like ages.

A gentle nudge breaks his trance, and he turns to see his mother looking at him with raised brows and a hopeful gleam. “When are you two going to have kids?” she asks, her voice light but laced with longing.

The air in the room shifts. You pause mid-spin, eyes darting to Jake with a look of surprise. This isn't part of the script of your past life; this question throws you off balance, the sudden attention making your heart race.

Jake's father, seated across with a glass of wine in his hand, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I think I'll be long gone before I see any grandchildren from this one,” he jokes, though the weight behind it is unmistakable. The statement slices through the room's cheerful mood, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Jake's jaw tightens, a subtle tension creeping up his spine. He wants kids too, he really does—but not in a house that feels as unstable as theirs has become.

Before he can respond, you surprise everyone, including yourself. “We're trying,” you say, the words slipping out with practiced ease, even as your pulse pounds. The room freezes, all eyes turning toward you in shock.

Jake's eyebrows lift in silent question, but he plays along, shifting to put on an unreadable expression. He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he covers the uncertainty boiling beneath. The room shifts back into a mixture of excitement and surprise.

“Is that true? You're both trying?” Jake's mother's eyes glisten, her hope rekindled as she looks between you and her son.

“Really?” Jake's father echoes, leaning forward, his earlier sarcasm replaced by genuine interest.

Jay, standing near the fireplace, furrows his brow, lips parting in disbelief. Only last week, Jake had confided in him about how distant and weird things had become between you two.

Jake forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah... we've been trying for a while.” The lie feels heavy in his mouth, and he shoots you a look that says, Why'd you lie about that?

Your sister-in-law, Jieun, raises her hand, pointing at you with wide eyes. “Since when?” she blurts out, unable to contain her shock.

Jake stutters, “It's been a-a month,” the answer sounding rehearsed yet shaky. He glances at you again, his eyes pleading for an explanation that won't come.

The conversation quickly shifts into an excited buzz, with well-meaning wishes from your in-laws filling the air. You catch Jake's gaze, and despite the tight-lipped smile you give the family, there's a flicker of humor in your eyes. The absurdity of it all makes you want to laugh.

You both know the truth: the notion of trying for a child is impossibly far from reality.

Heck, it was funny for you to watch.

You were still a virgin. You two didn't even kiss more than once in those four years and they expect a baby to suddenly pop out of you?

And once the party winds down, you find yourself sitting on the couch with Semi by your side. Her wide, curious eyes shine with excitement as she swings her legs back and forth. At just four years old, she's a bundle of endless questions and innocent wonder.

You smile, reaching over to gently ruffle her soft, dark hair. “Does the birthday girl like her dress?” you ask, voice playful.

Semi beams, glancing down at the pink ruffled dress with pride. “It's so pretty,” she chirps, then looks up at you with a thoughtful expression. “But yours is prettier. You always look pretty, Aunty.”

Your heart melts, and you chuckle softly. “Aww, you learned how to give compliments, huh?” you tease, watching as her cheeks turn rosy and she averts her gaze to fiddle with her fingers.

“Aunty!” she whines, wanting you to stop teasing. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans in closer and motions for you to do the same. With a curious tilt of your head, you move closer, letting her whisper into your ear. “Will you eat a baby to have a baby?” she asks, voice so serious it makes you freeze for a moment.

You stifle a laugh, your eyes crinkling at the edges. Gently cupping her cheek, you whisper back, “No, sweetie. That's not how it works. But that's grown-up stuff, and we don't talk about it now, do we?”

Semi giggles, her little fingers playing with a toy she received from her grandmother. The sight makes your chest tighten in a bittersweet way. You can almost picture your mother-in-law doting on a future child, fussing over toys and tiny clothes. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, making you shake your head lightly as if to dispel the image.

But a small part of you can't help but smile at the idea, a blush rising to your cheeks. The dream is distant, almost unreachable, and not yet yours to claim.

When you and Jake step out into the cold night, the air nips at your exposed legs below your knees. The dress he had picked out for you, delicate and pastel pink, offers little warmth, and the heels are beginning to pinch with every step. You trail behind him, taking careful, aching strides to avoid twisting your ankle.

Jake notices, stopping suddenly to turn toward you, eyes scanning your shivering frame. “What’s wrong?” His gaze softens as he realizes how exposed you are, legs trembling from the chill. Without hesitating, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. The sudden warmth is welcome, but your teeth still chatter as you mutter, “Wish I had something covering my legs instead.”

He exhales, half exasperated, half amused, before a wry smile forms. “Should I carry you like a princess? You’d be warm then.”

Surprised, you bite back a retort, matching his teasing tone with confidence. “Maybe you should.”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, stunned. “Wait, what?”

“Chill, I was just joking,” you mumble, looking down at the ground. But before you know it, he’s stopped again, this time dropping to one knee. Your eyes widen in shock. “WHAT THE HELL?” you blurt out, stepping back in reflex, heat rising to your cheeks at the unexpected gesture. (more so because you believed he was trying to look up your dress)

Jake looks up, mildly annoyed but patient. “I’m helping you,” he says simply. Before you can argue, he pulls out a pair of slippers from a little carry bag he had brought from home. The realization hits, softening your expression as he glances up. “Lift your leg.”

You comply, feeling foolish for your earlier outburst. He slips the heels off your feet and replaces them with the soft slippers, careful and precise as if proving he has no ulterior motive. The chill in the air suddenly seems less biting.

“You had these the whole time?” you ask, voice softer now, eyes wide with realization. He places the heels into the carry bag, stands up, and meets your gaze with a smirk.

“Yeah. Thought you might need them,” he says, a hint of smugness in his tone. You’re about to thank him when he reminds you with a mock-accusing look, “And you were ready to accuse me of being a pervert.”

The memory makes you feel small, but you muster a sheepish, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, a touch of amusement in his eyes as the two of you start walking again, your steps now confident and comfortable. His jacket around your shoulders holds a warmth that seems to seep straight to your heart.

“So...” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence, the question you've been dreading finally arriving. “Why did you lie about... us trying for a baby?” His tone is cautious, probing.

You sigh, the answer already clear in your mind. “It was the only way to get them to stop bothering us,” you admit. A pause follows, your gaze flitting up to meet his. You don’t dare to say more, not with your secret burden looming—coming from a future where he is no longer alive and your mission is to keep him safe.

Jake hums in agreement, the tension easing a bit. “I can’t argue with that.” A comfortable silence settles between you, only broken by the sound of your footsteps. He glances at you again and asks, “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Relief flashes across his face before he reaches out, taking your hand and leading you forward. The two of you approach a small, tucked-away restaurant, its sign faded but familiar. Jake’s eyes light up. “You have to try the cold coffee from that café across the street,” he points out, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

You nod, memories flickering back. His odd, endearing preferences were things you never forgot. “Fish curry with plain rice and some shrimp on the side?” you guess, eyes twinkling with recognition.

Jake’s head snaps to you, surprise clear as day. He stares, a laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “Since when did you start memorizing my favorites?”

You had heard about his fav things to eat from your brother in law, Jay. But Jake never said it to you himself so the boy was pretty much stunned when you literally memorised them, as if you were waiting to flex this whole time.

You offer a small, knowing smile. “I have my ways.”

The waiter arrives promptly with your orders, and the rich aroma fills the space between you and Jake. He takes a bite, but pauses, eyes drifting to you with a soft, contemplative expression. “We’ve never done this before…” he murmurs, his tone a mix of realization and gentle amusement.

You tilt your head, savoring a piece of shrimp. “You mean this date?” you ask, half-smiling.

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean,” he replies, taking a moment before continuing, as if gathering the courage. “I like it. I like how we are now.” He takes a sip of water, and the way he watches you is tender, raw. His hand slides across the table to rest over yours, fingers warm against your skin.

“I don’t know what changed, but I…” He hesitates, eyes locking with yours, a profound intensity that silences you. “I like how we’re not avoiding each other anymore, how we talk instead of fighting over every little thing.”

The sincerity in his words pierces through you, tugging at memories of a future where his absence left a hollow ache in your chest. The pain you’d carried, the distance, the loss—all of it feels heavy in this moment, but now, something else unfurls within you. An unexpected warmth that swells as his thumb brushes over your knuckles.

He draws in a shaky breath. “I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes, maybe too many, and that’s why we kept drifting apart in those four years we were married. But I want us to stay like this. Is that too much to ask for?” His voice cracks, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The depth of emotion he shows takes your breath away, and your vision blurs as your own tears spill over. The raw honesty in his confession reaches a part of you that had long been buried under grief and guilt. But this isn’t grief—it’s something different, a warmth that wraps around you and fills the spaces that loss once consumed.

“Jake…” you whisper, voice trembling. He blinks rapidly, tears tracing paths down his cheeks as he tries to manage a laugh, a hand lifting to wipe at his face. “Did I go too overboard?” he chuckles, awkwardly, brushing his fingers over yours, an attempt to ease the intensity.

But you can’t answer with words, your heart too full. Instead, you wipe your own tears away, watching him as he takes a deep breath and resumes eating, eyes still red-rimmed, his emotions raw and vivid between you. The silence that follows is... a little satisfying this time around. Your chest tightens, and you realize this feeling—this unexpected, overwhelming tenderness—is the spark you hadn’t felt in what feels like forever.

The confession... It did something to you. It made you feel things or you believed so.

You reach for his hand, this time without hesitation, and hold on as if anchoring both of you to this moment. A shared glance tells him everything you can’t yet put into words: you’re here, with him, and for now, that’s enough.

AS THE DAYS PASSED FOLLOWING THAT UNEXPECTED DINNER, a subtle shift had occurred between you and Jake. It had been a month since then, and despite your hectic lives—you, a dedicated nurse, and him, an ambitious lawyer—something had changed. You continued to sleep separately, a necessity due to your conflicting schedules. Late nights saw you returning home to find Jake already asleep, and early mornings had him leaving before you awoke. This unspoken arrangement was born out of mutual respect for each other’s rest.

However, the reminder of the future haunted you. The date on your wrist, November 4th, hadn’t faded or smudged. It remained stark and vivid, a grim reminder of the fate you knew awaited Jake, filling you with silent dread.

Despite your busy lives, the dinner at that small restaurant had stirred something unspoken between you. A shared tenderness had taken root, and in the brief pauses between work, you found yourself drawn to those moments that whispered of possibilities—moments that spoke of a bond that hadn’t existed before.

The room feels charged with an unspoken tension as you stand there, watching Jake. The question slips from your lips, “Are we sleeping separately again?” masking the tremble in your voice with an attempt at confidence. Jake’s eyes meet yours, an amused smile playing on his lips as he tilts his head. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks, casual yet knowing.

You stammer, trying to find an answer that won’t reveal how vulnerable you feel. “No—yes—but—” The uncertainty in your voice makes him chuckle softly, the sound sending warmth through your chest. The realization of your feelings for him washes over you again, clear and inescapable.

“It’s normal to want to sleep with your husband. Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly. His tone is light, yet there’s an edge of tenderness as he turns and walks to the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, looking back with an expectant eyebrow raise, and you follow.

Inside, the dim light casts soft shadows. The atmosphere feels different tonight, heightened by the realization that, while you’ve shared this space before, this moment feels profoundly intimate. He hesitates for a moment, the usual playful confidence in his manner replaced by a quiet consideration.

Should he lie down first?

Wait for you?

Or speak?

“You don’t need to worry. I won’t touch you unless you want me to. We could even put a pillow between us if you prefer,” he says in a rush, trying to ease the tension. But his words leave you both flushed. You respond, flustered yet honest, “No—you can touch me—I mean...”

Jake’s eyes widen, and a surprised silence falls over you both, broken only by your slightly quickened breaths.

Finally, you break it, murmuring, “So... do we sleep?” You wish the dim light hides your expression, but Jake’s shifting on the bed signals that he’s as unsettled as you are. He lies down first, and you follow, settling into the bed with a space that feels simultaneously too close and too distant.

Minutes pass as the darkness deepens around you. You’re aware of every sound, every breath he takes, and the slight rustle of sheets as you both try to find comfort. The knowledge that he’s staying dressed out of respect doesn’t escape you, and neither does the chill that seeps through the room, despite the blanket. It’s enough to make sleep elusive, even as your heart drums with quiet, unspoken hope.

The air feels thick with tension as neither of you can fall asleep, despite the dim light and the shared silence. Jake gently sits up, his voice breaking the stillness. “I’ll get changed into my night clothes—this is uncomfortable. You should get changed too,” he suggests. His words are practical, but they stir a shyness inside you. The thought of wearing shorts around him makes you feel self-conscious, though the blanket and darkness give you some comfort.

With a deep breath, you agree. You grab your oversized top and shorts, retreating to the bathroom to change. When you return, Jake is already asleep, dressed in a soft T-shirt and shorts. His peaceful expression makes a pang of guilt settle in your chest. You feel both relief and unease at the same time, knowing he’s so close yet so far away.

You lie there, tense in the stillness of the night. Jake’s hand lands instinctively on your stomach, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt through you. You hold your breath, carefully shifting his hand away. Just when you think you're safe, his leg shifts under the blanket, pressing gently between your legs. A rush of heat floods your chest as you gently push his leg away, silently exhaling in relief.

In the quiet, you watch him sleep. His messy hair, a small trail of drool escaping his lips—something inside you stirs. Without thinking, you bring your thumb to wipe away the drool, brushing it lightly against your shirt. You stare at him for a moment, your heart racing in ways you can’t fully understand.

For Jake though,

He wakes to find you so close, your noses nearly touching. A small breath escapes him as he pulls back, but then he notices your body, curled into him—one of your legs and arms wrapped around him, as if clinging to his warmth to escape the cold. You’re nestled so comfortably against his chest, and though a small part of him wants to get up, he finds himself content in the moment.

He stares at you, watching as he slips his fingers through your hair, the quiet intimacy settling around him like a comforting blanket. When you stir, half-awake, he expects you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you bury yourself further into his chest, and he smiles, a little amused by your unconscious need for closeness.

“Morning... Baby,” he says softly, though he’s hoping you’ll move just enough for him to slip out of bed.

“Morningg,” you murmur, nuzzling his chest. He notices how you don’t seem to mind the nickname, a small sign that you’re still in that dreamy, sleepy state. He wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to disturb you, so he asks, “Can you move a bit, baby?”

You barely stir, your arms and legs still tangled with his. “Too cold,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I know, baby. I’ll turn the heater on for you, is that good?” he whispers, his voice tender. He’s careful not to wake you fully, knowing you won’t even remember this when you wake up.

An hour later, you wake up alone in the bed, the soft comforter still wrapped around your legs. You stretch and yawn, rubbing your eyes, only to hear the door creak open. Jake stands there, a plate in hand—an omelette and a fruit salad. You blink, unsure if you’re still dreaming, and pinch your cheek, just to make sure this isn’t some figment of your imagination.

“What's that?” you ask, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Breakfast in bed,” Jake says with a playful grin, setting the plate down in front of you.

“For me?” you ask, surprised and touched.

“Who else?” he replies with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“Why...?” You blink at him, unsure of why he's being so considerate, so affectionate.

“Why not?” he answers, teasing, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.

You stare at the food in front of you, but the nerves kick in. “Well, uhm... I haven’t brushed.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures, waving off your concerns.

“No, it’s not. It’s gross. I do care about germs,” you argue, a bit embarrassed. Before he can say anything else, you rush off to brush your teeth, feeling a little self-conscious. You quickly freshen up, brushing your teeth with the toothpaste, hoping that’ll help with the lingering awkwardness.

When you return, you take a bite, and the emotion hits you harder than you expect. You don’t quite know why, but the tenderness of his gesture fills you with gratitude, and a soft lump forms in your throat.

“Why?” you ask again, your voice shaky, as you sip some water. The question has been swirling in your mind ever since you saw him standing there, holding that plate.

“Hm?” he hums, genuinely confused, not fully understanding why you're so emotional.

“Why are you being so nice... and romantic?” You wince after speaking, regretting your words, but you can't take them back now.

Jake tilts his head, his smile fading slightly. “Like I said a month ago... I meant those words. I want us to stay like this... And not go back to how it was in those four years.. Are we really that immature to let it happen again? ” The vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard, and for a moment, you can see the hurt in his eyes.

It's raw, honest, and you feel a knot twist in your chest, not having a reply to his genuine question.

THE DAYS AND MONTHS THAT FOLLOW ARE UNEXPECTEDLY TENDER, filled with moments that remind you of what being husband and wife is meant to feel like. The shared smiles, lingering touches, and quiet mornings are sweeter than they have ever been, and for the first time in a long while, peace seems attainable. Yet, there is an undercurrent that stirs beneath it all—the date that looms, casting a shadow over your contentment.

November 4th.

With the month drawing nearer, your heart starts to tighten with an anxious grip. Paranoia seeps into the quiet moments, the fear of what November 4th could mean—what it has meant in the past—makes the days feel more fragile. Your mind races, replaying scenarios and doubts that you can’t shake off. Each sweet gesture, each kind word from him, is tinged with the knowledge that the date approaches, threatening to unravel everything you’ve rebuilt.

Jake’s expression is heavy with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes hinting at the long day he’s had. You offer, “I’ll heat up the dinner,” and turn toward the kitchen, but he stops you with a gentle grasp around your wrist. Before you can react, he pulls you back, pressing you against the wall. The soft strains of a romantic song drift from the living room, creating an intimate, almost fragile atmosphere.

He’s close—closer than usual—and you feel the warmth radiating from his body as well as the subtle scent of his cologne. The proximity sends your pulse racing.

“Jake?” you say softly, confusion lacing your voice as you look up at him. His face is unreadable, the dim lighting casting a shadow over the tired lines of his features. His eyes meet yours, carrying an unspoken emotion.

“Mm?” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if not to disturb the moment. His hands find their way around you, holding you securely against him, and he leans his chin on your head. The gesture feels protective, desperate even.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re seeking clarification or reassurance. His embrace tightens for a moment, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours as he takes a deep breath.

“Can you stop calling me Jake?” he says quietly, the request landing softly, yet weighted.

Surprise flashes through you. “What do you want me to call you?” you ask, voice muffled against his shirt. The question feels vulnerable, as if shifting something fundamental between you both.

“I don’t know... something like... baby, darling, honey... or anything,” he admits, a subtle flush spreading across his cheeks despite the solemn tone. You catch the shy dip of his eyes, and a faint smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re being quite demanding,” you tease, looking up into his face. His lips part slightly as he considers your words.

“This isn’t being demanding,” he counters, pausing just long enough for the silence to underline his meaning. His eyes search yours, raw and full of an unnamed plea. “I just want to spend my last months with you, thinking we’re just... normal. Like any other couple.”

His words sink in, bringing with them an ache that spreads through your chest. The silence that follows is heavy, laced with all the things unsaid and the truth that’s pressing in on both of you. You lift a hand, letting your fingers brush the hair at the back of his neck. His eyes soften, dark lashes casting shadows against his skin as he watches you.

There’s something fragile in this moment, a bittersweet understanding passing between you that makes your throat tighten. The future looms, uncertain and unkind, but for now, you’re here, held close, suspended in the tender present.

Jake’s voice lowers, a tremor in its depths that betrays the weight of his words. “You might not believe me, but... I come from a reality where I’m dead. So, I hope we can at least be nice to each other in my last moments. Can you do that?”

A stunned silence follows, your breath catching in your throat as his confession hangs in the air. You believe him; how could you not when you come from the same reality? Eyes widening, you step back, raising your wrist to show the dark, unerasable mark: November 4th. The ink-like number seems to pulse, a constant reminder of a fate that binds you both.

Jake’s eyes mirror your shock. He releases you, just enough to reveal his own wrist. There it is, the same haunting date. The mark seems alive, almost mocking, as if counting down with every heartbeat.

Neither of you speaks for a moment, the silence heavy with shared grief and realization. The next second, you’re in his arms again, your face buried in his chest as he pulls you close, his own face pressed into your hair. The world around you blurs, reduced to the rapid thumping of your heart and the warmth of his embrace.

“I... please don’t... leave me this time,” you plead, your voice breaking under the weight of your fear. The memory of finding him lifeless in the world you came from, the coldness of that reality, rushes back with a cruel force.

“I will try,” he whispers, his voice barely steady as he runs a hand down your back in a soothing gesture. “We changed the relationship, right? So maybe... just maybe, we can avoid death too.”

You both stand there, unmoving as the moment stretches out. It feels absurd, two souls transported from a fractured future, now clinging to each other in the present in a fragile hope. Yet the thought of letting go is unbearable, so you don’t. For now, the reality of the present is enough.

JAKE’S FINGERS TREMBLE SLIGHTLY AS HE HOLDS OUT THE SMALL BOX, A HINT OF NERVOUSNESS CREASING HIS BROW. “This is for you.” His voice is softer than usual, his eyes searching yours for a response. The box is familiar, a relic from the present you left behind, steeped in memories. Inside is the ancestral ring, one that Jake’s mother entrusted to you after his death—a token that held more value than any wedding ring could.

“I wasn’t... couldn’t give it to you before, but now... I’d like you to have it.” His voice is almost a whisper as he takes your hand, slipping the cool metal onto your finger. His touch lingers, warm and careful, as if anchoring the moment between you.

You look down at the ring, its delicate design catching the dim light and glistening softly. The weight of it brings back a rush of memories that mix grief with an unexpected warmth. Meeting his gaze, you let a small, genuine smile curve your lips. “Thank you. After you… I mean, after your death, your mother gave it to me,” you say, voice thick with the past, “but I’m glad it’s you giving it to me now.”

The way his eyes widen before softening speaks volumes—acceptance, regret, and hope, all blending seamlessly as he draws you closer.

Jake’s expression shifts, a soft smile forming as he leans in, his body pressing yours gently against the bedroom wall. His breath mingles with yours, warm and scented faintly with his cologne. His eyes trace your features, holding a glimmer of something tender and fragile. You raise a brow in playful defiance, a silent challenge, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. Without another word, he cups your face, his thumb grazing your cheek, and leans in until the space between you disappears.

The first touch of his lips is tentative, testing. A shiver races down your spine as his mouth moves with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter. Your eyes flutter open for a second, catching the serene expression on his face before closing again as you respond, deepening the kiss. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing in short, uneven gasps. The room is silent except for the soft crackle of a song playing somewhere in the background. Jake’s eyes open, and in them, you see a question—a hesitation laced with anticipation. “Do you want to go further?” His voice, barely above a whisper, holds a vulnerability that makes your pulse quicken.

You exhale softly, a hint of a smile teasing your lips as you match his boldness. “How far can you go?” The playful edge in your voice makes him chuckle, low and breathy.

“As far as you want to go.” The words are a promise, and before you can respond, his lips capture yours again, more confident this time, as his hand moves to the strap of your dress, gently sliding it off of your shoulders.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS PASS IN A COMFORTING CALM, the bond between you and Jake strengthening with each passing day. You're no longer weighed down by the regret of the past, but instead, you focus on cherishing the present. Yet, there's still a lingering unease.

Jake driving the car is something that continues to gnaw at you. It's not just a simple fear; it's the haunting memory of the future you came from, where that very action led to his tragic end. As November nears, the pressure builds. You look at the date on your wrist—November 4th—and the thought of losing him again, of it becoming reality, is too much to bear. Your chest tightens, and you feel a mix of helplessness and dread, hoping with every fiber of your being that this time, things will be different.

Jake offers a reassuring smile, the kind that tries to mask his own unease as he softly says, “Chill, I’ll be back in an hour, alright?” His hand moves up to gently smooth your hair, eyes soft with understanding as he takes in the worry etched across your face. You cling tighter to his arm, voice trembling as you ask, “Is it important?”

He nods, and the hopeful part of you crumbles. The instinct to keep him close, to refuse, is almost overwhelming. But before you can protest, he leans forward, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. His hands slip down to rest on your shoulders as he looks at you earnestly.

“I promise I’ll be back. Now, will my pretty wife give me a smile so I can come back even sooner?” The playful plea tugs at your lips, and despite the fear swirling inside, you manage a small, forced smile. He chuckles softly, ruffling your hair before turning to leave.

You trail behind him to the door, eyes glued to the taillights of his car as they fade down the street. The ache in your chest sharpens, and you glance down at the ancestral ring on your finger, tracing its smooth surface as if the touch alone could make your wish come true: Please, come back safely.

The minutes stretch painfully long, and every ten minutes, you can’t resist sending a text, the same anxious message: “If you’re okay, just send a heart emoji.” True to his word, Jake replies with a heart every time—until the fifty-minute mark.

The silence is deafening. Your heart thunders as you stare at your phone, willing the screen to light up. Nothing. The dread coils tighter, stealing the air from your lungs. You take a shaky breath, but it barely settles you. Panic sets in, and you hit the call button. The phone doesn’t connect; the ring tone never plays. Your chest tightens.

In desperation, you call Jay, your brother-in-law. His voice is laced with confusion as he picks up. “Jay, is Jake with you?” The silence that follows your frantic question only amplifies your fear. “No, why? What’s going on?” he asks, suddenly serious. Before you can answer, he cuts the call, sensing the urgency and attempting to help in any way he can.

The next hour drags like an eternity, your anxiety swallowing every rational thought. You pace the room, eyes darting to the clock, phone clenched in your shaking hand. Then, after what feels like a lifetime, you hear the distant purr of an engine. Your pulse stutters as Jake’s car comes into view, whole and unharmed.

But you don’t relax. Not until you see him. The door swings open, and there he is, frustration etched into his features as he steps inside. Your breath catches, relief and anger colliding within you.

Jake's expression softens as he speaks, keeping his voice low despite the frustration. “Why’d you call Jay over something like this? My phone died while I was working. I charged it and got caught up in the case. It’s embarrassing.”

Your eyes well up, the weight of worry turning to a sting of hurt. “So? It’s not important?” Your voice wavers, raw with emotion. “I was terrified, Jake! I didn’t want to lose you again. Sorry for being the clingy wife you’re ashamed of.”

Turning to leave, you barely make a step before he’s there, blocking your path. His eyes search yours, but instead of a defensive remark, he pulls you close, enveloping you in an embrace that tells you more than words could. His arms tighten, anchoring you to him as he murmurs in your ear, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s strange, but I promise I won’t say that again, okay?”

His breath is warm against your hair as he leans his cheek on your head, his heartbeat steady against your own erratic one. Despite the tension, you sense his understanding, a silent acknowledgment of your fear. He’s learning to hold your worry without judgment.

“I was so scared, Jake. I thought I’d lose you all over again.” Your voice cracks, and he feels the tremor in your body. He wants to say the right thing, anything to soothe the tremble in your words, but all he can do is hold you tighter.

Both of you are haunted by that date imprinted on your wrists, “November 4th.” A reminder that looms like an uninvited shadow, a constant whisper of what could happen.

THE DAY ARRIVES, a heavy silence filling the air between you and Jake. His promise lingers like a protective shield around you both: he won’t drive, he won’t leave. His presence is a balm for the fear that pulses in your chest. As the two of you snuggle on the couch, the soft glow of the TV playing a rom-com, you turn to him with a worried look, your voice low and unsure.

“What if something bad happens while we’re in the house?” you whisper, nuzzling into his warmth. The thought of losing him, of the world continuing without him, feels unbearable.

Jake shifts, his arm wrapping tighter around you as he looks down at you, his breath warm against your neck. “Nothing will happen. And if it does, I’ll protect you,” he assures, his tone strong and sure, though his own heart is heavy. He knows how much your fear weighs on you, and he wants to shoulder it for you.

But the thought of you living without him—he can’t imagine it. He brushes your hair from your face gently, his voice a soft promise. “I love you too much for that.” His words come out naturally, like it’s something he’s been holding back but feels right now to say. It’s the first time you hear him say it, and the weight of those words floods your heart with warmth, knowing this is real.

“I get it. I won’t put my life at risk,” he murmurs, though there’s a quiet uncertainty in his words, an unspoken truth that he would never let anything harm you—even at the cost of his own safety.

You glance up at him, your lips pressing together in a worried frown. “You better not,” you mumble, not able to let go of the fear completely. You’ve spent the whole day together, in the safety of your home, trying to ignore the impending dread that the date will pass and nothing will change. Watching TV, cooking together, each small moment a reminder of how much he means to you—and how fragile life can be.

You curl up closer to him, as if physically wrapping yourself around him can keep him safe. Your eyes glance at the clock, the seconds ticking by too slowly. Every moment spent together now feels like a treasure, and you want to hold on to it forever.

The two of you lie in bed, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a gentle warmth over your forms. His hand rests tenderly over yours, fingers interlocking. He watches you as you sleep, your face relaxed, peaceful. A quiet whisper escapes his lips: “I love you.” His eyes linger on your peaceful expression, your other arm still clinging to him as if you’re unwilling to let go even in sleep.

He leans over to turn off the lamp, and then his gaze falls to his wrist—where the date once was. It’s gone. A wave of disbelief washes over him. The tension that has gripped him for so long begins to melt away. Perhaps it wasn’t an omen after all, but a reminder that after November 4th, a new chapter awaited them both.

He takes a deep breath, reaching for your wrist to find the same thing: no date. Relief floods him, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling you even closer into his arms, savoring the moment.

But he knows, as much as this moment feels like a new beginning, there will still be challenges ahead. The fear you carry about him driving is not something that will fade overnight. Your worry, rooted in a past he knows you can’t shake, will take time to heal. But for now, he holds you close, understanding, and promises silently that he’ll be patient, allowing you to find peace in your own time.

TWO MONTHS HAVE PASSED SINCE THE FATEFUL DATE, and though life has taken you and Jake through different stages, there’s an undeniable warmth between the two of you. Sitting at the family dinner table, surrounded by loved ones, the air is filled with laughter, conversation, and the quiet hum of joy.

Semi, now a cheerful five-year-old, eats her meal quietly, occasionally looking up with shy glances.

You glance over at Jake, noticing him take a deep breath as he prepares to speak, his hand resting on the table near yours. It’s clear he’s nervous, even though it’s just family. He clears his throat, the words finally tumbling out: “So… We’re having a baby.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Jake’s father scoffs, not giving him an ounce of reaction, while his mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, you can fool us one time, not twice,” she says, clearly referencing the last family dinner, where you had tried to casually mention trying for a baby, only for him to play along. He felt the blame was entirely on him, but you knew the truth—it was a team effort.

You chuckle softly to yourself, leaning into Jake’s side, your heart fluttering at the thought of a new life, a new chapter. He meets your gaze, his lips curving into a small smile, even amidst the teasing.

This moment, while filled with playful mockery, marks something deeper. You’re finally here together, stronger and more united than ever before. And this new adventure? It’s the start of a new journey that no one can take from you.

"Really, Y/n’s pregnant. We're having a baby," Jake says, his voice laced with excitement. His mother, skeptical, eyes you closely. "Is that true?"

Without waiting for Jake’s confirmation, you nod, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours beneath the table, his touch calming your nerves.

"I won’t hesitate to beat your ass if this is fake," his dad grumbles, irritation mixing with a hint of hope.

Jay, barely containing his amusement at the scene, watches the family react, while Jake proudly pulls out the ultrasound pictures, revealing the truth. His parents take turns looking at the images, jaws dropping in surprise. Jay, knowing already, can’t help but chuckle.

"Father was starting to question your masculinity. Glad you proved him wrong," Jay teases, earning a gentle nudge from Jieun, urging him to keep it light.

"Wait... So there’s a grandkid on the way?" Jake’s mother recovers first, grinning with hopeful excitement. Jake nods, and your heart swells at the thought of everything that's to come. This moment, this family, it feels like the beginning of something truly special.

Jake’s mother leans forward, still processing, but the excitement is slowly bubbling up. “A grandchild? Really? My little boy having a little one? I’m going to spoil that baby so much.”

Jake chuckles, glancing at you. “Well, you already spoil Semi enough, so I guess it’s fair.”

“Hey, I’m a great grandma-in-training,” she quips, giving Semi an affectionate pat. “But if you two need any advice, I’m here.”

Your heart swells seeing the warmth in her eyes. But then, Jake’s dad, clearly trying to keep his cool, mutters, “I’ll believe it when I see a baby in my arms.”

“You’ll see him,” Jake says, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Or her, right, Y/n?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment. “Definitely,” you whisper, feeling a rush of emotion.

Jay, still grinning, can’t help but poke at his younger brother. “So, what’s the plan, huh? You two gonna have one of those perfect Pinterest-worthy baby showers or just skip the whole thing?”

Jieun smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t make them nervous, Jay. Let them enjoy the moment.”

Jake laughs, looking over at you with that same loving gaze. “Honestly, I think we just need to take it one step at a time. But yeah, we’ll get there.”

“You know, when you have a baby, you’ll see just how much you need each other,” his dad says more seriously now, a rare moment of wisdom breaking through his tough exterior. “It’s not just about being a parent, it’s about being there for each other even more.”

Jake nods, his hand tightening around yours as if to say, “I’ve got you, always.”

The whole family seems to settle into a comfortable silence after that, everyone soaking in the news in their own way, but all of them sharing the same unspoken bond.

“Guess we’ll need one more chair for next time,” Jay jokes, breaking the silence, and everyone bursts out laughing.

You glance at Jake, his eyes full of joy, and your heart feels fuller than it ever has. There’s something about being surrounded by family—being with him—that feels right. “Yeah, we’ll need one more chair,” Jake agrees softly, his gaze drifting to the future, to the family that’s just beginning.

In the end, you and Jake had proven the vows true—til death do us part. Through all the challenges, fears, and moments of doubt, you had always found your way back to each other. The promises made, the trust built, and the love that had endured everything now stood as a testament to what you had together. With every touch, every shared laugh, and every quiet moment, you knew that no matter what, your hearts were bound—for life—and beyond.

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

❝ I dare you to say we're just friends again. ❞

sena’s note , this is how i imagine an argument with fwb hoon—just a random scenario that popped up so thought of writing and posting it 🥹 ⪩⪨ 1.2k words . . .

The rain pelts down, a relentless curtain of silver that soaks your clothes and plasters your hair to your face. Each drop feels like a cold reminder of the tears you’re barely holding back, mingling with the dampness on your cheeks. You’re not even sure why you’re crying—maybe it’s the fight, the sharp words exchanged with Sunghoon, or the way your heart twists painfully at the thought of him. You’re not his girlfriend, and he’s not your boyfriend, so why does it hurt this much?

A month ago, you stopped answering his texts. The “Wanna come over?” and “I miss you” messages that once set your skin ablaze with anticipation now sit unread, each one a pang of indifference you forced yourself to feel. His late-night “I wanna bury my face in that pussy so bad” used to make your thighs clench, but now it just feels… hollow.

You huddle under the awning of a small shop, cursing your luck. Of course, you forgot an umbrella—typical for a rainy season that’s as unforgiving as your own emotions. The street is a blur of hurried figures, their umbrellas bobbing through the downpour, when a familiar silhouette catches your eye. Sunghoon. His long strides falter as he spots you, and before you can duck away, he’s jogging across the street, his black umbrella cutting through the rain like a shield. He stops in front of you, tilting the umbrella to cover you both, and the sudden closeness makes your breath hitch. His scent—clean, musky, with a hint of the cologne he always wears—wraps around you, dizzying.

“Why?” His voice is low, laced with worry, his dark eyes searching your face. “Are you okay? You didn’t answer my calls, and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, like he’s holding back a flood of words. His gaze flickers over your soaked clothes, the way you’re shivering, and something softens in his expression, almost breaking your resolve.

You step back, out from under the umbrella, letting the rain hit you again. It’s easier to feel the cold than the warmth of his presence. “It’s okay, Sunghoon,” you murmur, voice barely audible over the patter of rain. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re just—”

“I dare you to say the word friends,” he snaps, cutting you off. His tone is sharp, almost desperate, and it stops you cold. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding as the rain drips from your chin. Your tears are one blink away from spilling, and you swallow hard, trying to hold it together.

“That’s what we are, Hoon!” you fire back, voice cracking as you step closer, uncaring of the curious glances from passersby. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? That’s all this ever was!” The words taste bitter, a lie that burns as it leaves your lips. You want to scream that it’s more, that it’s always been more, but the fear of rejection chokes you.

His eyes blaze, dark and intense, as he steps toward you, closing the gap. “Yeah? And you want to stay like that? Just friends?” His voice drops, rough with emotion, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the rain. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. Tell me you don’t think about me when you’re alone, touching yourself, wishing it was my hands, my mouth—”

“Stop it!” you gasp, your face flushing hot despite the cold. But he doesn’t stop. He steps closer, the umbrella tilting to shield you both again.

“I’ve never looked at another girl since we started this… whatever the fuck it is,” he says, his voice low and raw, like he’s peeling back layers he’s never shown you before. “Every time I’m inside you, when I’m kissing you, when I’m so deep in that perfect fucking pussy that you’re all I can feel—I say I love you, and I fucking mean it. Every. Single. Time.” His words hit like a shockwave, stealing your breath. Your heart stutters, heat pooling low in your belly as his confession sinks in, filthy and tender all at once.

You shove at his chest, your fist landing weakly against the hard planes of muscle beneath his jacket. “Just shut up!” you choke out, not because you’re angry at his words, but because the entire street seems to be watching, their eyes prickling on your skin. Your tears finally spill, hot and unstoppable, mixing with the rain. “Everyone’s staring, Hoon.”

He glances around, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he grabs your wrist, tugging you closer. “Let them stare,” he murmurs, but there’s a softness in his tone now, a plea. “I don’t care. I just need you to hear me.” His thumb brushes over your wrist, and the simple touch sends a jolt through you, your body betraying how much you still want him. “Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you don’t dream about me fucking you senseless, about me saying I love you while you’re coming undone around me.”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping as his words paint vivid, filthy images in your mind—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your skin, the way he fills you so completely it’s like he’s claiming you. Your thighs press together instinctively, and you know he notices, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smirk.

“Hoon…” you whisper, your voice trembling, torn between fear and the aching need that’s been eating at you for weeks. “What are we doing?”

He steps closer, so close his lips brush your ear, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “We’re done pretending this is just sex,” he says, and the words send a thrill through you, your body humming with want. “I want you—every part of you. The way you laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous, the way you come so fucking hard when I’m buried inside you, whispering how much I love you. I’m not letting you run from this anymore.”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

┊ ENHA AS ROMANCE TROPES , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, not sure if anyone did anything similiar to this before but I just wanted to give it a go [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

(📷) IDOL X FAN — You were waiting by the bus stop, when someone bumped into you. A guy in a hoodie, bucket hat pulled low, and a mask. “Wha—?” Before you could finish your sentence, you noticed a small group of girls hurrying in your direction, giggling and pointing. The guy beside you stiffened, eyes darting for an escape. You didn’t recognize him—not immediately. Acting on impulse, you stepped forward and looped your arm through his. “There you are! I waited way too long—seriously, looking like a celebrity’s not helping,” you joked, laughing like an old friend. His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t move. The girls slowed down, whispering among themselves. Then one said, “Nah, it’s not him. Just looks like heeseung.” The girls lost interest and walked away. You let go, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry—just thought you needed help.” Then, with a small bow of gratitude, he turned and walked off without saying anything. You stood frozen for a second—Your breath caught as you recalled the name. Wait. What if it was?

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

(👔) CEO X SECRETARY — Every time you stepped into his office, nerves danced beneath your skin. The scent of his cologne hit instantly—sharp, expensive, unforgettable—lingering in the air like him. Park Jongseong was composed to the point of coldness, with rolled sleeves, silver cufflinks, and eyes that never missed a thing. He looked like he belonged on the cover of every novel you secretly read. Today was no different. You walked in, clutching the file to your chest, eyes darting anywhere but him. “Do you have the papers?” His voice was low, precise—and paired with the slow way he adjusted his glasses, it sent your heart into a spiral. You nodded, a quiet, breathless “Yes, sir,” slipping out before you quickly turned to leave. Behind you, he glanced up from his desk, a rare curve to his lips. “You always run away like that?” And suddenly, your hands were shaking.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

(⭐) ACCIDENTAL ROOMMATES — you weren’t sure why, out of everyone, you had to be paired with Jake. You were supposed to have this tiny dorm to yourself—your peaceful little space, just the way you liked it. But because he showed up late, the housing office had no choice but to assign him to your room. So now, you were stuck. With him. “Can you move out of the way?” you huffed, trying to sweep the floor, broom in hand while Jake clumsily shifted the furniture with that signature goofy grin. At least he helped. But he didn’t follow your rules. He made ramen at midnight, threw on late-night movies, and insisted you stay up to watch every single one. He’d share snacks, laugh too loudly, and sometimes—without meaning to—fall asleep on your bed instead of his. You called him annoying. But he was warm. Loud. Kind. A golden retriever in human form. And then came that one morning. You woke up tangled in blankets—and him. His breath tickled your collarbone, and when you tried to move, he stirred. “Don’t go…” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

(🎭) FAKE DATING — You let out a quiet sigh as you sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes trailing after the boy everyone thought was your boyfriend. Park Sunghoon—golden boy of the football field, the one who made girls trip over their words and hearts. But none of this was real. It was just a deal. He needed a fake girlfriend to get his friends off his back, and you? You said yes because… why not? He was handsome and the attention was flattering. The curious stares, the whispers of “how did she pull him?” it was all a game. At least, that’s how it started. Until he began waiting for you after school. Offering his hand without thinking. Laughing over shared ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world. And one day, as the sky turned pink, he leaned in—eyes gentle, steps hesitant. “I—” you whispered just as his lips brushed yours. But the moment shattered when a friend’s voice rang out, teasing. You both pulled away, awkward smiles covering the silence. You told yourself it was part of the act. But your heart? It wasn’t pretending anymore.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

(☁️) CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS —You’ve known Sunoo since kindergarten. You were there when he cried over scraped knees, when he proudly showed off his glittery pencil box, and yes—even when he once peed himself during a school play. So naturally, you saw him like a brother… right? At least, that’s what you told yourself. But lately, things felt off. Your heart would flutter when he slung his arm around your shoulder—something he’s done for years. The warmth in his voice, the way he smiled at you… suddenly it all felt different. Too soft. Too much. You even looked it up one night: “Is it normal to fall for your best friend?” And then came that one quiet walk home, when he looked at you and said, “You’ve been acting weird lately.” your breath hitched. “Huh?” you couldn’t even meet his eyes—afraid they’d give everything away.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

(📚) LIBRARY CRUSH — You always sit across from him—the quiet boy everyone whispers about but never approaches. The library is almost always empty, tucked away from the noise of school life, and yet somehow, he’s always there. Same seat. Same calm focus. It becomes routine: your books, your highlighter… and stolen glances over the pages. They say girls fall over themselves for Yang Jungwon. You never cared. Not until he started making you stay longer—just by being there. One afternoon, you glance up and find his seat empty. Disappointed, you lower your book—only to turn and freeze. He’s standing behind you, one brow raised. “You always stare at people when they’re not looking?” Your breath catches. Your hands go clammy. “N-No—I mean, not people. Just…” He laughs softly. Then leans closer. “Then maybe next time, I should sit next to you instead.” And just like that, you’re gone in your dreamland, already thinking of a happily ever after together.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

(💢) ENEMIES TO LOVERS — No one really knows when it started—how you and Riki became that pair. The constant eye rolls, bickering in class, the way he always seems to be watching you... whether out of annoyance or something else, you never quite know. One day, half-joking, you nudge him and ask, “You into me or something? You keep staring.” He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a flicker in his gaze you don’t catch. What you don’t know is that behind your back, Riki’s grip tightens every time someone talks about you with anything less than respect. He doesn’t say a word—just makes sure they don’t do it again. Then one day, you overhear it. Someone muttering that Riki fought a guy for calling you “easy.” That night, when you ask him why, he shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I am into you. So, what about it?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[shortonwon]

STARLIGHT , l.hs !

╰┈➤ STARRING : music student ! heeseung x afab reader

೯⠀⁺ 𖥻 SYNOPSIS : In the magical bookshop, where books rearrange themselves and stars grant story recommendations, you, the keeper, meet heeseung, a shy music student seeking song inspiration. When he catches a mischievous muse star, it transforms the shop into whimsical worlds and together, you chase the star through chaotic adventures. ⁺ ᰋ

꒰ GENRE ꒱ : fluff + fantasy

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WORD COUNT : 14.8K

𓏵‎ ‎ ‎DATE PUBLISHED : 03—AUGUST—2025 !

MASTERLIST !

⪩⪨ A/N ┊ this is my first fanfic on this blog, and I’m honestly just happy it exists. i’m not expecting much, but if you enjoy it, i’d love to hear your thoughts 🥹 it’s 14.8k words of chaos and cringe, so read at your own risk 💫

THE BOOKSTORE SITS SNUG AGAINST THE BUSTLING FOOD JOINT NEXT DOOR, its fame for mouthwatering dishes drawing crowds. But the real reason folks flock to your shop? A wild rumor that every Sunday, a star falls from the ceiling, granting any wish, no matter how grand. It’s a silly tale, but it packs your store with dreamers who barely glance at the incredible books lining the shelves.

You’re the owner, perched on a creaky chair behind the counter, watching flies—or maybe mosquitoes—buzz lazily from one corner to another. Most days, you’re not exactly bubbling with kindness. Why should you be? The Sunday crowd only shows up to chase that mythical star, not to lose themselves in the stories you’ve carefully curated. It baffles you, honestly—just a small monthly fee to dive into these books or study in the shop’s cozy quiet, but no, they’re here for a fairy tale.

Heeseung, though, he’s different. He comes every day, his foot tapping a soft rhythm against the wooden floor as he hunches over his notebook, scribbling furiously. He’s a music student, a songwriter crafting melodies for big-name groups, his pen dancing with ideas. But it’s not just his talent that sets him apart. Last year, he stole your heart when he noticed the quiet ache in your eyes over the shop’s emptiness. He saw you, really saw you, when no one else did. He’s thoughtful like that, showing up with a homemade tiffin on nights you stay late, his shy smile warming you more than the food.

And then there’s the kiss. That kiss under the rain, drops clinging to your lashes as his lips found yours. It was electric, like something out of a dream, too vivid to be real. You never talked about it after, letting it fade into a cherished, unspoken memory. But it lingers, a soft glow in your chest, and somehow, it hasn’t changed things between you. He still comes, still scribbles, still makes your heart flutter when he looks up from his notebook and catches your eye. You’re just happy he’s here, filling the quiet with his presence, like a melody you didn’t know you needed.

The bookshop hums with a quiet magic, its shelves whispering as books nudge each other like gossiping friends. Fairy lights drape the walls, casting a warm glow over the wooden counter where you stand, wiping crumbs from the spring roll plate. The air smells of paper, ink, and a hint of soy sauce. Heeseung slumps across from you, his notebook a mess of scratched-out words, his soft brown hair falling into his eyes. The shop’s emptiness feels like a secret just for you two, a bubble of coziness in the late afternoon light.

“Whatcha scribbling down, boy?” you tease, flashing a playful grin as you slide the plate of spring rolls toward him. You’d made them for yourself, but sharing with Heeseung feels as natural as breathing. His hoodie sleeves are rolled up, and the way he grips his pen makes your chest flutter—he’s so focused, yet so adorably frustrated.

He sighs, long and dramatic, burying his face in his palms. “I can’t write anything, and this song’s due soon,” he groans, voice muffled but thick with exasperation. “It’s like my brain’s on strike.”

You’ve seen him like this before, all tangled up in his own head, so you scoot onto the stool beside him, close enough that your knees almost brush. Your hand finds his back, patting gently, like you’re soothing a grumpy cat. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t stress,” you say softly, your voice warm with encouragement. “You’ll figure it out before the deadline. This isn’t your first writer’s block rodeo, remember?”

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, and for a second, the shop feels smaller, the air charged with something unspoken. “This time’s different,” he mumbles, grabbing a spring roll and nibbling it like it’s his lifeline. “I’ve got nothing good. Been stuck for a month, and I’m starting to hate writing.” His gaze flicks to you, softer now, tinged with guilt. “Sorry for dumping this on you. Can we… not talk about it?”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. You’ve known Heeseung for a year, and he’s stubborn as hell—always brushing off his worries like crumbs, never wanting you to fuss over him. But that just makes you worry more, your heart doing a little somersault at how he tries to protect you from his chaos. “Oh, come on, you think I mind?” you say, nudging his shoulder. “I’m basically your personal cheerleader now. Deal with it.”

He huffs a small laugh, but it’s half-hearted, his fingers fidgeting with the spring roll wrapper. You can’t stand seeing him so defeated, so you lean in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, like you’re sharing the world’s best secret. “Wanna make a wish?”

He blinks, confused, his brows knitting together. “But… it’s Thursday. Stars only fall on Sundays, right?” His curiosity is cute, like a kid hearing about a new game, and you bite back a grin, scooting closer. The faint scent of spring rolls clings to you, but you’re all determination now, ready to pull him out of his slump.

“Well,” you say, popping the last bite of your spring roll into your mouth, “here’s the thing. Stars can fall on Thursdays and Sundays, but I keep the Thursday ones for myself. Selfish, I know.” You wink, chewing dramatically. “Those other customers? Total wish-hogs. They’d hog all the stars if I let ‘em.”

Heeseung’s lips quirk into a tiny smile, but his eyes narrow, playful suspicion sparkling in them. “Wait a sec. You’ve known me for a year, and you’re only telling me about Thursday wishes now? What’s the deal?” His pout is so ridiculously cute—lips pursed, cheeks puffed out—that your heart skips, torn between wanting to pinch his cheeks and running from how much you want to kiss that pout away.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though your cheeks feel warm. “That’s a story for another day, mister. Focus. Do you wanna wish on a star to help with your song, or not?” You point at the ceiling, where the stars always appear, twinkling faintly even now. Heeseung follows your gaze, his expression softening, like he’s remembering all the times he’s wished here before—for little things, like passing exams or finding his lost earbuds. He knows the shop’s magic is real, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

“I… wanna try,” he says quietly, almost shy, glancing at you like he’s checking if you’re serious. “But I’ve never wished on a Thursday. What if I mess it up?”

You laugh, hopping off the stool to grab the star-catching net from behind the counter. “Oh, please. There’s a first time for everything, Heeseung. Today’s your day.” You hand him the net, its handle warm from your grip. “Just don’t overthink it. Catch the star, make your wish, and let the magic do its thing. Unless you want your song to stay unfinished?”

He takes the net, his fingers brushing yours, and the contact sends a tiny spark up your arm, like a star’s already fallen. “Okay, okay, you win,” he says, a nervous chuckle escaping. “But if this goes wrong and we end up in, like, a dragon’s lair or something, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” you say, grinning. “But if we do end up in a dragon’s lair, I’m riding the dragon first.” You nudge him toward the center of the shop, where the ceiling glows brighter, a star beginning to pulse. “Ready?”

Heeseung nods, gripping the net like it’s a lifeline, his eyes flicking to you with a mix of nerves and trust. “You’re gonna catch it with me, right?” he asks, voice soft, and your heart does that fluttery thing again, like it’s dancing to his unwritten song.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you whisper, stepping closer. The star twinkles above, ready to fall, and as you both raise the net, the shop holds its breath, magic swirling around you like a promise of something sweet.

“Look, the star!” you whisper again, voice buzzing with excitement as a glowing orb—brighter than any Sunday star—bursts from the ceiling. It sparkles like it’s showing off, and your stomach flips, a mix of awe and unease. Something’s off. You glance at Heeseung, his hands raised, eyes wide with wonder as he grips the net, ready to catch it. “Go for it! Make your wish!” you urge, but a chill races through you. That’s no ordinary star. It’s the muse star, the one you’ve fed brownies to coax out its shine, the one with a bratty streak wider than the inky ocean you’re about to tumble into. You lunge forward. “Hey, don’t—”

Too late. Heeseung cups the star in his hands, whispering his wish with a shy smile that makes your heart stutter. The star winks at you, its glow smug, and murmurs in a cartoonish voice, “Too late!” You want to swat it for sassing you , the shop’s keeper, but its cheeky glow reminds you of a kid throwing a tantrum. Once, when it dimmed and sulked, you’d slipped it a brownie, and it lit up like a firework. Today, though, it’s got a wild edge, and you narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “What’s your deal, huh?”

Heeseung glances at you, brow furrowed, totally lost. “Uh, what’s going on?” he asks, looking from you to the star, which now perches on a bookshelf like it owns the place. “Is it… talking?”

“Oh, it’s got a whole personality,” you mutter, grabbing a chair and climbing up to snatch the little troublemaker. “C’mere, you glowing brat.” Your hands stretch out, fingers brushing the star’s warm light, but it zips to the next shelf with a taunting giggle. You groan, hopping down. “It’s messing with us, Heeseung. This thing’s got a grudge or something.”

Heeseung tilts his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “A grudge? What’d you do, steal its favorite book?” His teasing makes your cheeks warm, and you shoot him a playful glare.

“Ha, very funny. Maybe it’s mad I didn’t share my spring rolls.” You cross your arms, watching the star dance between books. “It’s a muse star. They’re… extra. And extra annoying.”

“Should I help?” Heeseung steps closer, his shoulder brushing yours, sending a spark through you. He reaches for the star, his long fingers nearly grabbing it before it squirms free, squealing, “Let me goooo! I’m gonna make your wish come true, just let me go!” It slips from his grasp and dives into a pile of unsorted books, sending a puff of glitter into the air.

“Don’t mess with those!” you shout, lunging forward, but your foot catches on the chair. You wobble, heart lurching, until Heeseung’s arms wrap around you, steady and warm, catching you before you crash. Your breath hitches, his face inches from yours, eyes wide with worry. “Whoa, you okay?” he asks, voice soft, helping you stand. His hands linger a second too long, and your heart does a little cartwheel.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” you say, brushing off your apron, trying to ignore how your skin tingles where he touched you. “Guess the star’s not going anywhere. Maybe we just… let it do its thing?”

Heeseung frowns, glancing at the book pile. “But you said it’s a muse star. What’s it gonna do?” Before you can answer, a glittery breeze sweeps through the shop, rustling pages and making the fairy lights flicker. The muse star, buried in a book, pulses, and a page flips open. You shut your eyes against the dazzling sparkles, heart pounding.

When you blink them open, Heeseung stands before you, a lopsided pirate hat perched on his head, his hoodie swapped for a ruffled shirt. You glance down, gasping at your own frilly coat and dramatic eyeliner—straight out of a pirate novel.

“Whoa,” Heeseung breathes, steadying himself against a pole as the shop transforms into a creaking pirate ship, rocking on an inky black sea. The muse star, now a glowing red parrot, perches on the mast, glaring at you like you kicked its puppy in another life. “You’ll see,” it squawks, smug as ever, while giving Heeseung a weirdly polite nod.

You clutch a rope, the ship tilting wildly, and mutter, “Okay, what did I ever do to you, you feathered jerk?” Heeseung snorts, but his eyes are wide, scanning the deck. “This is… insane. How’s this supposed to help my songwriting?” he asks, gripping the pole tighter as the ship sways.

“Dunno,” you admit, heart racing—not just from the ship but from how he looks, all flustered and cute in that ridiculous hat. “Muse stars drag you into stories to spark ideas. Guess we’re pirates now.” You glance at the rope tied to a hook, then back at Heeseung, lowering your voice. “If we don’t catch that star soon, we might be stuck here.”

His face pales, lips parting in a silent “Why?” that you barely catch over the creaking ship. You meet his gaze, and despite the chaos, a thrill bubbles in your chest, like you’re both on the edge of something bigger than the ocean around you.

He takes a deep breath, glancing at you before eyeing the parrot. “Okay… what if I distract the star while you sneak up behind it?” he suggests, his voice a mix of nerves and determination. You blink, confused, tilting your head. “Distract that little monster? Good luck. It’s got the attention span of a goldfish and the attitude of a cat.”

Heeseung grins, a spark of his usual playfulness breaking through. “Oh, I’ve got this. Or… I hope I do.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a shiny gold coin, holding it up so it catches the light. “This might do the trick.” The coin gleams like a tiny sun, and you can’t help but smile at his hopeful expression, your chest fluttering like a page caught in a breeze.

“Fancy,” you tease, tying a quick knot in the rope you’re holding, your fingers steady despite the ship’s sway. You position yourself a safe distance behind the mast, ready to toss the rope and snag the parrot. “Alright, captain, let’s see your big plan.” You nod at Heeseung, and he nods back, his eyes bright with focus. It’s go-time.

He flicks the coin toward the parrot, and for a split second, the parrot’s head snaps to it, its beady eyes gleaming. You seize the moment, hurling the rope, but your aim’s off—too eager, too early. The parrot squawks, dodging with a smug flap of its wings, landing on another mast. Your shoulders slump as you sink to the deck, groaning. “Whyyyyy?”

Heeseung chuckles, leaning against the ship’s wall for a breather, but the ship lurches, and he stumbles, eyes wide with panic. “Okay, no breaks, got it,” he mutters, steadying himself. “This ocean’s trying to eat me.” You laugh despite the flop, but then you feel it—a drop on your shoulder, then another in Heeseung’s hair. You exchange a look, hearts sinking as the sky darkens. Rain. Not just a drizzle, but a full-on downpour, hammering the deck and soaking your frilly coat. The parrot, that infuriating star, just perches there, untouched, its glow mocking you both.

“Seriously?” you grumble, sprinting for the only shelter—a rickety roof over the captain’s quarters. You collapse onto a bench, panting, and glance at Heeseung, who’s shaking rain from his hat. “I think we’re stuck forever,” you say, half-joking, half-defeated. “That muse star’s impossible.”

Heeseung doesn’t answer, and you turn to find him scribbling in his notebook, rain beading on his lashes. The sight—his focus, his damp hair curling at the edges—makes your heart skip. You lean over, booping his nose with a playful finger. “Hey, quit it for a sec,” you murmur, snatching the notebook and setting it aside. You cup his face, gently turning him to face the glowing parrot. “Look at that jerk. We need to catch it, not write a novel. Okay?”

His eyes soften, but he hesitates, voice quiet. “I was… getting ideas, though.” He’s so earnest it makes your chest ache, and you hold his gaze a little too long, your hands still on his cheeks. The air feels charged, like the shop’s magic is weaving something between you.

“I know,” you say softly, dropping your hands but not your gaze. “But not now. We’ve got a parrot to wrangle.” A thunderclap shatters the moment, and you both flinch, eyes darting to the storm swallowing the sea. The ship tilts, and your stomach lurches at the thought of being trapped here, in this wild storybook world.

“C’mon,” you say, grabbing his hand, your fingers slipping against his rain-slicked skin. You both sprint into the downpour, the parrot cackling from the mast. “Scared, scared, haha!” it taunts, its voice cutting through the rain. You glare, soaked to the bone. “Stop it, you little menace!” you plead.

“I’m only helping!” the parrot chirps, its mocking glint aimed squarely at you. Heeseung steps forward, his voice firm despite the storm. “I don’t need help. Just let us go back to the bookshop.”

The parrot tilts its head, smirking. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving till you finish that song. Write it, and everything’s normal. Can’t? Then catch me, dumbos.” It flaps higher, out of reach, and you groan, exchanging a look with Heeseung.

He avoids your eyes, his jaw tight. “I can’t write a song that fast,” he says, voice low. “Don’t… expect me to fix this like that.” His warning stings, and you sigh, rubbing your temples, hope slipping like the rain through your fingers.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his arm, trying to lighten the mood. “No pressure, okay? We’ll catch that feathered punk together.” But Heeseung’s gaze lingers on your disappointed expression, and you can tell he’s kicking himself for that wish. The storm roars louder, and he straightens, determination flickering in his eyes. If he can’t write the song yet, he’s damn well going to help you catch that star.

You cling to a rope, heart pounding, as Heeseung, his pirate hat long gone and hair plastered to his forehead, grabs another rope from the deck. With a swift toss, he flings it toward the glowing red parrot—the muse star—snagging it mid-squawk. It wriggles like a fish, and your jaw drops. “Damn, dude, how’d you do that so easily?” you shout, voice bright with awe despite the chaos.

Heeseung grins, rain dripping from his nose, but his eyes are all focus as he pulls the rope. “Beginner’s luck!” he yells back, a laugh bubbling through his words. You scramble to help, grabbing the rope with both hands, your fingers brushing his. The brief touch sends a spark through you, warm and fluttery, even as the cold ocean wind howls, warning of the storm barreling closer.

“C’mon, you little brat,” you mutter to the parrot, tugging harder. But the star’s too slippery—it squirms free, shooting back to the mast with a taunting cackle. Your heart sinks, and you exchange a look with Heeseung, his expression mirroring your frustration. “This thing’s gonna be the death of us,” you groan, wiping rain from your eyes.

“Hey, we almost had it!” he says, nudging your shoulder, his voice warm despite the chill. “Teamwork, right?” His smile, all boyish and hopeful, makes your chest do a little flip.

But the ship lurches violently, cutting off your reply. The parrot’s laugh echoes, sharp and mocking, as a massive wave looms, its shadow swallowing the horizon. You stumble, hands grasping for a pole, but the rain blinds you, slicking your fingers. “Shit!” you curse, feet slipping as you brace for the icy plunge into the inky sea.

“Hold on!” Heeseung’s voice cuts through the storm, desperate and fierce. His hand finds yours, strong and steady, pulling you back as you teeter on the edge. His wet hair sticks to his forehead, rain streaming down his face, but he doesn’t let go, one hand gripping a pole, the other locked around yours. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low but unwavering, and your heart stutters, caught between fear and the warmth of his touch.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he adds, half-laughing, half-scolding, as you mutter, “Might as well drown at this point.” The exhaustion in your voice tugs at him, but he tightens his grip, rain soaking his ruffled shirt. “Not happening,” he says firmly. “No drowning on my watch.”

You want to tease him, but another wave rears up, towering and dark. You gasp, squeezing his hand, eyes shutting tight as you brace for the crash. “Heeseung, I—” you start, but the words stick, your heart pounding with the fear of being swept away.

“I—” he begins, voice soft, eyes closing like he’s making a wish of his own. But the water doesn’t come. The ship stills, the air shimmering with glittery light. You crack your eyes open, heart racing, and see the parrot darting along a sparkling trail, diving into an open book on the deck. The world blurs, and the storm fades, replaced by a new kind of magic.

You blink, disoriented, the ship gone. Heeseung’s hand slips from yours, and you spin around, searching. He’s not there. Neither is the star. The air hums with a familiar warmth, like the bookshop’s glow, but you’re somewhere else—somewhere you’ve never read about. A world from a book you bought, its pages vivid in your memory, now real and alive around you. Your stomach flips, not just from the shift but from the sudden ache of Heeseung’s absence, and the muse star’s next trick, whatever it is, waiting to pounce.

The bookshop’s cozy glow is gone, replaced by a shimmering fairy forest straight out of a fantasy novel you’d reluctantly added to the shelves after endless customer requests. You sigh, wishing you’d read the thing first. The air hums with magic, sweet like honey and sharp like pine. Giant blades of grass tower over you like the Eiffel Tower, making you feel small but oddly alive. You spin around, heart thumping, searching for Heeseung. “HEESEUNG!” you shout, voice echoing through the glowing grove.

Kicking a pebble, you watch it plop into a nearby puddle. Curious, you inch closer and catch your reflection—your face glows with delicate, iridescent makeup, like you’ve been dusted with starlight. A sparkly cloak shimmers around you, catching the light as you move. You touch your cheek, smiling softly. For once, you feel pretty, and the thought warms you, like the shop’s fairy lights used to. Your reflection mimics you, and for a moment, you’re lost in the magic of it.

“Looking for your lover?” a familiar, mocking voice chirps, snapping you out of it. You whip around, glaring at the muse star, now a smug little firefly, its glow pulsing like it’s laughing at you.

“He’s not my lover,” you snap, cheeks heating despite the cool forest air. If it wasn’t for this stupid star, you’d be back in the shop, snacking on spring rolls, not starving and chasing it through storybook chaos. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

The firefly giggles, zipping up a towering stem that you realize isn’t a wall but a massive flower, its petals soft and pink. “He’s up there,” it teases, darting higher. You squint, heart skipping as you spot Heeseung, tangled in the flower’s center, his camera dangling from his neck. He’s gripping the petals, looking both ridiculous and adorable, his face a mix of panic and determination.

“HEESEUNG!” you yell, waving wildly, hoping he sees you. His head jerks up, and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of relief softening his features. You grab the flower’s stem, trying to climb, but a pesky bird swoops in, flapping at your face and mussing your hair. “Oh, come on,” you groan, snatching a broken stick from the ground and waving it at the bird. “Shoo, you feathered bully!”

The bird squawks and soars upward—straight toward Heeseung. Your stomach drops as it pecks at his camera, making him wobble dangerously. “HEY! YOU’LL FALL!” you shout, voice sharp with worry. Heeseung steadies himself, shooting you a quick, nervous grin that makes your heart do a little flip.

“I’m good!” he calls back, sliding down the stem with a surprising amount of grace, though green pollen smears his clothes. He lands beside you, brushing off his shirt with a sheepish laugh. “What book is this, anyway?” he asks, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, his eyes wide as he takes in the oversized forest. “This is nuts.”

“No idea,” you admit, glancing at the firefly, which hovers nearby, clearly enjoying your struggle. “Some fantasy thing, probably. This star’s having way too much fun screwing with us.”

Heeseung chuckles, nudging your arm, his touch light but warm. “Yeah, it’s practically throwing a party up there.” He squints at the firefly, then back at you, his smile softening. “You look… kinda cool in that cloak, by the way.”

Your cheeks burn, and you duck your head, tugging at the sparkly fabric. “Oh, shut up,” you mumble, but your heart’s fluttering like a moth to a flame. “You’re not exactly rocking the pollen look, Romeo.”

He laughs, rubbing at the green streaks on his shirt. “Fair enough. So, what’s the plan? Chase that glowy jerk again?” He nods toward the firefly, which darts between giant leaves, its light taunting you both.

You sigh, hands on your hips. “Unless you’ve got a song ready to magic us out of here, yeah, we’re stuck chasing it.” You meet his eyes, and for a second, the forest feels smaller, like it’s just you two and the hum of something unspoken. “Ready for round two?”

Heeseung grins, a little shy but all in. “With you? Always.” You smile at his words.

The air smells sweet, like sugar and pine, but suddenly your heart races for all the wrong reasons as a sticky vine snakes around your leg, yanking you down with a playful, vicious tug. “Hey… what if we split up to catch that naughty sta—” Your words cut off with a yelp as the vine tightens, pain shooting through your leg. “HEESEUNG!” you whine, voice sharp with panic as the vine drags you toward the muddy ground.

Heeseung spins around, eyes wide with alarm. “I-” he stammers, frozen for a split second, his damp hair falling into his face as he scans the forest floor. “I’m trying!” he shouts, scrambling for something—anything—to help. The vine pulls harder, and silent tears slip down your cheeks, the sting mixing with the gross, sticky feeling of mud creeping up your leg. You bite your lip, hope fading as the ground threatens to swallow you.

Then Heeseung grabs the stick you’d used to shoo the bird earlier, his hands shaking but determined. “Quick! Quick! Quick!” you cry, voice breaking as the vine loosens just a fraction. He swings the stick, snapping the vine with a satisfying crack. You gasp, relief flooding you as he kneels, gently pulling your half-buried leg from the mud. His fingers are careful, brushing dirt from your ankle, and you wipe away tears you didn’t realize were there, your heart thudding from more than just the pain.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft as he cups your face without touching, his hands hovering like he’s afraid to break you. His eyes search yours, and the worry in them makes your chest flutter, warm and unsteady.

“My leg’s numb,” you mumble, wincing as you try to stand, limping to one side. Heeseung kneels again, inspecting your foot, his touch light but enough to make you flinch. “That stupid vine,” he mutters, a rare curse slipping out. “Why’d it have to grab you so hard?” His frustration is cute, like he’s personally offended by the forest, and before you can protest, he scoops you onto his back, piggyback-style, his arms hooking under your knees.

“Heeseung, put me down!” you say, half-laughing, half-embarrassed, though your leg throbs too much to argue. “I’m not that hurt. I can walk.”

“Nope,” he says, adjusting you with a little bounce that makes you giggle despite yourself. “Just let me carry you till we catch that darn star.” His voice is firm but warm, and you can’t help but smile, your chin resting on his shoulder as his steady steps carry you through the glowing forest. The closeness sends butterflies dancing in your stomach, his warmth seeping through the chill of your cloak.

“Okay, fine, but don’t complain when your back gives out,” you tease, poking his cheek. “So, this song of yours… how long is it? Is that why it’s taking forever?”

Heeseung chuckles, the sound vibrating against your chest. “It’s not that long. Maybe four verses, plus the chorus.” He shifts you slightly, making sure you don’t slip. “But it’s… tricky. Like, it’s gotta feel right, you know?”

You nod, your cheek brushing his shoulder, and you catch a whiff of his shampoo, faint under the forest’s sweetness. “And the star knows this?” you ask, pouting as you glare at the firefly darting ahead, leaving a glittery trail. “What’s its deal, keeping us trapped like this?”

“Guess it’s a know-it-all,” Heeseung says, smirking. “If it didn’t think I needed help, it’d let us go.” He pauses, glancing at a glowing mushroom that pulses like a tiny lantern. “Whoa, look at that. It’s like a disco for fairies.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up despite the ache in your leg. “You’re such a dork,” you say, but your heart skips as he points out a deer with glowing antlers sprinting past a waterfall, its light reflecting in the water like a scene from a dream. “Okay, that’s pretty cool,” you admit, your voice softening. “This place… it’s kinda magical, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his smile audible. “Thanks for… not pushing me to write the song just to get us out.” His voice is quiet, almost shy, and you feel his shoulders relax under you. “I know it’s a mess, being stuck here.”

You rest your chin closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’m not in a rush.” You glance around, the forest’s glow wrapping you both in a soft, otherworldly light. You’ve dealt with muse stars before, but this—being pulled into books, chasing inspiration with Heeseung—it’s new. And honestly, with his warmth against you and the way he points out every glowing flower like it’s for you, you don’t mind. “Besides,” you add, grinning, “this is the most fun I’ve had in forever.”

Heeseung laughs softly, turning his head just enough to catch your eye, his gaze warm and bright. “Same,” he says, and the way he says it, like a secret just for you. He follows the firefly’s glittery trail, carrying you toward the next adventure.

But your leg still throbs faintly from the vine’s grip. You squirm on Heeseung’s back, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Hey… put me down,” you mumble, voice soft but insistent. “I’m okay, really.”

Heeseung glances back, his brows furrowed with worry. “You sure?” he asks, his face so close that you catch the warmth in his eyes, your cheeks tingling pink. You nod, coughing lightly to snap him out of his daze, and your heart skips at how his gaze lingers.

“Uh… okay,” he mutters, swallowing hard as he kneels, easing you off his back. His hand hovers behind you, ready to catch you if you wobble, and the gesture—sweet, protective—makes your stomach flutter. “Just… don’t push it, alright?” he says, his voice low, and you nod, biting back a smile.

You both start walking, stepping carefully over the smooth stones lining a waterfall that sparkles like liquid starlight. The forest feels too quiet, too serene, like it’s holding its breath. You slip your hand into his, your fingers intertwining naturally, and sigh, glancing back. “You sure we’ll find the star here?” you ask, your voice tinged with doubt as you scan the glowing path ahead.

Heeseung shrugs, his thumb brushing yours absentmindedly, sending a spark up your arm. “We don’t have any other clues,” he says, logical as ever, and you roll your eyes, grinning.

“Ugh, why do you have to be so smart?” you tease, nudging his shoulder. He laughs softly, the sound warming you more than the forest’s glow. Your stomach growls, loud enough to make you freeze, and you pray he didn’t hear it. But Heeseung glances at you, his expression softening with a mix of guilt and concern.

“I’m starving too.” His honesty makes you laugh, easing the hunger pang, and you lean closer, your shoulder brushing his as you follow the glittery trail.

“Welp,” Heeseung mumbles suddenly, stopping short. “What the—”

“Is the path blocked?” you ask, confused, but then you see it—a field bursting with glowing fireflies, their lights twinkling like a sea of tiny stars. The golden trail left by the muse star ends here, blending into the swarm. Your jaw drops, and your heart sinks. “How the heck are we supposed to find it now?” you groan, lips pulling into a pout as you slump against a giant leaf.

Heeseung doesn’t give up, his eyes scanning the field with quiet determination. “Not sure…” he says, letting go of your hand, and you both blush at the sudden absence, your fingers tingling where his were. He clears his throat, trying to focus. “You said it’s a muse star, right? Maybe something creative could draw it out. Why don’t you… sing?”

You gasp, eyes wide with mock horror. “ME? SING?” You shake your head, laughing. “Heeseung, if I sing, that star’ll bolt faster than a cat in a thunderstorm. Total disaster.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his smile shy but warm. “Yeah, okay, fair point.” He pauses, glancing at the fireflies, then back at you. “Guess I’ll have to try, then. Music student and all.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a flicker of nerves in his eyes—he’s actually going to do this.

“Oh, obviously,” you say, grinning as you nudge him. “You’re the songwriter here, not me. I’d scare the whole forest away.” You settle against the leaf, watching the fireflies dance. “Go on, show that star who’s boss.”

Heeseung takes a deep breath, his cheeks pink as he starts to sing, his voice soft but clear, like a melody woven into the forest’s glow. “ ‘Cause beautiful, you could make everything and anything look…’ ” The words drift out, sweet and steady, and you freeze, your breath catching. He sounds good—like, melt-your-heart good—and you can’t tear your eyes away. His voice wraps around you, warm and gentle, like the shop’s fairy lights on a quiet night, and your chest fills with butterflies, fluttering wildly.

You force yourself to focus, scanning the fireflies. One glows brighter, drifting closer, its disguise slipping as it sways to Heeseung’s voice. “I—” you whisper, not wanting to break the spell, as Heeseung extends his palm, the star-firefly hovering closer, entranced. It’s working—until a familiar chirp cuts through the air. That stupid bird from earlier swoops in, squawking loudly, and the star snaps out of its haze, flaring back into a firefly and zipping away.

“No!” you cry, glaring at the bird as it perches smugly on a branch. Heeseung’s song falters, his shoulders slumping, and the defeated look on his face tugs at your heart. You sigh, half-expecting the forest to shift into another book, but you can’t help smiling a little. You step closer, nudging his arm. “Hey, that was… amazing,” you say softly, your voice warm with awe. “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

Heeseung blushes, ducking his head. “Thanks,” he mumbles, but his small smile makes your heart flutter again. Only if that was the end tho.

The fairy forest’s glow fades as the muse star, that infuriating firefly, zips upward, trailing glitter like a taunting laugh before diving into another book. For a heartbeat, the bookshop flickers back—shelves humming, fairy lights winking—and your heart leaps, a spark of hope warming your chest.

But the moment shatters, the shop twisting into a dazzling futuristic cityscape, all neon lights and sleek metal. The air hums with a sterile buzz, like the magic’s been replaced by electricity, and your stomach growls louder than ever, a hollow ache that makes you want to curl up and nap.

“NOT AGAIN!” you wail, plopping onto the glowing street like a kid mid-meltdown, kicking your legs in a full-on tantrum. Your silver jumpsuit—sleek and absurdly shiny—catches the neon glow, and you feel ridiculous, starving, and done with this star’s games.

Heeseung stands beside you, his own jumpsuit hugging his frame in a way that makes your heart stutter despite your hunger. He’s unfazed, or at least pretending to be, his eyes scanning the empty city—skyscrapers pulsing with holographic signs, streets eerily silent. He glances down at you, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “You done throwing a fit down there?” he teases, crouching to your level. “You look like a grumpy space toddler.”

You glare, but his soft laugh warms you, chasing away the chill of the city. “I’m starving,” you grumble, clutching your stomach. “This stupid star’s gonna kill us with all this book-hopping. Can’t we just… find a cosmic burger or something?”

Heeseung chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own stomach growling faintly. “I’d kill for a burger right now,” he admits, his voice low and wistful. “This place looks dead, though. No food, no people—just us and that glowing jerk.” He nods toward the muse star, now a pulsing orb of light hovering above a neon-lit plaza, its glow mocking you both.

You sigh, dragging yourself to your feet, your legs shaky from hunger and the vine incident. Your eyes catch on a row of sleek hoverboards propped against a glass wall, their surfaces glinting like they’re begging to be used. You glance at Heeseung, and it’s like you’re sharing a silent plan, your hearts in sync. “Ready to chase that brat again?” you ask, grabbing a hoverboard.

Heeseung nods, snatching one for himself. “Let’s end this,” he says, determination in his eyes, but the second he steps on, the board wobbles, sending him stumbling side to side like a newborn deer. You bite back a laugh, steadying your own board with surprising ease, the hum of it under your feet feeling like a tiny thrill.

“Whoa, look at you, space queen,” Heeseung says, grinning despite his wobbly balance. “Help a guy out?”

You glide over, grabbing his hand, your fingers lacing with his as you steady him. The touch sends a spark through you, warm and electric, like the city’s neon lights live in your chest. “Hold on tight, clumsy,” you tease, your voice soft as you pull him along, the two of you gliding through the air, chasing the orb. His grip tightens, and the way he looks at you—half-nervous, half-awed—makes your heart flutter like always.

“Okay, but if we crash, I’m blaming you,” he says, his voice playful despite the limp in his hoverboard skills. The orb darts ahead, weaving between holographic signs, and you both lean forward, the wind whipping your hair as you fly together, hands clasped, hearts racing.

“Don’t jinx it!” you laugh, squeezing his hand. “Just focus on not falling, and maybe we’ll catch this stupid star before I pass out from hunger.”

Heeseung clings to your hand, his grip tight not just for balance but because he’s clearly terrified of toppling off his wobbly hoverboard. “How many more books is this star gonna drag us through?” he groans, frustration lacing his voice as he sways, his silver jumpsuit catching the neon glow.

“No clue,” you mutter, just as fed up, your stomach growling loud enough to compete with the city’s buzz. The orb doesn’t miss a beat, its teasing voice cutting through the air. “Write the song, and I’ll send you back.”

“Oh, shut up!” you snap, glaring at the orb as you lean forward on your hoverboard, chasing it with a burst of speed. “Keep talking, and I’ll starve you next time—no brownies, no nothing!” Heeseung speeds up beside you, his hand still in yours, and you catch his quick, amused glance, making your heart skip despite your annoyance.

The orb laughs, its glow flickering like it’s winking. “Here I was, planning something special for the next book,” it taunts. “But now? Maybe I’ll rethink helping you two.” It zooms ahead, too fast for your hoverboards to keep up, and just as you push harder, the boards sputter, slowing to a pathetic drift. The battery’s dead.

“This stupid battery had to die now?!” Heeseung growls, running a hand through his messy hair, his frustration so cute it almost softens your own. He kicks the hoverboard lightly, like it personally betrayed him.

“I know, right?” you huff, stepping off your board and throwing your hands up. “And what’s this ‘special’ nonsense? Another book? I’m done!” Your stomach twists again, hunger making you dizzy, and you slump against a glowing fountain in the middle of what looks like a futuristic park, all sleek lines and eerie quiet. “I swear, my stomach’s about to eat itself.”

Heeseung glances at you, his eyes softening despite his own hunger. “This place is weird,” he mutters, scanning the empty park, where musical notes start to hum softly, like a lullaby from nowhere. “Is it just me, or does this feel like… a library? Somewhere to write or think?”

You nod, dragging yourself toward a sleek bench, too tired to stand. “Yeah, like a study zone or something,” you say, collapsing onto the bench—only to yelp as it burns like a heated iron rod. “AGH!” You leap up, rubbing your butt, pain and embarrassment stinging as you hop in place, tears pricking your eyes. It hurts like hell, and worse, Heeseung’s right there, witnessing your mortifying moment.

Heeseung’s eyes widen, caught between worry and trying not to laugh. “A-are you okay?” he stammers, looking anywhere but at you, his cheeks pink as he fidgets. “What just happened?”

You groan, blinking back tears, your face flaming. “That bench tried to cook me!” you mutter, soothing yourself while shooting the bench a glare. Heeseung hesitates, then steps toward it, curiosity winning out. “Don’t!” you mumble, barely audible, but he’s already brushing his fingertip against the bench, testing it. Nothing. He presses his whole palm down, frowning, then—bold as ever—sits right on it. Nothing happens.

Heeseung sits comfortably on the bench, his silver jumpsuit catching the glow of the plaza, looking unfairly relaxed despite the chaos. His brow furrows, confusion in his eyes as he glances at you. “You sure it was that hot?” he asks, tilting his head, his voice soft but curious.

“YES!” you snap, cheeks burning—not just from the pain but from the sheer frustration bubbling inside. “It was hot! Like, really hot, Heeseung!” You sigh, exhausted, and inch closer to the bench, hesitating. You tap it with the tip of your index finger, bracing for the worst. The heat sears instantly, like touching a stovetop, and you yank your hand back with a yelp. “AGH!” You pop your finger in your mouth, trying to soothe the sting, tears pricking your eyes as you glare at him through the haze of pain. “How are you not feeling this?”

Heeseung’s eyes widen, a mix of worry and amusement flickering across his face. “I swear, it’s fine for me,” he says, patting the bench like it’s a friendly pet. “This thing loves me.” His teasing grin makes your heart flutter, even if you want to strangle him for being so smug right now.

You slump onto the rocky ground, careful not to aggravate your sore backside, muttering, “This is all that stupid star’s fault.” Your hunger gnaws at you, making everything worse, and you shoot a glare at the muse star—now a pulsing orb of light—hovering high above, its glow taunting you like a smug little bully.

“Why?” the orb chirps, its voice dripping with mockery as it circles above your head. “Why not sit on the bench, huh?”

“You brat!” you shout, grabbing a tiny pebble from the ground and hurling it at the star. It dodges with a giggle, the sound grating on your nerves. “Keep quiet and just wait, dumbo,” it taunts, spinning faster like it’s performing some annoying ritual. “You wanna go back to the real world, right?”

You roll your eyes, turning to Heeseung, who’s watching the exchange with a half-smile, his gaze flickering between you and the orb. “Can you believe this thing?” you huff, crossing your arms. “It’s got it out for me, I swear.”

“It’s just a jerk.” But before you can say more, a notebook and pen materialize from thin air, landing gently on Heeseung’s lap. Your eyes widen, and you glance at the star, its glow pulsing brighter, almost expectant. Something’s up. It’s like the star’s daring Heeseung to write, to finally crack the code of his song.

Heeseung catches on, his fingers brushing the notebook’s cover, his expression shifting to something quieter, more focused. “Guess this is my cue,” he murmurs, flipping it open. He glances at you, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

But you just leap up, determination overriding your hunger, and swipe at the muse star, its glowing orb form dancing just out of reach. “Keep quiet! Let him write!” it whispers, flaring brighter, a clear sign this chase is far from over. You grit your teeth, playing a relentless game of cat and mouse, climbing the glowing fountain’s edge, nearly slipping into the water, and tossing tiny pebbles at the star, careful not to make too much noise. Your heart pounds, half from effort, half from frustration, but the star just giggles, dodging every move.

Ten minutes pass, and you trudge back to Heeseung, hope flickering as you sit beside him on the bench—careful to avoid its burning surface. “So… finished the song?” you ask, voice tinged with expectation, imagining him saying, “Done! We’re free, let’s eat!” But he lifts his head, shaking it with a guilty frown. You snatch the notebook, eyes scanning—four measly lines. Just four. Your stomach twists, hunger fueling your disappointment, but you take a deep breath, fighting the urge to snap. “I’m sorry,” Heeseung mumbles, voice heavy with guilt as he swallows hard. “I don’t… work well under pressure.” His eyes flick to the star, glaring like it’s the source of all his problems.

“It’s fine,” you mutter, voice flat, dizziness from hunger making you sway. “Let’s just catch that stupid star.” You grab your hoverboard, not waiting for Heeseung, not grabbing his hand like before to steady him. You’re pissed—hunger’s turned you into a storm cloud—and you lean forward, speeding through the neon-lit air toward the orb, not checking if Heeseung’s behind you. The city blurs, your focus locked on the star.

“Girl! Stop being so aggressive!” the star yelps, no longer teasing but genuinely spooked by the fire in your eyes and the way your hand nearly snags it. “Just take us back to the shop!” you demand, voice cracking with frustration as you chase it closer, so close you can almost feel its glow.

The star darts into a dark tunnel, and you speed after it, too angry to notice the blackness swallowing you. A horn blares, and glowing train lights barrel toward you, matching your speed. Your eyes widen in horror, hunger forgotten as you freeze, bracing for impact. But an arm wraps around your waist, yanking you to the side. You crash to the ground, Heeseung’s body cushioning your fall, his breath warm against your face as he hovers above you, eyes locked on yours. Your heart races, not from fear but from the way his hand lingers, steady and close, your empty stomach suddenly alive with butterflies.

The train roars past, shattering your hoverboard into bits, and as its lights fade, the tunnel brightens. Heeseung’s so close, his gaze soft and intense, and you feel the world tilt as he leans in. Your eyes flutter shut, and his lips brush yours—soft, warm, a reckless moment born of hunger and adrenaline. It’s like a dream, your heart throwing a full-on party.

The star’s voice cuts through, its orb glowing smugly. “You two lost it. Hunger does that to humans?” it coughs, breaking the spell. You snap out of it, panic flooding in. Before Heeseung can move, you push him off, scrambling to your feet, dizzy but steadying yourself as you glare at the star. “I knew you hated me,” you snap, voice sharp. “But trying to kill me? Luring me into a tunnel?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung chimes in, adjusting his jumpsuit, his cheeks flushed as he tries to shift the topic, though his voice carries real shock. “That’s too far, don’t you think?”

The muse star, that infuriating orb of light, giggles with a high-pitched “Well, well, weeee!” before zipping out of the tunnel, soaring into the neon sky with a taunting hum. Your heart’s still racing, rattled from the train’s near miss and the fleeting warmth of Heeseung’s lips on yours. What was that? Your cheeks burn, not from the city’s glow but from the reckless moment you let happen. How could you get so lost in him, in the haze of it all?

You steal a glance at Heeseung, his silver jumpsuit catching the light, his hair a mess from the wind. Guilt twists in your empty stomach as you remember speeding off on the hoverboard without waiting for him. “Sorry,” you stutter, voice small, “for… not checking on you back there.”

Heeseung shakes his head, a soft smile breaking through his tired expression. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Just hop on my back so we can catch that little troublemaker.” He kneels, steadying himself on his hoverboard, his hand reaching for yours.

“My leg’s fine,” you protest, glancing at the shattered remains of your hoverboard, crushed by the train. “But… your back? You’re hungry, tired, probably weak. What if we both crash?” Your voice is laced with worry, but Heeseung just shakes his head, stubborn as ever.

“Just hop on,” he insists, his tone firm but warm, and you can’t argue with that look in his eyes. Hesitantly, you climb onto his back, wrapping your legs tight around him, eyes squeezed shut against the fear of falling. The star’s proven it doesn’t care if you end up splattered in this book’s pages, and that thought makes your grip on Heeseung tighten. He leans forward, guiding the hoverboard out of the tunnel, his hands steady on your knees, keeping you secure. The wind whips past, but his warmth grounds you, chasing away the chill.

“Are we close to it?” you ask, voice muffled against his shoulder, eyes still shut tight.

“I guess,” Heeseung replies, his voice steady despite the speed. You peek one eye open as he slows, his brows lifting in suspicion. The orb darts into a glowing plaza, of all places, and Heeseung lands smoothly, easing you off his back. You stumble slightly, legs wobbly, but his hand hovers behind you, ready to catch you. The plaza’s lined with tables, each piled with a full-course meal—steaming plates of food that make your mouth water and your stomach growl louder than ever.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, eyes wide, a grin spreading as you bolt toward the nearest table. “Food! Actual food!” You reach for a plate, but your hand freezes mid-air, your whole body locking up like a statue. You try to move, panic rising, and through the corner of your eye, you see Heeseung frozen mid-step, his face mirroring your horror.

The orb hovers above, giggling. “Not so easy,” it taunts, its glow pulsing mockingly. You want to scream, the sight of all that food—so close yet so untouchable—twisting your hunger into pure rage. “Ready for the next adventure?” the star chirps, and glitter swirls through the air, the plaza shimmering like it’s about to dissolve.

“No, no, no!” you manage to grit out, your voice stuck in your frozen throat. Heeseung’s eyes, wide with the same dread, meet yours through the corner of your vision. “This is cruel,” he mutters, his voice strained but carrying that familiar warmth. “Star, you’re the worst!”

You can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes, even through your frustration. “Yeah,” you add, glaring at the orb. “What’s next, huh? A dragon? A volcano?” Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the star’s next book, the glitter thick around you, but Heeseung’s frozen presence beside you feels like an anchor, keeping your heart steady despite the chaos.

The futuristic city dissolves into a sugary wonderland, a vibrant world straight out of a kid’s book, where the ground squishes under your biscuit slippers like a giant brownie. Pastel aprons tie you and Heeseung to this candy-coated chaos, and the muse star—now a glowing lollipop—bobs ahead, taunting you with its sugary shine. Your eyes light up, hunger clawing at your stomach as you take in the edible forest: trees dripping with lollipops, bushes sprouting donuts, and vines curling with burgers. “Heeseung!” you gasp, a grin splitting your face. “We can eat?!”

He meets your gaze, his own eyes sparkling with the same hungry hope, and for a moment, you’re just two kids in a candy store, hearts racing with delight. You dart to a tree, snatching a lollipop, ripping off its wrapper, and popping it into your mouth. The sweet burst of flavor makes you hum, and you glance at Heeseung, who’s eyeing you skeptically, his stomach growling loud enough to betray him. “Not gonna eat?” you ask, words muffled around the lollipop, your grin teasing as you lick the sugar from your lips.

“Nah, I’m fine,” he mumbles, but his blush and the rumble in his stomach say otherwise. He looks around, awe creeping into his expression. “This is all edible… what, is this a kid’s book?” His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, as he steps forward, the brownie ground sinking slightly under his weight. You trail behind, the lollipop star giggling ahead, clearly loving that you’re both too distracted to chase it.

“It’s like a buffet from a fairy tale,” you say, grabbing his hand without thinking, your fingers lacing through his. The touch sends a warm flutter through your chest, like biting into something sweet and perfect. “My stomach’s screaming. Can we eat first, then catch that brat?”

Heeseung’s too hungry to argue, his nod quick and shy. “Deal,” he says, his voice warm as he squeezes your hand. You both wander deeper, the forest smelling like a bakery and a diner had a lovechild. You pluck a burger from a vine, its bun soft and warm, and take a huge bite, moaning at the juicy, fresh taste. “This is so good,” you mumble, mouth full, glancing at Heeseung, who’s stuffing his face with a donut, crumbs dusting his chin.

“Should we just… ditch the star plan?” he asks, half-serious, his eyes glinting with mischief as he licks icing from his fingers. “I mean, if we’re stuck here forever, this isn’t the worst place.” His grin makes your heart skip, and you laugh, the idea of staying in this edible paradise with him not sounding half bad.

“Nah, we’ll catch it,” you say, dusting crumbs off your hands, your biscuit slippers crunching on the brownie ground. “But I’m eating everything first.” You wink, and he laughs, the sound warm and soft, like the forest’s glow.

Your attention snags on three massive marshmallows, each the size of a teenager’s torso, glowing faintly. “What’s wrong?” you ask, noticing Heeseung’s wary stare. Before he can answer, the marshmallows move, their cartoony eyes blinking as they huddle together, staring back. You freeze, heart pounding, and Heeseung mutters under his breath, “Wish I’d read more kid’s books…”

“You guys… walk?” you ask, voice small as you step back, half-hiding behind Heeseung. Your curiosity battles your nerves, but this world—this candy-coated, talking-marshmallow world—might just be your favorite yet.

“NEW GUESTS! NEW GUESTS!” the marshmallows chant, bouncing in a joyful circle, their stick-figure hands linked. You and Heeseung exchange a horrified glance, your heart racing, but there’s something oddly charming about their enthusiasm.

“They talk too?” Heeseung says, echoing your shock, his arm sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing. The warmth of his touch steadies you, even as the marshmallows waddle closer, their smiles wide and goofy.

“You’re the new guests, right?” one asks, its voice high and bubbly. Heeseung nods slowly, his grip on you tightening, skeptical but curious.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, peeking out from behind him, your height difference making you feel like a kid hiding behind a big brother. “We’re here to catch the muse star. It’s a glowing lollipop now.”

The marshmallows hum in unison, like they’re plotting something, then one extends a stick-figure hand. Heeseung kneels to shake it, his expression torn between amusement and suspicion. “The star’s at the jellybean bridge, by the peppermint tower,” the marshmallow says, practically vibrating with excitement.

You and Heeseung share a look, confusion knitting your brows. “Jellybean bridge? Peppermint tower?” Heeseung asks, biting back frustration. “Where the heck is that?”

“We’ll show you!” another marshmallow chirps, bouncing ahead, the other two following like eager tour guides. They glance back, making sure you’re keeping up. You hesitate, the forest’s delicious scent tempting you to stay, but Heeseung’s hand in yours pulls you forward. “C’mon,” he says softly, his voice steady, “let’s trust the marshmallows. For now.”

You nod, your heart fluttering at his calm certainty, and follow the bouncing trio, the brownie ground soft under your slippers, the promise of food and adventure keeping you close to Heeseung’s side.

The marshmallows, your bouncy guides, roll their cartoony eyes every time you and Heeseung pause to nibble on something new. You can’t help it—the food’s too good, clean and fresh like it was just whipped up by a magical chef. Your eyes light up as you spot a cactus made entirely of golden French fries, and you nudge Heeseung, practically bouncing. “Look at that!” you squeal, darting over and kneeling to chomp on a fry. The salty crunch is heaven, and your stomach begs to stay in this world forever. For a second, you waver—why chase the star when you could live in this food paradise? But no, you shake your head. You have to get back to the real world.

With a burst of determination, you stand, brushing crumbs off your pastel apron, ready to march on. But then a tree catches your eye, its branches heavy with glazed donuts. You can’t resist, plucking one and dipping it into a nearby pond of silky chocolate, the sweet combo making you hum “Yummm” as you take a bite.

Heeseung, leaning against a candy cane post, rolls his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. The marshmallows huff in unison, one muttering to Heeseung, “Is she always this hungry?” Its tone drips with pity, like you’re a stray puppy gobbling scraps.

Heeseung chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Not sure,” he says, his voice low and amused. “She’s usually… saner than this. At least from what I’ve seen.” His eyes linger on you, soft and curious, making your heart skip even though you’re too busy licking chocolate off your fingers to notice.

The marshmallow smirks, its stick-figure arms crossing. “Well, at least you’re seeing her inner hunger monster now, before you two get together.” Heeseung’s cheeks flush, and he rolls his eyes, muttering, “Whatever,” but the teasing glint in the marshmallow’s eyes makes him shake his head with a shy smile.

You bounce back to the group, wiping crumbs from your lips, a smudge of chocolate still clinging to the corner of your mouth. Heeseung reaches out, his thumb hovering to wipe it away, and your breath catches, a flutter sparking in your chest. But a marshmallow beats him to it, thrusting a tissue your way with a dramatic flourish. “Thank youuu!” you chirp, kneeling to take it, wiping your face with a wide, food-fueled grin. You’re in such a good mood, the sugar rush making everything feel like a dream.

“Do we walk now? To the jellybean bridge?” one marshmallow asks, its tone sharp with impatience, clearly fed up with your snack breaks.

“Yep, totally!” you say, missing the sarcasm completely, your voice bright as you skip ahead, already eyeing a cotton candy bush on the path. More food to try, more flavors to savor—this world’s your playground, and you’re loving every bite.

Heeseung trails behind, shaking his head, a soft laugh escaping as he watches you skip alongside the marshmallows. “You’re like a kid in a candy store,” he calls out, his voice warm with amusement. “Happier here than in that creepy sci-fi city, huh?”

“Way happier,” you toss back, grinning over your shoulder. “This place is food heaven. You’re not gonna snitch on me for eating half the forest, right?” Your teasing makes him laugh again, the sound wrapping around you like the sugary air, and as you follow the marshmallows toward the jellybean bridge.

Your stomach’s practically singing from all the snacks you’ve devoured—lollipops, fries, donuts dipped in chocolate ponds—but you can’t help sneaking one last bite of a gummy worm as you reach the jellybean bridge. Heeseung, somehow, stays focused, his eyes locked on the glowing lollipop star bobbing ahead, while you’ve been distracted by every edible treasure. How does he do it? You’re practically a kid in a candy store, and he’s playing the responsible adult.

“We’re here,” one marshmallow announces with a dramatic sigh, glancing at its two buddies. “Cross the bridge, and you’ll reach the peppermint tower.” The trio huddles, whispering among themselves, their cartoony eyes darting suspiciously. You squint, sensing something’s off, but let it slide, too full of sugar to care too much.

“Let’s go!” Heeseung says, grabbing your hand, his touch sending a warm spark through you. He’s ready to charge forward, but the marshmallows leap in front, forming a chain with their stick-figure arms to block the wobbly bridge. “What?” you ask, confusion knitting your brows.

“Candy toll!” they chirp in unison, grinning smugly. “Gotta give us something to cross!”

You glance at Heeseung, hope fading—you’ve got nothing but crumbs. But then a rustle catches your ear, and you turn to see Heeseung pulling out a shimmering star chain, dropped by the muse star earlier. Your jaw drops at his quick thinking. “Nice one,” you whisper, nudging him, your heart fluttering at how sharp he is.

He flashes a shy grin, handing the chain to the marshmallows, who snatch it eagerly. They step aside, waving their goofy hands as Heeseung steps onto the bridge—a rickety stretch of jellybeans with no railings, swaying over a steaming river of hot soup below. Your stomach lurches. “I’m scared,” Heeseung mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, and you gulp, realizing you were counting on him to be the brave one.

“It’s okay,” you say, trying to sound confident. “We won’t fall. Just… walk slow—agh!” The bridge wobbles, and you gasp, your biscuit slippers slipping on the slick jellybeans. Your heart leaps to your throat, but you catch your balance, Heeseung glancing back with wide eyes. “Please, God,” he mumbles, checking on you every few steps, his concern making your chest flutter.

Just as you near the end, your foot slips again. You yelp, but Heeseung’s arms are around you in a flash, pulling you close, his body shielding you from the bubbling soup below. “You good?” he asks, breathless, his hands brushing hair from your face, cupping your cheeks with such soft worry that your heart skips. You nod, dazed, his closeness making your head spin more than the near-fall.

The marshmallows giggle from the other side, and you cough, stepping back, cheeks burning as you put some distance between you and Heeseung. Your eyes catch a massive caramel slide spiraling up to the peppermint tower, its sticky surface glinting. “What is this now?” you mumble, half-exasperated, half-awed.

Heeseung eyes the slide, then the tower’s candy-striped gate. “Guess we’re sliding,” he says, stepping forward. “Follow me.” He hops on, sliding down with a whoop, and you follow, the caramel slick under your apron as you tumble out at the tower’s base—right in front of a marshmallow knight, its armor gleaming, eyes glaring. You’re both coated in sticky caramel, and you tug at Heeseung’s sleeve, heart pounding. “This marshmallow looks… scary.”

“Agreed,” Heeseung whispers, avoiding the knight’s piercing stare, his hand brushing yours like a quiet promise to stick together.

The marshmallow knight, barely reaching your knees, points its gleaming silver sword at Heeseung, who steps back, hands raised. “Who are you two?” it demands, its high-pitched voice sharp enough to make your heart skip, the sword’s shine a quiet threat.

“We’re… the guests,” you mumble, hesitating, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels right, echoing how the other marshmallows called you, but doubt gnaws at you. This knight’s no joke, despite its size. It swings its sword toward you, aiming for your stomach—a marshmallow’s version of a throat jab, and you bite back a nervous laugh at the absurdity, the height difference almost comical if not for the blade’s glint.

“Don’t you know you need a candy craft to pass?” the knight says, its beady eyes narrowing as it holds the sword steady. You blink, thrown off, and glance at Heeseung, who looks just as clueless, his pastel apron dusted with brownie crumbs.

“Candy craft?” you stammer, stepping back. “I don’t even know what that is!” The knight’s tiny stature makes you want to giggle, but that sword looks sharp enough to keep your amusement locked tight. “Just make something for me to taste,” it declares, crossing its stick-figure arms. “If it’s good enough, I’ll let you go.”

You tug Heeseung a few steps away, your biscuit slippers crunching on the ground. “Okay, so… what do we make?” you whisper, your brow furrowing as you try to wrap your head around this. Your stomach’s still buzzing from the fries, donuts, and lollipops you’ve been munching, but crafting something? That’s a whole new challenge.

Heeseung leans close, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “What if we don’t make anything?” he murmurs, a sly glint in his eyes. “We could trap the knight instead—use those licorice ropes and gummy worms over there as a net.” He nods toward a pile of colorful candies, his voice low and sneaky. “What do you say?”

You raise an eyebrow, half-ready to dismiss his wild idea. “And how’s that gonna work, genius?” you whisper, crossing your arms but leaning in, curious despite yourself. “You think we can just lasso a marshmallow with a sword?”

Heeseung grins, his confidence infectious. “We blind it with brownie dust, then tie it up with the ropes. Quick and easy. Way better than slaving over some candy sculpture.” He pauses, adding with a teasing lilt, “Unless you suddenly love long projects now?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, right. I’d rather eat the candy than craft it.” His plan’s crazy, but the thought of outsmarting the knight with gummy worms sparks a thrill in your chest. Plus, that star’s been putting you through too many near-death scares—maybe it’s time to fight back. “Alright,” you whisper, nodding. “Let’s do it. But if that sword gets me, you’re saving me.”

Heeseung chuckles, his hand brushing yours as you sneak toward the candy pile. The brief touch sends a warm spark through you, like biting into a fresh donut. “Deal,” he says softly. “Just don’t scream when we nail this.”

“So, what are you two making?” the knight calls, tapping its sword impatiently, its tiny body rigid with authority. You exchange a quick glance with Heeseung, who gives a subtle nod—go time. You grab licorice ropes and gummy worms, passing them to him as he scoops up a handful of brownie dust from the ground. “Well, we…” Heeseung starts, all innocent, then flings the dust into the knight’s eyes.

The knight squeaks, its sword clattering to the ground as it rubs its face frantically. You toss Heeseung the ropes, heart racing, and he moves like lightning, wrapping the squirming marshmallow in licorice, layering gummy worms for extra hold. “Here’s your candy craft,” he says, smirking as he steps back, the knight now a wriggling candy burrito.

“You’ll regret this!” the knight squeals, thrashing uselessly. “Really, really regret this!” You laugh, the absurdity hitting you as you step past it, brushing against Heeseung’s arm. His smug grin makes your chest warm, like you’re sharing a secret victory.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” you tease, nudging him as you enter the tower. The ground shifts to fluffy cotton candy, all pastel pinks, blues, and purples, soft under your biscuit slippers. “That sword was legit scary.”

Heeseung laughs, shaking his head, his apron speckled with crumbs. “Told you I’m full of surprises,” he says, his voice light but proud. “You held up pretty well for someone who almost got skewered.”

“Psh, I was fine,” you say, but your grin betrays you, his playful tone making your heart do a little flip. You scan the tower’s candy-coated walls, searching for the muse star—now a red glowing lollipop perched smugly on the top floor. “Oops! Wasn’t expecting you two so soon,” it mocks, giggling. “You full yet?”

You glare, muttering, “You brat!” as Heeseung tries a door, only to find it handle-less, the star’s latest trick. It giggles louder, clearly loving the chaos. “Ugh, this thing,” you groan, spotting a sticky toffee staircase on the side. You grab it, starting to climb, but the steps are slick, making you wobble. Heeseung’s hands are on the railings in a second, holding it steady, his eyes locked on you with quiet focus.

“Careful,” he says softly, his voice steady and warm, making your heart skip. “Don’t need you falling into a candy coma.”

“I’m good,” you say, smirking despite the sticky mess. You reach higher, the lollipop star cornered in a tight space. “Gotcha,” you mutter, snatching it with both hands and squeezing tight. Heeseung’s eyes light up below, a wide smile breaking across his face as he cheers, “Yes! We win!”

“No, no, let me go, let me go!” the lollipop whines, squirming in your grip. You boop its sticky nose, glaring. “Take us back,” you demand, your voice firm despite the sugar rush making you dizzy.

“I can’t,” it mumbles, softer now, almost sulky. “Not until I make his wish come true.” You frown, confused, but a clatter below snaps your attention. The marshmallow knight storms in, freed from its ropes, sword swinging wildly. Heeseung’s eyes widen, panic flashing as he shakes the staircase to get your attention. “HEY!” he yells, dodging a swing. “Be quick! I don’t wanna DIE!”

You glance down, heart pounding as the knight charges, its tiny sword glinting too close to Heeseung. “Please, take us back!” you plead, squeezing the star harder. “Okay, okay, stop crushing me!” it squeaks, and the world blurs with glitter.

You shut your eyes tight, the tower dissolving, and when you open them, you’re back in the bookshop, sprawled on the familiar couch, the fairy lights twinkling above. Heeseung collapses beside you, panting, his face flushed from the scare.

“We… made it,” you whisper, catching your breath, the star still in your hands, its glow dimmer now. Heeseung’s hand brushes yours on the couch, and the accidental touch sends a warm spark through you, like biting into something sweet and perfect. “You okay?” you ask, turning to him, his wide eyes meeting yours with relief.

“Barely,” he says, laughing softly, his voice shaky but warm. “That knight was no joke. You think the star’s done messing with us?”

You glance at the star, its smug glow still flickering. “Doubt it,” you mutter.

You glare at the glowing lollipop star, its red shine wiggling like it’s plotting its next trick. “Stop trying,” you mutter, booping its sticky nose, but the heat sears your finger, sharp and sudden, forcing you to let go with a hiss. “Ow!” You shake your hand, wincing, as you and Heeseung watch the star float smugly back to the bookshop’s ceiling, twinkling like it’s laughing.

“I won’t leave until I make the wish come true,” it declares, its voice tired but firm. “So, buddy, get back to work.” A notebook and pen materialize on Heeseung’s lap, practically daring him to finish his song.

“Oh god, not again,” you groan, slumping back on the couch, your stomach rumbling. This star’s relentless, and you’re so over its games. “If it’s gonna be like this, what’s the point of you being a star?” Heeseung mutters, his voice dripping with frustration as he tries to stand, only to freeze, stuck to the couch like he’s glued. “Great,” he huffs, realizing he’s trapped until he writes at least a verse.

You’re too hungry to care, your mind on food while Heeseung fumbles with the notebook, scribbling half-hearted lyrics. “I’m ordering takeout,” you announce, pulling out your phone. “Egg fried rice, ‘cause we’re broke.” You glance at him, his head buried in his hands, and add, “For both of us, so you better write fast and get that star outta here.”

Heeseung looks up, his frown deep, eyes tired. “I can’t write anything,” he mutters, voice heavy with defeat. “God, I can’t think straight.” He sighs, staring at the blank page like it’s mocking him, his frustration palpable.

You feel a pang of sympathy and start humming a soft tune, hoping to spark something for him. Maybe a melody will help. But Heeseung snaps his head up, staring at you with wide eyes. “That’s literally just ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’” he says, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “I need something original, not nursery rhymes.”

You flush, embarrassed, and mutter, “Alright, I’ll do better.” You try a different tune, something random and light, staring at the fairy lights above to avoid his gaze. But when you glance back, Heeseung’s staring—like, really staring, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes your heart race. You gasp, scooting to the edge of the couch, clutching a pillow like a shield. “Boy, you scared me!” you squeak, waving a hand at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just keeps looking, his pen moving across the notebook. “I got an idea,” he mumbles, his voice soft but focused, like you’ve just unlocked something in him. You don’t push, too flustered by his gaze, and bury your face in the pillow, peeking out nervously. The way he looked at you—like you were the answer to his writer’s block—makes your cheeks burn.

“Stop it, Heeseung,” you mumble, your voice cracking, feeling exposed under his stare. He blinks, snapping out of it, and closes the notebook with a small smirk. He turns to the star, his voice steady and confident. “I’m done. Now let us go!”

The star, skeptical, floats down to him, hovering over the notebook to inspect his work. It says nothing, its glow flickering as if it’s judging every word. You lean closer, curious despite yourself, and catch Heeseung’s eye. He gives you a quick, shy grin, and your heart skips—not from the star’s antics, but from the quiet spark in his expression, like he’s written something real, something inspired by you.

“Hey, what’d you write?” you ask, nudging him, your voice softer now, the takeout forgotten for a moment. “Spill it. Did I actually help?”

Heeseung chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks pink. “Maybe,” he teases, holding the notebook just out of reach. “But you’re not reading it till we’re outta here. Don’t want you stealing my masterpiece.”

You roll your eyes, but his playful tone warms you, easing the hunger and frustration. “Fine, keep your secrets,” you say, leaning back with a mock pout. “But if that star doesn’t like it, I’m blaming you for dragging this out.”

The star hovers silently, its glow pulsing as it scans the page.

A sharp knock on the bookshop door snaps you out of your haze, your ears perking up at the sound. It’s the delivery guy with the egg fried rice you ordered, and your empty stomach practically cheers. You spring off the couch, heart racing with the promise of food, but the rug underfoot shifts, and you crash onto your butt—still sore from that scorching bench in the futuristic world. “Ow!” you yelp, wincing as you scramble up, undeterred. You lunge for the door, throwing your whole weight against it, but it won’t budge. Your brows furrow, frustration bubbling as you push harder.

The muse star, no longer in your grip, hovers near the ceiling, its red glow flaring brighter like it’s enjoying the chaos. Heeseung, still on the couch with his notebook, glances over, concern creasing his face. “You okay over there?” he calls, his voice soft but laced with worry.

“This door won’t open!” you groan, pounding on it as the delivery guy’s muffled voice calls from outside, urging you to grab the food. Your stomach growls, loud and desperate, and you shoot the star a glare. “You’re doing this, aren’t you?”

“Wait, let me help,” Heeseung says, setting the notebook aside. He stands, free from the couch’s magical grip now that he’s written his verse, but before he can take a step, his jaw drops. The bookshop comes alive in the worst way—books flap off shelves like frantic birds, their pages rustling wildly; the shelves twist into spiral staircases, creaking and groaning; and tiny stars zoom across the ceiling, leaving glittery trails. The fairy lights flicker erratically, like the shop itself is glitching.

Heeseung ignores the chaos, weaving through the floating books to reach you. “We need to get that door open,” he mutters, more to himself, his eyes darting to the food waiting outside. “I’m not getting sucked into another world again.” You nod, heart pounding—his focus steady despite the insanity.

He steps onto the rug, but it lurches upward, tilting like a prankster’s trap. You gasp as he stumbles, pinning you against the door, his legs bracketing yours. His arms shoot out, catching himself before he crashes into you, his muscles straining as he holds back. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm, and for a second, your heart forgets the food, racing for a whole different reason. His eyes flick to yours, wide and startled, and you both freeze, the air thick with something unspoken.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, easing back, his cheeks pink as he lets go. The shop’s chaos doesn’t stop—books swoop, shelves twist—but he turns to the door, gripping the handle and pulling with all his strength. His face flushes from the effort, veins popping on his forearms, but the door stays sealed. Outside, the delivery guy’s footsteps fade, and you groan, knowing the food’s just sitting there, getting cold.

“Guess the gym’s not doing much for you, huh?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood despite your growling stomach. You’re desperate to avoid another world, especially with that rice so close.

Heeseung shoots you a mock glare, panting. “What?” he huffs, tugging the handle again, only to yelp as it snaps clean off in his hand. Your jaw drops—he broke the freaking knob, but the door still won’t budge. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he mutters, staring at the useless handle.

You cross your arms, suspicion creeping in. “Are you sure you wrote the whole song?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “’Cause this feels like the star’s still messing with us.”

Heeseung holds up his hands, defensive. “I wouldn’t be off that couch if I didn’t finish a verse,” he says, nodding toward the notebook. “It let me go, didn’t it? I wrote something.” His certainty makes you nod, but doubt lingers—the star’s glow is too smug, like it knows something you don’t.

Before you can argue, a book rockets from a shelf and smacks you square in the face. You stumble back, rubbing your nose, anger flaring as you glare at the star, now pulsing brighter. “Are you serious?” you snap, your face red—not just from the hit but from pure frustration. “What’s your problem, you little brat?”

Heeseung rushes over, his eyes wide with concern. “You okay?” he asks, hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure how. His jaw drops as he takes in the shop’s escalating chaos—books flapping, shelves spiraling, and now the air itself glitching, flickering with scenes from the worlds you’ve been dragged through. The pirate ship’s mast fades into the candy forest’s brownie ground, then shifts to the futuristic city’s neon streets, only to dissolve into the fairy garden’s glowing mushrooms. It’s like the shop’s stuck in a loop, replaying every adventure.

“Are we… stuck?” you murmur, your voice small as you watch the glitching scenes. The star, hovering above, pulses erratically, its glow stuttering like a bad signal. You catch it winking at you, and your stomach twists. “That thing just winked,” you say, pointing, your voice sharp with disbelief.

Heeseung wipes sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, I saw it too,” he mutters, his tone heavy with frustration. “I’m really hoping it doesn’t yeet us into another world now.” He glances at the door, where the bag of fried rice sits just out of reach, mocking you both.

You groan, slumping against the door. “That rice is getting cold, and I’m starving,” you whine, your stomach growling loud enough for Heeseung to hear. “This star’s gotta chill. We did what it wanted, right?”

Heeseung leans beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, the contact sending a quiet warmth through you despite the chaos. “You’d think,” he says, his voice softer now, like he’s trying to keep you grounded. “But that star’s got a mind of its own. Maybe it’s waiting for… I don’t know, a chorus or something.”

You snort, nudging him. “A chorus? You barely got a verse out, Mr. Songwriter.” Your teasing pulls a small smile from him, and for a moment, the shop’s madness feels distant.

“Hey, I tried,” he says, mock-offended, his grin widening. “You weren’t exactly helping with that ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ remix.” His eyes sparkle, and you laugh, the sound easing the knot in your chest.

“Okay, fair,” you admit, still chuckling. “But you staring at me like I’m your muse didn’t help either. Creeped me out.” You poke his arm, and he flushes, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t—okay, maybe I was,” he admits, his voice low, almost shy. “You’re… distracting, alright? In a good way.” His words hit you like a warm sip of tea, and you duck your head, hiding a smile behind your hand.

“Stop it,” you mumble, your cheeks warm. “We’ve got a star to deal with, not… whatever this is.” But your heart’s doing a little dance, and you can’t ignore the way his gaze lingers, soft and steady, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

The star pulses again, its glow cutting through your moment. “You two done flirting?” it taunts, zipping closer. “Or I’ll pick another book. Maybe a haunted castle this time?” Its giggle grates on your nerves, and you clench your fists, ready to lunge at it.

“Don’t you dare,” you snap, standing straighter. “We’re done with your games. Let us out, or I’m eating you next.”

Heeseung laughs, stepping closer to you, his hand brushing yours again. “She’s not kidding,” he says to the star, his tone light but firm. “You saw her in that candy world. She’ll devour you.”

The star huffs, floating higher, but the shop keeps glitching—pirate waves crash against candy trees, neon signs flicker over fairy mushrooms. You glance at Heeseung, his face set with determination despite the sweat on his brow. “What now?” you ask, your voice quieter, the cold takeout bag outside the door feeling like a metaphor for your stuck situation.

The bookshop’s chaos screeches to a halt as the flying books crash to the floor, their pages fluttering like tired birds. The rug, which had been twisting and floating like a possessed magic carpet, flops down with a dull thud. The shelves stop their spiral dance, and the fairy lights steady their glow, casting a soft, familiar warmth over the shop. The muse star, that infuriating red glow, vanishes with a faint pop, leaving only a faint glittery trail that fades into nothing. You step cautiously into the main shop space, eyes darting for any lingering tricks. “Guess the adventure’s over now,” you mutter, collapsing onto the couch, your body heavy with relief and exhaustion.

“Thankfully,” Heeseung says, sinking beside you, his voice rough but laced with a laugh. His shirt’s rumpled, no pastel apron in sight, just the same worn tee he’d been wearing when this mess started. “I’m asking if it’s a muse star next time before I wish for anything,” he adds, shaking his head like he’s still processing the whirlwind of worlds you’ve been dragged through.

You snort, too tired to move but pointing at the chaos around you—books scattered like confetti, shelves askew, the shop looking like a tornado hit it. “And who says I’m letting you wish again after this mess?” you say, your voice sharp but playful, exhaustion softening the edges. “Look at this place. It’s a disaster.”

Heeseung’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and steady, and your heart gives a small, traitorous jump. “We should eat first,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “Then… maybe I’ll help with the mess.”

“Don’t ‘maybe’ me,” you snap, sitting up to glare at him, though a smile tugs at your lips. “You’re helping, no matter what. You owe me for that pirate ship, the hot bench, and the book that smacked my face.” You point at the floor, where the offending book lies innocently among the others.

Heeseung laughs, a low, warm sound that makes your chest feel lighter despite the hunger gnawing at you. “Fine, fine, I’m on cleanup duty,” he concedes, raising his hands in surrender. “But food first. I’m starving.” He stands, stepping carefully over the scattered books toward the door—the one he broke the handle off earlier, thanks to the star’s tricks. To your surprise, it swings open easily now, revealing the takeout bags sitting outside, cold but still a lifeline. “At least we’ve got this,” he says, grabbing the bags of egg fried rice and holding them up like a trophy.

You drag yourself off the couch, your sore butt protesting as you join him. “Cold rice is better than nothing,” you mutter, grabbing a bag and plopping back down. You rip it open, the faint smell of soy sauce making your mouth water. “You know, for a muse star, that thing was more trouble than inspiration.”

Heeseung sits beside you, digging into his own food with a plastic fork. “No kidding,” he says between bites. “But… I gotta admit, the song came out better than I thought.” He glances at his notebook, now lying on the couch, its pages filled with lyrics you haven’t seen yet. There’s a quiet pride in his voice, and it makes you curious, even through your exhaustion.

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m a great muse?” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow, rice nearly spilling. “Bet you wrote about my amazing lollipop-chasing skills.”

Heeseung chuckles, his cheeks pinking as he avoids your eyes, focusing on his food. “Maybe,” he says, his voice soft but teasing. “Or maybe it’s about how you almost got us boiled in soup.” He glances at you, his grin boyish, and your heart does a little flip.

“Rude,” you huff, but you’re smiling, the warmth of his presence making the cold rice taste better than it should. “You’re not reading it to me yet, are you?”

“Nope,” he says, popping a bite into his mouth, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Not till the shop’s cleaned up. Gotta earn it.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back against the couch. “You’re the worst,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. The shop’s a wreck—books everywhere, shelves crooked—but sitting here with Heeseung, sharing cold takeout and trading jabs, feels like the best part of this whole adventure. “Fine, but you’re stacking those shelves first,” you say, pointing your fork at him.

“Deal,” he replies, his hand brushing yours as he reaches for another bite, the touch accidental but lingering just long enough. “But only if you stop blaming me for the star’s nonsense.”

You laugh, the sound easing the last of your tension. “No promises,” you say, but as you glance at him—his messy hair, his tired but warm smile—you can’t help feeling like you’d follow him through a hundred more worlds, muse star or not.

YOU CAN JOIN MY TAGLIST BY SENDING AN ASK OR COMMENTING HERE ┊ THANK YOU FOR READING! I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS ♡

© shortonwon ! 2025 ⪩⪨

[senascoop]

┊ ENHA AS ROMANCE TROPES , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, not sure if anyone did anything similiar to this before but I just wanted to give it a go [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

(📷) IDOL X FAN — You were waiting by the bus stop, when someone bumped into you. A guy in a hoodie, bucket hat pulled low, and a mask. “Wha—?” Before you could finish your sentence, you noticed a small group of girls hurrying in your direction, giggling and pointing. The guy beside you stiffened, eyes darting for an escape. You didn’t recognize him—not immediately. Acting on impulse, you stepped forward and looped your arm through his. “There you are! I waited way too long—seriously, looking like a celebrity’s not helping,” you joked, laughing like an old friend. His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t move. The girls slowed down, whispering among themselves. Then one said, “Nah, it’s not him. Just looks like heeseung.” The girls lost interest and walked away. You let go, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry—just thought you needed help.” Then, with a small bow of gratitude, he turned and walked off without saying anything. You stood frozen for a second—Your breath caught as you recalled the name. Wait. What if it was?

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

(👔) CEO X SECRETARY — Every time you stepped into his office, nerves danced beneath your skin. The scent of his cologne hit instantly—sharp, expensive, unforgettable—lingering in the air like him. Park Jongseong was composed to the point of coldness, with rolled sleeves, silver cufflinks, and eyes that never missed a thing. He looked like he belonged on the cover of every novel you secretly read. Today was no different. You walked in, clutching the file to your chest, eyes darting anywhere but him. “Do you have the papers?” His voice was low, precise—and paired with the slow way he adjusted his glasses, it sent your heart into a spiral. You nodded, a quiet, breathless “Yes, sir,” slipping out before you quickly turned to leave. Behind you, he glanced up from his desk, a rare curve to his lips. “You always run away like that?” And suddenly, your hands were shaking.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

(⭐) ACCIDENTAL ROOMMATES — you weren’t sure why, out of everyone, you had to be paired with Jake. You were supposed to have this tiny dorm to yourself—your peaceful little space, just the way you liked it. But because he showed up late, the housing office had no choice but to assign him to your room. So now, you were stuck. With him. “Can you move out of the way?” you huffed, trying to sweep the floor, broom in hand while Jake clumsily shifted the furniture with that signature goofy grin. At least he helped. But he didn’t follow your rules. He made ramen at midnight, threw on late-night movies, and insisted you stay up to watch every single one. He’d share snacks, laugh too loudly, and sometimes—without meaning to—fall asleep on your bed instead of his. You called him annoying. But he was warm. Loud. Kind. A golden retriever in human form. And then came that one morning. You woke up tangled in blankets—and him. His breath tickled your collarbone, and when you tried to move, he stirred. “Don’t go…” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

(🎭) FAKE DATING — You let out a quiet sigh as you sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes trailing after the boy everyone thought was your boyfriend. Park Sunghoon—golden boy of the football field, the one who made girls trip over their words and hearts. But none of this was real. It was just a deal. He needed a fake girlfriend to get his friends off his back, and you? You said yes because… why not? He was handsome and the attention was flattering. The curious stares, the whispers of “how did she pull him?” it was all a game. At least, that’s how it started. Until he began waiting for you after school. Offering his hand without thinking. Laughing over shared ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world. And one day, as the sky turned pink, he leaned in—eyes gentle, steps hesitant. “I—” you whispered just as his lips brushed yours. But the moment shattered when a friend’s voice rang out, teasing. You both pulled away, awkward smiles covering the silence. You told yourself it was part of the act. But your heart? It wasn’t pretending anymore.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

(☁️) CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS —You’ve known Sunoo since kindergarten. You were there when he cried over scraped knees, when he proudly showed off his glittery pencil box, and yes—even when he once peed himself during a school play. So naturally, you saw him like a brother… right? At least, that’s what you told yourself. But lately, things felt off. Your heart would flutter when he slung his arm around your shoulder—something he’s done for years. The warmth in his voice, the way he smiled at you… suddenly it all felt different. Too soft. Too much. You even looked it up one night: “Is it normal to fall for your best friend?” And then came that one quiet walk home, when he looked at you and said, “You’ve been acting weird lately.” your breath hitched. “Huh?” you couldn’t even meet his eyes—afraid they’d give everything away.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

(📚) LIBRARY CRUSH — You always sit across from him—the quiet boy everyone whispers about but never approaches. The library is almost always empty, tucked away from the noise of school life, and yet somehow, he’s always there. Same seat. Same calm focus. It becomes routine: your books, your highlighter… and stolen glances over the pages. They say girls fall over themselves for Yang Jungwon. You never cared. Not until he started making you stay longer—just by being there. One afternoon, you glance up and find his seat empty. Disappointed, you lower your book—only to turn and freeze. He’s standing behind you, one brow raised. “You always stare at people when they’re not looking?” Your breath catches. Your hands go clammy. “N-No—I mean, not people. Just…” He laughs softly. Then leans closer. “Then maybe next time, I should sit next to you instead.” And just like that, you’re gone in your dreamland, already thinking of a happily ever after together.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

(💢) ENEMIES TO LOVERS — No one really knows when it started—how you and Riki became that pair. The constant eye rolls, bickering in class, the way he always seems to be watching you... whether out of annoyance or something else, you never quite know. One day, half-joking, you nudge him and ask, “You into me or something? You keep staring.” He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a flicker in his gaze you don’t catch. What you don’t know is that behind your back, Riki’s grip tightens every time someone talks about you with anything less than respect. He doesn’t say a word—just makes sure they don’t do it again. Then one day, you overhear it. Someone muttering that Riki fought a guy for calling you “easy.” That night, when you ask him why, he shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I am into you. So, what about it?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

┊ ENHA AS ROMANCE TROPES , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, not sure if anyone did anything similiar to this before but I just wanted to give it a go [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

(📷) IDOL X FAN — You were waiting by the bus stop, when someone bumped into you. A guy in a hoodie, bucket hat pulled low, and a mask. “Wha—?” Before you could finish your sentence, you noticed a small group of girls hurrying in your direction, giggling and pointing. The guy beside you stiffened, eyes darting for an escape. You didn’t recognize him—not immediately. Acting on impulse, you stepped forward and looped your arm through his. “There you are! I waited way too long—seriously, looking like a celebrity’s not helping,” you joked, laughing like an old friend. His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t move. The girls slowed down, whispering among themselves. Then one said, “Nah, it’s not him. Just looks like heeseung.” The girls lost interest and walked away. You let go, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry—just thought you needed help.” Then, with a small bow of gratitude, he turned and walked off without saying anything. You stood frozen for a second—Your breath caught as you recalled the name. Wait. What if it was?

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

(👔) CEO X SECRETARY — Every time you stepped into his office, nerves danced beneath your skin. The scent of his cologne hit instantly—sharp, expensive, unforgettable—lingering in the air like him. Park Jongseong was composed to the point of coldness, with rolled sleeves, silver cufflinks, and eyes that never missed a thing. He looked like he belonged on the cover of every novel you secretly read. Today was no different. You walked in, clutching the file to your chest, eyes darting anywhere but him. “Do you have the papers?” His voice was low, precise—and paired with the slow way he adjusted his glasses, it sent your heart into a spiral. You nodded, a quiet, breathless “Yes, sir,” slipping out before you quickly turned to leave. Behind you, he glanced up from his desk, a rare curve to his lips. “You always run away like that?” And suddenly, your hands were shaking.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

(⭐) ACCIDENTAL ROOMMATES — you weren’t sure why, out of everyone, you had to be paired with Jake. You were supposed to have this tiny dorm to yourself—your peaceful little space, just the way you liked it. But because he showed up late, the housing office had no choice but to assign him to your room. So now, you were stuck. With him. “Can you move out of the way?” you huffed, trying to sweep the floor, broom in hand while Jake clumsily shifted the furniture with that signature goofy grin. At least he helped. But he didn’t follow your rules. He made ramen at midnight, threw on late-night movies, and insisted you stay up to watch every single one. He’d share snacks, laugh too loudly, and sometimes—without meaning to—fall asleep on your bed instead of his. You called him annoying. But he was warm. Loud. Kind. A golden retriever in human form. And then came that one morning. You woke up tangled in blankets—and him. His breath tickled your collarbone, and when you tried to move, he stirred. “Don’t go…” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

(🎭) FAKE DATING — You let out a quiet sigh as you sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes trailing after the boy everyone thought was your boyfriend. Park Sunghoon—golden boy of the football field, the one who made girls trip over their words and hearts. But none of this was real. It was just a deal. He needed a fake girlfriend to get his friends off his back, and you? You said yes because… why not? He was handsome and the attention was flattering. The curious stares, the whispers of “how did she pull him?” it was all a game. At least, that’s how it started. Until he began waiting for you after school. Offering his hand without thinking. Laughing over shared ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world. And one day, as the sky turned pink, he leaned in—eyes gentle, steps hesitant. “I—” you whispered just as his lips brushed yours. But the moment shattered when a friend’s voice rang out, teasing. You both pulled away, awkward smiles covering the silence. You told yourself it was part of the act. But your heart? It wasn’t pretending anymore.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

(☁️) CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS —You’ve known Sunoo since kindergarten. You were there when he cried over scraped knees, when he proudly showed off his glittery pencil box, and yes—even when he once peed himself during a school play. So naturally, you saw him like a brother… right? At least, that’s what you told yourself. But lately, things felt off. Your heart would flutter when he slung his arm around your shoulder—something he’s done for years. The warmth in his voice, the way he smiled at you… suddenly it all felt different. Too soft. Too much. You even looked it up one night: “Is it normal to fall for your best friend?” And then came that one quiet walk home, when he looked at you and said, “You’ve been acting weird lately.” your breath hitched. “Huh?” you couldn’t even meet his eyes—afraid they’d give everything away.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

(📚) LIBRARY CRUSH — You always sit across from him—the quiet boy everyone whispers about but never approaches. The library is almost always empty, tucked away from the noise of school life, and yet somehow, he’s always there. Same seat. Same calm focus. It becomes routine: your books, your highlighter… and stolen glances over the pages. They say girls fall over themselves for Yang Jungwon. You never cared. Not until he started making you stay longer—just by being there. One afternoon, you glance up and find his seat empty. Disappointed, you lower your book—only to turn and freeze. He’s standing behind you, one brow raised. “You always stare at people when they’re not looking?” Your breath catches. Your hands go clammy. “N-No—I mean, not people. Just…” He laughs softly. Then leans closer. “Then maybe next time, I should sit next to you instead.” And just like that, you’re gone in your dreamland, already thinking of a happily ever after together.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

(💢) ENEMIES TO LOVERS — No one really knows when it started—how you and Riki became that pair. The constant eye rolls, bickering in class, the way he always seems to be watching you... whether out of annoyance or something else, you never quite know. One day, half-joking, you nudge him and ask, “You into me or something? You keep staring.” He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a flicker in his gaze you don’t catch. What you don’t know is that behind your back, Riki’s grip tightens every time someone talks about you with anything less than respect. He doesn’t say a word—just makes sure they don’t do it again. Then one day, you overhear it. Someone muttering that Riki fought a guy for calling you “easy.” That night, when you ask him why, he shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I am into you. So, what about it?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

┊ ENHA AS ROMANCE TROPES , 엔하이펜 ☁︎

presenting, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s) word count, n/a . . . note, not sure if anyone did anything similiar to this before but I just wanted to give it a go [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

(📷) IDOL X FAN — You were waiting by the bus stop, when someone bumped into you. A guy in a hoodie, bucket hat pulled low, and a mask. “Wha—?” Before you could finish your sentence, you noticed a small group of girls hurrying in your direction, giggling and pointing. The guy beside you stiffened, eyes darting for an escape. You didn’t recognize him—not immediately. Acting on impulse, you stepped forward and looped your arm through his. “There you are! I waited way too long—seriously, looking like a celebrity’s not helping,” you joked, laughing like an old friend. His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t move. The girls slowed down, whispering among themselves. Then one said, “Nah, it’s not him. Just looks like heeseung.” The girls lost interest and walked away. You let go, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry—just thought you needed help.” Then, with a small bow of gratitude, he turned and walked off without saying anything. You stood frozen for a second—Your breath caught as you recalled the name. Wait. What if it was?

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

(👔) CEO X SECRETARY — Every time you stepped into his office, nerves danced beneath your skin. The scent of his cologne hit instantly—sharp, expensive, unforgettable—lingering in the air like him. Park Jongseong was composed to the point of coldness, with rolled sleeves, silver cufflinks, and eyes that never missed a thing. He looked like he belonged on the cover of every novel you secretly read. Today was no different. You walked in, clutching the file to your chest, eyes darting anywhere but him. “Do you have the papers?” His voice was low, precise—and paired with the slow way he adjusted his glasses, it sent your heart into a spiral. You nodded, a quiet, breathless “Yes, sir,” slipping out before you quickly turned to leave. Behind you, he glanced up from his desk, a rare curve to his lips. “You always run away like that?” And suddenly, your hands were shaking.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

(⭐) ACCIDENTAL ROOMMATES — you weren’t sure why, out of everyone, you had to be paired with Jake. You were supposed to have this tiny dorm to yourself—your peaceful little space, just the way you liked it. But because he showed up late, the housing office had no choice but to assign him to your room. So now, you were stuck. With him. “Can you move out of the way?” you huffed, trying to sweep the floor, broom in hand while Jake clumsily shifted the furniture with that signature goofy grin. At least he helped. But he didn’t follow your rules. He made ramen at midnight, threw on late-night movies, and insisted you stay up to watch every single one. He’d share snacks, laugh too loudly, and sometimes—without meaning to—fall asleep on your bed instead of his. You called him annoying. But he was warm. Loud. Kind. A golden retriever in human form. And then came that one morning. You woke up tangled in blankets—and him. His breath tickled your collarbone, and when you tried to move, he stirred. “Don’t go…” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

here's the fic inspired by the trope !

(🎭) FAKE DATING — You let out a quiet sigh as you sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes trailing after the boy everyone thought was your boyfriend. Park Sunghoon—golden boy of the football field, the one who made girls trip over their words and hearts. But none of this was real. It was just a deal. He needed a fake girlfriend to get his friends off his back, and you? You said yes because… why not? He was handsome and the attention was flattering. The curious stares, the whispers of “how did she pull him?” it was all a game. At least, that’s how it started. Until he began waiting for you after school. Offering his hand without thinking. Laughing over shared ice cream like it was the most natural thing in the world. And one day, as the sky turned pink, he leaned in—eyes gentle, steps hesitant. “I—” you whispered just as his lips brushed yours. But the moment shattered when a friend’s voice rang out, teasing. You both pulled away, awkward smiles covering the silence. You told yourself it was part of the act. But your heart? It wasn’t pretending anymore.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

(☁️) CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS —You’ve known Sunoo since kindergarten. You were there when he cried over scraped knees, when he proudly showed off his glittery pencil box, and yes—even when he once peed himself during a school play. So naturally, you saw him like a brother… right? At least, that’s what you told yourself. But lately, things felt off. Your heart would flutter when he slung his arm around your shoulder—something he’s done for years. The warmth in his voice, the way he smiled at you… suddenly it all felt different. Too soft. Too much. You even looked it up one night: “Is it normal to fall for your best friend?” And then came that one quiet walk home, when he looked at you and said, “You’ve been acting weird lately.” your breath hitched. “Huh?” you couldn’t even meet his eyes—afraid they’d give everything away.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

(📚) LIBRARY CRUSH — You always sit across from him—the quiet boy everyone whispers about but never approaches. The library is almost always empty, tucked away from the noise of school life, and yet somehow, he’s always there. Same seat. Same calm focus. It becomes routine: your books, your highlighter… and stolen glances over the pages. They say girls fall over themselves for Yang Jungwon. You never cared. Not until he started making you stay longer—just by being there. One afternoon, you glance up and find his seat empty. Disappointed, you lower your book—only to turn and freeze. He’s standing behind you, one brow raised. “You always stare at people when they’re not looking?” Your breath catches. Your hands go clammy. “N-No—I mean, not people. Just…” He laughs softly. Then leans closer. “Then maybe next time, I should sit next to you instead.” And just like that, you’re gone in your dreamland, already thinking of a happily ever after together.

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

(💢) ENEMIES TO LOVERS — No one really knows when it started—how you and Riki became that pair. The constant eye rolls, bickering in class, the way he always seems to be watching you... whether out of annoyance or something else, you never quite know. One day, half-joking, you nudge him and ask, “You into me or something? You keep staring.” He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there’s a flicker in his gaze you don’t catch. What you don’t know is that behind your back, Riki’s grip tightens every time someone talks about you with anything less than respect. He doesn’t say a word—just makes sure they don’t do it again. Then one day, you overhear it. Someone muttering that Riki fought a guy for calling you “easy.” That night, when you ask him why, he shrugs, looking away. “Maybe I am into you. So, what about it?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[senascoop]

┊ HEAVEN AND BACK . . 엔하이펜 18+

PAIRING. enhypen ! hyung line × afab ! reader. SYNOPSIS: basically them with a virgin reader. GENRE. smut, scenarios, established relationship. WC. 4k-5k. WARNING(S). nsfw, mdni, smut, fingering, blowjob, kissing, lmk if I missed something. [ARCHIVE]

note : everything is written in a span of a few months so the wordings for each member might have some inconsistencies. i'm currently working on a long oneshot so I'll keep posting to fill in the gaps...

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

Heeseung’s practically vibrating with joy when he finds out you’re a virgin. It’s not some must-have checkbox for him, but damn, it hits him in the feels—like you’re trusting him with something huge, something just for him. So when you start teasing him, brushing your hand over his bulge on random nights while he’s sprawled on the couch watching TV, he’s torn. Part of him loves it, the way you smirk and pull back, but it also drives him up the wall. He’s convinced you’re just playing, that you’d never let him touch you for real.

Tonight’s no different—or so he thinks. You slide your fingers along his soft length through his sweatpants, tracing him lazily while he tries to focus on the screen. Heeseung’s jaw tightens, his patience fraying, and before you can pull away, he snaps. In one swift move, he pins you down on the couch, his body hovering over yours, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of your hips. “Told you not to do that... Especially when you’re not gonna take care of it.”

You glare up at him, defiance flashing in your eyes. “Who says I won't take care of it?” Your tone’s sharp, challenging, and it catches him off guard.

He scoffs, leaning closer, his breath hot against your cheek. “Oh yeah? What about all the times you dodge me? Every damn time I try, you’re out.” Even as he talks, his hand’s already slipping under your t-shirt, rough fingers finding your breast. He cups it firmly, thumb brushing your nipple before pinching and twisting just enough to make you squirm. A whimper slips out of you, then a moan, and he smirks, feeling the heat pooling between your legs. “Such a bad girl,” he whispers, lips grazing your ear, voice dripping with tease. He’s got no intention of going all the way—not yet. He figures you’re too new to this, too shy for a quick couch fuck. But then you surprise him.

“I want to,” you murmur, barely audible. His eyes flick to yours, searching, and you add, “With you.” Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down until his bulge presses right against your pussy, and holy shit, he’s stunned.

Heeseung freezes for a second, blinking down at you like he can’t believe it. His shy, sweet girlfriend—now locking him in with those legs and saying she wants him to take her first time? He’s not mad about it, not even close. Excitement flares in his chest, and he dips his head, planting soft, messy kisses all over your face—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips. “You’re not messing with me, right?” he asks between kisses, half-laughing, half-pleading. He’s waiting for you to giggle and say it’s a joke, but you don’t. Instead, you shake your head, hair fanned out on the cushion, a little drool glistening at the corner of your mouth from how worked up you are. Your chest heaves, eyes wide with want, and that’s all the green light he needs.

He grinds his bulge against you, slow at first, testing the waters. The friction’s insane—your panties are soaked, slickness seeping through the thin fabric, and his sweatpants aren’t faring much better, a wet spot forming from his precum. You’re both a mess already, and he hasn’t even taken anything off. “Can I… for real?” he asks, voice shaky with nerves and hunger. “Like, no clothes. Just a condom, obviously.” He’s never done this—taken someone’s first time—and the last thing he wants is to fuck it up. Not with you. “Would that be okay?”

You nod, biting your lip, just as nervous but just as ready. “Yeah… that’d be good, right?” Your eyes search his, and he gives you a quick, reassuring nod back.

He peels off your clothes with shaky hands—t-shirt first, then your shorts and panties, leaving you bare beneath him. His sweatpants follow, and he fumbles with the condom wrapper for a second before rolling it on. When he lines himself up, pressing the tip against your pussy, you both hold your breath. He slides in slow, careful, watching your face the whole time. Your eyes squeeze shut, a mix of pain and pleasure twisting your features as he breaks through, filling you completely. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters under his breath, bottoming out and stilling for a moment to let you adjust.

You gasp, head tipping back into the couch, hands gripping his shoulders like he’s your lifeline. It stings—the stretch, the snap of your hymen—but then it shifts. Pleasure floods in, hot and overwhelming, and you’re cumming around him before he even starts moving. He groans at the way you clench, kissing the tears off your cheeks as he starts thrusting. It’s a little rough, fast because he can’t help it, but he keeps checking in—soft hums in your ear, a hand stroking your thigh. “You okay?” he whispers, and you nod, moaning his name “seungie.”

He’s losing it too—your pussy’s so warm, so wet, and the condom’s barely dulling the edge of it. His thrusts pick up, hips snapping against yours, and soon he’s spilling into the rubber, panting against your neck. You’re both sweaty, tangled, wrecked—and when he pulls out, he kisses you deep, murmuring how much he loves you.

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

The shower’s all steamy, the air thick and warm, carrying that faint, soothing smell of your lavender body wash. Outside, it’s freaking freezing—winter’s biting hard—and the thought of showering alone just sounded miserable. So, you’re crammed into this tiny, tiled space with Jay, your bodies brushing close, the heat of the water wrapping around you both. His hands slide over your skin, slick with soap, moving across your back, down your arms, and lingering at your hips. His touch is gentle but sure, and sometimes his fingers pause a little too long, sending a shiver through you that’s got nothing to do with the cold outside.

“Hey, stop, that tickles!” you laugh, squirming as his hands glide over your stomach, the soap making everything so slippery it’s almost funny. Jay’s chuckle rumbles deep, vibrating against you, but then his hands drift up, cupping your breasts, giving a soft squeeze that makes you gasp. You feel him shift closer, his body pressed against your lower back, and there’s no mistaking it—he’s turned on, the bulge of his obvious. Your breath catches, and just like that, he freezes, like he’s caught himself doing something wrong. He quickly shuts off the water, snatches a towel, and wraps it around his waist, hiding what’s going on down there.

You can’t help but giggle, the sound light and a bit teasing. “Did that get you all worked up?” you ask, stepping out of the shower, water dripping down your skin as you grab your own towel. The air feels chilly now, goosebumps prickling up.

Jay’s face goes pink, and he runs a hand through his wet hair, looking almost embarrassed. “Uh, yeah, you could say that,” he mumbles, his voice low and a little rough, like he’s trying to play it cool but failing. “So, maybe… dry off and head out? I kinda need to, y’know, handle this.” He’s clutching that towel like it’s his only defense, standing there, clearly trying not to make you uncomfortable. That’s Jay—always careful, always checking himself, never pushing you past what you’re ready for. You’re a virgin, and he’s never made you feel like you need to rush anything. He’s just happy to have you here, close, comfortable enough to be this open with him.

But tonight, something bold’s stirring in you. Maybe it’s the steam clouding your head, or the way his eyes keep flickering to your wet skin, like he’s trying so hard not to stare. You step closer, water still dripping from your hair, and say his name, soft but deliberate. “Jay.”

He lets out this little impatient hum, his jaw tight, like he’s fighting to keep himself together. “Yeah? What’s up?” he says, but his voice is shaky, like he’s bracing himself.

You bite your lip, feeling this mix of nerves and something daring. “Can I… help you out?” you ask, your voice quiet but steady, and his eyes go wide, like he’s not sure he heard you right. He raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half-shocked. “Wait, you serious? do you even know what you’re offering?” he says, but there’s this spark in his voice, like he’s curiousl, maybe even daring you.

You hold his gaze, feeling a little stubborn, a little brave. “Let me try,” you say, and before he can argue, you drop to your knees on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold and hard against your skin. You tug at his towel, letting it fall in a damp heap, and there he is—hard, flushed, with the dripping red-ish tip and honestly, kind of beautiful in a way that makes your heart race. Your hand wraps around his cock, tentative at first, and Jay lets out this choked sound, his head tipping back like he’s already losing it.

“Like this?” you ask, looking up at him, your eyes probably a little wide, a mix of nervous and curious. You move your hand, slow and careful, getting the hang of it, your grip tightening just a bit. He nods, swallowing hard, his eyes glued to you like he’s in some kind of trance.

“Yeah, that’s… holy shit, you’re doing good,” he says, his voice all rough and raw. You smile, feeling a little cheeky, that spark in you growing. “Bet I’m better at this than you,” you tease, and the way his breath hitches tells you you’re getting under his skin.

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how far to take this, then tests the water. “Can you… maybe use your mouth?” he asks, his voice low, almost shy, like he’s worried he’s asking too much. But you nod, eager, the idea sending a little thrill through you. You lean in, your lips brushing against his mushroom tip, tasting the faint saltiness. It’s new, a bit overwhelming, but you don’t stop. You swirl your tongue, maybe a little clumsy but trying your best, and Jay groans, loud and raw, his hands twitching like he’s dying to grab you but holding back.

“God, you’re… you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, his voice shaky as you find a rhythm, your lips and tongue working together. You’re new at this, yeah, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re everything right now—makes you feel bold, wanted. His moans fill the bathroom, rough and desperate, and before long, he’s tensing up, a low growl slipping out as he bursts in your mouth, the warmth catching you by surprise. You swallow, a little unsure but kind of proud, and when you look up, his eyes are wild, his chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.

“Jesus,” he breathes, pulling you to your feet and kissing you hard, like he can’t help himself. Your lips taste like him, like you, and it’s a lot—dizzying, even. “You’re gonna kill me one day,” he says, half-laughing, half-serious, his hands still holding you close, like he’s not ready to let you go and the way his dick still isn't soft and pressing insistently against you—tells you that you might really lose your virginity tonight.

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

The kitchen smelled like curry, the kind you’d thrown together with whatever was in the fridge—plain rice simmering on one burner, a pot of vegetable curry bubbling on another. You stirred the sauce, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pan, but your mind wasn’t on dinner. It was on Jake. Last night’s fight played on a loop in your head—his sharp tone, the way he’d brushed you off like you didn’t matter. You’d woken up still pissed, and when he left for work this morning without so much as a goodbye, you’d sworn you’d hold onto that anger. He didn’t get to just act like nothing happened.

“Honey?” His voice cut through the haze of your thoughts, soft but heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t turn around, just kept stirring, tossing in the potatoes and tomatoes you’d chopped earlier, your movements a little too forceful.

“Baby?” he tried again, and you could hear the exhaustion in his voice, the faint edge of regret. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he crossed the kitchen. Before you could react, his arms slid around your waist, his chest pressing against your back, his face nuzzling into your neck. His breath was warm, tickling your skin, and despite your best efforts, your body betrayed you with a shiver.

“Let go,” you muttered, squirming in his grip. You weren’t ready to forgive him, not yet. But as you twisted, your ass brushed against his crotch—unintentional, but enough to make you both pause. Heat crept up your face, and you froze, caught between anger and something else entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said, his voice low, almost pleading. “For last night. I was stressed out of my mind, baby. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” His arms stayed firm around you, but you could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding back. And God, the way you’d pressed against him, even by accident, was making it hard for him to focus. You were newlyweds, after all—every touch still felt like a spark.

“So what, you just get to snap at me whenever you’re stressed?” you shot back, flicking off the gas with a sharp twist of your wrist. You tried to pull out of his hold, but the movement only pressed you harder against him, and he let out a low groan, the sound vibrating against your neck. You realized, with a jolt, that he was hard, and the thought sent a rush of heat through you, despite your lingering anger.

“Stop moving,” he said, his voice rough but not angry. “Let me apologize to my wife properly.” There was no hidden meaning in his words, just a desperate need to make things right, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook. Before you could argue, he tilted your head back gently, his lips finding yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. His hand stayed at your waist, grounding you, and you hated how easily you melted into him, your anger softening against your will.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours, and you could tell he felt the shift too—the air in the kitchen was heavier now, charged with something new. Before he could say anything, you kissed him again, harder, your hands fisting in his shirt. He groaned into your mouth, the sound sending a spark straight to your core. His hands moved, sliding under your shirt, finding the bare skin of your breasts. He squeezed gently, testing, expecting you to pull away and snap at him again.

But you didn’t. Instead, your hands shook as you tugged your shirt and bra off, letting them drop to the kitchen floor with a soft thud. Jake froze, his breath catching as he stared at your bare back, your shoulders tense but inviting. For a moment, he was too stunned to move, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your skin caught the soft light.

“baby…” he started, his voice hoarse, but you didn’t let him finish. You guided his hands back to your breasts, pressing his palms against your skin, and tilted your head back to kiss him again, desperate and needy. His touch was electric, his fingers rough but careful, and you gasped into his mouth as he squeezed, his thumbs brushing your nipples.

“Jake…” you moaned, your voice barely audible as his hand slid lower, unbuttoning your skirt with ease. His fingers slipped inside your panties, cupping you, and the sudden contact made your hips jerk. He parted your folds, his thumb brushing your clit, and the sensation was so intense you cried out, your nails digging into his arm.

“Haven’t even started yet,” he whispered, his lips grazing your neck as he sucked gently, leaving a faint purple mark. He was careful, knowing you were still a virgin—your wedding night had been sweet but chaste, Jake insisting on waiting until you were ready. But now, with your body pressed against the counter, the smell of curry fading into the background, there was no more waiting.

You squirmed, impatient, your legs closing around his hand. “Just take it off,” you said, your voice shaky but firm. He chuckled, low and teasing, but instead of pulling your panties down, he slid a finger inside you, slow and deliberate. You gasped, your body tensing at the stretch, but he kissed the spot below your ear, murmuring, “You’re not still mad, are you?”

You couldn’t answer, too caught up in the way his finger moved, stretching you, coaxing out sounds you didn’t know you could make. He added another, his movements steady, patient, until your hips started rocking against his hand, chasing the pleasure. The slick sounds filled the kitchen, mingling with your ragged breaths, and Jake’s restraint was hanging by a thread. His cock strained against his pants, desperate to feel you, but he held back, wanting to make sure you were ready.

When he was certain, he hooked his fingers in your panties, dragging them down your legs. A thin string of your arousal clung to the fabric, and he groaned, kneeling briefly to dart his tongue out, breaking it. The sight of you, bare and glistening, nearly undid him. He stood, pressing himself against you from behind, his voice a low rumble. “Can I fuck you now?”

You laughed, a nervous, breathy sound. “Not the gentleman anymore, huh?”

He sighed, amused, unzipping his pants and freeing himself. His cock pressed against your entrance, hot and insistent, and he corrected himself, his tone softer. “Can I make love to you, sweetie?”

You shivered, his words hitting harder than the dirty ones. “Right here in the kitchen?” you teased, but your voice trembled, betraying your nerves.

“For now,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “But I’m thinking the floor, the wall, the couch, the dining table, the shower—” You cut him off with a kiss, tilting your head back, and that was all he needed.

He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your slickness, then thrust in slowly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You gasped, the stretch intense, almost too much, but he paused, letting you adjust. “You okay?” he whispered, his hands steadying your hips.

You nodded, gripping the counter as he began to move, each thrust deeper, smoother, until the pain melted into pleasure. The kitchen faded away, the fight forgotten, replaced by the rhythm of his body against yours, the way he filled you. Your moans echoed, mingling with his groans, and you realized this—this messy, perfect moment—was worth every second of last night’s anger.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

The thunder rumbles outside, a low growl that shakes the windows of your cozy apartment, and the room is pitch black, the power knocked out by the freak winter storm. You’re shivering under the covers, the cold seeping through the blankets despite being tangled up with Sunghoon. His arm is slung over your waist, pulling you closer, but it’s not enough to chase away the chill. Your teeth chatter, and you hear his do the same, a soft clinking sound that makes you huff in frustration. A thunderstorm in the middle of winter? Seriously?

“It’s so cold,” you mumble, burrowing deeper into the blankets, but they’re doing a piss-poor job of keeping you warm. You feel Sunghoon shift beside you, his breath warm against your neck as he nuzzles closer, inhaling your scent like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little raspy from the cold. He pulls you tighter against him, and you squirm, trying to steal more of his body heat. On impulse, you duck your head under his hoodie, pressing your cheek against the bare skin of his chest. It’s warmer there, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and you sigh, even if your teeth are still clattering.

“You’re gonna stretch out my hoodie, baby,” he teases, but there’s no real complaint in his tone. His arms stay wrapped around you, and you catch the flush on his cheeks in the dim light filtering through the window, his smile soft and a little mischievous.

“It’s warm,” you mutter, your voice muffled against his skin. You’re not wrong—his body heat is doing more for you than the blankets, but the cold is relentless, gnawing at your bones.

Sunghoon chuckles, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “How about we cuddle naked, then?” he says, his tone playful but with that familiar edge that always makes your stomach flip. He’s always been a tease, knowing how shy you get about anything too intimate, especially since you’re still a virgin. But tonight, with the storm raging and the cold making you desperate, you’re just… done. Done with the shivering, done with the frustration, done with overthinking.

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, and Sunghoon freezes, his scoff half-laugh, half-disbelief. “For real? Wanna have sex to bye-bye the cold?” His eyes search yours in the dark, playful but cautious, like he’s waiting for you to back out. But you don’t. You’re too cold, too needy, and honestly, too curious to say no.

“Shut up and warm me up,” you say, your voice bolder than you feel, and his laugh is softer now, almost reverent. He doesn’t waste time, his hands slipping under your shirt, peeling it off with a gentleness that makes your heart race. Your leggings follow, and soon you’re bare under the covers, the air cold against your skin but his body so warm as he sheds his own clothes.

He pulls you close, skin-to-skin, and it’s like a furnace igniting between you. His hands roam slowly, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “You sure?” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, and you nod, your breath hitching as his fingers slide lower, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

You’re nervous, yeah, but the cold is nothing compared to the heat building between you. He kisses you, slow and deep, and you melt into it, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press yourself closer. His cock is hard against your stomach, and you feel a thrill at how much he wants you, how much you want him. “Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs, and you nod again, trusting him completely.

He shifts, pulling you into a tight cuddle, your bodies spooned together under the covers. His hand guides himself to your already slick entrance, and you tense for a second as you feel him poking around your entrance, the unfamiliar feeling making you gasp. “Shh, I got you,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder as he eases in, slow and careful. It’s intense, a sharp sting at first, but his warmth, his patience, makes it bearable—then good, really good.

You moan softly, and he groans against your neck, his hips moving in a gentle rhythm as he holds you close, one arm around your waist, the other cupping your breast. It’s intimate, almost sweet, the way he’s fucking you while cuddling, like he’s trying to warm your heart as much as your body. The thunder fades to the background, the cold forgotten as pleasure builds, your gasps mixing with his low murmurs of your name.

“Feel good, baby?” he asks, his voice rough with want, and you can only nod, your head tipping back against his shoulder as he moves deeper, faster. The covers trap the heat, your bodies slick with sweat now. You stay tangled like that, still wrapped in his arms as the storm outside is no match for the warmth you’ve found together with him.

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